BUTCHER OF SEOUL

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/18274577.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: M/M
Fandom: | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Relationship: Kim Taehyung | V/Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin, Kim Namjoon
| RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin, Kim Taehyung | V/Min Yoongi | Suga, Jung
Hoseok | J-Hope/Min Yoongi | Suga, Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Kim
Taehyung | V
Character: Park Jimin (BTS), Kim Taehyung | V, Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi |
Suga, Kim Namjoon | RM, Jung Hoseok | J-Hope
Additional Tags: Violence, Explicit Language, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content,
Graphic Torture, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, slowburn, Morally
Ambiguous Character, mafia, Blood and Torture, Drug Addiction,
BDSM, Dom/sub, Angst, Dubious Consent, Gang Violence,
Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse,
Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide,
Blasphemy, Character Death
Series: Part 2 of Jewel of Busan (Kkangpae)
Stats: Published: 2019-03-29 Completed: 2020-04-13 Chapters: 18/18 Words:
243767

BUTCHER OF SEOUL
by Vmintie

Summary

[SEQUEL TO JEWEL OF BUSAN]

Taehyung becomes kingpin of Geomjeong-pa and is determined to wreak as much havoc as

he possibly can. Once he finds out Jimin is still alive, finding him becomes his primary
objective.

Namjoon discovers Seokjin isn't half as bad as his alter-ego Mother, though he can still be
pretty rotten.

Yoongi's body is ailing and the fear of an unexpected death has him scrabbling to find a
successor to take over Yong Geondal.

Broken, defeated and harbouring a terrible secret, Jungkook only has Jimin to keep him safe
from Taehyung's vengeance.

[Part 2 of the Kkangpae Series]

Notes

Well...here it is. Never thought Jewel of Busan would stretch beyond Chapter 24, but here
we a-aarree. Oh boy. There's twice as many of you here now as there were when JoB
started so to say I'm nervous is to say the least. Please pay attention to the warnings, and
consider yourself duly warned.
 Welcome To The Jungle

“These violent delights have violent ends.

And in their triumph die,

like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume.

~William Shakespeare~

PLAYLIST
Trigger Warning: Implied Childhood Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse, Transphobia.

A terrible cold settled inside Min Yoongi at the age of thirteen. Hoseok used to call it his ‘cold-
spot’. The centre of his heart turned glacial and its icy tendrils spread, until bits of the organ caught
frostbite and fell off. Yoongi could count each time the fatal frostbite occurred. The first time a
man touched him against his will, the first time he nearly died, the first time his aunt slapped him
and told him he was no longer wanted at home.

Only twice, had bits of his heart reattached. Once, when Taehyung turned up at his doorway, with
his big nose, big ears and big eyes, defiant to the last, but so, so hungry. Starved for love,
sustenance, attention – a feeling Yoongi was accustomed to but was still not prepared to see another
human being suffer. The second, when Hoseok kissed him for the first time.

Those reattached parts had fallen off once more and now, there was only a blackened core of ice
where his heart once was. But it didn’t hurt. Not anymore.

The news was bought to him in the early hours of the morning. Mother is overthrown. Kim
Taehyung launched a coup d’etat. There’s no word on where Mother is but he’s presumed dead.

And soon, the sheltered, snake-like alleys of Seoul’s underworld would run with rivers of blood as
Taehyung removed the players in direct conflict to his rule. Mother was no longer being addressed
by female pronouns. The respect was stripped from her shoulders and would never again be
replaced unless she put Taehyung and Choi Minsoo’s heads on pikes.

Deep in his heart, Yoongi knew Taehyung had done this out of impulse. Everything he did was
driven from the wretched convulsions of impulse and emotion. But pride stirred inside him when
he thought of how Taehyung must have gone about it. Yoongi had also done the impossible once –
a young man with no standing and very little martial ability managed to slice Busan’s underworld
into six and put them to war. There had been six dominant gangs and now there was only one. He
had put together Yong Geondal like a beloved patchwork, made from the tired leftovers of the civil
war, and then healed it, bringing it back to glory. Seoul might have the sophistication, but the mafia
would always be more diverse and widespread in the south of the country, with Busan as its de-
facto capital. They were by the sea after all, a tool of unmatched power when it came to smuggling
wealth in and out.

However, had Taehyung done it? All those days in the past, Yoongi believed Taehyung absorbed
nothing of what he said. Turned out, he was wrong.
Sleet battered the windows of his office, lifting clouds of mist, spraying from the streets in a muted
hiss. The weather clock said it was sunny in Seoul. He cut a ghost-like figure as he stood up and
went to the glass pane. His suit was cut from blue velvet, freshly dyed silver hair swept back. Once
upon a time, mobsters were not known for their extravagant appearances, barring the typical heavy
bling. Now, hair dye was all the rage. Yoongi liked his men to dye their hair, it helped when he
couldn’t remember their names and could simply address them by the colour of their head.

A knock on the door made him turn. “Come.” It opened, and a guard announced Han Doyoung.

Yoongi’s face flickered with a smile as the door clashed shut, making the flames in the fireplace
dance. Han was no longer as straight-backed as he had been when he agreed to work for Yoongi.
He was hunched over now, the result of a slipped disc in a car accident and the growing stress of
bookkeeping for an increasingly violent organisation. He had started out his career with Yong
Geondal by making records of racketeering, loan sharks and tax fraud schemes, with the odd
smattering of stock manipulation on the side. He was now keeping records of how many bodies
were dumped into the sea, left in public, cut up into bits, nailed to doors, walls, ceilings –

Yoongi’s favourite form of bookkeeping was human, and Han’s spine had suffered from the
burden.

“Mr Han. What can I do for you?” Yoongi said, his voice faint.

“Master Min.” Courteous as ever, he bowed low, liver-spotted hand clenching on his cane as pain
rocked through his back. It took him a minute to straighten up and when he did, he was panting. “I
come to you today to ask that you give me leave to resign. My health has been ailing, and I fear it
is keeping me from doing the best job I can.”

“I cannot do without you, Mr Han,” Yoongi answered, without looking away from the window. “I
may not have made it clear in the past, but you are invaluable. You are my eyes and ears and your
work is remarkable. Without you, I would have lost control of Yong Geondal a long time ago.
Without you heading our network of spies, it will all come crashing down.”

“I understand, sir, and I thank you for speaking so highly of me. However, I do not intend to leave
immediately. I have a young man working for me right now – he has a mind finer than a razor’s
edge – and over time, he will learn to take over. I will train him harder, and he will give you
weekly reports so that you may be satisfied with his work. He has been thoroughly vetted, so you
won’t face any trouble with him.”
“Have I heard of him?”

“I brought him with me.” Han knocked on the floor twice with his cane and the door opened again.

A tall, thin boy walked on, all gangly limbs and awkward gait. He was so painfully young, he
couldn’t hide it, no matter how well fitted his suit was. He was pale in a Victorian gothic sort of
fashion, like the human version of a trendily-dressed ghost wandering a Tim Burton graveyard. Jet
black hair curled around his face and coral pink lips pursed nervously as he bowed to Yoongi.

“Master Min, my name is Kai Huening. It’s an honour to serve you,” he said, in a flute-like voice.

Yoongi’s eyes darkened, the lids lowering as he glanced at Han. “Mr Han, why have you brought
me a twelve-year-old to do my finances?”

Kai glanced up, eyes round with surprise and his mouth opened. Han silenced him with a quick
click of his tongue and wrapped both his hands around the hilt of his cane as he answered.

“He is eighteen, sir. Previously worked as one of the bottlers down in the factory.”

“Let me guess, you caught him embezzling.”

“Not at all. He was simply a very quick worker. I gave him the chance to earn some more money
and found out he was an even faster learner.”

“Regardless, I’m not replacing you with a child.”

“Sir, if I may, it will probably take another two to three years before Kai could realistically take
over. I’d still work, but perhaps not as rigorously. If I could have another individual who was older
with a bit more experience, trust that I would have. Please, sir, do consider it.”

Yoongi made as if to answer, but a sudden squeezing sensation in his chest made him stop. It was
as if an icy hand had reached out and grabbed at his heart, crushing the pulsating organ in its grip.
There was no pain – it really did not hurt. He turned to look at Han who was still talking, lost in the
sound of his own voice. Yoongi blinked as his vision wavered and saw the boy frown; he had
noticed something was wrong but was too afraid to point it out. Yoongi turned towards the
window, attempting to breathe deep. And then the ache between his shoulder blades exploded. An
odd numbing feeling crept up his arm and he stumbled.

“Master Min!” Kai exclaimed, rushing to catch Yoongi before he fell.

Han finally returned to his senses and hobbled forward, yelling for the guards. He recognised
immediately why Yoongi was squeezing at his chest.

“He’s having a heart attack! There’s aspirin in the top drawer of the desk, bring it! You! Call an
ambulance!” the last was directed to the guards who rushed in with their guns drawn. Han cradled
Yoongi’s head in his lap, uttering empty reassurances. “You’re going to be okay, sir, you’re going
to be alright, don’t panic – “

Yoongi remembered thinking I can’t even move, you fool, how am I supposed to panic? before
welcome darkness swallowed him whole.

“Taehyung-ah. Taehyung-ah!”

No response. Yoongi glares over his shoulder where the bed is a mound of messy duvet sheets and
bedding. Somewhere in this cotton igloo, Taehyung is curled up like a badger in a hole. Yoongi
strikes the desk with his hand and barks, “Taehyung-AH!” Again – nothing. In fact, he hears a
snore. He changes tactics and softens his voice to a croon. “Taehyung-ie…”

Like clockwork, the duvet swings up and Taehyung’s bright orange hair appears, askew like a
flame kissed by wind. Both his eyes are swollen shut with sleep, mouth circled into an O and he
grunts, “Yes?”

Yoongi puts his hand over his mouth and wanders which demon in Hell he pissed off to have
Taehyung thrown into his lap. Except he’s pretty sure this strange creature is of Hell. At least, the
part of Hell where the odd flower grows. Taehyung’s beauty is hardly hellish. He manages to prise
open one eye, large nose in the air as he cocks his head towards the direction of Yoongi’s voice.

“Hyung?” he croaks. “What time is it?”

“5pm. You slept your way through the entire day, and I let you,” Yoongi clicked his tongue in
disapproval. “We both deserve to be punished, but you a little more.”

Taehyung hears the ‘p’ word and his reaction is Pavlovian. Pushing back the duvet, he crawls out
of bed and onto the floor, shuffling a little. He mumbles under his breath, still half asleep as he
crawls to Yoongi on all hands and knees and stops in front of his chair. He rubs the sleep out of his
eyes and opens them properly, blinking like an underfed puppy. The brown of his eyes is hazel in
the sunlight filtering in through the bay windows.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, expression devoid of all cheekiness.

“Go and bring your collar,” Yoongi commands, pointing over his shoulder. Taehyung makes to get
up on his feet, but is interrupted with a brisk, “Ah-ah. Hands and knees, boy.” He dips back down
obediently and lunges like a wolf to get to the drawers. He comes back with a black collar five
inches in width and a thin metal chain that rattles when he hands it over. Yoongi slips the collar
around his neck and loops the chain around his own knuckles, tugging Taehyung forward.

“When were you supposed to wake up?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung looks up at the ceiling to do the quick math. Yoongi finds it difficult to keep from smiling,
though he does manage to. There is something incredibly darling about Taehyung’s big ears; they
move of their own accord when he concentrates. He truly is like the puppy he’s always pretending
to be.

“Seven am,” he says sheepishly. “But you did keep me up a good portion of the night, sir.”

“Did I ask for back talk?”

“No, sir.”
“Seven am. You’ve been asleep for ten more hours than you’re allowed, which means ten spanks.
Pants down.”

Not once has Yoongi given that order and faced dread on Taehyung’s part. The boy feeds off of
pain. And Yoongi is no novice at giving it, but still, Taehyung is the first one to put his hands up to
be cuffed, or his ass up to beaten. The sex itself he seems to enjoy but he never gets that dazed,
dumb smile as when he’s being beaten within an inch of his life. Not that Yoongi goes that far. He
isn’t about to break one of his best skull-crushers, no matter how hard Taehyung begs for more.

But he is a sadist, and this is hardly unwilling territory for him. He removes a special snakeskin
belt from his desk drawer – Taehyung’s favourite – and watches the boy bend over, pants around
his knees. Yoongi takes his time, running his hand over the globes of his ass, cupping underneath
and squeezing the tight, firm flesh. Taehyung’s breath leaves him in gasps and shivers as his
fingers dig into the rug. Yoongi gives him no warning and with a reflex movement, yanks his arm
backwards. The belt flies up, and then comes whooshing down with an echoing slap on Taehyung’s
right cheek. The skin ripples outwards, flushing an angry red from the epicentre of the impact.
Taehyung lets out the breath he is holding in a strangled moan of Yoongi’s name.

“I hit too hard,” Yoongi mutters, touching the mark. The skin is burning hot to the touch and
already rising to form a welt. It is incredibly stupid of him to go so hard on the first one. The welts
aren’t supposed to be there until the last cracks of the belt and even then, faint. “I’m sorry,
darling…”

“No, no, I like it – p-please continue – “ Taehyung hiccups, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip
with a pitiful whine.

“You’re not supposed to like it. It’s punishment,” Yoongi says acidly.

“Then I promise not to like it – but I deserve it, just like you said – nine more, sir – “

Sometimes Yoongi wonders who the real master is in this dynamic.

The nine are over quickly and he purposely weakens his hitting arm to do them. Taehyung seems
satisfied though, sitting up with a delicious wince as he gets on his knees and makes sure not to sit
on his bottom. He leans against the side of the table, eyes wet with tears and a loopy grin on his
face as he looks up at Yoongi. He takes one of Yoongi’s pale hands, reddened at the knuckles by
the harsh grip of the belt, and kisses each one.
“Your pretty hands,” he murmurs.

“Mmm. I bruise easy,” Yoongi remarks, “Didn’t help when I first founded Yong Geondal. Not the
best way to gain a vote of confidence. I’d always get into fights but regardless of whether I won
them, the bruising on my skin alone would have me pegged as the loser.”

“Well, you don’t have to fight anymore. That’s my job,” Taehyung says, holding the back of
Yoongi’s hand against his cheek and letting out his breath in a small whistle. “I love these hands.”

“Do you need ointment?”

He feels his backside, tensing a little, and then shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be alright.”

Yoongi places both hands against his face and kisses the tiny mole on his nose, doing the same to
the one on his lip and his cheek. Taehyung’s cheekbones lift, and he starts to giggle, that low,
rumbling sound that cracks every so often, reminding the listener he is still a child despite his
twenty years. He leans his hands on Yoongi’s thighs, head perked up for more of the older man’s
kisses and practically moans when he receives them on the mouth.

“You’re a good boy,” Yoongi whispers, hands ruffling through his fiery hair.

Taehyung loves to hear that. Oh, how his eyes sparkle. “I am?” he asks, feigning doubt.

Yoongi’s lips stretch into a reluctant smile of amusement. “Yes, yes you are. A very good boy. My
darling little pup.”

As Taehyung lunges up to kiss him, in the back of his head, Yoongi wonders what happened to him
to make him so needy of approval and attention. It was most definitely like having a dog about the
house. Sometimes, it was irritating how much Taehyung wanted his attention and when he didn’t
get it, he became violent. Not directly towards Yoongi, but definitely at others, or the house itself.
Yoongi has become accustomed to broken curtain poles and chairs, so much so, it doesn’t bother
him any longer. He replaces them quietly every time Taehyung lashes out and says no more about
it. He won’t admit it openly, but he does quite like it. He has never met someone who needs him so
utterly. No one’s ever needed him, not like Taehyung does. He enjoys being wanted, more than he
enjoys dominating the boy. It is just a fact of the relationship that Taehyung wants to be dominated
and to keep him close by, Yoongi obliges.
“If I show you what I’ve done to Joo Hyuk Soo, will you reward me tonight?” Taehyung says
eagerly, “I know I’ve been naughty for sleeping in, but you’ll like this.”

Joo Hyuk Soo is a name Yoongi hasn’t cared to hear in a while. He is a pimp and a drug lord
operating in Yangsan. Yong Geondal’s drug trade routes overlap with Joo’s and the man has
shown his displeasure countless times by coordinating raids on their shipments as they cross city
lines. He has been a thorn in Yoongi’s side since the moment he consolidated Yong Geondal as
Busan’s defining criminal power, but so far, he hasn’t done much to get rid of him. Joo is like an
annoying mosquito, highly irritating, but never worth beating one’s own hands raw to catch him
between them.

“What you’ve done to – you captured Joo Hyuk Soo?” Yoongi snorts with some level of disbelief.

“Captured him is one word for it,” Taehyung smirks.

Taehyung hasn’t just captured him. He has beaten and tranquilised him, and put him in a cylinder,
which he has then filled to the brim with concrete mixture. Joo’s neck has been taped to the edge of
the cylinder, leaving his head bare to the elements as the rest of him is buried alive in concrete.
And he is fully conscious, right till the moment Yoongi walks in, pulled along by Taehyung’s eager
hands.

“Look! See! I told you I’d get him! You told me to leave him alone, but no, I couldn’t let that
happen! He’s been hurting your business! So, I took care of him!” Taehyung exclaims, clapping his
hands and kicking the side of the cylinder with a wild hoot of laughter. It’s as if he can’t see Joo’s
wide eyes rolling about in his skull in abject terror. It is one thing to tell a man he’s doing to die.
It’s quite another to bury his body in concrete leaving his head free, and then dancing around him
in glee.

“Taehyung, he’s alive,” Yoongi says, dumb founded. “By taking care, I assume I’d find the person
dead.”

“Oh, but I wanted you to do the honours,” Taehyung pouts. “Let’s make his skull RATTLE!”

He has a whole pulley system set up in the large warehouse-style bunker. The central beam is
controlled by a crane, where Taehyung directs Yoongi to sit and take control. A simple gear shaft
is all it takes for the crane to lower its giant claw, but it takes several tries before the cylinder, Joo
Hyuk Soo and all, is lifted into is metallic embrace. Taehyung’s giggling echoes through the hall,
mixing with Joo’s mangled shrieks, like some macabre operatic show. Yoongi finds himself
flinching as each knock of the metal claw against the walls, causes the cylinder to ricochet in its
grip like a baby’s rattle. It has to be beyond torture for Joo. He is still alive after ten minutes, but
his eyes are bleeding and he is unable to make anything beyond a low keening noise. It doesn’t
sound human.

Internal bleeding finally takes the better of him once fifteen minutes are up and Yoongi lowers him
to the ground. Taehyung runs up the stairs, delighted, hungry to be told he has done the right
thing. Yoongi is still too unsettled to give him the response he wants and brusquely shrugs him off,
leaving. Taehyung doesn’t get a chance to go after him as Yoongi’s guards are quick to shove him
away before they follow their master out.

Laugh as he might in the face of Taehyung’s sadistic violent streak, Yoongi has never been truly
comfortable with it. His Machiavellian modus operandi shivers in the face of what can only be
described as the wanton form of brutality his submissive demonstrates. Yoongi likes to know people
are hurting because of him. Seeing them hurt in front of him makes his skin crawl and his head
hurt. But he doesn’t know how to get Taehyung to stop.

He doesn’t think anyone can ever make Taehyung stop.

The white of a hospital room flooded Yoongi’s vision when he opened his eyes. Never in his life
had he woken up in a hospital. This was his first time. His chest felt like it was still recovering
from the weight of a rock placed on it. But he was breathing. That was the important part. In
snippets and flashes, he recalled Mr Han’s panicked shouts of a heart attack. Yoongi was twenty-
six going on twenty-seven years old. A heart attack? He must have it wrong. There was no way.

He moved his head down and saw the needle stabbed into his arm. It was attached to an IV,
steadily dripping life into his corpse-pale skin. Yoongi tried to speak. The bed jolted a little as
someone sitting beside it sat up with a start. It was the young boy from earlier, Han’s protégé. Kai,
or something.

“Mr Han!” Kai hissed over his shoulder. The old man mumbled in his sleep and then jerked up, at
attention within seconds. He stood up and came over, cane tapping against the ground, face creased
with concern.

“Master Min, how are you feeling?” he asked.

“What happened” Yoongi murmured.

“The doctors said you suffered an unprecedented heart attack. There were talks of a bypass surgery
but your condition stabilised within minutes of arriving at the hospital. They were asking me all
sorts of questions about any recent stress, because your physical state was otherwise perfect. I told
them you suffered a great loss recently, with Mr Jung – “

“Han, I don’t pay you to give me speeches. When will I be allowed out of here?” Yoongi cut
across him, attempting to sit up.

“S-sir, please, you shouldn’t,” Kai stuttered, looking frightened for his life as he placed a hand on
Yoongi’s arm in an attempt to make him lie back again.

If looks could kill, the boy would have been ashes, but Yoongi did as he said and lay back. He had
felt a sudden compression in his ribcage when he straightened and he did not want to risk flirting
with another attack.

“This is not good news,” he laughed quietly.

“Sir?”

“I’m having heart attacks at twenty-seven. If my enemies found out, I’d be as good as dead. My
own men will have my head.”

“Sir, no one knows you were brought here,” Mr Han assured him. “It will be kept silent.”

“Perhaps the next time I have a heart attack, it will be in front of a group of them, so they can all
observe the spectacle,” he said bitterly. “Regardless, I need to make preparations.”
“For what, sir?”

“The case of my unexpected death. I have no son and no protégé and no man I trust enough to take
over once I’m gone. The one I did have, I sent away and he’s now done exactly what I never in a
million years thought him capable of. Pride is the weakness of the mighty, clearly. Where’s my
phone?”

Han took it out from his pocket and handed it over, gesturing for Kai to move to the couch at the
far end of the room and taking his seat. “Will you call him? Forgive me for saying this, sir, but he
is Geomjeong-pa now. Hardly an ally.”

“I’m not giving him an entire syndicate in another city, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Taehyung
may have achieved the impossible, but he isn’t superhuman,” Yoongi snorts. “No, I want to make
my peace with him, let him think I’ve forgiven him for his betrayal and – “ he paused, his voice
catching a little, “- and for Hoseok. But most importantly, I want to know what happened to Jimin.
I know he didn’t kill Hoseok, regardless of what he allowed Taehyung to believe. I imagine with
the rise of Geomjeong-pa’s new ruler, Jimin will want to leave Seoul as quickly as he can.”

“You trust him?” Han said, surprise evident in his voice.

“I trust that he learns fast and with his complete lack of restraint when it comes to getting what he
wants, he would eventually be something of an asset to Yong Geondal. Most importantly, if I die, I
want someone taking over Busan that Taehyung would hesitate to crush. Taehyung is not Mother.
She knew just how to stretch her kingdom without pushing it over the edge into chaos. Taehyung is
an impetuous fool and coupled with the greedy old men surrounding him at every turn, he’ll think
he can plunge the underworld of Seoul and Busan into war and win.”

It was all hypothetical reasoning, and highly illogical. But in the wake of a heart attack, Yoongi
was not thinking as straight as he would have liked. Taehyung’s number was no longer working,
but that was expected. He had probably gotten rid of his phone. Han suggested the Lotte Tower
building, though that would require Taehyung to be in and willing to accept the redirected call from
reception.

“Well, what do you know, she said he’s in,” Yoongi snorted, “You may leave.” Han stood up with
a bow and signalled for Kai to do the same before following him out. The dial tone continued to
beep. Yoongi could imagine Taehyung doing it on purpose, knowing how he hated to wait.
When he finally did pick up, there was a purr of satisfaction in his voice, tinged with sarcasm.
“Master…you caught me at an awkward time. I’m just finishing moving day.”

The old moniker – master - still sounded the same when it rolled off of Taehyung’s tongue. Like
gravel and silk. Harsh and soft at the same time. Needy and domineering in one breath. Taehyung
would never stop liking that word. But it was the first time Yoongi got the chills hearing him say
it. In his short life, he had always considered there to be two sorts of people, the leaders, and those
they led. Until Taehyung, that was a principle that worked for categorising everyone he met. He
had not expected the two to coincide with such alarmingly devastating effect in a single being. And
what he did not immediately understand, Yoongi did not trust.

“How are you, Taehyung?” Yoongi asked, softening his voice.

“Never been better,” was the smug answer.

“I bet. How’s life as the new kingpin of Geomjeong-pa treating you?”

“Very well. Called to congratulate me?”

“I would think the congratulation was implicit.”

“Except you never do anything for anyone out of the good of your heart, so what is this really
about?”

“That isn’t true, and you know it. I took you in.”

“Yes, to groom me for years of emotional abuse.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?”

“It is.”

“You fed off of me like a leech, Taehyung, used me as the father figure I was too young to be, and
I let you. Don’t pretend I’m the antagonist in this heroic story of yours.”

Taehyung muttered something unintelligible and Yoongi knew it was a sulky curse at being shut
down. Emotional abuse was a new one. Of all the things Taehyung had accused him of doing,
abuse had never been one of them.

“I wanted to apologise for speaking to you the way I did,” Yoongi admitted. “We both lost Hoseok
that day, the last thing you needed was to be yelled at.”

“And yet you yelled. Because I was never as important to you as he was.”

“On the contrary, we get irate with those we love most.”

“You never loved me.”

Yoongi smiled. “If you were in front of me right now, I’d tell you to look me in the eye and say
that. But I can’t. So, all I can say is don’t lie to yourself, darling. I loved you, more than I ever
thought I was capable of loving someone. I loved you both in different, but equally intense ways.”

“Regardless, you don’t love me anymore.” He sounded like he was pouting. Was he seriously
reverting to his old submissive persona over the phone, with the entirety of Seoul’s underworld at
his feet? Yoongi took the phone from his ear and stared at it in quiet disbelief for a moment, before
putting it back to his ear.

“I love you, darling,” he murmured, hoping against hope this was what Taehyung wanted to hear.
When he got no response, he continued, “You used to love it when I read to you in bed. I still have
the raggedy old copy of The Call of Cthulhu, you bought from a street vendor. You didn’t take it
with you. It still has the lipstick mark where I kissed it for you to carry around with you.”

Taehyung’s laughter sparkled like dew in the sunlight. “You were a good narrator. Maybe you
should come read it to me again someday.”

“Maybe I will – “
“And when I get you up here, I’ll have you on a collar and a leash and you can crawl into my bed
with your pretty pale knees rubbed pink and drool still clinging to your lips from when I make you
choke on my bodyguard’s cock. How does that sound, Master?”

Yoongi’s smile slowly faded, and the ice crept back into his voice. “Did you kill Jimin and his
little friend?”

“I shot Jungkook in the spine and left Jimin there with him before setting fire to the club.”

“So Jimin is dead.”

“Who knows? He’s got a strange habit of escaping fires set by people of my bloodline.”

Yoongi let out a humourless chuckle. “Indeed.”

“I suppose you want Jimin to come back to Busan and be your new pet.”

“I was thinking nothing of the sort. But I did grow fond of the boy. You introduced me to him, after
all.”

“If he’s alive and I catch him first, you won’t see or hear from him again, let me tell you now. He’s
going to be chained and muzzled in my room and if he’s well-behaved, I’ll let you say hi to him via
video chat. Remember how pretty he looks with a mouthful of cock? You’ll have the pleasure of
reliving that –“

Before he could have the chance of hearing Taehyung say another word, Yoongi hung up abruptly.
His chest was squeezing tightly again, and he just about managed to drop the phone before he hit
the button for the nurse. Between stunted gasps of air, Yoongi’s vision burst with stars.

Lying back, he focused on calming himself, the ceiling darkening. The world had changed enough,
without the awful realisation that one of these days, his own heart would give out on him and leave
the city he loved at Taehyung’s mercy.
The CCTV footage from Blue Tails in January had finally been combed through. It had
malfunctioned partway through the day and the footage of most of the following hours was lost,
including the exact moment the shooter walked in. It took painstaking work on the part of Mapo-
gu’s police department to put together what was essentially a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces.
The investigation was ongoing amongst heightened tensions within the department regarding the
accusations of corruption floating around. Sergeant Son Ho Joon was hopeful that the Mapo-gu
precinct would lead the hunt for the BT shooter and bring him in to distract from the onslaught
coming their way from the Commissioner General.

Detective Kim Namjoon had not showed up to work for the last fortnight or so, and there was a
general understanding that he was suspended. On what grounds, no one knew, except for Sergeant
Son. But Son had not suspended him, Namjoon failed to show up of his own volition and his
superior knew why. He suspected Namjoon had something to do with the whisperings of the
KICAC’s involvement with the police. Not to mention there was now no reason for him to fear
retaliation, as private sources had informed Son that Mother was no longer kingpin. Someone new
had taken her place, and he had very little idea who. Until a new order was established, the police
departments of Seoul were left vulnerable to the chilling tenacity of the KICAC.

“Sir!” Heo put his hand up, to catch the Sergeant’s attention where he was briefing another
detective.

Son put his finger up to signal for him to wait before finishing his conversation and walking over.
“This better be good news, Heo. I’ve had nothing but grim tidings since this morning.”

“Oh, it’s good. It is good. We have a face,” Heo said. Around him, his colleagues stood about, all
very pleased with themselves. “We isolated one single frame where his face could be seen. All the
others were too unclear. It’s a young man, early twenties.”

“Zoom in,” the Sergeant murmured, leaning down closer. Heo quickly gave up his seat and Son
took it, putting on his glasses as he did.
There was most certainly a face mapped out on the freeze frame. Eyes, nose, lips, all were clearly
discernible, though the shooter was far from the camera that had caught him. He was looking
straight ahead, with a blank look in his eyes. The longer the Sergeant gazed at the expression on his
face, the temperature in his gut dropped. He had only seen expressions like that on the faces of
cold-blooded killers and this kid was half their age. With what ease he had walked into a crowded
room and opened fire, Son could not imagine the sort of lack of conscience that took. He
questioned his own motives all the time when turning a blind eye to Geomjeong-pa’s abetting of
corruption. But he had never wilfully harmed an innocent in his life, and he never would.

“I know him,” he said suddenly, leaning in even closer. “Can you get this picture any larger
without ruining the quality?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not,” Kim grimaced. “This is it. We’ve been going through the database for
young male offenders. Perhaps he’s in there.”

“Park Jimin. I remember his name. Namjoon brought him in as his contact in the mafia.” The
sergeant’s speech quickened as he grew more excited. He hit the table with his hand and said, “Get
Namjoon to come in. Wherever he is, I want him here now! And search the database for Park
Jimin.”

The Sergeant thought his job was done. The file on Park Jimin, his uncle Ahn and his cousin Kim
Taehyung were all safely closeted in the database, he had seen them for himself. Except they
weren’t.

Heo went through it six times before the Sergeant finally told him to stop.

“It’s been deleted. As have the files on Ahn and Kim Taehyung. Mother must have done it. Which
means this was gang warfare of some sort,” the Sergeant said slowly. “She never ordains a public
execution unless it’s a message to her rivals.”

“Blue Tails is associated with Busan and Yong Geondal,” Do Jiah piped up from where she was
putting together a photographic timeline of the shooter’s entry into the mall. “Perhaps it was aimed
at them.”

“Perhaps. Which makes it doubly important we catch this man. Word on the street is Mother’s
been deposed, she won’t be protecting him anymore. I want Park Jimin found and I want Namjoon
here.”
A flurry of activity stirred around him, as for the first time in weeks, the department received a
truly juicy case, one which threatened plenty more media involvement than it had already gotten.
The Sergeant stood still in the centre of the rush, thinking of the one time he had met with Park
Jimin face to face. Regardless of that awful expression, the boy was no killer. Not with the way he
had behaved. He didn’t look like he had held a gun in his life when Namjoon brought him in.

It just went to show.

It had been fifty years since the precinct had booked someone who eventually went on to be on
death row. It seemed like Park Jimin would be their first in half a century. And there would be no
waiting for years to see him hang. The death toll in Blue Tails alone would ensure his death date
would coming within months of a final trial.

God knew, the Mapo-gu station could do with a morale boost right now.

Mother had an entire nuclear bunker encased under her condo. It went far below the shark tank,
down, down, until it seemed a whole other, gloomy dimension. There was a Lovecraftian tinge to
it, the walls hanging with game hunted in years gone by. Deer antlers, elephant tusks, and two tiger
skulls that once belonged to Rani’s mother and father. The old Mr Kim had shot them on a visit to
a reservation in India and had returned with their baby for his son.

It got plenty worse. Taxidermist statues lined the sixth and seventh corridors – bears, badgers,
wolves and a fully-grown lion. It was the strangest thing, but no stranger than the fully embalmed
human head sitting in a dome above the door into the main bunker. Its mouth was stretched open
and a penis – also embalmed by the look of it – rested between its pale lips.

“Who is that?” Taehyung turned to ask Minsoo who was some way behind.
“The man who killed Kim Seokjin’s wife and child,” Minsoo explained. Soon after Mother’s
deposition, Taehyung had publicised her real name, and no one used ‘Mother’ any longer.

“Oh. How wonderful,” Taehyung said dreamily. “Maybe if Jungkook’s body isn’t burnt to a crisp,
I’ll have him put up there too.”

His bodyguard – a new recruit to Geomjeong-pa– moved first to open the door for his boss.
Taehyung gave him a once over as he passed him. He had given him many once overs in the past
week. The man was young and built like a tank. His suit was tailored but still struggled to
accommodate the bulge of his muscles when he moved. Taehyung allowed Minsoo and the rest of
the guard to walk past him into the grey room – a large hall really, with a rectangular table
stretching down the middle, eight chairs on either side and one at the head – and turned to his
bodyguard.

“What was your name again?” Taehyung asked him.

“Lee Hoseok, sir,” he replied, with a respectful bow

Taehyung flinched. The faint smirk about his lips faded and he stilled. “Oh yes, that’s right. I don’t
like that name.”

“Sir?” the guard looked up in muted surprise.

“You will not use Lee Hoseok around me. I’ll give you a new name.” Taehyung stared at him a
while; his beautiful face impassive as his eyes scoured the young man’s features. Then, his lips
tugged up at the corners and with a coquettish wink, he gave the guard’s pecs a quick pat. “Wonho.
That’s who you are now. If you allow your real name to be used in the duration of your career with
me, I will put a bullet through your head.”

Taehyung turned on his heel and fixed the last button on his suit as he took his seat at the head of
the table. Minsoo glanced at him, a keen look in his eye. He looked at Taehyung like that often, as
if constantly gauging how fit he was to be in the position he was. Taehyung thought of it as waiting
for the moment the jugular was exposed. Then, Minsoo would strike. But thus far, he had seen no
weakness and had been given none. Taehyung met his gaze dead on.

“Your compatriots are late,” he said.

“Not my friends. Not these ones,” Minsoo shook his head, with a gravelly scoff. “I don’t know why
you want me here.”

“Well, I thought it’d be fun for you to watch and bear witness, I suppose,” Taehyung shrugged.
“And also make it more realistic for them.”

Minsoo simply nodded and said nothing more until the door opened again.

Tang Kyu Bok, the Gangnam-gu boss arrived first. A sickly-looking man with almost all gold
teeth, he was a shrivelled creature, presiding over his wealthy district like a carrion over rotting
flesh. Next was Song Jin Sang, the Mapo-gu boss, fat, stately and smarmy, leering to Taehyung
with yellow teeth as he bowed and gibbered. Taehyung said nothing, did nothing, just looked him
up and down and waited for him to take a seat. He smelt of mothballs and it was nauseating. Next
were Im Kwang Sun and Bang Jae Hwa, of Jung-gu and Songpa-gu districts respectively.

All five of these men, including Minsoo, were Geomjeong-pa’s five fingers, and when clenched
together, created an indomitable fist. At least, once they had. Their legends preceded them, but
their reality was no longer as glittering. They were old and debauched and settled in their ways and
god, they were ugly. Minsoo was the best looking of the lot, and he wasn’t even pathetic like they
were.

Taehyung smiled widely, putting on an impenetrable mask of good will as he ran his hand over the
black folder before him. His fingers smoothed over embossed gold letters and he looked at each
man, letting his eyes linger for a few seconds so he could take them in.

“Gentlemen, you probably know why you’re here today,” he said, his voice soft.

Tang coughed, his lungs rattling. “We sure are. And in the old Kim’s nuclear bunker of all places.”

“I required complete privacy and discretion, I’m sure you understand,” Taehyung said kindly,
splaying his fingers out over the leather and plucking at the corners to lift it. “Now, you see – “

“Tradition dictates that a contender to the position of kingpin makes his intentions known to the
strongest five districts under the gang,” Im interrupted. He was a hardened man with a completely
silver head. “You don’t get to pick one –“ he nodded towards Minsoo, “- and go with it.”
“I – “ Taehyung said.

Song grunted, chuckling. “Tradition also dictates the takeover be public. Not concealed and
treacherous.”

“But - “

“Quite frankly, I question your capability to lead, kid,” Bang spoke up finally.

Taehyung was no longer smiling. His cheeks were reddening. But he was breathing evenly still,
and his hand was steady as he opened the folder onto the first page. He glanced up at the two
guards each of the men had been allowed. They were blank-faced behind the anonymity of their
eye shades.

“I knew you would have such concerns,” he nodded. “I also knew that you would start sectioning
off each district and returning to the old way with gangs strewn about ruling their own little bits of
the city. And that is exactly what you’ve done these last two weeks. So, that does beg the question
why you agreed to visit me.”

“You have him on your side, and I personally just had to know what Minsoo sees in you,” Tang
snorted. “Not much evidently.”

“What is that?” Song questioned, pointing at the folder. “Some manifesto you thought you were
going to foist on us?”

“N-no, it’s – “ Taehyung stammered, but before he could continue, Im snatched the folder. Minsoo
tensed, sitting up, however he did not intervene and let Im rifle through the pages.

“They’re blank.The hell is this? They’re all blank!” he exclaimed, and then burst into laughter
when he reached the very end. They all started to laugh now, Song so hard that he could barely
reach for his glass of water to soothe his scratchy throat.

Taehyung was about to say the folder was only for show, but he didn’t get a chance.
“This is no way to treat your new leader, gentlemen,” Minsoo said levelly.

“What the hell’s wrong with you Choi?” Tang squinted. “Dementia catching up with you is it?
Whatever this farce of a display is, you’re lucky we didn’t shoot everyone in this place on sight.
Mark my words, this leader of yours is going to find himself being passed around like a sex toy the
minute he sets foot outside this house. We haven’t seen or heard from him in the fortnight since the
tranny was overthrown. Why? Are you scared little boy? You fucking should be – “

“Tang, leave the kid, he’s only fifteen,” Bang muttered, laughing under his breath with the others
who were openly cackling at this point.

Taehyung couldn’t quite believe it. He had imagined this scene and how it would go. He had
imagined more reservation, more silence, some level of understanding on their part and then
blatant necessity on his part when he had to do what he had to do. But their hyena-like cries of
mirth were near cartoonish. They were setting themselves up to be so undeniably antagonistic, it
was almost as if they were daring him to do something.

Taehyung looked down as the breast pocket of his suit began to wriggle. He reached into it and
removed Chrollo. His eyes could open now, but he was still partially blind and whined just as
loudly as he did when he was newly born. He was mewling, comforted to be in Taehyung’s hand
after having woken alone in the silk interior of his pocket. A flabbergasted silence fell on the table
as Taehyung began to coo over his puppy.

“What in God’s name is this bullshit?” Bang muttered, slack-jawed as Taehyung reached for his
glass.

Then, he changed his mind and went for Bang’s glass instead, which was three-quarters empty. He
positioned the puppy over it, knowing what the mewling was for. Promptly, Chrollo unleashed his
bladder and piddled into Bang’s glass of water. His tiny tail wagged nineteen to the dozen and he
squeaked as Taehyung held him carefully.

“Oooh, you were holding a lot in, weren’t you darling?” Taehyung pouted, setting him down on
the table. “Good boy…sit, there’s a good baby.” He smiled up at Bang and pushed the glass back
over to him.

Bang stared at the glass, the inside now orangey yellow, and said nothing for a few, drawn out
seconds. Then, he lifted his eyes to Taehyung, and they were blacker than thunder. “Do you want
to die?”
The other three stared at him, and Minsoo’s eyebrows drew together as he clamped his lips to hide
a smile. His expression said it all as he looked down to keep from laughing.

“Drink it,” Taehyung said sweetly. “Now.”

“You little – “ Bang lunged across the table, veined hands reaching for Taehyung’s neck.

Wonho grabbed his hand before it could come anywhere near and twisted it behind his back. He
looked to Taehyung for further instruction.

“Drink it, Bang,” Taehyung repeated.

At this point, there was a general sense of strange vulnerability about the table as one by one, each
boss became very aware that their respective guards hadn’t moved an inch to try and stop the show
of force. Taehyung noticed their eyes shifting around, looking from one to the next.

“I was busy during the two weeks I closeted myself in this place, you know,” Taehyung remarked,
waving his hand around at the men stationed at the walls. “I found out the names and addresses
and families of each man you have closest to you in your personal guard. And I gave them a
chance, death or wealth. That one started out real loyal, Song, you should be proud of him – “
Taehyung nodded to the guard standing six feet behind Song, “ – but I have his wife chained in one
of my many basements, so I’m afraid his loyalty to you snapped like raw spaghetti. Now, Bang,
will you drink?”

Bang cackled hoarsely. “You’ve got another think coming if you think I’m doing anything you say,
bitch.”

Taehyung sighed, and nodded to Wonho. With a swift but sharp gesture of his arm, Wonho pulled
Bang’s head back by the hair and then brought it slamming down on the table. The crack
resounded, like a gunshot from a pistol and Bang’s face was drenched in dark, thick blood when
his head lifted.

“Drink,” Taehyung repeated.

Bang could only moan. Taehyung waved his hand dismissively and Wonho crushed the man’s
head against the table again and again, with ever-increasing force until finally, Bang was no longer
moving. Minsoo reached out to feel his pulse and his face creased with amusement as he glanced
up at Wonho.

“You’ve got strength in those arms, kid. He’s dead from three blows,” he said. He then turned to
the remaining three who were white as chalk and probably regretting their decision to give up their
weapons the moment they’d walked into the condo. Indeed, Taehyung had wondered why they had
done so too, even if their guards were allowed to walk in fully armed. “I guess you see now why
I’m backing the kid,” Minsoo said, his voice rippling with good humour.

Taehyung was still staring at the glass of puppy pee. He glanced around at the three men and his
eyes landed on Song. He didn’t say a word this time and simply gestured that he should drink.
Song stood up so quickly his knees knocked the table. He grabbed for the glass with trembling
hands and retching a little, put it to his lips. Tang and Im recoiled as one. Song made quick work of
the piss-water, though quite a bit spilled down the front of his six million won suit as he did.

A low sound reverberated beneath that of Song trying not to be sick as he heaved and dropped the
glass. It was coming from Taehyung, getting louder behind his hand until finally he removed it and
chuckled openly.

“Good man, Song. Wonho, let them in,” he said.

“You’re going to kill us without the safety of our weapons and our men all bought out,” Tang
sneered. “Good job trying to win over the syndicate with yet another underhanded attack. They are
going to have you for breakfast.”

“I highly doubt that,” Taehyung said pleasantly, as eight of Minsoo’s men walked in, along with
two men in white lab coats, their faces covered by masks. “I need you as an example. I couldn’t kill
and mutilate Mother’s body for personal reasons. It would have been nice to, since flaunting it
would truly set my rule in stone. However, four bodies in place of hers works just fine. And now,
it’ll be eleven – “

Just as he said this, Minsoo’s men pulled out guns, aiming them at the guards of the seated four.
They were ordered to disarm, slowly, the looks of betrayal on their faces near comical. They had
expected to walk out of whatever this was alive. Wonho collected their guns, sticking each one into
his belt carelessly. Taehyung nodded at the guard nearest to the door, the one with his wife in
chains. “That one can go.”
He left without a backward glance when they opened the door for him. At the table, the lab
technicians – both had once worked for Jungkook – were now prepping syringes. Taehyung made
conversation as confusion bubbled across the room, like a black fog. There was a general
understanding that they weren’t getting a quick death and some of the guards were starting to
panic.

“Don’t look so betrayed,” Taehyung cooed at them, “I just think that if you can be bought out by
me to go against your bosses, you can be bought out against me in the future. It’s a matter of
principle. Anyway – Song Jin Sang, something Mother once told me got me interested in you –
yes, do him first – “ he snapped his fingers at the technician to go to Song. “She told me Mapo-gu
has quite an abundance of orphanages, all under The Han Association. I know you’re friends with
the founder. Pedo, isn’t he? As are you. Saw some sickening pictures whilst I was researching you
and you see, I’m a sick bastard, Song, so it’s gotta take a lot to make me throw up the way I did
when I saw them.”

To Song’s credit, despite drinking the piss and the awareness that he was about to be injected with
something foreign, he managed to form words. “So, what are you gonna do? Play Superman and
stop all the paedophiles from stealing kids from orphanages? They’ll find new ones to haunt. I’m
not the first nor the last to supply a demand where I see it.”

“Oh no, I’m not dumb. I just needed some sort of vague prerogative why you’re being injected
first. See, this whole thing, I am very proud of. There was the option of opening fire on you all like
sardines in a can, but bullet-riddled bodies just don’t strike the same fear in gangsters as they once
used to. So, I decided on a smaller weapon.”

Song flinched as the needle was inserted into his arm. “Poison? Heroin overdose? It’s a woman’s
weapon,” he leered, grunting as he held his sleeve down over the pinprick to staunch the blood.

Taehyung waited until the other two had been injected, including the kneeling guards, knowing the
unrest it would cause if he began explaining immediately. He eyed the dead Bang and with a
chuckle, said, “Do him too. Might be interesting to see the effects on an already dead body.”

Once the job was done, Taehyung sat back and then after some thought, told Wonho to bring back
the man he had allowed to leave. He lifted Chrollo back into his pocket with a soft hum.

“What you were injected with, gentlemen, is a highly concentrated shot of necrotising fasciitis –
ooh, I can barely pronounce it – “ Taehyung stuck out his tongue and laughed, feigning
flusterment. “Anyway, I’m no scientist, but I believe the layman’s term would be a flesh-eating
bug. It’s bad enough when this sort of bacteria enters through an open wound, but since it was shot
right into your blood stream, I’d say – ooooh – it’d take maybe twelve to twenty-four hours to kill
you? And I must say, you are all going to be in excruciating pain during that time.”
The guards on the ground began to show extreme signs of alarm, trying to get up but still very
much wary of the guns being pointed directly at their heads. Taehyung stood, and Wonho moved
protectively to shield him from any sudden movements. But there were none. The three mob bosses
were glued to their seats and their faces were blanched of all colour, coated in layers of sweat. The
bug did work fast.

“I saw photographs of what this bug does to your body and I thought, ‘well, wouldn’t that be a
wonderful way to show to the rest of Geomjeong-pa exactly who’s now sitting at the helm.’ The
nuclear bunker, well, I guess it’s self-explanatory now. You can’t get out and no one can hear you
scream – ah, here he is – welcome back, friend! “

At that moment, Song’s guard was dragged back in, struggling tooth and nail to free himself.
Wonho removed a gun from his belt and walked over to tuck it into the man’s holster.

“It’s got six bullets,” Taehyung explained. “So, you can shoot six of them if they get too rowdy
and they will, trust me. They’re going to be suffering in ways you and I can’t even imagine. Don’t
let them scratch you, or let their blood get on you or even let them cough or breathe near you I
would say – give him a mask, improve his odds, he has to see his wife after this.” He paused to go
closer and bent down to get on his level. Slowly, as if the man was hard of hearing, he enunciated,
“Do you hear that? You stay in here for as long as it takes them all to die and then, you can see
your wife. You have to stay alive for her, so don’t go shooting yourself in the brain, no matter how
horrendous it gets in here.”

Song was throwing up, much to Minsoo’s disgust. He was out of the room in seconds, taking most
of his men with him. Wonho shoved at the uninfected guard as the man tried to make a break for it
behind them and with his other hand, moved Taehyung towards the door.

“P-p-please don’t leave me in here – p-please – my wife – she’s pregnant, she needs me – please,
god – don’t leave me – “ The door clanged shut, and his cries were completely silenced, face
pressed against the bulletproof glass pane.

“Pregnant?” Taehyung frowned, watching as Wonho locked it with a keycode.

“If she was, sir, she wasn’t showing,” he answered.

Taehyung hesitated, watching the guard bang his fists against the door and barely even manage to
shake it. Behind him, one of his colleagues began to unbutton his shirt, his skin drenched in sweat
as his eyes rolled back into his head. Convulsions ran through his right arm.

With a quick swipe, Taehyung drew the cover over the glass pane. “Well, fathers are no good
anyway.”

19 hours later, and he was still alive.

They pulled him from the room, muttering gibberish, with half his leg swollen and red and
bleeding. Somehow, he had contracted the bug. A team went in with hazmat suits to a scene of
abject horror. Blood smeared the walls and floor, and bodies lay strewn about, rotting away twice
as fast as should have been normal. The stench was beyond anything the human nose could deal
with and without the suits, most of the uninfected who entered would have been out in a dead faint.

There had been some sort of a struggle. Three of the men were shot. Others lay sprawled with
wounds that had burned and boiled them from the inside out. The bug had ravaged the weakest
parts of their body, eating away skin and fat and muscular tissue, to leave bleeding ulcers, oozing
with pus and serous fluid. The original skin colour was gone, replaced by violent shades of pink,
red and purple. Only two of the victims’ faces were still recognisable. Song’s head had swollen to
the size of a water melon, his eyes sunken into his sockets, wasted away.

As Taehyung watched the livestream set up by the chief technician, he was surprisingly silent. He
hadn’t expected it to work so well. The video was projected on three plasma screens that ejected
from panels in the walls. Mother’s office had been superbly designed, reportedly by Elon Musk,
and there were still features Taehyung hadn’t yet deciphered. But the screens were simple enough,
though when they first ejected, they were livestreaming into a part of the dark web named simply
Red Room. Taehyung knew what it was immediately and didn’t waste much time lingering on it.

Now, he sat open-mouthed, with Choi Minsoo similarly speechless (but for different reasons)
beside him, as the camera took in the devastation.
“Six syringes. That’s all it took,” Taehyung murmured, laughing a little as he put his chin on his
hand. “I suppose they’ll have to amputate the survivor’s leg.”

“I imagine they’re doing it now,” Minsoo said. “The disease spreads quick, clearly. He’d be dead
within hours otherwise. You can’t flaunt the bodies, but you’ve got your living reminder in him.
One-legged fool with jelly for brains.”

“Do you think his mind will ever recover?”

“Probably not.”

Taehyung sat back and couldn’t help thinking, how proud Yoongi would be of me right now. He’d
used his brains to conduct a kill and transformed it into a spectacular mass murder. Those weren’t
all his enemies that he’d murdered in that room. There were still many more, all waiting for their
time to crawl out from between the floorboards. But for now, they would stay in their darkness,
exactly where he wanted them. He had to get more of that bug, he really did. It was wonderful.

He turned to see Minsoo’s suited and booted men looking like little boys in detention, with the fear
of God put into them and their eyes glued to the screen. Taehyung turned to them and spread his
arms, with a laugh, a bright, happy sound.

“Welcome to the jungle, gentlemen. We’re all animals here. Learn to survive or be the first to die!
That’s how we do it!”
 Abrahamic Trio

If anyone is Albanian or Russian and I got some things incorrect in terms of language down
below, I do apologise.

Jungkook woke up screaming the first time.

He couldn’t stop. His vocal chords twisted and knotted and what felt like shards of jagged glass
hacked at them until they felt close to snapping. He screamed to make that pain stop at first first.
The rest of the pain didn’t even register. Not until the light began to swim through the dark and he
felt his arms flail and hit something warm but firm – someone – and he tried to kick out –

He tried to kick out.

But he couldn’t. His mind envisioned the action of lashing out with both his legs, but nothing
happened. A big lead weight sat below his waist. That was what was stopping him. So, he reached
to grab at it and push it off. With a titanic effort, he managed to open his eyes and saw his hands
flailing ineffectually, tearing at bedsheets. There was a fuss around him, as the door opened, and
more people ran in. One voice sounded familiar. The sheets tore away from his legs and Jungkook
grabbed at them.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. His hands felt the skin-to-skin contact, but his
legs, felt…nothing. It a horrifying sensation and he screamed harder. But he was crying now too.
His brain had not fully awakened to the awareness of his handicap, but the dread was starting to
sink in like black ink through water.

Jungkook kept screaming and screaming and screaming until they sedated him that first night.

The next time he came to, Jimin’s face was the first thing that blurred into view. He was gazing out
at the window, the light washing his lovely face in a warm glow. But it could not soften his dark
circles and the redness of his eyes. He had been crying. The red rings just under his lashes spoke to
that. Jungkook’s hand was clasped in both of his and he had it pressed to his lips. Every so often, a
slow blink would release another tear, sending it skittering down the back of their entwined hands
until it disappeared into a sleeve here, or a fold of a bedsheet there. Jungkook murmured something
– Jimin’s name, most likely – and the older jerked out of his reverie.

“Hey,” he whispered, his expression sweetening, “Hey, I’m here, I’m here, baby…”

He was uncharacteristically soft. Not something that one might expect of Jimin, but it helped. The
vivid terror of being lost and broken and confused from the last time was still etched in Jungkook’s
tired memory. Jimin’s tender voice helped him feel safe, though the lead weight was still there.
Jungkook closed his fingers in an attempt to squeeze Jimin’s back but he had next to no energy.
Jimin kissed his hand again, rubbing it and blowing on it as if it needed warmth.

“Don’t leave…” Jungkook whispered, his voice cracking.

“I won’t,” Jimin shook his head quickly, “I’m right here, nothing is going to pull me away from
you. Tell me what you need, I’ll bring it – “

“Just stay…” and he passed out again within seconds of whispering the words.

Every single time, waking up was an ordeal. He wouldn’t bring his hands near his waist, fearing
the terrible, rubbery feel of his deadened skin. He felt the invisible weight rendering his lower half
useless and did his best to ignore it. Jimin was with him every time he woke and Jungkook only
focused on him. On the sad, but faint lines, starting to mark on his forehead, the lines of stress
around his mouth, the corners of his eyes. Jimin was still the most beautiful human being
Jungkook had laid eyes on but grief and stress were starting to age him beyond his tender years.
Often times, Jungkook woke to see Jimin’s head on the bed side, passed out next to him from sheer
exhaustion.

He was there when the doctors informed Jungkook his injury was not that of the cervical spinal
cord (the most severe sort of injury of the spine), and that it was a blessing the bullet had missed
the cord itself. Surgery had been performed immediately upon arrival at the hospital, to relieve
pressure on the cord caused by the portions of vertebrae the bullet had broken off. A successful
attempt had been undertaken to stabilize his spine, using metal screws, rods and plates to help hold
the vertebrae together until the bones healed.

They laid out all in minute detail as if actively avoiding the real issue at hand. Jungkook raised it,
barely even hearing what they’d said about the technicalities of his injury.
“When will I walk again?” he said, voice faint.

Jimin’s hand tightened, as did his jaw, and Jungkook noticed he was studiously avoiding his gaze.
The doctors were better equipped for such uncomfortable questions.

“The fact that there isn’t extensive damage to the spinal cord is encouraging,” the one in front
explained. “It means that with regular physiotherapy as well as psychological recovery to
encourage your brain to become accustomed to your body’s new state of being, you may start to
feel some sensation returning below your wait.”

“But when will I walk?”

Now, the answer was a lot less long-winded. “It could be months. It could be years. Without the
correct recovery processes certainly, the chances are slim.”

Jungkook could handle a time frame. He was nothing if not determined. Once he was all screamed
and cried out, his brain returned to the cold logic he had come to prize in recent weeks.

However, nothing prepared him for the first time he was conscious to experience loss of bladder
movement. Jimin was awake beside him, the hospital TV was on in the background and they were
speaking in whispers. Jungkook didn’t feel it come out of him. He only noticed when a stain began
to grow on the sheets. Jimin went to work instantly to try and lessen the humiliation, and kept
saying it was alright, that he would get another bed pan and they would have the sheets changed in
no time. The bed pans were changed routinely but this one hadn’t been set right by the nurse and
failed to do its job.

Jimin was so busy trying to dispel the tension, he didn’t notice Jungkook start to cry until the
younger began to sniffle. He had never felt so broken, useless and insignificant in his life. It hit him
then, how utterly defeated he was. He had fooled himself into believing that he could force himself
to gain miraculous steps towards recovery with the physiotherapy the doctors promised. That he
could do anything because he was Jeon Jungkook, belonging to no one and nothing but himself and
he believed in that. Not now. He felt like he was reverting back to a childhood of unchanged
diapers and a mother who was lost in such a deep sadness she had no time for her only baby. Not
even Jimin could ward off the terrible blackness in his soul, crawling out to the far reaches of his
conscience until light became a forgotten concept.

The rest of his body reacted with a severe anxiety attack after he wet the bed and before long,
hyperventilation kicked in. When he showed no signs of calming, the sedatives were brought out
and he was dead to the world again. Later, he was glad of it. He wouldn’t have been able to stand
having the sheets changed whilst conscious.

Three weeks after being admitted to the hospital, Jungkook began to sink into somewhat of a
routine. Without Jimin, it would have taken much longer. Being alone with the hollowness of his
mind would have killed him. But Jimin made sure to make conversation about anything and
everything that was unrelated to what had happened to Jungkook and why. They spoke of
everything under the sun as if they were a normal twenty and twenty-one year old with a bright life
ahead of them. Books, movies, TV shows, documentaries, poems – Jimin pulled out all the stops.
He was well-read from a young age and Mother had always ensured Jungkook was too.

When it became clear to the hospital staff that Jungkook and Jimin only had each other, they
allowed Jimin to stay. He wouldn’t have had anywhere to go and spend the night otherwise. The
extracted bullet in Jungkook’s spine naturally called for the doctors to involve the police but the
two detectives that arrived were quick and brief with their questioning and Jungkook was vague as
possible. He indicated towards gang violence and the fact that he was an orphan, knowing both
factors would mean no one would take this case too seriously. Everything was hierarchal and those
with the biggest network and support system got help. Jungkook didn’t want to try and contact
Mother. He didn’t want her to see him like this, and to know how pathetic he was once and for all.
She always said it in the past, but he had never truly believed it. He always believed he would
overturn her opinion one day. Turned out, life sucked and there was no chance of that now.

At the helm of the fourth week, Jungkook woke up without Jimin for the first time. A note on the
bedside table read If you wake up before I’m back, I’ve gone to get us breakfast, so don’t worry
and good morning! xxx

Jungkook smiled weakly, clutching the note against his chest and staring at the ceiling in silence,
hoping time would go by quicker. He reached for the remote and switched on the TV, wincing in
pain as his arm muscles stretched. They felt bruised, despite being in disuse. His entire felt body
felt awful except for the part he couldn’t feel. He could not wait to get up and start physiotherapy
sessions, but the doctors said it was best to wait a little longer. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted
to move.

The TV screen blared to a news channel, and as per usual, a pretty newscaster with a bland
expression sat primly relating all the latest breaking news. Behind her on a screen, in large white
letters against turquoise blue, were the words BLUE TAILS SHOOTER IDENTIFIED?

Jungkook’s hand slipped on the edge of the bed and he almost lost his balance and knocked his
head on the nightstand. A picture was blown up into the entire screen for the audience to take a
good look. A freeze frame from a CCTV footage video, which was then played slow motion to
show a hooded man with a large backpack walking calmly through the lower floor of the shopping
mall. He turned to go towards the elevator and the freeze frame popped up again. There he was.
Jimin. For anyone who knew him less, identifying him as a face they’d seen before might have
been more difficult. But a police drawn sketch was then brought up beside the freeze frame and it
was pretty accurate. Jungkook made the inference quickly. Jimin’s file had been deleted from the
police database but Namjoon and his superior had both seen his face. One of them had to have sat
down for the drawing.

“Isn’t that the young man who was with you?” a nurse walked in and paused when she saw the
screen, a shocked expression on her face.

“No, no, of course not,” Jungkook said quickly, “Just looks like him. Weird resemblance though.”

“You’re telling me…” she seemed convinced, though creeped out.

The more minutes that passed, Jungkook felt a tight, winding sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Jimin still wasn’t here and the news had just broken. It was almost beyond belief that both events
should coincide with each other so immediately. But he had a terrible feeling Jimin wouldn’t be
appearing at the doorway any time soon. One of two things must have happened – the police had
intercepted him, or Taehyung had taken him. In neither scenario did Jimin come out alive. The first
carried a delayed death sentence and the latter was immediate.

It hurt beyond imagining. Yet no screams built up, so Jungkook forced them out instead, knowing
the doctors would rush in with their sedatives and send him back into the darkness. He threw back
his head and screamed and cried as if his heart was being crushed in the grip of a metal fist.

And they came running, needles drawn, masks on.

It happened like in the movies.

Jimin walked up to the counter and ordered two iced bagels and hot coffees. As he whistled under
his breath and glanced around, his eyes landed on the TV screen behind the cashier. His face
drained of all colour upon seeing an accurate sketch of himself displayed so brazenly for the public
view. Slowly, so as not to attract any untoward attention, he lifted the zipper of his hoodie,
attempting to cover the lower half of his face. But it wasn’t that big and the most he could do was
hide his lips.

Yet he managed to leave the coffee shop with little trouble. It was once he got outside that he
almost walked headfirst into two police officers, one standing against the side of the squad car and
the other muttering into a radio. Jimin’s eyes met theirs and it struck him then – they’d seen him
going in. They already knew it was him and this was an ambush. The one on the radio began to
mutter with a little more volume and urgency and just before Jimin began to run towards the left,
he heard him say the street name, “pursuit on foot” and “Blue Tails shooter”. He shoved the coffee
cups and bagels into the nearest bin, knowing there was no chance in hell he’d be getting to the
hospital now.

Jimin was a fast runner. He had learnt to run a fast a long time ago, as an orphan with a slight build
and ‘lips like a girl’s’ (as one fellow urchin had so crudely put it). He yanked his hoodie over his
head and broke into a mad sprint. One glance back showed the cops were running as fast as they
could but there was still a growing distance between them.

Unfortunately, the radio had done its job and another squad car blasted its sirens from the opposite
end of the road. Jimin knew Hongdae fairly well and decided alleyways and metal fencing were
his best shot. His breath was coming short, sweat breaking out all over his body as his feet barely
touched the ground. The wind roared in his ears and at his back, propelling him forwards. He
climbed the first fence into the second alleyway with all the speed of a spider monkey and was
halfway to the next alley before the cops chasing him could even think about climbing. But the
squad car’s sirens drew away and then came closer, cutting through other streets to get closer to
where he was. Soon, there would be helicopters. Jimin knew they wouldn’t spare any expense for a
mass shooter. He couldn’t keep running and he had nowhere he could hide on his own, not with his
face all over TV.

He was taking awfully familiar pathways. He had traversed them before with Taehyung, when they
had traded crank with the Russians that populated this end of Hongdae. All mafia-affiliated – not a
single one of them was an ordinary tourist – and friends to Geomjeong-pa. They probably didn’t
know what had gone down at the Serpent Noir, even a month later, and all Jimin needed was time.
Time to figure out what to do next. He couldn’t return to the hospital though if Jungkook had seen
the news, he would figure out why. That did not mean he would be able to remain on his own.
Without Jimin, he would be on suicide watch and Jimin doubted he would take kindly to a stranger
keeping an eye on him.

The door into the gambling den was the same. Painted dull red, cracked in places, and situated by a
cheap eatery down a smoky street towered over by ugly apartment buildings. The sort which had
balconies people hung out their washing on. Jimin battered on the door as the helicopter blades
above became louder.
On the third consecutive hammering, a tall Russian opened the door. He had a face like a trussed-
up bull, and a highly unpleasant expression on his face as he looked down to see Jimin.

“What?” he grunted in English.

Jimin thanked all the stars for his mother’s rigorous insistence that his English become fluent and
panted, “You’re not Yanovich. Where’s Yanovich?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s Jimin. He knows me, I used to supply his men with crank. Look – just tell me, is he
here or not?”

The man turned and yelled something over his shoulder before turning his searing gaze back on
Jimin. He was chewing what looked like cigar bits in his mouth and when he spat near to Jimin’s
feet, he couldn’t even describe what the foul colour of his saliva was. Jimin edged away as
discreetly as possible from the mess and glanced nervously back down the street. Sirens were still
wailing. Someone grunted something from deep in the den and the big man in front stepped aside
to reveal a larger room beyond, with six men sitting at a poker table. At their head, was who Jimin
was looking for.

Yanovich was a short, stout, middle-aged man with a bald head and a pair of ice blue eyes that
were strange and frightening. Or perhaps that was just the general impression of the face they were
embedded in. He was the de facto head of this little branch of the Russian mafia, middlemen
between Geomjeong-pa and the larger syndicate back in the former Soviet Union. They kept
themselves to themselves, and were largely visitors on a working visa, all obtained through fake
papers given to them by Geomjeong-pa. The last time Yanovich had seen Jimin, he had been with
Taehyung and hadn’t done much talking.

Yanovich recognised him instantly, looking up from the hand of cards he was playing against three
other compatriots at the table. A mess of guns, vodka bottles and filled ashtrays littered the table,
with a voice crooning on the radio in a Russian dialect that Jimin did not recognise. It was like
walking into Little Moscow, unsmiling faces everywhere. He knew this much – Russians did not
smile unless they absolutely had to, and even then, sparingly.

“Well, well, a Geomjeong-pa man,” Yanovich said, flicking a card onto the table much to the
chagrined groaning of the others. “What can I do for you…Jimin, is it?’ His English was perfect,
though last time whilst speaking to Taehyung, he had made a rather rubbish attempt at Korean.

“Well, thanks for letting me in, first of all,” Jimin said, unsure of how to level out his tone and
ending up deciding it was better to stay neutral. “I was being chased.”

“Evidently. There is sweat dripping from your forehead. Viktor, get our friend a handkerchief and
some water. Don’t want him sweating into a puddle on the ground.” A soft laugh went through
those seated at the table though Jimin stood there, none the wiser as to what was funny. “You are
on the run for what I saw on TV, yes? Blue Tails shooting? You?”

Jimin grimaced and tried to explain, but Yanovich waved it off. “Gang business,” he continued
dismissively, “though my men may now feel antsy upon seeing you. You know, we have killed
and tortured – “ he said both words with amused candour “ – but we like to see the faces and know
the names of those we kill. It is an altogether different type of devil that can walk into a room and
open fire on a room of people he does not know. You must be a devil, Jimin.”

Jimin went still, knowing there was something coming on the back of this that would not be good
news for him. He decided to halt on his request to use the phone and just waited for Yanovich’s
little soliloquy to draw to an end.

“You are the one who used to hang around with the beshenyy pes, no? How you say – Mad Dog?”
he continued, to which one of his other men muttered, “Palach” and in return received a sharp
reprimand from his boss of “Zavali yebalo!” Jimin knew enough Russian to know when he heard
‘shut the fuck up’. Yanovich ran a tight ship.

“I was in the same circle briefly, yes,” Jimin said carefully, accepting the glass of water which was
handed to him. It was an oddly polite gesture for their surroundings and for a moment, he paused to
sniff it to make sure it wasn’t spiked. When he was certain, he downed it in one gulp.

“Hm. They call him the Butcher now,” Yanovich said casually, throwing another card on the table,
totally relaxed. “He killed the four big bosses working under Mother and spread photographs of
their bodies around. I saw them. Viktor saw them too, didn’t you, Viktor?”

At this, Viktor – the hefty man with large hands who had so gently handed Jimin the water –
nodded and grunted something in Russian. He made some gestures and widened his eyes and it
was clear the photographs had shocked even him.
“I want to know how he did it. Very young, he is. Maybe that’s why he’s so crazy, who knows,
eh?” Yanovich snorted, sharing a laugh with the others. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Took
over Mother’s house in one day and her gang in a fortnight. They say she was raped before they
killed her. Man dressed as a woman, what do you expect to happen when you lose control? But the
Butcher rules now. Wants to expand on his business dealings with me and my men. Says he wants
to deal in arms and says he’ll go to the Germans if we refuse to accept his terms. So, we said fuck
those Nazis, you deal with us. And we came to an agreement. Now this is just something small,
useless really, but I remembered you, and I asked him – what happened to that boy you used to trail
behind you like a shadow? Where is he? And do you know what he said?”

Jimin fucking hated it when someone stopped at a rhetorical question to look at him. He hated it
when anyone did that, but right now, in a dark, smoky den filled with Russians twice his size, he
hated it twice as much. He waited, hand clenched around the glass.

“He said, ‘Funny story. I left him for dead. But if he turns up around these parts, you be sure to call
me. I’ll pay you for him.’ That’s what he said. Now – “ Yanovich twisted in his chair, fixing Jimin
with the full effect of his piercing, stony eyes. “ – what did you do the Butcher to have him put a
price on your head?”

“Maybe I’ll save the story for a cosy, rainy evening. For now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use
your phone if you have one,” Jimin said hoarsely. Behind him, the way to the front door was
blocked. There was a door in the back, that opened onto a restaurant, an exit he had used with
Taehyung the last time. If this was more than just a casual attempt to make him squirm, he had an
escape route.

“There is a handset in the hallway. Show him Michael,” Yanovich said, and Jimin swore there was
a smirk on his face when he said that.

He ignored the growing sense of discomfort as he followed behind the sandy haired, lanky young
Michael. At the doorway, Jimin turned briefly to see Yanovich with a flip phone in his stubby
fingers. He’s going to call him. Michael lifted the phone off the handset in the hall and dropped it
into Jimin’s hand with a pointed lift of his eyebrows before going back. Yanovich started
conversing in broken Korean and Jimin quietly set the phone down without dialling. He glanced
towards the back room, and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the single eye peering at
him through the crack in the door jamb. Someone was hiding behind the door, watching him.
Jimin ran.

Shouts rang out in Russian, and he heard Yanovich yelling his name in a sing-song, mocking
manner. The fast food restaurant was empty – it wasn’t even lunch time yet after all – and it was
easy work to get to the door before the workers even realised what was happening. As soon as he
broke into the open air, Jimin knew Yanovich was toying with him as a cat might with a mouse. He
had no interest in seriously going after him to hand him over to Taehyung. The Russians were far
too private to involve themselves so heavily in such affairs, especially in Seoul of all places. There
were far too many bigger competitors and drawing attention to themselves was bad for business.
But the old bastard had probably gotten a kick out of alerting Taehyung to the fact that yes, Jimin
was very much alive.

But the Butcher rules now. Yanovich’s words crashed over him like a tsunami, the aftershocks of
which he knew he would feel much later when the adrenaline finally stopped coursing through
him. For now, he had to survive.

The police sirens were still ringing, but they were nowhere close by and as for the helicopter, no
sound. Jimin formulated his next plan of action quickly. Had Yanovich not been a piece of shit,
there was only one person he would have thought to run to. The only person left in this damned city
he could trust even a little.

The person whose life he’d tried to save by walking into Blue Tails that dreadful day and opening
fire.

Wonho had convinced him that this man was the best at what he did. Taehyung wasn’t convinced.
For starters, he was late.

It had become abundantly clear to Taehyung he could no longer dig in and get his hands dirty when
it came to torture. He had to let that coveted role go to someone in the shadows, a lackey. Kingpins
did not get their hands dirty unless they absolutely had to. It was why Mother wore kid gloves and
pearls. She was never going to sully them.

Taehyung would have picked any old man from one of Minsoo’s bunch, however Wonho had been
surprisingly productive in putting forward a name.
He named the man as a contact he’d met in America, and who was now currently living in exile
and on the run from members of the Albanian mafia which he had been a part of. Adnan Ahmeti
had a whole file issued for him by the CIA, which had been hacked and put before Taehyung
accordingly. He had a colourful resume. Everything from working for the Sinaloa Cartel as a
professional Body Snatcher and hitman – the first,an archaic term modernised to mean kidnapper –
to assassinating some Eastern European head of state refusing to play nice with the Albanian mafia.
One of his crimes was simply listed as grievous bodily harm with tons upon tons of pictures of all
manners of macabre torture aftermaths. There was artistry behind them. Never had Taehyung seen
a tongue pulled so neatly through a jagged slit in the throat. It was as if the dead man’s neck had
smiled and poked out the tongue playfully. That was what had led him to agree to a meeting
Ahmeti from wherever he was hidden away in the city when Wonho tracked him down.

“Where is he?” Taehyung spat impatiently, shouting to be heard over the sound of Tupac blaring
over the speakers. He was seated in his office – the one he kept thinking of as Mother’s – and
Wonho stood guard by the door, stiff and stoic as usual.

The man lifted his watch to check and then wrapped his hands behind his back again. “Praying, sir.
He’s Muslim. It’s part of their religion to pray five times a day,” he answered.

Taehyung let out a derisive sound of amusement. “Maybe we should hire a Jewish hitman and
form an Abrahamic Trio with Minsoo. Choi’s always praying when you need him too.”

Ahmeti finally turned up ten minutes later and Taehyung turned the music down finally. He was
pale, a skinhead, with ears that stuck out and weirdly sharp canines. It was the first thing Taehyung
noticed, though the man hadn’t smiled. He had dark circles under eyes which appeared to be
sinking into his skull. This man needed all the prayers he could get, he looked like he’d seen some
shit.

He spoke in broken English, for which Wonho provided the translation bridge. There were no
introductions. Ahmeti went straight to it with the air of a man who had never wasted a precious
second on formalities. He spoke in a raspy, low voice to Wonho, and Taehyung remembered
Yoongi telling him that in a room full of criminals, it was always the quietest ones that one should
watch out for. They were by far, the most dangerous, without exception. And now apparently, the
religious ones too. Minsoo was proof enough. Taehyung briefly wondered if he should start going
to the nearest Buddhist temple. Perhaps it would help the violence of his chi better itself.

“He would like to know what level of torture you require?” Wonho asked.

Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up. “What level – oh, I didn’t – damn, you think this shit through? I just
go with it.” He waited for Wonho to translate, and the man did, after some visible hesitance.
Ahmeti listened, cocked his head and smiled. His smile was frightening but his dimples were
strangely cute. Taehyung imagined popping one with his finger. It would be rather like popping a
hungry wolf in the jaw. The translations happened quick after that.

“I provide a service. I do not torture for my own gratification,” Ahmeti said.

“Forgive me for asking but…why on earth not?” Taehyung snorted.

“Because I take no joy in it.”

“Uh huh. Explain to me how that works after you’ve spent twenty years of your life doing it as a
career.”

“I have a talent at finding the root of a man’s fear and creating a point of severe pain on his person,
which I then unravel and spread through his being until he is screaming for his Maker. I have
accepted that I cannot get rid of this talent or this terrible urge and hope that Allah accepts that I at
least tried.”

“How did you…try?”

“I went on pilgrimage. I found peace. It did not last long. During the Stoning of the Devil, one
loudmouth in particular managed to find the back of my head twenty-seven times with his pebbles,
rather than the Devil. I found him later in the city and stabbed him twenty-seven times. He did not
die, he survived, but I felt very bad. So, you see, I tried.” And then he spread his hands with a shrug
and a resigned face.

Taehyung liked him immediately. He asked no further questions about the strange eccentricities of
such a mind and went straight to the matter at hand.

“I wish to extract a list of names from a man. He’s thirty-five, two kids, an ex-hooker wife.”

“What sort of list?”

“Acquaintances of the four bosses I had killed two weeks ago. The sorts of people who would sow
discontent against me.”

“How old are the kids?”

“We don’t hurt children here, mate.”

“Interesting. Permission to hurt the wife?”

“I don’t have that large a grudge against him, you know. I just want names.”

“That is what I meant. Torture levels.” Ahmeti made building block gestures with his arms.
“Depending on the level of enmity or hatred, I provide a focused and tailored service. Now for this,
I would say the filing of the teeth would work. Utterly humiliating, unbearable to suffer through,
despite a lack of pain if done correctly, and can be fixed by attaching crowns later. Alternatively,
combing. I take the iron comb used to sort and straighten sheep wool and use it on his back.
Extraordinarily painful, more so than lashing with whips. Alternatively, I can cut off his baby
fingers and stick them into his ear holes and then choke him until they pop out.”

Taehyung was open-mouthed now, staring at Ahmeti as if he were a deity. Wonho stopped
translating as the Albanian fell quiet expectantly.

“You’re so cool,” Taehyung murmured. “Fuck me. Baby fingers in the ears? Shit, why have I
never thought of that? So simple, yet so brilliant.”

“Sir,” Wonho reminded him.

Taehyung cleared his throat. “The teeth filing will be fine. And – “ he paused as his phone rang,
and muttered, “Excuse me,” before answering it.

It was Yanovich, and Taehyung tensed up at first, thinking something had gone wrong with their
agreement. He disliked leadership already and it had barely been a month. Mother’s job was harder
than it looked and most of it was not dissimilar to bureaucratic fumbling to keep an entire
institution - aka the syndicate - from crashing down. But Yanovich’s information was entirely
different. Taehyung heard the words “TV” and “Jimin” in amongst his thickly accented Korean,
reached under his desk and hit the button to bring out the plasma screen on the wall.
He turned it to the 24 hour news channel where live updates were being given on what was
reported to have been a police chase of the Blue Tails shooter a mere half hour ago. A sketch of
Jimin’s beautiful face kept flashing up on the bottom of the screen, with a number to call if anyone
thought they had spotted him. This channel was broadcasted in most public places in Seoul. Right
now, Jimin had to be feeling like a rat in an ever-shrinking trap.

“Where is he now?” he asked Yanovich slowly, prodding his thumb against his bottom lip.

“Gone. Ran out through the restaurant. Thought you might like to know.”

“Any idea where?”

“Not a clue. I would have tried harder to stop him, but we don’t like getting muddled in your
internal affairs.”

“Yes, of course. Besides, I know where he’s probably gone.” Taehyung hung up with a grin that he
could barely keep off his face. He set the phone down and switched the TV off, ears turning red
with excitement. They always turned scarlet when some intense emotion overtook him. “Ahmeti, I
have another task for you, if you’re up for it. I hear you were a Body Snatcher in the good ol’ days.
Care to relive them?”

Ahmeti let out a long breath and crossed his hands before him, standing with his feet apart and his
posture stick straight. “It will cost extra.”

“Money is no issue,” Taehyung waved it off, getting up from the desk and walking around to perch
himself on the edge. In the polished, near-reflective surface of it, he paused a minute to fix his hair
and the cravat around his neck before continuing. “That man you just saw on TV, I want him
brought to me, safe and sound. Every police department in Seoul will be looking for him but he
must be returned to me unharmed. You’ll receive a file on him – it’s not extensive, he’s a tricky
one – but it’s enough. And I have something to give you a head start. He may have gone to the
home of a certain Kim Namjoon to seek his help. Namjoon is a cop, do not hurt him, or anyone
else that happens to be living at his place.” By anyone else, he meant Seokjin, but Ahmeti did not
need to know that. “Bring Jimin to me, and you get four billion won, half of which you’ll get
before and the rest after.”

He noticed Wonho’s eyebrows shoot up at the hefty figure, but Ahmeti remained impassive.
Taehyung wondered what he could possibly do to this man to force him, if he refused. He didn’t
seem afraid of anything. Luckily, he gave a small nod.

“I will do that for you. I will find this Jimin,” he said.

“And you can take care of the other guy later. He’s in my basement anyway so he’s not going
anywhere.”

Taehyung hopped off the desk, only to stop in his tracks when Ahmeti drew forward with his arm
stretched outwards. Wonho moved on instinct too, as if expecting him to harm Taehyung.
However, Ahmeti’s arm swung inwards and his hand grabbed Taehyung’s in a firm handshake.

“Then it is besa,” he said.

Taehyung glanced at Wonho with a weirded-out expression and a “What?”

“It is trust, sir, it’s an Albanian code of honour. He’s giving his word that he will find Park Jimin
and protect him with his life to get him back to you in one piece. But you must say it back, and put
your own life on the line that you’ll pay him the rest of his money,” Wonho explained.

“Wikipedia Wonho, whew,” Taehyung whistled, but he seemed intrigued. “And what happens if I
don’t keep my end of the bargain?”

“Then, he will find you and kill you or die trying. And if he dies trying, then you’re never going to
be left to live in peace and will live a cursed life.” At Taehyung’s deadpan expression, Wonho
added with a little shrug, “It’s besa, sir. Serious stuff.”

“Christ, alright. Besa it is,” Taehyung muttered, giving Ahmeti a quick jerk of the hand. “Wonho,
see Mr Ahmeti out.” The bodyguard did so, and upon returning, was regaled once more by his
boss. “Teach me Albanian. And also, English. And find me any ex-Mossad agents looking to
branch out into a new career, because I wasn’t kidding about my Abrahamic Trio. I want one.”

Wonho blinked, struggling to keep up with the frankly bizarre tilt of Taehyung’s thought track. But
he bowed at the end of the rambling and said that he would do all those things to the best of his
ability. Taehyung set his chin on his hand and smiled – a little too dreamily – as his eyes traced the
strong, firm lines of Wonho’s hard body. Eye candy and clever. Minsoo’s choice of guard never
failed to surprise him.
He couldn’t keep himself distracted for long until he had to reach for the button controlling the
screens again. It was like a compulsion. This time, rather than the sketch, CCTV footage of Jimin
walking into Blue Tails was put across the screen and slowed down until he moved in jolts and
spurts. Taehyung’s smile was quite gone, replaced only by an expression of dull indifference.
Inside, he was anything but.

Taehyung had consulted a doctor after his blackout at the Serpent Noir and inability to remember
exactly what he had done until another 24 hours had passed. The doctor determined he had suffered
what was generally known as a ‘psychotic break’. If it hadn’t been for that, Jungkook would have
been dying on his own, as he had intended, and Jimin would have been with Taehyung. Whatever
had possessed him to leave them both there, had thrown a dark shroud over his conscience and
common sense, leaving him to regret it later. In the month that had passed, he had been far too busy
to think much about finding where Jimin was, though he knew he had probably survived. The fire
couldn’t have swallowed up three storeys so quick, and if anyone had died, it was most definitely
Jungkook. Which led him to question where Jimin had been hiding for four weeks.

Taehyung wanted him back now. He wanted Hoseok’s killer back in his arms like the wretched,
hateful, traitorous fool he was. And yet it didn’t feel as bad as it should. He didn’t feel as guilty as
he should. Guilt should have been shredding him to pieces, pulling him apart and hanging him out
to dry. But at the thought of Jimin’s face, the smell of the minty shampoo he loved, and the warm
taste of his pillowed lips, every nerve in Taehyung’s body came alive with need.

You can stop here, and just leave. Drop everything and go.

Jimin was right. He could have left, but he didn’t. What was the point when he’d be aimless, broke
and have nothing but his own shattered mind to keep him company? This was better. Power was
better. The urge to keep Jimin alive, despite all his better instincts, had always been superseded by
the demands of men far greater and more powerful. It was always in regard to someone else that
his relationship with Jimin played out, if it could even be called that. Now, he was the power, so
there was no one to answer to.

He could finally wipe that harried, exhausted look Jimin always had on his face. Rid him of the
scruffy, drab clothes he wore on a daily basis and get him fitted for a suit. Or perhaps, use the
extensive wardrobe Mother had left behind and have Jimin dress up in her clothes. The thought
sent a thrill through him. Jimin always carried the look of a dead man walking and Taehyung had
not seen his cheeks flushed with happiness in a long, long time.

Taehyung reached down to a drawer designed to blend in with the desk and become invisible when
shut. Inside, locked in a pristine, flat crystal case, the Jewel of Busan sat on a black velvet cushion.
Taehyung traced his fingers over the case, running his teeth over his lower lip as he imagined it
locked around Jimin’s slender neck. The train of thought carried him away at reckless speed,
bringing him into darker fantasies of Jimin tied to his bed wearing nothing but the necklace and
trembling as his asshole gaped, Taehyung’s cum dripping out of him.

Taehyung groaned softly into the palm of his hands, eyes closing and brow furrowed as he focused
on anything but the vivid image that would not leave his mind’s eye.

“Sir?” Wonho’s voice sounded from the far end of the room. Taehyung had forgotten he was still
there, standing guard on this side of the door.

“You can leave. Tell Ahmeti to get going asap,” Taehyung muttered, gesturing for him to get out
with one hand, whilst the other dipped out of sight below the desk, working at the belt of his
trousers.

By the time the doors slid shut and the room was empty, he already had his cock out of his
trousers, fully hard and beading with cum at the tip. He rubbed his thumb over it, pressing against
the leaking slit and dropped his head back against the chair, imagining it was Jimin’s hand fisting
it. It took him half a minute to erupt all over his trousers and the chair, making a complete and utter
mess, with Jimin arching and crying out in his mind’s eye.

Soon, it would be the real thing.

 Zombie

A/N I just want to reiterate that though Kook is paralysed, there is a chance he may walk
again with a lot of physiotherapy and psychological help. It’s not a complete lost cause.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of child prostitution.

Rani had not come near Seokjin.

She was a timid, shy creature, for all her size and ferocity, and the noise from the Yongsan-gu
crowd frightened her back into her cave at the far end of the enclosure. It was not a proven that
animals suffered from childhood trauma but perhaps being present when her parents were shot and
skinned in front of her, meant Rani’s fear of humans was exacerbated.

Upon seeing their desire for bloodshed unsated, Minsoo’s henchmen proceeded to create their own
entertainment and pelted Seokjin with pebbles and rocks lifted from the gravel path. He sat there,
unmoving, half-naked and smeared in bacon grease, his face impassive.

His eyes were corpse-like when Namjoon found him. The cop had no trouble pushing through the
throng. He blended right in with the open collared shirt and suit he was wearing. But when he told
the groundskeeper to open the enclosure gate, he was be confronted by some of the watching men,
reluctant to let the circus end.

“Leave him! He’s the cop!” Choi Minsoo yelled from the veranda of the house.

Namjoon turned to see him, putting his hand over his eyes against the blinding sun. He had never
seen Choi Minsoo up close, but he had heard plenty to not want to. Behind him, through the glass
wall, he saw Taehyung, a small figure at this distance, dwarfed by the chair he sat in. His legs were
crossed, and he was staring at the spectacle, motionless.

For some inexplicable reason, Namjoon’s first instinct to cuff Seokjin and drag him out of there
was quashed when he saw him. He put the cuffs on him, but much to the amusement and jeering of
the onlookers, he did not drag him. In a brief flash of pity, he took off his jacket and put it around
Seokjin’s shoulders, walking him out so that Namjoon was on the side of the watching mobsters.
Due to his body creating a defensive shield, they did not throw things – his status as a cop able to
walk freely onto their kingpin’s estate was sacred. Though, Seokjin was no longer the kingpin and
the sceptre now belonged to a twenty-four-year-old sociopath with Daddy issues. What fun.

Seokjin didn’t say a word all the way back to Namjoon’s apartment. He didn’t say a word for a
week following in fact. It was sheer silence in the studio flat. Namjoon did his best to show him
where everything was, knowing Seokjin wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention. He spent his
days and nights in bed, refusing to eat, though the jug of water Namjoon left by his bed was used.
By the end of the second week, he ate the energy bars Namjoon began to leave out. There was only
one bedroom with a double bed, which meant Namjoon had to camp on the couch. But he was
barely at home, so he never usually cared. He wasn’t even afraid that Seokjin would try to make a
run for it. It appeared the man was in shock. He wasn’t going anywhere.

But as the fourth week came to a close in the same manner, Namjoon still had not decided what he
would do with him. He walked into the apartment, forgot he was no longer alone in it and barged
into his room the first couple of days, as if nothing was different, only to see the curled-up figure
swaddled in bedsheets. His heart would sink, and he’d walk back out with a muttered apology that
was never acknowledged.

He wasn’t going to return to the precinct, he knew it would be far too dangerous to face the
sergeant after what he had done. The KICAC called him in continuously to provide live, recorded
witness testimonies to support the accusations laid out in his report. The Police Commissioner
General was also being extraordinarily vigorous in his attempts to support the investigation, no
doubt to cover his own murky tracks. Namjoon didn’t mind working with him, if it meant choosing
the lesser of two evils. He told neither the KICAC reps or the PCG that he had Seoul’s most
wanted criminal and No. 4 on Interpol’s Most Wanted in his bedroom, sinking into what Namjoon
assumed was shock and depression. Yet he didn’t quite believe Seokjin was that weak. He
considered it a sort of hibernation for him to regrow the impenetrable armour that had been ripped
from him piece by piece. This man was not weak, nothing about him was flimsy or ineffectual. He
was up there on international criminal lists with the likes of Dawood Ibrahim and Semion
Mogelivich. He was Korea’s modern-day Pablo Escobar and the moment he stepped foot out of the
door, international police would be fighting tooth and nail over how who got to indict him first.

And yet despite this reputation and the fearsome shadow that followed his name, he looked
incredibly defeated under Namjoon’s cotton sheets, with the curtains drawn and silence stifling
every atom in the room.

Namjoon tried to accost him on the eight day, coming in with a steaming bowl of ramen. “You
have to eat,” he told him gruffly, setting the bowl down on the table. “You need your strength for
when you eventually get put on trial. I’m not letting you die.”
Seokjin didn’t move. Namjoon went to draw back the curtains and then started pulling the
bedsheets down off his broad shoulders. He was awake. In the glimpse of the light, Namjoon saw
his eyelashes flutter shut and he almost snorted – he was pretending to be asleep. He tugged on the
sheets harder and Seokjin finally slapped at his hand with such ferocity, Namjoon was stunned into
silence. He recovered quickly and pulled the sheets off in one go.

“Eat,” he commanded, when Seokjin sat up looking ready to rip into his jugular with his bare teeth.

“Fuck you,” Seokjin spat. “Get out, pig.”

“Oh, I’m a pig now? Before it was ‘officer this, officer that’. Civility only suits you when you’re in
total control. Well, how does it feel to be weak and alone? Not a good look on you I must say, you
look like warmed up crap.” Namjoon improvised the stream of vitriol, hoping fire against fire was
the correct way to go.

There was no way of telling since Seokjin was frozen, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.
His eyes did flicker to the ramen bowl but he didn’t move to touch it.

“Did you shower?” Namjoon inquired, lifting his eyebrows. “At all?”

“I’m not a fucking heathen,” Seokjin hissed, grabbing the sheets back and curling up.

“If you go to sleep again, I’m taking away the sheets and not letting you have them. It’s bad
enough I’ve had to sleep on the couch in my own home, but this is getting beyond bearable. Maybe
I should drop you off at the police station right now and watch the drama unfold.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Only reason you haven’t done so already is because you know none of your
fellow pigs can be trusted. Swill-filth, the lot of you.”

Namjoon let the insults pass over him, and sat down on the bed, reaching for the ramen bowl. He
stirred it, and then gently nudged Seokjin’s back, continuing to do it until he finally turned an inch
or so. The smell of the ramen was enticing him, Namjoon could see it in his eyes.

“I know you’re in pain. Food won’t solve all your problems, but it will solve one. You’ve only had
energy bars for nearly three weeks now.”
Seokjin didn’t answer, eyes glazed over as he stared at Namjoon. Then, he said, “I don’t know why
you’re forcing yourself to be nice. My pain can’t be anything compared to what you’ve suffered.
You don’t need to keep pretending.”

“Everyone has different sorts of pain, and it’s never right to invalidate someone else’s because you
think you’ve suffered more,” Namjoon shrugged.

Seokjin made a sound of disgust. “God, you’re so sanctimonious, so nauseatingly good. Stop it. I
know it’s a pretence. Just drop the whole façade and go nuts. Rip into me. Beat me up. Throw me
at the police station steps, bloodied, bruised and broken. No one will ask, no one will care. The
men who are loyal to me, Taehyung will have taken care of them soon enough. I have no one left.
So, let’s drop this charade.”

“This might surprise you to learn, but there are people in this world who struggle to do good, even
when being bad is the easiest, most painless way out,” Namjoon said, putting the ramen bowl
down on the table again. “Your mistrust of me is natural considering where you were raised, but
it’s no excuse. You know of my past. I should be paranoid too. And I was, for the longest time. But
I fought tooth and nail to keep some flame of optimism alive inside me, just so that I could sleep
every night and look forward to waking up in the morning. So, I’m sorry to say Kim Seokjin,
you’re not special. You’re just one of 7.7 billion people trying to get through this shit show we call
life.”

Namjoon took a shuddering breath at the end of his speech, feeling stars explode in front of his
eyes. He remembered he hadn’t eaten either, all day in fact, and wished Seokjin would hurry up
and take the damn ramen so he could go and cook for himself. He was half expecting a snapping,
snarling response, and braced himself, hand clenching the bed sheet as he struggle to keep himself
alert and sentient. Instead, he felt Seokjin’s hand brush against his arm and looked down to see it
creeping up his bicep. Namjoon’s eyes turned up to him, stirring with confusion. Seokjin looked
equally confused, but not about what he was doing – no, he seemed confused the longer he stared
into Namjoon’s eyes.

“You are quite possibly the most beguiling, frustrating creature I have ever encountered,” he
murmured. “And I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”

Namjoon was still as a statue as the bed dipped when Seokjin shifted closer. He was so fragile with
his movements, weakened by hunger and lack of real sleep, and he touched Namjoon as if he were
the breakable one. One ghostly pale hand brushed his ear, whilst the other, rested on his shoulder.
Namjoon drew in a slow, painful breath as Seokjin’s bee-stung lips pressed delicately against his
cheekbone. Another kiss on the centre of his cheek and Namjoon let out the breath, his body
shuddering just barely. Seokjin’s lips felt dewy, not dry the way they looked, and he was bringing
them closer to Namjoon’s. But the younger still had his face turned straight ahead, not moving it
towards him an inch. Seokjin’s onyx-coloured eyes opened, bright as gems, and he surveyed
Namjoon before kissing the corner of his mouth. He didn’t try to force him to turn his head. He
just rested his slender hands against his shoulder and waited, whilst kissing all over the corner of
his mouth, his jawline, his chin, until it became too much for the other.

Forgetting all thoughts of hunger and an empty stomach, Namjoon lunged in one surge of a
movement, trapping Seokjin’s lips between his own. They felt as delicious as the last time, full and
soft, just asking to be bitten into. Seokjin made a sound that Namjoon had replayed in his mind
plenty of times after that first time they’d had sex in his bedroom at the condo. It was a gasping
moan, a whimper almost, as they tilted their heads in different directions to deepen the kiss and it
only made Namjoon want him more, despite the hundred million reasons he shouldn’t have.

And then it just sort of happened, with no thought process to precede it.

He had never undressed faster in his life. Seokjin helped, undoing his tie, but Namjoon was
quicker, wanting the physical relief of touching his naked body against the other’s. His hand
wrenched down Seokjin’s trousers – he had leant them to him, and they were slightly too big – and
groaned against his lips as Seokjin’s nails clawed down his back. The bed rocked in their haste to
embrace each other, and gasps and whimpers filled the room as their lips refused to part.

“Wait…I need to get lube – “ Namjoon muttered, wincing as Seokjin nipped his bottom lip with
his teeth and refused to let go.

“Fuck me raw,” he murmured, wriggling under Namjoon as he tried to get his hands down between
his legs.

“No – we need condoms too,” Namjoon whispered, “The corner store is only a minute away.” As
he said this, his face was buried in Seokjin’s slender neck and he was reluctant to pull away. He
did, however, once Seokjin’s temper began to flare up again.

Namjoon half expected to find him curled up and fully clothed again once he got back, but Seokjin
was far from it. He was on his knees, face first in the pillow, tugging on his cock with slow,
leisurely moans. Namjoon stopped in the doorway, completely shaken by the sight. He recovered
his senses when Seokjin turned his head to snap, “What the fuck are you looking at? Get over
here.”

Namjoon disliked that iota of a thrill he got when Seokjin was so blasely rude. It either indicated
that Seokjin was far too great a controller of people or that Namjoon himself was weak to it. He did
not think through the implications too deeply however, as most of the blood in his body was
rushing south. It was only once he got onto the bed that he noticed the ramen bowl was empty.

“You ate that fast,” he noted, fumbling with the condom wrapper.

“Fuck me hard enough and you might have the pleasure of seeing it again,” Seokjin mumbled.

“Then, do you want me to go slow?”

“No, I want you to go fast. And hard.”

“But you just said – “ he stopped as Seokjin’s hand reached back to grab his stiffened cock and use
it to pull him closer.

“Just fuck me,” he said, and there was a quiet sort of desperation in his eyes that hit Namjoon on a
whole other level.

Seokjin wanted to forget whatever humiliation he had endured at Taehyung’s hands to be thrown
half naked into a tiger enclosure at the end of it. Namjoon decided it was not on him to ask. He
himself had plenty of things in his life he had used various avenues to drown out. But it was most
certainly a whole new definition of keep your enemies closer when his dick slid inside Seokjin’s
ass, inch for inch.

Despite Seokjin’s demand, Namjoon went slow at first, hands splayed over the older man’s hips.
He was as vocal as the last time, singing Namjoon’s praises as he spread his cheeks wider and
moaned at every forward thrust. He was a very proficient dirty talker, but the only problem was, it
was constant, like he was making up for something. As Namjoon fell forward a little and grabbed
the wall to steady himself, he considered muffling Seokjin’s mouth with his other hand. He wasn’t
particularly against the dirty talk, but Seokjin was driving himself into a frenzy and not the good
kind. Namjoon feared he would start to cry at any minute, and he did not want to be hilt deep inside
a crying man.

“W-what are you doing?” Seokjin wailed, as he pulled out.

Namjoon turned him onto his back and sank into him, hard, just the way he wanted it and was
rewarded by a strangled yell of “FUCK!” Seokjin’s long legs curled at first, before latching around
his waist with the power of a vice, refusing to allow him to do anything but thrust into him like a
piston hammer.

And at the first hint that he was about to go on a pornographic rant, Namjoon swallowed his
tongue into his mouth, kissing him with such ferocity his lips turned numb from the pressure.
Seokjin’s head dug into the pillow with the weight of him but he didn’t try to make him stop.
Instead, his every cry was transferred to Namjoon’s mouth and he gave it over willingly. When
they broke apart, he gasped, laughing a little as tears of pleasure streamed down his face and
hiccupped, “You fuck so good, officer…”

“Christ – “ Namjoon grunted as he felt his cock throb and swell inside the other. He could literally
feel the orgasm starting to spread from his core, threatening to make him black out once it hit.

But before he could give into it freely, his phone rang on the cabinet. He ignored it at first, though
it staved off the climax for a while. It had totally shattered the tense haze of desire. Seokjin
reached for it, and Namjoon muttered, “Leave it,” pulling his arm back in and rutting hard, so that
the other’s head hit the board. After another two minutes of straight ringing, Seokjin snatched it
and put it to his ear with a bark of, “What?”

Namjoon didn’t even have enough sense left to try and listen in. He was lost in a sea of darkness
behind closed eyelids, inhaling the smell of Seokjin’s sweat and the lingering traces of his shower
gel. “Hang up,” he moaned in his other ear, snapping his hips in sharply to force his way.

“It’s Jimin,” Seokjin said simply, handing it to him.

Namjoon’s face scrunched up in an expression of pure annoyance and panic. Panic, because now
one other person out of the pair of them knew that he was sleeping with Seokjin. That wasn’t the
best information to have spread about himself. However, his brain finally threw itself into gear and
reminded him of Blue Tails. He had figured quite quickly that was what Seokjin had meant when
he’d said Jimin had taken dozens of lives to save Namjoon’s. And now he would be speaking to
him, for the first time since then.

“Jimin?” Namjoon’s voice came out hesitant.

“You’re with Mother?” Jimin said.

“Yeah, she’s – he’s not, anymore – “ he broke off as Seokjin disappeared under the sheets and
Namjoon felt his hands pushing his thighs apart. He closed his eyes and tried to push the man’s
head away but it wasn’t happening. His sinewy tongue was already lapping lines up the underside
of Namjoon’s swollen cock. It wasn’t helping matters with his brain.

“Did you tell them I was the one at Blue Tails?”

“W-what? No, why – “

“You haven’t seen the news all damned day? I’m all over it. They’ve got CCTV footage and a
sketch drawing of me blasted everywhere. I can’t walk around in the daylight. I assumed you’d
tipped them off. I was trying to save your fucking life, and this is how you repay me – “

“Jimin, I swear to you, I had no idea.” Namjoon tried to keep his voice as level and as soothing as
he could, despite suppressing moans with every fibre of his being. “This is not my doing. Where
are you right now? Are you somewhere safe?”

“I’m at a motel, but I’m running out of money and I’m pretty sure Taehyung’s got people looking
for me. But that’s not important – put me on speakerphone – I want her to listen – “

Namjoon did so, head spinning as he sank against the pillows. Jimin’s voice crackled through the
room, louder, and every syllable trembling with rage.

“I would say it serves you right what happened but you and Taehyung are cut from the same cloth
so fuck you both,” he spat.

“Hi, Christian,” Seokjin drawled, winking at Namjoon before downing his cock almost fully into
his mouth. The younger promptly tensed and buried his mouth against his arm. Seokjin wasn’t
trying to be quiet. It was almost as he wanted Jimin to pause and focus on what he was hearing in
the background, to recognise the tell-tale slurping and gagging for what it was.

Jimin didn’t seem to notice.

“Listen, you fucking bitch, Jungkook is alive and if you want to see him again, you’d better make
arrangements to get him before Taehyung finds out he’s still breathing and sends someone to kill
him. He’s in Yonsei Severance Hospital and he was shot in the spine. He’s paralysed from the
waist down, all because you thought it was a good idea to let him face Taehyung on his own.”
“Jimin, where are you going to – “ Namjoon began to say but he’d already hung up.

Seokjin had let go of him, his face pale and all traces of sexual heat vanished. He drew up slowly,
eyes blank. Namjoon discreetly pulled the sheets over his lower half and sat there, cradling the
phone in his hand as his cheeks gradually cooled.

“I’ll go and see him,” he said, “If he’s been there four weeks, they should be ready to let him go
now. I can have him transferred to a rehab unit my friend works at – “

“How easily he allocates blame,” Seokjin murmured softly. “I thought it was a good idea? As if by
the mere value of being alive, he himself didn’t send all of this madness into overdrive. If Kim
Bong Ju had actually done what he set out to do, none of this would have happened. They’re both
alike – father and son – can’t kill children. And look where that’s gotten us.”

Namjoon’s arousal was pretty much gone. He was not attracted to the cold, calculated Mother
persona in the slightest and it was returning. He desired Seokjin’s wild abandon, his strangely
playful humour and gruffness. Mother was a mass murderer in a dress.

He started to get out of bed, putting his clothes back on. “Taehyung is going to find Jimin sooner or
later. God knows why. I don’t think either of them are capable of love, but they have a strange
attachment to each other and it’s keeping one of them alive at least. But Jungkook won’t be half as
lucky so I’m going to need you to get dressed and come with me.”

“I can’t leave this place,” Seokjin said, “I’ll be recognised. “

“You’ll be surprised what a wig can do to befuddle police officers. The ones I worked with weren’t
a bright bunch,” Namjoon snorted. “You can borrow my clothes – wear a mask, a hat, glasses,
whatever – but he’ll be easier to deal with if you’re there. Perhaps you can finally let him know
that you’re family so the poor kid can stop being knocked about in his eternal quest to belong
somewhere. Think he deserves that much, don’t you?”

When Seokjin didn’t answer or move to get up, Namjoon turned. He sighed and sat back down on
the bed. “You are going to tell him, aren’t you?” he said.

Again, no answer for a prolonged period of time. Seokjin seemed safely closeted in his own world
so Namjoon kept his gaze steady. His profile was simply exquisite. There was no other way to
describe it. His entire life, Namjoon had grown up thinking he was straight. Sleeping with Seokjin
once had not changed that belief as he recognised the element of dubious consent in that situation
and the sheer imbalance of power. But there was no doubt about it now. Nothing had coerced him
to get into bed with the man today except his own desire. Considering how nightmarish his life had
been up to this point, billowed from one rock to the other, Namjoon’s acceptance of his own
bisexuality was considerably less conflicted. It sunk and settled inside him, slotting into place
easily.

“I told Taehyung that my wife killed our son and then herself,” Seokjin said suddenly. He didn’t
move, staring blankly at the wall.

“What?” Namjoon blinked.

“He asked me about them and assumed that they had been victims of a revenge killing. But I lied
and told him she killed my son and then herself. Because it was a controlled narrative, one that I
had designed. But in reality, he was right. They were both killed by someone who had a bone to
pick with my father and I couldn’t control that, nor could I save them. So, I made up a whole
elaborate story where my wife hated me and killed my son, simply because I did not want to admit
to Taehyung that I couldn’t protect the people I love when it mattered most. I understood that he,
much like everyone else in Geomjeong-pa does not appreciate weakness. I suppose in a sordid
way, I hoped never acknowledging Jungkook as family would mean he would never be caught in
the crossfire of a vendetta against me. And again, my control amounts to nothing.”

“He’s still alive,” Namjoon reasoned gently. “The same thing won’t happen to him.”

Seokjin scoffed. “Of course. As if that wasn’t the very thing I said whenever I laid eyes on my
wife. What almost happened to me and my mother would never happen to Joohyun and Daehan,
that Geomjeong-pa was at the peak of its power. No one would get to them even if they tried. And
then they did. Stabbed a toddler in his cot in front of his mother, and then slit her throat to give her
a slow death, letting her watch her baby suffer before he finally gave into the pain.”

Namjoon felt an overwhelming flood of sadness wash over him and he moved on instinct to
squeeze Seokjin’s shoulder, hold him, anything. But he was answered with a brusque shrug, as
Seokjin flinched away. His nose was red, but he refused to sniff, his eyes waterlogged. It was the
first time Namjoon had seen him wracked in the throes of grief and it was disconcerting to say the
least.

“You must have loved your wife very much,” Namjoon tried carefully, making sure to keep his
voice gentle.
“Ha,” Seokjin muttered, the sound coming out thick, “I loved her. But not in the way my parents
would have hoped when they forced a marriage upon us. Neither wanted to be in the situation and
we remained at an impasse for a few months before the defences finally began to crumble. My
father was an impatient man and he wanted to know why we weren’t giving him a grandchild. In
his own words – “I don’t care if you have to bang her three times an hour, every hour of each day, I
want an heir” – and naturally, that was a problem for me. She eventually caved and asked if there
was something wrong with her and if she had done something to offend me, because she genuinely
tried more than a few times to do her part. And I just came out with it. Told her I was gay. I knew
she could tell her parents, who would pass it onto mine without delay, but she didn’t. She kept the
secret. And then reasoned that we should at least try for a baby the traditional way since my father
would find out about any other route we might take to pregnancy. And it worked the first time,
because Daehan arrived nine months later.”

Seokjin paused here, gesturing with his hands to show the size of a new born baby as his eyes
crinkled. “Little thing. Mouth like a cherry. His mother was a very beautiful woman, and he took
after her completely. My father was pleased, and Joohyun and I settled into a camaraderie of sorts.
In fact, she was the one who taught me how to do all this – “ he gestured to his face - “the
makeup. And the female clothing, I developed a taste for it after a long night of smoking pot
together ended up in a bizarre, and very haphazard fashion show we conducted on the penthouse
level of our home. Just the two of us, acting completely insane into the wee hours of the morning.”

It was as if he was talking to himself or committing his memories to a tape recorder. His laugh was
lovely as he remembered her, and Namjoon couldn’t help but feel his heart clench. He was
empathetic to a fault, something he had wished several times in the past he could be rid of. Having
too many feelings was burdensome. But right then, it was alright, it was nice. It helped him
sympathise with someone not outwardly deserving of any such sentiment.

“It became her hobby,” Seokjin took a deep breath and continued, “I told her she was free to have
affairs, as long as they were discreet, but she never really went for it. Her life as a mafia wife was
limiting but she seemed happy to stay in her room, creating dresses, and hanboks and all manners
of outfits in my size which she’d then have me try. I kept all the pieces she made. Including that.”
He pointed to the tatters of the white dress that he had so painstakingly folded up and set on the
dresser. “They tore it with such impunity, the filthy animals. It was sewn with more love than any
of them could ever hope to comprehend.”

His head dropped into his hand and his fingers pulled at the strands of his hair falling forward.
“Why am I even telling you this? As if you need any more reason to find me utterly pathetic,” he
muttered.

“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” Namjoon said quickly.

“Then what?” Seokjin challenged. “Don’t tell me you’re pitying me now. I don’t need your pity,
Kim Namjoon. And dare I say it, I don’t deserve it.”

“I agree, but everyone has a drop of both in them. Good and evil. And nothing you can say will
convince me that the way you treated a helpless young woman who was forced into marriage,
wasn’t out of pure goodness, wherever it lay in your heart.”

“Yeah, well – “ the hardness began to return to his face, hardening his features to porcelain,
“Joohyun did used to say that the scariest people are those who know how to be good, but choose
to be bad anyway. So, I suppose your point falls short.”

‘Look, we don’t have much time, and Jungkook needs you right now. So, are you coming or not?”
Namjoon got up, zipping up his coat. “Not to be a sanctimonious prick and say that’s what Joohyun
would have wanted, but isn’t Jungkook the last remaining family you have left? Don’t waste this
opportunity. Don’t let Taehyung take away that from you as well.”

Seokjin looked him dead in the eye and for a moment, Namjoon felt he had failed to make his case.
But then, the older man stood up, reaching for the trousers discarded at the bottom of the bed.

“Perhaps cop was the wrong occupation for you. Shrink would have suited you better, though I
wouldn’t pay you by the hour,” he said snidely.

“Please. I have enough trouble staying in my own head at the best of times, never mind the likes of
yours,” Namjoon smirked.

He considered it an achievement that Seokjin’s usual scowl was replaced by the faintest smile as he
walked past him to leave the room. Funny, that this seemed like an achievement after all he had
been through.
Pain was a strange thing.

Pain, Yoongi often thought, was God’s real punishment for Adam and Eve when they bit into the
apple. Falling to Earth was not. Anyone who had seen Earth – really seen it, lived it, experienced it
without the taint of humankind – could never believe it to be better than anything Paradise had to
offer. His aunt, a woman with cruel eyes and a mean mouth, only ever said a handful of beautiful
things in her life and this was one: “Earth was torn from the fabric of the mighty Garden, because
God, in all His benevolence and love, could not bear the thought of His children living without
beauty. So, He created Earth from a drop of Eden to soothe their weary, disobedient souls until the
moment He could embrace them once more.”

Yoongi remembered that. And he remembered thinking the emotion of pain was the real
punishment then, the clincher to remind humanity that it was created in the image of its Maker.
Humanity could be bountiful and loving but also rage with a vengeance stronger and more harmful
than the fire of the Sun. Yoongi never understood how God managed to exist with such vengeance,
anger, love and compassion, not to mention all the hundred other conflicting emotions a single
human being could experience, intensified to a celestial level.

He did not understand until the day he met Taehyung. Vengeance and anger was forced for
Hoseok, never truly meant. But it was felt for Taehyung, with the acidic power of a hundred fire
ants riddling his heart into a hill full of holes. And yet, he now questioned the other emotion he
refused to name as love for a long time. That soft, tender ache of the heart that caught him
unawares at strange hours of the night when he woke up, parched. Or when he sat in board
meetings, speaking to a room full of attentive business executives and would see Taehyung at the
very end, young and bored, playing with the cuffs on his sleeve. Yoongi would forget his words
and be overcome with such affection, it irritated him, and he would crush it almost as instantly as it
appeared.

Now, Yoongi wondered what their relationship would have turned into if he had allowed that
strange little inkling of a feeling to bloom. Perhaps it would have become that sordid tangle of a
mess that Jimin and Taehyung had created. The longer he thought about it, he decided it was not
for him. He had an empire to run and Taehyung was a self-contained empire that needed constant
attention and reining in. But he could not deny the soft pangs of regret when he thought of how
Jimin’s eyes turned glassy at the mention of him. Yoongi recognised that emotion. The constant
internal strife between love and hatred, struggling for dominance in a mind yearning to drown in
the sweet passion of both.

One thing was for sure, Yoongi would have suffered a heart attack a lot quicker had he let
Taehyung get to him the way he had gotten to Jimin. He would rather teeter on the brink of death
because Hoseok was dead, than because Taehyung was still his.

Yoongi didn’t find himself doing much these days except sitting in his penthouse office at the top
of a conglomerate tower. Every floor below his was rented out,or employed for criminal activity.
He quite literally spent his days seated on a goldmine. The doctor had ordered bed rest, and Yoongi
had bargained for the bed to be removed from the equation but had agreed to ‘rest’.

The Yong Geondal empire usually ran itself – testament to Yoongi’s good sense in picking men to
work for him – so there quite literally was not much to do except sign papers day in and day out for
the ‘legal’ half of the business and make phone calls and attend meetings. Heading an empire was
dull in peace time; one needed a distraction, in the form of a young, supple body writhing in the
bed. Or a pet or two. But Yoongi did not take the peace for granted. Soon, things would begin to
crumble, he was sure of it. This was the calm before the storm.

The only faint distraction was the child Mr Han had chosen to be groomed to take his place. The
young half-Korean with curly hair and eyes that were permanently frightened. Han had directed
him to Yoongi’s immediate service, a tactic to ingratiate himself with the master. So far, Kai had
carried through his tasks admirably, though Yoongi made sure to make them menial and see if he
would crack. But he willingly brought the morning paper, coffee, swept the floors of the office, ran
down to the restaurant ten blocks away to fetch Yoongi’s dinner (though it could easily have been
delivered) and trudged through the dull task of ordering and listing all the things Yoongi needed to
do daily.

He was a good kid, silent and hard-working, if boring. But perhaps that was being harsh. Yoongi
was used to Taehyung after all. Kai’s pleasantly quiet demeanour was exactly what he needed to
keep the stress on his heart as minimal as possible.

Busan had been suffering from bad weather recently. It was either wind or rain or stifling sunlight
that gave no one any reason to go out and enjoy it. It was a strange, unsettling humid heat that
made one want to crawl back home and sit under the fan. There was no such trouble in Yoongi’s
fully air-conditioned office and it was clear Kai was relieved to return with Yoongi’s lunch,
sweating through his clothes.

“Here you are, sir,” Kai said, breathless, setting the neatly packed boxes on the desk. “Who should
I take this other meal to?”
Yoongi had had him order two for a reason. He signalled that Kai should sit opposite him at the
desk. “It’s for you.”

“S-sir?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, boy.”

Kai hurriedly dropped himself into the chair and reached for the dinner with trembling hands. He
looked half starved, though Yoongi knew Mr Han took care of him well. It was probably the
never-ending exercise that refused to allow any fat to pad out his hollow cheeks. He was nervous
as he opened up the card board, glancing at Yoongi every so often as if expecting this all to be a
strange test that he was failing. He looked ready to bolt at the lightest indication that he was not in
fact, welcome.

“You’re young,” Yoongi remarked.

“Yes, sir,” Kai answered.

“Is it just yessir, nossir, or is there something more that goes on inside that mind of yours?”

“Nothing beyond doing my work to the best of my ability, sir.”

“Do you know why I don’t believe you?”

“W-why sir?”

“Because I was once the ‘yessir, nossir’ boy for a far greater man. That man is now six feet
underground and I’m sitting up in the clouds having steak dinners rushed to me. Do you see why I
find your brown-nosing unsettling, Huening Kai?”

Kai took his sweet time responding and Yoongi appreciated that. He liked people who treated their
brains like something worth perusing before they started the motor to their mouth. The mind was a
tool not utilised often enough.

“I understand where you’re coming from, sir, but I assure you, I hold no such lofty aspirations.”

“And why might that be?”

“B-because I think to be in your place, it would be incredibly lonely. And I can’t deal with
loneliness, sir, no offence to you. You’re also much better than I am at holding Yong Geondal
together. I could never.”

“Hm. Do you know Aristotle by any chance?” Yoongi said, sitting back to take a sip of wine.

“No, sir, I don’t know what that is,” Kai blinked.

What that is. Of course. The boy was street smart, not book smart, hence why Han had taken him
in. Yoongi glanced at him from under hooded lashes and when he saw those large eyes staring
back at him, Kai’s face shimmered and turned into Taehyung’s. Rather than affection, empathy
stirred within Yoongi. Taehyung had strong features, he looked like he could take care of himself.
But Kai had more of a kicked-puppy tilt to his features, like Jimin, who often looked as if he was
having a hard time staying afloat (in the short time Yoongi had known him anyway).

“Aristotle was a Greek philosopher, and what you said, brought to mind a quote of his. Man is by
nature a social animal; an individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally is either
beneath our notice or more than human….anyone who either cannot lead the common life or is so
self-sufficient as not to need to, and therefore does not partake of society, is either a beast or a
god.”

“I-it’s a nice quote, sir.”

“Are you calling me a beast or a god, Huening Kai?”

Again, Kai fell silent and Yoongi wondered whether it was fair to put such pressure on an eighteen
year old’s shoulders, one who thought Aristotle was a ‘that’ not a ‘who’. But he answered with
admirable calm.
“I believe you are a bit of both, sir. And that’s why you are where you are,” he said simply,
continuing to eat his food.

Yoongi’s lips curled up into a smile – the first in a long time – and he finally understood what Han
meant when he commended the kid’s intelligence. It was not often someone ill-acquainted with
philosophy could give a suitably cryptic answer in regard to one of its ideas. Han had chosen very
well indeed.

Once lunch was over, Kai was back to his daily routine of jogging about as a glorified errand boy
and Yoongi set to work getting through a considerable stack of folders on the desk waiting to be
looked over. They all pertained to real estate ventures – an apartment complex in Dongnae-gu, a
chain of hotels paid for by laundered money in Haeundae-gu. It was monotonous work but once he
got a rhythm going, the dullness was nice.

Except today, fate had other plans. His phone began to dance on the desk ten minutes in, vibrating
insistently. He flipped it over and froze when he saw the caller ID was from Seoul. Gangnam, to be
exact. He had plenty of Gangnam contacts, but they were all named on his phone. He just knew
which this one was and he decided to ignore it, letting it die away on its own. But the phone kept
ringing and ringing and ringing until finally, Yoongi snatched it up.

“Wanted to read me some more of your depraved little fantasies?” he snapped.

Silence reigned on the other end. He could hear Taehyung’s breathing. By the sound of it, he was
on his back. The breaths he took were deep and slow. And the faint rustles on the bedsheets beside
him signalled to some sort of an animal scurrying about. Yoongi’s ear was well attuned to picking
up the faintest of things in the background.

“How do you do it?” Taehyung said after minutes of silence.

Yoongi felt a numbness seep under his skin, stilling him and preventing him from moving a
muscle. The sea was a distant strip of grey-blue and it sparkled in a momentary glimpse of cold
sunlight. The rays flashed off of the horn of a ship, exploding with light for the barest second,
dazzling him. He knew what Taehyung was asking. He just did not know why. This seemed like
another game.

“I suppose you’re confused,” Taehyung reiterated. “but I’m being genuine. It hit me, this morning,
just what I’ve done. I waded into the ocean and a whirlpool dragged me into a frenzied merry-go-
round. But then it dumped me into its centre and that was the eye, the eye of the storm. And it’s
quiet here. Boring. Everything is rushing around me, frantic, racing, living, and I’m stuck in
Purgatory, wondering why it’s so dull when this is what I always wanted. Or I thought I did
anyway. I just wanted to be free. But now I’m free, it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would.”

Yoongi said nothing.

“I’m not allowed to do anything,” Taehyung continued, “I’m supposed to call people, to order for
people to be killed or tortured, to attend charity galas and social functions with chaebols so they
know who their new hound dog is. See, that’s the thing, I thought this position would stop me
from being a dog. It hasn’t. I’m just the ultimate canine now. Cerberus, guarding the gates of the
Underworld, where everyone goes to die. It’s numbing. I don’t know how you do it. Doesn’t the
boredom just eat you from the inside out?”

Yoongi still said nothing for the longest time. But it did not seem as if Taehyung was in any hurry
to hear an answer. He breathed steady, occasionally cooing to his pet. Then, his voice cracked as
he laughed, “I feel like a zombie. It’s only been four weeks, and the life is gone from me. I’ve lost
everything and gained everything all at once and it is…zombifying.”

Finally, Yoongi spoke. “Maybe you need Jimin back.”

Taehyung gave a dry, humourless laugh. “Thanks for the sarcasm.”

“I’m serious. I lost Hoseok and I know how you feel. At least you get another chance to relive the
mistake of loving someone. My life will be one, never-ending well-played game now, with no
mistakes and no vigour. I suppose you get to choose. Power and isolation, or poverty and passion.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to take me seriously,” Taehyung said.

“Why wouldn’t I? I cared deeply for you once. Those feelings aren’t easily destroyed.”

“Did you mean it when you called me last time to apologise?”

Not at all.

“Yes,” Yoongi answered. “It wasn’t just your fault. It was mine. I overplayed my hand and sent
him into Death’s arms. And I underestimated what your absence might do to us both. Without your
constant insanity keeping us distracted, Hoseok saw that this life is what I chose, for better and for
worse. In a small compartment of his heart, he probably thought he could coax me out of it, and I
responded by showing him how depraved I could be. I made him see things and hear about things
he could never handle in the hopes that he would become desensitised. But he didn’t. I suppose his
suffering became great enough for him to slip away in the night. That zombifying process you
speak of, began the cold morning I woke up to an empty pillow beside me.”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung said quietly. “I underestimated the danger he was in too. I didn’t take any
extra measures to protect him. And he was gone – so suddenly – it still feels unreal. I keep
expecting him to walk through the door and remind me to eat or something. I have to visit his
graveside to remind myself, once a week.”

“Where did you have him buried?”

“I buried him. On a hill in Bukhansan. It’s the only place in the entire park where sunlight falls
throughout the day till it sets. Did you tell his parents?”

“Not yet.” Yoongi didn’t have the courage, but he didn’t admit that out loud. “I’m assuming the
shock of ruling has brought out this newfound geniality in you. You could barely speak to me the
last time without some kind of taunt.”

“No one knew Hoseok like you and I, and I felt like I needed to talk to someone who shared my
feelings,” Taehyung replied. “I’m surrounded by wild animals and buffoons and not a single person
my own age.”

“I’m surprised they even let you get where you are.”

“Choi Minsoo helped. He doesn’t like being in the spotlight, prefers the shadows.”

“So, he’s pulling all your strings?”

“For now.”

“For now…so you intend to stay where you are.”

“Does that concern you?”

“Perhaps. One day I fear your idea of injecting excitement back into your life might be to start a
war.”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

“When I did it, it was to get to where I am, and it was localised to Busan.”

“Well, even if I do it, I won’t go around killing fathers to make their sons want revenge.”

“You don’t know the full story.”

“Then, tell me.”

“I’m not about to hand out free tutorials. Goodbye Taehyung.” And he hung up. It felt satisfying to
do it without undergoing the danger of having another heart attack.

He realised he didn’t want to cut Taehyung off. It felt cathartic in some small way to speak of
Hoseok to someone. He knew Taehyung was lost and seeking guidance, even if it meant from
Yoongi himself. But Yoongi wasn’t about to hand it over, if it meant that without it, Taehyung
would relinquish his hold on Geomjeong-pa and leave. You don’t believe that. He’ll probably be
removed by force. And then he’ll be dead too.

Yoongi took a deep breath as he pulled out his medication from the drawer. No undue stress, the
doctor had said. No undue stress.

No undue stress, and yet the thought of Taehyung dying made his heart scream in almost the same
way it had done when he had heard of Hoseok’s demise.
Jimin spent the night inside the same cheap motel he had called Namjoon from. However, by the
early morning, he was off. It was dangerous to stay in one place for longer than an hour until he
figured out exactly how many people Taehyung had sent out and just how close the police were to
getting an actual photograph of him. A photograph broadcasted everywhere would dig his grave
once and for all.

He decided to utilise the one thing no one knew about him. After weeks of wandering around
through homeless shelters at the age of 13, he had appealed to an orphanage, refused to say where
he came from, and giving them no choice but to get social services involved. He had one foster
family until the day he turned 16, people he barely ever saw because of his refusal to go home
unless he absolutely had to. Most of his days were spent roaming the streets in complete denial
about the state of his new life. It was during that time he had met Jungkook. Side by side at a urinal
stall, they’d laid eyes on each other and the rest became fucked up history.

The bathroom was in the back of a diner, which kids from both the local private and public schools
claimed as their territory. Jimin’s foster family had enrolled him at the public institution, with its
drab uniform of navy blue. He much preferred Jungkook’s black, red and gold ensemble, with the
school crest proudly embroidered on the lapel: Golden Eagle Academy. It was a needlessly showy
title for a middle/high school, but then again, its student body was infamous for the same thing. All
rich, entitled and bratty, Jimin would have been one of them had his mother not opted for home-
schooling. Much of their family friends’ kids had attended GEA, not that Jimin had ever seen any
of them in person. The isolation his parents had kept him in was very real.

His own school was soberly named Hongik Middle School and it had plenty of strange characters
too. One in particular Jimin remembered well for her kindness. A teacher by the name of Mrs Lim
who taught both Physical Education and Chemistry. In his mind’s eye, he remembered her as slim,
attractive and always with a slightly weary expression on her face. The first couple of times she had
given him detention for not paying attention in class led to Jimin doing the same thing deliberately
in every class until she figured out that he did not want to go home. In the end, she would let him
stay in the classroom with her, reading comics in the back as she marked papers.

It was a strange period of Jimin’s life, the only time where everything wasn’t a whirlwind of lies
and activity and madness. It was simply still. Before his parents died, he was stuck between their
warring personalities, dreading each night his father drank that he would hear his mother’s
screams. And after meeting Jungkook…well…

Jimin had no intention of involving Mrs Lim in something she did not deserve to be a part of. But
he remembered her talking of a holiday cabin she and her husband had on the outskirts of Seoul
city and decided he would take his chances and ask. Of course, he had no guarantee she wouldn’t
call the police if she’d seen the news. But he was going on the bet that without a name or a clear
photograph – and quite frankly, a sketch that looked increasingly inaccurate – Mrs Lim would not
put two and two together.

It did not elude Jimin how his life was becoming a parody of itself. All the friends he could have
had were non-existent firstly due to his presumed death and then his involvement with the mafia.
The rich circle his parents kept around them was permanently closed off to him and he was
resorting to the hope that an ex-teacher might still remember him enough to want to help.

He didn’t much care about the police just now. He just wanted to put enough distance between
himself and this city where Taehyung was sitting on his throne and waiting for his new minions to
come scurrying back with Jimin in chains. He couldn’t go back. He didn’t know what he’d do if he
went back and had to face Taehyung again. Jungkook’s poor face when he wet the sheets, kept
returning to his mind’s eye, layering the hatred thick for the man that had done this to him.

His life was indeed a macabre parody, with the darkest of comedic timing.

Jimin never got within five feet of his old middle school. He crossed the street just as the gates
swung open and kids began pouring out for recess.

And then, Jimin saw him. The man stuck out like a sore thumb. In fact, it was shocking he wasn’t
doing more to hide himself. A tall, skinhead foreigner in a floor-dusting green trench coat with a
purple scarf around his neck. His ears were almost pointed, large, dark sunken eyes adding to the
overall alien effect of his features. He didn’t look human, certainly not when his head snapped
around and he caught sight of Jimin.

For a second, Jimin kept walking after a brief glance, not making the connection. It would have
made more sense if it was a Korean man with tattoos. He could have summarised that Taehyung
had managed to dig into the social services records and found out the details of his life immediately
after his abandonment. And then he would have sent a Geomjeong-pa thug, tattooed and dressed in
a ridiculously overpriced suit. This man had no tattoos, but he was staring. Like prey at a predator.

Jimin cast a longing look up towards the red brick building of the school, at the classroom at the
farthest right side – Mrs Lim’s. It appeared the chase was to continue. He made a sharp U-turn and
began to jog in the direction he had come. One look behind him and he saw the foreigner reach
into his pocket. In his horror, Jimin slowed down, as kids milled around the man, pushing past him
to get to the nearest corner store. Was he about to pull a gun out in front of them?

He did, without hesitation, and aimed it right at Jimin. It made no sound. It might as well have
been a toy gun, if not for the sudden flinch of fabric on his coat. Jimin reached down and pulled out
the tranquiliser dart stuck to it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and ran.

The dart hadn’t touched his skin, but he knew now what Taehyung wanted. He wanted Jimin
drugged and trussed up like an animal when he was brought to him. The fact that he had hired a
man to behave as if he were pest control in broad daylight was infuriating but not unexpected. Piece
of rat’s ass, SHIT -

But he couldn’t stream off a string of curses under his breath. He needed the extra oxygen to keep
running. He knew the face of his hunter now. The only thing really left to do was keep as much
distance between them on the chase as possible. Jimin practically threw himself at a bus as it pulled
away from the stop, slipping through the closing doors. He turned to see the man come to a dead
halt, black, malicious eyes still fixed on Jimin as the bus picked up speed.

For the hundredth time that day, Jimin muttered, “Fuck my life,” as he paid the bus driver with the
dwindling amount of cash still left in his pocket.
Maybe you need Jimin back.

“Yeah. Maybe I fucking do,” Taehyung laughed bitterly as he swung his phone from one hand to
the other. It was the second time Yoongi had hung up on him in the recent past and he was starting
to be reminded it wasn’t a fun thing to experience.

He was alone in one of the small lounge room adjacent to Mother’s office. He still called it
Mother’s office in his mind. This place wasn’t his, it never would be. He was here only until he
could have his own home constructed with its own signature quirks, like sharks in fucking tanks.
Taehyung wondered if he would have to dispose of Cersei when the time came. Rani was easily
moved, as were the other land animals. But he didn’t want a tank under his own house, and it
would be one costly, ridiculous process getting her to a zoo or a sanctuary. Mother had raised her
from when she was a baby – they’d had no trouble bringing Cersei in and clearly, they had
intended for her to die of old age in that tank.

The lounge was one of the only rooms on the ground floor that shared the transparent quality of the
entrance hall. The entire room was swathed in rays of shimmering blue as the lights in the tank set
the water aglow. The lounge was painted in neutral colours, but it was blue all the way through
because of the water, with the occasional shadow cast by Cersei swimming through. It was an
iconic home, that was for sure. Long after they were all dead, they would be making crime
documentaries about Mother and her eccentric place of residence.

Taehyung had a function to attend that night. But he still wasn’t dressed, curled up in an armchair,
with a cigarette and thoughts of Jimin racing through his head. He was driving himself into a
frenzy of longing, of crazed desire that he knew would result in tremendous fallout when he finally
got Jimin to hand. The younger never responded the way he imagined he would and all that
remained was the bitter, acrid smell of failure when he blew Taehyung off with a gentle, yet
powerful ferocity only Jimin could manage.

Not entirely true. No, it wasn’t. He didn’t always blow him off. Sometimes, he behaved as softly as
he looked, and it drove Taehyung just as crazy as his rejection did. Because he wanted to know
how Jimin did it. How he maintained that calm, steely air, even when he was in the weaker
position, with scruffy clothes and dirt on his face. He exuded self-control, the sort Taehyung could
only envy for he had none of it. In his darker nights, he would have terrible visions with Jimin
lying right there beside him, of digging his hands into Jimin’s guts and pulling him inside-out until
he was a fleshy creature of muscle and sinew, all his mysteries laid bare. The visions were induced
by sleep paralysis and when they released him, Taehyung would always turn and hold onto him,
because he could still feel the cloying give of Jimin’s innards against his hands and he wanted the
memory wiped.
He glanced down at the cigarette in his hand with a frown. Had he rolled a joint? He couldn’t
remember. The desire for cheap, rolled cigarettes carried through into his expensive lifestyle but he
kept interchanging the pouches he kept the tobacco and grass in. Sometimes, he even mixed both
into one pouch. It appeared he had done it again, because his mind was wandering. Fuck, Minsoo
would cuff him around the ear for daring to turn up high to the event tonight. And yet Taehyung
couldn’t find it in himself to care that much just then. His eyes and ears were filled with the sight
and smell of Jimin and the marijuana was helping to convince him that the memory was very much
real…

“Six letter word…the final section of the large intestine, terminating at the anus…I know this one,
and yet I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to figure it out. God, the lack of mental stimulation in
Ahn’s line of work is literally killing my brain cells!” Jimin groaned, flopping onto his stomach
with the newspaper scrunched in his fist. His pen hovered over the crossword once more as he
thought he had the word. He didn’t.

“Use your phone,” Taehyung grunted, from his side of the bed where he was trying to take a nap
until Jimin decided to launch himself on the mattress and whinge about literary puzzles.

“I won’t. That’s cheating,” Jimin said sternly, before smacking his own head. “Oh come on, you
know this, goddamn it – it’s right there, skirting at the corners of my mind like one of those little
fruit flies that are so annoying to catch – “

“Poo-poo canal.”

“What?”

“That’s the word. Poo-poo canal.”

“No it isn’t, I said six lett – “

Taehyung flipped around, grabbed the newspaper from Jimin’s hand and tore it to shreds with his
teeth. Jimin’s jaw dropped. With a huffy growl, Taehyung spat out the remaining lump of paper
and swept it off the bed.

“Oh wow, it was rectum,” Jimin murmured, closing his eyes and knocking his head against the
wall.
“Congratulations.” Taehyung turned back over onto his side and closed his eyes.

Jimin left the room soon after, though it did not bring the welcome peace and quiet Taehyung was
yearning for. Instead, he heard him start shooting a BB gun downstairs, no doubt knocking
makeshift targets off their perches. He had recently been working on improving his shooting aim,
and his refusal to do it at a gun range was driving Taehyung up the wall.

“KEEP IT DOWN!” he screamed, thrashing about in frustration on the bed as he knew Jimin
would ignore him.

Ever since they had come to Seoul, Jimin’s attitude had changed from defiant, yet fearful, to utterly
defiant. It was as if he had literally stopped caring about the dangers of Taehyung’s temper. In
many ways, it was attractive. It made Taehyung want to choke him, not in a bad way, but sexual,
something that would give pleasure to them both. All those little moments of stubborn poutiness
added up on a mental tally which Taehyung ticked off in bed with every harsh spank on Jimin’s
reddened bottom. Jimin’s defiance was a game and Taehyung getting pissed off was all part of it.

But the BB gun was too fucking much.

“Stop!” Taehyung roared, stamping down the stairs and rushing at Jimin to grab the gun as if
wresting a toy from a child.

Jimin held onto it like a child too, forcing Taehyung to pull his whole body weight with the gun.
“No! Go nap somewhere else!” he shouted.

“Why the fuck are you being so puerile? Do you really want me to throw you out the window?”

“You – “ Jimin lashed out and his boot landed against Taehyung’s knee cap, forcing the older to
let go of the gun.

Taehyung jerked back, holding onto his leg with a baffled frown. “Ow, that actually hurt,” he
muttered, rubbing the tender spot. He seemed surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Jimin to pack
such a punch.

Jimin put down the gun of his own accord and sighed tiredly, going over to pull Taehyung’s pants
leg up. “You’re fine. It’ll bruise, but you’ll live. And I’m bored – the answer to why I’m being
‘puerile’. I’m not like you. I don’t get to do fun things out and about the city.”

“You want to be beating people up for not paying their debts on time?” Taehyung lifted his
eyebrows.

Jimin sank. “No.”

“Find your own entertainment then. Go outside, do something. Leave me alone.” Taehyung
stomped back upstairs with a face like thunder. It took everything he had not to groan when he
heard Jimin’s footsteps ascending the stairs as he got comfortable under the covers. This whole
housing situation was starting to become very domestic and it was weird to say the least. He kind
of wanted it to be over, so he could return to living alone.

“Are you asleep?” Jimin whispered, bending over him.

Taehyung didn’t answer in the hopes that he would leave. Instead, Jimin climbed over him onto the
bed and got behind him, throwing one leg over Taehyung’s waist. It was a deliberate action, meant
to irritate but Taehyung didn’t rise to the challenge. Jimin poked his side and his little breath of a
giggle echoed in the older man’s ear as he did it again and again and again until finally, Taehyung
turned. He did it slowly, eyes wide, clearly indicating Jimin was one second away from being
annihilated.

“Play with me,” Jimin beamed.

Taehyung grimaced. “What?” He did not understand. One minute he couldn’t get within five feet
of Jimin without the other flinching away with a severe case of sour grapes expression. And other
times, he was like…this.

“I don’t know,” Jimin smirked.

“You said ‘play with me’.”

“Did I?”
“I am this close to slapping your stupid face.”

“If you slap me, I’ll bite your nose off.”

Taehyung turned to face him in a flurry of movement as Jimin shrieked a little and laughed. He
gasped, lips parting with a salacious grin as Taehyung’s hand wrapped around his throat. The
harder Jimin giggled, the sound muffled as he pressed against the older man, burying half his face
in the pillow as he did. Taehyung couldn’t keep from chuckling a little as he felt Jimin’s tongue
stroke over his chin, though he was still furious at having his nap interrupted.

“If you don’t go to the other room right now and let me sleep…” he growled.

“I wanna stay here,” Jimin retorted. “You can’t make me leave.”

“I’ll drag you by the fucking hair – “

“Oh? Do it – I’d love to see you – AAAAHH!!!” Jimin threw his head back with a scream of pure
delight as Taehyung shoved him and trussed up his arms, collapsing into hysterics. He got like this
occasionally.

Usually, it was not uncommon to see Jimin in the corner of whichever room he was in, dark and
silent, huddled up into himself as if he didn’t want anyone to notice him and if they did, didn’t want
them to approach. At least, that was what Taehyung knew and recognised of him since the day
they’d met in the hospital where Jimin lay alone, suffering from one hell of a beating (which he
never truly explained). But occasionally, after a cup of hot chocolate laced with vodka, or a long
shower, a sudden energy appeared in him out of nowhere and he was like a playful kitten, using
deliberately childish tactics to try and rile Taehyung up. It had never not worked.

“Owwww, it hurts,” Jimin wailed, as his trapped arms twisted harder behind his back. “Get off!”

“Are you gonna let me sleep?” Taehyung demanded.

Jimin paused, then sniggered and said, “No – yes, yes, YES, I’m sorry!!!” changing his answer as
Taehyung bent his arms back farther.
Taehyung loosened the pressure, but he didn’t get off him. Instead, he found being seated on
Jimin’s back was far too comfortable, and lying down on him, was even more so. Jimin grunted as
Taehyung’s head dropped against his, crushing his face into the pillow.

“Oh, so you’re just going to nap right here on top of me?” he whined.

“Right here on top of you, that’s right,” Taehyung murmured, pressing his lips against the nape of
Jimin’s neck. The harder he pressed into the skin, the tighter Jimin’s fingers clenched around thin
air until finally, he put the knuckle of his thumb against his lips and began nibbling on it.

“Taehyung, get off,” Jimin tried one more time, but the older was already starting to drift off. And
it wasn’t long before the same started to happen to Jimin, as more of Taehyung’s soft, wet kisses
rained down on his neck.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard when I wake up,” Taehyung mumbled, half-asleep.

“Su-uuuurrrrreee,” Jimin snorted, blinking slowly as a stupor settled over him.

“Yeah…not kidding….gonna fuck you in your p-“

“I swear to all that’s holy, if you finish that sentence, I will ram you in the nuts.”

And just like that, Taehyung giggled his way into the best nap he’d had in months.
Yeonjun had skipped class plenty of times before. Golden Eagle Academy was not known for its
lenience towards truancy but as the grandson of the current president, there were certain heads that
turned the other way regarding Choi Yeonjun. Of course, some teachers were stupid enough to
inform his parents of his behaviour, but he never received punishment and he made their lives a
living hell during class. They learned their lessons quickly and no one ever questioned his absences
again. Besides, he didn’t need to go to every class, not in his opinion anyway. He was ten times
cleverer than any bland-faced poodle kid in there and he could absorb information in an hour that
others would take a week to pore over.

Despite his proficiency with skipping class, today, even he was a little nervous. Minki had failed to
acquire the methamphetamine on his own and returned to Yeonjun with the news that he himself
would have to meet with the dealer. “If you want to be the leader of your very own high school
mafia, might as well be at the forefront, eh?” were his exact words.

Yeonjun displayed a calm, cool display of indifference and said of course he would, he was no
pussy. But as they walked down the high street with long coats hiding their distinct uniform, he
was abuzz with fear and excitement both. He had never spoken to an actual mobster in his life, and
he had seen plenty of movies and read a disturbingly high number of books pertaining to the sicker
aspects of the shadowy underworld. He felt he could handle it but the memories of being told of
the ‘meat grinder guy’ had his stomach hopping about like a restless frog the closer they got to the
end of the street.

As he’d said to Minki on the phone, Ryu was standing against the side of a black van which was
unsettlingly clean. In fact, it looked brand new. The exterior was polished to a mirror-quality
finish. Minki walked up first, chest thrown out as he extended his hand.

“I’m Minki, and this is my mate, Yeonjun,” he said, lowering his voice a few tones.

Yeonjun resisted the urge to roll his eyes and held out his hand to shake also. Ryu looked them
over with a curious, but suspicious look in his eye. He looked to be about mid-thirties himself, with
a widow’s peak and a red nose as if he were permanently drunk.

“It’s just the pair of you? You’re a couple of runts,” he snorted.

“And yet we run a very successful drug cartel at GEA. Not so much runtish behaviour, I would
say,” Yeonjun countered. “We’re running short on crank. Name your price, we’ll pay it.”
The moment he started talking, Ryu’s eyes narrowed at the confident manner he assumed.
However, he began to laugh the longer the silence stretched after Yeonjun fell quiet.

“Not here to sell you crank, mate. It’s just grass. Prime strains of it, but grass nevertheless,” Ryu
said. “No more crank for you.”

“Why not?” Minki retorted.

“There’s new leadership in town. He refuses to barter out drugs stronger than weed to high
schoolers. University is where the line’s drawn. Personally, I don’t care how many of you rich kids
decide to kill yourself with drugs – the more, the merrier, gives more of a chance to poorer kids to
take the jobs you’d get from nepotism – “

“No one asked for Marxist opinions,” Yeonjun snapped, “Half of your drug turnover rates in this
district comes from GEA and all the neighbouring private schools, so your new leadership can get
fucked. If you don’t get us the crank by tomorrow morning, we take our business elsewhere.”

Minki now looked increasingly worried, as he saw the furrows in Ryu’s forehead deepen. The
bigger man did not look pleased. But he painted on a snide smile, and shrugged, spreading his
hands.

“You have the option of speaking to leadership yourself,” Ryu shrugged. “I ain’t fussed.”

“S-seriously?” Yeonjun blurted out, his cool façade dropping.

“Yeah, why not? You two seem like a dedicated pair. I’m sure the boss would like to meet you.
Get in.”

Instead of opening the back of the van, he indicated to the front passenger seats. Minki hung back,
but one stern look from Yeonjun and he reluctantly climbed in. They had no time to exchange the
pros and cons before they were already inside. Yeonjun didn’t care what the pros and cons were.
He was simply excited. This was the first time in a long while he had wanted to do something and
go somewhere. It was the first time in a long while he’d felt alive, and not like a zombie trudging to
and from school every day.
Ryu shut his side of the door and the locks clicked.

“We have to be back at school by noon, by the way,” Minki said, his voice coming out a little faint.

Ryu sneered, starting up the engine and pulling away from the kerb. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minki gave Yeonjun a panicked look.

“It means, you two are about to make some old men somewhere very happy. Had a demand for
pretty boys recently, the younger the better I was told and who am I to say no when the fish swim
into the net of their own accord, eh?” he was practically chortling as he drove away, so pleased
with himself.

“Do you know who we – “ Minki stopped as Yeonjun stabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. He
shook his head slightly. There was no way this could end well if they revealed their identities. He
trusted in his own ability to get out of tight spots, and not even mentions of being sold into a child
prostitution ring was enough to make Yeonjun lose hope. But being outed as sons of high-status
politicians would make this undesirable situation far uglier.

“I know what you are boy, you’re a pussy,” Ryu was still laughing as Minki’s already red face
turned puce. “But what about you, huh? Talky-talky over there. Real quiet now all of a sudden. No
demands for crank? Who are you?”

Yeonjun felt his stomach drop to his feet as he imagined not going home in another six hours and
the red alert that his parents would put out. He would be grounded for months when they found
him. It did not even occur to him that they might not find him in the same state he had left them. Or
that they might not find him at all. Yeonjun’s brain did not operate to accommodate a world which
didn’t revolve solely around his best interests. So, he gave Minki another pinch to keep him quiet
and answered Ryu with -

“No one. I’m absolutely no one.”

 Jormungandr

Severe trigger warnings: Past Rape (italic part of chapter – it isn’t too graphic however the
emotions described are), intensely uncomfortable discussions of sexual violence, Implied
rape, mentions of child prostitution, homophobic/ableist language, mentions of graphic
violence.

A dragon devouring its own tail was poignant.

Yoongi had always thought so. He collected books the way kids his age collected playing cards,
and one of his most prized possessions was a tome on Norse mythology. It was in English, and at
fourteen, he couldn’t speak a word of that language. However, it had illustrations and he
memorised each, drawing them over and over again to distract himself each night from the agony
of hunger pangs. The dragon eating its tail was his favourite. Once he started taking English
lessons, the caption beneath the illustration was the first he deciphered on his own. The dragon
was Jormungandr, and it was a form of Ouroboros, the symbol of infinity. When Jormungandr
released its tail, Ragnarok would begin.

Yoongi liked that. The idea of a trigger to signal the end. He saw all the sigils and names of the
petty kkangpae of Busan and he drew his Jormungandr and named his one-member gang…Yong
Geondal. The Dragon Gang. In his fantasies, it became the reigning force in Busan, wrapping
around the city like a celestial dragon with its tail in its mouth. And when the dragon unfurled, the
city would plunge into chaos. Busan would need Yong Geondal to keep it together. That was the
dream.

The door clanged downstairs and he jerked up. With speed that could only evolve from practice,
Yoongi shoved his sketchbook under the bed, pulling down the bedcovers. The footsteps were loud
on the stairs, hammering a furious rhythm. Yoongi launched himself across the rug like a
desperate animal and knelt, hands on his knees, eyes down. Mi Kwan sounded furious. Something
must have gone wrong today. Or, he was fine and was just being his obnoxious loud self. Either
way, the door battered down and Yoongi was alone in the room with the man he was forced to call
‘master’.

Jang Mi Kwan ignored him, going around the room as he got rid of his shoes and jacket. Yoongi
peeked from under his eyelashes. Mi Kwan was staring out of the window with a fixed expression,
whiskey glass in hand. The ice cubes clinked. He turned and Yoongi looked down quickly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mi Kwan snapped.

“K-kneeling, sir,” Yoongi answered, not sure if this was a trick question or Mi Kwan was high.

He flinched as the older man stormed closer and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up. For a
moment, Mi Kwan’s face softened and Yoongi felt his heart relax. His large, beastly hands stroked
gently down the sides of Yoongi’s head, and his thumb brushed his lower lip. In the sunlight,
Yoongi looked younger than his nineteen years, wide-eyed and unsure, hoping upon hope that
mercy would be given.

Tough luck.

Mi Kwan’s hand flew faster than Yoongi’s eyes could follow it and the back struck his cheek,
sending him crashing against the bed post. A buzz filled his skull and the metallic zing of blood
infused his taste buds. He tried to calm his breathing, as his chest tightened. He grabbed at it, as if
doing so would force his heart to stop pounding.

“You’re still wearing clothes. Why are you still wearing clothes?” Mi Kwan said slowly, tilting his
head with a demonic glint in his eye. “What have I told you about my expectations when I return
from work? You know how stressful it is, you know all of this, and yet still – you refuse to obey the
simplest of orders.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I forgot,” Yoongi mumbled, pulling at the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers
as he stumbled and tried to get on his feet.

He didn’t get very far. Mi Kwan’s foot connected with the back of his knee, dropping him.

“FORGOT? I house you under my roof for free, boy, you eat from my table, carry my protection
and enjoy the fruits of my wealth and you forget one simple fucking task?”

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” Yoongi began to cry, closing his eyes tight as Mi Kwan dragged him across the
floor by the leg.

One special thing Yoongi knew about this man was that if he failed to do something Mi Kwan
wanted, the next best thing was to feign fear and pain. Of course, his punches hurt. His teeth hurt,
his hands hurt, everything hurt. But Yoongi always played it up, because he knew Mi Kwan would
feed on it, be satisfied and stop sooner. The first few times, he had been caught off guard by the
brutality of Mi Kwan’s force, and the tears had been real. But Yoongi was nothing if not a good
learner. The act of sex itself was never in his favour. Mi Kwan was into rape fantasy and it truly
became so because he never asked Yoongi if he was alright to play along. He bore it by biting his
tongue and screaming that it hurt when he knew Mi Kwan needed to hear it to get off, and then
spent the rest of the night recuperating. It was everything that happened around the actual sexual
act which was important.

Yoongi had proved himself strong enough to bear the brunt of Jang Mi Kwan’s sexual violence
which meant the man usually left him alone whilst the sky was still light outside. Darkness brought
pain, but the sun always rose.

The clincher? Mi Kwan still thought Yoongi was only fifteen and nothing the boy had ever said or
done had let him believe otherwise. Should he find out the truth, Yoongi was as good as dead for
the deception.

Today there was a beating that came before the rape. Yoongi cursed himself for not stripping the
moment Mi Kwan flung him on the bed. There wasn’t enough time to drown into the little subspace
corner of his mind where nothing affected him. Mi Kwan was already on top, tearing down
Yoongi’s pants, nails tearing into his flesh.

“M-master – “ Yoongi gasped in shock as he realised what the man intended to do. “Y-you forgot
the lube.” He heard how pathetic he sounded as soon as he said it and wanted to punch himself.
Not many things took him by surprise, and this was enough to make his cells crawl with revulsion.
He would never forget the first time and only time Mi Kwan had been angry enough to do it with
lubrication and he wasn’t keen on a repeat.

“No,” was the brusque answer, before Yoongi was flipped onto his stomach.

He had no breathe left to scream. It was much, much harder to blank out now. When the pain
started, his lungs tightened, and his mouth stretched in a silent scream. It was the sort of agony
that made him retch, except nothing came up. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and
darkness swallowed him whole, but he was still horribly conscious.

It ended after what felt like centuries and when it did, Mi Kwan kicked him off the bed where he
landed on the floor next to the sketchbook he had hidden away earlier. His lip was cut, his eye was
swollen, and he could feel a bruise swelling on his cheekbone. He focused on the facial injuries.
He feared he would start crying if he started to focus on the agony in the rest of his body.
Yoongi lay there, drifting through the blankness of the assault he had just suffered and listened to
the steady drone of Mi Kwan’s snoring. His mind was made up. He was simply summoning the
energy to drag himself up and do what his brain was yelling at him to. As the minutes wore by, he
decided Mi Kwan wouldn’t be asleep forever and forced himself onto his elbows, doing an army
crawl across the floor of the bedroom. Outside in the hallway, he managed to get up on his feet
and went down the stairs, one a time. His grip on the bannister was fierce, knees knocking and
arms trembling, but his mouth was grimly set.

All such fake courage almost left him when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Bruises
bloomed all over his body, mingled with scratches and tears in the skin. The insides of his thighs
were no longer porcelain. They were purple, red and blue, no sign of the original skin colour
remaining. And the blood – god, there was so much of it Yoongi almost gave up, drowning in the
crushing defeat of a body thoroughly torn to pieces.

By some miracle, his feet led him on, and he didn’t stop until he reached the kitchen. He knew
exactly which knife in the block to go for. He had practiced with it. It was medium length, not too
wide, and freshly sharpened. It sliced and stabbed almost as perfectly as a sword designed for
homicidal purpose. When Yoongi had first tested it, he couldn’t believe it was intended to be a
kitchen implement only. It was far better utilised for this.

On his way out, he opened the back door wide, letting the cold air in.

He didn’t allow himself to think on his way up. In fact, he was quicker this time, his feet moving
with agile speed through the doorway, pain forgotten. Yoongi knew his stabbing arm had
weakened due to the abuse, but he also knew whilst gazing at Mi Kwan’s sleeping face, that his
energy would return as he was consumed by the manic rage he was so accustomed to.

It came fast.

The first hit was to his chest, right where his heart was. It should have been enough, but when Mi
Kwan’s eyes opened, large and round, Yoongi panicked and climbed on top of him, stabbing him
repeatedly. He heard sounds coming from somewhere, wild, animalistic shrieks, and it took him a
moment to realise he was making them. Mi Kwan was silent except for the occasional gag as blood
welled up his windpipe and made it difficult for him to breathe. Yoongi was stabbing so quickly
and with such force, the man had no chance to move. He was dead in under a minute, but it didn’t
mean the stabbing stopped. Yoongi started on his face next, obliterating the handsome, moulded
features he had come to loathe with all his might.

He only stopped when he felt an eyeball rupture under the tip of the blade. And then, he grabbed
the headboard, climbing onto Mi Kwan’s chest to give himself stable elevation as he carved the
sign of a cross with a line through it. It was the symbol of a rival kkangpae, the only one big
enough to challenge that of Mi Kwan’s father. Skirmishes had already erupted between them, but
they were controlled. The older Mr Jang wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, despite his status as
kingpin. Yoongi was brighter than his entire kkangpae put together and he was determined to incite
war.

He had not planned to take Mi Kwan out in this way. It was an act of irrationality; however it
would have to do. Yoongi didn’t think he could have survived more of his abuse and better now
than never. His hands shook as he grabbed onto the wall and completed the finishing touches.
Tears fell down his cheeks, but not a single sob escaped.

No one would ask where Yoongi was when this scene was found. He was not important enough. He
was just another child prostitute as far as they knew or cared. The supposed offenders could have
taken him away. All he had to do was set the scene, shower and find Jung Woo Sung, the one man
in all of Busan who would be willing to do anything for him now.

Cutting off Mi Kwan’s dick was an unsavoury necessity. It was how messages were sent in the
kkangpae world. But in a flash of inspiration, Yoongi did the same to his hands, though it took far
longer. He was almost crying again by the end of the ordeal, panting from the exertion of trying to
sever the bone. He put all three dismembered limbs in a bag, with a vision in his mind of how he
would arrange them in a box full of packing material. The sight of his son’s hands holding his
penis between them would send Mr Jang spiralling into a rabid grief.

That was all Yoongi needed.

Once he had showered off, the only things he took with him were the sketchbook and a burner
phone he had been using for the past month, unbeknownst to Mi Kwan. As he looked around the
blood splattered room, Yoongi thought it shocking how little there was here to call his own, despite
having been there six whole months. He had barely been allowed to step out of the house. Jung
Woo Sung was the only real contact he had and even that had occurred through his visits to Mi
Kwan’s home. Without them, he would have been ignorant of Yoongi’s existence.

Yoongi stepped out through the house gates for the first time with a small smile on his face. He
had successfully dismantled the CCTV system an hour before Mi Kwan even returned home. There
would be no record or evidence of foul play except for the symbol left above Jang’s head and his
mutilated body. It was almost too good to be true. Almost. He had not suffered for so long for this
to be considered ‘easy’.

Up above the grey skies churned darker, and thunder gargled in their depths. Yoongi stretched out
his arms and waited. He could smell the rain on the air, the pregnant humidity of a storm about to
hit. Lightening cracked and thunder rode on its back, deafening. Thor roared in triumph and if
Yoongi focused, he thought he could spy out the head of Jormungandr twist in the grey up above. A
single raindrop came swooping down towards him, as if in slow motion. It landed on the tip of his
nose, a lone inkling of moisture. And then the skies split in two with a white hot rod of electricity
and the clouds burst.

Yoongi couldn’t see his own hand through the heavy sheet of rain as he walked down the street. It
was a freak storm. There had been nothing but sunlight for days. He found it far more entertaining
to believe the gods were celebrating his victory and heralding in further triumphs. Because
Yoongi’s plan didn’t terminate there. Yoongi’s plans lived long lives, branching out into tributaries
and canals, breeding more life and lifting his imagination on the back of them. Dreamers didn’t
usually gain much from life, not without practice, and even then, their dreams were distracting. But
Yoongi was an architect and his dreams were faultless, cold and logical, with sprinklings of magic
to make them glitter in the sun.

It felt alien to hail a cab on the main road. It should have been the most normal thing in the world
but Yoongi had forgotten what it was like to be normal. He gave the driver the name of his
favourite coffee shop (one he used to frequent before Mi Kwan found him) as he settled into the
back, careful not to crush his backpack between his body and the seat. If he did, he could feel Mi
Kwan’s hands pressing against him through the canvas fabric and the plastic bag encasing them.

His heart jumped into his throat as he dialled the number he had now memorised.

Woo Sung sounded stressed out on the other end. “Yes?”

“I kept your secret until now. Time for you to repay me,” Yoongi said.

There was a crackling silence.

Then –

“You did it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead?”
“Yes. Busan is about to plunge into war and I have the names and contact details of all the most
important figures in Jang’s kkangpae. The perfect scapegoats to drive the polls in your favour for
the upcoming election.”

“Send them to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wrote them manually into my sketchbook. And my phone doesn’t have a working
camera.”

Woo Sung sighed. “Of course. Where are you right now?”

“I’m headed to a coffee shop. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I have an apartment on the coastline. I’ll give you the address and I’ll have someone sent to let
you in.”

“Hyung?”

“Yes?”

“About Dragon Tower – are you still intending to hold tight on your promise to give me the
penthouse office?”

“Yoongi, your aspirations of becoming kingpin are admirable but a penthouse office won’t
transform you into one.” It was clear the older man was trying hard not to laugh.

“But it’ll be harder for my enemies to reach me as I transform myself into one,” Yoongi answered
icily.
“We’ll talk about it,” Woo Sung said, and hung up.

Well, Yoongi knew what that meant. When adults said they’d talk about it, it usually meant no. As
he turned his head to watch the streets of Busan fly by in a photographic blur, Yoongi realised that
he himself was also about to be an adult. Nineteen going on twenty, officially.

How strange, since he couldn’t remember being a child in the first place.

The ride was deathly silent.

Yeonjun knew by the tell-tale shivering of Minki’s right knee, that the fool was imagining a
vividly lure future in which he was being passed around in some shady room, used by all manners
of intensely unpleasant men.

He himself had no such worry. Perhaps it was sheer arrogance or just cold indifference, but
Yeonjun had a feeling it would never get so far. Take their captor for instance, Ryu, he was a
lumbering hulk of a man and his brains weren’t half as big as his hands. The fact that he hadn’t
already knocked them about a few times meant he wasn’t intending on selling them anywhere, not
immediately. He would take them to someone to be appraised, test the waters. That someone would
no doubt be far more intelligent than Ryu, see the logo on their uniforms and release them.

But then they would be back at school without the crank Yeonjun had promised his underaged
clients. Fuck.

“What is this place?” he asked through clenched teeth when the van rolled into a narrow street lit
up by dead neon signs. It probably looked better at night, when there was enough multi-coloured
lighting to distract from how disgusting the place was.

“Shut up and get out. Scream or try to run and I’ll shoot,” Ryu warned. He lifted his gun from the
glove compartment, clicking off the safety with a very forceful sleight of hand.

This had to be at the heart of Geomjeong-pa territory for him to make such a brazen threat in broad
daylight. Yeonjun had heard Yongsan-gu was the writhing centre of the famous syndicate’s
activity but he hadn’t quite believed it. Then again, he didn’t usually visit the ass-end of Seoul’s
districts.

Ryu nudged them both ahead, guiding them to a pair of metal doors some way down the street that
were blocked by a couple of burly guards. They nodded upon seeing Ryu and gave Yeonjun and
Minki a cursory pat down to check for weapons before allowing them entry. The stench that hit
them was overpowering. Any drug that could be smoked, seemed to be burning from the insides of
the building and it hit Yeonjun like a psychedelic wall.

They passed through a large, dimly lit room, stacked with crates marked ‘explosives’ which struck
Yeonjun as more amusing than sinister. It was almost too good to be true. This was all playing into
the mafia stereotype to a tee and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing as he counted the
number of skinheads they passed. There was some activity going on in the smaller rooms,
interrupted by laughing and the sound of the radio. Smoke billowed through the ajar doors, thick
and foggy.

“Is this your sex den? Could do with better interior design,” he commented.

The look Ryu gave him would have had a lesser soul quailing at the knees. But Yeonjun stood tall
and shoved his hands in his pockets with a sly smile. If he knew one thing never to do when faced
by someone more powerful, it was to display a chink in the armour. And with Minki about to wet
his pants, he had to step up for the both of them.

A single guard stood at the end of the corridor and he was younger and more good-looking than the
comparative filth from earlier. He stepped forward and held out a palm, asking Ryu who the two
boys were.

“Potential new meat for the Mapo-gu ring,” Ryu answered. “That one’s got a mouth on him but
Hyuk Sang likes his boys without tongues. Quick easy operation and his pretty face would go for a
grand price.”

Yeonjun had the urge to flinch as both the men eyed him. Now, he was starting to feel the pressure.

“Slight problem. The boss is currently blackmailing most of the politicians in the Mapo district and
using their paedophilic urges against them. There is no market for child sex rings at the moment,
and by the looks of things, I doubt there will be in the future.”
“Oh come on now, Wonho,” Ryu grinned, nudging him, a movement that the other visibly
deflected. “They weren’t official before either under Mother. But it’s how it worked. As long as
she didn’t know, she didn’t care. And I’ll invest a cut of the price back into the gang. Or you. I
don’t mind investing some of it in you. You probably don’t get paid much to protect the boss, do
you? Let me change that.”

Wonho’s eyes were dead blank as he answered, “Take them to the Yakuza if you insist on
bartering them out.”

“The Yakuza doesn’t give a fair price, they never do. Fucking Japs are cheap. They come here to
feast on Korean flesh but they don’t wanna pay up – “

“Alright, you know what, if you’re so keen, go ask him yourself.”

“Wait – what – “ Ryu was visibly shaken at the mention of ‘him’ but Wonho was already opening
the door and shoving the large man towards it.

Minki glanced over his shoulder with a longing look but Wonho’s rough hand against his shoulder
destroyed any urges to flee. Both boys were herded in before the door shut behind them, blocked
by Wonho’s large frame.

It smelt different in this new room. Three archways constituted a small corridor before it opened up
into a low ceiling den, lit by a single bulb. It still played into the mafia stereotype. The single bulb
really nailed it. Yeonjun had crossed from trepidation into a state of numbness. It allowed him to
appreciate the irony and laugh quietly, unlike Minki, whose face was smooth except for the eyes
bulging from his head. A table sat at the centre of the room, directly under the ironic bulb, littered
with an ashtray, playing cards and bottles of alcohol with half-empty glasses beside them.

On one side, sat a middle-aged woman, hair pulled back in a slick chignon, lips painted a coral red.
She was dressed in leopard fur and sheer stockings that plunged down into pointed Louboutin
heels. Behind her, about three men in suits stood at an appropriate distance. There was no one
standing behind her gaming partner, though Wonho, when he moved into position, was more than
enough.

It was this partner of hers Yeonjun found his eyes riveted on. A freshly dyed head of bright blue
hair took up centre stage in the room, creating a split contrast against his alabaster white suit. It
was an unusual colour for a mobster – sapphire blue - though perhaps it was why the shade had
been chosen, to be utterly brazen. It certainly was a vulgar colour in Yeojun’s opinion. He didn’t
believe in dyeing one’s hair any sort of non-human shade.
But it wasn’t just the man’s hair. His face didn’t fit the mobster stereotype either. It was too…
clean. No scars, no wrinkles, no gold teeth. He had the fine lines and features of a Grecian statue,
minus the aquiline nose. His side profile was delicate, but his eyes said it all. Yeonjun had a
strange sensation of déjà vu as he saw the baleful quality of those black orbs. He had only ever
seen one person stare back at him with such malice, and he’d been looking into a mirror.

The blue-haired man threw a card on the table and both he and the women’s lips perked into a little
smile. She murmured something and he laughed softly, though the expression did not reach his
eyes. Wonho finally bent over and said something that made his head snap around. It was a clean,
precise movement, like a wild cat zoning in on prey. His eyes ran down the length of Yeonjun and
Minki, before landing on Ryu with a droll sneer.

“What’s this, Ryu?” he drawled.

“They came to me looking for crank to deal. Decided to teach them what Geomjeong-pa is all
about. Think I can get a fair price for them in Mapo-gu, but your – ah – bodyguard over there,
wanted me to bail and sell them to the Yakuza. Which would be traitorous.” Ryu had his chest
thrust out, hands behind his back, putting on the sycophantic slant of a soldier reporting to a
commanding officer.

Blue-Hair crossed one leg over the other and hissed. “Ryu…” his voice was measured, like silk
dragged against skin. “…are you retarded?”

“Boss?”

“You’re trying to spirit away rich kids. In what world does that sound like a good idea to you?” he
casually flipped another card on the table, without looking at Ryu.

Yeonjun noticed and thought what a method of intimidation that was. He himself had a habit of
staring down people when he was pissed off, which this man clearly was. But not staring at them
had a far more profound effect. Ryu looked unsettled.

“They’re nobodies, boss. That one said so himself,” Ryu said, nudging Yeonjun.

The boy recoiled, dusting off his sleeve and ignoring the furious scowl shot his way.
“Does he look like a nobody?” Blue-Hair said. “Look at his fucking uniform. Golden Eagle
Academy, Ryu, even a dolt like you should be able to read at an intermediate level. It’s right there
on their ugly fucking blazers.”

Yeonjun took his chance and blurted out, “Are you the kingpin? Like, of the whole gang?”

Finally, Blue-Hair, as well as the woman, turned to stare at him. Yeonjun stood his ground,
pressing his lips together as he straightened out his spine. Blue-Hair seemed to enjoy his
discomfort, a smirk playing at his lips when he turned his attention back to the cards.

“Do you know my name?” he asked.

“No, sir.” The sir was a nice little touch. It made Blue-Hair look at him again, this time with a
more genial smile.

“They used to call him Mad Dog,” the lady purred, eyeing Blue-Hair with quite a bit of
appreciation in her eyes. Yeonjun knew there was a huge age gap between them but there was a
certain sexual tension in the room that couldn’t be mistaken. “But now…he’s just – the Butcher.”
She flung three cards onto the table and Blue-Hair cooed in disappointment.

“Mmm. The Butcher. And I’ve barely even started butchering,” he commented with a sweet curl of
a smile. “And this, boy, is Madame Go Hyun Jung. Might as well know whose presence you’ve
walked into.”

“You’re a boss too?” Yeonjun asked.

Madame Go didn’t answer for a while, gazing at her cards and tapping each with a talon-like
fingernail. “No. But I am one of the gang’s longest-serving brothel madams. And at this time of the
day, I wouldn’t usually be here. Unfortunately, I have an idiot son who ended up making this one
mad and now I’m here to barter for his life.”

Her tone remained pleasant though the conversation had taken a considerably darker turn.

“Noona, come now, he deserved to be kidnapped. He deserves to be tortured,” the Butcher

crooned, stroking his lower lip with his index finger. “He had a side to choose and he chose the
wrong one. A man who can’t take his own mother’s advice isn’t really worth much, is he? You did
the right thing. He didn’t. Now he pays. It’s tradition.”

“Taehyung, I understand tradition, I’ve been alive far longer than you to become familiar with it.
But I am offering you a ransom, so take it.”

“What you’re “offering” are ten escorts – “

“High-class girls with client lists holding the numbers of Olympians, chaebols, politicians. These
girls rake in more money than entire drug rings on a good month and you know that. You’d take
sixty percent of their earnings. You should consider entering the prostitution business. A soft-
spoken girl with an even softer touch earns far more than the brutes you have here, bringing in
children to sell.”

Her glance towards Ryu was scathing to say the least, but it didn’t do much to affect Taehyung’s
demeanour. He still wore his confident arrogance like armour, and he was clearly comfortable in it.

“He chose to be on Tang’s side when Tang decided he was going to try his hand at cutting off
Gangnam-gu as its own self-serving syndicate. Oh, and he called me a faggot to my face. Did not
appreciate that.”

“Are you a faggot?” Madame Go shot back, eyebrows arching as she folded and dropped her cards
on the table.

Taehyung smiled, slowly lowering his own. He leant across the table, his face emerging directly
into the light of the bulb as he bared his teeth in a grin.

“Maybe I’ll put my faggotry to the test by raping your son. Of course, I’ll have to put a bag over
his head because as beautiful as you are, he’s an ugly cunt,” Taehyung spat.

She didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest. “The men of my family are no strangers to sexual violence.
When his enemies caught him, they fucked my husband in the ass with an iron rod and pulled his
intestines out through his rectum. They were sent to me in a box.”

“What’s your point?” Taehyung scowled.

“My point, is that I would have preferred they found some way to leave him alive,” Madame Go
said, “Because I quite liked my husband and I would have liked to grow old with him. But they
killed him. If raping my son is what it takes to thoroughly humiliate, yet spare him, then do it.
Once you’re done with him, return him to me.”

Wonho moved on instinct as Minki lunged towards a wash basin in the corner of the room. But he
wasn’t intending on grabbing a weapon. He retched, throwing up his guts. Yeonjun put his hand
against his own cheek, feeling the cold clamminess of his skin. He no longer wanted to be there.
He wanted to be somewhere far away, with the memory of this room and the visual image of a
man’s intestine being ripped through his anus, wiped from his brain.

“You are a cold woman,” Taehyung chuckled, sitting back once more.

“Not cold. Merely pragmatic. I understand the limitations of having a family embroiled deeply in
the mafia,” Madame Go reiterated, her pretty, curved nose high in the air as she stared down her
rival.

“I won’t rape him. I never had any intention to,” Taehyung snorted. “But do me a favour, since
he’s constantly crying for you when my men run iron combs over his body – push him so far back
up your cunt, that I never have to put up with him again. Sound like a deal?”

“I can try, though I can give no indication on whether I’ll succeed,” Madame Go said with a wry
smile. “Trust me, I regret the day I pushed him out.”

“I’m serious. Next time the boy crosses me, I’ll do to him what happened to his father.”

It was at this point Yeonjun had the bright idea to interrupt.

“I-if we could get an answer about the crank, Minki and I should be going. Lunch hour’s almost
over,” he said, in a scratchy little voice that he didn’t immediately recognise as his own.

Taehyung didn’t pause to stare this time. With a swift motion, he yanked off his Gucci pump and
flung it at Yeonjun’s head with lightening accuracy. The boy was unable to dodge quickly enough,
and it struck his ear, leaving it bright red. He heard Madame Go laugh as he sank into the shadows
against the wall.
“Oy, you, Pukey Pukerson, get my shoe!” Taehyung barked at Minki, striking the table to make
him move faster. He stuck out his foot and forced Minki to kneel and slide the loafer back on.
Then, his eyes turned back up to Yeonjun, his disgust thinly veiled. “Enjoy your carefree, coddled
youth while you have it. If you still want to die when you graduate, come to me, I’ll make
arrangements. Now, get the fuck out. Ryu, take them back where you got them.”

Ryu looked thoroughly displeased at this turn of affairs and his grip was none too gentle as he
caught both boys by the elbow and began marching them towards the door. Yeonjun twisted
around, his brain going blank as his tongue went on autopilot.

“No,” he said. “I’m not leaving without the drugs. I’m offering you good business and you’re not
taking it. Seems to me like you’re not a very good kingpin. If you were, you might even have let
your meaty friend here sell us into sexual slavery. I didn’t realise guys like you were supposed to
have morals.”

A sheet of ice settled over the small congregation. The temperature in the room literally dropped.
Madame Go was no longer smiling. Her eyes flitted between the two young boys and the man
opposite her, her jaw tight. She could sense the explosion about to happen. It was simply a matter
of when.

Taehyung lay down his cards and got to his feet. Yeonjun squared up. He was almost the same
height. His pupils shook but his face was unafraid. Taehyung fixed the buttons at his lapel and
smoothed out the invisible crease on his lapel. And then he stopped. He simply froze, standing
there like a human prop in a Baz Luhrmann musical number. He certainly fit the part with his
vibrant hair and pure white suit. His eyes moved though. They turned upwards and the effect of
gazing into them at such an acute angle was terrifying. They were the only things still gleaming
through the shadows cast over his face.

He moved, quick as a viper, and grabbed Yeonjun’s hair, tearing him away from Ryu. The boys
yelled and kicked up a fuss as Taehyung led one out of the den and Ryu followed with the other
pinned under his arm. Yeonjun felt the wind knocked out of him as he landed against the brick wall
in the street outside. He didn’t get time to think before Taehyung’s fist landed against his head.

Winded, Yeonjun sank to the ground. He expected another blow. It never came.

“Beat him!” Taehyung screamed and suddenly, it was Minki being thrown to the ground.
Before Yeonjun’s horrified eyes, Ryu started piling into his friend. The man was six foot two and
weighed 260 lbs and he was battering a high school student not even half that. Minki couldn’t
make a sound even if he’d tried. The foot that landed in his ribs took care of that. Taehyung seized
Yeonjun’s hair and forced him to look up.

“If you let us beat your friend to death, you can have all the crank you want,” he hissed, lips peeled
back from his teeth in a vicious snarl.

It was terrifying how ugly he looked, despite the pretty boy features. His nostrils were flared, and
there were red lines in his eyes. This man either snorted cocaine each day to get through it or never
slept. Whatever it was, Yeonjun knew he wasn’t looking at someone healthy in both mind and
soul. And yet still, he hesitated. He imagined going back to the school and facing down his peers
with bruises on his face and nothing to show for them.

“Better think quick before Ryu ruptures the boy’s spleen,” Taehyung hissed.

Minki made a choked, gagging sound and threw up as Ryu brought his fists down on his stomach.

“W-we’ll leave. We won’t come back,” Yeonjun gasped, trembling so hard, his teeth rattled in his
head.

Taehyung held up a hand and Ryu paused mid-kick. Minki wasn’t moving. Wonho bent down and
checked his pulse, nodding to his boss. Taehyung held out his hand and his bodyguard removed a
knife from his belt and placed it in his palm. Yeonjun’s eyes widened as Taehyung bent him over
onto all fours.

“You said you’d let us go!” he let out a shout of betrayal. He saw red and felt the familiar burning
in his blood. But this wasn’t his sister, or some kid who had gotten on the wrong side of his iljin
gang. He didn’t have a hope in hell of fighting this blue devil or his minions.

“We said we’d let you go. Didn’t specify what state you’d be leaving in,” Taehyung grunted.

And then, he began hacking at Yeonjun’s hair. The boy’s knees almost buckled as clumps of his
beautiful brunette hair began to flutter down around his face. He tried to escape but Taehyung’s
hand clamped around his jaw, forcing his head back.

“Stop wriggling or I’ll cut your scalp, runt,” he hissed, starting to shave the knife cross Yeonjun’s
hairline.

It was as if he was shaving the skin of an apple. He was thorough and he worked quick. Yeonjun
felt himself go into a state of semi-shock as he fell slack. Taehyung shaved his entire head, nicking
the blade and drawing blood here and there. He shoved the kid off him once he was done, brushing
hair off his white suit and straightening. He tilted his head and smirked down at Yeonjun.

“For your sake, I hope your hair grows fast. You’ve got an ugly head,” he snorted. He reached into
his breast pocket and removed a small baggie filled with a white substance Yeonjun recognised it
as crushed methamphetamines instantly. He dropped it at the younger’s foot and smiled. “Go
crazy, kiddo.”

Yeonjun lifted the bag with shaking fingers. “Why are you giving it to me now?” he whispered.

“To prove that nothing comes for free in this business. You can’t expect to waltz in and ruin a
perfectly lovely game of cards with the lady and have your demands met.” Taehyung crouched
down until they were eye-level again. “I dare you to go home and tell your granddaddy what
happened today. Maybe he’ll tell you the story of how my predecessor helped him win the general
election. Hm? Now come on, up, take your little friend to a hospital and take the day off from
school. Looks like you’ll be needing it.”

He knows. He knew who I was the minute I walked through the door. Yeonjun was admittedly in a
very helpless position. But it did nothing to quell the anger burning in his gut. He didn’t think he’d
ever hated someone as much as he did just then, staring into Taehyung’s eyes. Just like before, he
noted how very like his own they were. Empty, soulless and furious for no reason.

“Now…leave,” Taehyung said, his voice soft and dangerous.

One by one, all of them returned inside, until the metal doors clanged shut and only Ryu was left.
He bent down and threw Minki over his shoulder, snapping his fingers at Yeonjun like a dog.
Yeonjun had never been treated like a dog in his life. It was not a pleasant feeling. He had no
choice but to give into it and follow, making sure to keep his eyes averted from all the reflective
surfaces he passed on the way.
The foreigner didn’t stop.

The moment Jimin got on the bus, he had a feeling he wouldn’t. Geomjeong-pa did not hire men
who gave up the moment someone jumped on a fucking bus. For a straight five minutes, there was
nothing in the back window except non-descript cars trundling along the road. On the sixth minute,
a black motorbike swerved around the corner. The green coat flapped in the wind and a pair of
avatar glasses now hid his disconcertingly black eyes. It took him under a minute to pull up next to
the bus, just as it rolled to a stop at the traffic lights.

Jimin was trapped. All he could do was stare at his would-be captor through the window. The man
didn’t seem hurried at all. He whistled as he put the brakes on and then proceeded to rummage
around in his breast pocket. He held up his index finger and thumb touched together with a grin, as
if he was asking “Alright?” Then, he opened his coat lapel.

Everyone on the bus had earphones in. There were only three other passengers. And the woman
sitting directly in front of Jimin suddenly slumped as a muted crunching sound cut through the
silence. There was a bullet hole freshly hammered into the window, the glass around it webbed out
in splinters. The driver was none the wiser. Jimin’s fists clenched on the seat in front of him, lips
trembling in abject horror. She was leaning to the side as if she was asleep, a singular stream of
blood apparent on her neck from where it had run down through her hair.

The foreigner signalled for Jimin to get off at the next stop, nodding towards the boy sitting three
seats behind him. The signal was clear. If he refused to obey, another would die. Jimin stood,
knees weak as he stumbled down the aisle. He hit the bell and the driver glanced through the
mirror. Jimin tried to act as if nothing were wrong, glancing out of the window and chewing his
lip. All the while, he was trying his hardest to stand directly in the driver’s line of sight back into
the bus, to keep him from noticing the dead woman.

The killer was already waiting at the next stop. In accented English, he said, “Get on,” throwing
Jimin another helmet.
“Taehyung sent you?” Jimin said, despite knowing the answer very well.

The man repeated his demand and patted the seat behind him impatiently. Jimin glanced at it,
weighing his options. Then, he bolted. He figured the man wouldn’t start shooting people on the
high street. And he was right. The only thing he hadn’t thought of was that this was uncomfortably
close to an affluent neighbourhood and spindly little alleyways were scarce. He could only run in
full view of his hunter as he followed on his bike. He was yelling in English the whole time, an
accent Jimin could now place as Eastern European.

“You’d better stop, Jimin!” he called, ignoring the surprised looks they were getting from passers-
by. “Or Jimin-ah? That’s what the boss calls you, right? Actually, last time we talked, he called you
Jiminnie! Which would you prefer before I put a dart in your back?”

Jimin flipped him the middle finger and narrowly dodged a gaggle of high school girls as they
rushed out of a grocery shop.

“I don’t want to have to hunt you down with a tranquiliser dart, Jimin-ah! Very inhumane! Give up!
You look dirty, hungry and tired and sooner or later, a cop car is going to turn up, see you running
and investigate! You’ll be in jail and on trial to be executed before you know it!” Jimin turned
down the end of the street and the man followed with ease, revving the bike playfully. “Taehyung
told me to tell you he’s the only one who can protect you now, so give it up!”

Jimin ignored him. A cop siren had just burst into existence some way down the road, but he was
counting on the fact they’d probably notice the brightly-dressed foreigner before they noticed a
Korean in a hoodie. But he wasn’t banking on the motorbike being expendable for his assailant.
The man was soon on his feet, leaving the bike parked, and he was fast in his pursuit. Jimin saw
him reloading the tranquiliser gun as he kept pace and ran towards the road. He practically flung
himself in the path of a cab driving down the lane towards him and it screeched to a halt.

The driver yelled something profane but Jimin already had the door thrown open. He felt the sting
in his neck but pressed on, lunging into the back seat. The dart took quick effect. He slid off the
seat, even as he tried to give the driver an address. His vision exploded into a wave of shimmering
colour and the man in the green coat climbed in behind him. He pulled out the gun and held it to
the driver’s neck through the gap between the seat and headrest.

“Drive, please,” he said pleasantly.

The driver didn’t understand a lick of English, but he sure understood the cold kiss of a gun. The
car kicked into gear and Jimin was gone.
“Cheater.”

“Not my fault you have a shitty poker face.”

“My poker face is fine.”

“Yeah? Pull it.”

Jimin takes a deep breath and pulls the face he considers his impenetrable mask. Taehyung licks
his lips and bites back a grin as he pretends to cuddle his mound of poker chips. “Shitty. Just as I
thought.”

“This is stupid.” Jimin flings the cards onto the table and snorts as Taehyung leans over eagerly to
see what he had.

“You had a chance,” Taehyung remarks, “That’s your problem. You give up the moment you think
you’re losing. Fucking lame.”

Jimin looks over his shoulder to see where Ahn has gone. They’ve been in this small room of the
train station for an hour since their “uncle” left, citing business with the Yakuza. Jimin wonders if
they have killed him and are currently in the process of gutting him with fish hooks. It won’t bode
well for them to have been sitting here playing poker and not checking up on him. But he usually
goes by Taehyung’s instincts, and the older seems completely relaxed.

Someone comes up to the ticket booth – an old man with a cane and kind, twinkly eyes – and he
asks if the trains run past midnight.
“Out of order, Grandpa, can’t you read?” Taehyung says, pointing at the sign stuck against the
glass.

“Shut up,” Jimin mutters and goes over to attend to the old man’s query. He takes a spare
timetable from the shelf under the counter and lists out all the trains still running. Much to
Taehyung’s amusement, Jimin spends ten whole minutes listing out the fastest trains as the old
man forgets within five seconds of being told.

The mystery is solved when a pretty young woman appears and takes his arm, telling him off for
wandering off without telling her. She apologises to the young men sitting in the ticket booth room
and leads her father away. Jimin prods his tongue on the inside of his cheek in annoyance as he
waits for the inevitable silence to be broken. And as he folds up the timetable, sure enough,
Taehyung’s laughter cuts through it.

“Get fucked, Kim,” Jimin says, turning to hit him on the head with it.

Taehyung’s arm lashes out and hooks around Jimin’s waist, causing him to fall into his lap. Jimin
slams his heel down on Taehyung’s foot and though the older hisses in pain, his grip remains vice-
like.

“Someone walks in right now and we’re dead,” Jimin tells him.

“Stop wriggling so much or you’ll get me hard and I’ll have to fuck you right here in front of the
glass,” Taehyung says, pointing to it with a warning lift of his eyebrows.

Jimin slumps, dead-eyed. This past week, Taehyung has been increasingly touchy, and it freaks him
out to say the least. They’re not supposed to be doing this, not without Yoongi’s eyes watching all
the way in Busan. It feels as if he’s in a homewrecking situation though Yoongi and Taehyung
don’t have a home and their relationship is far from traditional. All he can do is grab Taehyung’s
wrist as his hand starts to snake too close to Jimin’s crotch.

“How long have you known Yoongi? You never told me.” Jimin casually changes the subject,
bringing it back around to the man whose shadows hangs over the both of them. Taehyung’s hand
stills its fervent struggle to unzip Jimin’s trousers and he sits back in his chair with a throaty sigh.

“Way to kill the boner,” he says.

“I’m genuinely curious,” Jimin shrugs.

Taehyung pushes him off and Jimin gladly goes back to his chair. In the platform lights filtering
through the hole-filled glass, Taehyung’s face appears in ripples and drops. He doesn’t seem
happy at the thought of his boss. Jimin clears his throat and regrets choosing that particular
question to distract him. But to his surprise, Taehyung answers.

“Since I was nineteen,” he says. “So about four years I would say.”

“That’s a long time. And you two are…?” Jimin trails off with a suggestive tilt of the brow.

“Not like what you’re imagining,” Taehyung answers.

“And what would that be?”

“The whole romantic deal. Dates, love, conversation. That sort of shit. He shared that with –
someone else – but not me. What we had – have – is purely sexual.”

Jimin doesn’t mention that he thought what they had was almost like a master-pet relationship.
There’s something sinister about the pair of them together and he doesn’t want to delve further.
That being said, the irony is stiff. He certainly can’t remember minding their odd relationship
when he was sandwiched between them on the yacht. His brain creates the memory and he can
almost feel the salt on his tongue. Salt is all he can remember sometimes, from the sweat on
Taehyung’s fingers shoved deep in his mouth or the trail of Yoongi’s cum he had licked up so
obediently when ordered. Jimin decides that perhaps Yoongi just has a talent of turning people
into his pets, something not exclusive to Taehyung. After all, he himself can’t imagine how on
earth he would ever go about trying to do the same to the man opposite.

“You still know him better than I do,” Jimin says. “I know practically nothing of him. Though I do
get the sense he’s probably a lot weirder than I think.”

Taehyung gives a dry, humourless laugh and starts flicking poker chips at Jimin’s head which the
other swats away. “Weird is an understatement. He’s an enigma, completely boxed up.”
“Does he have family?”

“Not as far as I know. He’s never mentioned one to me. The first time I found out something about
him as a person was when I caught him praying to Odin.”

“Praying to what?” Jimin blinks.

“Odin,” Taehyung enunciates the word. “The Norse god.”

“I know who that was, I just – Yoongi? Really?”

“I don’t know why you sound so sceptical. Once you think about it, it’s easy to imagine him being
the sort to choose gods from a completely different continent. Anyway, I asked him why and we had
our first real conversation that night. He said Odin sacrificing his own eye and wellbeing to sate
his thirst for knowledge, inspired him. Said something about the purpose of a god being to keep his
believers from straying into existential dread and that Odin served that purpose for him. I got the
feeling he was trying to cover up the real reason.”

“And what was that?”

“There was a book on Norse mythology he would never let me touch. Always sat on the top of his
wardrobe gathering dust. He never touched it either, but it was dog-eared, so he must have at some
point. I figured whatever shitty childhood he had emerged from, that book carried him through,
and Odin was just the face of it.”

Jimin has never heard Taehyung speak so introspectively about something, never mind the peculiar
insight into Yoongi’s psyche. It almost feels like he has a glass figurine balanced in his hands and
it will shatter if he loses his grip on it. So, he keeps his voice soft and casual as he remarks, “I
remember the scars on his inner thighs. I almost asked, but then decided not to.”

“Mmm,” Taehyung grunts, gathering up the cards with quick sleights of his large hands. “Rumour
has it he used to belong to one of the old kkangpae’s bosses. I’m guessing he suffered at their
hands.”

“He used to belong? As in, slavery?”

Taehyung nods. “It took a while for him to let me top and even then, he only let me do it a handful
of times. That time with you was one of the few. I guessed it had something to do with the scars on
his thighs, but I know better than to ask. So should you.”

“I won’t,” Jimin says quickly. “I just – I thought maybe I should know more about the man I’m
supposed to be putting my life on the line for.”

“He’s worth it,” Taehyung says simply, with more quiet devotion than Jimin would have expected
from him. “I don’t work for just anyone. Yoongi’s the type to die only when he’s ready to. Nothing
and no one will take him out before he wants it to. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I don’t
suppose I ever will. It’s why I do as he asks without question, at the risk of being considered a
brainless lackey.”

Jimin nods, pretending to understand, but as he peeks at Taehyung from under his eyelashes, he
wonders if Yoongi’s hold over him has an expiration date. An air of studious calm falls over the
table, and for the first time since arriving in Seoul, Jimin doesn’t want to stab his own eyeballs out
in Taehyung’s presence.

“So, are you sure you don’t wanna have a quickie? I brought the glasses. We can record it all for
Daddy.” Taehyung whips them out and puts them on with a goofy grin and Jimin reverts back to
his usual state of scornful indifference.

It wasn’t the first time Jimin had woken in a dark room, with a foggy mind and a sluggish body.
But it was the first time he had woken to the sight of a man standing motionless, with his arms
folded at his stomach and muttering a foreign language under his breath. Jimin just watched him
for a moment. Against the light of the window, his face was in shadow, but he vaguely
remembered the green-coat guy and made the connection. The man bent over at the waist, and
then back up, before sinking into a full bow. The movements were methodical and smooth and
rang a bell of familiarity in Jimin’s hazy mind, but it wasn’t functioning too well yet.
He lay there for a while, staring at the grey ceiling. A soft thud made his head jerk around and a
green glint caught his eye. A necklace had fallen out of the man’s pocket when he bent down the
second time, and it lay there, lonely and splendid. Emeralds and white diamonds.

Jimin stretched his hand out for it, expecting the man’s hand to come lashing down and crush it.
But when his fingers tightened around the necklace and he got no reaction from the other, it finally
clicked what he was doing. His mother hadn’t been overly insistent that Jimin be raised Christian,
but the tutor hired to school him had covered most major world religions exhaustively, Islam
included. Geomjeong-pa’s diversity quota was clearly flourishing. How forward-thinking of them.

Jimin turned the necklace over in his hands, still mostly numb from the effect of the dart. It was the
Jewel of Busan. There was no doubt about it. The same one that had rested on his mother’s
collarbones at social events. Well, events Jimin was never allowed to attend. He usually saw her
before she left, arm-in-arm with his father.

He remembered the first time he had seen her wear it and asked if he could try it also. She had
done so gladly, and as he giggled, she teased him with lipstick. Jimin willingly agreed to that too.
He was only little. Masculinity and femininity were alien concepts to him. He just knew that his
Mommy was pretty, and he wanted to be pretty like her. He learned that there was something
wrong with that way of thinking when his father walked in on them. He would never forget the
slap he received that day, or his mother’s screams through the closed door after his father so
unceremoniously shoved Jimin out. She didn’t go to the party that night. Father forgot to hit her
where no one could see the marks and gave her a black eye that didn’t heal for weeks. But later,
when Jimin asked if she was upset she couldn’t go to the party, she said reading him stories in bed
was far better. She seemed happy, though sometimes she went quiet and sniffed. When she did that,
Jimin could only watch, with all the helplessness of a young child ill-equipped to understand the
complex emotions of adults.

He felt tears spring to his eyes now as he pressed the necklace to his lips. He hadn’t cried over his
mother in a while. The last time he had truly let it all go was when he’d called Taehyung and
promised to execute his father the way he had done Jimin’s parents. This was a different type of
sorrow, to hold one of her belongings in his hands. It was a tender, and arguably, it was worse.

“The Boss wanted me to show it to you as proof that I was working for him.” The man had
finished his prayer and was now watching Jimin with a blank stare.

“Right,” Jimin muttered, swallowing thickly and wiping roughly at his eyes. “What’s your name? I
would have remembered you had I seen you working for Mother.”

“My name is Adnan Ahmeti and I did not work for Mother. I work for the Butcher.”
“Oh, is that what they call him now?” Jimin sneered, sitting up shakily.

“Yes, but I do not know why. A butcher would denote someone crude, with less finesse in his
killings. But this man has the soft, slender hands of a rich boy and the sleekness of a panther.”

“Have you felt them when they’re trying to hurt you?”

“Felt what?”

“His hands.”

“Not hurting me, no.”

“Then let me assure you, their softness is a deception.” Jimin shoved the necklace into his pocket.
Ahmeti’s eyes followed its disappearance but he didn’t make a move to take it back. It was clear he
was confident in his objective of getting Jimin to Taehyung and the necklace would be going with.

Ahmeti stood, wrapping up his prayer rug and setting it on the desk. It was a small bedroom they
were in, with a double bed in the centre and a picture of Makkah over the headboard. His own
private residence by the look of it. “Taehyung said you would know the significance of this
sentence to go with the necklace…’the heist is won’.” He paused, to look at Jimin and figure out if
that was the case.

The corner of Jimin’s lips lifted into a wry smile. “Yeah. It sure is.”

“Why has he paid me four million US dollars for your safe return? What are you to him?” Ahmeti
asked curiously.

Jimin glanced up in surprise at the lump sum figure, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shrugged.
“It makes no sense that he should want me back unharmed. I killed his best friend. He’s a fool,
that’s what he is.”
“Perhaps he intends to torture you and prefers to work on a blank canvas.”

“Yeah, no. He had the chance and nothing of the sort happened.” Jimin didn’t count the beating as
torture. That was spur of the moment anger.

“Well, love has made a fool of people far greater,” Ahmeti said casually. “Granted it also kills
them, but at least they are happy fools in death.”

“Don’t,” Jimin scowled.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like you know us. You know nothing. And don’t say that word in relation to him. He
has no concept of what real love is.”

Ahmeti chuckled, sitting down on the window sill with his gun dangling between his legs. “You
see, this is why I compared him to a rich, pretty boy. Because it’s only rich, pretty boys who have
the luxury of being sentimental enough to pay 4 million dollars for the return of their rich, pretty
boyfriends. Or poor, in your case. Though not for long. I get the feeling that necklace is the first of
many gifts the Boss intends to lavish upon you.”

“Wow…” Jimin trailed off with a disbelieving laugh. There was no meaning behind the ‘wow’. It
was just the only thing he could say without nausea overpowering him. Or perhaps that was the
dart’s lingering effects. In some trapping of his mind though, he couldn’t help fantasising at the
thought of clean clothes and a shower. He stank and he knew it. He could hardly bear to breathe
through his nose. He had showered at the hospital the last morning he saw Jungkook, but all the
running had cancelled out any short-lived cleanliness.

“Well, it’s getting late. And I want the rest of my four million,” Ahmeti announced, getting up from
the window sill. He clicked his gun in Jimin’s direction, gesturing for him to stand. “Up, up, time
for you to be delivered in one piece. Don’t look so upset. You’ll be clean and in a suit in no time,
looking much better than this.”

Jimin wondered if Ahmeti was willingly obtuse or knowingly acerbic.

Either way, he was effective and Jimin knew when he was trapped.
 Silk & Maple Syrup
Chapter Notes

Trigger Warning: abusive relationship, toxicity etc.

But also…vmin-centric chapter. First in a while, eh?

Ahmeti was quick on his feet, giving Jimin no chance to look around. He had heard much about
Mother’s house but seeing it in person was beyond anything he could have imagined. The
questions were endless when he looked down and saw the shark tank. Who had conceived of such
an idea, and how had it been put into effect without disrupting the foundations of the home? Had
they raised the shark from a baby and if so, had they kept a baby animal on its own in the tank,
without the comfort of its mother or other same-species company? Who was he kidding? Animal
cruelty wasn’t even the issue here, not when human cruelty was such a casual fact of life.

The guards stopped them outside a pair of sliding metal doors at the end of the entrance hall.

“He has no weapons,” Ahmeti grunted. However, they did not appear to understand English and
started checking for them anyway. With a stiff nod, they were allowed through and Jimin began
dragging his feet. Ahmeti noticed his unwillingness and jabbed him in the ribs with an encouraging
elbow.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Jimin muttered, as he saw a smaller pair of doors at the end of the
room they’d entered. He knew what was beyond them. Jungkook had described the small, intrepid
route into Mother’s office often enough.

“Do you, really?” Ahmeti arched his eyebrow as he reached out to hit the buzzer.

Of course he didn’t. Unless it was to throw up. Jimin felt his head spinning, sweat cooling on his
forehead as the doors slid open. Light burst through and he put his hand up against his eyes,
shielding them from the intensity of it. The office was all-white adding to the daylight already
pouring in from the glass wall behind the huge desk at the far end. The interior was streamlined,
with furniture that looked as if it doubled for other things. He already knew which wall housed the
giant plasma screens Jungkook had mentioned.

Jimin almost tripped over his own feet as Ahmeti pushed him through. His breath caught and he
put his hands over his eyes, breathing heavily as his vision was compromised. Hunger and
exhaustion were two things he had encountered far too much in the past few weeks. Now they were
starting to affect his general wellbeing. His head was aching, eyes still reeling from the brightness
of the place. A migraine threatened to erupt if he opened his eyes fully.

And yet through the pounding in his ears, he heard the voice that held the power to make him go
still running in the opposite direction should be the wisest course of action. The last time it had
filtered through his senses in bits and pieces like this, Jimin had felt the kiss of a knife slice
through his chest on the police station steps in Mapo-gu. Something bad was going to happen here
too. He could feel it.

“In one piece. No open wounds. Not even a scratch or a bruise. At least, none that I caused,”
Ahmeti said, resting a hand on Jimin’s shoulder.

A tall, well-built man, provided a translation into Korean. He didn’t look like a translator; the way
he was standing at Taehyung’s right-hand side denoted his status as a personal guard. A single
coiled loop disappeared behind his ear from the piece set inside it. Taehyung murmured something
back and the bodyguard announced in clear, fluent English, “Thank you. The rest of your money
will be deposited into your account come sundown.”

Ahmeti nodded. The pair of them stared him down as if expecting him to leave. Instead, he turned
and went over to the coffee table to the left of the room, sitting down on an armchair and scooping
up a handful of grapes. Jimin’s face was incredulous to say the least when Ahmeti crossed one leg
over the other and watched the scene with the air of a spectator waiting for the movie to start. And
yet Taehyung said nothing.

Taehyung.

His hair was blue, a deep, sapphire colour with elements of deep green, like a peacock feather
brushed over each strand. It suited him. His face was a strange thing of beauty and now so was his
hair. Matchy-matchy. The white suit really wasn’t helping, not against the white of the office.
Jimin could hardly bear to look directly at him. Though he did so anyway, because he was coming
closer.
Jimin’s shoulders bunched up the closer he got. It was his body’s instinctive response, as memories
of old injuries returned and made themselves felt. All injuries inflicted by Kim Taehyung. And he
was also acutely aware of how bad he looked and smelled. It was odd, that even in this horrific
situation, where he was prisoner to a man who couldn’t even control his own whacked out mind,
Jimin was self-conscious.

Taehyung’s hands reached out and brushed Jimin’s sleeves, trailing up them, slowly. His eyes were
wide, roving over Jimin’s face, as if making sure he wasn’t hurt. Over to their right, Ahmeti
popped another grape and mumbled, “The goods inspection is a little unnecessary. I already gave
my word he wouldn’t be hurt.” The bodyguard chose not to translate that.

Taehyung moved closer and Jimin let out a tiny sound that was a cross between a whimper and a
growl. Taehyung was saying something unintelligible, tangled words wrapped in fervent whispers
as Jimin tried to pull his arms out of his grip. Everything was still and slow at first, but as Jimin
started to react in defence, Taehyung’s hold grew stronger, like a torture device that strengthened
the harder its victim struggled.

“Jimin.“

“No – “

“Jimin-ah –“

“I told you to fucking stop – “

Jimin’s instincts became child-like, bending at the knees and dropping towards the floor in an
attempt to force Taehyung to let go. But Taehyung didn’t let him fall, his strength more than
enough to keep Jimin from lowering fully. He was practically wrestling him back up and against
him, still muttering things in that low, passionate voice he used only when they fucked and he was
lost in the physical intensity of the act.

“Get him off me!” Jimin yelled at Ahmeti of all people, as if the man had any say in the situation.

Ahmeti’s eyebrows shot up and he shrugged, dropping his grapes back in the bowl and heading for
the exit. “Didn’t sign up for a lover’s quarrel,” he muttered in lilting English before disappearing
through the double doors.
“Get off! Get off, get off, GET OFF, GET OFF, GET OOOOOFFFFFF!!!!” Something in his mind
snapped and Jimin started shrieking at the top of his lungs. His face turned red, veins popping in
his neck and temple, threatening to burst. His legs curled under him, feet leaving the floor but still,
Taehyung didn’t let go, holding him aloft as Jimin started to kick. They dropped to the ground
together, and Jimin lashed out with his hand, finding Taehyung’s face and pushing it as far away
from as his own as he could. It triggered the bodyguard to finally intervene, but when he did,
Taehyung snapped at him, practically frothing at the mouth like a jealous dog guarding a bone.

Jimin slammed his elbow in his face, feeling it connect with his cheekbone, before he was pushed
onto the floor. Taehyung was still trying to calm him, real panic flaring over his features as Jimin
showed no signs of stopping. His mind was blanking out, white noise filling his ears. He felt his
mouth stretched in a scream, but he couldn’t hear it. He no longer had any control over what his
body was doing. Convulsions wracked his frame and he gasped for air in sheer desperation. His
head knocked against the marble floor a couple times until Taehyung’s hand came between them.

The bodyguard was now kneeling beside them, checking Jimin's pulse. Through the terrible roar in
his ears, Jimin heard the words ‘seizure’ and ‘sedative’ but he couldn’t focus on the rest. It was
getting harder and harder to breathe the longer Taehyung’s arms remained locked around him and
wouldn't – let – go.

Thankfully, he no longer had to keep trying.

Darkness swallowed him and like so many other times in his life, it was a welcome friend.

Jimin woke surrounded by warmth and the fluffiness of good bedding. For a moment, he could not
bear to move. It had been so long since he’d felt sheets like this against his skin. And the mattress
wasn’t broken either, with no unnatural dips. Best of all, the bedding smelt of his favourite fabric
softener, the one that came in the blue bottle with the pink cap. It had been his mother’s softener of
choice. He curled up, without opening his eyes and buried his face in the duvet, inhaling and
letting out a soft whimper of longing. It almost felt as if his mother’s voice would sound at any
moment. He would feel her gentle hand through the duvet as she stroked it towards his face,
tickling him to get him to wake.
He felt the hand. Jimin was still too sleep-addled to differentiate between wishful daydreaming and
reality but the hand was real. It was moving up his side and he felt fingers brush his hair. Jimin
whispered something amiable – perhaps a reassurance to his mother that he would get up,
eventually – and smiled tiredly, eyes still screwed shut.

“Hey, nightingale.”

That word paired with the voice, hit him like a taser. Jimin jerked up, lashing out through the
sheets to get Taehyung’s hand off. He was still dressed in the white suit, cerulean hair falling about
his face in tired curls. It was like his hair had given up. Everything about him looked…defeated.
The eyes, the hollows of his cheeks, the downward tilt of the mouth. The Skull-Crusher was dead.
In his place sat this stranger, with eyes emptier than the Grim Reaper. Eyes that had seared Jimin’s
soul, right before he pulled the trigger and Jungkook fell.

Jimin lunged at him.

His fists hit Taehyung’s hipbone, eliciting a pained yowl from the other as he rolled off the bed and
onto his feet. Jimin kept hitting, aiming for the weakest parts of the body – groin, sides, back of the
knees. At one point, he was pretty sure he sank his teeth into Taehyung’s arm before the other
shook him off.

“What the fuck are you – “ was all Taehyung managed to say before the clock on the bedside
cabinet came flying at his head.

Jimin ceased to think like a normal human being. He noticed the bedside drawers pulled out
completely and removed the first one, lifting it up and launching it at Taehyung’s head. The gun,
watches and rings inside, flew out as the wooden box crashed against the arm Taehyung threw up
to deflect it. It was clear he wasn’t intending on defending himself. Jimin grabbed the remaining
two drawers in quick succession and flung them. One missed its mark but the other struck
Taehyung’s head with a sickening crack. And yet there was no dark red mingling with the blue of
his hair.

Easily rectified.

Jimin jumped onto the bed, springing to the other side before Taehyung could grab at him. He
snatched up a chair and slammed it on the wall, shattering its legs. One of them was suitably
jagged on the end and he swivelled around, with it clutched tightly in his palm.
“I will fucking kill you,” he spat. “You satanic piece of shit – “

Taehyung coughed – a hacking sound that certainly shouldn’t have been coming from a twenty-
four year old’s lungs – and sank against the wall. His eyes were brighter now, the smirk of
yesteryear returning to his pretty mouth. It seemed the beating was not having the intended effect.
He clutched his chest and coughed again, laughing, quietly at first, but then letting the sound build.

“Gauge your next move carefully, nightingale,” he said, holding out a finger in warning. “You
can’t beat me in single combat.”

“And you won’t hurt me,” Jimin sneered, “Seems like an even playing field.”

“Do not mistake my reluctance to hurt you as weakness. I will break every bone in your leg to keep
you tethered, if I have to – “

“THEN BREAK THEM YOU INSUFFERABLE CUNT!” Jimin screamed, catapulting the chair
leg at him.

Taehyung caught it. The movement was impossibly fast, his arm merely a blur as it whipped out.
Without breaking eye contact, he rammed it against the wall, creating an ugly cracked dent in the
paint. It successfully blunted the sharp end of the broken wood and he flung it aside.

“I’m sorry I left you in the burning building,” he said. “I suffered what is apparently known as a
psychotic break. I would never have left you otherwise.”

Jimin let out a strangled groan, muffled behind clenched teeth as his hands tore at his hair. “I
fucking hate you, oh god, I can’t stand how much I hate you – you should have shot me too – you
missed the point completely - I can’t take this – “

His throat was starting to close up and the asphyxiation from earlier was returning. Jimin grabbed
at his neck, forcing himself to take deep gulps of air as he stared at the ceiling. Anywhere but at
Taehyung’s face.

“You hate me so much for what?” Taehyung snorted. “Because I avenged my father? You of all
people know what that feeling’s like. Ungrateful, hypocritical little wretch that you are.”

Jimin laughed, the sound shuddering as he turned to face Taehyung again. The man had a
distinctly provocative tilt to his sneer and whether this was a ruse to rile him up or simply meant as
a truth, it induced him to turn and throw another chair leg at him. Taehyung didn’t bother catching
it this time. Merely swatted it away as if it weighed nothing. He seemed immune to pain at the best
of times but even Jimin cringed a little when he heard the bone of his knuckles connect with the
wood.

“I killed Hoseok, I wanted your father dead and you took it all out on Jungkook,” he said, calming
his voice. He sniffed, running his hand through his hair. “He loves me. He would do done anything
for me, and he did – he killed Kim Bong Ju and finished what I started. And yet still, you took it
out on the wrong person and brought me here like I’m some expensive vase that needs to be bubble
wrapped and protected.”

“I love you too,” Taehyung said, and his lashes fluttered as he swallowed nervously.

“You do not love me. You’re infatuated with the weakling who was handed to you by Min Yoongi
to use as a sex toy. The people you love, die. I’m still alive. Is that what you want? To love me till
I’m dead?” Jimin did not know where the low blows were coming from. He was not a soulless
human being. Even the thought of attacking someone’s weakest point made him falter. Breaking
bones was easier than figuratively ripping out a man’s heart and stuffing it down his gullet.

But this was different. It was personal.

Taehyung’s expression said it at all, revealing his fury at Jimin’s words, mingled with the sheer
agony of want beyond measure. They were like whirlpools, with more emotion than Jimin had seen
in them for a long time. He moved towards Taehyung as if he were sleepwalking, slow and steady,
feet drifting across the carpet. Jimin’s hands were soft on his lapel, stroking up towards his collar.
He felt the older’s chest still, as if he were holding in a breath. But when Jimin stepped on his toes
with his bare feet, the way he used to do when they kissed in strangely domestic moments in that
tiny apartment, Taehyung let it out. It shivered from his lips like the tide hitting the beach. In the
suddenly silent room, the sound was very much like soft ocean waves in Jimin’s ear. He was
standing so close.

“You’re a fool,” he murmured, fingers trembling against Taehyung’s cheekbones. Tears began to
form in those pretty eyes, unused to falling but unable to hold back as the conflicted pieces of his
soul tore at one another. Jimin caught the first one on his thumb and against his own will, he felt
the hot burn of salty liquid soak his own eyes, dripping from his lashes when he blinked. “A
pathetic loser, loving someone you should hate, and getting hurt in the process. Turns out, you’re
just as human as the rest of us, aren’t you, Butcher?”
Jimin pulled back his knee and rammed it into Taehyung’s gut with all the strength he had.

The air left Taehyung’s lungs in one fell gasp and he sank to his knees, eyes wide with shock. Jimin
could have done more. The wind had been knocked from Taehyung, as for once, he was taken
utterly by surprise in a physical confrontation. But that was what remained of the last scrap of
vengeful energy Jimin still had. He allowed Taehyung to rest his head against his knee, clutching it
like an altar as he fought to catch his breath. Jimin’s gentle fingers tussled through the sea of blue
sprouting from Taehyung’s scalp and he stroked the hair on the nape of his neck, just how he liked
it.

And then he said, “Get off me, I need a shower,” practically kneeing him in the face to get him off.

Just like the last time he had showered after an encounter with Taehyung, Jimin experienced
newfound realms of paradise whilst undergoing such a simple ritual of cleanliness. He had made
sure to lock the en-suite door. He had a feeling Taehyung wouldn’t follow, not after his stomach
was still struggling to recover from the unexpected bruising, but it was better to be safe. Jimin
spent forty-five minutes under the running water, allowing the skin on his fingertips to shrivel but
still reluctant to actually step out. It was only once his skin was so squeaky clean it was slippery,
that he hit the control panel.

The sudden quiet was unnerving. There was no sound from the bedroom. With the amount of
steam in the bathroom, there was no seeing past his own hand once he stepped out and in a freak
flash of irrational panic, he half expected Taehyung to emerge from the mist. And then what would
he do? A delayed reaction to his assault? Possibly a simple shove, so that when Jimin’s head hit the
corner of the shower stall, Taehyung could console himself that it was an accident. As the blood
dribbled into the crevices between the floor tiles, he could look down and laugh, knowing that he
had killed his final weakness.

Who are you kidding? After all he could have done, that man isn’t hurting a hair on your head, his
brain remarked. Wrong. Jimin had no doubt Taehyung could and would hurt him should the need
arise, but he would not kill him. That seemed next to improbable.

When he walked outside, dressed in the fresh pair of jeans and a white shirt that had been folded
neatly on the vanity table, Jimin found Taehyung sitting on the end of the bed. His hands were
hanging loosely between his knees and his eyes were blank as they stared at a fixed point on the
floor. He looked up and Jimin suppressed the urge to back away. God, he’s scary when he’s not
smiling or crying.

“You said ‘loves’, nightingale,” Taehyung said, and his voice was no longer weak and scratchy
like before. It retained its naturally rich timbre, like cedarwood and honey-drenched velvet, as
Jimin had described it as once. It was lower than usual, which was not a good sign.

“I told you not to call me that,” Jimin said, rubbing off his wet hair with the towel as he went to the
mirror.

“And how are you going to make me stop? By kneeing me in the stomach again? Do it,” Taehyung
retorted.

Jimin’s hand slowed as he glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror. Yes, there was
something different about him now. The cocksure, chilling arrogance had returned. Those forty-
five minutes was all it took to make him forget how he’d cried on his knees at Jimin’s feet.
Whatever recovery mode option Taehyung’s brain had, Jimin wished it for his own.

“And what do you mean I said ‘loves’?” he asked, eyes narrowed, mind scrabbling to fragment
together the pre-shower conversation and figure out what it was that was making Taehyung look
like a tiger who’d just had a chunk of meat dropped in his den.

“You said Jungkook loves you. He loves me. Not loved. Loves. Present tense,” Taehyung said
slowly, head tilting.

Jimin stopped drying his hair completely. His spine stiffened as he figured out the ways he could
dance out of this one. But he couldn’t. Taehyung already believed the Freudian slip. He pulled out
his phone, tongue flicking over his upper canines as he put it to his ear. Those black eyes zoned in
on Jimin with the malicious concentration of a hunter who had found his game.

“Ahmeti,” he purred into the phone.

No.

Jimin rushed to try and wrestle the phone from his hand. Taehyung shoved him, holding him at
arm’s length as he struggled.

“Leave – him – alone,” Jimin snarled, kicking Taehyung’s thigh repeatedly until both of them fell
onto the bed. Still, Taehyung kept the phone safely in his grip and pressed to his ear. Jimin resorted
to punches, though many of them didn’t land where he wanted as the other twisted and dodged. All
it did was cause Taehyung to giggle maniacally as he grabbed at Jimin’s hands, teasing him about
their size and acting as if he wasn’t about to put a hit on a young man’s life. “He’s already
paralysed, what more do you want to do to him?!” Jimin yelled as they slid to the ground, taking
half the duvet with them. He landed tailbone first and for a moment, was too breathless to form
further words.

“Ahmeti, this should be fun. He’s in a wheelchair. Just shove it down some steps or something – “
Taehyung cackled.

Jimin lost it. He pulled back his hand and slapped him across the face. It successfully knocked the
phone from Taehyung’s fingers and Jimin grabbed it, ensuring Ahmeti was still on the line. He
switched it to speakerphone and hissed, “Retract the order.”

“No, I want him dead,” Taehyung said stubbornly.

“You don’t want him dead, you want me to love you. And him being alive stands in the way of
that,” Jimin spat.

“Sure. Still want him dead though. Ahmeti, name your price.”

“Alright – “ the Albanian began to speak, but Jimin cut him off with a sharp, “Wait,” before
putting the phone on the bed and shuffling closer to Taehyung.

The older man’s expression softened, a naughty gleam in his eye as he wriggled his hips
underneath Jimin, forcing him to straddle. He sat up until their faces were almost touching and his
hand pressed into the small of Jimin’s back, keeping him restrained. Jimin tried to push off his
other hand as it ran down his side, but it was on his thigh before he could, gripping into the hard
muscle as Taehyung’s teeth clenched. “I missed these strong little thighs,” he whispered, nuzzling
the soft skin dipping over Jimin’s clavicle. It was still slightly damp, fragranced with the perfume
he’d found in the cabinet. “Promise me they’ll be squeezing around my head later and I’ll spare
Jungkook.”

For all his lewd taunting, Jimin saw right through him. He looked into Taehyung’s deep brown
eyes and saw the constant starving need for affection buried in them. No matter the façade, he was
still the little boy who’d grown up without a mother or a father. It wasn’t the first time Jimin had
manipulated Taehyung to bargain for Jungkook’s life. But there was a certain finality about this
one.

Last chance. Work it well.

He circled his arms around Taehyung’s neck, as if it were a natural thing to do. His broad shoulders
tensed under Jimin’s touch and he pressed closer, eyes pensive as they roved over his face. Then,
they travelled down, to where Jimin’s white shirt hung loosely against his chest. He kissed the
hollow of his clavicle and the gesture was disarming. Jimin almost came apart. He sucked in his
breath at the last minute, to keep from making a sound but when Taehyung’s lips continued to kiss
along his collarbone, he gave in, head falling back and lips parted in a soft sigh of pleasure. Jimin
grabbed onto Taehyung’s head and the sound he made when his hand squeezed his thigh again was
muffled into his blue hair. The soft repetitive pecks found their way to the crook of Jimin’s
shoulder, as Taehyung pulled his shirt down and teased the soft flesh connecting his chest to his
forearm.

“Spare him and I’ll stay with you,” Jimin mumbled in his ear, eyes half closed as he teetered closer
and closer to losing his senses.

He missed being kissed like this. As if he mattered.

“I don’t believe you,” Taehyung mumbled against his neck, “You’ll stab me in my sleep and
escape.”

“No, I won’t,” Jimin insisted.

“Why won’t you? I have no reason to trust you.”

“Yes, you do – “
“Do I? Tell me what it is then.”

It was a challenge. Taehyung leaned his head back and forced Jimin’s jaw to twist around until
they were facing each other again. The warning was implicit. Don’t lie. Jimin felt his insides
clench with anxiety as he stared at Taehyung’s face and wondered how to put into words the
roaring conflict of emotion he bore for this man. He allowed himself to be distracted by his beauty
for a minute, half-smiling as he skirted his lips against Taehyung’s, sucking gently at the upper one
till it was throbbing under the pressure.

“I’m slower than you on the uptake, but I could learn to love you the way you…the way you love
me.” He swallowed, hoping some shred of honesty had been communicated. Jungkook’s life
depended on it. Just thinking about him alone and helpless in that hospital bed made Jimin want to
start screaming and he had screamed enough these past few days. No more.

Taehyung’s hand lifted for the phone and Jimin responded by embracing him tighter, a silent
promise of reward to keep him from doing the wrong thing. He put it to his ear and with a lazy
drawl, said “Never mind, Ahmeti,” before hanging up.

Perhaps it was just relief or the strenuous desire to experience Taehyung’s pliant tongue exploring
his hot and willing mouth, but Jimin kissed him the moment he dropped the phone on the bed. This
time, their hold on each other was bruising and the harder Taehyung squeezed, the tighter Jimin
felt his cock strain against his jeans. He could feel Taehyung’s semi-erect bulge underneath it and
it was starting to weave a hazy cloud of arousal over his senses.

“I’ll stay but you can’t treat me like a bird in a cage,” Jimin said, suddenly breaking away.

He pulled himself off of Taehyung’s lap, scrambling backwards across the floor and feeling a
dangerous thrill when the older followed without hesitation. Jimin tipped onto his back, allowing
Taehyung to hover over him, arching his spine to allow him easier access to grip. One of Jimin’s
legs spread outwards, foot connecting with the bedpost, whilst the other leg snaked around
Taehyung’s waist, flexible as ever. He pulled him down by the back of his neck and within
seconds of their lips locking, Taehyung was moaning like a whore in heat. Jimin’s tender whimpers
were lost in the unadulterated enjoyment vocalised by the other and for a moment, neither could
form words or thoughts, everything they had disintegrating as they breathed one another in.

And when Jimin’s hand came up to his throat, Taehyung didn’t notice or care. Not even when his
other hand latched to the back of his neck. When he began to squeeze both, Taehyung finally broke
away. Jimin increased the pressure instantly, watching with satisfaction as Taehyung’s face bulged,
turning red.
“You want me, but you want me to claim you for my own as well, don’t you?” Jimin whispered.

Taehyung pulled at his wrists, struggling to breathe. Jimin locked his other leg tight around his hip
as well, ankles crossing against his back and held on with all his might. A vicious grin curled over
his lips and he saw Taehyung’s lips twitch with amusement. He was literally being strangled and
yet even in this state, he found the situation arousing. Jimin had counted on this fact to pull such a
risky move.

“If you want to be mine, I meant what I said about the cage. I’m not going to live the way my
mother did, trapped by some man too emotionally weak to trust me,” he said. “You’re going to
have to let your nightingale fly free, Taehyung-ie…”

He swore he saw Taehyung’s eyes widen at the suffix of endearment attached to his name and then
he nodded without hesitation. Well, as best he could with the noose around his neck. Jimin finally
released his hold and Taehyung fell down onto him with a heaving gasp. For a few minutes, he
could do nothing but lay there, with his head on Jimin’s chest as he levelled his breathing out.

“I’m not sitting in this condo all day, like some concubine in a harem waiting for my master to
return. I want to be a part of Geomjeong-pa for real this time.” Jimin didn’t want that, not really,
but it was fun to see whether Taehyung would make him the power behind the throne just because
he asked.

The agreement came fast. At first, Jimin just felt him nodding against his chest and then, he pulled
Taehyung’s face up to meet his. “Will you make it happen?”

“Y-yes,” Taehyung whispered.

“Don’t even think about lying to me and going after Jungkook. Your life will be a lot less – “ he
paused, searching for the right word as he licked his plump top lip and tilted his head to study
Taehyung “ – empty, if I’m willing to be around you. You know that don’t you, Taehyung-ie?”

It really was fun to see how he reacted to such a simple twist of his name. He could barely form
words now, red in the face with desire as Jimin cradled him between his legs. Taehyung kissed him
again, gasping and whimpering between each one, and Jimin answered in kind until his lips started
to ache from the abuse.

“Say yes, Taehyung-ie,” he said, his voice husky, as his hands cupped Taehyung’s face between
them.

“Yes,” he whispered obediently.

“Thank you,” Jimin faked the largest smile he could and pushed him back up into a sitting
position. He got to his feet, Taehyung’s eyes following him like a puppy learning to walk. He
recovered himself quickly, getting to his feet with just a little sway as he did. His lips were
thoroughly swollen, and he had that just-fucked look Jimin realised he quite missed, back from the
relatively good old days. Interesting how such a dark period in his life now seemed light in
comparison to the shit storm it had become now.

“I have something for you,” Taehyung said suddenly.

“What?”

Taehyung reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out the Jewel of Busan. Jimin tensed. They
must have taken it off him when he’d passed out. Something akin to jealousy flared up inside him
when he saw it entwined in Taehyung’s hands. As if it were a piece of him that was now trapped
there against his will. But Taehyung wasn’t intending on keeping it for long. He beckoned Jimin
closer and the younger reached out his hand, ready to take it. Taehyung dodged his grasp and put
the necklace against his throat, fingers moving deftly to tie it at the back.

Jimin shivered a little as Taehyung’s fingers brushed along the curve of his jawline, tilting his face
upwards so he could admire the necklace better. He gave a short laugh.

“That painting of your mother wearing it. I remember looking at it and thinking you didn’t look like
her much. But you do. A lot. She was breath-taking.” He paused, running his thumbs down Jimin’s
throat until they were resting against the hollow of it, right next to his jugular.

For a thrilling, electric moment, their eyes met, and words of any sort were rendered empty. There
wasn’t anything to describe it. Taehyung’s hands lifted to Jimin’s face again and the younger
grabbed onto them, being pushed backwards steadily as Taehyung advanced on him. His back
connected with the wall and Jimin was trapped.

Trapped never felt so damn good. He closed his eyes, relishing that aching need inside him to be so
thoroughly possessed. It did not come from a desire to have Taehyung do it. Years of being kicked
around without name or identity had led him to a point where being wanted was everything. Often,
he thought of himself and Taehyung as two needy children feeding on each other for affection but
finding none because they no longer had the innocence of childhood. They were adults, husks of
their former selves but still starving to be wanted.

Jimin flung his inhibitions to the wind and threw his arms around Taehyung’s neck with a muffled,
high-pitched moan. The sounds Taehyung’s mouth made as it kissed and stroked and sucked all the
way up the side of his neck to his ear, were sinful. Jimin dug his nails into the smooth fabric of his
suit jacket, fingers entwining in Taehyung’s hair as he willed him not to let go.

“I know you’re play acting, nightingale,” Taehyung whispered in his ear, humming with pleasure
as he sucked the lobe.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimin breathed, biting his lip to hide a smile of
mindless satisfaction. “Do that again, baby…” Taehyung obliged, running his teeth along the
point where Jimin’s jaw met his ear and thrills ran through the younger until he was shaking all
over.

“I know you think this is all a charade, so you can keep the homicidal brat alive,” Taehyung
continued, still in that same, low whisper, “But I’m going to make you forget that. You’re going to
want to stay by me, Park Jimin, because there is nowhere else in the world that suits you better.
And I mean that in every sense of the phrase.”

Right then, Jimin would have agreed to anything. And he did. He whispered, “Yes…yes…yes…”
each time Taehyung kissed him, and he meant it. Physically, he couldn’t get much better than
being trapped between a wall and Kim Taehyung. The taller man had his thigh wrenched up
around his waist in no time and Jimin was almost willing to bet he’d be hard within minutes. And
when Taehyung’s lower half rubbed into place against his, he knew it’d be even less than that.

Jimin pulled back, face reddened and a little overcome as he cleared his throat. His eyes were
brighter than polished marbles and he didn’t meet Taehyung’s gaze as he asked, “Where’s
Mother’s bedroom?”

Taehyung nuzzled his cheek, hands slipping under Jimin’s shirt and cupping his slim waist.
“Why?”

“I just want to know…” Jimin tilted his head back against the wall and half-sobbed as his nipples
hardened against the soft fabric of his shirt, the tighter Taehyung’s chest pressed against his. The
kisses to his neck and shoulders began to tickle, and he was giggling in stunted lapses of breath,
trying to fight Taehyung’s onslaught with passionate kisses of his own.
“God, your voice…” Taehyung chuckled, nibbling on his chin.

“What?” Jimin swallowed, blinking the haziness from his eyes.

“It’s like silk soaked in maple syrup. It’s the sweetest tone I’ve ever heard on a man.” He caught
Jimin’s tongue as it flicked out playfully and proceeded to suck on it until the younger had to pull
away just to breathe.

“Well yours is like an orc’s,” Jimin blurted out.

Taehyung paused, eyebrows flying up. “What?”

Jimin thought about it and then pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “That didn’t come
out right. I guess I meant if orcs were sexy, then you’re what they’d sound like. Your voice. You
know what, never mind – kiss me here again – “ and he craned his neck back to demonstrate
where.

Taehyung took his sweet time. “Here?” he whispered, teasing as he blew on the spot just under
Jimin’s angled jaw gently. Jimin whimpered in agreement and Taehyung kissed it once, before
waiting for him to beg again. And then, once he got a rhythm going, he didn’t stop, marking what
was left of the porcelain skin until it was all red. “Do you want Mother’s bedroom?” he mumbled,
“Because you can have it. You can have whatever you want, nightingale...”

Jimin abruptly shoved at his shoulder. “Stop treating me like a trophy wife and just tell me where it
is, skull-crusher,” he growled.

A very familiar fire ignited in Taehyung’s eyes. As with most of his actions now, ‘skull-crusher’
was a calculated choice of words on Jimin’s part, one he was no longer sure would work.
Taehyung was equally clever at mind games, he had just been slow to learn that he was. But the
aim was to bring their old dynamic back, the one where going down for a glass of water at 1am
turned into sex on the kitchen counter. That sort of camaraderie cancelled out the less pleasant
possibilities of what this nightmarish union could become. It seemed to work.

Once Taehyung gave it up, Jimin marched out of the room, bare-footed and determined to
overcome the weakness now settled in his body for reasons other than hunger. Taehyung called
after him to ask what he was going to do but he made no move to follow and so Jimin didn’t bother
to answer. Wonho stood in the corridor outside and he made a move towards the door when it
opened, however was brusquely moved aside by Jimin who didn’t spare a glance upwards. He
didn’t feel like craning his neck. The necklace was already weighing it down.

It was an unfamiliar weight against his collarbone but admittedly, it felt nice. And every reflective
surface he passed assured him it looked wonderful too. Sublime in fact. Breath taking. Of course,
he would learn to use words such as that. Jimin was starting to believe Taehyung was genius at the
art of making love, but not so much at understanding it.

Mother’s room was awash with grandeur and neutral colours, just as Jimin had suspected. He
didn’t waste a second and went directly to the ornate walk-in closet doors to the east of the bed.
There were clothes upon clothes upon clothes. Far too many to wear even if one was worn each day
of the year. Jimin scoffed under his breath, finding the exuberant display more and more ridiculous
the longer he looked at it. He didn’t bother to go through each one. He simply tore dresses from
the racks as he walked past. Those that would tear, he did with his bare hands. Others, he tore at it
with his teeth, feeling like an insane racoon let loose in someone’s wardrobe. It was fun.

Before long, Jimin was light on his feet, troubles momentarily forgotten as he flew from rack to
rack and brought the lines of dresses and suits and shoes crashing down. He had no doubt he could
probably be heard from the outside but if anyone went to rat him out to the new owner of the
house, nothing would be done. The boss’s boss was an encouraging term for the promotion Jimin
was aiming for. Everyone hated the boss. But the boss’s boss was a shadowy figure, far too
untouchable for the likes of the common worker. And he could easily fire the other. That by far
was the most appealing thought he’d had all day.

About fifteen minutes in and Jimin was finally running out of buzz power when a white dress
caught his eye. It looked hand stitched. There was no characteristic designer label or inhumanly
perfect stitching denoting the machine that had done it. It was like a wedding dress without the
veil, beaded all over with pearls and embroidered with pearlescent thread. He took it into his arms,
twirling around with it and giggling when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. It looked like he
was carrying a bride over the threshold. Something caught his eye, attached to the back of its high
collar. In tiny, neat letters, was embroidered a single name. Joohyun. It felt incredibly personal. He
couldn’t imagine Mother having taken the dress from a previous owner as the fitting was distinctly
made for her. Whoever this Joohyun was, she had to have stitched the dress. Jimin felt a little pang
of shame, looking around the ruined closet and wondering if there had been other hand-stitched
pieces. He decided salvaging one was better than nothing.

As he wrapped it up neatly and bundled it up in his arms, Jimin wondered if he could test his limits
and ask Taehyung to wear it.
Wouldn’t that be something to see.
 I Love You Nightingale
Chapter Summary

Taehyung and Jimin play make-believe.

Chapter Notes

This is a strange chapter. I wasn’t feeling the magic of writing as much, and I do
apologise.

For the first time in weeks, rain fell on the towers of Seoul.

It was therapeutic to wake to the sibilant sound, as it whispered against the window, soft at first but
gradually gaining speed. For two straight days, Jimin had not seen or heard much of Taehyung in
the condo. He had made sure the man was out before going to explore the rest of the residence. At
first, he had believed it a blessing that Taehyung’s position as kingpin would now keep him
preoccupied. However, a week was enough to prove that the boredom without him was nigh
unbearable. Yet he still did not make an effort to seek Taehyung out even when he knew he was
back. It was a war of obstinacy, of who would break first. And as per usual, Jimin was determined
to win.

But there was something about rain on an Easter Sunday that brought with it a different
temperament. Or perhaps it was just the spirit of pagan Easter, Ostara, encouraging the celebration
of fertility and sex. Of course. That was what it was. Though even without it, he still would have
woken with a morning boner that could only be dealt with through thoughts of Taehyung.

For some strange reason, Jimin practiced the good manners of knocking before he entered
Taehyung’s bedroom. He heard an edgy grunt and took it as an affirmative to go in. The bed was
just a lumpy pile of duvet and pillows and sheets, a mop of blue sticking out of the wrong end, by
the foot of the bed.
“So, when you don’t have someone to hold onto, you throw your bed into chaos,” Jimin remarked,
pretending to not see him and sitting directly on his head.

“Ow, stop it,” Taehyung groaned, hand pushing at Jimin’s butt and removing him. He popped his
head out of the sheets, eyes swollen shut with sleep and lips puffy.

Jimin smiled, reaching down to poke his finger into Taehyung’s bottom lip. “I forgot how babyish
you look when you’re waking up.”

Taehyung muttered something slurred and clamped onto his finger, refusing to let go. He glared up
at the ceiling in sullen silence, eyes opening up further with each blink. Jimin pressed a kiss on his
large forehead, blowing a raspberry to make him let go of his finger. For some strange reason, he
decided to sniff it immediately after and pulled a face.

“Oh god, alcoholic morning breath,“ he said. “Rank.”

“Every official meeting nowadays is an excuse to drink. Fucking sick of it.” His voice was several
tones lower, rumbling through his chest in a sonorous croon. Then, with a suspicious squint, he
added, “Why are you being so touchy-feely and nice? Did you do something? Did you hurt
Chrollo?”

Jimin shrugged. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose. Wasn’t expecting it to be this
boring without you. Also, who’s Chrollo?”

“My pitbull puppy.”

“You thought I would hurt a dog? What the – fuck – “ Jimin struck his arm at the last word, eyes
round with indignation.

Taehyung flipped over onto his stomach and dropped his head against the pillows. The blue of his
hair was irresistible and Jimin fluffed his fingers through it with a small smile. It surprised him to
discover he was not faking this. Perhaps his brain had administered itself a placebo, a way to keep
him at his sanest and this was its manifestation. Or he was genuinely feeling calmer knowing that
Jungkook was out of harm’s way. Either option worked. He felt dreamy and empty and as if he had
chain-smoked a couple joints in the rain. He curled up beside Taehyung, nuzzling into his hair and
inhaling deep.
“Contrary to prior personal belief, mafia syndicates do not revolve around the devising of nefarious
ways to torture and hurt the enemy, as I had initially guessed.” Taehyung’s voice came out muffled
but intelligible. “It’s treated like a business, so it’s boring. A mostly legal business even - since
loopholes in the law keep the big players out of jail - but its business on steroids. Maximum gain,
minimum effort, violent shareholders.”

“Are you learning to play the game then?” Jimin murmured. His hand pushed against the firm meat
of Taehyung’s shoulder, squeezing and gripping before he let it trail down his spine. He felt a
shiver go through the older and kissed the back of his neck.

“I let Minsoo take most of the ropes. He understands it better.”

“Are you his puppet?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“You’re content to be his marionette or was it forced upon you?”

“I asked for his help to launch a surprise coup d’etat on Mother. So, I owe him.”

“You don’t owe him complete control of the most powerful organisation in Seoul though.”

Taehyung turned and his eyes were a little wider open now as he frowned. “Do you want to say that
to his face?”

Jimin’s lips stretched into a toothy grin but Taehyung’s lips remained stern. Jimin’s smile faded
quickly and he turned his face up towards the ceiling with a tired sigh.

“Whatever. I don’t really care. I’m just here to keep you from killing Jungkook,” he said.

“Your boyfriend, yeah,” Taehyung sneered.

“Sure…boyfriend,” Jimin snorted.

The warmth of the bed was lulling him into complacency despite the resurgence of the prickly
tension they were so used to. His actions directly negated his hard tone when he slid his leg up over
Taehyung’s waist and hooked his ankle against the small of his back, pulling him closer. Taehyung
leaned in and Jimin shook his head, covering his mouth. “No don’t kiss me. Your breath still
stinks,” he whispered, giggling as Taehyung’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull. Jimin removed
his hand and then sidled closer, lifting his head and resting his cheek on top of Taehyung’s until the
other was pushing his face against Jimin’s neck. Once upon a time, being pinned this tightly to
Taehyung would have always led to sex. And yet not even when Jimin felt his erection start to
swell, or when Taehyung’s kisses on his neck became downright needy, he didn’t make a move.
He just lay there, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, cigarettes and wasted
cologne, with a feeling of jamais vu.

Because he had done this before with Taehyung, in bed, just like this, yet it hadn’t felt the same.
This was a wholly different experience. Like surfacing through water after the passing of a storm
and feeling nothing but the gentle ripples of warmth engulfing him and a sandy white strip of beach
awaiting him on an island in the distance. It felt like home. If home could feel so wrong and so
right at the same time. Actually, with that logic, it felt more like a home invasion, but upon
breaking and entering, he’d fallen in love with the place.

“Are you gonna do something about my wood sticking into your leg or continue suffocating me?”
Taehyung muttered.

Jimin laughed shortly and rolled off of him, landing on his feet with a light skipping hop. “Go
brush your teeth big boy.”

“The lobster’s cold.”

Jimin had spent the last five minutes inspecting it thoroughly with his fork to come to this
distasteful conclusion. Taehyung looked up from where he had just finished his plate of spring rolls
and leaned over to check.

“Want me to send it back for another?” he said.

Jimin shook his head. “I don’t even like lobster.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why did you order it then?”

Taehyung shrugged. “I don’t know. Rich people always seem to have a weird fascination with
crustaceans.”

“Clearly, you’ve never heard of Red Lobster then,” Jimin replied, keeping a straight face despite
the sudden urge to laugh. He dropped the stained fork beside the sorry looking cooked creature and
went back to his king prawn and scallop stir-fry.

They were in a private room at Irodori Japanese restaurant, separated from the distant noise of the
rest of the building by a screen door. Wonho’s large figure occasionally paced before it, but the rest
of the men tasked to be part of Taehyung’s personal guard were positioned strategically through
the restaurant, watching all exits and entrances. Jimin had chosen the place, from a vague memory
of hearing his father mention it once as the best place he’d eaten at. It was a sorry reason to visit
somewhere to eat, but so far, it lived up to its reputation. It had been a while since Jimin had curled
up and sat at a chabudai table.

Taehyung was completely at ease, one knee bent with an arm slung over it, a carefree monarch as
he ate the food without inhibition. Jimin was easily distracted when he ate, so it was calming to
watch someone eat with such disregard for his surroundings. When it came to Taehyung and his
food, not much got between them. He had a particular habit of chewing with his mouth in a pout,
smacking his lips, eyes blank. A couple times, Jimin glanced up and saw the expression and almost
sent his mouthful of rice flying down the wrong pipe as he choked back a laugh.

A week had passed since the incident with Mother’s closet. Taehyung hadn’t commented much
apart from, “Christ, you destroyed pretty much everything.”
Jimin immediately strove to prove that he hadn’t ruined everything. Her jewellery, shoes,
handbags, hats and parasols were all still intact, not to mention other minor accessories. And much
to their surprise, they found an entire cabinet dedicated just to lingerie. For some reason, it had
struck neither that she would have worn female lingerie under all the rest of her finery.

And it was as lovely as the outer attire. Jimin spent a few minutes playing with a red lacy thing, cut
into a slit with a string of pearls across it, until he realised, they were crotch less panties. On
autopilot, he blurted out, “You’d look good in these.” He wasn’t even yet sure he had meant to
address Taehyung, before the other’s hand reached over his shoulder to grab them. Jimin watched
through the mirror as Taehyung’s eyebrows went from low, to medium to high, before he shrugged
and put the panties in his pocket. Jimin never asked if that meant he would try them and find out.

A pseudo-peace settled over the both of them. There was only so much constant fighting either
could tolerate and neither had the energy for yet another fallout. Jimin enjoyed the simple joys of
daily showers, good food and a home with every possible utility he could imagine, as well as
getting fitted for his very own personal wardrobe. Oishi did the last bit, just as he had done last
time, and clicked his tongue in disapproval over the disparity in weight Jimin had suffered.

“Get meat on your bones. My suits do not look good on skeletons,” was his dry remark.

“So, you’re not going to make them?” Jimin asked.

“I’m going to make them the size you were last time. Consider it encouragement to bulk up.”

Three meals a day would certainly get him there. Until Oishi was done with them, shop-bought
suits worked just fine. He was wearing one now, with a ridiculously overpriced tag and not nearly
half the comfort Oishi’s had. But it was a rich violet and every time he caught sight of himself in a
reflective surface, Jimin couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth. Looking good clearly did some
sort of wonders for feeling it too.

Once dinner was over and the dishes were cleared, a sake jug was brought in, along with an
embossed silver tray bearing two cups.

“I’ve never tried this stuff before,” Taehyung said, leaning over to gingerly sniff at the mouth of
the jug.

“Well, you love soju, and this is less intense so you should get on just fine,” Jimin announced,
taking the jug away and proceeding to pour. He was aware Taehyung was watching him, rather
than the steady flow of the drink, but he kept his face blank, only looking up when he was done. A
flicker of a smile graced Taehyung’s lips and he lifted the cup in salute. Jimin knocked his own
against it and then sipped on the edge of it. Taehyung threw it back like a shot and shuddered. “Oh,
you’re not supposed to – never mind,” Jimin trailed off, taking another dainty sip.

“I like it,” Taehyung smacked his lips. “More.” He shook the cup in Jimin’s direction and the other
responded by slapping his hand down.

“I’m not your personal geisha. Pour it yourself,” he said.

“Oh, come on, pretty please?” Taehyung fluttered his lashes.

“No – “

“If you don’t, I’ll down it from the jug. You’ve seen me guzzle undiluted vodka before, you know
I’ll do it.”

Without deigning to comment on that memory, Jimin picked up the jug with a resigned expression.
Taehyung held out the cup, chin leaning coyly on his hand and beamed wide as it filled up.
“Gonbae!” he said in a mock high-pitched voice and downed the second cup too.

He wasn’t anywhere near tipsy, and it would probably take the whole jug to do that, but there was
a certain introspective quality to his face as he slid across the cushions to move closer to Jimin’s
side. Jimin watched him approach, playing with the ring on his finger. It was always amusing to
see Taehyung build up to saying something profound. It took a while, and he’d stumble over the
words despite his earnestness. He was far more eloquent in the heat of the moment. But what he
said next, took Jimin by enough surprise to make him drop his indifferent affectation.

“I’m sorry.” Taehyung reached over to slide his hand against Jimin’s, thumb rubbing against his
knuckles before pulling it towards him.

“About what?” Jimin murmured, eyes pensive.

“About what my dad did to your parents. He fucked your entire existence up and left you alive to
suffer through it. Since he’s dead, he can’t apologise, so I’m doing it for him.”
Jimin knew what this was. Taehyung was trying to make amends to make his own life easier. He
wanted Jimin to play house, and clearly, he had hit on the rather accurate idea that talking like an
emotional, normal human being might help. And yet he couldn’t find it in himself to accuse him of
playing mind games. It was in fact rather calming to hear him say it out loud like that. He put his
other hand over Taehyung’s, enclosing it between both his own, and said, “It’s not your fault. You
don’t have to say sorry for him.” And then he let go.

Taehyung’s expression faltered and he fidgeted, eyes going anywhere but at Jimin. He felt like he
had been shot down. It was written all over his face. Before Jimin could find something to say that
would reverse that, further words spilled from the older; the floodgates were now open for good.

“That night when we were together – the night I buried Hoseok – you said I wouldn’t kill the only
person left on this earth who still loved me.”

“God, Taehyung, you sure have a sharp memory when you need to remember things in your
favour,” Jimin muttered, but he couldn’t help laughing a little. Whether it was the sake or just the
usual effects of being in an enclosed space with Taehyung, his skin felt hot to the touch, from his
head to his feet.

“But you said it. Did you mean it?”

Did I mean it? Or was it the Stockholm Syndrome talking? It was a very real possibility. But when
Jimin really thought about it, saying otherwise was like a stab to the gut. He was a liar, yes, but
making peace with the truth felt better this time. There was no sword hanging over his head. He
had called at the hospital he’d left Jungkook and they had assured him he had been safely
discharged by a man who matched Namjoon’s description. Taehyung had held to his promise and
not done a thing to harm him. It was finally safe to tell the truth.

“I guess,” Jimin answered, with all the feigned carelessness of a young man who was still battling
with the idea he could succumb to something as fragile as love. But he nodded too, attempting to
ease the sting of what could be counted as a polite rejection.

Taehyung took in a deep breath and crossed his legs. Everything on his face said he didn’t believe
Jimin’s weak assertion. He poured another cup of sake before exhaling and downing the liquid in
one shot. He thrust out his hand, palm up.

“Blank slate?” he said in a low, barely audible voice. “I won’t go after Jeon Jungkook and we can
start again.”

Jimin skirted his fingers over the lines in Taehyung’s palm, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.
How easily his entire fist fit into those long fingers when they wrapped around it. He had never
disliked being slight of stature, never as much as when Jungkook used to tease him about it.
Taehyung had never been as explicitly teasing about it, but he always got that flicker of a light in
his eye, that glint of hidden mirth when he managed to tower over Jimin so easily. It was absent in
his gaze right then.

“We’re going to die so very quickly, the longer we live life in the underworld. I don’t think a blank
slate will ever mean what it’s supposed to,” Jimin said, voice lilting and barely heard over the band
playing outside. Taehyung leaned in nearer to hear his words, and once he did, failed to move
away. Jimin closed his eyes and swayed gently, savouring Taehyung’s rippling breath on his skin.

“We won’t,” Taehyung murmured. “I told you once before, you don’t have to die at all if you don’t
want to.”

Jimin laughed. “Why? Why would you say that? Promises you can’t keep aren’t your style, Kim
Taehyung.”

“I guess I’m drunk.” His hand tightened over Jimin’s and he clenched it into a fist, before putting
both to his mouth. “You haven’t accepted the blank slate.”

Jimin sidled a little closer and Taehyung opened up his legs to accommodate the movement. “I
wonder what hell is going to be for people like us.”

“Lost all hope of heaven, huh?”

“Long time ago. I think – and this might be the sake talking – but I think it would be the worst
moment of your life on a loop. Over and over. Mine was when I woke up in that alley and ashes
were falling from the sky because of the fire. When I went out onto the main road, I saw it in the
distance, the black plume of smoke in the sky where my home was burning. What’s yours?” Jimin
propped his chin on his hand and blinked his large eyes slowly. Definitely drunk. It felt nice.

He didn’t even object when Taehyung changed the subject, and he did swiftly.
“You need tattoos to truly fit in. You’re far too clean-looking,” he said, eyes running a trail down
the slender line of Jimin’s exposed neck. “Maybe one here…” he leaned in and pressed his lips
against the spot under Jimin’s ear, holding it there as a shiver ran through the younger.

“My mother used to say tattoos were for men who had something to prove, but could only doodle
on themselves to do it,” Jimin answered blithely. Then, as Taehyung began to trail kisses all over
the side of his neck, he chuckled and added, “Though, she probably had your father in mind when
she said it.”

“What?” Taehyung lifted his head.

“Oh yeah, they knew each other, didn’t I tell you?” Jimin said, toothy smile returning as he
couldn’t help but enjoy the shock on Taehyung’s face. “Yoongi showed me childhood pictures of
them together, well into their teens. They lived on neighbouring farms.”

“Old man Byun’s place is your mother’s childhood farm?” Taehyung’s eyes were close to popping
out of his head. “That’s right next door to where I grew up, what the fuck – “

“Who’s old man Byun?” Jimin frowned.

“I don’t know. Some crazy old guy who lives there. Doesn’t have a wife or kids but he’d throw
stones at me when I tried to steal apples from his orchard.”

“My mom said she grew up in a place with a lot of apple trees…”

They stared at one another in silence for a while. Despite already knowing, it also hit Jimin for the
first time what an avalanche of a revelation it truly was. As if he was always meant to crash
headfirst into Taehyung at some point in his life. He didn’t believe in fate – not even for a moment
– but he did believe in unavoidable circumstance. He felt a sudden weight of expectation on his
chest and changed the subject before it could worsen.

“So, you mentioned tattoos,” he said quietly, pulling back his sleeves. As he traced his wrist with
his eyes, it was easy to visualise inked markings splayed over his skin.

“Yeah…here maybe.” Taehyung was still reeling from the earlier conversation, but his hand was
steady when it cradled Jimin’s neck. “Under the ear, trailing down the side onto your shoulder
blade. It should be more than enough for something visible. If not, then arm sleeves. Something to
prove dedication to the lifestyle.”

“Can’t I start small? Or just get fake ones?”

Taehyung shrugged, eyes smouldering as he settled into his uncomfortable habit of staring Jimin
down like prey. “As long as they look real.”

Jimin’s throat dried up and he took another gulp of sake. “Maybe a small bird then.”

Taehyung pressed his lips together and snorted.

“A nightingale,” Jimin continued, his upper lip curling into a smirk. “Got to start somewhere.”

“Where will you get it?” the kingpin moved in closer, until one leg was directly behind him,
trapping him in, as his arm did the same in front. His breath was scalding as he pulled down
Jimin’s collar and gently bit the place where his neck flowed into his shoulder, causing the younger
to lean into him until he was half collapsed in Taehyung’s arms. Jimin arched, whimpering as
Taehyung doubled his efforts, mumbling under his breath as he made thorough work of creating a
fresh hickey. Jimin took one of his large hands in his own, and guided it under his shirt, where he
let Taehyung use it to trace the contoured lines of his abdomen.

“Up, further up,” Jimin whispered, as Taehyung pulled him down further into a horizontal position.
His hand stroked upwards and Jimin gasped when it found his nipple, biting his lip with a little
smile. “I want it…” he crooned, pushing Taehyung’s hand lower again, until it was against his
ribcage.

Directly over the scar his knife had left going in.

“…right here.” Jimin finished his sentence in a whisper and Taehyung went completely still.

For a long while, no one said anything. Pressing on the scar usually created a deep, dull ache. It
was never overly uncomfortable, but just enough to remind him something had forcibly penetrated
his body for the worse. But the heat from Taehyung’s palm was lovely and Jimin closed his eyes,
falling into a lull.
“I guess this would be one of the loops,” Taehyung said at last.

Jimin’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“One of the loops of hell – the thing you mentioned earlier – this would be one of them.” He ran
his thumb against the skewed bit of flesh. “It was the moment I realised everything I love, I will
destroy. Hell would be a multiple-choice question for me, but this ticks one of the boxes.”

Jimin swallowed, head filling with more heat than he could comfortably bear. It was either him, or
they were overdoing the heating in the room. He removed Taehyung’s hand from his shirt and sat
up, pulling him closer by the shoulders. He straddled him, closing his eyes briefly as he felt
Taehyung’s arms wrap around him, fingers splaying over his back. He wanted to ride them. He
wanted to go back to a time when nothing mattered but riding Taehyung’s cock, his tongue, his
fingers until all he could do was scream himself into blissful oblivion. Jimin kissed his chin,
tapping at it to make him look up and when he did, he licked into his mouth, penetrating the gap
between his perfect lips. His eyes remained open, gazing into Taehyung’s, as their tongues slipped
together, sake-soaked and hot.

“You love too easily, and without good judgement,” Jimin murmured.

“And you don’t love at all.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Nothing is, when you come down to the root of it all. So, I suppose we’re at an impasse.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are incapable of love, and I’m going to love you till it kills me, or you, or both of us.”

“Hate is stronger than love though,” Jimin whispered in his ear, half-smiling as he ran his tongue
over the side of Taehyung’s face, ending with a little bite at his cheekbone. He was completely
arched against him, knees bruised against the ground and crotch pressed into his stomach. “And I
am capable of so much…”
His breath left him in a gasp as Taehyung shoved him onto the floor. Jimin’s thighs opened on
instinct, welcoming the older between them, squeezing them tight so that he wouldn’t leave.
Between breathless whimpers as Taehyung’s mouth ravaged his, Jimin said, “Say you love me,”
again and again, and Taehyung responded to each just as eagerly. It was as if he couldn’t breathe.
His mind was a dark vacuum, and Taehyung’s unadulterated need for him was his sustenance.
Jimin trapped Taehyung’s lips between his own and inhaled, disallowing him the chance to breathe
as the kiss stretched on and on. When they broke apart, Jimin’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes
glittered, whilst Taehyung sank against him, exhausted and spent.

“I want to do it in the rain.”

It was clear from the moment they got into the back of the Phantom, and Taehyung slid the
partition closed, that both of them would end up without clothes, rutting like animals by the time
the night was over. Jimin remembered far too many nights of nothing but lust and aching limbs as
both of them tried to control their energy to the confines of a small double bed. It would be far
more fun christening Mother’s stupidly expensive condominium.

“There’s an entire wing of the condo that stretches east on the roof. It’s got that pool that spills
over the edges to make it look like it’s blending with the sky.”

“An infinity pool?”

“Yes, rich boy, an infinity pool. Cersei’s tank extends out into the garden just below it. You can
look down directly at her. I know you like shower sex, so rain and infinity pool should get you rock
hard.”
Jimin preened, curling up against the door and kicking his shoes off in the process. He reached out
a foot and slipped it over Taehyung’s thigh, toes nudging his crotch. “I know something that’ll get
you rock hard.”

“When did you find out about my foot fetish?”

He gasped. “You have a foot fetish.”

“No.” But the smile was wicked as he said it.

“Well, I raided Mother’s lingerie collection again,” Jimin purred, pulling on the waistband of his
trousers as much as they would stretch and revealing the white lace underneath. Taehyung reached
for him on instinct but Jimin whistled in warning, foot going up to gently press against his face.

“Have you seen Wolf of Wall Street by any chance?” Taehyung asked after a pause of surprise,
face still pressed against the sole of Jimin’s foot.

Jimin giggled, a full-bellied sound that rippled through him like sparkles on the water’s surface.
“Yes…will you fuck me on a pile of money?”

“I would fuck you on the altar in Minsoo’s church if that’s what you wanted.”

Jimin gasped, pulling away his foot and lunging to Taehyung’s side. He propped his arms against
his shoulders and breathed, “Yes please, I want it. With you dressed as a nun. Please.” Under the
soft touch of his fingers, Taehyung’s cheekbones began to lift and Jimin burst out laughing,
shoving him away again to resume his original position on the seat. “I’ll hold you to it, Kim.”

The infinity pool was glorious. The roof was closed off unless the express permission of the owner
was given and with Taehyung’s absence in the past week, it was the only portion of the house
Jimin had not explored. Almost the entire roof was designed as an enclosed tropical environment,
with the pool running through it in angled lines and sweeping curves until it swelled into a mass of
water which tipped over the edge. Lights gleamed at its base and along the sides, casting
everything in a cool blue glow.

“There are…parrots,” Jimin murmured, pointing up at a potted tree. Its branches rustled before the
bright plumage vanished with a squawk. He felt like a hapless child, marvelling at his surroundings
on a first-time school trip to a tropical sanctuary. The parrots were clearly allowed to roam free
from the menagerie on the estate.

“Your parents didn’t have a rooftop getaway? Weren’t they richer than this?” Taehyung asked,
lowering himself onto a marble bench, looking thoroughly indifferent to it all.

“My dad would have found it tacky,” Jimin admitted, “besides, they weren’t richer than this
because this is mostly their money but doubled and tripled, remember? Kim Seojoon had them
killed, liquidated and took over their assets, drained whatever offshore accounts they held and
thrived. You know the story.” He slipped off his shoes again and did the same with his suit jacket,
throwing it to Taehyung.

“I’m still not over the fact that your mother and my dad grew up together,” Taehyung said.

“Stranger things have happened,” Jimin shrugged. “She was born extremely poor, so…” He rolled
up his trouser legs and walked along the marbled edge of the pool, eyeing the central show piece. It
was a slab of tiled concrete, elevated from the water and decorated with a table, deck chairs and
floor cushions.

After a moment’s thought, he stretched out his leg in an attempt to reach across. It was too short.
He then crouched, intending to jump, but Taehyung’s sharp voice cut through the acoustics of the
partially covered roof, echoing.

“Don’t jump!” he called. “You’ll crack your head.” He was dialling on his phone as he said it and
put it to his ear with a cursory ruffle of his hair.

Momentarily distracted, Jimin turned to ask, “Who are you calling?”

“Wonho. So, he can get the lube and condoms from my room.”

“No, don’t make him do that! He’s your bodyguard, not your personal slave. I’ll get them.” Jimin
hopped off the edge of the pool and shook his feet in an attempt to dry them somewhat before
sliding them back into his loafers.

Wonho stood guard outside the elevator that went up to the roof. He seemed surprised to see Jimin,
as if he hadn’t expected either of them down for a good while.
“Where are you going?” he inquired.

“Getting something,” Jimin mumbled, shuffling past. He always found himself getting awkward
around the tall man. Perhaps it was because he was built like a mountain and pretty to boot, or that
Jimin was just naturally suspicious of anyone so outwardly hypermasculine. It was only on his way
back that a thought struck Jimin and by the time he turned the corner and saw Wonho again, it was
fully fledged and rooted in his head.

“What’s in the bag?” Wonho said immediately, nodding towards the carrier bag Jimin had looped
over his arm.

“No weapons if that’s what you’re thinking,” Jimin said coldly.

Before he could move towards the elevator doors, Wonho’s hand reached out and snatched it.
Jimin scowled as he went through the items and then handed them back, face still impassive.

“Satisfied?” he snapped, going into the elevator and practically stabbing the button to go up.

The thought in his head was now starting to wail like a red siren. Jealousy was not a fun emotion.
Admittedly, it knocked Jimin down a peg or two just thinking of what Jungkook or Taehyung
might have experienced in regard to him. It was an ugly sentiment and it made his nails claw into
his palm to think of Taehyung and Wonho together. Nothing against Wonho. But he clearly had so
much more than the average guy. He was the perfect man in every way, and he was tasked to
guard Taehyung with his life. If that wasn’t a turn-on, Jimin didn’t know what was.

“Have you and Wonho slept together?”

All short-term plans of skirting around the topic carefully, vanished the moment he reached the
roof and stepped out of the elevator. Taehyung didn’t lift his head and when he did, he was wiping
white powder from around his nostrils. Jimin came to a dead halt. Taehyung sniffed, smiling as he
beckoned for him to come closer and Jimin did a U-turn with a mutter of, “I am not fucking you
whilst you’re buzzed up on coke, you – “

“Yes, I did sleep with him!” Taehyung called, knowing exactly what it would do.
Jimin stopped and turned. He walked back towards him and then flung the bag in Taehyung’s lap.
Taehyung chuckled under his breath and looked up at him, pupils dilated.

“Technically, I sucked him off. Nothing else. He’s got a very pretty dick,” he said, eyebrow lifting
as he slicked his tongue over the inside of his cheek.

“Go downstairs and choke on it then,” Jimin muttered.

Taehyung grabbed his wrist as he turned away and yanked so hard, Jimin felt his shoulder almost
pop out of its socket. He sank to his knees with a yelp of pain, sinking against Taehyung’s leg. He
hissed, slapping it, but Taehyung’s hold didn’t loosen, keeping him anchored on the ground
between his thighs.

“You said not to treat you like a trophy wife, so why are you acting like one?” Taehyung hissed,
one hand wrapping around Jimin’s jaw and wrenching his head back until he was forced to stare up
at him. “Are you jealous? Feels shitty doesn’t it?”

“I’m not j-“ Jimin didn’t manage to get the word out. Taehyung forced him to open his mouth
wider by pressing his fingers into his cheeks and then spat into it. Jimin kicked out and screamed in
fury as Taehyung slammed his jaw shut again, forcing him to swallow.

“Don’t lie. I’ll hawk and spit if you do,” Taehyung grinned.

“You’re fucking disgusting!” Jimin shrieked, struggling to form the words past the demented grip
on his face.

“Are you jealous?” Taehyung sang, before following it up with a hawking sound in the back of his
throat.

“Yes! Yes, I’m jealous! Fuck!” Jimin shouted, trying to shut his mouth. “God, you’re are the
nastiest piece of shit, I fucking hate you.”

“Jealousy suits you, nightingale,” was Taehyung’s answer, patting him on the cheek. “To be fair, I
did think you were dead.”
“No, you didn’t,” Jimin said. “You just wanted to suck his dick, and I don’t blame you. He’s hot.
But if you even dare suggest a threesome, I promise you, Wonho is going to be pounding your
name out of my head and you’ll be left on your lonely side of the bed. Understand?”

“No threesomes. Got it.” Taehyung clasped his legs around, forming a makeshift cage around
Jimin before reaching for the embossed silver case at his side. He opened it, dipping the coke
spoon into a baggie and bringing it out heaped with white dust. “Snort,” he said.

It felt like déjà vu. Jimin lowered his head obediently and pressed a thumb against one nostril,
before snorting with the other. He didn’t want to be sober whilst fucking a coked-up Taehyung.
That was a death sentence waiting to happen. Even if injuries occurred, at least he’d be too high to
feel the pain. He exhaled, dropping his head against Taehyung’s knee and waited for it to hit.

“Let me see what you stole from Mother’s closet,” Taehyung mumbled into his ear.

His eardrums were ringing, but Jimin managed to make out the words. He slowly prised
Taehyung’s knees apart and crawled across the floor, not caring a jot about the price tag of his new
suit. He flipped onto his back, undid his belt buckle and then began to slide the trousers down his
legs. The panties were made of lace, barely covering his bundled-up cock and dipping into the
crack of his ass with a barely-there scrap of material in the back. Taehyung’s eyes lit up.

“Is his cock prettier than mine?” Jimin murmured, starting to unbutton his shirt.

Taehyung was sitting with his hands dangling between his knees, elbows resting on thighs. His
eyes were red as he stared at Jimin, licking his lips. “Is Jungkook’s prettier than mine?” he shot
back.

“Yes,” Jimin answered, and when Taehyung’s lips drew back from his teeth, he chuckled and
added, “Well, I mean, visually. You have points taken off because you have a crooked dick but to
be quite honest, nothing has ever made me scream harder. It’s shape…hits all the right places, fits
into my mouth easier…and you know how much I like the feeling of suffocating on it…I like how
it…curves upwards…” he curled his tongue from between his plump lips and exhaled softly.

Taehyung was on his knees in an instant, dragging the carrier bag along with them. His beautiful
blue suit was ruined, scraping dirt and water up off the floor. Jimin lay back completely, chest
heaving as Taehyung straddled him.
“So…” Jimin swallowed, running a small hand down Taehyung’s chest. “Is Wonho’s cock prettier
than mine?”

Taehyung shook his head, eyes black with lust. Jimin reached to the bag, tipping it until the Jewel
of Busan fell out. His fingers trembled as he reached for it and then put it in Taehyung’s hand. “Put
it on me,” he murmured, sitting up on his hands and tilting his head back.

The hollows of Taehyung’s cheeks deepened as he bit his lip and straightened out the necklace.
The weight loss in his face made him look older. It was hot. There was never a point Taehyung
didn’t look completely, utterly scorching hot, but this was something new. His beauty penetrated
Jimin’s core just to look at it.

Taehyung took his sweet time positioning the necklace. He kissed and nibbled and sucked the
fragile skin on Jimin’s throat, enjoying the sounds the younger made. Jimin opened his eyes
slowly, head hanging, and his vision filled with blue as Taehyung’s fingers tied the necklace
around the back of his neck. The blue of the water, the tiles, Taehyung’s hair – everything was
blue. He removed his shirt, until he was completely naked except for the lingerie hugging his waist
and the necklace around his throat.

Jimin stood, slow and steady, so as not to slip on the water-stained floor or trip over Taehyung’s
clutching hands. He had his arms around Jimin’s calves, face pressed against his crotch. His hot
mouth engulfed Jimin’s clothed, folded cock, tongue salivating over the material until it was warm
and drenched. Jimin let out a sweet gasp, letting his fingers curl into Taehyung’s hair for a
moment. Then, he pushed him away, extricating his hands and loosening his grip. He went over to
the beginning of the twisting maze of a pool, his footsteps light, and stepped in, sinking into the
water. It was warm. Beyond the roof, the open skies were black, and rain was beginning to fall.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder gurgled. Jimin took a deep breath and submerged beneath the
water.

This weather was heaven, as was the way this place was built. Jimin felt an inexorable surge of
calm roll through him as he paddled across the water, still beneath the surface. He heard a splash
behind him and pushed up, resurfacing with a deep breath of air. His face broke out into a lovely
smile, as he reached for Taehyung and the other swam to him willingly.

“Hi,” Jimin whispered, unable to keep from smiling as Taehyung pushed him against the side of
the pool.

“Hi,” Taehyung whispered back with a pretty little smirk.

They moved as one, tongues wrapping together in mid-air before their lips closed around each
other. Taehyung was fully naked, tattoos glistening under hundreds of water droplets. They dripped
down his caramel coloured skin, merging with the blue water of the pool. Jimin’s hands were
thorough in their exploration. He grabbed at every bit of flesh he could find, particularly those that
made Taehyung’s voice deepen and his fingers claw into Jimin’s skin.

They made out for a while, floating in the rear end of the pool, until there was more grinding and
less kissing. The ledge in the far end of the pool was directly under the open sky and everything
upon it was now soaked. Despite the rain, the temperature was warm, humidly pleasant and it felt
wonderful to sink against the floor cushion and feel the rain fall on his face. Jimin lay there,
blissfully smiling as Taehyung lifted the table and flung it across to the far side.

“Wow,” Jimin murmured, as he heard the resounding crash. “You’ll have your pretty-cock-having
bodyguard running up here…”

“You’re still on that?” Taehyung growled. He wrenched Jimin towards him and the younger yelled
out in delight, kicking a little as Taehyung’s hand went straight for the gold.

“Wait – wait – I want you to – “ Jimin failed to finish his sentence and instead slipped off the
panties, twirling them about his finger and crooking it to Taehyung, signalling that he lean in
closer. When he did, Jimin slipped one of the leg holes in the lace around his neck, until it was a
makeshift, stretchy leash. He looped it into a knot around his hand and tugged. Taehyung fell
forward against him with absolutely no resistance. “I thought you should have a necklace too…”
Jimin purred against his cheek, grinding on him.

“Yeah?” Taehyung murmured, fingers teasing the crack of Jimin’s ass.

“Yeah…” Jimin moaned back at him, giving up his grip on the other’s throat and letting his head
drown in the cushion underneath it. Not for long. Taehyung turned him over onto his stomach,
lifting his hips up until his spine arched and his ass was up in the air. His fingers were long and
dextrous, finding every crevice of Jimin’s nether regions, every little stretch of skin that made him
quiver. “I used to think about your hands a lot…” Jimin mumbled into the cushion, in between
gratuitous keens of approval. “About how gentle they were on my skin, and how I liked it even if I
knew it was wrong to…because of how many – aahh – people they’d – yes baby, right there –
killed…”

“Maybe you just like being touched by murderers,” Taehyung answered, “everyone has their
kink.”
“I’m a murderer too,” Jimin muttered, lifting himself up on his hands and knees. “Being in this
condo for the last few days is the only reason I’m not already in police custody…”

“Yeah…gotta do something about that…” Taehyung’s hands grabbed fistfuls of his ass, mouth
following in quick succession as his teeth clenched at the flesh. He locked his forearms around
Jimin’s thighs, forcing him to be still as he buried his face between his pert, round cheeks, jaw
open wide as his tongue swept over his perineum.

“W-what will you do?” Jimin struggled to get out, eyes screwing shut as the sheer pleasure of
having that sensitive stretch of skin tickled made his fingers curl.

“I don’t know…pay off the media…force the police to admit they mistakenly identified the person
on the CCTV as being the shooter…I have such power at my fingertips, I’d be thrilled if I wasn’t
already over it…”

Jimin cried out as Taehyung’s tongue delved into him seconds after his sentence ended. It didn’t
take him long to lapse into non-stop moans and gasps of lewd encouragement. Not that needed
Taehyung the latter. He was as enthusiastic as ever, moaning hungrily, as if he were on death row
and Jimin’s ass was the last meal he’d ever get. By the time either of them realised the lube was
still on the floor at the far side of the pool, Jimin was impatient.

“Put them in my mouth – gimme – “ he panted, reaching for Taehyung’s hand.

Taehyung’s jaw dropped as Jimin’s swollen lips tugged and swallowed down his fingers right up to
the knuckle. He gagged on them, but kept his hand tight around Taehyung’s wrist, forcing them to
remain there. They came out thick with his saliva and Taehyung didn’t waste two seconds, before
he slipped one into Jimin’s hole, reddened by the pleasurable assault from his mouth just moments
ago. Once Jimin’s moans died out, he pushed in the other and grinned as the younger threw his
head back and cursed. The sound of his lovely voice was lost in the crash of thunder – much closer
now – and the rain made his black hair fall flat and stick to his face.

When his voice tired out, his upper half dropped to the cushion, face buried in his arms as
Taehyung stabbed two fingers deep, thrusting with such force Jimin could only sob and cry as his
prostate was milked for all it was worth. His cock was hard, dangling and swinging between his
legs, dribbling cum onto the cushion below.

“R-right there – f-fuck baby boy, you’re so g-g-good – right – there – Tae, don’t stop, oh don’t stop
– fuuuckkkkk – “ Jimin’s words stretched into a strangled scream as he came so hard he almost bit
down on his tongue.

Taehyung pushed his fingers in further, just to draw out the other’s screams a little more, before
pulling them out when Jimin whined that it was too sensitive. In the time it took for Jimin to get
down from his high, Taehyung dove into the lower pool and swam to retrieve the carrier bag. He
dumped the bottle of lube and the condoms beside Jimin’s head upon his return, causing him to
open his eyes lazily.

“Missionary?” Taehyung teased, tearing open a condom wrapped with his teeth.

Jimin laughed, reaching for Taehyung’s cock and twisting his hand up its curved shape. His ass
clenched at the mere thought of its thick girth penetrating him. He shook his head and sat up,
clambering to his feet and landing against the glass balcony diving the elevated ledge from the
edge of the infinity pool.

“Let’s see how strong you really are, Butcher,” he purred, patting the top of the railing. “Lift me
up. Fuck me like this.”

“I’ve done it before,” Taehyung snorted. He upturned lube into his palm and slapped his cock
against it, covering his entire length. “Don’t know why you look so smug.”

“Not going to make your job easier by coming quickly though,” Jimin teased, wiggling his hips.

Taehyung stood up, a whole head taller as his arms enveloped Jimin’s waist, lifting up his lower
half and forcing him to grab the balcony tight. “You’ve lost weight. This is going to be a piece of
cake.”

“Is it?” Jimin reached out and grabbed the lace panties around his neck, yanking until he choked.
He loosened them, allowing Taehyung to breathe easier and hissed, “Now fuck me like the dog you
are.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Jimin felt his body try to curl in on itself the moment Taehyung’s
stiffened length impaled it. It was a torturous, slow process, more painful than pleasurable at first.
It was always that way after long periods of abstaining from having sex with one another. It was
dizzying, and if he opened his eyes for too long, glancing down made him feel as if he were about
to tip over the edge. Not even the pressure of the balcony against the small of his back was enough
to keep him anchored. It wasn’t until Taehyung whispered, “Choke me,” in his ear that Jimin
regained his senses enough to understand he had a part to play too.

The quicker Taehyung struck up a rhythm, the rougher Jimin pulled. He could hear Taehyung
choking in his ear, stuttered grunts and gasps, but every time Jimin sang, “Do you want me to ease
up, baby boy?” he would shake his head as best he could. Jimin laughed, the sound more of a
scream as his heels dug into Taehyung’s buttocks and pleasure erupted in his stomach like lava.

Taehyung pulled out the minute he came, dropping to his knee and swallowing Jimin’s cock with a
hunger that could only be described as ravenous. Jimin’s hand shoved at the back of his azure hair,
thrusting his hips in short, hard movements. He felt his tip hit the back of Taehyung’s throat each
time, causing the other to gag.

“Yesss…swallow it down, baby, all of it…” he said, breathless, as he cradled Taehyung’s head
tenderly.

Taehyung kept on going, absorbing the praise and clearly wanting more. He licked Jimin’s entire
length clean, sucking off the cum until it was far too sensitive to be touched.

They spent the next ten minutes tangled up on the thoroughly sodden floor cushion, kissing.
Everything was wet and the rain still hadn’t let up. The thunder was near deafening and yet the
only thing registering in Jimin’s ears was Taehyung’s rough breathing as he whispered things he
only ever uttered in bed. Things that made Jimin’s head spin and his heart clench.

He pushed Taehyung off, climbing on top of him and straddling him with an eager shimmy of his
hips. There was still enough lube coating Taehyung’s shaft and he slipped in easily this time. Jimin
leaned down to kiss him, hips rolling back and forth to sink his thick length in further. The sweat
on his body was already being washed away with the rain however he felt more of it bead on his
forehead as Taehyung’s hands dug into his ass. Jimin nuzzled his nose, tongue flicking at his upper
lip as they ground their hips together in unison. The emerald necklace dangled as Jimin’s hands
pressed on Taehyung’s throat, face tilting up towards the sky.

“You look so beautiful with it on, nightingale,” Taehyung managed to get out, just before Jimin’s
thumbs dug into the hollow of his throat and he coughed.

The younger smiled, not missing a beat in the relentless circling motion of his hips as he kissed
Taehyung again and again. He knew he looked gorgeous. He could see himself in the reflection of
Taehyung’s eyes from the moment he put the necklace on. Taehyung bent his knees and Jimin
leaned back against them, reaching to interlace their fingers together.
Jimin’s practically slammed his hips against the other, lifting until his cock was almost fully out
before dropping back down on it. His slight body bounced, the constant knocking of the largest
emerald against his collarbone painful enough for him to try and pull his hand up to keep it still.
But Taehyung’s grip was crushing, and he wouldn’t release either. Jimin was forced to bend over
slightly, leaning his weight on the other just so that the necklace would stop hitting his skin so
hard.

“I’m gonna cum,” he hissed, over the sound of the rain as it sped up. “Faster, baby, open me up – I
want to feel you tearing me open – “

He wrenched his right hand free by force and fell against Taehyung, pulling on his hair to keep his
head anchored as Jimin thrust his tongue deep into his mouth. His large hand came down with a
resounding slap on Jimin’s ass cheek and his cock slowed down its thrusting. Jimin was about to
protest when he tensed as he felt Taehyung forcing a finger in alongside it.

“Doesn’t look like you can open up any more, nightingale…fucking disappointing,” Taehyung
sniggered, though he made no move to pull it out. “Does it hurt?”

Jimin’s jaw tightened and he shook his head. But when Taehyung grinned and tried to push in a
second finger, he pulled his hand back and slapped him across the face.

“Don’t be a little bitch. It doesn’t suit you,” Jimin snarled, reaching down to push his hand away.

Taehyung’s head snapped straight, and he cackled, “Again.”

Jimin slapped him willingly. It appeared to be getting him off. His cock was drilling him by the
time Jimin landed the seventh slap and he couldn’t keep his teeth clenched tightly enough to stop
them rattling. And then the climax hit and Jimin threw his head back and moaned at the top of his
lungs, relishing the sound of his own voice and the way his body melted into a rush of pure
ecstasy. Taehyung’s eyes took him in with all the greed of a man spying out at an oasis in the
desert. His hands brushed against the necklace, stroking down his chest, the slim curve of his waist
and then finally his cock. As Jimin rode out his second orgasm, Taehyung was already tugging his
cock off for a third.

Jimin was in hysterics by the time it hit, unable to take anymore without driving himself insane.
There would be more later, the moment they got into bed pretending as if they would actually
sleep, but for now he was thoroughly spent.
“Stop, stop, stopppp,” he groaned, struggling to keep Taehyung’s strong hands from finding his
cock again. “Lie down – hush, just lie down and stop – god, you’re like a child with a shiny new
toy – “ he turned onto his side and threw his leg over Taehyung’s waist, kissing his face all over
with a distinctly humorous smack of his lips.

The rain quietened, slowing down just enough. Jimin caught droplets off of Taehyung’s blue fringe
as water practically poured from it. With a smooth motion of his hand, he swept Taehyung’s hair
off his forehead and announced, “There. You look more like a kingpin with it back.”

“Do you want to come with me to meet Minsoo tomorrow?” Taehyung said.

Jimin blinked. “To meet him? Why?”

“Not just him. A whole host of people. I’m assigning new bosses for the five main districts.”

“Did Minsoo choose them?”

“Not all.”

“Why do you want me to come?”

“It’s your choice.”

Jimin didn’t care to think too deeply about the ramifications of Taehyung actively involving him in
the mafia life again. He just imagined the dullness of being stuck at home day in, day out and
decided it would be best.

“Say you love me first,” Jimin grinned.

“How many times will you make me say it before it loses all meaning?” Taehyung sighed, pressing
his nose against Jimin’s with a little growl.
“Maybe that’s what I want. For you to see it has no meaning. Now say it.”

“I love you, nightingale.”

Jimin pressed closer, head comfortably nestled in the crook of Taehyung’s arm and his head under
his chin. “Not that it matters… just like you said. Because it doesn’t. None of it does.”

“How many times will you use that against me?”

“I give you full permission to take vengeance on me when you wake up one day and realise that
what I did to Hoseok was very much real and that it’ll never change. Until then, I’ll help you
sweep all of our issues under the rug by making you repeat ‘I love you’ and playing happy,
homicidal families. Sound like a good deal?”

Taehyung didn’t answer, eyes unreadable and mouth turned downwards. Jimin kissed the corners
of it until he felt it start to lift. And just like that, Taehyung was saying the words like clockwork
again.

What a merry bout of make-believe this was.

 Speak Softly, Love
Chapter Summary

This chapter is dedicated to 190424 Taehyung. You know the one.

Chapter Notes

Trigger Warning: Snuff Film, Implied Child abuse/sex rings, Rape (please be warned
of this one – it is brief and in a video, and doesn’t involve main characters however the
scene itself is triggering)

Also, if you can, please leave a comment. They really cheer me up, and 40 pages
really took it out of me, ngl. :(

I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House.

Jimin had just finished watching it on Netflix. Horror films were a form of medication. Fear for the
sake of fear alone, not because he was terrified for his life, or the life of someone he loved. It was
why he enjoyed them so much. This one had struck a chord, with its lilting score, monotonous
narration and soft, gilded cinematography. He couldn’t help thinking how apt the title was.

It was him. He was the pretty thing living in a strange, gloomy home, with a shark under its
foundations, a tiger in the backyard and a jungle on the roof. All around him, walked meaty, burly
sentries, strong and grim, with rings the weight of Jimin’s entire hand clinging to their fingers.
Around their necks hung glittered works of diamond, clustered within loops of gold forming a
seamless chain. These men were rich, and they wanted to show it, but they were not appreciative of
the finer side of art. Bling, was the word.

They had no time for such intricacies as the Jewel of Busan, with its fancy filigree and gem work
and drops of emeralds. Taehyung would not let him take it off when they were alone together.
Jimin often looked up mid-conversation to see his lover’s eyes transfixed by the necklace, as if he
had long since lost track of what the younger was saying. Jimin never mentioned it. He had
decided he would not tip the balance. He would not allow Taehyung to think he was irritating him
the way couples irritated one another in normal relationships. He was not going to allow Taehyung
to believe this was a healthy, functioning relationship where they had the liberty to get vexed with
one another.

And yet it was.

At no time was it more obvious than than when Taehyung forsook the pleasures of an expensive
hair stylist to curl up between Jimin’s knees and hand him a box of home hair dye. Jimin had dyed
Jungkook’s hair before, so it was nothing new to him. But he paused for a whole minute, just
blankly staring at the instructions as Taehyung pressed his lips to the inside of Jimin’s knee. He
had both his arms looped around his calves, maintaining a solid grip on him so that he could not
escape, even if he wanted to.

“Lean your head back,” Jimin murmured, gently fingering each lock of hair and untangling it with
his comb. He slipped on the gloves and then reached for the mixing bowl and brush. Before he
began applying, he asked, “Are you sure? You don’t like the blue?”

“You do?” Taehyung asked.

“I think it makes you look ethereal.” It slipped out before he could stop it, and when Jimin
understood what he’d said, he cursed himself.

Taehyung didn’t move or say a thing for the longest time. Then, he just nodded, and signalled for
Jimin to keep going.

The black was a good choice. Jimin’s breath caught a little when Taehyung walked out of the
bathroom with the wet strands clinging to his forehead and the dye rinsed out. Once the blow dryer
did its job, the transformation to Taehyung’s face was beyond comprehension. A simple colour
was all it took. It grounded him and he looked more Korean and that was undoubtedly better. The
angles of his face were pronounced, making him look older. His eyebrows looked thicker, angrier
and the tilt of his mouth was downright terrifying.

Jimin had never been more turned on in his life.

You need help, his brain said primly. Fuck off, Jimin shot right back at it. And sure enough, there
was no guilt on his conscience when Taehyung briefly kissed his cheek as he walked past and sent
an acute tremor of heat thrilling through him.
“Oishi sent over your suits. Meeting in Songpa-gu later.”

“Mmhmm. When do I get to meet Chrollo? I could care less about the rest of your goons,” Jimin
mumbled, as he got rid of the remnants of the hair dye box.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

“Taehyung, I don’t like you. Other dogs I’m fine with.” He said it with a completely straight face
but was unable to keep from pressing his lips together to hold back a smile.

Taehyung grinned.

A certain element of playfulness crept over them, something that had been alien to their dynamic
for so long. It spoke of an earlier time. Back when it was just Jimin and Taehyung, the Yong
Geondal boys alone in the big city, and Taehyung hadn’t yet caught Mother’s eye and Jimin had no
idea where he would even start finding his parents’ killer.

Taehyung crouched, and Jimin burst into laughter, already backing away as the older bared his
teeth and pretended to gnash like a dog. Spit flew from his mouth and he played it up, shaking his
head to ruffle it around until it was a wild haystack on his head.

“Okay, you are eerily good at that – AAAAH!!!” Jimin’s gasp ended in a yell of exuberant terror as
Taehyung lunged at him on all fours. He dodged, jumping onto the bed and then off the other side
as Taehyung launched himself onto it. It was the most mindless fun Jimin had had in weeks, and he
quite forgot his new resolution to be stoic and reserved with his would-be captor. He forgot his age
sometimes, because twenty-one really was nothing. He still had a lot of growing up to do, and for
now, puerile joys made his cheeks blush red and his eyes well with laughter. He let Taehyung
corner him against the east side wall after a few minutes and lifted his arms above his head as
Taehyung straightened at a leisurely, deliberate pace. He was panting, nostrils flared as his hot
breath tickled Jimin’s face.

“You can’t run from me, nightingale,” he murmured, hands gripping tight on Jimin’s waist.

Jimin gave him a fluid roll of his hips, watching Taehyung’s mouth drop open as he felt the supple
dance of his muscles. “And you can’t catch me unless I let you, Butcher.”
Taehyung’s face broke into a brilliant smile, like that of a child’s, full of innocence and delight and
Jimin willingly threw his arms around his neck as their lips met. Jimin’s head was pressed
painfully hard against the wall but he barely noticed, legs already separating to let Taehyung hitch
one around his waist. His lips parted, and he closed his eyes, groaning softly as Taehyung’s tongue
slipped all over them, wetting the flesh until it glistened, and then pushing between them. Jimin
moaned something like a stuttered, “Yes,” before Taehyung’s lips forced his to close around his
tongue. The butterflies in Jimin’s stomach soared high, responding to Taehyung’s large hands as
they caressed and massaged his abdomen beneath his shirt.

Not even the knock on the door made them break apart. It only made Jimin pull Taehyung closer,
hand twisting fistfuls of his newly-darkened locks between his fingers as he whimpered and
squirmed against him. Taehyung wouldn’t let him breathe. He wouldn’t prise his lips away even an
inch and Jimin was seriously beginning to consider the pros of dying from asphyxiation in this
manner, even as his head began to spin, and he failed to bring in the much-needed oxygen through
his nose.

The door opened and Wonho entered. Jimin opened one eye to see him over Taehyung’s broad
shoulder and pulled away with a convulsive catch of his breath. Taehyung turned with a huff of
“What?”

“Choi Minsoo just called, sir. Wants to know where you are,” Wonho answered, his face deadpan.

Jimin stared at him, and as before, the usual feelings of finding him stupidly attractive and being
oddly jealous, stirred him to push Taehyung’s face back around to him. He kissed him again, to
which Taehyung willingly reciprocated, but upon opening his eyes again, Jimin saw that Wonho
was still there, though this time, his left eyebrow was halfway up his forehead. Jimin smirked, as
Taehyung chewed on his lower lip, releasing it with a pop before swallowing it into his mouth
again.

“Sir?” Wonho repeated.

Taehyung growled in frustration. “I’m coming. Tell him I’ll be there in half an hour.” His voice
shook a little, boner rock hard as Jimin’s mouth scraped over his neck, biting roughly under his ear
and relishing the way his body jerked in response.

Wonho left with a slight bow, and once the door was closed, oddly enough, Taehyung was the one
to try and return to reality.

“You still need to get dressed. You should go – Jimin – aaah, stop – no, I said stop – “ he sank his
head against the wall as Jimin suddenly dipped, falling to his knees before him. He looked up with
a boyish grin, pearly whites on display and tugged at Taehyung’s belt.

“You told him you’re coming. Let’s make sure you do,” he winked, mouth falling open at the
same time as Taehyung’s cock fell out of his boxers.

“Don’t,” Taehyung whimpered under his breath, head pressed against his arm.

“Don’t what?” Jimin whispered, batting his eyelashes with all the innocence in the world as he
nuzzled his pubic area.

With a truly devilish smirk, he stretched out his tongue and trailed it over Taehyung’s balls. They
hung, heavy and tight, with the musky taste and scent he was so fond of. Jimin’s enveloped one of
them, sucking it inside his mouth and slathering it with his tongue, until Taehyung’s voice rose
several pitches. He was moaning now, as he lowered his head and watched in utter defeat whilst
Jimin worked him. He tried to pull both into his mouth but failed on his first few tries. When he
succeeded, Taehyung let out a fervent groan, twitching as Jimin swirled his tongue all over his
balls.

“Just like that…god, you’re so fucking good…”

Jimin released his balls and began to lap at his shaft. Drawing his tongue up to the tip of his shaft,
Jimin sucked it in, grinning up at him with his mouth halfway full. He traced his tongue along the
underside of his frenulum, before engulfing his semi-hard cock with his mouth. Taehyung trembled
as his tongue swathed the sensitive cockhead. It was getting stiffer in Jimin’s mouth with every
passing second and the younger was relishing it. He had himself pressed to the wall, hands over his
head as he used only his mouth to provide Taehyung with the pleasure he craved.

“Fuck….your mouth….your fucking mouth…” Taehyung nearly whined as Jimin pushed his lips
back up his length, the harder it got. Taehyung’s fingers entwined in his hair, their eyes locking as
his cock throbbed with heat between Jimin’s lips. He still couldn’t take the entire length down his
petite throat, but he was really fucking trying and certainly didn’t care if his gag reflex was close to
kicking in.

It was made twice as intense when his hand came up to fondle Taehyung’s ball sac. Expletives
rained from Taehyung’s mouth and shivers wracked his body as the increased stimulation shoved
him close to the edge. Jimin felt his balls draw up tight and knew that he would soon be rewarded.
He responded by squeezing his mouth hellishly hard, a little giggle thrumming through his throat
and sending delicious vibrations through Taehyung’s cock shaft.
He stiffened, drove his hips forward and his pent up cum exploded, splattering the insides of
Jimin’s mouth. Jimin gripped his lips tight around the cock as it spurted rope after rope of cum with
each spasm. His mouth overflowed with it, and he swallowed it all with some difficulty before
Taehyung’s balls pumped out more to refill it. He pulled off and sank against the wall, rolling
Taehyung’s cum inside his mouth, showing it to him, pooled white against his tongue.

“Shit….” Taehyung said hoarsely, falling to the ground beside him, cock finally softening.

Jimin crawled to him, urging him to open his mouth and before Taehyung could react, deposited
his own cum into it. “Christ – “ was all Taehyung managed to say as he was forced to swallow
before Jimin kissed him, violently. He made sure to sink his teeth hard into his bottom lip before
he pulled away.

“That was for spitting in my mouth and asking me if I was jealous,” he murmured. “Now, I’m
going to go get dressed. If you’ll excuse me – “

Taehyung remained slumped on the ground, stunned, and thoroughly bemused over what had just
happened.

The back seat of the Rolls Royce Phantom was incredibly spacious, with Taehyung on one side
and Jimin on the other. The former was speaking in a barely audible voice on the phone, dark eyes
empty as he gazed out of the window. Meanwhile, Jimin discretely made a point of figuring out all
the little hidden compartments and drawers sealed into the luxury car’s interior. There were many,
and most were lined with weapons. Only one housed a cooler stocked with Moet bottles. At
intervals, he glanced over at Taehyung and could swear his mouth was getting droopier at the
corners with every passing minute. He had the highest position he could possibly have hoped to
achieve in his chosen career, and yet he looked like he was being wrangled on a stretching rank.
What a sad situation – not. Jimin couldn’t really admit to caring, not when Taehyung had hunted
this position out for himself.
The meeting at Lotte Tower was the first of its kind between Taehyung and the five bosses of
Geomjeong-pa’s principle territorial districts.

Choi Minsoo, the illustrious Yongsan-gu boss, was almost precisely as Jimin had imagined him.
Tall, well-built, with slicked-back hair and gold teeth. His eyes were two black pits. They absorbed
everything and let out nothing. And when they surveyed Jimin from head to foot, there was no way
of telling what he was thinking. At least, not until Minsoo’s mouth hardened upon glancing at
Taehyung. And then, after sparing the briefest of glances to Wonho who stood a few paces behind,
he said, “So, you’re already starting to surround yourself with pretty boys.”

They were standing at one end of the conference room, with a massive wall of glass to their left,
and a chrome-coloured interior pervading the rest. Jimin forgot what floor it was, but the elevator
ride had been long, and slightly awkward, with just Taehyung, Wonho and himself in the enclosed
space. No one said a word all the way through. At the far end, surrounding the table, sat three men
and a woman wearing furs, each flanked by a fully armed guard.

“He’s my cousin,” Taehyung said, eyeing Minsoo down with an equal level of contempt. “You
remember our uncle, Ahn, don’t you?”

Minsoo didn’t look phased in the slightest, and somehow, that was far more unsettling to Jimin.
When Taehyung got that expression on his face, the gut instinct of any observer would have been
to turn tail and bolt. But Minsoo merely sneered, as if at a misbehaving puppy, and flicked his
cigarette into an ashtray held by his man behind him.

“Cousin. Of course,” he said. “I can believe that, since his face was all over the Blue Tails news
reports. Blood runs thicker than water after all…”

“Runs thicker than piss too but you don’t see me stating the obvious,” Taehyung retorted, walking
past him with an irked scowl. He fixed the buttons on his grey blazer jacket, which he was wearing
with a white dress shirt and no tie, the freshly polished shoes he had on squeaking against the
equally polished floor. “Gentlemen. Lady.” He passed a cursory nod to the woman whose crimson
lips flickered into the coldest smile Jimin had ever seen on a human being.

Taehyung gave him a quick nod of the head to indicate he should sit to his right. Minsoo took the
left, directly opposite. His eyes were still on Jimin, like a snake on a mouse, figuring out his weak
spots and the best time to strike. He didn’t look away, not even when Taehyung started to speak.

Jimin was seated next to Jung-gu’s boss, introduced as Go Hyun Jung, or simply the Madame.
Jimin had heard of her surly reputation, especially her demented bookkeeping when it came to
clients her girls collected. It was said not a leaf fell out of place without Madame Go knowing
about it, at least in Jung-gu, though her reach everywhere else was beyond impressive also. She
was the woman with the recorded video and audio files that kept much of Seoul’s political circle in
thrall to the underworld, the custodian of many a scandal waiting to happen, should she choose to
throw her lot in. She had only recently been promoted to inheriting Jung-gu, after apparently having
her son returned to her by Taehyung, who had kidnapped and tortured him in the first place. Jimin
didn’t understand why she would be so willing to partner up with the man who had harmed her
child, however he didn’t try to. These people were made of a different mould, one he needed to
become accustomed to.

All the other bosses were new as well, though none were younger than Taehyung. Kim Hyun Bin
for Songpa-gu, Jung Woo Sung for Mapo-gu, Yeong Gil Ho for Gangnam-gu and of course,
Minsoo for Yongsan-gu.

It appeared the ‘pretty boy’ comment Minsoo had passed earlier was not simply referring to
Wonho and Jimin. There was something the new bosses had in common – they were clearly in
their 40s, however their faces were unmarked by battle scars, and they were all uniquely good
looking. Even Minsoo was not bad on the eyes, holding a certain je ne sais quoi that made it
impossible to ignore him when he walked into a room.

Or perhaps Jimin’s eyes were no longer jaded to think of older men as too geriatric to be worth
paying attention to. He had only ever been involved with or attracted to boys his own age after all.
As he eyed Taehyung, he wondered if he alone had made these new choices and how much of it
had been based on physical appearance.

The moment Hyun Bin opened his mouth and suggested the mass gutting of the Yakuza epidemic
in Hongdae, Jimin did away with such thoughts. Looks certainly weren’t the reason Hyun Bin had
been picked at least.

“Not your problem, Kim,” Woo Sung muttered past the cigarette he had just propped between his
lips. “Don’t need your advice. Hongdae’s my territory.”

“Didn’t realise I was giving advice. It was an order,” Hyun Bin answered.

“The pair of you can shut up,” Taehyung said, sitting back in his chair and crossing one leg over
the other with a smack of his lips.

How ridiculous it was, to see a twenty-four-year-old command a room of forty-somethings. This

was wrong. It was all topsy-turvy and shouldn’t have been happening. Until Jimin saw both Jung
and Kim glance at Minsoo who was seated in total silence, except for the slight tremor in his ring
finger as his hand rested on the table. He glanced between them both, a slight smile on his lips, and
the pair quietened.

Turned out Taehyung wasn’t the principle authority in the room, not by far.

Once the minor pissing contests over, talk turned to the new hotel resort in Incheon, a project
founded by Mother and now left on Taehyung to complete due to its supposed potential. Real estate
speculation had taken place prior to its building, and the people that had sold the land it was built
on, had been cheated by the low price offered. Madame Go was particularly enthusiastic about the
resort, due to the prospect of having her girls pimped out to the foreign investors that were to be
hosted there. Much of the syndicate’s investiture came from the Triads, however the Russians were
starting to increase their stakes, and with Taehyung’s immediate interest being the weapons trade
and arming every single member of Geomjeong-pa, the latter were winning out.

Jimin listened with a growing sense of chilled dread. Taehyung did not talk about “work” at home.
Or he hadn’t thus far anyway. But just seeing his eyes light up as he talked about the prospect of
every petty thug claiming to belong to Geomjeong-pa having a service-issued sidearm, instilled
him with horror. It was the perfect catalyst to the sort of civil war and devastation Kim Seo Joon
had worked to prevent, in order to strengthen the syndicate’s foundations. It stunned him that
Minsoo wasn’t saying a word against it. Jimin truly hoped he was intending to humour Taehyung
and oppose the final decision when it came to it, however there was no telling what he was
thinking with his blank smile and even emptier eyes.

“Speaking of foreign investors, it would be worth inviting David Manoban to visit again.”
Minsoo’s voice finally interceded in a slack drawl.

Manoban? Why does that sound familiar?

“The IT company owner? Why?” Taehyung said.

“He’s a cartel dictator in his spare time,” Madame Go told him, “gifted me with a set of ladyboy
twins who went down like a storm with the Supreme Court crowd. He’s got the sort of standing
with the Russians you want. Having him onside will ease the arms dealing talks.”

“And he has a very lovely daughter you should probably look to court,” Minsoo continued.
Jimin inhaled sharply, and some saliva went down the wrong wind pipe, causing him to erupt into
a fit of coughing. Manoban. Of course. The entire table went silent, staring at him as he tried to
muffle his incessant coughs behind his fist and failed. A hand appeared to his right and he looked
up to see Wonho setting down a small bottle of water.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice chalky as he opened the bottle and downed half of it. He almost
choked again when he felt a hand on his thigh. At first, he thought he was imagining it. But upon
glancing down briefly, he noticed the rings and the scarlet nails and hurriedly looked up again
before anyone noticed. Out of the corner of his eye, Madame Go was still listening intently to
Minsoo, however her fingers tightened on Jimin’s thigh, nails digging into his flesh. Jimin didn’t
know what to do, so he did nothing. Barely moved or breathed, in case someone sensed that
something was wrong.

“You want me to date her? I killed two of her best friends and paralysed the thired. She’s wieldy
with a knife, that one, I wouldn’t let her alone in a room with me,” Taehyung snorted.

“We’ll see if she knows it was you who did all those things when she arrives with her daddy, won’t
we?” Minsoo arched his eyebrows. “Now, we have a more pressing matter to discuss. Ever since
you decided you were going to come between rich men and their vices, we are having some trouble
in Yongsan-gu with the cops. They’re not being paid off by the local politicians and my men are
suffering for it.”

“I haven’t done a thing to stop any of them,” Taehyung frowned. “They have all they can get –
drugs, women, more women – your district is literally one of Madame Go’s most profitable.”

“I’m not talking about drugs and women, Taehyung. I’m talking about children.”

A shiver ran through Jimin and the Madame’s hand on his thigh tightened. He wished there was
some way he could make her let go. He felt like he was going to throw up at the sudden change of
topic, and with her restraining him, there didn’t appear to be a place he could go to empty his
stomach if need be.

“If you’re not going to supply them with children under ten – which I understand, how immoral – “
Minsoo put his hands to his face with a roll of his eyes which suggested he thought it anything but,
“then I suggest runaways. They’re always teenagers or barely pre-pubescent. No one’s looking for
them. Toss them into the night clubs for the VIP suites and keep our benefactors happy, whilst
taking their money to boot.”

“That’s awful.” Jimin spoke without thinking. He turned crimson red as again, he became centre of
attention.

“I beg your pardon?” Minsoo said slowly.

“I – “ he paused, glancing at Taehyung who nodded slightly. Jimin took a deep breath and
continued in a stronger voice. “Kidnapping runaways and forcing them to prostitute themselves is
disgusting.”

“Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, I say,” Yeong said, over where he was taking regular
sips from a silver hip flask.

Jimin shot him a thoroughly sickened look and then said, “Grooming gangs are just as foul,
however they train their kids on how to treat their clients. These ones are going to go in on a trial
by fire and start crying. To play devil’s advocate, I doubt that’s the ideal situation for a customer.”

“Some get off on crying children,” Minsoo answered.

“That isn’t a very Christian thing to say, Minsoo oppa,” Madame Go purred, and as she did, her
hand stroked Jimin’s leg in little circles. He went taut, eyes glazed over.

“I’m helping the business. Trying to change the status quo is going to sink you, Taehyung,”
Minsoo said. This last was directed clearly to the kingpin, who thus far, had been sitting silently.
“Geomjeong-pa is hell on earth for its enemies. And you are the designated Lucifer at the helm.
Act like it or you will be crushed, just like all the other devils who came before you and thought
they were worth more than the shit they ejected from their asses. If kids are what the Mayor of
Seoul and his wrinkled old friends want, then that is what you give them, before a competitor steps
up and serves his own interests by providing the goods.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that if I don’t sell children, one of your turds – or one of their turds –
or even one of you at this table – is going to depose me. Is that it?” Taehyung said.

Minsoo’s right eye twitched.

“Geomjeong-pa is known for having the best escorts this side of the Pacific Ocean,” Madame Go
interrupted, her hand travelling further up Jimin’s thigh and touching his crotch. His fist was
wrapped so tightly, his nails scored into his palm. “I fly them out routinely to America, Europe,
Japan – you name it. They are refined, high-class and educated. Painting poor children with cheap
makeup and forcing them to smile and seduce older men whilst they can barely control their
wobbling bottom lip, is beneath what this syndicate represents and quite frankly, is animal
behaviour. Now, I know most of you gentlemen have engaged in some sort of animalistic
behaviour in your lifetime, but I think we’ll all agree – Minsoo, you and your three daughters
included – that the idea of children being used for such pursuits is horrific. We’re at the level now
where these rich sons of bitches should answer to us. We shouldn’t be the waiters at their banquets,
providing them with whatever they want in return for a mere blind eye.”

Her hand found Jimin’s dick through his clothes and he let out the air he was holding in a gasp. He
disguised the gesture by clearing his throat and pulling his chair closer to the table. Madame Go
was glancing down at her phone with a smile, but Taehyung’s eyes were sharp as they watched
him. Jimin almost had a heart attack when he felt the kingpin’s large, firm hand find his other leg.
Whatever you’re going to do, please don’t move it up, please god, you’ll touch hers –

He cut the silence with a vaguely formed suggestion before things got worse.

“I-I think we should actually donate to the orphanages of our five main districts,” he said.

“Our? Who the hell even are you, except for his cousin?” Jung snorted. “You don’t have a single
tattoo marking your allegiance to the gang. Where’s this?” He pulled back his sleeve to show the
dagger tipped with three stars on the inside of his wrist. The same one Taehyung had under his ear.
One by one, the others pulled back their sleeves, or the front of their collars to display it and
Madame Go finally released his crotch to girlishly reveal her own on the inside of her wrist.

“Jimin’s mother was your traditional sort of ahjumma. To respect her wishes, he didn’t get any
tattoos. But she passed away last month, so rest assured, he’ll be getting one now. Did you have
anything else to add, Jung?” Taehyung said icily, and his eyes gleamed with a clear warning.

Jung scoffed, but said nothing.

“I’d like to hear what more you had to say, Park Jimin,” Madame Go said, leaning her pretty chin
on her hand and eyeing him with interest.

Jimin glanced at her once, turned red, and then tried to keep his voice from cracking as he
continued. “Fear is always the best weapon, but keep in mind, Pablo Escobar is still adored by the
people of his home town because of the jobs he provided and the money he brought in. Should the
syndicate lose its standing, relying on the good will of the general populace is more powerful than
anything these politicians can provide us with. The orphans get it the worst. Treat them with
extreme kindness and endear Geomjeong-pa to the community. Everyone knows of the gang, but
they don’t dare to speak its name out loud, as if it’s some dirty secret. This could change that.”

“I like it,” Kim announced, lifting his hand. “Orphanages provide free manpower once those kids
grow up. Send the intelligent ones to university, fees fully covered and bring the rest to work for
us. Clever ones go into positions of bureaucratic power and become the decision-makers of the
future, and the allegiance to us remains. See, I like the way your brain works, boy. I like a man
who sees the bigger picture.”

It was no matter of pride. This was the discussion of how a criminal syndicate could further
manipulate and control the very dregs of society in its favour into the far future. But Jimin couldn’t
help feeling a tiny ounce of gratification, especially when Taehyung’s hand squeezed lightly on his
thigh.

“Well, that’s no to the little girls in VIP clubs then,” Taehyung announced, removing his hand and
sitting up straight. “I like Jimin’s idea, but just to assure you nepotism isn’t the game, all in favour,
say aye.”

“Never would have thought there’d come a day when Geomjeong-pa was a democracy,” Yeong
sniggered, chewing on a toothpick with an expressive glint of rancour in his eyes.

“If you say nay, I will have Wonho send you flying through the window,” Taehyung said sweetly.

Yeong hit the table with his fist and them pumped it in the air with a wild cackle of “AYE!”

One after the other, the ayes went around, before Taehyung hit a pretend gavel and stuck his
tongue out with gleeful laughter. The mood did not last long. Talk turned to the latest list of people
that needed ‘taking care of’ and Jung had a clear hint of smugness when he pulled out his phone
and declared he had one by the name of Yoo Sang Woo.

“Prevalent problem the last time too, this one,” he said, flicking through his gallery with relish.
“But it wasn’t as widespread, so she let it go on.”

“Who?” Taehyung said.

“Mother. It was Yoo Sang Woo last time as well. He’d use ladyboy prostitutes from Thailand, the
ones who looked like Mother, and dress them up and shoot porn films. It was more of a running
joke amongst the higher circle in the gang. But this is on a new level. Now we’ve got snuff films
too. All featuring…..you.”

He flipped the phone around and, in a folder, marked ‘snuff’ were eighteen videos. They were all
snippets of a minute long. And even from the distance he was sitting at, Jimin saw from the
thumbnails young men who looked eerily like Taehyung. The same tan skin, large nose, dark hair,
thick eyebrows. Whoever had hunted them out, had done so with the talent of an entertainment
industry head scouter.

Jung hit play on the first one, and Jimin recoiled a little as he saw the gagged, blindfolded boy in
the middle surrounded by at least eight, far older men. There were hoots and laughter as club music
pounded in the background, but it still wasn’t enough to drown out the boy’s terrified, muffled
screams.

“They force them to answer to ‘Taehyung’,” Jung explained, eyes keen as he watched for any
reaction, however small. “These aren’t prostitutes. They’re kids Yoo gets his men to find on the
streets. They kidnap them, brainwash and torture them just enough so that they’ll answer to your
name, and then set them up for filming. At first, it was just videos like this – “ he flicked to another
one and in this one, it was another boy but with the same striking resemblance to Taehyung.

He wasn’t blindfolded, or gagged, but he was drugged, and he was mumbling something as the
whites of his eyes showed through the slits in his eyelids. A cock was forced into his mouth, and
another one in his ass, as his limbs lolled, and all around him, the men jeered and cooed,
“Taehyung-ah! Taehyung-ie, look at the camera, what a sexy little slut you are – look at the
fucking camera, bitch!” Punches and slaps rained down on him, but he remained mostly
unresponsive.

“But then…this started happening.”

Another video. Another boy. All manners of things were being used to penetrate him. Beer bottles,
metal rods, more physical abuse, yells and chortles, and then finally, someone lifted a stool and
brought it crashing down on his head.

Jimin jumped in fright at the sudden, brutal impact. His forehead broke out into a sweat, nausea
rising in his throat as he found himself short of breath. The boy in this video looked so much like
Taehyung, it was uncanny. And every corner of Jimin’s heart strained with agony to see it.

“They’re killing them,’ Jung said, as the screen went black. “They’re raping these kids, picking
them up from wherever and drawing unnecessary attention from the police as all the missing
posters go up. They brutalise the bodies post-mortem to make it seem like a serial killer, and
ironically, the police have already given this hypothetical being a name. The Butcher of Seoul. It’s
easy to sell as a story since the boys are all of a similar type and age. They’re on high alert and in
the meanwhile, these bodies are turning up everywhere, and most of all, there’s a whole category
on a snuff film site on the dark web dedicated to you. I think we all see the problem here.”

Jimin was almost afraid to look to his right. Even Minsoo had lost the signature sneer he had
permanently plastered on his face, and his eyes were darker than rain clouds. Taehyung’s hand was
back on Jimin’s knee, not gripping, just lying there. His face was devoid of emotion. Not a vein
jumped in his temple or in his neck. He was simply frozen.

“Yoo Sang Woo…which district?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Incheon city. Explains why he got away with it for so long. He takes the boys from Seoul mostly
though,” Jung explained. “I can have someone sent to him tonight and take care of it.”

It was obvious Jung’s entire purpose in revealing this had not been to goad Taehyung, despite his
lascivious smirk from earlier. As with most underlings, he wanted to get in the good graces of a
man who already had Choi Minsoo firmly rooted to his right side. Jimin didn’t think Jung would
be very successful. Minsoo didn’t seem the type to give up his position so easily. And to make
things harder for him, Taehyung did not want to take Jung up on his offer.

“Give me his address,” was all he said.

Once the meeting was adjourned, Jimin went out for some fresh air. Taehyung insisted he take
Wonho with him but Jimin was equally insistent he would be fine on his own. One overnight call
from Taehyung had had the police withdrawing their sketch of Jimin from the news channels and
the CCTV footage had been declared misleading. Jimin was finally free to step out into the open
and not fear someone’s approach.

But Taehyung was adamant he wasn’t to leave alone. “Take Ahmeti with you and that’s the end of
the matter.”

Jimin decided not to have a hissy fit over the man’s clear and unhealthy need to control. There was
a deadness in Taehyung’s eyes and he knew it was those videos. He didn’t want to test him. It
couldn’t have been easy to see near mirror reflections of himself brutalised and murdered and raped
in such a manner. Often, with the sheer overwhelming amount of chaos that manifested in
Taehyung’s being, it was easy to forget how young he was and how deeply things affected him if
they got through his lackadaisical, murderous front.

Ahmeti was as impassive as ever, strolling along behind Jimin a few paces. He had on knee high
boots today and a floor-sweeping coat. The only thing he was missing was a commando hat to
make him look like some sort of Eastern European dictator. Either that or a dominatrix’s assistant,
minus the whip. He was perfectly offhanded about the whole ensemble though. Perhaps
somewhere like New York, it would seem normal. But in Korea, where society obsessively tried
not to stand out, Ahmeti was once again the sore thumb in the seamless, but boringly similar
fashion of a typical Seoul street.

Jimin ignored his presence, despite hearing the heavy thud of his boots just behind, and kept his
fists balled in his pockets. He was still sick to his stomach and the videos would not stop flashing
before his eyes. He didn’t want to be here. He never wanted to be this high up on the gang roster,
where seeing like things like this was normal and desensitization was expected. He had always
intended to stay in a position like that of Ahn’s nephew, or like Han with Yoongi. The bookkeeper,
the one who added up all the figures and made sure there weren’t any discrepancies. The one who
collated the financial gain from all this horror but never had to stare it in the face. In this, Jimin
was weak and he admitted it whole heartedly. He dreaded to think what Taehyung was planning
for Yoo Sang Woo, and knew that against his will, he would be dragged to be a part of it.

“Where are we going?” Ahmeti said finally, after a few blocks of walking. “If you’re going to give
me a tour of Songpa-gu, I’d rather not. I have a motorbike waiting for me at home and I must fix
it.”

“There’s a coffee shop just down that road,” Jimin pointed, “I like their doughnuts.”

“You like their doughnuts, or what they represent?”

Jimin stopped and turned to stare Ahmeti down. “Are you my bodyguard or my therapist?”

“Ah, so I am right,” Ahmeti grinned, snapping his fingers.

“Mind your own business.” Jimin kept walking with a decidedly pouty scowl.

After a few moments of silence, Ahmeti spoke again. “Was it your Daddy?”

“No!”

“Was it your Mommy?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Aha, it was your Mommy. Well, if it is for your mother, we are getting these doughnuts, then I
will come. I understand the love of a mother. My own is long dead, Allah bless her.”

Jimin glanced over his shoulder, slowing a little. “I’m sorry.”

Ahmeti shrugged, keeping up pace. “She died doing what she loved. Rioting.”

Jimin’s eyebrows shot up, and he mouthed wow before turning back to face the front.

Ahmeti had hit the nail right on the head. The coffee shop was nostalgic for him. It was where his
mother used to take him on the odd weekends, she was free to do so. It was their little escape,
where they got to pretend, they were normal people and wouldn’t be returning home to his violent,
drunk of a father. Where Ara could look at her boy with wide, sparkling eyes, and not be afraid she
would start crying at any minute. It was their time alone together.

How she would hate you if she knew you were sleeping with her killer’s son.

As ever, his mind enacted the role of his worst enemy and reminded him that things were never
black and white, including the memory of his mother. It was tainted now. He could never recall her
with the fond love of a son intent on avenging her. Shame and guilt would creep in, as he felt the
many ghostly imprints of Taehyung’s kisses all over his body. If he envisioned her soft perfume
and arms wrapping around him, Taehyung’s grip made itself felt also, ruining it.
“You are not going to sit a while and eat?” Ahmeti asked as Jimin asked for takeout from the
woman behind the counter.

“No. Don’t think I’m welcome here,” Jimin muttered, glancing at the table where he usually sat
with his mother. It was empty, facing the window and covered with light pouring in. Ahmeti
seemed to sense his meaning wasn’t literal and asked no further questions.

He emerged with a bag of doughnuts himself, merrily chewing on the sugared confectionary as he
walked a few paces behind Jimin. He wasn’t doing a very good job of being alert and guarding
however. Neither of them noticed the armoured car pull up behind them, driving down the empty
street. As Jimin crossed at the pedestrian sign turning green, the black Cadillac Escalade hurtled
forwards.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye and his body reacted on instinct. This had happened once
before. By the Scorpion gang in Busan when he had been a petty drug runner. They harassed the
Yong Geondal runners routinely, not caring how much injury they caused and Jimin’s reaction
then had saved his life.

He jumped, hitting the hood of the car. It was going at a speed of 40mph, and the impact wasn’t as
bad as it could have been. But even so, the velocity sent Jimin’s body tossing and tumbling over
the roof, until he rolled and hit the ground on the other side. Pain wracked through him, but
nothing seemed to be broken or overly hurt, except perhaps, a sprained ankle.

Ahmeti dropped his bag of doughnuts and ran forward, hand already going into his pocket. But six
men jumped from the back of the Escalade, machine guns drawn and aimed directly at him. Their
intention was clearly to subdue him, rather than kill. The driver stepped out also, and from the
passenger side –

“Got a few minor scratches? Aw. Chin up, little boy,” Minsoo leered. He stopped, bending down to
Jimin’s level and pulling him up by the hair until he was on his feet. Ahmeti moved again but the
guns were practically to his head now. “You’re about to be in a world of pain if you don’t tell me
the truth. And also – he will die if you don’t.” He pointed at Ahmeti, who rolled his eyes and put
his hands behind his head with a resigned expression. It appeared this was not the first time Ahmeti
had been put in such a situation. Jimin had no doubt he was miraculous enough to get himself out
of it alive even if Minsoo did give the order. But he didn’t want to take the risk.

“The truth about what?” Jimin hissed through clenched teeth.

Tightening his grip on Jimin’s dark hair, Minsoo leaned in closer, bringing with him the spell of
expensive cigars and cologne. All rich, older men smelt the same at some point, as did this one.
“You’re not Kim’s cousin, are you?” he rasped.

Jimin gulped and shook his head.

“No, I thought not,” Minsoo smirked, bringing his hand down on Jimin’s head hard enough to send
him to the floor again. He pressed his foot down on Jimin’s waist before he could get up and spat
on the ground beside his head. “Knew the moment I saw him staring at your ass when you both
walked into the conference room. So, here’s how it’s gonna go…” he crouched down, hands
dangling between his knees and gave Jimin a fatherly smile. “If you like getting it sucked by
Taehyung so much, I will have your little cock chopped off and fed to him in a pie. Do you
understand? And then if you’re still alive, I’ll chop up the rest of you and use you as feed for my
dogs.”

Jimin sank against the ground, hand over his eyes with a tired laugh. “He’s not going to stop
wanting to sleep with me just because I tell him to.”

“Oh no, I don’t care what sort of buggery you get up to behind closed doors, as long as its
discreet,” Minsoo said casually. “But you ever interrupt me like you did back there again, and I
will bring the rains of Hell down on you my boy. And if he has an issue with it, I’ll have your
“cousin” killed too. Now, I don’t want that, because we need some stability in this gang and for the
most part, he commands respect. So, let’s not ruin that for him, eh?”

He gave Jimin another cursory smack and then straightened, smoothing out his suit as he waved
his men away from Ahmeti. “Assalamu alaykum, brother,” he called sarcastically, nodding his head
at the Albanian before he got into his car.

“Cunt,” Ahmeti muttered, going over to Jimin. He held out his hand and pulled him to his feet.
“You hurt?”

“Ankle might have twisted. But I’m fine,” Jimin scowled, hopping a little as he shook his ankle.
“Do I have any marks on my face?”

Ahmeti narrowed his eyes. “You’re not intending on telling Taehyung. Why the hell not?”

“Because it wouldn’t serve any purpose,” Jimin said.

“He would have that man hamstrung and suspended from Namsan Tower like meat at a packing
plant. Tell him.”

“Minsoo is more powerful than Taehyung in the long run, that’s why,” Jimin growled through
gritted teeth. “Taehyung made the mistake of asking for help to steal a crown. When you do it that
way, you’re always going to be a puppet. Look at Trump and Putin.”

“I imagine you would not want to – how was it the Christian put it? Ah yes…’bugger’ Taehyung if
he looked like Trump.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Jimin snarled.

Ahmeti remained dutifully silent when Jimin limped his way back to Lotte Tower and found
Taehyung and Wonho standing beside the Phantom. Taehyung was on high alert the minute he saw
Jimin near hobbling (the landing on his foot had been a lot harder than he’d originally thought),
and his finger was aimed at Ahmeti instantly, face clouding with anger.

“What the fuck did you – “

“Leave it,’ Jimin said tiredly. “Not his fault.” He walked around to the back door of the Rolls
Royce and lifted himself inside gingerly, giving his ankle a feel with his hands. It wasn’t swollen.
The shock of impact would soon fade away.

“What did you do?” Taehyung said immediately when he opened his door.

“I tripped and I fell,” Jimin said, “Like a complete klutz.”

Taehyung frowned, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe him, yet there was nothing to suggest
Jimin was lying. So, he finally climbed in and with a little snort, said, “You’re not fucking kidding.
You tripped on the way to the coffee shop – speaking of, where’s the coffee?”

Splattered all over sixth street. “I only bought a doughnut and I finished it,” Jimin said.
“There was a coffee shop right down this road. Why not this one?”

“Because my mom used to take me to the other one. Are the questions over? I have something to
say.”

Taehyung fell quiet. Jimin looked over at him and he was once again reminded of what had
happened in the conference room. The icy edges of his heart melted a little, and he pulled himself
across the leather seats, closer to Taehyung. His hand slipped over the wool, woven fabric of his
grey suit, skirting the white collar of his shirt, before his other hand touched Taehyung’s right
cheek and made him lean in for a kiss. Jimin sighed as soon as their lips touched, hand dropping to
Taehyung’s thigh and squeezing until he felt the hard sinew strain against his touch.

As Taehyung’s tongue touched the opening of his mouth, Jimin remembered how his mother had
soothed his Dad countless times. She never stopped trying to love him, or keeping him in love with
her. Whenever he was in a bad mood, or just unhappy in general, she had her ways to speak softly
and slide into his arms, coaxing the bad things out of him until he responded to her kisses. And
then for a week, or maybe two if they were lucky, he wouldn’t hurt her or Jimin.

This situation was different, as even Taehyung with all his violence and neuroticism was not a
serial domestic abuser. However, the principle remained the same. And as with most things in his
life, Jimin took a leaf out of his mother’s book and decided her way was best.

“I forgot what I was going to say,” he whispered, lips still pressed to Taehyung’s. He hadn’t, not by
far, but he allowed himself the luxury of giggling softly and acting as if the kiss had shot the senses
right out of him.

It worked somewhat. A smile ghosted over Taehyung’s lips before they wrapped around Jimin’s
again. The younger slowly edged himself into his lap, hands going up to his dark hair and brushing
through the fine strands, before touching his ears. Some time ago, Jimin had learned they were an
erogenous zone, however brushing the shell and the lobes gently also relaxed him. He was doing it
now, with soft, circular motions of his fingers as their lips plucked at each other. Taehyung’s heart
was slowing down, the longer Jimin’s kisses lingered. Jimin was losing himself in them, eyes
opening a little every time he tilted his head in another direction, and seeing each individual lash
resting on Taehyung’s cheekbones. He pecked his lips a couple more times, humming under his
breath as he did, before letting go.

“I’ve only ever known you like this,” Jimin murmured. “Angry, buzzing with misdirected energy,
impatient. I often find myself wondering what you were once.”
“I came out of my mother angry, trust me,” Taehyung answered, as he sank his weary head back
against the seat.

Jimin smiled, not to be deterred. He was more than willing to forge a connection, even if there was
nothing there to work with except lust and infatuation. This, he wasn’t faking. He understood that
part of his love for Jungkook came from seeing him vulnerable and as plagued by growing pains as
Jimin was. It was the equality of the situation that led to their current relationship. But Taehyung
had always been in a position of power, no matter how vulnerable he appeared sometimes. One
flick of his wrist and Jimin was fucked. That did not sit well with the younger.

When Taehyung said nothing, Jimin rolled his eyes and sat back, still very much in the older’s lap
but his hands no longer touching him. It worked. Taehyung sat up and circled Jimin’s waist with
his arms, pulling him into a closer position as he asked, “What do you want to know?”

“What was life like before Yong Geondal?” Jimin said simply. Keep him talking. The darkness in
his eyes was starting to dissipate and that was a good sign. “I doubt you were beating people up at
age ten.”

Taehyung’s lips quirked in a dry chuckle. “Everything before high school was pretty alright, I
guess.”

“Not the studying sort?”

“Hated it.”

“Your grandmother never disciplined you?”

“I mean, she tried. But how much can you discipline someone who’s going to run away faster than
Sonic the Hedgehog. She had a hard hand, bless her, but it was no use if she couldn’t run after me.”

“Oh, you’re terrible,” Jimin burst out laughing as he pulled Taehyung’s head against his chest
briefly. He dropped a kiss on his forehead and then shifted so that he was properly seated between
his thighs, facing sideways and kicking off his shoes. One of Taehyung’s arms cradled behind him,
the other across both his thighs. It was an extremely secure position, one Jimin had never found
himself in before. The only time he usually sat in mens’ laps was when a cock was inside him.
Intimacy was not his strongest forte but he had started this, so he swallowed down his misgivings
and gave into the physical comfort. The crook of one finger pushed against his plush mouth, he
asked, “When was your first time? Just out of interest…was it Yoongi?”

“Hoseok,” Taehyung answered. Jimin tensed, and so did Taehyung’s hold, keeping him in place
before (as he guessed correctly), the younger tried to pull away. “And first girl –“

“Girl?” Jimin said in surprise.

“Uh-huh. A girlie. I went to high school with her. She was the typical pretty, popular, cheerleader-
type. Dad was a local businessman and they were loaded. When I was at school, she used to date
the captain of the baseball team and I made the mistake of asking her out when they were on a
break. She laughed in my face and told me to go buy myself some new shoes before I talked to her
again.”

“What a bitch.”

“I like them bitchy. Why do you think I like you? Anyway, a year after I dropped out, I went back
around graduation, dressed from top to bottom in Armani – courtesy of Yong Geondal drug money
– and ended up fucking her up against my old locker after school. We dated for about six months
and then she found out I wasn’t just peddling drugs, but was also bashing peoples’ heads in, so she
peaced out real fast.”

“Did you love her?”

“Eh. I wanted her, bad. She was the first thing in my life that hadn’t automatically fallen into my
lap and I decided I needed that. I guess it lasted six months because of how strong my pent-up
boner was all those years I’d known her.”

Jimin sat up, hands planted on Taehyung’s shoulders as his eyes narrowed. “You want what you
can’t have. Which means now that you have me, there’s already an expiry date. How long do you
think we’ll last?”

Taehyung grabbed his chin and forced his face closer, lips baring in a smile. “Don’t try that one,
nightingale. You’re not lucky enough to get an expiry date.”

It had worked. Though the talk was brief, the black in Taehyung’s eyes was being replaced by the
usual honey brown, and he was distracted. There was more than a hint of smug pride in Jimin’s
little laugh as he embraced Taehyung, closing his eyes blissfully as the kingpin’s mouth opened
against his neck, nipping and sucking at his skin. His hands returned to his ears, chin resting on his
shoulder and nipples hard against his shirt as he gazed at the driver in the car behind them. No one
could see into the Phantom, but it was perfectly possible to see everything going on outside and the
driver behind was trying to take pictures of the car, clearly awed by the model.

Jimin cradled Taehyung’s head closer, and whispered sweet little nothings to him, voice quiet and
high-pitched as one might use when comforting a child. Taehyung was responding well, his eyes
half-lidded and his every movement a direct follow up to whatever Jimin was doing. He half-
smiled as the younger peppered butterfly kisses all over his face, hands finding and engulfing
Jimin’s between them. Jimin paused to catch his breath with a whimpered sigh, nose pressed
against Taehyung’s and they stared at each other for a hot, heavily saturated pause.

“You need to create a strong coalition around yourself,” Jimin murmured. “Minsoo is a snake and
his control of you won’t end well.”

Taehyung just blinked, lazily, and Jimin leaned back to look at him, expression serious. His hands
however, were still trapped in the other’s and he didn’t appear willing to let them go.

“He’s going to try to undermine you the minute you go against him. We barely got away with it
today, simply because Madame Go and Kim spoke up in our favour. But I bet you’ve never won an
argument with him alone. I can tell by the look on your face you haven’t.” He ran his hands gently
down the side of Taehyung’s face, cupping his chin and dropping a sweet kiss on his nose.
“Branch out. Make it six principle districts, not five. Geomjeong-pa has a fairly passable standing
in Seocho-gu. Concentrate your efforts there and get in with the mayor. It’s got the largest area out
of all 25 districts and you’ll hit gold via real estate speculation alone. Just like Minsoo has his
personal army, reinforce yours and drive him away from your side. But –“ Jimin skirted his fingers
over Taehyung’s lips, smiling a little, “- do it softly. Gently. Like a lover asleep on your arm. Roll
him over, let him think he’s still at your right hand, and then let him drop, all the way off the edge
of the mattress. He won’t have reason to be angry because you won’t give him one. He’ll just be
out.”

Taehyung opened his mouth and took Jimin’s small fingers between his lips, narrowing of his eyes.
“You talk a good game,” he spoke around them.

“Because I know I have a good player,” Jimin answered, wincing a little as Taehyung bit down on
his fingers.

Taehyung spat them out and took his hand back in an iron grip. “You really don’t like him. What
did he do to you?” The way he asked the question told Jimin he was starting to suspect the simple
enough answer he’d explained away his limp with. But he had an easy answer to go for with this
question, which he gave.

“I didn’t like his opinion that we should give into the paedophilic status quo of rich men and
provide them with children to warm their beds,” Jimin said, rolling off Taehyung’s lap and onto the
seat. He cuddled up to him, a hand slipping under his arm as his head rested on his shoulder. He
most certainly wasn’t about to tell him what Minsoo had said, or what Madame Go had been doing
in the board room. “Now, tell me what you’re going to do to Yoo Sang Woo.”

[Week Prior]

Namjoon found Jungkook in a deplorable state.

He was informed upon arrival that they had drugged him continuously since the moment his friend
had left and not returned. There was no way Namjoon could confirm he was someone Jungkook
knew until they got him to wake up and positively identify him. That took another hour or so,
during which he knew Seokjin was probably tearing his hair out in the car with impatience. They
had both decided it was safer he not go inside the hospital. Quite on purpose, Namjoon didn’t
bother going down to tell him of the change of plans. He had come to learn that he could also be
plenty spiteful when he wanted to be and that it felt rather good when he was.

When Jungkook woke, Namjoon was at the foot of his bed, and the first thing Jungkook slurred
was Jimin’s name, eyes rolling in his skull as his brain pushed him to full consciousness. Upon
repeated questioning by the doctors, they finally got him to focus and he practically sobbed,
“Hyung,” when he realised it was Namjoon.

That caught Namjoon by surprise. Jungkook had never called him hyung, though he was older. He
had always addressed him as an equal. That being said, he’d never seen Jungkook look so broken
and disorientated. His compassionate instincts kicked in, the desire to protect people who were
hurting or scared, and he took the trembling, pale hand Jungkook held out with a quiet, “Yeah,
Kook, it’s me. It’s Namjoon.”

“D-d-don’t leave – p-p-please don’t leave – t-t-t-tell m-m-me you’re real,” Jungkook wept, tears
dripping from his eyes, mingling with the sweat on his face and entrenched in his hair.
“He’s been having hallucinations?” Namjoon muttered to the nurse as he gripped Jungkook’s hand
tighter to reassure him.

“Ever since his friend left, a lot,” she nodded. “We tried to track the young man down, but we only
had his name to go by and there’s no Christian Park that we could find in the records.”

“Yeah, I bet there wasn’t,” Namjoon muttered, turning back to Jungkook. He was starting to pass
out again, but his fingers maintained an iron-grip. “Is he ever going to walk again?”

“There’s hope. Though it will take a considerable amount of work and effort. Can you please sign
here, sir? Discharge documents. You can sign on next of kin if you’d like as we’ve been able to
find no one else to take Jungkook home.”

The doctors handed Namjoon an entire schedule of physiotherapy sessions for the next month,
phone numbers of all the shrinks the hospital was affiliated with, and a whole pack of booklets and
leaflets put together to aid with the first few weeks back at home for a paraplegic. He didn’t know
how to make head or tail of it all. The thought of having an ill Jungkook and an irritable Seokjin
under the same roof was like a nightmare come true. Jungkook on his own he could handle, but not
his uncle. At the thought of that particular relation, Namjoon had to make a mental note not to
mention it out loud in front of Jungkook. Seokjin would easily take his balls.

The doctors said they would get Jungkook ready to be discharged by the evening and that
Namjoon was free to go for now if he chose. He decided he would, once he left a note for
Jungkook saying he would return. Down in the street, Seokjin was no longer in the car. All that sat
on the dashboard was a note with the ominously scribbled words I’ll be back and nothing else.

Namjoon muttered curse words to the sky and hit the side of the car, before pacing back and forth
in agitation. It took another fifteen minutes before Seokjin appeared, walking down the sidewalk in
his all-black ensemble with the cap and mask still secured over his face. About six shopping bags
were looped over his one arm, whilst a dainty baby blue gift bag dangled in the other hand, and
when he saw Namjoon, he waved as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He stopped by the car and
tapped the passenger window.

“Open it up, detective,” he said.

“What is this?” Namjoon blinked, trying to keep his cool as he gestured at the bags.
“Oh, it’s question time is it? Well, then – where is my nephew?” Seokjin retorted.

“Jungkook is going to be discharged tonight – but don’t change the subject! How did you manage
to buy all this?” Namjoon exclaimed, before pausing and patting his chest pocket down. “Did you
take my – no, still here.” He felt a little silly as his fingers touched the wallet securely closeted
away in his jacket.

Seokjin lowered his mask to reveal a very petulant scowl. “Took money from the only remaining
bank account I knew Taehyung wouldn’t find immediately and freeze. Had about a hundred and
fifteen million won in there. Withdrew a million. Went crazy because life is shit and retail therapy
helps. Now open the fucking door.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened. “I’m not your little bitch to command anymore. Ask nicely or walk your
ass back and return everything. And then, take the bus back to mine.”

Seokjin physically shivered at the thought of public transportation. He sighed, rolled his eyes some
more and stamped his foot in a surprisingly babyish manner for someone who had a persona
Mother. It appeared she was the hard-hitter but Seokjin was still the spoiled, rich bratty son of a
father who lavished him with everything.

“Fine. Please may I put my things into the back of your car, detective?” he huffed.

Namjoon hit the unlock button on his keys and watched with a dark scowl as Seokjin loaded the
bags in, one after the other. Then, he straightened, patting the cop’s elbow delicately.

“Now, drive me home please, darling. I have outfits to try on and flaunt in the mirror. I might even
wear one for you in bed.”

Namjoon did not grace him with a reply.

Seokjin’s nonchalant attitude sobered up as darkness dampened sky outside. The closer the clock
ticked to the hour Jungkook was to be discharged from the hospital, the worse his mood got, until
he was a silent, still statue on the couch in the living room.
“Well, I’m leaving to go get him. Wanna come with?” Namjoon passed through on his way to the
hallway, putting on his jacket.

Seokjin shook his head, without looking his way. Namjoon knew he should have left well enough
alone, but the pity party in his brain kicked in again once more.

“There is a chance he will walk again,” he said. “He won’t be paraplegic forever.”

“That requires patience and perseverance. Neither of which Jungkook has,” Seokjin muttered.

“But he’ll have to have them now, won’t he? He can’t run away from the problem – oh, that didn’t
come out right – sorry, that was insensitive – “ Namjoon broke off, humiliated at his own
accidental slip of phrase.

However, a sudden giggle from Seokjin made him stop apologising and stare. It wasn’t a genuinely
amused laugh. He seemed to be doing it just to keep the horror of the situation at bay. And it was
working. Namjoon could still hear him laughing as he shut the front door.

Jungkook was not sedated (much to Namjoon’s relief) upon reaching the hospital. He was quiet
however, serene almost, so the drugs had not quite left his system fully. The doctors helpfully
supplied all the medication he would need, including painkillers, anxiety pills and sedatives, with a
strict suggestion that they be kept locked away. Namjoon was rather worried to hear all sharp
objects or anything that could be used for self-harm had to be kept out of reach also.

“He’s suicidal?” he said quietly, eyeing the back of Jungkook’s head.

“There is a strong chance that he may experience such symptoms as you wean him off the
sedatives, yes,” the doctor said. “It’s not going to be easy to keep his spirits up and he will need
constant supervision. For an extra fee, we can have a nurse sent to live with him through the day
should that be something you need – “

“No, I have someone at home who will be there regularly, that’s fine. Thank you.”

He didn’t for a second believe Seokjin would be a good caretaker. And yet, what choice did
Namjoon have? His junior detective salary couldn’t cover the cost of a live-in nurse also. Seokjin
would have no choice but to step up, there was nothing else for it.
“We’re going to have to get you a better wheelchair. This hospital-issued stuff is uncomfortable as
hell,” Namjoon made conversation as he opened the side door of his car.

Jungkook said nothing, though he reached out with his arms as if he thought he could heave
himself into the passenger side on his own. When Namjoon tried to help, he pushed his hand away,
but upon realising he couldn’t manage it, sank back into the chair, looking close to furious tears.

“Here, let me,” Namjoon said, acting as normal as he could about it before lifting Jungkook from
the chair and carefully setting him in the passenger seat. He was light enough to do so, as he’d lost
a lot of weight. Namjoon didn’t think he would have been able to pick him up when he was fit and
healthy, back when working out was all he did in his spare time. This new Jungkook was
practically all skin and bone and eyes. It was painful to look at him.

But it was nothing like the expression on Seokjin’s face when he first saw him.

Namjoon saw Seokjin recoil, there was no mistaking it. Perhaps at the shock of seeing Jungkook
like that, or just plain old revulsion at his new weakness. There was never any telling with Seokjin.
But it vanished quickly and was replaced by tormented hesitance as he lingered by the door to the
kitchen and didn’t make a move to come closer. Jungkook hadn’t seen him yet since except in the
hallway, the apartment was shrouded in darkness. But when Namjoon flicked on the living room
light, their eyes met.

Jungkook’s shoulders bunched up, more of a knee-jerk reaction to Seokjin’s presence than
anything else. Namjoon saw his hands convulse as they grabbed onto the arms of the chair and he
winced, expecting him to start crying again. He didn’t know what to do if that happened, though he
understood it was a perfectly normal reaction to have. But it didn’t happen. Jungkook’s breathing
was shallow, and his limbs shook, but he wasn’t crying.

Namjoon was so focused on waiting for Jungkook to cry, he didn’t notice Seokjin was the one
whose eyes were wet.

“Well…” Seokjin said, his voice fairly steady, as he gestured at Jungkook. “There you are.”

Jungkook’s pale lips stretched into a little smile. “Here I am.” The fear in his voice was so
palpable, Namjoon had to resist the urge to wince.
It was an absolutely characteristic reunion. Except for the fact Seokjin’s eyes weren’t drying and
no matter how many times he bit down on it, his lower lip quivered. He withdrew into the kitchen
abruptly, and the door closed, leaving Namjoon and Jungkook in the heavily pregnant silence
outside. Namjoon broke it first, muttering “Come on”, as he wheeled Jungkook to the bedroom.

“There’s only one…bedroom?” Jungkook asked uncertainly.

“Yeah. Seokjin and I are…well, we’re camping out in the living room until he can make
arrangements to live elsewhere.”

“If he’s here with you, wearing clothes he wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, I think he doesn’t
have anywhere to go. And I don’t even know what happened to him to bring him here.” He was
definitely still slightly drugged-up if the questions he should have had weren’t already piling up,
coupled with the rather calm reunion with Seokjin.

Namjoon parked the wheelchair inside the room and sat down on the bed with an exhausted sigh.
“Management at Geomjeong-pa has…changed.”

Jungkook scoffed mirthlessly. “Let me guess. Revolt?”

Namjoon nodded.

“Probably Choi Minsoo, wasn’t it?”

You don’t know what to know who it is. Namjoon didn’t answer, and instead began to prepare the
bed. “Seokjin and I will fill you in when you’ve had some rest. He’s got money stored away so we
can get you some new clothes, and whatever else you might need.”

“I don’t think he wants to help me, so I don’t really want his money,” Jungkook interjected.

Namjoon smiled dryly, though he kept his face hidden from Jungkook when he did. He tucked in
the sheets on the corners of the mattress and murmured, “Yeah, I don’t think that first bit’s entirely
true...”
There was something to be said for Taehyung’s swiftness.

In his revolt against Mother, and his 24 hour limits on each and every target he’d taken out for her
in the past, he showed a swift and terrifying diligence. After their cosy little talk in the back of the
Phantom that morning, Jimin had expected at least a few days to go by before Taehyung did
something about Yoo Sang Woo. Time to figure out who his main allies were and how they
networked, for example.

He couldn’t help thinking if this were a positive situation, Taehyung would be God’s favourite
child considering the results of the phone call he had Wonho make. As it stood, he was Lucifer’s
favourite child because Yoo Sang Woo was revealed to frequent a lounge bar in Incheon with a
close circle of friends every Sunday, one of whom included an ex-Mayor of Mapo-gu, a known
paedophile and voracious consumer of the ‘Taehyung’ snuff films that had gained such popularity
on the dark web. There was no way to wipe out the existence of the videos, there would always be
a record somewhere, kept on file. But by Taehyung’s estimation, it was very manageable to wipe
out their creators with the same efficiency as a hard drive wipe.

And perhaps it was Jimin’s suggestion to form a coalition, such as Jungkook had done with his
three closest friends and co-conspirators, that encouraged Taehyung to enlist the aid of a gaggle of
young twenty-somethings, newly recruited by Geomjeong-pa. The ink of their dagger tattoos had
not yet dried and they were already in disbelieve at their luck that the Butcher himself was calling
them to arms. But Jimin saw what Taehyung was doing the moment he laid eyes on the boys. They
were idiots. Young, strong, foolhardy idiots, and that was exactly what Taehyung needed.

“What did you tell them and why are they all carrying baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire?
We’re going to a lounge bar where the men will all be fully armed with guns,” he said worriedly, as
the sky above darkened to a velvet black and the young men piled into the back of an armoured
van.

“I told them bullets would fly, but whoever overcame their fear enough to use the bats alone and
take out every last motherfucker in that VIP suite, would become part of my elite Black Cap
squad.”

“Your elite what now?” Jimin repeated.

Taehyung held out his hand and Wonho reached into a silver briefcase carried by another guard
and flipped a cap towards him. It was designed in the fashion of a newsboy cap, with a short rim
that jutted out. Taehyung set it on Jimin’s head, coming in closer until their toes were flush, but
careful not to show any further signs of intimacy with the men standing around.

“Oh look, first member,” Taehyung sang.

“Do I have to go charging in with a baseball bat?” Jimin arched an eyebrow.

“You’re not expendable, nightingale, so that’s a hard no.”

“And what will you do if they all end up being riddled with bullets?”

“Then, the cavalry arrives.” Taehyung gestured to a couple other vans just behind, glowing blue in
the light coming from Cersei’s tank.

“Taehyung, you’re gambling with lives – “ Jimin’s sentence was cut short as Taehyung grabbed his
arm and steered him towards the back of one of the vans. He pulled open a door to reveal six men
inside, all in black, snipers cradled between their legs.

“There are going to be snipers all around the bar. I’m not playing with lives. I’m seeing which one
of those boys are willing to risk theirs for me. But I won’t just let them die. They’ll think they’re
succeeding at the impossible when they see the men drop, and naturally, their brains will be wired
to believe being loyal to me achieves that. And then what do you get? Life-long allegiance. You
don’t trust me at all, do you? And to think, you were the one who suggested a coalition.” He
slammed the van doors shut and walked back to the Phantom on quick, and rather annoyed
footsteps.

Jimin said nothing until he was safely seated in the back with all the doors closed to the outside
world. Only then did he reach out and squeeze Taehyung’s arm with a little smile.
“I’m impressed how short a time it took for you to arrange all this,” he said honestly.

“Yes, well, anger is a funny thing. Took me half an afternoon to overthrow Mother because you
and Jungkook pissed me off. Now just imagine what you’re about to witness,” was Taehyung’s
curt response.

Regardless of the warning, it did little to prepare Jimin for what was about to happen.
 If This Is Love, Please Stop
Chapter Notes

I realise there’s now a new tag at the top of the story, but for the sake of my sanity and
yours, let’s not focus on it until it comes into play? Aight. (some of ya’ll are gonna
hate me for this chapter but I finished it whilst livestreaming the BBMAs so pity me
and leave a comment for my dedication)

Trigger Warning: Graphic, disturbing violence, extreme blasphemy (this will be triggering if
you're religious - I am not, however I understand people have different sensibilities so please
feel free to skip the smut at the end).

A week passed in uncomfortable co-habitation.

Seokjin was comparatively gentle with Jungkook during the day time. But at night, when he had to
suffer the inconvenience of the small couch, and hearing Jungkook wake up screaming, he was not
so patient. Namjoon often returned late, to find Seokjin sitting with his arms folded in the window,
plugs in his ears, whilst Jungkook wept in the other room.

“What are you doing?” Namjoon said to him on the third night it happened. He plucked out the
plugs, startling Seokjin from his tired daze. His eyes were red, face white as a sheet in the
translucent moonlight.

“I’m sitting. What are you doing?” Seokjin muttered, snatching the plugs back.

“He’s crying in the other room.”

“I know. That’s why I put the plugs in.”

“I refuse to believe you’re that heartless. I realise you’re going through some shit of your own right
now, but that boy in there didn’t deserve what he got. Try and help or find somewhere else to say.
Try your luck with the police, perhaps.”

Seokjin launched himself on his feet, shoving at Namjoon’s broad chest. “You’ve tried that threat
before. We both know you’d never let me out of here, don’t kid yourself. And as for him – “ he
jabbed a finger furiously at the bedroom door, “ – he made his mistake, and now he has to put up
with what he did. Who the fuck told him to kill Taehyung’s friend? Who? He acted illogically, just
like he always does and this time, he fucked with the wrong person and I wasn’t around to protect
him! That is what he gets!”

Through the duration of Seokjin’s speech, the sobbing in the bedroom quietened. It was absolutely
silent by the time Seokjin finished. They both glanced towards the door as one.

“He probably heard half of that,” Namjoon muttered.

“Why do you care? Why are you acting like his dad?” Seokjin snapped. “You have no relation to
him!”

“I found myself wanting more for him in the short term I was undercover, alright? It’s not his fault
he was born into such a shit-show but that boy as you say, has so much more to give the world than
what you set him to do!” That was indeed his problem. He saw potential in people the world had
essentially given up on.

“Do you want me to go in there and comfort him? Is that it?”

“It would be a good start – “

Seokjin shoved him aside, grabbed his shirt and put it on, before marching to the bedroom.
Namjoon closed his eyes and sank onto the window sill with a defeated sigh.

The room was dark, and once Seokjin closed the door, the last sliver of light was gone. Jungkook
was quiet, but his breathing indicated he was still very much awake. He was curled up, though his
legs were at a diagonal angle, lying straight. He normally fell asleep in a foetal position, something
he had done since childhood. It was a strange thing for Seokjin to find his heart tightening over this
habit of Jungkook’s, now that he saw he couldn’t do it anymore.
“Do you want something?” Seokjin asked. It came out harsher than intended, and he softened it
with specifying, “Water? Tea? Something to help you asleep? They gave you sedatives at the
hospital didn’t they?”

“Please don’t give me sleeping pills,” Jungkook whispered.

Seokjin sniffed, pressing his hand to his face, before going to the bed and sitting down beside him.
His hand hovered over Jungkook’s shoulder, trailing down, and then back up to touch his arm. He
squeezed it a little, but for a person who was unaccustomed to giving comfort, Seokjin was indeed
struggling. He recalled Joohyun, when she had one of her nightmares and how he had learned to
comfort her. Fields of Gold. She loved that song. Seokjin thought it slightly ridiculous to be
singing it to a grown man, but Jungkook looked incredibly small under the sheets, and his
shoulders were shaking under Seokjin’s hand. Much like Joohyun’s used to do.

He let his hand rest against Jungkook’s head and began to sing-whisper.

“You'll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold…”

Seokjin paused, his voice failing him. His fingers continued to thread through Jungkook’s hair. It
was silky to the touch, slightly greasy at the roots due to being unwashed for a couple days. His
shoulder wasn’t shaking as badly now, but he was still sniffing from time to time. Seokjin took a
breath and continued, with a little more feeling.

“So she took her love for to gaze awhile upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold~”

He didn’t know what he was trying to do but he decided that was better than nothing. And he dug
into the deeper well of empathy he had suppressed since Joohyun’s death, to say, “It seems like the
end of the world right now, but this will pass too. I promise.”

Jungkook said nothing for a long while. Seokjin was just about to leave, believing he was asleep,
when he spoke again. “I’m sorry…” it came out as a whimper, a soft, breathy plea. He was still
crying, he was just hiding it better. Seokjin leaned over to brush back his hair off his forehead and
sure enough, his hand connected with Jungkook’s damp cheek.

“For what?” he asked.

“For being born. For everything. I’m sorry. I fucking ruin everything,” Jungkook whimpered.

Yes, you fucking do, Seokjin couldn’t help thinking sharply. But it wasn’t as angry as he meant it.
He just felt despondent as he strokes Jungkook’s cheek. No, it wasn’t his fault. It never was.

Jungkook was never raised right. Neither his grandfather, or Seokjin had had time for him. He had
lived as an only child in a household that was intensely hypermasculine, with violence all around
him. He had always been quiet, knowing to keep himself in corners and cry on his own if he had to
cry at all. Seokjin’s mother had loathed him till the day she died. And once Seokjin was married,
he once against ignored Jungkook because he simply did not believe the child needed anything
more than the roof over his head and the endless luxuries he already appeared to have.

So, no, it wasn’t Jungkook’s fault. The fault was so infinitely fractional, assigned to several other
people in his life, but only a comparatively small amount was on Jungkook’s own head.

“You shouldn’t have killed Hoseok,” Seokjin admitted. “But I see where you were coming from I
suppose. You’ve only ever known what I taught you, which was to wrap up loose ends, and I didn’t
teach you very well which ones to pick.”

Jungkook turned, wiping his eyes. “Where did Taehyung after he left Jimin and I in Serpent Noir?”

Seokjin did not veil the true with extra words to soften the blow. “He overthrew me with Choi
Minsoo’s help. He’s kingpin now.”

Jungkook said nothing. What was there to say, really? It was a situation beyond words. It was
against the natural order of things.

Taehyung was a jackal, a greedy, vicious predator who knew nothing but the hunt and scavenging
on dead meat to get what he wanted. He had upturned an order defined by the jungle where the lion
pride sat at the top. Seokjin had been without his pride for quite some time, but he was both lion
and lioness, the King and the Huntress in one. He had not needed anything else, or anyone. And it
was that which created his downfall. Jungkook was simply an unknowing catalyst. Seokjin
struggled to find words to convince Jungkook of this so his self-hatred would let him sleep, but
they did not come.

So, Seokjin sat with him, waiting for his breathing to calm of its own accord, until he himself
leaned over and drifted off on the bed beside his nephew.

The next morning, some level of normality presented itself to their situation for the first time since
Jungkook arrived.

He agreed to be seated in his wheelchair again, though he clearly loathed it. It was Easter Sunday,
though didn’t mean much for any of them. Seokjin was Buddhist, Namjoon was atheist, and
Jungkook had no particular belief system. And yet, there was still an uneaten chocolate egg sitting
in the centre of the table, bought by Namjoon at the store after the lady behind the counter insisted
he should take one as there was an offer on them. No one was touching it now. It was just there, a
sad little centrepiece.

“What happened to Jimin?” Seokjin said suddenly, as he fumbled about with the tea bags.

Namjoon reached over and showed him the tag on the bag went on the outside of the cup before
pouring from the kettle. “The sketches of him have been withdrawn from the news channel.
Taehyung’s work no doubt.”

Jungkook’s head lifted from where he was listlessly flicking through a newspaper. In his hand,
he’d been twirling a kitchen knife for the past ten minutes. It was a comforting sensation to be able
to do it, made him feel a little less useless. He stabbed the blade into the table abruptly, forcing
both Namjoon and Seokjin to turn.

Seokjin smirked. “You should have just killed that boy when you had the chance. No point
stabbing blades into tables now.”

“Please don’t. I don’t have the money to spare on new furniture,” Namjoon said.
Jungkook ignored both their suggestions. “I love him, that’s why. Do you even understand what
love is?”

He expected a swift, merciless answer, but he got none. Seokjin’s words caught in his throat as his
gaze transfixed on Jungkook. Namjoon nudged him and he was brought back to his senses with a
little start.

“Yes…I do, as a matter of fact. Hence, I know it’s a mistake.”

“Never lose your sarcasm, hyung. It’s always entertaining,” Jungkook smiled bitterly.

He wheeled himself back into the living room and Seokjin turned on Namjoon. “We can’t go on
like this. The three of us under one roof. And he needs to start physiotherapy sessions which I can’t
take him to, and you’re too busy to.”

“Well, you have the money for a live-in nurse. I don’t. If you want help, buy it,” Namjoon told
him.

Seokjin slammed down the teabag container. “I fucking loathe this. I was not born helpless. I
haven’t lived my life in this way, ever.”

“Well, stop feeling sorry for yourself because one of us is a disgraced cop and the other is
paralysed. You’re the only one doing pretty alright considering what your previous vocation was.”

“I don’t think you understand what I mean. By helpless, I mean idle. I’m not doing anything. My
brain is doing nothing. There’s nothing to do. At least if you handed me over to the police, there’d
be some action. Those still loyal to me in Geomjeong-pa would know I’m still alive. I have plenty
of men in the prisons right now. It wouldn’t matter where they jailed me, I’d have followers.”

“You talk like it’s some sort of cult,” Namjoon sneered.

“It is a cult. It was a cult, all safely wrapped up in my fucking skirts until Taehyung decided to rip
them up.”
“Speaking of Taehyung, I’ve seen him in action in this past month or so. I keep hearing things
through the grapevine. That serial killer they call the “Butcher”, those dead boys – they’re
connected to him. They all resemble him in some form or other and I don’t know what sick game
this is that he’s playing, but he can’t be allowed to play it for longer. It’s in the city’s – and
Jungkook’s – best interest to get you back in your condo.”

Seokjin didn’t think he’d heard Namjoon right for a minute. “Are you saying what I think you’re
saying?”

Namjoon nodded, not meeting his eyes, and went to the living room to join Jungkook. Seokjin
followed close behind.

“You’re going to help me retake Geomjeong-pa?” he laughed.

Jungkook’s eyebrows lifted as he pulled his attention from the TV to fixate on the two of them.
Namjoon sighed.

“Between you and Taehyung, I’d go for you. The lesser of two evils by far,” he admitted. “But
only because the police of this city won’t do to you what you deserve.”

Seokjin lowered to the couch, still laughing a little. Namjoon eyed him, forgetting to look away.
There was something awfully light hearted about the way his mouth stretched into a smile. It was
pretty. There was no other word to describe it. But his eyes remained sharp, feline as ever, the line
of his eyebrows matching their flowing shape.

“I’ve only ever heard my father’s stories of how he built this syndicate from scratch. He never
taught me how to overtake one. I inherited it. I was not taught to lay siege, simply yo maintain the
kingdom and stretch its borders,” he admitted.

Namjoon put the cup to his lips, letting the herbal tea infuse over his tongue. Jungkook had just
taken a mouthful of cereal, and was now watching them, eyes flicking between both.

“The police have various methods of sabotage we use to isolate individual bosses and dismantle
mafia operations. Most commonly those specialising in human trafficking. Once we have an idea
of how many of Geomjeong-pa’s members want you back, it wouldn’t be hard to employ those
tactics,” Namjoon said.
“I can use lace the water systems in the red-light districts of Yongsan-gu with DMT. That should
slow down business some,” Jungkook supplied. “It’s Choi Minsoo’s main hub.”

“You are not going to lace an entire water system,” Namjoon said sharply.

Seokjin scoffed. “Jungkook’s idea works far better. Imagine. They’ll all start fighting each other as
they hallucinate, and the bloodshed will be miraculous.”

“Guerrilla tactics like that aren’t feasible,” Namjoon argued.

“Then what? Good old assassination nation?” Seokjin said.

“Patience, first and foremost. And knowledge,” Namjoon answered. “It’s Taehyung you’re trying
to take down. You need to know all his ins and outs, his weaknesses, every last one.”

“He has one, and he’s got him in his grasp.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Jungkook closed his mouth as both of them turned to stare at him. He
took his sweet time, wiping his mouth with a napkin before sitting back in his wheelchair. Out of
habit, he struck his knees a couple times. No feeling. It was as if every time he did it, he expected
there to be some spark of a sensation. He was always disappointed. “I have another one of his
weaknesses. He’s unaware of it though.”

“What do you have, Jungkook?” Seokjin said, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Kim Bong Ju.”

“I thought you killed him. That’s the whole reason he burned down the Serpent Noir and left you
and Jimin for dead.”

“I didn’t.”
Seokjin sat up, and Jungkook saw the cogs whirring in his brain. “He’s alive?”

“Hidden. And you’re not getting to him. He’s our last resort as a bargaining chip,” Jungkook said.

“And who the hell are you to tell me that?” Seokjin snapped.

“I have my reasons, hyung.”

“Tell me what they are, otherwise I will wheel you out of here and leave you somewhere
Taehyung’s goons can snatch you away – “

“Kim Bong Ju is my father too.”

Namjoon’s fingers tightened on his cup. The only sound in the room was the chatter of the TV, but
it lowered when he reached for the buttons on the remote. Seokjin sat leaning forward, frozen in
position as he stared at Jungkook.

“He’s your what now?” he said.

“My dad,” Jungkook repeated. “He told me he had a fling with my mother. And that he never
bothered claiming me because your family took me in. Which means…Taehyung is my brother.”

Seokjin let out a sound of scorn and sank back against the couch with a hysterical shout of a laugh.
“Of course, he is!”

“I’m not kidding. He’s the reason my mom killed herself. I wasn’t going to kill the only family I
have left.”

“He’s not the only – “ Seokjin stopped, as the words came out in a growl. Then, he clenched his
fist, released it and continued calmly. “He’s a good bargaining chip, Jungkook, I hope you see that.
Taehyung won’t kill him, so why would you let him believe he’s dead?”

“Because I’m sick of sharing everything with that man,” Jungkook spat.
“You are a spoilt brat who deserves to be spanked – “

“And if Taehyung had him, he’d be the one to find out who Bong Ju’s third son is,” Jungkook
interrupted loudly.

“Third kid?” Namjoon finally spoke up. He set down the cup. “Who?” He didn’t know why he
was so interested, except this was quite a family saga and despite himself, he was starting to be
more and more intrigued with how strangely things were turning out. Jungkook looked pale as he
recounted his blood relation to Taehyung, as if everything inside him was screaming in protest
against it. Namjoon didn’t blame him. And then a freak flash of remembrance followed in which
he thought of the night when Jimin and Taehyung had been at Jungkook’s place, the night
everyone was either getting drunk and high. He remembered the three of them gradually go
upstairs and his eyes widened. “Didn’t you – that night – “ he trailed off as Jungkook’s scowl
turned on him.

Seokjin’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Now that I think of it, weren’t you three together that night?”

There was a loaded silence as it hit them at the same time, the truth of what had happened.
Jungkook looked sick to his stomach so neither, thankfully, continued on the subject. Though
Seokjin looked to be quelling much distaste as he glanced at Jungkook through the corner of his
eye.

“He won’t tell you who his third kid is then?” he asked “Not that we need to know, or care.”

“Taehyung has no family left. Minus Jungkook, I think he’d be more than eager to get his father
back and a possible new brother,” Namjoon said. “Not that I’m playing Devil’s Advocate and
saying we should use this third child as a bartering tool.”

“And yet that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Seokjin said, “Keep the secret about Jungkook quiet.
Find the third boy, threaten to slit his gullet and burn his father alive and watch Taehyung dance to
the tune of Danse Macabre in an effort to stop both things from happening. I think the plan is very
simple and you are are overcomplicating it with your humanity, Officer Kim. All we need from
you, Jungkook, is the whereabouts of Bong Ju.”

“I’m not telling you,’ Jungkook said bluntly. “I don’t trust you.”
Seokjin rolled his eyes. “You’d be right not to. But we need to find the third brat somehow. How
do you plan on doing that?”

Jungkook fidgeted as he saw Namjoon shake his head slightly. He glanced back at Seokjin and his
loyalty was clearly being tested. Seokjin won out.

“Dad knows,” he said. “Where the kid is.”

“He’s Dad now?” Seokjin arched his eyebrow.

Jungkook ignored the pointed comment. “He was the one who arranged the adoption. And there’s
one more thing. The kid’s mother is Go Ara. Jimin’s mom.”

This couldn’t have get any more convoluted, not in the opinion of a shell shocked, yet intrigued
Namjoon. Even Seokjin’s jaw dropped for a second on that one.

“This Kim Bong Ju sure got around,” Namjoon muttered.

“Not surprising, considering how his eldest son slings his dick around,” Seokjin snapped. “Birds of
a fucking feather. I cannot believe this clan is about to be the death of all my father worked to
build.”

“Hyung, I’m on your side, I swear. I’m just not going to let you near Dad because I know how you
get,” Jungkook said firmly. “I’ll coax him to find out where the third kid is. Though if he’s from a
rich family, you’ll probably have a hard time getting to him.”

“Scratch asking your father. If he’s as stubborn as you and your brother, he won’t open his mouth.
We’ll have to use alternative routes. Someone in the Park household must have known Ara gave
birth to a living son. I remember hearing she had a still birth around 2003. Was that when the child
was born?”

“There was a maid, though he didn’t give me her name,” Jungkook said slowly. “She was the one
who helped orchestrate the lie.”
“Great. So, now we have to go through an entire record of the staff members registered to have
been working at the Park household. What fun. I’d rather be slitting your father’s throat over a
basin and forcing Taehyung to watch on livestream.” Seokjin was crackling with furious energy,
and both Namjoon and Jungkook knew better than to say a word.

He went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Jungkook let out the breath he was
holding and strangled a clump of his hair with his fingers. His jaw tightened and he scraped his fist
over his thigh, hammering it. Namjoon watched, heart sinking.

“Physiotherapy starts tomorrow. Stick to it and I promise you’ll be better,” he said.

“I’m never going to be the way I was,” Jungkook said quietly.

“No, you might not be able to run. Or be as active as you might want. But you will be able to walk
using a cane at least. Miracles happen all the time.”

“Not to the Kim family,” Jungkook smiled bitterly. “Because that’s what I am, aren’t I? Korean
children take their father’s name, not their mother’s. I’m a Kim, not a Jeon. We’re not very lucky in
this family.”

Namjoon really had nothing to say to that.

It was indescribable.

Yes, that was the word Jimin would use to think of the night later.
The tension in the car, all the way to Incheon was taut as a metal wire. He didn’t say much and
Taehyung was too busy snorting lines off a tray to converse. He was getting himself buzzed in
preparation. Jimin watched from the corner of his eyes as line after line disappeared up Taehyung’s
nose, and he threw his head back to wipe his nostrils. His eyes were red by the time he finished. He
growled, muttering to himself as he busily fumbled about in his pockets, searching for something.
It was quite like watching an agitated animal in a cage. Jimin winced as Taehyung grabbed for a
bottle of champagne in the cooler and almost let it slip. He reached for it in silence, peeling off the
foil and popping the cork for him.

“Thanks,” Taehyung said, a muscle popping in his jaw as he clenched the glass like a vice.

“You’ll break it if you hold that hard,” Jimin admonished gently.

Taehyung didn’t hear, or simply chose to ignore. He downed the glass, holding it out for a refill
immediately. Jimin poured, face souring. By the time Taehyung held it out for a third time, he said,
“Would you like me to empty the bottle down your fucking throat?”

Taehyung laughed, a chaotic sound that made the hair on the back of Jimin’s neck rise. He lunged
across the seat, grabbed the back of Jimin’s head and forced their lips together. The younger was
pressed to the side of the door, almost dropping the bottle in his hands as he tasted the bitter touch
of cocaine coating the inside of Taehyung’s lips. He almost retched when they broke apart, wiping
his mouth, with a distinctly disgusted expression.

“Can you please not kiss me with champagne and cocaine on your tongue?” he groaned. “You
have no self-awareness at all.”

Taehyung simply grunted, proving Jimin’s point with stunning perfection. He had an earpiece
fitted which he kept talking into, no doubt giving instructins to the snipers as they took up their
various positional points.

Taehyung had been around this particular lounge bar in Incheon before, and had stalked and had
once taken out a mobster suspected by Mother of selling trade secrets to the Yakuza. Taehyung
knew the streets surrounding the bar well, including all the roofs and vantage points for snipers to
set up in cover of darkness. Jimin still thought it incredibly sadistic that the group of young men
armed only with barbed wire bats were going into this thinking that was their only defence against
bullets. Taehyung’s methods were strange, in that he believed everyone else to have the same
streak of madness as he did.
Except, when Jimin saw them jump from the van, a few still had tell-tale dustings of white around
their nostrils. Madness streaks could be snorted, through the nose. Of course. The operation was
incredibly silent, for how viciously hyped the group had been before they set off. The road was
wide and lit up only by traffic lights and the odd street lamp. Road blocks were set up one side, and
as a few men went down to patrol them, it was clear the blocks weren’t official.

“Did you do as I asked earlier?” Taehyung said, as he slid on his gloves.

“What if I hadn’t? Bit late in the day to be asking, no?” Jimin said.

“Jimin, for fuck’s sake – “

“Yes, I paid them off.” By them he meant the local police precinct. The agreed time to wait before
responding to to any 119 calls that came in from this area was forty minutes. It would provide
ample opportunity for Taehyung’s men to vacate the premises and leave only the collateral damage
as the bodies of note were taken with them.

Jimin glanced upwards, as the clouds floated away from the moon. The night was pleasant. Stars
twinkled, and combined with the light of the moon, swathed the street in lovely pale light. It was
like one of those old mafia movies, where the man wore long black coats and hats and stood armed
with guns in gloved hands, casting long shadows on the ground. Taehyung was in the centre, black
cap fitted on his head, ears sticking out the sides. Surrounding him were the boys, ten of them in
total, conversing in excited whispers, as their barbed bats cast ominous shadows across the floor.

“You coming in?” Taehyung asked Jimin, and as he did, he flashed him a grin. The sort of
patronising expression that said Aw, I know you’re way too soft to.

“Why not?” Jimin smiled emptily.

Taehyung scoffed, signalling to Wonho in the car. The man stepped out, holding in his hands a box
covered in black leather and clasped with silver. He flicked it open and inside, nestled innocently in
velvet, was a gun, carved with the Geomjeong-pa symbol on its stainless steel finish. It was just a
weapon, but it was exquisite. Jimin couldn’t help but reach out to touch it, but before he could,
Taehyung’s hand came between his and the box.

“That’s for if we make it out of there alive, nightingale,” he chuckled. “That’s what you’re taking
in with you.” He nodded at one of the guards, who promptly reached into the back of the armoured
van that had housed the snipers and lifted out a Moekov rifle. Jimin’s heart sank as he saw the
familiar size and shape. It was not the same weapon Mother had forced into his hands at Blue
Tails. But it had the same manic energy and power, and the minute it was put into his hands, he felt
a deadness creep into his limbs. And yet even so, his hands slid smoothly into place, as if holding
it was second nature.

“You don’t have to be in on the action, but you can take out whoever the snipers fail to get. No
lethal shots. I don’t want them to die by the force of the bats. Arms, knees, shoulders, that sort of
thing – enough to take them down. Understood?” Taehyung said, as if he was walking him
through a manual on how to assemble an Ikea drawer.

Jimin nodded, numbness forcing the corners of his mind to shut down. He wondered if holding a
rifle would always have this effect.

At one signal from the boss, the men who weren’t going to be going inside, melted into the
shadows until it was only Taehyung, Jimin and the ten hooligans who believed this to be an
honour. It was like watching the Peaky Blinders gang going in for the kill. Taehyung was at the
front, and there had to be something said for that. It was the age-old morale boost of the general on
the frontlines, something Mother did not do. Men were designed to respect bravery, and Taehyung
had plenty of it, no one could take that from him. Jimin’s fingers tightened on the rifle as he felt his
sweat glands go into overdrive. He could only imagine the horror of his fingers slipping as he tried
to pull the trigger, and all the while, the person pulling the gun on Taehyung would manage to
squeeze theirs just fine.

“There’s going to be a lot of collateral damage tonight, boys. But keep in mind, every single person
in the place is a mobster, or a mobster’s girlfriend, wife, friend, whatever. Kill with impunity.
They’re all spending their time with Yoo Sang Woo, they’re all the enemy. Do not hesitate with
the women. They’re as dangerous as any of the men in there. Break every single bone, bludgeon
every face until you can’t tell if it’s a male or a female. Got it?”

The pep talk wasn’t even necessary on the short route up to the well-lit building. The brand-new
Black Cap squad were already prepared to destroy everything in their path. The bouncers at the
door barely nodded their heads upon seeing their approach and moved aside, already paid in full.
There was no one smoking outside, and Jimin remembered thinking how bizarre. The reason was
explained later, but it struck him as profoundly eerie at the time.

The back entrance into the bar led through into a narrow hallway, with a door at the end which
opened directly onto the stage. The sound of a jazz ensemble echoed through, a lilting saxophone
fluttering out the first notes to Wonderful Tonight. Cheers rang out and Jimin frowned. Usually,
such enthusiasm was not shown for a jazz band playing in the background. It had to be some
special performance for which everyone had gathered. No wonder there weren’t any smokers
outside.
A man stepped through into the backstage area and walked directly into Taehyung’s waiting hands.
He didn’t even see it coming, tipsy and laughing as he looked over his shoulder. When his head
turned, Taehyung’s hands gripped both sides of it. With one swift motion, he snapped his neck
around. The crack was sickening, and he slumped. Muffled laughter rang out through the Black
Caps behind, and the impatience to charge through onto the stage increased. But Taehyung
lingered by the crack in the door, a soft smile on his perfect features as he listened to the
saxophone. He met Jimin’s gaze and the smile faded just a little. Then, his eyes hardened, and he
held up his hand.

Three…two…one…

Taehyung snapped his hand down.

The doors burst open, and Jimin’s world filled with dancing, laughter, light and music.

The soft, sweet wonderful strains of jazz. By some miracle, the Black Caps traversed and
descended from the stage, managing to completely avoid the jazz band. Everything appeared to
move in slow motion, as these things often did. Jimin instinctively knew the stage was where he
had to remain. It was the best vantage point to pick out the odd survivor who could stand or reach
for a gun. The snipers were already doing their job, as proven by the holes appearing in the
windows and the startled yells. The Black Caps fell on the crowd as if they were following behind
Genghis Khan himself, savage, bloodthirsty and chaotic. There were only ten of them, as compared
to at least forty others in the room, swift as a Dothraki horde with far less organisation.

The music stopped, and Jimin noticed the musicians were only kids. Most of them looked like
teenagers. And then he looked into the crowd and saw far more dresses than he had expected. It
was some sort of mob family get-together and the kids on the stage were performing for their
parents.

There was no time to ponder on it further. The victims were fighting back. This was unlike Blue
Tails. He had to make a conscious decision to shoot, and ensure it was non-fatal. Wherever he saw
the glint of a barrel, or an outstretched arm, he fired. He saw Yoo Sang Woo, dragged through a
pool of his disembowelled wife’s blood as half her intestines hung out through the gash in her
belly. He saw Taehyung snapping necks left and right, having abandoned his bat. He was so
fucking high it was terrifying to watch. He slammed people into the sides of tables to curb stomp
them, their teeth skittering like tiny white insects all over the wood floors.

Both the assailants and the victims were falling left and right, slipping in the blood. There was so
much. Jimin shot a few more knee caps, and one of the Black Caps went around, collecting the
guns he found and piling them in a corner.

“KEEP PLAYING!” Taehyung roared, finally realising the music had stopped.

His head whipped around, droplets of blood flying from the ends of it. It looked like he had fallen
headfirst on the ground at some point and landed in a pool of the scarlet fluid. His eyes were red,
his face was red, only his teeth were white bared in the soft lounge light. Demon, thought Jimin,
and he felt no repulsion. Instead, he looked at Taehyung and he saw past the psychotic mask. He
saw…him.

Once upon a time, that was a difficult enough task to maintain even without standing in the eye of
the storm and the metallic cloying scent of blood befuddling him. Jimin bit back the urge to scream
– he didn’t need cocaine to go insane, the smell of blood was enough – and turned to leap back
onto the stage.

“Play,” he nudged the saxophonist with the end of his rifle. The boy’s large eyes were wet, and his
hands shook as he held the instrument. He was in shock, staring through Jimin as if he were
invisible. The girl seated behind the drums, her hand convulsing on her knee, the sticks she held
rattling against the cymbal. Her long hair covered her face and a high-pitched keen sounded from
her. The pianist had fainted. The bass player was hyperventilating. The guitarist was on the ground,
crying like a baby. They were barely seventeen.

Taehyung launched onto the stage, crashing into the saxophonist and nearly sending him flying.

“Play, or I will rip your jaw in half,” he hissed, pressing the end of a baseball bat against the boy’s
head.

“What’s your name?” Jimin asked softly, reaching out to touch his ear, as if muffling it from the
squelching sounds of someone getting their guts rearranged and physically torn from their body
with a barbed wire bat, would help in any way, shape or form.

“J-J-J-Jihoon,” he answered, sobbing between each stutter.

“Alright, Jihoon, if you play to the end of your piece, you can walk out of here unharmed. All of
you can,” Jimin said. “Play.”
Taehyung hit the drum with his bat and the girl behind it screamed, grabbing the sticks on cue.
Despite the shock and fear they were forced to push through, their hands were steady, though
Jihoon’s lungs failed him a couple times as he blew into the saxophone. Jimin glanced around at
the room as Taehyung dove back in and saw only the upright figures of the Black Caps. Minus one.
Nine out of ten still alive. A remarkable achievement.

Jimin pushed the pianist off the stool and his unconscious body tumbled to the ground with a heavy
thud. He wiped some of the blood on his hands off on his thighs and stroked the keys, as gently as
if the piano were his lover. He cooed gently to Jihoon, signalling that he turn his back to the rest of
the room. The others were doing the same, and the drummer’s hair was shielding her eyes from the
horror.

“And then I tell her, as I turn out the light

I say, "My darling, you were wonderful tonight~”

Jimin sang to encourage them, and in his mind, he was screaming, Oh my god, this is bizarre, this
is so, so bizarre. His fingers missed a few keys - they were shaking hard - but it didn’t matter
because the kids could barely keep up anyway. In the madness of things, he forgot it was one of his
mother’s favourite songs. He would never think of it in such a way again.

Jimin choked as he felt something wet hit his cheek. He had no doubt it was blood, but it felt
substantial, more than liquid and he didn’t want to look down to see where it landed. One of the
Black Caps almost slipped against the stage, as he filmed with a camera, laughing at the top of his
lungs, whilst another pretended to hump the split open head of a dead woman.

Jimin tensed as he felt someone come up behind him. Two arms landed on the piano either side of
his head and he felt Taehyung’s hot breath on his neck before he heard it, heavy and strained. Jimin
shifted, feeling the rifle between his legs tilt from one knee to the other. “Don’t,” he murmured, but
Taehyung did anyway. He leaned in, pressing his face against the side of Jimin’s neck, leaving a
massive bloody imprint. Jimin wriggled, half enjoying it and being disgusted in equal measure. He
looked over the top of the piano to see Yoo Sang Woo held aloft by two of Black Caps, cursing and
screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Why is he yelling at the kid?” Taehyung said suddenly, noticing the way Jihoon was crying
again. “Oy, kid, what’s your name?”

He released the saxophone, and as one, the rest of the instruments died away also. He could barely
speak past sobs, as he stuttered, “Yoo Jihoon.”
“That’s his dad,’ Jimin said in horror. “And that’s his – “ he stopped before he said ‘mother’, as he
didn’t think Jihoon could see her from where he was. He had to have known she was dead, but it
was probably better he couldn’t see the state of her post-mortem.

“How old are you all?” Taehyung asked, straightening up.

“Taehyung – “ Jimin said, but he went ignored as Taehyung’s hand went down to the rifle. He tried
to close his legs so he couldn’t take it but that was a futile idea.

One by one, they revealed their ages. All, except one were eighteen. The pianist was nineteen.
They were cousins and family friends to one another, with all their parents in attendance that night.
Apparently, it was someone’s birthday. Whoever it was, was now dead. Taehyung lifted the rifle.

“I thought you said you don’t kill kids!” Jimin exclaimed, grabbing at his elbow.

“When you leave grown kids alive after killing their parents, they turn into you,” Taehyung spat.

Not a single one of them had any time to react. He was swift, going for killing shots instantly. And
then he turned to the one on the ground. Jimin let out a cry as Taehyung put the barrel to the
unconscious kid’s head and pulled the trigger. Brain matter splattered all over Jimin’s trouser leg
and he threw up on the piano keys.

“Fuck,” he choked, retching as the bitter taste in his mouth elicited a further reaction of upheaval
from his stomach.

Taehyung was already halfway across the room where Yoo Sang Woo was in hysterics after
watching his son gunned down.

Jimin stood, slowly, feeling his limbs scream in protest. A terrible lead weight burdened his chest,
making him half bend over as he stepped off the stage. There was so much blood he had to resort to
sitting on the steps and sliding down one by one. One of the Black Caps had his hands wrist deep
in Mrs Yoo’s belly, pulling out the fleshy ropes of her intestines. He then proceeded looped them
around Yoo Sang Woo’s neck easily enough. As if from a distant biology lesson, Jimin recalled
small intestines being weaker, and the larger ones having firmer tensile strength. No, it wasn’t
from a biology lesson. He’d been to a pig farm with his father once. Or was it Taehyung who had
mentioned the fact? He couldn’t remember. All he knew, was that Mrs Yoo’s guts were doing a
remarkable job of strangling the life out of her husband. Several coils of the intestine lumped
around his neck, like the tentacles of some deformed octopus.
Jimin moaned under his breath and bent over to heave again as the smell grew unbearable. The
bats had split open more than one gut and the stink was coming from the sheer number of ruptured
colons.

At the centre of the mound of bloodied limbs, spilling innards and pools of blood, stood Taehyung.
He had the rifle over one shoulder, as his other hand leaned on the bat, and he maintained eye
contact with Yoo Sang Woo as the last dregs of his life slipped away. Somewhere in the back,
Wonho entered, signalling that the police had received their first call and the forty-minute
countdown started now.

Of all the bodies, Yoo Sang Woo’s received the worst treatment. His head had been crushed in,
pieces of skull still clinging to the gooey strings of flesh peeling from his face. He was cut from his
anus up to his throat by grace of the meat cleaver Taehyung had brought along for the occasion.
His intestines had been pulled in much the same manner as his wife and his genitals had been
chopped off and stuffed into her mouth.

Vile, gratuitous and unnecessary.

Jimin had the strongest sensation of wanting to die the more he looked.

Taehyung allowed the Black Caps to have the last of their fun, before the Yoo family corpses were
carried out in bin bags. Jimin watched, emptier than a shell as Jihoon was bundled up, and thrown
in with his mother. Never had he seen human bodies disposed of like garbage in such a way.
Taehyung had already decided they would be dropped at the steps of the current Mayor of Incheon.
A not-so-subtle warning. Jimin knew what Taehyung would do with the video made of the entire
ordeal. It was a snuff film to rival Yoo Sang Woo’s endless exploits with the young boys, raped,
drugged and slaughtered like cattle. He would upload it on the same site the videos of his
lookalikes had been put up on.

If he thought about those videos long and hard enough, Jimin could convince himself for the space
of a few seconds that this was alright. But Jihoon’s tears splashing down the front of his sax as he
played a romantic tune whilst hearing his father’s screams - nothing could justify that sight. Jimin
knew Taehyung had done the logical thing to kill the young man and his friends. He was right
about cutting off vengeance at the root, before it could grow.

But fuck –
Minsoo was already present at Myeongdong Cathedral when they got there an hour later. This
particular detour on the trip Jimin had not been informed of beforehand. It was macabre and
unsettling. Jimin was no Christian himself, but it felt wrong to walk across the threshold of a holy
place with blood dripping from their clothes. Some poor soul would have to clean this up before the
early morning mass.

Taehyung went ahead and whispered something to Minsoo who was already at the altar. The older
man looked pleased as he saw nine out of the ten Black Caps still alive and relatively unharmed.
Behind him, the photographs of eleven boys were propped up, each with a candle underneath. Yoo
Sang Woo’s victims. Jimin went closer to the last one, the one he remembered watching die with a
bar stool brought down upon his skull. He looked so much like Taehyung it was hard to believe it
wasn’t his lover’s face staring back at him through the high school graduation photograph.

“It’s been arranged?” Taehyung slumped down on the altar steps.

“Monetary compensation goes to all the families in the morning, with the express assurance that
Geomjeong-pa has caught the killers,” Minsoo said. “When the detectives knock on their door, I
trust the families will let them know.”

“Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called. Jimin stepped off the dais and walked around to join them, purposely
avoiding getting anywhere near Minsoo. Taehyung pulled him down to sit beside him, arm slung
tight around his shoulder. “I took your suggestion. We’re serving the community now,” he said,
half-smiling as he squeezed Jimin against his side.

“Do you want a medal?” Jimin murmured, eyes hollow.

Taehyung’s smile faded. His grip tightened for a minute, but then he released it, stroking Jimin’s
arm repeatedly. He turned to Minsoo and said, “My cousin isn’t used to such violence. He’s kind of
fainthearted.”
“Are you a Christian, Jimin?” Minsoo smirked.

Jimin shook his head.

Minsoo lifted an embossed card from the alter with the Lord’s Prayer written on it and passed it
over to him. “Pray,” he ordered, before turning to kneel before the cross. As one, the Black Caps
did the same, whilst the rest of the men standing around bowed their heads. Taehyung stroked
Jimin’s hair softly and signalled that he imitate, before getting onto his knees himself.

Jimin didn’t pray. He refused to. This was no godly act. He wasn’t about to break his own
principles to fit in with the strange wiles of Choi Minsoo. But as he stared up at the photographs of
the eleven, he wondered if the violence done tonight had even come close to justifying what had
happened to them. It was a remarkable quandary to be pondering in a cathedral at midnight, whilst
covered in blood and the memory of a man strangled with his own wife’s intestines still fresh in his
mind.

Jimin feared it was only the start of what his life was to become.

“You knew that was his son up there, didn’t you?”

“I swear on everything that you consider holy and sacred, I did not.”

“Yes, you did. I find it hard to believe you didn’t enquire into why they were all gathered there at
that lounge bar. You must have known they’d be there with those kids.” Jimin stopped, letting out
a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

He turned to face Taehyung, halfway up the stairs to the first floor of the condo, and as he did, the
crucifix around his neck whipped the air. Minsoo had put it on him and Jimin had decided that
refusing was not the best idea. Both of them were scarlet red all over, as if they had gone
swimming in blood. Jimin had expected it of Taehyung, but had been surprised to see his own
reflection was equally as bad. The inside of the Phantom was ruined, and their bloody footprints
were now marking a dirty trail from the entrance hall. Taehyung hadn’t missed a beat in ordering
that a new car be used tomorrow and for the Phantom to be taken to the scrapyard.

“Over bloodied upholstery? You’re serious?” Jimin said.

“As serious as the amount of money I have to afford such a thing,” Taehyung shot back.

The atmosphere between them had been chilly in the car to say the least. There was no real
argument. The mood simply dropped, something the pair of them were used to by now.

“You knew,” Jimin said, “But you didn’t care. I would respect you more if you stopped trying to
pretend.”

Taehyung just stared up at him, looking beyond sinister with the blood caking his face like paint.
He stank. They both did. Jimin hated that metallic tang so much, but he’d become far too used to it.

“Alright, I knew,” Taehyung said, “And I was going to kill them anyway. But I forced them to
play, because I’m a sadistic piece of shit who enjoys killing parents in front of their children. I’ve
done it before. I guess I’m worse than my father in that respect. At least he had the courtesy to
knock you out first, right?”

He was trying to rile Jimin up. It was clear in the hissing tone of his voice. Except all the things he
was saying were true. He ascended the last few steps but before he could get on Jimin’s level, the
younger pulled back his fist and slammed it into his jaw. Taehyung almost lost his balance,
grabbing at the railing at the last second. His reflexes were quick, and his fist pulled back also,
fully prepared to strike Jimin in equal measure. But with strength he didn’t even know he had,
Jimin’s hand came up, deflecting it. He kept his fingers crushed around Taehyung’s fist, straining
as it shuddered in his grip and forced him to lower it.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jimin hissed under his breath.

“I thought you liked a little rough and tumble before sex?” Taehyung smirked.

“I’m not having sex with you.”

“Wanna bet?”

The arrogance in his voice, coupled with the blood still marking every inch of his caramel coloured
skin, leaving it red, infuriated Jimin. He turned without answering and marched the last few steps
to his room. But upon hearing Taehyung follow, he spun around in the doorway and held out a
finger, barring him.

“Oh, so that’s the game now?” Taehyung said.

“You’re allowed in my room,” Jimin said. “As long as you get on your knees, and crawl in.”

Taehyung went completely still. The clock on the wall to the right swung its pendulum, left, right,
left, right. Absolutely no sound came from the rest of the house. For once, the condominium was
silent.

“Jimin – “ Taehyung started to say.

“CRAWL!” Jimin roared.

He did not know what came over him. A sort of madness perhaps, derived from the shock of seeing
Taehyung in his purest animal form once again. He had seen him commit all sorts of atrocities but
never something on quite this level. And the fear that wracked Jimin was not the pleasurable kind.
It crept into his bones and spread like black ink, reminding him that Taehyung was a force of
nature and just as one could only run from hurricanes and never fight them, the same principle
applied here.

Or perhaps Taehyung’s consistent use of ‘nightingale’ was reminding Jimin how easily broken his
wings could be should the tables turn again, the way they had in Serpent Noir. If Taehyung
stopped his medication, there was no telling what a further psychotic break could do.

Nightingales were easily butchered after all.

Taehyung lowered, slowly, and sank to his knees. Jimin’s breathing was heavy, eyes wide as he
trembled with barely controlled rage. Taehyung lowered onto his hands too, and then gave Jimin
one last glance before crawling forwards. Jimin stepped back, allowing him through, before
shutting the door.

“Am I allowed to get up now?” Taehyung asked, voice quiet. There was no hint in his voice of
humour.

“Stay on your knees,” Jimin snapped.

There was no discussion about what was happening, or what this new dynamic was. Impulse, as
ever, drove them both. Jimin took his sweet time stripping off his bloodied clothes, dropping them
on the rug where they pooled in a pinkish-red stained mess. In the end, he was only in his boxers
and unbuttoned shirt. Taehyung couldn’t tear his eyes away, following Jimin with them and not
bothering to disguise the need stirring in their depths.

Jimin tore the crucifix from around his neck, and the beads went scattering. He tilted Taehyung’s
face up and shoved the steel cross between his lips, forcing him to clench his teeth around it.

“Don’t let it go,” Jimin whispered. “Maybe it’ll help exorcise you.”

Taehyung giggled, but at Jimin’s expression, straightened out his face. Jimin removed a silk scarf
from his nightstand – his favourite – and tied it around Taehyung’s wrists. His large, strong hands
were limp but Jimin felt a shiver of anticipation go through him just touching them. He knew
Taehyung felt him suppress his desire, because when he looked up, he was watching him, eyes
black. Tugging on his shoulders, Jimin forced him to stand. Taehyung teetered a little, on purpose,
his nose brushing Jimin’s temple. The younger ignored his blatant, muted attempts to seduce and
worked his belt, pulling it open with vicious tugs. He dropped his trousers, keeping a foot on the
centre of them to allow Taehyung to step out of them, along with the shoes.

“Back down on your knees,” Jimin told him, pushing him.

Taehyung fell with a thud, tilted his head back and sighed. Jimin reached into the same nightstand,
removing the Jewel of Busan and tying it around his neck. He liked its weight now, and it always
felt better against his collarbone when he was semi-naked, or completely so. And he quite enjoyed
the way Taehyung’s expression came apart, as he realised just how much forced restraint he would
be tortured with. He was already breathing faster, brow furrowed, and the softest whimper escaped
him when Jimin pulled down his boxers.

“Oh fuck….oh baby…please…” Taehyung groaned, dropping the crucifix in his lap, as he strained
at the scarf around his wrist.

“You stop that,” Jimin admonished. “Or I’m handcuffing you and leaving you here.”

Jimin tipped some lube onto his palm and wriggled his shoulders until his silk shirt was slipping
down them to his elbows. His cock was blushing pink with the blood rushing to it, and at the first
touch of his lubed hand against it, Jimin jerked as if he’d been shocked. He let out a high-pitched
squeak, muffling it behind pressed lips. Until it became too much, and he had to force the air out of
his lungs with a passionate moan.

Taehyung looked about ready to cry. He leaned forward, mouth dropping open and tongue flicking
out, but Jimin surprised him with a vicious kick to the shoulder. His back connected with the side
of the bed and the wind knocked from him with a sharp grunt. Jimin kept his foot on his broad
shoulder, pinning him as his hand sped up on his cock. The slick sounds of the lube, coupled with
Jimin’s soft, strained moans filled the room and Taehyung’s cheeks reddened with every passing
second.

Jimin’s hips twisted and danced, as his foot pressed harder on Taehyung’s shoulder. He knew
exactly how to jerk himself off just right to come as quickly as possible, and it was heaven. He
pulled back his foreskin, the lube getting in around the sensitive head and squeezed. Taehyung dry
sobbed as Jimin’s hand wrapped in his hair, pushing his head back.

“Open your mouth…open your mouth, like the good little cum dumpster you are…” Jimin gasped,
throwing his head back as the heat began to spread to his extremities. Taehyung did as he said,
mouth open, his pretty eyes wide as his eyelashes fluttered and he waited for the inevitable. Jimin
circled his index and thumb tight, squeezing his cock from base to tip and then with a violent
shudder, he came. His cum spurted out of him like a fountain, spraying all over Taehyung’s lovely
face, marking white against his rich, golden skin. Most of it pooled in his mouth, where he curled
his tongue to catch it.

He moaned throatily, not swallowing as he signalled with his eyes that Jimin put his cock into his
mouth. Jimin ignored the plea, getting on his knees and kissing him. He quite liked the torture of
pressing his swollen, leaking dick against the thick material of Taehyung’s outer jacket as his
tongue foraged in his mouth. Jimin giggled as Taehyung whimpered each time he sipped on his
tongue, tasting his own cum on it.

“Are you hard, baby?” he cooed. Taehyung nodded, trembling a little, and Jimin ground his hips
downwards, causing him to cry out. “Good.” Jimin slapped his bulge through his underwear and
straightened. “You’re covered in blood, you nasty fucker…”

“So are you, nightingale…” Taehyung breathed, as he dropped his head on the bed. He smiled
fondly, voice filled with affection as he purred, “Do you know how gorgeous you look? Sweet
bloody angel of vengeance… do you know how much I love y-“

“Ssshhhh,” Jimin whispered, covering his mouth and running his fingers through Taehyung’s hair.
It was a difficult task, as most of it was sticky with blood. “Sshhh, baby…ssshhh…get up.”

His body warm with the pleasure of an orgasm, Jimin was light on his feet as he guided Taehyung
towards the wall. He untied the scarf briefly, and Taehyung pounced. Jimin allowed the kiss to
happen but cut it off quickly, shoving Taehyung to the wall. “Stay,” he warned, as if to a
disobedient dog. When Taehyung’s eyebrows began to glower, Jimin slid his hands against his
face, lowering his voice and whispering sweetly, “Stay, sweet boy, or I’m going to cut your
fucking cock off and feed it to the bitch in the tank downstairs.”

Taehyung’s smile stretched as wide as the Joker’s, but he went deathly still. It was almost eerie to
see how widely he was grinning, despite being totally quiet. Jimin dropped a kiss on his mouth and
got down on his knees to crawl to the bed, where the tools of their last escapade were gathered in
an open box, including two pairs of handcuffs. As he pulled himself back to his feet, the crucifix
caught his eye where it lay abandoned on the rug. Jimin reached out, fingers slipping over the
smooth tubular shape. It had no corners and sharp edges, stainless steel and smooth.

Taehyung put up no resistance as Jimin used a pair of cuffs each to lock his arms to the curved
shape of the wall lamp. He ran his hands down Taehyung’s arms, and he shivered, closing his eyes
as Jimin’s fingers danced down the sides of his chest. Jimin ran his hands in concentric circles
across his waist and back, pressing kisses all across the top of his chest, before flicking his tongue
over each nipple. His fingers slipped under the waistband of Taehyung’s briefs, dropping them to
the floor.

“Lift your foot onto the table,” Jimin told him, hand pushing against the bottom of his thigh.

Taehyung did so, curiosity on his face as Jimin upturned the lube bottle on the back of his hand.
The minute he saw the silver crucifix, his eyes narrowed. The silent seriously? was very clear.
Jimin ignored the judgement in his eyes and continued dipping and stroking the cross. He got onto
his knees and kissed Taehyung’s ball sac. He moved his head from side to side, humming in his
throat, tongue pooling with saliva as he cupped his balls against it. Taehyung’s eyes rolled into the
back of his head, fists clenching as the cuffs rattled.

Jimin’s finger pressed at his entrance, and he moved it back and forth, the lube squelching as he
pushed it in deeper. Taehyung let out a moan, trailing off in a breathy laugh as he bit into his lip
and then uttered Jimin’s name.

“Is that it?” Jimin murmured, curling his finger.

Taehyung didn’t need to answer. The full-bodied shudder was more than enough. His thighs were
taut with tension and he was starting to lift on his tippy toes with the only foot he still had on the
ground. Jimin removed his finger and trailed the end of the crucifix against the upright, veined line
of his cock. It was standing tall, the head of it dripping with pre cum. Jimin licked it up dutifully,
kissing the foreskin with soft, sucking little pecks that made Taehyung tug more desperately on the
cuffs. Jimin flipped the crucifix over, long end first and pushed his finger into Taehyung again,
sliding the steel in beside it. Taehyung winced at first, but it wasn’t long before he began to push
forward and down, wanting more.

“Do you like that?”

“Unnhhh…”

Jimin pushed it in a little deeper, just as much as it could go whilst he still had a hold on it and
pressed it on his prostate again and again. Taehyung’s toes curled, and he was jerking against his
restraint, gasping as his orgasm built up, threatening to hit. Just before it could, Jimin yanked the
crucifix out, eliciting a furious scream from Taehyung. Jimin pushed the crucifix between his lips,
ordering him to bite down but got only defiance when he spat it out.

“You’re awful,” he said, shaking his head. “And I was really about to let your cock inside me.
Well, plans change.”

“W-what?’ Taehyung blurted, still shaking from being edged.

Jimin didn’t answer and dipped down again, licking the length of his penis, before sucking it into
his mouth. With a fierce lunge of his head, he drove it down his silky throat. Taehyung let out a
deep, guttural moan as he finally received the attention he so desperately craved. While Jimin’s
mouth worked his shaft, he reached one hand under and lifted the crucifix, reaching upwards to
indicate that Taehyung should take it. He did now, eager to be repaid for good behaviour. Jimin’s
hand found his testicles and he yelled out around the intrusion in his mouth. It wasn’t a soft caress,
it was instead a rough groping. If he wasn’t handcuffed, he would have fallen over. Taehyung’s
chest heaved as Jimin slammed his cock into his mouth again and again. His breathing was ragged,
punctuated by Jimin’s moans and grunts as he felt Taehyung was almost ready to flood his mouth
with seed.

That was when he stopped.

“Have I got your attention now, you disobedient bitch?” Jimin said, voice soft like honey and a
grin as wide as sin painted over his face.

“Don’t stop……Jimin……don’t you fucking stop…” Taehyung growled.

“Don’t worry, I’m not done with you just yet.” Jimin backed up against him, tilting his head so that
Taehyung’s face fit in the crook of his neck. The taller man was on him instantly, mouth kissing all
across his shoulder, wetting the dried blood on his skin and licking it up as if it were edible.

Jimin teasingly dragged his ass across the head of Taehyung’s swollen shaft. The whispered
expletive from the other made him laugh and he did it again, before turning around to face him.
Jimin’s cock was hard again, as excited as Taehyung was, and he leaned into kiss him deeply. His
lips were soft and inviting and his tongue was warm in Taehyung’s mouth, completely lost in the
kiss. It was torture to pull away, though he wasn’t about to let Taehyung know that.

Jimin backed up into the bedpost, as Taehyung stared at his nude form. His eyes didn’t miss a
thing, trailing over Jimin greedily, every contour, every smooth line, every perfect curve – he was
practically salivating. Jimin quite liked the feeling. He wondered if this was what strippers felt like
on the stage, though they probably didn’t get to choose whose eyes they wanted on them. Jimin
was lucky in that he could and did. He kneeled on the floor and pulled out the open box under the
bed again, lifting a large pink toy.

Taehyung’s face crumpled and it was clear he knew what was about to happen. Jimin’s knees
slowly separated as he lowered himself to the floor, giggling as he held the toy and started licking
the head of it. Bouncing up and down on his knees slightly, he started sucking on the head of the
fake cock. He made sure to trace every vein bulging against its sides, until it was slick with his
spit. Then, with a brief rubbing of lube, he placed it under him and against his eager hole.
As Jimin pressed down on it, he felt his flesh give way, allowing it to penetrate. Taehyung
watched, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as Jimin impaled himself on the dildo. He could only watch
as it slid into him, exactly where he himself wanted to be. Jimin grabbed onto the bedpost behind
him and began to bounce slowly, circling his hips and forcing the toy deeper in. He let go of the
bed and ran his hand over his chest, pinching his nipples, squeezing the soft flesh as his other hand
held onto the toy. He reached down to his abdomen, down to his pubic bone, between his thighs,
and finally to his cock. He grunted and moaned as he pinched and rubbed his semi-erection,
bringing himself closer to a massive orgasm.

“Shit…Jimin…let me off this fucking lamp…I swear to God I’m going to fuck you so hard – “

Taehyung stifled a wail of frustration as Jimin crawled onto all fours, showing off. He slid the
plastic cock in and out, over and over, head on the ground as he pulled at his cock. The rattling of
the chains on the cuffs was getting louder. Jimin pulled the dildo out, secretly unsatisfied. No toy
could compare to what Taehyung could do with his fingers and his mouth and his throbbing,
swollen, aching cock. He was almost ready to undo his cuffs. Almost.

A sudden crack made his head spin around.

Taehyung had put his entire weight on the lamp by grabbing its curved golden prongs and hanging
off of it. It was jutting out from the wall, bits of plaster dusting Taehyung’s blood-soaked hair
white. He shook it off, glancing up at the exposed wiring behind the lamp and then deliberately
started pulling.

“Stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jimin yelled, “Stop! You’ll electrocute yourself!”

“Open the cuffs,” Taehyung said, and all traces of edged whining were gone.

“You’re a fucking child.” Jimin stabbed the key into the first cuff and whilst Taehyung was still
distracted by the constant shower of dust and plaster from the new hole in the wall, did the same to
the other and bolted.

Jimin locked himself in the bathroom before Taehyung even had a chance to move away from the
wall.

“You really want to stretch this out? For real?” he heard Taehyung call. When Jimin didn’t answer,
he said, “Open it, or I’m getting Wonho in here to break it down – “
Click.

Taehyung smirked, satisfied, as the door swung open again. Jimin threw a bar of soap at his head
and then shrank back as Taehyung barged through the doorway and caught him. He grabbed him,
and carried Jimin out, throwing him through the air, directly onto the bed. Jimin scrambled to
crawl away but wound up being dragged back with Taehyung’s strong hands on his hips. On all
fours again, but no longer in control. He felt Taehyung’s cock press up against his slick, wet
asshole and flipped around, twisting to try and get away.

“No!” he screamed, kicking out. His foot connected with Taehyung’s chest, though he had been
aiming for his face. His fingernails certainly caught it though, when his swiped his hand wildly.

“What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT THE FUCK IS IT THAT YOU WANT?”
Taehyung shouted.

“YOU KNEW!” Jimin shrieked.

“KNEW WHAT?!”

“YOU KNEW IT WAS HIS BOY BUT YOU MADE HIM LISTEN TO HIS PARENTS DIE
ANYWAY!”

Jimin didn’t realise the thought hadn’t left his head until the pain and trauma of the entire evening
barrelled out in the form of this one thing. It was like a rusty nail he’d caught his foot on and it
fucking hurt. Sex was his best defence against uncomfortable thoughts, morals, his self-conscience,
his anxiety – everything painful. But the lamp breaking had sliced right through the bubble Jimin
had constructed and he was back in the black pit of anguish, drowning with every kick that he
landed on Taehyung’s body. The other finally had to cease trying to restrain him with just his
hands and fell on top of him, pinning him with his weight.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung panted, hands pressed against Jimin’s wrists. “I didn’t know, I swear. I
lied. I thought that was the truth you wanted me to admit to. But I didn’t know. You always think
the worst of me – “

Jimin let out a keening sob. “But you killed him – “

Taehyung’s face softened, and he looked close to tears himself as he cradled Jimin’s head. “I had to
kill them, baby, you know I did – no, don’t cry – stop – “

“I’m not fucking crying!” Jimin exclaimed, tears gushing down his face as he screwed his eyes
tight shut and wept. Taehyung’s blood-stained hands wiped at them. His fingers and palms felt
coarse. His entire body felt that way due to the dried blood sticking to it. Because of that, he didn’t
feel the way he usually did when Jimin hugged him and that wasn’t helping either.

Jimin’s lower lip pushed out as he muffled further sobs. His head fell to the side as Taehyung
pressed his mouth against his ear, mumbling comfort, and stroking his hair. Jimin knew he wasn’t
upset or sorry because he’d killed the kids. That wasn’t why he was moved. He reached up and
wiped at his face, sighing with a shiver as Taehyung kissed under his chin. His hands trembled
against the corners of Jimin’s head, lips worrying his in a delicate kiss.

At some point, Jimin finally turned over, face still wet and supple limbs stretched taut as he got on
all fours. He helped guide Taehyung in, bracing himself for what was about to happen. With all the
force he could, he buried himself in Jimin. It was enough to nearly knock the younger off the bed if
not for Taehyung’s firm grip on his waist. Powerless to resist, Jimin surrendered completely.

Over and over again, punishing his soft, yielding flesh, Taehyung penetrated him. The only time he
would release his hips was to spank between thrusts. The anger was returning, and Jimin didn’t
mind in the slightest. The more violent the sex, the better distracted his mind. He dug his nails into
Taehyung’s wrist, in an effort to prise off his grip and was rewarded with a hearty slap.

Jimin’s bare ass shook from the battering thrusts and from the constant spanks. He dropped his
arms, burying his face in the sheets. With his hands free, he reached down and started playing with
himself, his whimpers of ecstasy muffled by the sheets. Over and over, Taehyung’s cock drilled
into him, stroking his deepest, darkest places and making him want to disintegrate. It was cathartic
to submit, to deny Taehyung nothing. Resistance became so tiring after a while.

He felt an orgasm growing and with every thrust up his ass and every flick of his cock, it grew a bit
more. Jimin tugged harder on his penis and tightened his fingers around the tip like a vice. He
spiralled higher on the feeling, as Taehyung’s cock filled his ass repeatedly. Just as he thought he
couldn’t take it anymore, his body stiffened and spasmed. A tremendous climax tore across his
body and like a small boat in rough seas, all Jimin could do was hang on and try not to drown.

Seeing him twitch and writhe under him, Taehyung knew Jimin’s climax had hit and with a final
few, pounding thrusts of his cock, as far into him as it could go, he released his seed. The force of
his final thrust knocked Jimin off his knees and onto his belly, his teeth sinking into his own arm.
Still coming, Taehyung pulled out, proceeding to shower his ass with cum. It splattered from the
back of Jimin’s thighs to the middle of his back and everything in between.

Jimin left to shower first, and upon his return, found the room empty. He thought nothing of it,
intentionally keeping his mind blank. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He picked up his clothes – blank
– kicked the box back under the bed – blank – turned off the lights - blank – climbed into bed –
blank – and burst into tears –

He didn’t care to think how long he cried. His head was hurting by the end of it, throbbing as if
he’d knocked it on a brick wall deliberately. The room smelt of blood and sex. No matter which
way he tossed and turned, he wouldn’t get any sleepier, visions of Jihoon’s traumatised face
flashing before his mind’s eye. He had played the saxophone so beautifully. The music played in
his head, over and over, as Jimin’s fingers tore at his hair, struggling to get it out.

The opening of the door was almost a welcome distraction.

Almost.

“No,” Jimin said, as soon as he saw Taehyung standing against the light coming in from the
hallway. He was clean now, hair still wet from the shower, and wrapped in a bathrobe. “No, no, no
– “ Jimin kept repeating the word, sitting up to reach out and push Taehyung physically away from
his bed. But his hands lost their strength the minute they touched his broad chest though he kept
repeating no. Taehyung got under the duvet, arms wrapping around Jimin tight, as the younger
started to cry again, still telling him to get out of the bed but no longer pushing. Instead, his hand
gripped at the nape of Taehyung’s neck, the other at his back as he buried his face into his shoulder
and cried like a child.

They collapsed against the pillows, arms locked around one another. Jimin couldn’t care less that
he was holding the reason for yet another trauma; he had nothing else to hold onto. Taehyung
pulled the duvet up around their heads and started to stroke Jimin’s back from top to bottom,
hushing him gently.

Eventually, the unintelligible whispers of comfort turned into kisses, with Jimin completely
cocooned by Taehyung’s larger frame, hands wrapped against his chest as their lips entwined. He
cupped Taehyung’s face, pulling him closer still as he kissed him harder, attempting to keep his
mind’s eye from replaying the reel of the day again. Taehyung’s hand stroked under his shirt,
fingers settling into the dimples in Jimin’s back.

“I love you,” he whispered, as Jimin’s tongue sucked on his bottom lip.

Jimin inhaled, thumb tracing over Taehyung’s cheekbone. “If this is love, please stop,” he
whispered back.

“You’ll get used to stuff like this, I promise,” Taehyung muttered, with such tenderness, Jimin’s
heart broke to hear it. Because it was wrong. The context was wrong. That sort of tone shouldn’t be
used in this situation. And yet he was using it, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“No – “ he gasped between the kisses Taehyung lavished on his mouth, “ – if I get used to stuff like
this I won’t be the person you fell in love with anymore – and then you’ll get tired of me and you’ll
discard of me in the same manner – “

“Do not say that,” Taehyung cut across sharply, his hand tightening painfully on his hip for a brief
moment. “Jimin – “

“Wait, let me talk,” Jimin said, clearing his throat to strengthen his voice. Taehyung leaned in,
until their cheeks were pressed to each other and Jimin’s tears soaked through onto his skin. “I’m
not getting used to this. I’m too weak for this world you thrive in, I’ll hold you back so just – just
let me go – “

“This is still a Stockholm Syndrome situation to you?” Taehyung said indignantly.

“No, because I actually fucking enjoy being with you when it’s just the two of us and you don’t
have a gun or a knife or a bat in your hand!” Jimin retorted, eyes welling up again, “Do you even
realise how different you are every other time? Do you know how horrendous it is to snap a
human being’s neck and drop them without a second thought? I’m on the other side of the wall, the
side where it’s impossible to do something like that without suffering! Blue Tails was enough –
I’ve been on medication ever since, and it’s turned me into an insomniac – not that I was sleeping
well before either but still – “

Halfway through his outburst, Taehyung started stroking his back again, trying to calm him down.
He ended up holding Jimin tightly against him, face buried in his neck, as shudders of misery
rocked his body.

“You like being a killer, but I don’t,” Jimin whimpered, words muffled into Taehyung’s hair. “and
I can’t sleep at night, Tae, I can’t sleep at all – I can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, I can’t – “
His hysterics dissolved into Taehyung’s chest as the older shifted their positions to cradle him.
Jimin cried for a while, ear pressed to Taehyung’s heart, cheeks wet, and eyes wetter. And as it just
so happened, he did manage to fall asleep, a sleep without dreams, for the first time in weeks.
 Savage Kingdom

Back by overly zealous demand. Leave a comment, save a life.

Trigger Warnings: Intravenous drug use.

The Phantom’s familiar interior had been replaced by the tighter, yet relatively roomy backseat of a
Range Rover SV Coupe. Jimin disliked it immediately, though he didn’t voice the opinion. He was
almost afraid Taehyung would order for the car to be replaced with one of his choice, truly
hammering it in for everyone around them that he was a trophy husband, not a “cousin”.

The biggest reason for Jimin’s disconcertion was Wonho’s face in the wing mirror was a lot closer,
and there was no partition. Whenever Jimin looked up, he somehow managed to catch the
bodyguard’s eye as he used the mirror to keep alert for any approaching dangers on the road behind
them. He couldn’t put it into words, but something about the man set his teeth on edge.

Jimin returned his attention to the crucifix in the palm of his hand. A ruby had fallen off the top
and he was currently waiting for the glue to dry before removing his finger. It was as he gave it
another prod and rub to ensure it was fixed that he realised it screwed open. His eyes widened
when he pulled the top off to reveal a tiny cocaine spoon, and the bottom half of the cross packed
with cocaine. His small laugh of surprise alerted Taehyung who looked over. Jimin showed it to
him.

“Minsoo is a devout Christian indeed. I wonder if he uses this in church,” he scoffed.

“He probably does,” Taehyung said, leaning over. He licked his baby finger and dabbed up a little
of the white powder from the spoon. After sucking it in, and running his tongue over his teeth, he
grimaced. “Tastes like cocaine. It’s probably laced with fentanyl though. Guess he hoped you’d
take it and overdose. Little does he know – “ he plucked the crucifix from Jimin’s fingers and
dropped it in his own pocket, “ – that you’re an A-grade prude when it comes to hallucinatory
substances.”
“Unlike you, who’ll snort anything white up your nose, fentanyl or otherwise,” Jimin remarked,
resting his elbow on the sill as he rolled his window down.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence in the car.

Jimin’s wind-kissed hair flew around his face, and a soft smile spread on his lips as he allowed his
mind to go blank. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat in a car and gazed out of the
window just for the sake of admiring the scenery.

They were on their way to Incheon, to inspect the plot of land on which Taehyung intended to
build his hotel resort, and as he had said so himself, the dull, business side of running a syndicate
was made bearable with a companion. Jimin didn’t think he was all that much of an amusing
sidekick. He didn’t do much beyond scowling when in the presence of Taehyung’s associates. He
was never asked his opinion and most of the time he didn’t care to give it. And since Minsoo’s
thuggish threat, Jimin didn’t think he would be able to get away with any unwanted attitude.

“Park Jimin.”

He turned, to see Taehyung watching him through narrowed eyes.

“Is there something you want to tell me about the day you twisted your ankle?”

Jimin gulped. Random. “No.” And turned away. He couldn’t maintain his cool for long.
Taehyung’s eyes were two laser beams, incinerating lines into his skin. He turned back, with a little
quirk of his mouth and a careful dullness in his gaze. “What?”

“Nothing,” Taehyung said, imitating Jimin’s tight-lipped attitude.

“You scare me when you stare without speaking, you know.” After a moment’s pause, he
muttered, “What am I even saying? You scare me quite a lot, regardless. I’m literally the scared
but horny meme.”

Taehyung frowned. “The what now?”

Jimin decided to show him on his phone, rather than go through the bother of explaining it. He
became distracted by other memes, and decided to school Taehyung on those, though he was
ignorant to the fact that the older was no longer listening. Taehyung was looking at him, watching
him devolve back into the faint echo of the carefree childhood he had had snatched away.

Since the night Jimin had fallen asleep crying into his chest, Taehyung’s manner had eased up
considerably. He was no longer quick to anger at Jimin’s stubborn nature. And there was
something else. It was something he had said as he cried, and Taehyung rocked him against his
chest.

Blue Tails was enough.

Taehyung understood that it might just have been the biggest trauma that had jumped to the
forefront of Jimin’s mind in that moment. That perhaps Hoseok’s death truly had been an accident
and Jimin didn’t think it counted. But he found that theory hard to believe. Jimin took things to
heart, despite his efforts to prove otherwise, and killing Hoseok in such an intimate situation would
never have been something he could ignore.

Which meant it hadn’t happened.

Taehyung’s hand slipped across Jimin’s face, as the younger blundered on, laughing to himself as
he flicked through memes at the speed of light. The phone went dark as Jimin’s finger inadvertently
squeezed the power button and he looked at Taehyung, his large eyes serene for once. Taehyung
kissed him, holding their lips together in one position until Jimin strained to draw breathe. He let
go with a gasp, but quickly moved in for another, his hand pulling him back by the collar as
Taehyung’s fingers threaded his hair.

In the driver’s seat, Ahmeti clucked like a chicken and knocked on the dashboard. “You are
ruining my fast, gentlemen. Take the party out of the rear-view mirror, thank you.”

Taehyung broke away with an irked scowl. Anyone else, and they would have been fired and sent
away with broken bones. But Ahmeti’s droning voice was beginning to grow on him, unfortunately
enough. Taehyung’s English was improving, and for once, he did not need Wonho to translate.

“Why the hell would you fast in this heat?” he grunted.

“I kill men in the heat just fine. So, I can fast in the heat also. It is a matter of principle. If you can
murder, you can go hungry,” Ahmeti shrugged, his voice a thick Albanian drawl. “Though I am
very pleased I have not had to kill anyone these past eight days. Murder, like masturbation, would
also break my fast. In fact, I was meaning to ask if I can be the nightingale’s bodyguard for the rest
of the twenty-two days, to minimise the body count. If push comes to shove, I will break some
bones, a few noses here and there, but overall, I prefer to shadow him.”

“Do not call me that,” Jimin snapped, before turning to Taehyung with wide eyes that clearly said
don’t let him.

“He’s the best hitman I know other than myself,” Taehyung said, feigning sheepishness to hide his
amusement. “And you do tend to get in trouble.”

“You’re gonna make him my bodyguard anyway, aren’t you?” Jimin spat.

“Please do. I will triple my productivity after Ramadan is over, I swear,” Ahmeti interjected.
“Bodies dropping like fruit flies. Pew-pew-pew.”

“When you hired him, did you have part-time comedian in mind or is that just an unwanted
bonus?” Jimin muttered, shrinking back into his corner of the car.

“He’ll keep you safe. It’s all that matters to me,” was the last that Taehyung would say about it.

Despite Jimin’s proclivity towards souring when something did not go his way, Taehyung didn’t
think there was a better man other than Wonho to assign his protection to. Minsoo clearly had it out
for Jimin. The cocaine-fentanyl was nothing. It was a mere practical joke, a tap on the nose and a
wink, had Jimin been stupid enough to snort the stuff as soon as he found it.

Something had to be done about Minsoo, that was obvious.

But such a civil war would have its time and its place, neither of which existed in the present.
The plot of land in Incheon was disgustingly gigantic.

There would be room for several smaller estates encompassed within a larger one, housing several
party villas to surround a central mansion. As soon as Taehyung laid eyes on it, he was certain a
hotel resort would do nothing to exploit the potential he saw. It would open the floodgates to
members of the public who could afford it, and would jeopardise what he was intending to be a
haven for the underworld in Incheon. Geomjeong-pa’s hold on the city was relatively strong, since
they controlled large parts of its sister, Seoul. However, the hold was not airtight, and germs were
prone to creeping in through the cracks. It baffled him that Mother had not already constructed a
stronghold such as this in Incheon already.

“Private real estate, rented out whenever the owner chooses. That way, we control the ins and outs,
and local lawmakers don’t have any way to object to the business inside. From the outside, the
façade is squeaky clean,” Taehyung explained to Madame Go as she sat perched on a wall
overlooking the building site.

She was dressed rather like the strange announcer woman in Hunger Games, and with her claw-like
nails, was reminiscent of a beautiful parrot. The feathers in her hat fluttered in the wind, as she shut
her fan with a thwack and turned to fix her beady eyes on Taehyung.

“I quite like the look of your cousin,” she said bluntly, nodding over to where Jimin was on his
phone. He was paying little attention to anything around him.

“He’s not for sale if that’s what you mean,” Taehyung muttered. “Though I bet he’d fetch a pretty
price in one of your establishments.”

“No, I don’t mean to sell him. I meant for myself. Is he involved with anyone?”

Taehyung glanced at her in surprise. He had not expected the conversation to take such a turn, and
by the glint in her eyes, she knew that.
There was no figuring out Go Hyun Jung. Her mask was like concrete, more solid than half the
men she did business with, and the underneath was infinitely more dangerous. Not to parade
clichés, but hell really had no fury. Taehyung decided to employ his own charms, the sort he had
learnt from Yoongi, mellow and serpentine, used to sneak under an enemy’s skin and wriggle
around until their innards shifted to all the wrong places. He sat beside her with a precocious tilt of
his head and said –

“He’s gay.”

“With you?”

“Incest is a sin, Madame Go.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, I do like you. You really know how to make a lady
laugh.” And then her face flashed back into the no-nonsense severity she was known for with
unsettling speed. “He’s not your cousin, is he?”

There it was.

She didn’t want Jimin as much as she wanted to have something to hold over Taehyung. It was
what Madame Go thrived in. Secrets. She wanted to add Taehyung to her little blackmail book
filled with the powerful men of Seoul. This was a woman who spoke carelessly of her husband
being rammed in the rectum with a poker, until his intestines were pulled out through his ass. The
bitch was ferocious and depending on his answer, she was going to cause him an immense amount
of trouble, perhaps more than Minsoo who straight up showed his cards when he did not like
something.

So, Taehyung gave her the right answer.

“No, he’s not,” he said.

Go Hyun Jung relaxed, re-opened her fan and seemed satisfied. “There you have it. I won’t judge.”

Taehyung’s feet moved forward, locking around one of hers and pushed her leg up. “Don’t
scream,” he said quickly.
She froze, glancing over her shoulder at the steep rocky hill going down to the construction site.
Depending on how hard he flipped her leg, she would overturn, land at an odd angle and break her
neck on the way down. By the look in her eyes, she knew Taehyung’s past record meant it was a
certainty.

“I’m not your friend, or your son’s replacement,” Taehyung said. “Don’t forget that. Just because
you now know Jimin is my boyfriend, doesn’t mean you get to hold it over my head, or use it as an
excuse to get into my good graces. I don’t fear you. I don’t fear anything. I will bulldoze you and
throw your mangled body to my shark should you decide to open your lipstick-stained mouth.
Understand?”

Madame Go’s fingers tightened on the wall, and she nodded. He let go and glanced casually across
to where a few black cars were pulling in. Some of the investors were arriving to survey the site.

“So, she’s your shark now, is she?” Madame Go snorted, recovering fast. “You truly do consider
Mother out of the picture, and yet you haven’t even killed her.”

“Let’s just say I took pity for the first time in my life,” Taehyung sneered.

“I wasn’t going to try to make friends with you, you know. I just found it rather interesting that two
consecutive kingpins of this syndicate have had a trait distinctly perverse to the hypermasculine
claptrap this gang usually employs. One was a cross-dresser, the other a homosexual. I like that.
Reminds me that even in this dull world of black and white, ironic splashes of colour make life
worth spectating.” Madame Go stood, shifting down the skirt of her dress elegantly, before holding
out her gloved hand to him. “Come. Let me introduce you to David Manoban, our prime investor.”

Somehow, she had talked Mr Manoban to fly over from Thailand for the weekend, no doubt with
the promise of one of her ‘special’ girls to truly welcome him later. He was a short man, but carried
himself with a Napoleonic state of self-importance, as short, rich men often did.

Taehyung had nothing much to say to him beyond the cursory greetings, as his English was not
fluent enough and Mr Manoban’s Korean was non-existent. Madame Go made polite conversation,
handling most of the business talk, and Taehyung trusted her to. She was a master at cutting off
personal emotion to do what was best for the greater picture. Their own conversation would hold
no weight on her work for Geomjeong-pa.

Besides, he was far too distracted by the blonde apparition emerging from the backseat of Mr
Manoban’s car.

The moment Lisa saw him, the blanching of colour in her face told Taehyung she did not know of
Mother’s downfall. She stood still, eyes wide, mouth tightening into a dangerous taut line that he
had come to recognise as heralding in cunt mode. Lisa was a beautiful, terrifying piece of work and
she could be a fucking cunt when she was angry. And boy, was she furious now.

Jimin saved the dangerous situation by touching her elbow gently to redirect her attention. Her face
sank in shock and a smidgeon of happiness to see him and they shared a hug. Before Taehyung
could go near either of them, Jimin steered her away, still talking to her with a genial smile. He
waited a moment, before deciding fuck it and starting to go after them. Whatever Jimin was about
to tell her, he needed to ensure the blonde bitch didn’t have a weapon hidden on her person before
she heard it.

Before he could, Wonho appeared out of nowhere, barring his way.

“I gathered the rest of the names, sir. Minor allies of Yoo Sang Woo, but they have been vocal in
their support of Mother when the old Mr Kim died. She had a few contenders for the crown for
which she needed a majority onside. These are the few left who did not switch sides for you.”
Wonho held out a tablet and emblazoned on the white page were six names. Taehyung barely read
them, pushing it aside.

“I don’t want to hurt anymore of my own,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Ripping out the eyeballs of Geomjeong-pa men who otherwise pose no threat is a sign of
insecurity. Leave them. They have no one to back them should they make a vocal bid against me,”
Taehyung said, clearly distracted.

Wonho switched off the tablet and put his hands behind his back, chest thrust out and shoulders
spread. “Forgive me, sir, but that would be quite dangerous. A man without power is harmless
enough until the right ear gives heed to his tongue.”

Taehyung snorted. “Since when do you have a politician’s slant of mind?”

“I was being trained to join the intelligence service before I changed course. Pre-emptive strikes
are a common course in any successful regime of violence. You can never be too safe.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” Taehyung snapped, impatience growing as he noticed Lisa’s
face grow darker with every word that came out of Jimin’s mouth. “Kill their babies? Have their
wives thrown off high buildings?”

“Take their children,” Wonho said, without batting an eye. “It’s a very successful method, actually.
Feign mentorship and the desire to help their kids rise up in the ranks of their later life. But the
parents will know, and you will know, that they are hostages. One wrong move from them, and
their children die.”

“I’m not turning the condo into a creche.”

“You won’t have to. I can make arrangements.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Let Minsoo assign one of his men to the task. He’s having far too much
fun walking around like top dog.”

Taehyung dodged Wonho’s large frame before he could say another word, and made a beeline for
the pair conversing under the shade of a tree.

On cue, both of them turned, as if sensing his approach, and Jimin’s face smoothed out.
Taehyung’s expression lightened accordingly, as if he was doing nothing more than approaching
Lisa for a greeting.

“You’ve grown,” he acknowledged her. “Didn’t think you could get taller, or more coltish, but
here you are.”

Lisa fake-smiled. “And you’ve grown a belly. Been sitting on your ass much lately?”

Taehyung made a face. “If you’re going to snipe insults, at least make them accurate.”

“She’s not completely wrong. You have a bit of a tummy,” Jimin shrugged. At Taehyung’s stare,
he added, “But I don’t mind it. It’s nice.”

“Oh, thanks,” Taehyung scoffed, ignoring the look of derision Lisa gave him. “What have you
been telling our Thai friend so earnestly for the past five minutes, Jimin?”

“She was asking about her friends. I told her I don’t know where they are,” Jimin replied. He
blinked up at Taehyung with his innocuously large eyes, as if everything in the world would be
alright if he batted those lovely lashes enough. He smiled a little, pulling out all the stops to
manipulate Taehyung into believing him.

Taehyung was almost about to sink into the indulgence of trusting him, when Lisa broke Jimin’s
carefully woven spell.

She moved closer, and with a stretched out smile, spoke through gritted teeth, “What did you do to
Jungkook, you whore?”

Taehyung whistled, tapping her forehead and pushing her back a few steps. Her ears turned red and
he knew her fingers were itching to go to her ankle where he also knew she liked to keep that
diamond-edged knife of hers.

“Easy, little tigress,” he purred. “Not in front of Daddy. Speaking of – “ he moved nearer, leaning
down until her ear was inches from his lips. “Play along, and I swear you’ll find out what happened
to your friends. Jungkook included.”

He straightened just as Mr Manoban and Madame Go joined them, with a beautifully insincere
smile plastered across his face.

“Your daughter is lovely, Mr Manoban. You should allow her to visit Seoul more often. The
company I usually keep is not this beautiful,” Taehyung told him. As he waited for Madame Go to
translate in English, he felt his insides curl up and cringe. Go Hyun Jung knew what he was doing
– the laughter danced in her eyes – and Jimin knew as well, though the look in his was more
scathing.

Minsoo had played Taehyung like a fiddle when it came to his intolerance of homosexuality. And
while Taehyung had to dance to the tune of Minsoo’s jig, the beard he was considering was quite
possibly the most lethal twenty-one year old female in the city. The minute she found out what had
happened to her friends, she would do something drastic and Taehyung already knew he’d have her
blood on his hands. It would certainly be bye-bye to the Manoban cheques after that. All he had to
do was find ways to keep her alive till his need for her father’s connections ran out.

After reassuring David Manoban that his daughter and he would be hosted in luxury for as long as
they wished to stay, courtesy of Geomjeong-pa, Taehyung pulled Jimin back to the car.

“Fucking hate that bitch,” he spat, getting inside.

“Madame Go or Lisa?” Jimin said snidely, “You really don’t have a good track record with
women, do you?”

“No, they fucking hate me,” Taehyung agreed.

“Every woman I’ve ever seen in your presence has pitched her voice a little higher and moved a
little closer. They usually want to fuck you, but unfortunately, they also see right through you.
Women can smell insecurity in a man, you know. It’s what makes them so powerful.”

“Well, I know your mother was a piece of work, so I understand where you’re coming from,”
Taehyung scowled, rolling down the window.

Jimin twisted in his seat to face him. “Answer honestly. After your mother died, how many strong
women did you ever come in contact with? It seems like you were always surrounded by men who
were either willing to get on their knees before you or willing to crack the whip and make you fall
in line. This is why all you know is violence and lust and why you don’t use your mind half the
time. You just charge in like a wounded bull and spear everything your horns can reach.”

Taehyung watched him talk, a small smile on his lips, hardly even absorbing the words he was
uttering. Jimin so very rarely got passionate about anything, it was remarkable to watch him when
he did. His eyes lit up with a fire that burned deep inside a heart he claimed to have turned to ice,
and his ears turned pink. Pink enough to nibble and kiss and turn red.

“Is that why you’re so clever?” he said softly. “Your mother taught you the art of the feminine?”
His tone was slightly mocking, but his smile faded the longer he gazed at Jimin.

“Maybe. You tried to kill me twice. You, the most feared man in Seoul. The nightmare of Busan. I
killed your best friend. Lied to you over and over, put Jungkook over you countless times. And yet
here I am. Still alive.”

Poor little nightingale.

Taehyung had often suspected Jimin thought he was stupid. Jimin was the sort of person who
relied mostly only his brains, and as most intelligent people were, was quick to denigrate those that
did not immediately match his mental prowess. But he had played the wrong hand of cards when
he broke down in Taehyung’s arms, like a child crying for its mother. His constant jibes, his sly
insults, his teasing – it all seemed to be a subconscious desire for death. Never had Taehyung met
someone so insistent on walking the double-edged sword, flirting with his own demise like a moth
to a flame.

Jimin just wanted to die, but he was too afraid to do the deed himself.

The very thought made Taehyung’s heart fall as if he’d been pushed off the tallest building in the
world. It occurred to him then, that nothing he ever did for this man, would overcome the love he’d
lost the day his parents died. The day his mother had died. Nothing Taehyung could do for him
would outweigh the influence of a woman buried six feet underground. He had never even met Jo
Ara and she was winning against him in a game he was desperately trying not to lose.

He didn’t hate all women.

He hated the one who’d given birth to his only weakness.

“And yet here you are,” he repeated gently. Jimin was rearing, as if anticipating a fired-up
response. But Taehyung held out a hand, and took Jimin’s hot little paw in his own. He kissed the
back of it, holding it against his cheek. “You win.”

Jimin tried to pull away but Taehyung didn’t allow it. “I don’t want to win,” he insisted. “I want
you to admit you have a problem.”

“I don’t blame my mother for dying, and my grandmother for being frail and weak. I blame my
father for leaving. So no, my problem isn’t women, Jimin, it’s men. It’s men I kill and brutalise, not
women. For all your cleverness, you’re still a fucking idiot when you want to prove your own
misguided point.”
Rather than get angrier, Jimin suddenly burst out laughing. He climbed over the partition between
them, into Taehyung’s lap, eyes crinkled sweetly as he took his face between his hands. Lips
brushing his, he murmured, “To keep out of the rear view mirror,” signalling at Ahmeti in the
driver’s seat behind him.

“I thought you were going to try and keep up the fight. Given up already?” Taehyung whispered,
chuckling as Jimin’s kisses tickled his chin.

“No, I just know when to fall back and retreat. I’ll attack later, when you least expect it.” Jimin’s
lips were hot, wet and pliant on his skin. He let out that small, high-pitched sound Taehyung had
come to listen out for when they were alone together. It was like the purr of a cat, indicating
complete contentment, even amongst the chaos that their relationship was. Jimin’s arms circled his
neck, pushing Taehyung’s face closer against his own.

Taehyung’s head sank against the cushion of his arms, ears filling with the sound of his kisses, and
though he felt flesh and bone in his grip, all he could think was that he was holding a ghost.
Someone already halfway out of his reach forever.

Jimin was dropped off at the condo, and Ahmeti went with him, leaving Wonho to take the driver’s
seat. Taehyung got out to sit beside him on the passenger’s seat and as he did, he saw Jimin turn
over his shoulder to direct a curious glance at the Range Rover. He knew that wherever Taehyung
was going, was somewhere he did not want to be. Taehyung had said as much to make him get out.
But he was wise enough now not to ask. He probably couldn’t have imagined exactly where
Taehyung was going though, or he wouldn’t have left the car, even if he was dragged.

“You got the right address?” Taehyung said.

Wonho gave a curt nod and the half hour drive resumed in silence.

Taehyung did not feel the steel rush through his veins, as it usually did on his way to pay this type
of house call. He felt limp, and tired, like a sack of wet sponges left in the rain too long. A quick
check of his pockets revealed the coke he carried with him had dwindled down to nothing. He was
almost tempted to ingest the fentanyl-laced poison stashed in Minsoo’s crucifix. He knew he was
addicted, but it had never impeded his ability to function normally, so he didn’t address the issue. It
was added stimulation for his innate need to commit harm. It wasn’t a crutch. He wasn’t dependant
on it.

But right then, he felt lost without it, without the pleasurable soreness around his nostrils after
freshly snorting the crushed powder. It felt like a talon was steadily slicing his windpipe in two,
forcing the air to erupt from his mouth in huffs. It came to a point where Wonho noticed as
Taehyung loosened his shirt collar. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he sank against the door,
eyes dead as the car rolled to a stop at their destination.

“You alright, sir?” Wonho questioned.

“I’m starting to second guess myself,” Taehyung rasped. And then he laughed, because the thought
voiced out loud was hilarious. He never questioned his own intentions. He always knew what they
were, and he always had the power to carry them through.

“About what?”

“About those kids at the club. About whether I should have killed them.” That was an
understatement. He saw their faces when he was asleep. What he had done to Soo Jang Ho in the
dog fighting pit, he now did to those young boys and girls in his nightmares. His thumbs crushed
their eyeballs through their skull, until they were mush and blood, draining out of the hollows. But
they didn’t die like Soo did. They would get up, moaning in agony and fear, reaching for him.

“They screech like baby birds, night after night, and beg for mercy,” he whispered, not realising
he’d said it out loud.

Wonho said nothing for a while. Neither of them did. Taehyung’s breathing grew more laboured.
The apartment block was to the left. It was the correct address. All he had to do was get out, go
upstairs and do what he had intended the minute he’d gotten Jimin back in his clutches. But he
couldn’t move a muscle.

“Man is but an animal, dressed in fine clothing,” Wonho said. “Our instincts are more refined
versions of our lesser cousins. We venerate the lion as the king of the animals, don’t we? And yet
lions thrive on takeovers, killing their rivals’ cubs to assert total dominance. It’s a natural part of
life. Children don’t stay young forever. They cause problems.”
Of course, Taehyung knew that. In less elegant words, he had said as much to Jimin, using his own
father as an example. His father who had failed when it mattered the most and left Park Jimin alive.

Wonho reached into his pocket, and removed a flat leather case, setting it on the dashboard. He
tapped it, to gain Taehyung’s attention.

“What is it?” his boss muttered, reaching for it to flip it open. His eyes widened when he saw the
clean syringe and a spare, squeezed into black elastic restraints, beside two small vials, one filled
with a pale yellowy liquid, and the other with a murky brown. He knew what they were without
Wonho having to explain.

“Brown Sugar,” he said, tapping the second vial. “And China White. It’s pure heroin, so might not
be best for a first-time user, which is what I’m assuming you are. Brown Sugar usually goes down
well.”

“You must believe I have screws loose if you think I’m about to load my veins up with smack,”
Taehyung said, rolling the case shut again. “And if I ever catch you doing it, I’ll turn your testicles
into earrings and have you wear them.”

A short laugh bubbled from the bodyguard’s mouth. “I don’t do it. But I do have a supplier, a
friend who works in Afghanistan and has methods of shipping his stuff to China, and then through
to this country. You don’t get the white stuff on the streets here, not even Geomjeong-pa deals it. I
can’t have shipments brought over but I can get just enough for one person. You’ve developed a
tolerance to coke, clearly, and still remain sound of mind, proving your body has good resistance.
All I’m saying is that if you ever need a little touch of this, it’ll send you into a sleep unlike any
other you’ve had.”

Taehyung said nothing.

Wonho sighed. “Look, you’re probably imagining becoming a junkie but with controlled amounts,
you’ll do just fine.”

“Liar,” Taehyung said levelly.

“Why would I lie?” The man didn’t even blink.

“Because you want me dead. And what better way than to turn me into an addict?”

Wonho just stared at him, with that blank, steady gaze.

Taehyung’s lips curved into a smile, and he reached for the case. Of course, he didn’t think Wonho
was a liar. The vetting process had been intensely thorough. But he did not immediately want to
admit to himself that what he didn’t know he needed, had been magically provided. Drugs didn’t
frighten Taehyung. He had always snorted crack with impunity and watched as those around him
fell victim to its long-term effects whilst it continued to do him nothing but favours. Heroin just
wasn’t his first love, but there was no harm in trying.

He didn’t go for the paler vial. He wanted to save the “pure” stuff for when he needed it most.
Wonho held the brown vial steady as Taehyung lowered the syringe needle into its mouth. The
other told him when to stop, and then nodded for him to pull it out. Taehyung did the little flick of
the finger against the plastic, the way he’d seen doctors do, and chuckled to himself like a child
playing with a new toy. Wonho’s eyes were keen as he watched his boss roll up his sleeve. He was
hardly even blinking, as if he were interested in every last minute of this impending disaster.

Jimin’s gonna fucking kill me, was Taehyung’s last thought before he put the needle to his skin.
Somehow, it encouraged him, and he pushed the top of the syringe. He let out a muffled groan as
the high hit almost immediately. The air barrelled out of his lungs in a gasp and he pulled the
needle out. Wonho already had a bit of cotton and gauze ready, pulled from the first aid box in the
glove compartment. Taehyung found it incredibly funny all of a sudden that a bulletproof car had a
first aid box hidden away, and he couldn’t stop giggling as Wonho wiped the tiny pinprick of a
wound.

“The second time won’t be this much fun will it?” he said, breathless.

“First times usually are the best,” Wonho agreed, smiling genuinely for what felt like the first time
since they’d met.

Taehyung’s thoughts drifted away from the children at the club. He felt and thought nothing even
remotely resembling pity and regret. All he experienced was a rush that made life worth living. He
sat back and took it in, eyes spacing out, a half-smile cracking his face in two.

“You might start to feel drowsy, but work through it. It’s just like when you drink alcohol for the
first time.” He heard Wonho’s voice through a pleasant fog.
Taehyung could feel it, that need to just lie down like a happy daisy and soak in the sun and do
nothing. So, he thought of the one thing that would make him even happier, and that was up in the
apartment block. His brain told him to get up and chase after it and with a growl, he sat up, shaking
out his limbs vigorously.

“I don’t fucking get drowsy,” he shot back, kicking open the door and stepping out.

Wonho was half jogging to keep up as Taehyung sped up the stairs. There was no ground beneath
his feet. Just clouds. He stuck his arms out either side of him, laughing at the top of his lungs as he
zig-zagged through the lobby, pretending he was a fighter jet. The porter looked thoroughly
baffled, but upon being thrown a cursory wad of banknotes by Wonho, he sat back in place and
pretended he hadn’t just seen a grown man zooming past making plane noises.

A delivery man in the corridor on the second floor was sorting through the letters in his satchel,
when Taehyung crept up behind him.

“Boo,” he said, and the poor man almost shat himself.

Had Taehyung seen himself in the mirror, he would have perhaps understood why the man looked
horrified. His pupils were almost invisible, the dark brown of his eyes turned hazel and glassy.
They were hooded, giving him a distinctly menacing expression, though his lips were split in two,
stretching into an almost maniacal grin as he giggled at a joke only he understood.

“Are you delivering to that door down there?” he said hoarsely, pointing down the corridor.

Wonho did not bother with such questions, and simply took the man by the collar, revealing in the
movement of his arm and the lifting of his coat that he had a gun stashed in his belt.

“Ring the bell as you normally would,” he said. “Don’t look at us, look into the spyhole.”

“B-but I don’t have a parcel for – “

“Do you think we’re here to deliver them a parcel?”

At Wonho’s ice-cold voice, the man went perfectly still, and imbued an odd calm into his
behaviour. He was panicking but instinctively understood how to best ensure his own survival.

It was Taehyung he was refusing to look at or the fear would resurface. Wonho had to stop his
boss from trying to play with the man’s hair a couple times as he hit the bell and waited. Two
minutes passed by and Taehyung finally hammered on the door. He put his finger to his lips
immediately, suppressing laughter as the delivery man flinched, and ducked out of the view of the
spyhole.

The chain on the door rattled and then it slowly started to creak open.

Taehyung moved first, gun already in hand.

He darted in between the jamb and the door before Jungkook had the chance to push it shut.
“Husssshhhhhh….” The whisper escaped in a sibilant rush, as he grabbed both the arms of the
wheelchair and began pushing him back. Jungkook couldn’t have made a sound even if he’d
wanted, he’d gone completely mute.

Taehyung wheeled him, as carelessly as a drunk crashing a shopping trolley into as many things as
possible before he finally got him through the bedroom door. The apartment was empty. Jungkook
fell against the nightstand, almost toppling from the chair but grabbed onto the bed just in time.
Wonho loomed in the doorway, before retreating into the living room with his gun trained on the
front door. Someone would return soon enough, and it was better to be prepared than sorry.

Taehyung slammed the bedroom door shut, and Jungkook nearly jumped out of his skin.

He was white as a sheet, with the same button nose and bunny teeth that Taehyung remembered.
But his jaw was not so strong anymore. His lower lip trembled. His eyes were dewy. He was gaunt.
This was no longer a Taehyung-in-the-making. This was a broken young man who had little faith
in his own recovery, or even belief that it would ever happen.

No sight had ever given Taehyung greater joy.

Even without the heroin, it was a high moment. His movements sobered – he forced them to with
all his might – and he lowered onto the bed beside Jungkook, eyes glued to his face. The joker-
esque grin was still there, and he saw it reflected back at him in Jungkook’s frightened eyes.
“You’re on heroin,” Jungkook whispered.

“Hello to you too,” Taehyung beamed.

He pulled back his hand and whipped him across the face with it. The crick in Jungkook’s neck
was audible as his head snapped to the right. He didn’t reposition it immediately, letting his head
hang, hair covering his eyes. And when he did, he was glowering, and something of the old
Jungkook returned. His fists were taut on the arms of the chair, and there was a smear of blood on
his bottom lip.

“You should be dead,” Taehyung half-sang.

“Is that why you’re here? To finish me off?” Jungkook muttered, sucking on his lip gingerly.

“Oh, but this is far better. Look at you. You worthless, trivial drop of shit,” Taehyung replied.
“Now you’re useless for the entire world to see. You can’t hide it anymore.” He reached out,
sliding his hands against Jungkook’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. Their breathing synchronised,
the deeper Taehyung’s thumbs dug into Jungkook’s cheeks. “Did you kill Hobi, Jeon?” he
whispered, voice trembling.

In that moment, Jungkook seemed to understand Jimin had covered for him. Taehyung saw his
heart expand in his eyes, and then snap in half like dry crackerbread. The blood it gushed turned
into salty tears that overflowed and fell like the first smattering of rain on a desert. He was
emotionally drained. The thought of Jimin had imbued life into him, but it was for nothing. He
nodded, as much as he could, with his head so tightly in Taehyung’s grip, and his bottom lip
quivered, letting out a soft groan.

“I didn’t mean to…I panicked…I’m s-s-sorry – I panicked – I thought…I don’t know what I
thought – I never fucking think – “ he was starting to break down, like a hapless child caught in a
lie. But he kept apologising, even as he tried to explain an impossible situation.

And all the while, Taehyung’s hands tightened on his head like a vice.

He got up, but remained hunched over, forehead pressing to Jungkook’s, and the young man went
quiet. The heroin was starting to make him weary, but Taehyung forced his anger to heat his blood
and keep him awake.
“Do you know what you took from me when you killed him like that?” he asked. His voice rose in
pitch, a moan wrenched from the agonising memory of holding Hobi in his arms after he’d pulled
him from the suitcase. “As if he didn’t matter? You took the only family I had left. You – “ his
teeth clenched and he whimpered, the sound lapsing into a frenzied growl as he knocked his head
against Jungkook’s.

All Jungkook could say was “I’m sorry” over and over, eyes closed. He seemed to have accepted
he was going to die and was now ridding himself of his sins. Taehyung wasn’t about to let that
happen.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, fingers clawing at Jungkook’s scalp. “I could crush your skull
right now, and no one could stop me. But I won’t.”

Jungkook could no longer seal his sobs behind clamped lips. His lower lip was fully pushed out as
fresh tears fell onto his chin and dripped down his nose. Taehyung shoved his face upwards and
shook him.

“Why are you crying? Why are you crying, when it’s Hobi that’s dead?” he wailed. “Hoseok was
to me what Jimin is to you and I am – never – letting – Jimin – go! Do you understand?” He hit his
forehead against Jungkook’s again, eliciting a cry of pain from the younger. “Unlucky for you, I’m
in love with him, so you won’t have the relatively small amount of satisfaction knowing he died
loving you, if I’d killed him for revenge. He’s already falling for me, and by the time I’m done
with him, you’ll be nothing but a speck in his memory. He hasn’t tried to come see you even once.
He knows how good he is at getting me to do what he wants, and he hasn’t asked to be allowed to
see you even once. You know what that means, don’t you? I think you do…” his sentenced trailed
off in a coo, before soaring into jubilant giggling.

In the back of his mind, Taehyung was panicking, just a little. Because he no longer knew what
was him talking, and what was the drug. With cocaine, he knew where he stood. With this new
marvel, he didn’t know if he was in command of himself or if it was fooling him into thinking he
was. At this point, he wasn’t holding onto Jungkook’s skull to cause him pain. It was an anchor,
weighing him down as his brain turned into candyfloss.

The door crashed open and Wonho entered, gun to Seokjin’s head as he shoved him inside. There
was a moment of sheer incredulity when his eyes met the newcomer’s. Incredulity on Seokjin’s
side mostly, because Taehyung was still half out of it.

Taehyung signalled for Wonho to remove the gun and laughed. “Oh, hello. Didn’t realise Mommy
would be back so soon.”
Seokjin looked so tightly wound up, it was a surprise he hadn’t already exploded from the rage
that seemed so close to cracking his porcelain skin. Not even a drop escaped. He remained
composed, eyes burning like hot coals.

“The nerve you have, you son of a bitch,” he hissed.

“That’s no way to talk to the man who spared your life,” Taehyung pouted. “Where’s Namjoon?”

Seokjin said nothing. He stood there, shaking like a leaf in the wind, overcome with such anger he
looked as if he were about to be physically sick. It couldn’t have been pleasant, seeing his rival
before him and being utterly powerless to do anything about it. Taehyung decided to further rub
salt in the wound.

He wrenched Jungkook up from the chair by the collar and flung him.

Seokjin’s reaction was reflexive, moving to catch him, but Wonho held him back. Jungkook’s legs
dropped, helpless, and he was unable to crawl on his elbows quick enough to dodge the kick
Taehyung landed in his ribs. The scream that tore from Seokjin’s mouth was like the enraged roar
of an animal, forced to watch its cub be abused. But Wonho’s arms were three times thicker than
his and they had him pinned. Taehyung put his full weight on Jungkook’s thigh, stepping on his
legs and laughing when the boy cried out. He felt next to nothing, but it still could not have been
pleasant. Taehyung yanked a switchblade from his belt and tore Jungkook’s trousers down.

“Let’s see if we can return some sensation to your deadweight legs, hmm?” he said pleasantly.

Jungkook’s reaction was instantaneous. He looked ready to throw up as he grabbed Taehyung’s

wrists, trying to push them away. But his upper body strength had weakened considerably since his
stint in the hospital and Taehyung batted his hands off like they were mere flies. He pulled back
his arm and stuck the blade in deep.

Nothing.

Jungkook was horrified and hyperventilating, but he felt nothing. The blood seeped from around
the unforgiving metal, and Taehyung dipped his finger into it, spreading the scarlet over
Jungkook’s creamy skin. There was murder in his eyes. Jungkook was no doubt envisioning a great
many things Taehyung would do next. Nothing prepared him for what Taehyung said.
“I’ve never tried leg amputation before.”

Jungkook sank against the floor, unable to make a sound. That was no fun. Victims who gave up
easily were of no use hunting. The one with the fight was being held back by Wonho and when
Taehyung turned his eyes up to him, he saw Seokjin was now also still, though far from
emotionless.

“You’re a vulture,” he spat. “A pretender to a throne you didn’t earn. Had I known throwing a
street rat a few crumbs would result in this, I’d have had you fed to Cersei the minute Soo Jang Ho
brought you through my door. You have no real power. You’re a puppet. Minsoo’s weak, tired
little bitch, pretending he holds weight in a world that was never made for you.”

They stared at each other and the only thing punctuating the silence, was Jungkook’s harsh
breathing.

“I have no power?” Taehyung repeated slowly.

He stood up and walked to his bodyguard, untying the tie around his neck. He stretched it out,
keeping eye contact with Seokjin before dropping to his knees by Jungkook’s head. He pulled him
up, looping the tie around his neck and crossing the two ends until it formed a noose. With a jerked
movement of his arms, he dragged it upwards, and Jungkook began to choke. It was a horrendous
sight. As the blood pooled under his naked leg, his face reddened, the veins in his neck bulging
and eyeballs beginning to pop from their sockets.

“Leave him alone!” Seokjin screamed, struggling against Wonho with everything he had. He
looked like he was about to lose his mind, as if the tie was choking him, not Jungkook.

“I’m going to kill him, and you’re going to watch,” Taehyung panted through grinning teeth,
“Unless you get on your knees and do a full bow to your new King, you can watch your nephew
die. Let him go, Wonho – “

Jungkook gasped for the little air he had left, body convulsing with the first series of death spasms.
Seokjin’s eyes, wide and glittering, were like jewels as he sank to his knees. It was more an
expression of shock than contriteness, but the longer he stared into the merciless black pits that
were Taehyung’s eyes, he knew he had no other choice. He was shaking almost as hard as
Jungkook, as he bent forward. Palms flat on the carpet, he lowered his head, touching it to the
ground.
Taehyung let the moment hang. An uncle, pleading for his nephew’s half-ruined life. Jungkook
began to go still in his arms, and finally, he loosened the tie. The young man fell off his lap like a
rag doll, heaving in air as he coughed and clutched at his chest in sheer agony. He was crying for
his dead mother like a baby.

Seokjin was still bent over.

Taehyung stood, setting the tip of his leather shoe under his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Your continued existence is your humiliation,” he said, gentle as the stroke of a feather. “Nursing
this miserable creature, is your humiliation. And your humiliation is my power. I will never be
powerless, unless you decide to slit your own throat and take the power from me.”

He turned to drop a kiss on Jungkook’s forehead and murmured, “I’ll tell Jimin you’re doing fine
then, shall I?” before leaving the room.

No sooner had Wonho opened the front door, Namjoon walked through it. His astonishment was
palpable, but the two intruders gave him no time to process. Taehyung squeezed his shoulder,
chuckled, and said, “You need to hide them better, officer. Next time, you’ll come home to two
corpses.”

Wonho kept an eye on his boss all the way to the car. The erratic behaviour had calmed somewhat,
but there was no denying the general happiness in Taehyung’s demeanour. The heroin had returned
him to the state he was most feared for: confident, ruthless and controlled.

Without realising it, Taehyung had eventually made the mistake he thought he’d so cleverly
avoided with Madame Go earlier. There was something being held over his head now, and he had
no idea.
News of Yoongi’s double heart attack had leaked.

He knew it would, eventually. There were far too many generals in this army of his who had their
eye on the position of King, and who believed the age of the one sitting on the throne was a joke. It
was the Mayor of Busan, Jung Woo Sung, who had backed him, with no explanation as to why,
until Yoongi proved himself to be hardier, and colder than other men twice his age. But he had
needed help, just like anyone else. And there was an ugly truth he liked to keep under wraps, which
was slowly starting to gain traction.

He had built his kingdom on the ashes of the old one.

As it so happened, his hand in burning the old kingdom down was as of yet, still a secret to
everyone but Mayor Jung. It was a truly impossible story for those that did not know and
understand Yoongi personally. There were two types of people in the world – those that let their
pain consume them, and those that used it to become stronger. Yoongi had done both things and
turned the dial up until the frequency went screeching off the charts.

He was a seething ball of neurotic emotion, with a heart of stone that was beginning to crack. He
knew he had become complacent, high up in his Dragon Tower, out of touch with the daily grind
that maintained his empire. As any rich man would, he no longer looked over his shoulder, he
looked ahead. And yet the shadows grew behind him.

Mr Han was diligent with his reports, dragging Kai with him on each excursion to Yoongi’s office.
He would try to sugar-coat the discrepancies, the clear signs that Yoongi’s own men were stealing
from him. It was a pitiful turn of events indeed, when the ailing Mr Han also saw Yoongi as more
fragile than himself, an old man with a cane.

But Mr Han should not have been worrying about Yoongi’s heart. He should have been concerned
with the deterioration of his mind.

Yoongi had been around plenty of mad men and had resolved never to allow himself to tip into
such an obscene imbalance that he should lose control of his good sense. Do your worst, but never
too much. Do good, but never enough. The grey was the comfortable centre, and to be black or
white, was to fail. He had always believed he would sense it if he ever started to lose his mind. He
did not count on the fact that insanity could disguise itself as common sense.
At least, not till the day he woke up from a slumber, to find he had sleepwalked into the garden,
and his hands were clawing at the wet mud, digging a hole. For what purpose, he couldn’t begin to
think. Consciousness brought no relief, or indeed, a halt in his behaviour. His actions remained
erratic, bringing with them a growing sense of fear and forlorn panic as he dug harder. The last
time he had felt this way, was during the first month of being held captive to the dirty, sadistic
desires of Mi Kwan.

In that moment, Yoongi thought nothing, except that for some reason he had to keep digging. He
could feel things clawing under his skin, struggling to get out. Hammering at the earth with his
fingers helped to ignore it. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he was no longer afraid it would
give out on him. He didn’t think of the precautions he had enforced on himself to keep another
heart attack at bay. He wanted to escape from the insidious thing ensnaring his mind in its clutches,
and digging was going to do it. He was sure of it.

He didn’t realise he was screaming and crying at the top of his lungs until it caught the attention of
someone inside the house.

Her name was Jihyo, one of the live-in housekeepers, a young woman in her early twenties who
had just recently started. When she had taken the job, she was desperate and had been told vaguely
that her boss, despite his young age, was an extremely successful businessman. At first, she
assumed he’d managed to make millions by developing and selling an app. Until tattooed men with
guns and flashy rings began to pass in and out of the home as if it were their personal highway.
That made it sink in somewhat.

But Jihyo was clever, and above all, discreet, as most of Yoongi’s staff were trained to be. She did
not say a word, and she did not ask. She watched and was silent.

Her first real encounter with her master was tonight. She came running out in her pyjamas, white as
a sheet, hair askew, as she hurried to stop him. Yoongi was a whirlwind of arms and flying hands,
deaf and blind to his surroundings. Jihyo floundered, calling desperately up to the house. But when
no one came immediately, she had to work to pull him from the ground herself.

“Sir! Stop, please!” she cried, over and over, until finally, she used his given name, something none
of the servants could ever dream of under normal circumstances. “Yoongi!”

He seemed to gain a hold of himself, trembling like a baby bird abandoned by its mother. His eyes
were wide and lost. He didn’t look like himself. Nothing at all like the feline-eyed, hard-lipped
motherfucker Jihyo had come to think of him as. As she held him, the force of his shuddering
passed through into her, until she had to grip tighter to keep still.
Abruptly, he pushed away from her, crawling across the ground to sit on the other side of the hole
he’d dug. It was considerably deep – at least a foot or so – though he’d only used his hands.

Three guards came running from opposing sides of the building, finally alerted that something was
wrong. But at a brief flick of Yoongi’s hand, they retreated. He waited until they were gone, before
sinking against the tree behind him. Every strand of hair was plastered with mud, his porcelain skin
marred by the dirt. He was breathing as if he’d run a long race and his eyes were unfocused, even
as he tried to direct his infamous glare at her. It wasn’t very convincing. Jihyo just looked afraid
for him, rather than of him.

Yoongi sniffed, drawing his legs up to his chest. He closed his eyes, in an effort to stem the heat at
the back of them, but when he opened them, his vision was compromised by tears. His lungs
relaxed, his heart slowed, but there was a terrible, dull ache in his head and a grey fog in the pit of
his stomach. He was well-familiar with it.

Sadness.

It was no ordinary sadness. It was the kind that had no cure. It was a sadness that only visited once
in most people’s lifetimes, in that final decisive moment before Death took them in its arms.
Yoongi had never known his life to be without this grief, though he defied Death with everything
he had inside him.

Jihyo looked unsure, completely untrained for this situation. Her itinerary did not involve
comforting her employer, who was clearly no honest businessman and was most certainly not as
soft and helpless, no matter how he looked just then. But she was kind – she considered it one of
her worst attributes, as she couldn’t fight it – and every instinct in her being encouraged her to
move closer. Everyone needed some sort of human contact when they were upset. She knew this.

He did not object to her suggestion that she help him back upstairs. Once there, Jihyo was about to
leave, when she turned over her shoulder one last time and saw Yoongi standing in the middle of
the room. She waited a few seconds, for him to move, but when he didn’t, sighed.

“Sir, may I draw you a bath?” she ventured.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the window and pushed back the curtains. Busan greeted
him, all high-rise towers and streams of light, bordered by the merciless sheet of liquid iron called
the sea. Yoongi pressed his dirty palms to the window, leaving murky prints.
“I wonder where they are,” he whispered.

“Sir?” Jihyo asked, barely hearing him.

“I wonder where they are, the men who plot against me behind closed doors,” he murmured.
“They haven’t sent killers. They’re just biding their time. Like plague doctors waiting to remove a
diseased corpse so one of them can take my place. It will be civil war all over again.”

Jihyo said nothing. She didn’t think it wise to.

“Do you know how I got to where I am?” Yoongi asked, and this time, he looked over his shoulder
at her, without really seeing her. Out of obligation - or so she felt - Jihyo moved closer, careful to
maintain a respectful distance. He turned back to the night sky. “I made them burn everything to
the ground. I made them kill each other. This is not Seoul. The mobsters here think with less
finesse. It is a savage kingdom, made for savage rulers. But I swore to myself I wouldn’t be. And
yet – “

He trailed a finger down the glass. It dragged, horribly.

“The savagery is returning. As it always does with animals. I blame it on my parentless state you
know.” He laughed, turning to look at her through tear-stained eyes, nose red and cheeks pink. “I
always taught myself that to love and be loved is weakness. And yet I couldn’t help but want it.
When my aunt threw me from her house, I clung to her leg as long as I could before she kicked me
in the face and broke my nose. I sat outside her gate deep into the night, praying this was just one
of those times she was angry with me, and would let me come back. I learned to blame myself for
the things I couldn’t help, simply because she said so. It was my fault that I did not have parents. It
was my fault I became her burden to bear, an extra mouth to feed. It was my fault her son would
bully me in school. My fault her husband would come into my room at night. My fault. Everything,
was my fault. Nothing was her fault. And in yearning for a scrap of her love, I agreed that I was
indeed the most unlovable creature on the planet and wasn’t worthy of her good graces. Anything,
to lower myself and extract some human sympathy from her. I got none. Do you know what that
does to a person? To be so utterly unloved and unwanted?”

Jihyo shook her head. She was being forced to absorb far too much information in a very short
amount of time. All she could do was listen and have her heart rush through a hundred different
emotions all at once. She could not relate to him – her family was perfectly normal – but she felt
for this complete stranger, despite her innate fear at the realisation that she had probably guessed
his occupation rightly.
“It makes you desperate to replace the need for love with other things. A need for vengeance,
anger, hatred – anything one might think is stronger than love. And when all those needs are
fulfilled too easily, the desire for love returns and you fall into the bear trap. The claws swing, and
the metal sinks into your skin, making it difficult to breathe, but you survive anyway. Because you
know, it’ll hurt worse when it lets go.”

Yoongi half-stumbled to his chair, pulling his phone to him. He continued to speak, even as he
texted someone.

“I had her killed. Her and her entire family. I didn’t have to do it. But I wanted to, and that was all
that mattered. Taehyung did the deed actually, though he didn’t know who they were. I had him
break into her home and plant a bomb under the kitchen table. And then I waited in my car, as it
grew darker and they sat down for their evening meal. They looked so happy through the window.
As if their only problem ever, had been the unwanted arrival of an orphaned baby and now that he
was gone, all was well. And just as my aunt – a devout Christian – raised her hands to conduct
their evening prayer, I hit the button and – boom.” He flared his fingers outwards, eyes widening
like saucers.

Jihyo drew in a shaky breath.

Yoongi gave her a crooked smile. “Do you regret agreeing to work for me now? I hear the
housekeeping staff isn’t told what I do for a living when they first arrive.”

By some miracle, she managed to answer. “N-no, sir, you pay well.”

“That I do.” He put his hand to his forehead and stared out at the city again, eyes crinkling at the
edges as his skull pounded. “I’m good at making bombs, you know. I’ve always been good with
my hands. A man with a plan, and bombs, do not go well together.”

“No, I suppose not,” she answered, in a paper-thin voice.

Yoongi decided not to frighten her further and dismissed her. At her hesitance, he assured her he
wouldn’t be out in the garden again that night, and only then did she leave. He made a mental note
to give her a pay raise.

He wished he was digging like a lunatic again. When Yoongi was having a panic attack, he was
focusing the pain on himself, abusing his body to do things it shouldn’t have been in the middle of
the night. Now that he was calmer, he wanted to allocate the pain elsewhere. In the past, Taehyung
was an easy, willing participant of the toxic routine. Now, there was nothing.

He would die, soon. He knew this. He felt it with each beat of his heart. Some days, Yoongi just sat
and counted them, as if in the process, his heart would give out and he would know the number on
which it had failed.

The real truth about being unloved was that it removed empathy. With Taehyung, Yoongi learned
to feel sorry for someone other than himself. With Hoseok, he forgot to feel sorry for himself, he
just loved. Without either, he wanted everything and everyone around him to suffer before he had
to take his final bow and depart from a life that had been immeasurably cruel.

No one was taking the savage kingdom he had tamed. If they wanted it, they could start from
scratch, just like he had.

He dialled a number on his phone and the screen flashed with the name Yoo Kihyun.

“Kihyun-ah,” he drawled. “Did I wake you?”

“Of course not,” came the mumbled response from the other end.

“Really? You sound drowsy.”

“I mean, I’m drunk, so I don’t know if that counts.”

Yoongi smiled. “I like you better when you’re drunk. I’m going to need you to do something for
me, darling.”

“Listening, boss.”

“I need you to do a thorough investigation of all our crime families. Their favourite haunts, where
they do their business, where they spend time with their loved ones. Everything. And once you
have that information, I need blueprints of all the buildings they frequent.”
Kihyun sounded unsure on the other end now. “Er – will do, boss. Mind me asking why?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi said sweetly. “Just a regular inventory. If you don’t keep an eye on your own,
who else will do it for you?”

“Sure, boss, I’ll get right on that for you…”

Kihyun, a drug runner-turned-lord, was the leak.

Yoongi treated him like a friend, because he was remarkably loose-tongued when it came to
gossip. And gossip often held the real dirty laundry, the type that could get one killed for treason.
The sort that Yoongi needed to know. But he also knew Kihyun wouldn’t open his loud mouth and
go running to tell anyone just yet. He would wait, eager to know why Yoongi wanted the
blueprints, but by the time he found out, it would be too late.

Yoongi was not one for simple plans, but nihilism often lent itself to the oversimplification of most
things.

A quick tap on his phone and the Bluetooth speakers installed in various corners of the room began
to play Chopin. The dirt on his clothes and face was starting to dry. It itched.

Everywhere Yong Geondal’s crime families frequented, were hubs of syndicate activity, housing
thriving illegal businesses and existing as places for the rich and powerful in the underworld to
meet. It wasn’t just about destroying the families. It was the buildings too, the ones that were
threatening to become hallmarks of Yong Geondal. Yoongi wasn’t prepared to share his gang with
the vultures who were already trying to make it their own. What he had created, he himself would
take out.

It had been a long time since his dextrous, thin fingers had put together an IED. But they would get
in some practice soon enough.

Because now, he’d have to make twenty.

 The Nightingale Sings

Leave a comment, save a life. :(((

Long ago, Kim Bong Ju was captain of his own ship. It was a rudderless ship, without direction or
purpose, until it docked in a harbour with a perfect lighthouse. For the rest of his sane life, the light
from that tower had blinded and indirectly controlled his every moment. It was a foolish notion to
believe that should the light go out, his ship would be returned to him. Because when the light was
vanquished, still, he drifted. And now he was in the dark.

He was a dead man walking, with no tales to tell, nothing to show for a life ill-led, and only the
vivid memories of a lighthouse that was at one time, both a curse and a refuge.

It was the first tongue he had ever wrenched from the mouth of a living human being. He learned
new things that day. No matter how strongly he tied the knots of the restraints, nothing could stop
the convulsions of sheer agony produced in his victim. Tongues were wet, slippery things, even
without the torrents of blood they could produce upon the slightest graze of a sharp object. The
man tied to the chair was still conscious. Glassy eyeballs bulged from his sockets, and every vein
on his neck and temple permanently protruded by the force of constant, shrieking screams.

Bong Ju pushed him down until the chair he was bound to was on its back. With a knee on his
chest, he reattached the face clamps, forcing his mouth wider open.

“This will be easier on both of us if you stop wriggling,” he said. “The sooner I get this out, the
sooner I can kill you. Now, sit still.”

He took a deep breath and began to hack. It was clumsy work. He was simply not good at the more
hands-on aspect of murder. He was not a torturer. That was Minsoo’s job. He was refined and
elegant in his method of execution. He was Death, if Death wore a monocle and a top hat. His crisp
white shirt was drenched almost fully scarlet, and a fresh stream of blood sprayed over his face
when the knife hit the major nerves. The man’s voice was a strangled gurgle, chair rocking
violently.

“Oh fuck,” Bong Ju groaned, as the blade cut through the frenulum.

It was too much for his victim. One last, drawn-out, overwhelmed screech and then he fell still. He
was going into shock. Either that, or he had fainted. His eyes were still open, however. Bong Ju
knew he had botched the whole thing. If he was skilled at this, he would have sliced it off within
seconds, and then been able to shoot him in the head before he even felt the pain.

He dropped the tongue – a sinewy, meaty thing – and reached for a polaroid camera sitting in the
growing pool of blood. He snapped a photograph and then flapped the little piece of card, a
grimace stretching his lips back from his teeth. He staggered to his feet and went to the phone
attached to the wall.

“It’s done.”

“Tongue?”

“And photograph.”

“Wrap them up. Leave them in the usual place.”

After a shower and a quick change of clothes – stolen from the dead man’s wardrobe – Bong Ju left
with the trophies of his macabre afternoon wrapped up. The ‘usual’ place was a post office down
sixth street. The old woman who sat behind the counter was in on the Geomjeong-pa game though
he didn’t know in what way. Bong Ju had never asked. She reminded him far too much of a
particularly shrewish schoolteacher he’d had, one who had turned him off the idea of further
schooling after high school.

The rest of his evening was free.

There was never such a thing as a ‘free day’ for him. But in the gaps between terse phone calls
from his boss, he only had one place he enjoyed spending his time. Of course, that depended on
her husband, but he knew for a fact that he was away on business in Luxembourg and she would be
alone in a house the size of a palace.
He didn’t bother calling ahead. The butler knew him, and he was let in without question at the
gates. Bong Ju suspected Park Ji Won’s staff loathed him, or why else would his wife’s secret be so
jealously kept? At this rate, he was free to walk through the corridors of another man’s home as if
he was its true owner, helping himself to his wife as if it were nothing. All he knew was the only
reason he did not kill Park Ji Won was due to Ara’s begging on his behalf, and his invaluable
availability as Kim Seo Joon’s bottomless bank vault.

Bong Ju had never begrudged Ara her desperate desire to be rich. They had both known the sort of
poverty that was worse than death. And he himself had no stability to offer her. It was a cruel, ugly
reality that an abusive, rich alcoholic was a better husband than the alternative. Not that Bong Ju
didn’t try to convince her that Ji Won should die, each time he noticed a new bruise, a red wound,
or the dark circles around her eyes.

“At least he doesn’t touch me in the way I dread most. He no longer comes to my bed and that’s all
I can ask for,” was her only ending to such arguments.

She was not in her room when he went up. It was a baroque fairy tale, filled with furnishings that
seemed to have been plucked from the background of any European monarch’s official portrait.
Ara was a fanciful creature, filled with dreams he couldn’t begin to understand. He didn’t care for
the history of his own country, never mind that of others, but she read and gorged herself on other
cultures with an avid thirst. There were two hundred or so rooms in this house, and she had taken
it upon herself to theme them. There was one taken straight from the Alhambra, and another
designed to look like the inside of a castle in Jaipur. Boredom bred creativity, he supposed.

Bong Ju was about to retreat from her room, when a sudden movement on the bed made him stop.
There was someone under the bedsheets. A little someone.

A baby rolled into a seated position, face red with sleep. He sneezed, tiny fists bunching up against
his button nose. Pink lips pushed out in a pout as he whimpered. Bong Ju recognised the first signs
of a tantrum. His mother wasn’t in bed with him and he was going to start screaming for her at any
moment.

Bong Ju had heard enough screaming that day, he was not keen on hearing more.

He approached the boy, and for a moment, the little thing froze. He had seen Bong Ju before, but
the memory of an infant wasn’t entirely reliable. However, he was an unusually unfussy baby and
did not immediately start yelling when Bong Ju reached for him. He couldn’t help thinking what a
worrying thing that was, a child that wouldn’t scream if a stranger tried to pick him up.
“You need to work on your survival instincts, little one,” he muttered, lifting him up. “There are
greater monsters than me out there.”

The baby blew a spit bubble and kicked his fat little legs. A foot caught Bong Ju in the jaw and he
felt an odd thing start to happen to his face. It took him a second to realise it was a smile. He
hadn’t smiled genuinely in so long, the sensation felt…wrong. He brought the baby close to his
chest and cradled him, walking nearer to the window to soak in the last of the summer sunlight as
it died away.

“Christian…Christian…that is a stuffy name for a lovely baby,” he mused, almost to himself. “I

bet you don’t like that name, though she insists on calling you by it.”

Fully alert after his nap, the baby was actively studying each shiny button on Bong Ju’s coat. He
tugged, burbled and bit, hitting his plump fists on the man’s shoulder for no reason, but to laugh
briefly in that way babies often did. Bong Ju’s face softened, hand going to the back of the child’s
head. He remembered when Taehyung had been this age, with eyes as wide as saucers. His first
word had been ‘Appa’ and it was all he had said over and over, until his second word finally came
through: ‘Ham-momo’, a variant of ‘Halmeoni’ for his grandmother.

If Ara’s baby was one, then Taehyung was now three. Shame took Bong Ju over as he realised
he’d had to calculate his own son’s age. He hadn’t seen him for over half a year. Holding this baby
told him it was high time he did.

“Shall we give you a new name?” he said, tilting the baby so that he was lying horizontal in his
arms.

The child was promptly distracted by the oranges and purples in the sky as the sun lowered ever
further. Bong Ju smiled, squeezing his cheek with a thumb.

“I had a boy in my class when I was little. Eyes as wide as yours, lips just as round. We always
teased him, said he was too pretty for a boy. He died when he was eight. His father killed his
mother, his three sisters and then saved him for last, before he shot himself. I think about him all
the time and I don’t know why. His name was Jimin.”

The baby stopped gurgling and went quiet, turning round eyes up towards Bong Ju. The man
kissed his forehead, throat tightening up as he missed Taehyung with such desperation, it killed
him to be holding someone else’s child and not his own.
“I’ll give that suggestion to your mother. After all, you’re Korean. You need a Korean name too.
Park Jimin works…”

“Put down the baby.”

Bong Ju turned to see Ara standing in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes blazing with bottled anger.
He resisted the urge to laugh. It was how he liked her best. Vengeful and vicious and in full-scale
mother bear mode. It was remarkable how much she looked like her son and yet not at all. At first
glance, he was all his father, but there was an indication that he would grow up to be Ara’s mirror
image.

“I’m not doing anything to the baby,” he assured her. “I was offering him a suggestion for a
Korean name, since you were too lazy to give him one.”

“Christian works just fine, thank you very much,” she said, taking the child from him.

“Or Jimin.”

“Christian.”

“Okay. Or Jimin.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a democratic issue.”

Bong Ju dropped it. He knew when to concede. It usually meant backing out before Ara made him
swallow his pride and admit defeat. He liked to let her have her own way, but she was getting far
too used to it. Jimin – for that was exactly what Bong Ju was going to call him now – latched onto
his mother’s neck with a contented suckle of his thumb. But his eyes were round and curious as he
stared at Bong Ju, as if he was trying to figure out in his infant mind whether he was looking at
friend or foe. If babies even were aware of such a concept.

“Why are you in such a foul mood, my lady?” he said to Ara playfully as she set Jimin in his cot
and called for one of the nannies.
“Minsoo called. Told me you dropped your medication,” she answered roughly.

“I don’t need medication, ma’am, I’m not ill.”

“Stop calling me ‘ma’am’. You always use faux respect when you’re trying to sidle out of an
impending argument.”

“We argue like we’re married. I thought an affair didn’t come with that bonus.” Bong Ju promptly
dodged away as Ara’s fist came up. It struck him in the arm, and he danced out of her reach with a
bright laugh. She was still furious, but a smile began to form on her lips, and that only made her
angrier. He let her chase him around the room, until finally, he turned and caught her, throwing
her on the bed and landing on top. “The hunter becomes the hunted…” he murmured, pressing his
finger against her plush, red tiered mouth.

She promptly bit down, snagging on skin. “Only for as long as the hunter allows it. You need to
take your medication. I know you don’t have such episodes often, but the doctor said you needed to
control the chemical imbalance in your brain.”

“Doctors don’t know everything,” Bong Ju replied, obstinate to the very last as he rolled over onto
the bed.

Ara got up, without a word, and went into the en suite. When she returned, he didn’t lift his head to
see what she had in her hands. Icy cold water splashed over him, drenching his shirt, coat and the
bedsheets and mattress underneath. He sat up with an enraged splutter.

“What the f- “

“That is what I feel like every time I see you struggle to control your temper,” Ara snapped. “Each
time I wonder ‘is this the moment he snaps’ or ‘is this the moment he hurts me’. Do you know
why? Because I know when you finally snap and hurt me, it will be the first and last time! I won’t
survive because you are ill, and you cannot control the downward spiral of your brain!”

Bong Ju was angry now, for sure, but he couldn’t lash out. She looked close to tears. She was
infuriating like that. Did something outrageous and then backed it up with a surprisingly solid
point and tears to boot.
He now saw understood Ara had managed to snag the most eligible bachelor in Seoul despite
turning tricks on street corners. Bong Ju thought he helped by introducing them, but the rest was
all her. The likes of Park Jiwon could have any woman he wanted as a one-night fling, never mind
a sex worker. Ara was good at making her point, and she was making one now.

But medication was weakness. His own father was the same, as had his uncle been. Unfortunately,
his uncle had not lived to tell the tale of overcoming the demons scratching at his mind.

“Minsoo’s mouth is too big for the size of his brain,” he muttered finally.

“I thought you two were friends,” she frowned.

“Not anymore.”

“Promise me you’ll take your medication.”

Bong Ju glanced in the mirror, where the baby was standing up in his cot, bobbing up and down as
he stared and ignored his nanny’s attempts to try to change him out of his onesie.

“Sure, I will. As long as you promise to give him a Korean name. Jimin.” Bong Ju pointed at him
and the little boy smiled, putting his whole finger in his mouth and displaying his single front tooth,
pearly white and small.

Ara sighed, returning the bucket in her hand to the bathroom. “Fine. Whatever. Jimin it is. I’m still
calling him Christian though.”

A knock on the door made Bong Ju’s head snap around.

There were only four knocks on his door in a day, three of them for meals, one for medication. This
was the second knock, but it was early.
Jungkook had put him in a private mental institution, off the coast on Jeju Island. It was more like
an all-expenses paid luxury hotel than an institution, if not for the medication that was wheeled
around on schedule, as well as the tall barbed wire fences. Bong Ju had not questioned it. He had
spent so long sleeping rough, this was just another stop in the road. He neither felt grateful or upset.
He felt nothing. His son – it was difficult to remember this, but it was one of the few things he
forced himself to keep in mind – called him at least once a week. It had started out with every
single day until it was almost stifling. Bong Ju was not a talker, and Jungkook was a nervous
rambler. It did not make for a good match. But once a week was fine.

Just like the first day, Jungkook was still tentative, yet hopeful. Bong Ju humoured him every time,
though he felt no connection to his middle-born child. Of the three offspring he had, he had spent
the least amount of time with Jungkook and had next to no emotional connection to his mother. It
was pity alone that kept him talking sometimes, when the conversation died away and it was clear
things were about to get painfully awkward. And eventually, Jungkook began to call him ‘Dad’.

“Have you taken your medication today, Dad?” was the first thing he said after the greetings were
out of the way.

Bong Ju grunted, voice hoarse from disuse, as his eyes roved over the sparkling blue line of the
seashore. “Has someone been snitching?”

“The nurse said she thinks you might not be taking it.”

“She says that because the one time she tried to stand over me and check I swallowed, I told her I’d
chop off her husband’s testicles and feed them to her.”

“Dad, you can’t be like that to the staff.”

“I can be however I want. I won’t be called a liar.”

“So, you’re taking the medication?”

“Yes I am.”

“Well, good. That’s all I wanted to know. I’m sorry she didn’t trust you.”
Bong Ju almost laughed out loud. He might not have known Jungkook particularly well, but he
knew what sort of children he created. They didn’t apologise for their own mistakes, never mind
someone else’s. It stirred further pity in him, and even affection, as he realised how much
Jungkook wanted to force a connection. Bong Ju didn’t feel uncomfortable in any way that the boy
was trying so hard. He just wished he had more to give.

“How’s physiotherapy going? And how’s Seojoon’s son? He must be seething in his new status of
life.”

“It’s going well. Er – something happened – and after that incident, I started feeling some kind of
pain in my thigh, whereas before, I couldn’t feel a thing.”

“What happened?”

There was a pause.

“Jungkook, what happened?” Bong Ju insisted.

“Taehyung found me. Used me in a ploy to force Seokjin hyung to show submission. Or
something. I don’t know. Ended up stabbing me in the leg and revealing Seokjin is my uncle. A
remarkably eventful evening by all accounts.”

Bong Ju snorted. “Your uncle?”

“Yes. Apparently, he decided to keep me in the dark about how my mother was his half-sister. Let
me think I was some orphaned urchin he let live under his roof all my life. I can’t exactly kill him
for the betrayal, he’s family. But I want him out of the apartment before I end up deciding family
like that isn’t worth it.”

“Leave it. It’s not every day you discover family. You’re going to need someone with his brains
when Taehyung comes for you again. And he will. Hide yourself.”

Jungkook laughed. “You know, I think that’s the first piece of real fatherly advice you’ve given
me since we met?”
“Yeah? Well here’s some more. Don’t badger me about medication, I’m taking it,” Bong Ju said
gruffly, though there was a smile in his voice that Jungkook did not fail to miss on the other end of
the line.

Five minutes later, they bid their goodbyes to each other, and Bong Ju turned to his bed. He lifted
up the mattress, and underneath, encased securely in a neatly wrapped pillowcase, were the pills he
had been latching under his tongue whenever the nurse rolled around. A hundred and twenty all
together.

Bong Ju was still having his psychotic episodes.

But they were calmer, they gave him what he needed, whereas before, there was no telling what
they’d turn him into. He wanted them because they gave him hallucinations, more vivid and bright
than any drug.

Ara came to him every night, dressed in her favourite green dress, that emerald necklace she liked
so much glittering against her collarbones, with her hair quaffed and her lipstick red. Every single
night, without fail, she visited. Bong Ju would allow his mental health to deteriorate till the
moment it killed him for another glimpse of her, son or no son. He was an incredibly selfish man,
Heathcliff to a wildly uncontrollable Catherine, and worst of all, he knew this. Just like the moody
antagonist of that wretched story, he had outlived the love of his life, but she was coming back to
him know, realer every night, until he swore he could feel the raging heat of her skin brush up
against his.

When he lay his head on the pillow that night, he smiled, as he saw the wall glimmer, and the
green of her dress peek through. She came to lie beside him, curled up in his arms the way she
always did. They didn’t talk much. They usually just lay there. But tonight, was different.

“You have all three of your sons, but I miss mine,” she whispered.

Bong Ju’s eyes closed, hand tightening around hers and he buried his face in her hair. “I’m
sorry…” It was all he could ever say, now that he had missed the chance to apologise to the real
Ara. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

“How will you ever make it up to me, Bong Ju?”

“I don’t know – but tell me, what you need, what you want, and I will do it. It doesn’t matter if you
ask me to tear the moon from the sky and put it in your palms, I’ll do it.”

“I want my son, Bong Ju.”

She was starting to fade. He gasped, trying to hold onto her harder, but starting to realise he was
only clutching the soft depths of a pillow. She was still there though, turned to face him now, with
a thousand stars dancing in her eyes.

“The only thing you can do to make up for what you did, is to return him to me.”

Bong Ju balked, a gasp of pain sounding from his lips, as his hand brushed her face. “No – I-I can’t
– I didn’t mean to kill you – nor him – I can’t do that now – “

“It is the only way,” she insisted. “It will only hurt him for a little while, and then he will be with
me. He’s happiest with me. You know that. You know what to do. Send my boy back to me, my
love…”

And then he was left alone, a whimpering, shivering old man, crying into his lonely pillow.

He knew already, she would come every night, and repeat her request. The lack of medication
disallowed him to see that his brain was making up for the terrible crime he had committed and
encouraging him to find peace in the worst way. All he understood was that Ara would keep
asking, until he gave in. And he didn’t know how soon that would be.

After all, Jo Ara always got what she wanted.

Always.
In yet another quirk of their odd co-habitation situation, once a week, Namjoon agreed to allow
Seokjin out. ‘Allow’ being a mostly inoperative word. He had fully expected Seokjin to break the
unspoken status quo and march out whenever he chose, to wander freely. But he was surprisingly
obedient in this respect, keeping himself inside the house. Namjoon didn’t want it to feel like he
was rewarding a dog for good behaviour by taking him out, but he wanted to prove somehow that
the mildness was appreciated. And even as he thought this, he understood the irony. Seokjin’s bare
minimum behaviour was being rewarded and in the process of seeing him behave like a normal
human being, the lives lost due to his actions and his syndicate’s, paled into near invisibility.

But living in the moment was all Namjoon could do, and as it was, Seokjin did not turn down his
offer to join him for the weekly grocery shop.

He sat in the front seat, in a pair of fitted jeans, a collared white shirt and sunglasses over his eyes,
like he owned the car and the driver. They were still Namjoon’s clothes he was wearing, having
forsaken style for comfort. But when the car came to a brief halt at a traffic light, he removed his
sunglasses and his face changed as he spotted an evening gown boutique store. Namjoon saw the
shift in expression and didn’t think before the words came blurting out.

“Do you want to go inside?”

Seokjin turned a scathing look on him, and he felt heat surge through him. Out of embarrassment,
or something else, he had no idea. “And what am I going to do with an evening gown? Prance
around your one-bedroom apartment cosplaying Beauty, with you as the Beast?”

“I’d say it would be the other way round,” Namjoon muttered. He cleared his throat, starting up the
car again as the light turned green. “But no – not that shop in particular. Just any shop that sells
female clothing. Doesn’t matter which.”

“I used to get my clothes tailor made. I doubt anything could match up to that.”

“Alright, suit yourself.” Namjoon figured his obligation was done. It wasn’t even an obligation. He
was just too weak-willed to his own sense of pity. They drove on in silence for a while, until
Seokjin muttered something. “What?” Namjoon said.
“I said, there’s a place in Gangnam – “

A whole two hours later, they finally got home, with at least six bags dangling on Namjoon’s arm
and only one on Seokjin’s. The kitchen door was tightly shut, music blasting through it. Jungkook
had tried to actively avoid Seokjin as best he could, and that was an admirable feat in a one-
bedroom apartment, but he’d managed it well. He was no longer speaking to him, acting as if there
wasn’t a third person living in the home to begin with. Seokjin didn’t argue or try to force him into
conversation. There was no telling what Seokjin felt about the whole situation, because with
characteristic aloofness, he let no emotion slip.

But clearly two hours down one single high street in Gangnam was some form of retail therapy.
Namjoon hadn’t done much except trail him. He would have preferred to sit in the car, but Seokjin
was unarmed, in one of Geomjeong-pa’s richest districts. Even in disguise, it was dangerous.

He threw the bags on the bed. Jungkook had volunteered to sleep in the living room once the
waterbed Seokjin had paid for was delivered, and Seokjin was back in the bedroom. Most nights,
Namjoon slept in the living room with Jungkook, but on others, he would come in to find the light
on in the bedroom and would go inside to find Seokjin lying awake. They never exchanged a single
word. There wasn’t much to say. Neither was big on cuddling, so that wasn’t a problem once they
were both in the double bed, though when morning arrived, they would usually be closer to one
another than they had started out.

“Why are you being so nice to me? I’m not so easily bribed,” was the first thing Seokjin said as
soon as the door closed.

Namjoon kicked off his shoes, biting his lip in relief as his feet ached. “What exactly do you think
I’m bribing you for?”

“All manners of things, too many to list. I’m hardly as useless as I seem right now. Should the
wheel of fortune turn, you could end up having a goldmine on your hands.”

“Or maybe it’s just in my nature to be nice,” Namjoon said pointedly.

“Or perhaps you’ve been making up for one sin your whole life, by doing random good deeds, and
now it’s a sickness.”

Namjoon turned to him, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but when he saw Seokjin’s faintly
troubled expression, it died away. The older man emptied one of the bags – it was filled with
makeup – and dumped the contents on the cabinet. He’d turned it into a dresser, complete with a
mirror he’d taken from the bathroom. It had never really felt like his home to Namjoon, even when
he was living there alone, but now it certainly wasn’t.

“If it truly was self-defence, then you don’t have a sin to make up for,” Seokjin said quietly, sitting
down before the cabinet.

“I didn’t choose to tell you that, you found that part of my life on your own. So, I’d like it if we
didn’t talk about it now,” Namjoon answered.

Seokjin shrugged. “Suit yourself. I wasn’t trying to be a shrink. Just making an observation.”

Namjoon dropped the conversation, watching as Seokjin’s elegant hands played with the
packaging on the makeup, stripping it clean off. There was only silence for the next half hour.
Seokjin didn’t seem to care that he had an intensely focused audience as he made up his face.
Slowly, he began to look more like Mother. Two fake lash strips and a perfectly defined cupid’s
bow later, Mother truly was back. Namjoon felt a shred of nausea twist in his throat as he stared,
mesmerised, unable to look away. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. It was astounding
how a layer of makeup could remind him what he had been so blithely ignoring for the last couple
of months.

Seokjin was a monster.

The monster turned to look at him and Mother disappeared. It was just a man wearing makeup.
Mother was an idea, and like all ideas, needed atmosphere and setting. Without those, it was just
Seokjin. Incredibly beautiful and refined, but still, only Seokjin.

“What?” he said, when Namjoon’s stare stuck too long.

Unlike in the past, the cop didn’t immediately look away. He kept his gaze locked on the other.

“Just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”
“How you turned out to be so beautiful when you parents were hardly lookers. Or maybe your
mother’s eyepatch ruined her face, I don’t know.”

Seokjin smacked his lips and dropped the MAC Ruby Woo tube in his hands. “Officer Kim, are
you flirting with me? Insulting my mother won’t get you very far.”

“I bet you didn’t like her. That’s why your wife made such a perfect replacement, right?”

“Is this payback for mentioning your grandfather? War of the childhood traumas?” Seokjin’s voice
was a croon, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t look offended at all. Merely titillated. Reaching out, he
hooked a long, white finger under the crook of Namjoon’s collar, tugging him closer. “Or again…
is this just really bad flirting?” He leaned in, until there were mere inches between them. He
couldn’t tear his eyes away from Namjoon’s mouth, but he seemed to decide against kissing it and
preserved his freshly applied lipstick, turning away with a huff. “You must have heard of Yoo
Sang Woo’s slaughter in Incheon?”

Namjoon cleared his throat, ignoring the sudden heat prickling his cheeks. “I heard.”

“One of Sang Woo’s contacts got in touch. He has an apartment available for me. I no longer have
to be a burden on you, and neither will Jungkook.”

“He just offered you an apartment like that?”

“Namjoon, he didn’t offer it to me. I own the place. It was simply being used for…other purposes.
It doesn’t matter how high up you sit, not making arrangements for an eventual fall from grace is
incredibly stupid. I spent weeks feeling sorry for myself in your bed, whilst the dust settled, and
until it was safe for those still loyal to me to get in touch. And now that the worst of Taehyung’s
psychotic rages are over, they have.”

“I don’t think Jungkook will want to go with you.”

“Tough.” Jin slammed shut an eyeshadow palette, smoothing out the corner of his drawn eyebrow.
“He’ll have to. We can’t stay here where Taehyung can find us, like sitting ducks. The next time
that son of a bitch busts through the door, he’s going to kill Jungkook. And something tells me he
won’t care that they are brothers. Not that I think Jungkook will ever let that tightly kept secret
out.”
He dropped the rest of the makeup into the top drawer of the cabinet and turned to see Namjoon’s
half-hearted expression of exasperation. Seokjin laughed. “I’ll be out of here don’t worry. You’ll
get your drawer back.”

“That wasn’t what the face was for.”

“Then what was it for…officer?”

Namjoon tensed. He recognised that purred tone, that insinuation in his dark eyes and the delicious
way officer rolled off the tip of his tongue. Seokjin moved closer, and every nerve in Namjoon’s
body quickened, urging him to get up and leave.

Whenever the older man tightened the noose of his spell, Namjoon felt like prey caught on the
savannah, as a lioness prowled in circles around him. And the circles grew smaller with each one,
until they were practically nuzzling. He tried to regulate his breathing, even as Seokjin’s pastry-
scented breath wet his lips. He’d practically guzzled the treats down on the way home after their
last visit to a bakery. Namjoon pushed in closer, unable to resist and his tongue caught up some of
the sweetness still present in the other’s mouth. He closed the kiss, hand clutching desperately at
Seokjin’s face, slipping down to his neck, and mapping the broad span of his shoulder until it
dropped to the cabinet with a gentle thud.

Seokjin broke away, his throat clenching as he swallowed. For once, Namjoon could derive
satisfaction from the fact that the other looked just as undone as he did. He tilted his head to kiss
him again, but Seokjin ducked away just enough to keep him from doing so, though they remained
close.

“What?” Namjoon whispered.

“I wonder sometimes why I seem to attract people like you,” he murmured.

“What am I like?”

“So sickeningly, purely good. Just like Joohyun. Everyone else seems to get who they deserve. But
I get…you.”
Namjoon laughed awkwardly. “You’re talking about it as if I’m looking for a relationship with
you. I’m really not. This is sexual. You know that.”

Seokjin looked up at him, and his eyes were hard as onyx. Namjoon nearly recoiled, wondering if
he had said something wrong. He genuinely believed what he’d just told him, and never had he
imagined anything different was happening from Seokjin’s perspective. But then Seokjin’s face
melted, and he laughed, eyebrows slanting together prettily.

“Of course it is, officer,” he crooned, climbing onto his lap and kissing him with increased
ferocity.

The base plans for construction on Taehyung’s visionary real estate venture were laid out, but there
was an issue with space. The neighbouring expanse of land was owned, but unavailable to him,
However, money certainly wasn’t and he decided he wanted to make his resort larger. The owner
of this rival plot of land, by remarkable coincidence, was named Mr Choi. As in the illustrious
Choi name belonging to the presidential family. Choi Kibum was a businessman in his own right
and had made a name for himself long before his father had ever become president.

And he was also the father of the little kid Taehyung had shaved bald for daring to ask for crank.

“Gonna enjoy this,” Taehyung sniggered to Wonho as they stepped out of the car. They were both
dressed looking perfectly respectable. In this elite neighbourhood, a peek of a gold tooth or a tattoo
could bring heavy repercussions down, even on the all-powerful mafia. Taehyung had been careful
to pick men who didn’t have a broken nose or visible scars; pretty boys essentially, half of them
from the Black Cap squad. They stood in constant vigilance by the car, as Taehyung was led inside
by a butler, with Wonho close behind.

“Please wait in here, sir. Mr Choi will be with you very soon,” the butler said with a bow,
gesturing to the doorway into a parlour.

“Jesus, how many rooms are in this place?” Taehyung muttered looking up and around at the sheer
dripping splendour. The condo had to be of a similar worth, but this place just looked filthy rich.

“About two hundred and fifty, give or take, sir,” the butler said, eager to answer. “It was modelled
after the famous Park mansion which burned down, as you know.”

“Park mansion?”

“Yes, sir. The late Mrs Park was a good friend of Mrs Choi. She assisted on the plans for this home
before she passed, and to honour her memory, the Chois remained faithful to the blueprints.”

Taehyung fell down onto a sofa, a gust of air escaping him. He decided it was a good thing he
hadn’t brought Jimin as he had originally intended. If possible, Taehyung avoided all mentions of
Jimin’s dead parents, because of course, it brought up the misdeeds of his own dead father. And
life had been relatively relaxed between them for the past fortnight. It was a delicate balance he
didn’t want to snap.

He sat with his legs spread, chewing on the knuckle of his thumb, glowering up at the painting of
the family on the mantelpiece. Both the parents were seated, dressed to the nines, with their little
girl between them and Yeonjun standing behind, arms placed on one of their shoulders each. They
were all smiling, except for the boy.

As the minutes ticked by, Taehyung grew more and more impatient. Perhaps he should have
brought Jimin. Just by his speech alone – the thickly inflected Daegu dialect – Taehyung would
come off as nouveau riche. Jimin had an elegant way of speaking, one well suited to these
narcissistic, posh Seoulites. He would have been far better at arguing his case. Taehyung was
unused to coercing people unless he was beating them up to do it. These people were too powerful
to threaten, so he basically had to plead and snivel.

The door opened and in walked Mr Choi. Taehyung stood, hand already extended, when his gaze
fell on the second person.

To Yeonjun’s credit, he did not show any visible, starting display of surprise, though his hazel eyes
widened. His hair was growing out fast, his scalp already invisible now, considerably transformed
from the green-tinged mess Taehyung had turned it into. It took everything in Taehyung’s power
not to burst out laughing right then and there.

“Mr Choi,” he nodded, voice quivering just a little, as he shook his hand. He couldn’t look Yeonjun
in the face without wanting to giggle, and thankfully, they didn’t have to shake hands.

In a far better mood, Taehyung sat back down. The smile he gave Mr Choi was wholly
misdirected, as most of it was caused by feeling Yeonjun’s scowl drilling into his skull.

“I appreciate you reaching out about the land, Mr Kim. Truth be told, I’d forgotten I had bought
that,” Mr Choi said, as a housekeeper brought in tea and biscuits on a tray.

The fuck? Taehyung thought, glancing at the overly designed layout of the biscuits on the plate and
the weak little cups. He hated tea. But to humour his hosts, he accepted a cup, trying not to
grimace.

“I’m willing to lay down whatever price you ask,” he told Mr Choi. “If the land is something
you’re not using, even better. Makes it convenient for both of us.”

“Well, it’s not entirely unused. I bought the land as a future real estate investment for my son. It’s
in his name. That’s why I brought him here, since it does essentially make it his decision to sell it.”

Taehyung looked up in surprise, from father to son. He no longer had the urge to laugh. It was
Yeonjun’s turn to smirk.

“So, whatever I offer will be going to you?” Taehyung asked him.

Yeonjun glanced at his father and then nodded, crossing his arms and settling back into his chair
with a satisfied sigh. “Yep.”

“Yeonjun, sit up straight,” Mr Choi reprimanded, with a dark frown.

The boy did so, albeit with much reluctance, but the smugness was still there. His face was
incredibly smack-worthy and Taehyung’s hand itched.
“I’m going to need some time to think about it, Mr Kim,” Yeonjun said sweetly.

“I was hoping to get the matter settled today,” Taehyung said tersely.

“I realise that, but it was supposed to be my gift for graduating. I will get back to you as soon as
possible, I promise.” Everything on his face said he wouldn’t.

But what choice did Taehyung really have except to agree? He didn’t waste any more time on
pleasantries, though it was clear Mr Choi was hoping to talk. But Taehyung wanted nothing more
from these people and it was clear now that the little brat wouldn’t give up the land out of revenge.

He was proven wrong halfway down the ridiculously long driveway. For safety reasons, Mr Choi
had barred his car from being driven inside. He was more than hospitable, but as he should, knew
Taehyung’s line of business and wanted to keep it at bay.

Wonho turned first, upon hearing the footsteps running across the tightly packed gravel. “Sir,” he
said, engaging Taehyung’s attention.

Taehyung turned to see Yeonjun come skidding to a halt.

“So, you want the land, huh?” the boy panted.

“You’re a right little thug when you’re not around your parents, aren’t you?” Taehyung scoffed. “If
you’re here to gloat, don’t bother. I shaved your head, so fair enough, don’t give me the land.”

“I want to give you the land, but not in exchange for money. Or a lesser price anyway, to keep my
dad satisfied,” Yeonjun panted. “What I really want in exchange for the land, is a partnership. I
make a good earning dealing weed – “

“Where do you get that from?” Taehyung interjected sharply. “If you’re dealing with the Yakuza
let me stop you right now and say I don’t deal with people who also deal with the Japs.”
Yeonjun frowned as he thought about it and then shook his head. “No, one guy had a Japanese
accent, but the rest were all Korean. They weren’t the Yakuza, but I don’t think they’re that major.
Just a petty gang I found.”

“So, you’re buying shitty weed from a petty gang. Not a good look.”

“Well, that’s my point. If you strike a deal with me, I can give you a cut of my profits, and trust
me, I make great turnover. Marijuana, crank and cocaine too. I have more adult buyers, some of
them are in the entertainment industry.” He looked hella proud of himself.

Taehyung was vaguely impressed, but still suspicious. “Why are you doing this? Surely not
money. If you got caught, you’d be in a world of trouble, kid.”

“I’m bored,” Yeonjun admitted. When Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up, he sighed. “I wouldn’t
expect you to understand. I was raised rich and born into money, I realise I’m better off than most
people. But this life is stifling and has its own restrictions and I’m just not the sort of person who
can function well under them unless I have something to keep me occupied. I need the thrill, the
danger, and here I have it. So…will you do business with me?”

Taehyung sighed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. He’d had them made
for the fun of it, and carried them around like souvenirs, though he hadn’t expected to be handing
one to a sixteen year old.

“Sure. Drop me a call and we’ll see what we can do. If that land goes to anyone else in the
meantime, I’ll have your head and reveal your dirty little private life to Daddy. Understood?”

Yeonjun’s whole face transformed, to something quite innocent, when he was happy. He nodded,
thoroughly pleased, and with the card clutched in his hand like a lifeline, returned up the driveway.
His father was standing in the doorway, curious, and as Taehyung watched them talk, he saw
Yeonjun nod before going inside.

“Rich people are so fucking weird,” was Taehyung’s only comment to his bodyguard as they
turned back to the gates.
The condominium was dead silent when Taehyung returned.

He had been eyeing places elsewhere in Seoul, to create his own homestead somewhere far from
the shadow of Mother. But there was something comforting about the blue glow of Cersei’s tank
upon entering. He had only just last week put in an order for baby hammerhead sharks - through
illegal avenues of course - and was now planning on building a bigger section of tank that would
house sea creatures Cersei would not get on so well with. The hammerheads would be fine with
her, but an octopus or two in their own separate section would also be nice. Regardless of whether
Taehyung liked it or not, Mother’s condo was becoming his home.

A quick check on the CCTV revealed Jimin was in Mother’s closet. With him, was Chrollo, now a
seven-week-old puppy and as energetic as the Duracell bunny. Jimin was flat on his stomach,
allowing Chrollo to leap and bound all over him, laughing in delight. Taehyung stayed watching
him a while, a little smile playing about his lips. It was rare to see Jimin laugh like that, at least in
front of Taehyung anyway. He was completely relaxed, bounding about on all fours and pretending
to chase Chrollo. He truly did not think he was being watched, and it was remarkable to see how
lovely he looked, with all his walls down.

He would never do that for Taehyung. Ever. It was a fact the older had to accept. Didn’t make it
easier to stomach though.

He went to his room and removed everything but his shirt and trousers, rolling up the sleeves and
unfolding the collar until it was arched around his neck. For some odd reason, as he splashed cold
water on his face in the bathroom, Jungkook’s teary eyes and wobbly lips kept appearing in in his
mind’s eye. He grabbed onto the edges of the basin and heaved in a breath, wiping a hand across
his dripping face.

Why hadn’t he just killed the boy? It wasn’t for Jimin that his hand had loosened on the noose
around Jungkook’s neck. It was something else. He had truly been sorry, apologising like a silly
child who had not fathomed the consequence of his actions. It forced Taehyung to think deeper
about a man he could care less for. Jungkook had been on the route to become a sort of attack dog
for Mother, just like him, but he lacked Taehyung’s self-confidence when it mattered most. He was
emotionally wasted and whereas Taehyung had missed his parents most of his life, he at least knew
who they were. Jungkook had not. None of it excused what he had done to Hoseok in a fit of
overzealous wilfulness, but it explained it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, reaching for the towel to dry off. He did not like this introspective side of
himself. It meant he was starting to assume some of Mother’s qualities, as an observer, rather than
an enforcer. Sitting high up above the common fodder appeared to have such an effect.

He changed his clothes before going upstairs to find Jimin in Mother’s bedroom. He was half in
the walk-in closet, half out, calling to Chrollo who was scurrying about under the bed. Jimin
peeked around the side of the door when he heard footsteps and relaxed when he saw it was only
Taehyung. It was almost as if he had been expecting someone else. With a quaint nod of the head,
he uttered, “Evening” before catching the puppy as it scampered and flung itself towards him.

Jimin was visibly more subdued now as compared to on the CCTV, proving Taehyung’s belief that
he dialled himself down on purpose.

For a while, neither of them said anything, with Taehyung seated on the end of the bed, chin in
hand, as he watched Chrollo and Jimin play inside the closet. Jimin finally eyed him again and
struck up a conversation. Taehyung was dressed in slacks and a white shirt, open at the collar, his
black hair loose and falling in his eyes. And quite frankly, in Jimin’s humble opinion, he was
stunning.

“You don’t have blood on your clothes,” he noted.

Taehyung glanced down at them. “No. I don’t. I’ve figured I’m not going to come home covered in
blood if it irks you.”

“Oh please, don’t bother on my account,” Jimin said, a touch sarcastically.

“I mean it. You said you liked being with me, without my occupation intruding, and I want to
provide that.”

“Taehyung I was tired and upset and had just watched you kill entire bloodlines in a club a few
hours before. Don’t take me seriously when I’m traumatised,” Jimin snorted, the sarcasm
strengthening.
“Wonho!” Taehyung shouted suddenly, knowing the man was at least on the floor below and
would hear through the open door. He didn’t fail to notice Jimin’s reaction. His eyebrows gathered
together in a dark frown and he sidled a little further back into the closet. The bodyguard appeared
within minutes, and when Taehyung gestured towards the puppy, went forward to retrieve him.

“What? Why?” Jimin said immediately, clutching Chrollo to his chest as the pup whined and
wriggled.

“Let him go. You can have him back later. His Daddy needs to talk to you. In private,” Taehyung
said.

The meaning of in private had several layers and Jimin understood the moment he met Taehyung’s
gaze, though he didn’t look too pleased to be giving up the little dog. He lavished it with kisses all
over its tiny, jet black head before delivering it into Wonho’s arms. In their muscled expanse,
Chrollo looked absolutely tiny. Jimin’s face melted into an amused giggle as the bodyguard
straightened and carried the dog out. The door closed behind him and the two remaining were left
in peace.

Jimin flipped over, tidying up, ignoring Taehyung’s continued presence when the older didn’t
strike up the alleged conversation he appeared to have wanted.

He had dyed his hair from its usual dark brown back to jet black yesterday, and it was striking
against his pale skin and red lips. He was an oblivious Snow White, crawling around and shoving
things messily back onto the shelves and into drawers. The mess he had made of Mother’s closet
on his first night was still all there, but it was bundled away into the storage units – all the tattered
scraps of her dresses and pearls and whatever else Jimin had ruined. He was elbow deep in one
now, pulling out a pearly, thigh-length dress. He began to say something, but Taehyung was on his
knees and crawling into the closet to him before he noticed. When Jimin turned, his sentence cut
off with a cute little “Oop – “ eyes widening. He looked so shatteringly innocent in that moment,
petal-like and gorgeous, Taehyung couldn’t help leaning in to crush their lips together.

Jimin’s tiny sound of surprise was swallowed up into Taehyung’s hot, greedy mouth. His hands
lifted up to clasp Taehyung’s shoulders, sliding around to his neck as he sighed a moan of approval
between needy kisses.

“C’mere,” Taehyung mumbled, pulling him closer onto his lap. Jimin nestled into him with
enthusiasm, thighs squeezing around the older’s waist as he gyrated. His lips curved into a smile
against Taehyung’s, tongue flicking out to tease and lap at his. He pulled on Taehyung’s hair, just
hard enough to make it hurt, but the other showed little reaction, his hold still gentle.
Jimin broke away and leaned back, palms flat against Taehyung’s shoulders as his expression
twisted in confusion. “What’s with this new attitude?” he asked.

“I told you – I’m giving you what you want,” Taehyung replied.

Jimin shook his head, laughing a little, and eyes flickering with an expression that clearly said
What the fuck is wrong with you? “No – no, not this – look, call me fucked up, but this new caring
persona, you’re enacting isn’t what’s doing it for me. When I need cuddles, I’ll tell you. But for
now…” his eyes froze over, blacker than his hair, and his hands fisted up Taehyung’s collar,
pulling him close. “Give me the Butcher, or nothing at all.”

He clambered to his feet, dancing out of Taehyung’s clutching hand as it whipped out to grab his
ankle and unfolded the pearl-coloured dress again, hand running down its neckline with a wistful
expression. He rather regretted his fit of rage now. Mother truly had exquisite taste in female
clothing. Jimin turned, with a playful expression and danced on the spot as he brandished the dress.

“Wanna try it on?” he sang.

Taehyung didn’t hesitate a second and said, “No.”

“Fine,” Jimin scowled, sidling around the corner, deeper into the closet and out of the view. His
voice was still audible. “Unlike you, I don’t ascribe to toxic ideas of masculinity. And to think,
you’d actually look good in a dress.”

Taehyung ignored him, sitting back against one of the drawer sets and chewing on a hangnail. He
waited, patiently, for Jimin to return. He was clearly doing something, if the knocking about and
muttered curses were anything to go by. Finally, silence. Taehyung turned his head expectantly. At
first, the tail end of a string of fairy lights was thrown out, and he reached to catch it.

Jimin appeared, on all fours, with the fairy lights strung around his shoulders and neck, face
crumbling with laughter when he saw Taehyung’s surprise. He was wearing the dress. It was off-
shoulder, and the hem of the skirt kissed his perfect, moulded thighs. He allowed Taehyung to use
the fairy lights like a leash and crawled closer, leaning up for a kiss.

“May I interest you in wearing a dress now, sir?” he said, with boyish coyness, head tilted.
Taehyung eyed him, with ripples of laughter and the helpless tug of lust searing across his face. It
was as if he didn’t know whether to laugh at Jimin’s behaviour or be turned on by the surprisingly
snug fit of the dress.

“I’d rather be naked,” he said, dry as limestone.

“No fun,” Jimin glowered.

“And I’d like to have you naked too.”

“Yeah? Then make me.” Jimin tore the fairy lights from his hand and kicked at his leg before
retreating. He got to his feet, stumbling a little, unkempt and perfect.

Taehyung imitated his slow rise, getting to his feet with a glacial set to his lips. Without needing
explanation, the tension in the air shifted. Give me the Butcher, or nothing at all. Jimin had no
intention of giving consent, and the smug curl of his plush lips suggested Taehyung shouldn’t take
it too seriously. That seemed a game he was good at playing.

Truly terrific thrills battered down Jimin’s spine, when he saw Taehyung’s face harden. He was so
horny, his hands were shaking around the fairy lights as he held them to his neck. Taehyung’s hand
stretched out and Jimin slapped it away. Hard. He saw the red imprint left on his tan skin, and for a
moment, wondered if he’d crossed the line.

Except he forgot one important thing. Taehyung had no line in place. Ever.

His hand grabbed Jimin’s jaw, squeezing his cheeks against his parted teeth so hard, the younger
was moaning in pain as the tender flesh was grazed. His breathing quickened, eyebrows furrowing
with feigned anxiety as Taehyung’s fingers bruised his jawline with their strength. This is how he
holds people he’s about to kill or hurt very, very badly. Jimin knew there was something terribly
wrong with him to like it. But as he looked up into Taehyung’s eyes, glowing with the fairy lights,
he didn’t care.

“You don’t fucking say no to me, bitch,” he said.

“I thought I was your whore,” Jimin managed to get out past the death grip on his face. And then
he laughed and moaned in pain both, as Taehyung knocked his head on the wall.
“You are, aren’t you? Perfect, plump little whore,” Taehyung sneered, looming over him. “No
longer skin and bones…” His other hand slipped around the back of Jimin’s hip, sliding down to
grab fistfuls of his ass. And then he paused as he felt the outline of the panties underneath. Jimin
scoffed. It had been a last-minute addition to the haphazard ensemble, but Taehyung looked about
ready to die, so it was worth it.

“I love it when you look at me like that,” Jimin couldn’t help whispering, fingers curling under
Taehyung’s chin.

The older man’s grip loosened on his jaw, and he murmured, “Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me alive.” Jimin turned his large eyes upwards, peering through a thick
curtain of lashes, just the way he knew made Taehyung’s innards melt to ash.

“I do want to eat you alive.”

Jimin was on his tip toes, spreading his knees further apart as he struggled to hold back whimpers.
Taehyung was pressing against him, giving him much needed pressure against the heat between his
legs. The heat under his skin was threatening to drive him crazy, and it was all he could do not to
pant and beg like a desperate dog in heat. Taehyung sensed his impatience, but he was way better
at hiding his own.

“Thought you didn’t want me, Jimin-ie…” he purred, pressing his nose against the tender flesh of
his throat.

“Don’t be silly…I always want you…” Jimin slicked his tongue over his suddenly dry lips and
pulled at Taehyung’s neck. He clasped the hot shell of his ear in his mouth, and crooned, “You like
calling me nightingale so much, how about you make me sing?” His teeth clenched down on
fragile skin and he felt Taehyung wince from pain.

The payoff was immediate and spectacular.

A strong hand grabbed both of Jimin’s wrists, criss-crossing them against the wall. He let out a
sharp cry as he felt the impact right through to the bone. He was pretty sure Taehyung had broken
something, the pain was so great, but then it faded as quickly as it came, and he was left with
nothing but breathless, dizzying lust and stars in his eyes. Taehyung’s hands made quick work of
untangling the fairylights looped around Jimin’s upper half and proceeded to knot them tight
around his wrists, securing his hands above his head. Jimin let out a surprised giggle of delight as
Taehyung spun him around, but it quickly turned into shock as he was slammed face first into the
wall.

“Christ…” Jimin whispered, wondering what the hell he had unleashed.

They had had rough sex before, but nothing that started out so obviously sadistic. It was usually a
matter of who could get his clothes off quicker and land onto the bed before the first drops of pre-
cum leaked out. It was urgency at its finest. Nothing controlled, or so obviously measured, as this
was. Taehyung was silent behind him, and that was enough to unsettle and excite Jimin. He was
used to the older breathing harshly in his ear, whispering some sort of filthy warning. But not this
lack of verbal communication.

Jimin made the mistake of looking over his shoulder only once. Taehyung twisted his head back
around and knocked it on the hard wall, just strongly enough to make him yelp, but not enough to
leave a mark. His hands grabbed each of Jimin’s ass cheeks, kneading them through the panties,
his skirt lifted above his waist. He was gentle with his hands, stroking around to the front of
Jimin’s thighs, splaying over his pelvic bone and lowering the waistband of the lingerie. His head
dipped under the pearly white skirt of the dress, the first gust of breath on skin making it ripple
with goosebumps. Jimin stepped out of the underwear, barely having time to kick it aside before
Taehyung’s lips scraped over the swell of his ass. His teeth pinched at the soft skin, devouring a
mouthful and biting hard. Jimin let out a high-pitched, broken gasp, allowing himself to be pulled
back so that his spine was arched. His cock dangled in the middle, semi-erect and flushed, and
dripping with long strings of pre-cum that landed on the carpet. He needed it touched so badly, but
he knew Taehyung would do nothing of the sort until Jimin was absolutely ready to explode.

Taehyung lavished bites all over his buttocks, grabbing tight mouthfuls of flesh and releasing with
throaty, lustful gasps. Only once the pale skin was flowering pink, did he sweep his tongue
between them.

“F-uuuccckkk – “ it trailed from Jimin’s lips in a fervent gasp. His head fell back and he opened his
eyes and saw nothing but sparkles erupt in his vision. They danced in front of him as Taehyung’s
tongue danced around his sensitive hole.

He didn’t mind making a mess, or letting Jimin hear just how much he was savouring this. His lips
closed, and opened, tongue smacking wetly against his puckered entrance, fingers stretching his
cheeks apart. Taehyung circled his lips and blew into his hole, causing Jimin to try and clench,
lifting on his tip toes again.

“P-put it inside – put your tongue inside me – “ he begged.

“Shut the fuck up,” Taehyung growled, slapping his ass, and Jimin almost cried out in delighted,
frenzied laughter.

He couldn’t scream when Taehyung’s tongue plunged in. It was dripping wet, and he worked his
mouth, tightening his lips against Jimin’s hole to increase suction. The younger clenched again and
this time, he felt the wet member inside him push and strain. It was nowhere near his prostate, but
the tingles from being rimmed alone, had Jimin wriggling and bouncing his ass back, desperate for
more.

Before he could, Taehyung’s large hand wrenched his hair and his tongue pulled out. He swung
Jimin away from the wall, throwing him down. The younger fell a little too hard on his knees, and
turned with wide eyes, and a half-crazed smile, eager to know what else the older would do.
Taehyung didn’t disappoint.

“Oh fu – “ was all Jimin managed to get out as Taehyung put his knee on his chest, and laid his
whole weight behind it. Jimin was left gasping, fairy light bound hands grabbing at the carpet
threads above his head. Taehyung’s eyes were dulled for a minute, staring at him in silence as he
unbuckled his belt. It was a wordless question. Do you want to stop? Jimin made no response,
except to stare up in mock defiance.

But when Taehyung pulled his dick out, all feigned reservations flew out the window and Jimin
squirmed. He glanced down it just once, and saw it was fully hard, not just a semi. He loved it
when he got him hard before he had even removed his clothes. It beaded with pre-cum and Jimin’s
mouth watered, eyelashes fluttering as he looked up at Taehyung.

“Is that what you want? Hmm?” Taehyung crooned, “Words, nightingale, use your words…”

“Y-yes – p-p-please – “ Jimin moaned, mouth falling open and tongue stretching out.

Taehyung grinned, and forced it in. Jimin’s face scrunched up with the effort of trying to
accommodate his thick length, and he coughed a couple times as he became accustomed to the
tight fit as well as the uncomfortable position. But he wasn’t asking Taehyung to get off. Not yet.

Taehyung allowed him to suck for a bit, crooning in contentment in the back of his throat as if it
were nothing more than a tasty popsicle he wanted to devour. When Taehyung got up suddenly,
Jimin let out a sharp cry of complaint. But Taehyung merely kicked off his shoes, and got rid of the
trousers and the boxers completely. He pressed his hand against Jimin’s forehead, knees going
either side of it and forced him to swallow his dick again. Jimin wished with all his might his hands
were free so he could grab onto his firm ass and push him forward into his mouth. But Taehyung
was doing a good enough job of thrusting on his own.

When he lifted his cock and slid forward, Jimin’s mouth stayed open, eagerly pressing against his
hole. Taehyung’s soft moans of approvals thrilled through him and he quickened the motions of his
tongue, answering with moans of his own, higher in pitch as if he were wordlessly asking if it was
good. Judging by the way Taehyung’s ass clenched around his intruding tongue, it was. Jimin
played with it, tickling the sensitive nerve endings until Taehyung’s strong thighs were quaking
above him, his pre-cum splashing onto Jimin’s face. He jerked suddenly, as Jimin’s licking became
a little too intense and moved away before he could come.

“Are you gonna fuck me now?” Jimin giggled, kicking his legs out and letting the skirt fall back
from his groin.

“Do you want me to fuck you now?” Taehyung said sweetly.

“Yes…”

“Then no, I’m not.”

Taehyung snatched up the discarded panties and shoved them into Jimin’s mouth, before dragging
him across the floor by his ankles. The friction of the carpet burned his skin red raw, but he barely
noticed, groaning around the gag as his cock bobbed, red and needy. It was made worse when
Taehyung turned him over and it was trapped between his stomach and the floor. Jimin pulled his
hands inwards, resting his head on the fairy lights and closing his eyes as he made up his mind to
give into whatever Taehyung had prepared next.

It was still a shock. He heard the belt buckle and knew it wouldn’t come into contact with his skin
– Taehyung wasn’t that far gone – but the leather still hurt. He squeaked around the gag, eyes
popping open wide. The second one landed nearer to the next one. Taehyung’s foot came down to
rest on the small of his back and Jimin kicked his legs, wailing in the back of his throat.

“Wanna stop, nightingale?” Taehyung panted.

Jimin shook his head, furiously. He heard Taehyung laugh under his breath, and the belt landed
again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Until his ass was covered in red marks threatening to
become welts, and Jimin was struggling to draw in oxygen through his nose. Taehyung noticed his
sudden stillness, and the lack of noise, and repeated his question. Jimin didn’t respond and he
reached down to remove the gag.

“Do you want to keep getting beaten with the belt, nightingale?” he breathed.

“Do you want to fucking kill me?” Jimin whispered back.

“Do you want to stop altogether?”

“No.”

Taehyung dropped the belt and flipped him over onto his back. Jimin cursed wildly as he felt the
carpet scrape against his sore, reddened ass. He propped it up by using his feet as leverage and
Taehyung took the hint, pulling down his skirt just enough to create a protective layer between the
ground and his poor, abused skin. He reached onto the vanity for a handheld mirror and flipped it
open, showing Jimin his pink, tear-stricken face reflected back at him.

“You gorgeous, perfect human being,” Taehyung whispered, dropping the mirror and leaning into
to worry Jimin’s lips with his own.

The kiss was soft, plucking at each other’s mouths, as they both caught their breath. Jimin had
quite calmed down by the time they broke apart. He stilled, watching quietly as Taehyung started
rifling through drawers.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Taehyung didn’t reply until he retrieved a lipstick and held it up. He bent down and touched the
red bullet to Jimin’s bottom lip. He was unusually tender, as if he was nervous he would ruin it.
Gentle dabs of the stuff, pushing into Jimin’s soft flesh, until it was all soaked in red. All the while,
Jimin stared at him, as if looking away would mean he’d disappear. Once he was done, Taehyung
leaned down and kissed his mouth, using his own lips as blotting paper.

“That shade looks pretty on you,” Jimin murmured, opening his eyes to see it had stained on his
skin.
“Remind me to wipe it off when I leave the room later,” was all Taehyung said.

Jimin didn’t care what he looked like when he stepped out. He’d do it wearing lipstick. Minsoo
wasn’t around after all.

The short-lived gentleness departed, and Taehyung tied Jimin’s ankles together with a belt before
the younger could react. He turned him onto his side, and Jimin pressed his lips together to stifle a
squeal as his cock squeezed between his legs. He was panting, sure he was going to come any
second. The slightest jolt, and he would be off.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” the question came out a little too pleading, a little too soft and
breathy, but at this point, Jimin didn’t care what he sounded (or looked) like. He peeked over his
shoulder to see Taehyung’s hair flat against his forehead, sticky with sweat, and his fingers
clenched as he shivered. Jimin didn’t think he paused enough to admire how beautiful he was.
Wrong time to do it, but worth it anyway.

Rather than answer, Taehyung went into the bedroom, returning with the lube. Jimin relaxed, teeth
nibbling into his lip and staining with the red of the lipstick that he forgot he was wearing. He had
failed to see what else was in Taehyung’s hand, at least not until it started to vibrate. Jimin twisted
around as much as he could to see a small bullet vibrator in his hand. He switched it off, and
slicked it up with lube, completely ignoring Jimin’s indignant expression.

“You’re really going to keep depriving yourself from fucking me? Self-restraint doesn’t sound very
characteristic of you,” he scowled.

Taehyung still said nothing, and pushed him around again, until his bound legs were curled up and
he had full access to his ass. He slid a finger against Jimin’s entrance, sending tremors of delight
rocking through him. The vibrator was small, barely there, but the vibrations were serious enough
to be reckoned with. Jimin’s small cries of confusion turned into drawn out sighs of pleasure, as
Taehyung’s long finger pushed it deeper in, until it could go no further. Or so Jimin thought.

He was so focused on the shockwaves drilling through him, he failed to hear the lube splashing
again. “Oh shit!” he cried out, as he felt Taehyung’s cock push against his sphincter. Taehyung’s
hand on his shoulder kept him anchored, keeping his body from being jolted up the carpet, as he
entered him, steady but forceful. Jimin was speechless for a whole minute, his head spinning at
how full he felt.
“Christ – fuck – “ slurs fell from Taehyung’s lips as the tip of his cock hit the end of the vibrator
and he held himself inside.

“Oh gooodddddd – it’s too much – I’m gonna come – I’m – no, no, no – “ Jimin fought against it
with everything he had, toes curling, fingers gripping into his palms and thighs parting to lessen the
pressure on his cock. But Taehyung pushed down on the top one, pressing them together again and
made a deliberate jutting movement with his hips, sending him over the edge.

Jimin screamed as if he were in pain, white liquid spraying from his cock and splattering patterns
onto the carpet next to his shuddering body. Taehyung rolled his hips, to push the vibrator in just a
little tighter, stretching out Jimin’s orgasm until the other was nothing but a mess of strangled
vocalisation and sobs. Just when he began to calm down a little, Taehyung started to thrust. He
struck up a rhythm, giving Jimin no time to catch his breath before he was off again, panting and
pleading for what, he didn’t know himself. He came again within minutes, and this time, it
coincided with Taehyung’s first climax. The taller man curled up over him, face buried in his
shoulder as he angled himself just right to hit Jimin’s prostate over and over, both convulsing with
the intensity of their orgasms.

“I’m still hard,” Taehyung said, chest heaving as he pulled out. “This is fucking unfair – “

“Pull the vibrator out,” Jimin moaned, “and untie my ankles please – I wanna do it with you lifting
me up – “

“Like what?” Taehyung laughed, unable to understand him. Jimin’s teeth were chattering far too
much.

Jimin pointed at the ankle restraint and once Taehyung pulled the vibrator out, he got to untying
him. With an effort he didn’t know he had, Jimin dragged himself to his knees and threw his still
bound wrists over Taehyung’s head, arms resting on his broad shoulders.

“Lift me,” he insisted.

Taehyung’s got up, arms slipping under him, and though his ass was still very much sore, Jimin
suppressed the pain and spread his legs, wrapping them tight around his waist.

“Now put it in,” he mumbled against Taehyung’s mouth, and the way he said it, broke the other’s
will to do anything different.
It was like nothing Jimin had experienced thus far. This position, though tiring, was indescribable.
He felt as if he weighed nothing, arms tight around Taehyung’s neck, and both his thighs draped
over each of his arms as he swung him back and forth, up and down on his fat, throbbing cock. It
was hard to cling to him with how sweaty his skin was, but Jimin had nails and he used them to
good effect. Growls left his mouth and he lunged to clutch at Taehyung’s lips with his own, tongue
driving into his mouth with a ferocity that could only be described as feral. His hands tightened in
Taehyung’s hair as the other slammed him into the wall, legs still elevated around his waist.

Jimin’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, as Taehyung buried his face in his neck. It was an
incredibly sensitive part of his anatomy, but right then, with the blinding, thrusting ecstasy hurtling
through the rest of his body, he barely noticed. It was threatening to overwhelm him and he needed
something to anchor him.

“Ch-ch-choke me – p-p-p-please – “ he begged Taehyung.

“What?”

“Choke me!” Jimin cried desperately.

The next second, he screamed as Taehyung dropped onto the floor, taking him down with him.
Jimin landed on his back and then – fucking relief – Taehyung’s hand wrapped around his neck,
pinning him to the ground. He stopped thrusting, watching as Jimin’s face nearly turned purple
until he eased the pressure.

“Fuck yourself on my cock – do it – “ Taehyung hissed, slapping his face with his other hand,
jolting Jimin back into alertness.

He responded mindlessly, squirming and writhing and doing just as Taehyung said with all the
eagerness of an animal in heat. The encouragement from Taehyung was blissful to listen to. His
voice deepened to a whole other octave and his eyes became half lidded, as he rasped out sweet
nothings to match the brutality of his chokehold. It was fine up till then – Jimin was working
himself into a frenzy, determined to get another simultaneous orgasm out of both of them – until
Taehyung decided to come out with this kicker –

“Say you love me,” he said.

Jimin felt his head fill with pure anger, enraged that he would even dare to bring up something like
that whilst the other was very clearly in the most compromising position he could possibly be in.
He didn’t think twice. He hawked up the biggest ball of spit he could and launched it at
Taehyung’s face. It missed, but it caught his bicep.

“Asshole!” Jimin yelled, as Taehyung shoved his legs and pinned them with his own, keeping him
from gyrating his hips any further.

“You’re not gonna come – I won’t let you – “ he cooed, loosening his grip on Jimin’s throat, “Not
until you admit it – “

“No!”

“Alright – “ he started pulling out.

“YOU’RE FUCKING INSANE!”

“Still pulling out – “

“NO!” Jimin sobbed in frustration. It was a dangerous and extremely foolish game Taehyung was
playing. Neither of them liked to forsake an orgasm given by the other. This was the first time
something like this had happened when they were on the pinnacle of the best climax of the night.
And Taehyung seemed resigned to finish with his own hand jacking himself off. “No…” Jimin
repeated, weaker than before, and Taehyung stopped, fingers briefly pressing into the hollow of his
throat. He pushed back in an inch, like a tantalising bribe of a treat and Jimin’s reaction was
helpless, thirsty for more.

“Say it,” Taehyung breathed, and the world stilled.

Jimin stared up at him, through a mixture of tears and sweat, and heard his pattering heartbeat in
his ears. He took in every feature of Taehyung’s face that he had become so accustomed to. His
large eyes, the straight nose with its rounded tip, the evenly shaped lips – so good at getting him off
– and the perfectly angled shape of his jawline. He stared at his face and he sank deep into the
subconscious part of himself he liked so passionately to ignore. And all he thought was if I never
saw this face again, would I survive?
He got no clear-cut answer, but he felt a ball of pain materialise in his gut, heavy and iron-clad,
weighing him down. Hurting him. He wanted that pain to leave. Jimin took a shivering breath of
air, and his face melted as he whispered, “I love you.”

He could tell Taehyung didn’t immediately believe him, and he didn’t blame him. Jimin knew he
was good at faking emotion. But it didn’t matter what Taehyung believed, as much as he himself
finally stared the ugly truth in the face and didn’t quail. He repeated the words, slightly louder,
until Taehyung finally began to move again. Again, until Taehyung’s hand squeezed his throat and
he was wordless.

Afterwards, Jimin wasn’t sure if he fell asleep immediately after Taehyung came inside him, -
seconds after he did - or if he had stayed awake long enough to be carried to the bedroom. He
drowned in the pillows, mumbling under his breath as Taehyung leaned over him and wiped the
lipstick clean, including the stains on his teeth.

“Thank you,” Jimin murmured, circling his neck with his arms.

“For what?” Taehyung muttered, cleaning the corner of his mouth of the last remnants of scarlet.

Jimin was already half unconscious as he said, “I didn’t have to take the pills to fall asleep…”

“Didn’t even know you were taking pills. Shit,” Taehyung mumbled, staring at him in surprise as
he passed out.

Taehyung tried to sleep, he truly did.

He wasn’t on medication for sleeping, he usually conked out on his own. But despite being
immeasurably tired, he tossed and turned next to Jimin for three straight hours. Jimin in the
meantime slept like a baby, snoring occasionally, head pressed up against the crook of Taehyung’s
arm, drool starting to escape his mouth. Taehyung watched him for a while, in the soft light of the
lamp. Jimin was baby-faced in general, but he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed how completely
cherubic he looked when he was reclined horizontally, with the fat in his cheek all pressed up. His
mouth was open in a perfect little circle, and Taehyung amused himself for a few minutes, popping
his finger in and out until Jimin stirred and he quickly removed it. He waited until the younger
settled back into sleep and then sighed, staring up at the ceiling.

The screaming was making a comeback. Taehyung lay there and bore it until not even the sound of
Jimin’s breathing could make it easier to ignore. He gently slid his arm from around Jimin’s head,
and got up from the bed, tucking him in. He got dressed in a pair of silk pyjamas from the walk-in
closet and then left the room.

He had told Wonho to keep the heroin. Taehyung didn’t want easy access to it, knowing what he
could sink into. But it had been a week since his last (and first) intake, and he figured tonight was
as good a night as any to take a second shot. The nap he’d had the day he’d returned from
Namjoon’s apartment was beyond peaceful. He yearned for it now.

The clock twisted towards 4am in the morning.

Wonho slept in a ground floor bedroom, not far from the entrance hall. When Taehyung knocked,
he heard the immediate rustle of bed sheets on the other side. He had never seen someone wake as
quickly from slumber as Wonho, though he supposed that was what he was trained for. The door
opened and his bodyguard stepped out, dressed only in shorts and a tank top, hair mussed up and
eyes swollen with sleep. Taehyung indicated what he wanted, too tired to make a sound and
Wonho, looking equally worn out, retreated into his room. He returned with the case, and
mumbled, “Just return it to me in the morning, sir.”

Taehyung stood there, swaying on the spot from weariness as the door closed in his face.

He stumbled back towards the stairs. Somewhere above, he heard a sound and looked up to hear
tiny claws pattering on the marble. Chrollo had seen him through the glass balcony and was
yipping with excitement when he saw his owner.

“Jesus, why are you awake?” Taehyung exclaimed. “Stay – boy, I said stay – stay!” After repeated
orders, Chrollo finally came to a stop at the head of the stairs, tilting his head in forlorn confusion.
He whined in utter despair that his master wouldn’t immediately lavish attention on him and after a
while of staring each other down, Chrollo turned tail and pattered away. Taehyung waited until he
saw him go into the bedroom he’d left Jimin in, and then turned his attention back to the case in his
hand.

His movements were slow. His eyes were drooping, and he stopped for a while, thinking he might
be falling asleep after all. But it was a fool’s game. As soon as darkness began to creep up, so did
visions of blood. The blue glow of the shark tank turned red and Taehyung was wide awake again.
He sighed, exhausted, and screwed open the vial of Brown Sugar. Rolling up his sleeve, he dipped
the syringe in and then flicked the end. Slipping the empty vial back into the case, he took a deep
breath, smiling in anticipation as he could already imagine the sleep he would get at the end of this
happy trip. He pushed down on the end of the syringe and the needle pierced skin.

“What are you doing?”

Taehyung looked over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl at being interrupted. Jimin
was standing at the top of the stairs, Chrollo under one arm, hair sticking up like a broken wing,
and eyebrows just as dark as he glared down at Taehyung.

“Nothing. Go back to bed,” he muttered, pulling out the needle. But he knew Jimin had seen and
recognised it for what it was immediately.

He looked back up, and to his surprise saw the young man had vanished. He didn’t think about it
for long, as the high started to hit. It took a little longer than the last time, but it was just as ecstatic,
and he sat there, numb and glassy-eyed, smiling at nothing in particular. He saw himself in the
reflection of the glass opposite. He looked completely deranged. Jimin reappeared, gun in hand.

“What the fuck is that?” Taehyung muttered, giggling a little.

“BB gun,” Jimin replied calmly, and then started firing.

Taehyung screamed as the first pellet hit him right in the shoulder. He could have been naked for
all the good the silk pyjamas did to cushion the impact. He was quick to dodge the next one, and
even quicker to lift the heroin case up and keep it out of harm’s way. Jimin chased him relentlessly
around the top of the shark tank, the pellets clanging off glass, metal, marble – everything, when
they couldn’t hit Taehyung.

“You want to bribe me with an orgasm to force me to say I love you?” Jimin screamed, firing
relentlessly as Chrollo barked as loud as he could with his little lungs. “Well here! Take my
fucking love, you fucking junkie! I love you, I love you, I love you – PUT THAT FUCKING CASE
DOWN!”

When the BB gun emptied, Taehyung was already in the glass elevator, jabbing the button to close
the doors. Jimin ran forward, kicking his foot between them before they could close.

“Give it to me!” he said, grabbing for the case. “Give it! When did you even start taking this
stuff?”

“No, get out – it helps me sleep – “ Taehyung muttered, pushing him out through the elevator as
Chrollo’s barking got steadily more panicked.

“That’s what sleeping pills are for!” Jimin shouted, eyes wide and fearful, “Taehyung, not that! It’s
the one thing you really don’t need in your life! Jungkook said it’s the worst thing –“

“I don’t fucking care what Jungkook said, give me my dog and get out!” Taehyung yelled in his
face.

It was enough to make Jimin recoil, at first from astonishment and then resignation as Taehyung
took Chrollo from him. His hands were shaking as they held the puppy to his chest, and he hit the
button to close the doors again, avoiding Jimin’s gaze. He knew there would be hell to pay in the
morning. He’d ruined everything. Just like he always did. But he wanted to sleep and sleeping pills
didn’t do shit. He’d tried them. Falling asleep in Jimin’s arms worked well enough before
Taehyung had made the split-second decision to kill those kids. Now nothing quietened their last
moments of terror except for the case bundled in his other arm.

Chrollo was quieter now, though he was still trembling, thoroughly shaken by all the activity he’d
endured minutes ago. Taehyung cooed to him, comforting him with little kisses on his head as he
emerged on the rooftop. He locked the elevator, preventing it from going down again without a key
code, and then walked into the tropical haven that was the roof. He sat down on the padded swing
bench, curling up and allowing Chrollo to settle in his lap. The puppy set his paws on Taehyung’s
knee, surveying his surroundings, before deciding he was no longer curious enough to go
exploring, and curled up.

Taehyung glanced down as his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and saw a single
reminder. Call Yoongi. He blinked, tilting his head as he remembered why he’d made the note.
When he did, he immediately dialled his number. It was 4 in the morning but it would be highly
unlikely that Yoongi was asleep. This was when he woke up, ridiculously early by all accounts, but
a routine he had maintained since Taehyung had met him.
Sure enough, six rings later, and there was a click and a rustle.

“Taehyung.” As ever, Yoongi’s acknowledgement was terse and cold.

“Hyung,” Taehyung slurred, “How are you?” He tried to keep his speech steady, but he couldn’t
stop his jaw from shuddering.

“I’m fine. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“How long – mmhh – how long did you – “

“What’s wrong with you? Why is your voice like that?” Yoongi said sharply.

Taehyung swallowed, quelling the happiness rising inside him for no reason, and continued with a
steadier voice. “How long did you think you were going to hide the fact that you’ve had two heart
attacks, from me?”

Yoongi sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Knew it had to reach you somehow. Even with different
management, Geomjeong-pa’s spy network remains the same.”

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“You sound hurt.”

“I know you always loved Hoseok hyung more, but yes, I am fucking hurt. I thought I meant a little
more to you than that.”

“You sound emotional. We’ve talked about what happens when you get emotional.”

“Don’t patronise me. When was your last heart attack?”

Yoongi took his sweet time before replying. “I have cardiomyopathy. It’s a genetically inherited
disease in my case. Both my parents died young, so it’s hard to tell who was the culprit. I never
knew my grandparents, and my aunt didn’t mention them. Of all the gifts my family could have left
me after so thoroughly abandoning me, Death was the one my lucky ass landed on.”

When Taehyung had first heard of Yoongi’s condition from a contact in Busan – as well as the fact
that Yoongi had tried to conceal the truth – he had cried. He’d cried because he refused to do so
when he spoke to the man about it. But even now, he felt tears prick his eyes, and a lump rise in his
throat at the thought of living in a world where Yoongi did not exist. He did not know why. It was
a feeling he could never explain, since he didn’t know how to describe what Yoongi was to him.
The man himself would never admit to any sort of love. He certainly hadn’t done so even to
Hoseok’s face.

But there was another reason Taehyung had made a point to make a note on his phone. It was
urgent. And he had heard of the second bit of information almost immediately after the first.

“I was recently told,” he said slowly, keeping his voice as casual as he could even whilst his teeth
juddered in his head, from cold and the heroin rush, “About an order of C-4, made to deliver
directly to Busan. That’s nothing new. Our men make the best explosives in Korea, it’s why the
Russians are so eager to deal arms. But then I remembered you, and your fascination with blowing
shit up, especially when you know you shouldn’t. All those books you had on your shelves about
the engineering that went into all kinds of bombs and explosive devices. I remembered them.”

“What’s your point, Taehyung?” Yoongi said, voice terse.

“I know what you’re like. What are you doing?” Taehyung shot back. “I won’t have it sent over
unless you tell me.”

“Don’t send it over then,” Yoongi said. “I’ll have someone make it here. It will be crude, and
perhaps not as “finely crafted” as your men make it, but it’ll do the job.”

“Tell me what you’re about to do –“

“This conversation is over – “

“Don’t you dare hang up!” Taehyung shrieked into the phone, startling Chrollo from his slumber.
The puppy wobbled with a confused squeak, just barely managing not to fall off the side of the
swing when his owner’s hand went to catch him. Taehyung calmed his breathing and continued in
a lower voice. “If you think you can just escape this world, by blowing yourself up and taking as
much as you can with you, I won’t let you.”

“And what will you do?” Yoongi asked, quiet, so quiet, Taehyung had to strain his ears to hear him
even though the device was now on speakerphone. “You let Hoseok die. I have nothing else left.
Not even you.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked. “You don’t deserve to die this way. You’ve worked far too hard, and
far too long, to just drop the oars and drown. I won’t let you. I’ll find some way to get you pushed
up the list for a heart transplant if that’s what you need – “

“I am not having a stranger’s heart put into my ribcage,” Yoongi snapped.

“Does that frighten you more than Death?” Taehyung growled.

He got no answer. That was answer enough. Yoongi was afraid of Death. But he was also afraid to
admit it. And he was alone, in Busan, at the top of that cursed, metal and glass Dragon Tower,
nursing his ill heart and just waiting for the day it gave out on him for the last time. Taehyung
wanted to go to him, but he knew that was impossible. Firstly, it wasn’t a good look in front of his
men. Secondly, his reception would be less than welcoming from Yoongi. It would be clear sign of
emotional weakness on Taehyung’s part and the older man would flick him away like a fly,
disgusted by it.

“I’ll find you a heart,” was all Taehyung could whisper brokenly. “And when I do, I’ll make sure
the person who has it gets to know you, just so that you’re convinced you’re not holding a
stranger’s heart inside you. Say yes.”

“Taehyung, I don’t have time for this.” Yoongi sounded utterly defeated.

“Say yes,” Taehyung repeated.

“Taehyungie - “

“Say it.”
Silence.

“Alright……..yes.”
 Not That It Matters (Interlude)
Chapter Notes

Because sometimes all we need is a damned break. This is not an official part of the
story (hence the interlude bit) as it contributes more to emotional introspection and not
to the plot as much, which is what the story is based around. But it’s a nice little
interlude, I think. Please give it some love!

A day of sullen silence passed in the condominium, in which neither Taehyung nor Jimin
acknowledged the disaster of the night before. Taehyung had returned the heroin case to Wonho,
knowing Jimin would tear up his room searching for it. But he was surprised to return in the
evening to find his bedroom was still in the state he’d left it. Jimin was nowhere to be found.
Perhaps out of guilt, Taehyung did not inject himself that night to fall asleep. Instead, he lay awake,
listening to the screams.

By the next morning, he’d had enough and padded to Jimin’s room, bare footed, hair tussled,
pyjamas wrinkled.

It was something that had caught Jimin unawares the first time he’d slept in the same bed as
Taehyung. He had expected the older man to prefer boxers and nothing else, his tanned, tattooed
body splayed out on the white bedsheets, as domineering in his sleep, as he was elsewhere. But he
liked silk pyjamas, striped ones, and he needed to hold onto something to sleep. Taehyung did not
often subvert Jimin’s expectations of him – he was rather predictable with his unpredictability in a
sense – but on this occasion, it was a pleasant, rather sweet surprise.

And yet Jimin was still furious with him, so seeing him standing in the doorway of his room,
dressed in his navy pyjamas, a pillow under his arm, did nothing to ease that. Taehyung’s eyes
were reddened with lack of sleep when he sat down on the bed, and his face was not puffy. He
hadn’t slept a wink. Jimin turned away, curling up his arms beneath his head and refusing to say a
word. He was good at sulking.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung said simply.

“For what? For taking heroin?” Jimin muttered.

“For yelling at you the other night.”

“If you think I need apologies from you for yelling at me, you don’t know me at all.”

“I won’t apologise for the heroin. That’s my business. Not yours.”

Jimin’s ears turned red, with bottled up rage and distress, and it was all he could do not to turn
around and headbutt him. His fingers clawed the pillow, and Taehyung noticed. He reached
around, unwrapping Jimin’s small hand, and encasing it between his own. He kissed it, repeatedly,
holding it against his face with a soft sigh.

“I didn’t take it last night. That’s why I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Sleeping pills do nothing
for me.”

“You’ve built up your body to resist drugs, that’s why,” Jimin said. “And now you’re hunting for
higher rushes, and setting yourself up for more dangerous lows. You are destructive beyond logical
understanding.”

Taehyung smiled, with a sad little scoff. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Do you want to go out?”

Jimin sat up, sniffing as he wiped sleep from his eyes. “Out where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. The beach in Gangwon-do. You’ve been cooped up in here. I imagine
you want to have a change of scenery.”

“Gangwon-do. That was an oddly precise answer.”

“I’ve had all night to think about it…”

Jimin finally gave in and smiled, though he pulled his hand out of Taehyung’s grip. “Okay,” he
said, and for once, his expression was child-like with anticipation.
Ahmeti and Wonho were needed for the trip, though Jimin did not hide his sourness upon finding
this out. The sting was lessened only a little when he found out they would be driving behind them,
and not in the same car. Taehyung wanted to drive, and he found it was probably more useful to
have the guards in a different vehicle. The Albanian seemed to have no concern for how hot a
Korean summer was, and was dressed in his black trench coat again, with a pair of bright red
leather pants underneath and a fishnet tank top.

“He has pierced nipples,” Jimin whispered to Taehyung as one of the men topped up the gas tank
in the car. “I don’t know why that’s an observation I needed to make but - pierced nipples.”

Taehyung just smiled, glancing over at the skinhead. He didn’t even try to hide his amused
appreciation of Ahmeti for Jimin’s sake, much to the younger’s irritation. He kept going, feeling
like he was nagging, but not really caring.

“He’s wearing a fishnet tank. Does he think he’s impervious to bullets or something? Wonho’s
wearing the whole bulletproof vest deal under his suit and then you have this character.”

“You don’t like Wonho either, nightingale. I don’t know what can please you at this point.”

“Well, certainly not an Albanian who looks like he works at a fetish club in his spare time.”

“And what’s wrong with fetish clubs?” Taehyung arched a brow.

It was the way he stared down at Jimin, honey brown eyes piercing, that made the other close his
mouth and shake his head, with a “Nothing.” It wasn’t a moody, or threatening look. He just saw
far too much promise in Taehyung’s eyes than he was comfortable with. In the back of his mind, he
envisioned Taehyung in a similar getup to Ahmeti, standing over a bound and gagged Jimin in a
red-lit club, and the mental image was so intense, he was silenced for a while. Another thing to add
to the bucket list perhaps.

Taehyung had opened the lock Mother’s collection of vintage vehicles for this car. It was electric
red, a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado, and though sleek and polished, was sure to attract stares no matter
which road it was on. If someone had chosen today to follow the kingpin of Geomjeong-pa and
take him out, their job would certainly be made easier. But Taehyung didn’t seem too fussed.

There was a casual air between them he hadn’t experienced since the time they’d first come to
Seoul, and despite himself, Jimin was enjoying it. It felt domestic.

Taehyung had discarded of his usual tailormade suit and was wearing a collared black shirt,
covered in bright sunflowers and buttoned some way down the top half of his chest. It was tucked
into his belted trousers, and he wore a pair of patent leather oxford flats underneath. Once he was
in the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, the image was so unironically retro, Jimin had the urge to take a
photograph. He acted upon it, rushing back into the condo with no explanation, leaving Taehyung
to call after him.

Jimin returned with a Polaroid camera he’d found in Mother’s closet, grinning with glee as he
stopped in front of the car. “Smile!”

“What the fuck,” Taehyung blurted, mouth open.

The device spat out the polaroid and Jimin cackled as Taehyung’s flabbergasted expression
shimmered into view. He took one of himself leaning against the bonnet, and this time, Taehyung
was more prepared, sticking up a V sign and baring his teeth in that way he did when he didn’t
want to smile but did a cursory stretch of the lips anyway.

Jimin lowered the polaroid, smirking as the photograph came into view. It was nice to hold solid
proof of happiness in his hand. He never took selfies, and he didn’t have any social media accounts
to fake happiness on. All he had was this polaroid, dressed in an open-collared white shirt and
jeans, with eyes that he didn’t know could dance with laughter the way they were in the picture.

A yip from behind him diverted his attention. Wonho was placing Chrollo in Taehyung’s waiting
hands. He was nearly three months now, bigger and more lively, and he instantly tried to get out of
Taehyung’s grip to explore all the shiny knobs and dials he could see on the dashboard. He had the
loveliest eyes Jimin had ever seen on an animal, liquid gold and clear, filled with expression when
he tilted his head to gaze at people.
“Am I holding him? Isn’t that dangerous?” Jimin frowned, getting into the passenger’s seat.

“Are you planning on launching him over the side of the door at any point?” Taehyung asked,
ruffling his hand through his hair and slipping on his shades.

“What? No!”

“Then it’s perfectly safe,” was the tart response.

Jimin grumbled for a short while about being stopped by the police, until he realised how utterly
farcical that notion was.

Chrollo was relatively calm when the Cadillac began to move and once it was on the highway, was
totally silent, watching the scenery rush by, his little ears tilted back and eyes squinting against the
sun. When Jimin noticed, he tried to provide shade with his hand but the pup would always duck
his head out again, as if determined not to miss a thing.

The drive was just a little over an hour, and though there wasn’t much conversation, was still more
relaxed than Jimin expected it would be. It was a habit he couldn’t get rid of, expecting the worst.
An argument, or at least a skirmish was the least of what he anticipated the moment he and
Taehyung were left alone. But Taehyung was wholly unconcerned, showing no signs of weariness
despite his lack of sleep. He had a laid back way of driving, elbow on the padded rim of the door, a
finger against his mouth whilst the other hand rested on the bottom of the wheel, barely holding on.

Jimin caught himself from stealing glances every few seconds. It was hard not to. It was unusual to
see him like this, carefree, with sun-kissed skin, head bopping to the metal he was blasting through
the radio. Paired with the spine-arched, proud way Chrollo sat on Jimin’s knee, mouth curved up
into that little smile dogs often had, he and his owner made the perfect match.

“What?” Taehyung grinned, when he noticed Jimin’s shoulders shaking with laughter. He turned
down the music a little.

Jimin glanced into the wing mirror to see Wonho’s car not far behind and shook his head.
“Nothing,” he snorted.

Taehyung didn’t press it, but when their gazes connected, they laughed together this time.
It was afternoon and the sun was still high in the sky by the time they reached Gangwon-do.
Sokcho beach was teeming with throngs of tourists, as was to be expected at the height of summer.

“We’re going to be sitting out there with the commoners, are we?” Jimin joked.

“I’ve booked a private villa nearby. We can go later when it’s empty,” Taehyung said.

“Oh. I was only joking. I don’t actually mind – “

“Moon’s gonna be out later.”

Oh. Moonlit stroll on the beach. It didn’t get cheesier than that. And yet it wasn’t cheesy at all
when the visual image burst like stardust in Jimin’s mind. Real anxiety struck as the short-lived
sentimentality of the moon’s rays shimmering on the sea, was replaced by the nagging worry of
what they would even talk about. They had never been in a situation where they had consciously
worked to escape and be with each other. When they were alone in the condo, or even before, other
factors played into their existing within each other’s peripheral space. And if the silence became
too awkward, sex was always on the agenda. But as fun as sex on the beach sounded, Jimin was not
up for sand in places it was never meant to be.

The villa sat adjacent to a few others, belonging to rich holidaymakers holed away from the
common rabble on the beach. Their children were out and about, most of a relatively mature age.
The youngest was three, and promptly came up to investigate the newcomers.

With his typical brusqueness, Taehyung grunted, “Move, kid,” to the toddler and brushed past, but
Jimin paused to let him give Chrollo a pet. The child was far more enthralled by Ahmeti however
and wanted to know why his “shirt” had so many holes in it.

The Albanian made a face. “I don’t know. Why are you so…puny?”

“Ahmeti, it’s a child, not a goblin,” Jimin sighed.

“But why are you wearing it?” the toddler insisted, in that pernicious, annoying way children had.
Ahmeti put an end to it quick enough. He opened his mouth and barked like a dog, until the baby
ran away screaming for his mother. He looked up to see Jimin’s staring at him, mouth agape, and
shrugged. “My Korean is not very good. Barking usually communicates that I am uncomfortable
and wish for the conversation to end.”

“That man you’ve hired is insane,” Jimin exclaimed to Taehyung the minute they were alone in the
master bedroom. “Oh, but who am I talking to? Birds of a feather – “

“Here, boy, come on,” Taehyung clicked his tongue at Chrollo who wriggled out of Jimin’s arms
and ran to his master.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Jimin exclaimed.

Taehyung didn’t answer, lifting the puppy into his arms. When he turned to look at him, his eyes
sparkled with something that could only be described as fond amusement. “I enjoy hearing you
nag. Makes a rather improbable relationship very real.”

Jimin didn’t quite know how to respond to that so he chose to stay silent. It brought the butterflies
back. They danced and wriggled in his stomach until he had to visualise a machine gun to destroy
them. Except the minute Taehyung looked at him again, the machine gun turned into a fairy wand
and suddenly there were hoards of the fluttery little creatures, attacking Jimin’s insides until he felt
he could levitate. It never failed to surprise – and sometimes frighten – him how gentle Taehyung’s
vicious eyes could get. So gentle, he looked as if he would never harm a fly.

The hours counting up to sunset were spent in the master bedroom. Jimin went to take a shower
first, and Taehyung decided he needed to join. They didn’t leave it for a considerable length of
time, until both their fingertips were prune-like and Jimin was tired of gasping for air as powerful
jets of water tried to suffocate him and Taehyung’s mouth did a good job of it everywhere else.

Chrollo was asleep by the time they got out and the pair of them curled up on the bed beside him,
mindlessly watching the first movie that came up when they switched the TV on. There wasn’t
much watching, not really. Once Jimin leaned in closer, he couldn’t resist pressing a kiss on
Taehyung’s cheek and naturally, it didn’t end there. Their clothes remained on as Chrollo was still
fast asleep between them.

Jimin hadn’t known it was possible to do nothing but kiss for half an hour and not tire of it. But the
effects were rather obvious.
“Your lips are swollen,” Taehyung mumbled, voice hoarse and eyes hooded.

“They are – ouch – “ Jimin broke off as he touched his fingers to them. “They feel bruised, ow – “

“Should have kept kissing me. You were fine a second ago,” Taehyung grinned, wincing as Jimin’s
small, yet very firm hand came crashing down on his shoulder. His own lips were swollen too, but
Jimin’s looked practically bee-stung.

“This is so stupid,” he scowled, ending up seated by the mini freezer, holding a bag of ice to his
mouth as Taehyung split his sides laughing. “Of all the fucking things I’d need to hold ice to my
face for – “

The sun finally set an hour later, and Wonho and Ahmeti were nowhere to be found. Taehyung had
given them permission (not that Ahmeti would have asked) to go into town and Wonho, though
extremely reluctant, had allowed himself to be dragged along.

“So, you’ve sent both the guards away and now I’m following you, dressed in white, on the night
of a full moon, through a forest of pines to go to a deserted beach,” Jimin said, as they trudged
through the undergrowth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were about to sacrifice me to the
devil.”

“You don’t know any better then,” Taehyung said, shooting him a mock stare of menace. “Because
I am.”

Jimin promptly put his hands to his face. “Gasp! I’m about to be killed! Guess I better start
running!”
“Did you just say gasp – oh, he’s off.” Taehyung paused to watch him run, put Chrollo down and
tore after Jimin at a sprint. With his much smaller legs, the pup did everything he could to bravely
follow, though he kept getting distracted by pine cones and seashells littering the ground, as well as
a squeaky toy one of the beachgoers must have left behind.

Chrollo remained unconcerned that his owner had vanished into the darkness. He was very like a
cat in that respect. If they were before him, he wanted attention. If they weren’t, he wasn’t
particularly fussed. Though he got a fair bit of shock upon hearing the horn of a truck as it passed
by the forest, and it was Chrollo’s alarmed yelping that finally brought Taehyung and Jimin
skidding back.

“You left him on his own! How could you! I thought he was in your pocket!”

“He’s too big to fit in my pocket! Aren’t you? You’re a big boy, yes you are, yes you are – Jimin,
stop trying to take his toy away – “

“He found it on the ground, it’s probably crawling with germs – “

“He’s not a human baby, he’s a dog, he’ll live.”

“Chrollo, put the toy down – “

“Chrollo, bite it harder – “

“Irritating.” Jimin gave up. “You are irritating, Kim Taehyung.”

Taehyung flashed him an angelic smile and Jimin slapped his hand over his mouth as spontaneous
laughter bubbled up his throat.

The walk on the beach itself was not the cheesy, pseudo-romantic thing Jimin had expected it to
be. Taehyung threw his shoes off within seconds of his feet touching the sand and Jimin had to
physically collect them and place them together so he would find them again.
And then Chrollo’s pure horror at seeing the sea itself, entertained his master no end. It was the
strangest moment of dog training Jimin had ever been witness to in his life. The pair of them
seemed to forgot, he was walking behind them, as Taehyung rushed at the tide with Chrollo in his
arms to show that it was nothing to be afraid of. Except, immediately running away from it didn’t
help hammer the lesson in.

He attempted to put the puppy down a safe distance away from the tide, out by the sand and for a
while, Chrollo seemed relatively okay. But then the wind kicked up, and the tide roared as it
crashed against the shoreline, and Chrollo promptly lost control of his bladder.

“Oh no, he’s peed himself,” Taehyung said, visibly upset as he bent down to check on him.

Chrollo was pitiful. His entire body quaked, as he whimpered, and his tail hung between his legs.
Jimin sat down before him, attempting to remove the tide from his view, and cooed to him,
stroking his little ears to block out some of the loud, scary sounds.

“He’s only little, it’s natural to be afraid of things when he sees them for the first time,” Jimin said,
smiling as Chrollo kicked sand back over his puddle of pee. “Look how clever he is, he knows to
cover his indiscretions. Most dogs aren’t like that.”

“I mean, I was told by Oishi his parents were prize pit bulls and were guard dogs, so I was hoping
he’d grow up to be the same,” Taehyung said, face pensive as he stared down at him.

“Taehyung, he’s three months old,” Jimin said.

“Yeah, but he was the runt of the litter. Maybe he should be bigger.”

“Are you seriously upset your three month old pitbull puppy isn’t invincible and unafraid of
everything he comes into contact with? You shouldn’t have adopted him if that’s your attitude
towards a pet.”

“It’s not that. I want to keep him as a pet. But sooner or later, he’s going to hear bullets, and
screaming and smell blood. If he cowers each time that happens, he’s going to end up dead.”
Taehyung’s voice was blank, as if it was a fact of life, and Jimin couldn’t have been more
horrified.
“So, you do want him to be a guard dog,” he glowered.

“The day Mother was put into her tiger’s enclosure, do you know what Rani did? She heard the
celebratory gunshots from Minsoo’s men and their jeering, and she cowered and ran back into her
cave. Got her checked out by a wildlife specialist and he says she’s suffering from severe anxiety.
Like, what the fuck – I didn’t even know tigers could get anxiety. I don’t want Chrollo to turn out
like her, always afraid, and unable to enjoy life.”

Jimin’s heart sank at the news about Rani – he had absolutely nothing against the tiger, and
thought she was the loveliest animal he had ever laid eyes on – but there was a certain level of
projection Taehyung was doing with his dog and it was at once endearing, yet frustrating.

“Tae, he’s a dog. His life is going to be all about eating, getting walks, possibly breeding and
having babies, and always needing to know you’re around. It’s not complicated enough to
overthink it,” he said gently. “Trust me, he’ll be fine. Just let him…chill. Get used to things at his
own pace. And this is not an excuse to start firing guns in his vicinity to get him accustomed to
them.”

“Just saying. People think twice about shooting when there’s a chance they could miss and get
mauled by a 120 lb pit bull.”

“Okay, if you keep talking about him as a guard dog, the pair of us are leaving. Come on, Chrollo,
your father’s being a douchebag.” Jimin scooped him up and began marching down the remaining
length of the beach, and shooting an extremely dark frown over his shoulder at Taehyung.

“This isn’t a joint custody situation, you can’t just take him from me!” Taehyung laughed, running
to get his shoes. “I’m calling my lawyer!”

“Do it, baby, I know the law!” Jimin yelled back.

“Oh - I understood that reference!”

Jimin burst out laughing, pure delight shooting through his body. It was such an unpredictable and
unexpected emotion, and over something so trivial as Taehyung paying attention and remembering
the time Jimin had shown him a bunch of dumb memes on his phone. They were both children who
had grown up out of touch with reality. Taehyung had never paused long enough to be stupid and
fool about harmlessly with his friends. It had always been angst and a thirst to gain the power he
didn’t believe he had. And Jimin had grown up sheltered in a controlled environment, and then
thrust into a poverty-stricken one, with little access to or time for such frivolities.

All of these feelings were new to him. Boundless joy, tenderness, affection – they felt good, so
good it was frightening, and nothing he could tell himself would dispel that fear in the back of his
mind.

But Jimin tried, especially when Taehyung caught up to him and slung his arm around his
shoulder. The air was pregnant with the smell of salt, but Taehyung’s citrus scent was pervasive.
Jimin leaned into him, breathing deep, and unhooked one arm from the cradle he’d formed around
the puppy, to lock it around Taehyung’s waist. His hand dipped under the loose hem of his shirt
and met with taut, smooth skin. Taehyung shivered as Jimin’s fingers trailed in circles, leaving
goose bumps in their wake.

“Wonho just texted me. He’s back at the villa. Wanna leave Chrollo with him and go to the hot
springs?” Taehyung murmured.

For a moment, Jimin couldn’t answer, dizzy with Taehyung’s proximity and making a conscious
effort to walk in a straight line. But he nodded and then passed Chrollo to him, his expression
subdued once more. He felt Taehyung’s eyes on him as he walked a little way ahead, tucking his jet
black locks behind his ears. His lips weren’t swollen anymore, and they didn’t hurt.

Jimin wanted Taehyung to make them hurt again.

Cheoksan Hot Springs was a fifteen minute drive away. Upon arrival, the manager informed them
that they were closing in an hour but when Taehyung tapped in an absurdly large tip into the card
machine, he had no more objections. With a sleek bow, he told them it would be no trouble at all to
stay open as long as they wished to stay.
“I want to roll my eyes when you do things like that,” Jimin remarked, as they waited for the
outdoor sauna to be prepared.

“Why don’t you?” Taehyung asked, craning over the front desk to poke around the things laying
about. Clearly, just to be annoying.

“Because it’s hot. I know it shouldn’t be, but it is.”

Taehyung straightened and the smirk on his face made Jimin want to disintegrate like a wax
candle.

“Oh no, stop it,” he muttered, turning away.

Taehyung promptly caught his arm and forced him to turn back. “Stop what?”

“You know what,” Jimin groaned, laughing reluctantly as he was pulled against the taller man’s
chest.

“No, tell me – “

“You know you’re pretty, you don’t need me to state the obvious.”

“I’m pretty?” Taehyung gasped, eyelashes fluttering as he propped a delicate hand on his chest and
daintily kicked back his foot.

Jimin pressed his lips together and leaned back to glare at him. It didn’t work. A smile blossomed
over his face, and he reached up to brush Taehyung’s hair off his cheek. “Yes, you’re pretty,” he
murmured. “So pretty, I don’t know what to do with myself when you look at me the way you do.”

Taehyung’s smile faded. “What way?” he said, moving closer. So close, his breath tickled the tip
of Jimin’s nose.

“Like that…” He didn’t mean it to come out sort of whiny, but it did, and just like he’d said, Jimin
couldn’t maintain eye contact and struggled to find someplace else to look. Taehyung had no
awareness of how powerful his gaze was, and it was never more evident than right now.

Seconds before their lips touched, the door to the back office opened and the manager came
hurrying out with the keys. Jimin broke away with a quiet sigh of relief and aired out the front of
his shirt to create a small gust of wind and fan his heated cheeks.

The sauna was perfectly located, and not far from it, a rest area was made available to them from
which a breath-taking view of Mt. Seorak could be seen, set aglow by the moon.

They messed around for a while, enacting the usual silly behaviour when two young men came
into contact with a large body of water with plenty of place to swim. But at some point, the
splashing and screaming and laughing turned to paddling and whispering and giggling. Had
someone seen them then, with Jimin’s arms locked around Taehyung’s shoulders, their foreheads
touching, they would have believed them to be discussing something of paramount importance,
perhaps to do with the weighty subject of lovemaking.

They weren’t. Jimin had initiated a staring match, and Taehyung was losing, though he was trying
desperately to win by telling fart jokes.

“Your eyes are bigger than mine and yet I still won. Pathetic, mate,” Jimin hummed, putting his
arms above his head in a victory stretch.

“One more time – “

“No, I won – “

“Best of three, come oooonnnn – “

“You really hate losing, don’t you?”

They couldn’t completely block out the rest of the world for long though. Their lack of healthy
conversation in daily life – or even the lack of a daily life – meant there were things, bubbling
beneath the surface of the water, desperate to surface. Taehyung was reluctant to let him go, and so
despite the size of the pool, they kept to their little corner, legs and arms wrapped around each
other. It was wordless comfort. Something both would think twice about were they in any other
situation. But there were no mind games, not here.

Eventually, Taehyung asked Jimin about his mother.

It was the only topic he could think of that was closest to Jimin’s heart, and he had never wanted
anything more. If talking about Jo Ara meant Taehyung was closer to taking it in his possession, he
could listen to Jimin talk about her all day and all night. But surprisingly, Jimin didn’t have a lot to
say. Though, Taehyung suspected he clammed up, judging by the way his hands tightened into
fists and then loosened, only to do the same thing again.

“I want to know what you were like as a child. Before – all of this happened.” Taehyung gestured
vaguely.

Jimin almost blurted out, You mean before your father killed her, but he held himself back. He did
not want to sour the atmosphere.

“I was a fairly happy child, though my parents had a ton of troubles. Dad was a drunk, and a violent
one at that.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows drew together. “He abused you?”

Jimin laughed shortly, strangely touched by his show of indignation over something that happened
so long ago. He brushed his fingers through Taehyung’s wet hair, covering the right side of his
face with soft, sweet kisses.

“He did, but my mother suffered more. I was adamant he hated her, but now I realise he hated
himself far more. Though he never loved her, I know that. He just loved what she represented. She
was far prettier than him, could command the attention of a room simply by walking into it, and
everyone liked her better than him. They preferred to deal with her, a former prostitute, rather than
him, the heir of a prestigious chaebol and damn near the closest thing to royalty this country had.
He couldn’t stand that. So he’d beat her into what he thought was submission but – “ he paused to
chuckle, just so that he wouldn’t start crying“ – my mother never broke. She let him believe he was
boss, but she stayed every inch her true self and I guess she tried to put that quality in me.”

Taehyung stroked a droplet of water of Jimin’s cheek and touched his lips to his chin. “She taught
you well. You’re quite literally the hardest motherfucker I’ve encountered, and there have been
many. I will never get over the moment we first met, and I realised my scare tactics would in fact
get you to ingest 70 cocaine balloons through sheer willpower alone. I was prepared to go with
20.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed and he punched his shoulder. “You dickhead! Do you know how fucking
terrified I was all the way through that flight? I couldn’t even drink water I was so afraid I’d have
to go to the toilet and end up passing half of them!”

“Ew,” Taehyung grimaced. “Never had to do that myself, but sounds rough.”

“Taehyung, I swear to god – “

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m joking – ow, your punches hurt – no, but seriously, I’m sorry.” His face
fell. “I was disgusting. Still am. Actually, scratch that, I’m a loathsome excuse of a human being,
and ended up doing to you what your dad did to your mom and I’m sor – “

“Say sorry one more time and I’ll slap you,” Jimin cut in. “You’re not like my father. He was older
when he married my mother, and he wasn’t a product of the environment you were. I chose to join
Yong Geondal, you didn’t force me to. You were just doing what everyone else around you was.”

“Yes, but still – “

“Taehyung, with your pretty face, you could never have gotten even halfway where you are now, if
you didn’t have the fear factor to go with it.”

Jimin didn’t know why he was suddenly so adamant that he didn’t want to hear Taehyung
apologise for all the things Jimin had once loathed him for. Perhaps it was the parallel he had
attempted to draw between them and the repugnant behaviour of Park Jiwon with Jo Ara. Jimin
didn’t want to think his first and only real relationship was a watered-down reflection of his
parents. He could think of nothing worse.

Though that did give him pause to think about the fact that it was a relationship. It wasn’t healthy,
and to call it functioning would be stretching it. But it was.

“Are we boyfriends?” Jimin blurted out.

Taehyung was in the middle of pouring wine from the bottle sitting on the serving tray at the
poolside and replied casually, “Sure.” When Jimin said nothing else, Taehyung grinned and handed
him a glass. “Sounds way too normal for us, doesn’t it?”

Jimin still failed to make a sound, and immediately downed the glass in less than a minute. When
he lowered it, he saw Taehyung staring at him in shock. Jimin could have sworn he’d proven his
record as a heavyweight drinker before, but clearly not. He plopped the glass back on the tray,
craning over Taehyung’s shoulder to do so, and said, “I may have inherited my mother’s
alcoholism.”

“Want to down this too?” Taehyung snorted, offering his own glass.

“Don’t enable me.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. You have a BB gun now.”

“And I’m not afraid to use it.”

Jimin half-expected the conversation to turn back to lighter, more amusing turns. But of course, he
wasn’t so lucky. Taehyung’s glass of wine lay forgotten on the tray, and though Jimin kept
shooting longing glances at it, he was soon far too distracted by his boyfriend’s – fucking hell, that
word – kisses. And just when Jimin was transforming into a needy mess, Taehyung dropped the
bomb.

“I know you didn’t kill Hoseok.”

Jimin’s eyes snapped open, and he resisted the urge to lunge forward and keep searching out
Taehyung’s lips to latch onto. “W-what?” he whispered.

Taehyung took his head between his hands, nuzzled their noses together, and inhaled. “I know you
didn’t kill him. You lied, to cover for Jungkook.”

“N-no, I didn’t, I – “
“I forced Jungkook to spill. And he did.”

Jimin reacted as if an electric current struck him. He would have completely pushed himself out of
Taehyung’s arms, if the older hadn’t held on so hard. Jimin’s hands slipped against his shoulders,
as he pushed against them to lean back, face white as a sheet and lips quivering.

“Did you kill him?” he managed to force out.

Silence.

Taehyung looked utterly betrayed for a second, before impassivity took hold again. He shook his
head, and then watched with dark, moody eyes, as Jimin relaxed. It was more than just relief. He
looked like he’d been spared execution. His hands flew up to his face and he had to hold them
against his mouth, as they trembled, in an effort to calm his breathing.

“He’s fine,” Taehyung continued, in that same, cold, bland voice. “I may have thrown him around
a little, but that’s it. If you don’t want me to kill him, he can live.”

Finally, Jimin noticed the change in his demeanour. But he didn’t know how to rewind and explain
what had just happened. All he could do was stare back helplessly as Taehyung looked ready to
wring the life out of someone.

“He’s not your competition,” Jimin said at last, “He’s just – “

“He’s just what?” Taehyung snapped, pulling his hands off of him.

Jimin immediately took them and forced them back around his waist. “Don’t be like that, Tae – “

“No, tell me, Jimin. He’s just what?”

“He’s one of the first friends I made after I got thrown to the social services. He went to GEA and I
was at some shitty public school and we met in a diner. Trust me when I say I was miserable at
Hongik school. Everyone except for one teacher, Mrs Lim, refused to waste a second paying
attention to an orphaned kid with no money, who was struggling to keep up with the rest of the
class. I was bright growing up, I’d never struggled with home schooling, but who was I supposed
to tell that PTSD was ruining my ability to do anything right? I was at my lowest point and so, so
frightened for my life when I met Jungkook in that diner bathroom. I was sixteen, Taehyung, I was
a child and he was my first best friend. Feelings got tangled up later, but it was half-hearted on my
end and Jungkook will grow out of it. So, please stop constantly trying to pit him as your
competition when he isn’t.”

It was the first time Jimin had told Taehyung about this, and he had no idea what effect it would
have. By the looks of it, not much. Taehyung’s face was still hard as stone.

“Well, your best friend killed my best friend and let you take the fall for it,” Taehyung said.

“He didn’t know I lied for him though, did he?” Jimin reasoned. “And you practically slaughtered
two of his friends, and the man he looked up to as a father figure. Jungkook has never had family,
whereas you and I have had that at one point in our lives.”

Taehyung laughed, a deadened sound that sent chills through Jimin’s spine. “You think I’ve had
family?”

“Yes, y-you said you were raised by your grandparents…weren’t you?” Jimin blinked, now utterly
confused. When Taehyung didn’t answer, he continued, “Jungkook is still a child when it comes to
decision-making. He’s impulsive and he made a split-second choice that day and disguised panic as
confidence. I argued against it, and when he pushed Hoseok, he did it without any warning
whatsoever. He’s sorry, I know he is. And not just because you shot him and he’s suffering the
consequences now.”

“And whose idea was the suitcase?” Taehyung said quietly.

“M-mine,” Jimin replied, wanting nothing more than to move away from him as his face darkened.
“The enemy dead aren’t really treated in the best way when the gang disposes of them. And I – I
wanted you to have him – “

“You bandaged up his head?”

“Yes.”
“And wrapped him in the shroud.”

“Yes.”

The memory alone brought back the terrible onslaught of emotions he had suffered through, sitting
in that dimly lit room and washing Hoseok’s wound. As if, by some improbable miracle, if he
cleaned it carefully enough, Hoseok’s eyes would open and he would be magically healed.

The look in Taehyung’s eyes now was making Jimin wish he was dead.

He didn’t know what to do. Cry, hug him, say sorry again. Nothing seemed right.

“I’ve always been alone, without family. Contrary to your belief,” Taehyung said.

Jimin swallowed, hard. He tentatively reached under the water, fingers touching Taehyung’s
abdomen. The other didn’t flinch from his touch and he churned up the courage to slide his hands
around his waist, bringing them closer again.

“My grandparents were farmers, simple folk, who expected certain things from children, the most
important being that they grow quickly into adults and not ask to be mollycoddled or given
affection too often. So, to keep them from worrying, I let them think I was something I wasn’t. A
good child. I’d already lost my mother, and my father, I didn’t want my grandparents to die from
the shock of me being a bad grandson. I had an aunt who came to visit one day and she told me my
mother died because I was an evil child and she couldn’t bear the thought of caring for me a
second longer.”

Jimin inhaled, a shuddering gasp of a sound, and let it out with a shaky, “W-what?”

Taehyung shrugged. “I did accidentally kill her cat. I didn’t see it lazing in the sun and rode my
bike over its leg. It died from the injury.”

“But that wasn’t your fault – she shouldn’t have said that – “

“Jimin, you of all people should know by now that adults do and say all sorts of shit they
shouldn’t.”

“I know but still – “ Jimin’s voice broke. He linked his hands around the back of Taehyung’s neck,
kissing him repeatedly, without fear that he might pull away. And he didn’t. He kissed Jimin back,
and for a short while, there was nothing but the sound of their low, contented moans as they sought
comfort in each other’s mouths.

But Jimin couldn’t rid the mental image of a little Taehyung, rubbing tears from his eyes as he
broke down at the thought of his mother dying just to get away from him. The Taehyung in his
arms was grown, but the empathy Jimin felt for him was just as great. What he couldn’t convey
through words, he tried to convey through the tightness of his embrace and the passion of his
kisses. When they broke apart, they were both breathless, though Jimin a little more. He kept
Taehyung’s face cupped between his hands, refusing to let go.

“Hobi was the first person who took me for what I was, accepted me and never let me feel alone,”
Taehyung murmured, barely audible over the bubbling water of the sauna. “When I thought he died
for the first time, I was alone again, and I lashed out against everyone and everything. But I had
Yoongi – or however much of him he could actually give – so I wasn’t completely lost. When I
found out Yoongi faked his death, I was furious, but not for long because then I remembered what
he was. And that the loneliness was far greater in Yoongi, deeply embedded and hurting him in
ways I had never experienced. Hoseok had a lot of love to give, and Yoongi was obsessive. He
wanted him all to himself, and as terrible as that sounds, finally, I get that. Because the very
thought of sharing your love with Jungkook overwhelms me with negative emotion.”

He said all of this without meeting Jimin’s eyes, but now, he slowly lifted his gaze. Vulnerable.
There was no other way to describe how he looked in that moment, his face cupped between
Jimin’s hands.

“I think I know what you want me to say, but I’m just as scared as you are,” Jimin whispered
helplessly. “The first time you admitted to loving me, you stabbed me and left me to die. What was
that? Not that it matters. I thought it over a hundred times, wondering if you were taunting me with
those words, because they made no sense.”

Taehyung’s hand brushed the scar on Jimin’s chest, just over his ribcage, and the younger shivered
from head to foot. He kept stroking it, as he wrapped his other arm around Jimin’s neck, cradling
him. Their noses were pressed together, and Taehyung’s breath burst from him in short, passionate
gasps and it took Jimin a moment to realise he was fighting back tears. Actual, genuine tears.
Something Jimin was wholly unused to when it came to Taehyung.

“Why did you say that?” Jimin whimpered, “it still haunts me in my darkest dreams. I can’t get it
out.”
“I was saying it to myself,” Taehyung admitted. His voice was barely a whisper now, but even so,
it cracked.

“But it did matter – “

Taehyung’s words left him in a tangled moan, “It mattered so fucking much,” and he kissed him
again, turning them around until Jimin was pressed against the side of the pool. In between
breathless kisses, he spoke. “I didn’t miss your heart because I thought you’d live– I believed you
would die – I’m a self-sabotaging piece of shit because I figured out on our last night together that
you loved me back – I just wanted you to hear me say it, so that you didn’t die without love – “

“How did you figure that?” Jimin mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open long enough. At this
point, he didn’t know where Taehyung’s mouth ended and his began. Their words were lost
between the flush of their lips and it was a wonder either of them was coherent.

“Because your lips don’t lie,” Taehyung answered. “When they’re wordless, and kissing mine like
they are now, they never lie. That night as you climaxed, you were shaking in my arms like a
wounded bird, and you wouldn’t stop kissing me. You’d never kissed me like that before, like you
needed me, as if you were terrified that I’d disappear.”

Jimin closed his eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. He didn’t know when he started to cry, but now he
couldn’t stop. Seeing Taehyung break down only made it worse. Jimin had seen him on the verge
of tears before, but never give into them. Between kisses, salty with tears, Jimin whispered, “I
won’t leave you alone, I couldn’t even if I tried – you’re mine – “

It wasn’t possessiveness, or a desire to control him. Perhaps, at another, less vulnerable moment, it
would have been. Right then, it simply meant Taehyung was his to love. Every last bit of him, both
pretty and ugly, bad and good, Jimin wanted it. This wouldn’t last. This moment, and all of its
beauty, would not last. But he submerged himself in it now.

“If you keep taking that stuff, you’re going to end up leaving me alone,” Jimin told him, and
Taehyung knew what he meant.

“I’m not addicted to it,” he assured him, powerless to Jimin’s every touch, every kiss, every
whispered word. All he could do was melt against him, as if Jimin was an ocean he wished to
drown in.
“But you have to promise me anyway – no more.”

The tears wouldn’t stop spilling from Taehyung’s eyes, and it was all Jimin could do to catch them
before they fell and dripped down his face.

“I shouldn’t have killed those kids…I shouldn’t have killed them,” he admitted, lower lip jutting
out as he held back sobs. “I can’t sleep at night – I hear their screams – and they won’t let me sleep
–“

There was something heartbreakingly innocent about Taehyung’s face when he cried. It reddened,
and he lost all control of it, losing all the hard edges that made him so intimidating. Jimin promised
him, as he cried like a child in his arms, that he would do everything in his power to help him
sleep, as long as heroin remained out of the equation. He didn’t put much faith behind the thought
that Taehyung would actually listen, but for tonight, it didn’t matter.

Back at the villa, Jimin took him in his arms and sang to him. He would have talked him to sleep if
he had to, but Taehyung asked for him to sing and so, he obliged. His head rested against Jimin’s
chest, the younger curled up around him. His voice was barely above a whisper, as he sang the
lullabies his mother used to sing to him in her native Busan dialect. His fingers mapped the tattoos
on Taehyung’s skin, sifting through his silken hair and stroking his ears. Jimin fought sleep,
kissing Taehyung’s head every time he thought he would slip into unconsciousness, tightening his
arms around his shoulders.

He didn’t let his eyes close until he looked down and saw Taehyung’s were closed too. They were
lying still beneath his lids, barely moving. His sleep was dreamless.

Jimin felt his chest expand with relief and he managed a half-smile before he passed out from sheer
exhaustion.
 The Abyss Stares

Six months had passed since the conquering of Yoo Sang Woo, an event that went down in
Geomjeong-pa history as the Red Trauma.

As specious as it might be, the gang world operated on a law code of its own. There were certain
things that just did not happen. Trafficking rings for young children were maintained as side
businesses by certain mobsters for a reason, hidden zealously, for fear of retaliation by their
compatriots. Most mobsters were highly religious, and as such, easier to control by one sole
kingpin. After all, submission to a god, made submission to a man easier. Practice made perfect.
And in this religion of crime and blood and bullets, children were the holy grail. They were not to
be openly harmed.

The Butcher had gained a most maligned moniker after the Red Trauma: ‘Child-Killer.’

Kim Taehyung was no longer the respected figure he had started out to be. The intimidation he had
inspired by doing away with the previous bosses of the five districts, was grudging now. He was a
dictator, a brutal despot with little going for him except the fact that he had no qualms getting
down and dirty with the rest of the foot soldiers. There was much disgruntled talk from the select
brave few that they’d shoot him on sight if they encountered him, but it didn’t amount to much.

Especially not when for almost half a year, he failed to show his face in public.

Orders were coming from somewhere, but the larger part of the syndicate was still unsure who
gave them.

After the brief dip in stocks controlled by Geomjeong-pa following Mother’s deposition, they rose
steadily until the Red Trauma which was when they shot towards the proverbial roof. The gang
was getting richer, and half the money Seoul produced was going directly into its pockets, to be
circulated back out. Geomjeong-pa was no longer a powerful shadow, it was an institution, soaked
in the light of the sun. The dagger tipped with three stars was now a household symbol, and since
the personal patronage of various orphanages around the poorer districts, it was no longer a
harbinger of dread. Geomjeong-pa was officially the most charitable organisation on the Interpol’s
watchlist.
However, in the dirty dark alleys and streets of its beating heart, Yongsan-gu, it was business as
usual.

The violence ran rampant, and the civilians living in the area learned to turn a blind eye, no matter
how horrific the latest outbreak. School bullying was getting worse, with iljins hired to work petty
drug runs for Geomjeong-pa, spreading their wings and gaining confidence to abuse and torment
their underaged victims further. There was a gang within a gang, and this second, smaller
institution, was peopled entirely by adolescents. It had its pinnacle of power in Golden Eagle
Academy, and Choi Yeonjun’s status was now famous.

He was known among this larger iljin network, simply as “The Kid”, a highly ego-inflated term he
had no shame in enforcing. Yeonjun felt more in control of his life being the Kid, than he had at
any other time. He was determined to relish it. After his last meeting with Kim Taehyung at his
father’s house, he did not see the man again. He didn’t care. He was put into contact with local
drug runners and his trade flourished. His identity remained a secret for six months until a fateful
blunder cut his anonymity short.

He would never understand how, or when the identity leak happened, but seeing a tattooed,
grinning drug lord turn up at his mansion was the last thing he wanted any of the staff seeing. They
kept close eyes on the children, like second parents, and everything Jiyeon and Yeonjun did or said
was directly relayed back to Mr and Mrs Choi.

“Not here,” was all Yeonjun said, upon opening the door to the leering freak.

“Where then? You’re loaded, and we don’t get paid enough to be dealing drugs with you kids.
Mind doing us a favour?” the man chuckled. He moved closer, with a disgustingly fixed grin, and
something in the way he reached out made chills run down Yeonjun’s spine. He had heard of the
lustful fantasies of perverted men who got their rocks off on young boys. It did not strike him that
this might not be the case here. It was intimidation, a sign of dominance, getting right under the
skin. The man recognised the Kid’s power and wanted to dismantle it. Yeonjun didn’t understand
all this. He simply saw the stubby, tattooed finger splay out and recoiled.

“In my car,” he said.

“You drive?”

“I have a driver.”
“Of course, you do.”

The driver was in on the drug trade. He was a poor man, unable to pay for his kids’ university fees
with the paltry sum Yeonjun’s father paid him. Mr Choi was of the stagnant, despised breed of old
money that believed the common rabble should be happy to survive on the pittance they were
given. The driver’s loyalties had swerved swiftly when Yeonjun had given him the biggest tip of
his life on a ride home from school, with a terse, “There’s more where that came from if you stay
quiet about it.”

Now, he wasn’t just used for school runs, he took Yeonjun everywhere, and lied to his parents for
him. In the back of the Audi, Yeonjun kept his distance to the drug lord – he hadn’t asked his
name, ever, and he didn’t want to know now – and discreetly texted on his phone.

“Who’s that you’re chatting to then?” the man leered, moving closer.

Yeonjun pulled the phone away. “My boys. They’re bringing the money to a decided location. It’s
all in cash and I don’t have a bank account that my parents don’t know of, and I can’t make one
without detection.”

“Of course,” the other purred, eyes slicking appreciatively down his body. It made Yeonjun feel
beyond filthy, as if no amount of bleach or steel scrub could remove the sensation left by that gaze.
“I was just meaning to push you for a little money, you know? I figured, presidential family, can’t
be missing a lot of money. What’s a billion won to you, eh?”

He was attempting pseudo-friendliness, now that he believed his demands were being met. He had
no idea of the quagmire he had stepped in. Yeonjun’s ears were bright red, a clear hint to those
who knew him that he was at the peak of his fury. It wouldn’t stay bottled much longer. All this
man saw was an embarrassed, frightened rich kid, who would pay his way out of a problem, and
open himself up to be blackmailed in the future. If he paid now, the man would be back, with a
bunch of his fellow cronies and demand more money. Lying down and taking it was not the sort of
business acumen Yeonjung’s grandfather had taught him.

“Here,” he said to the driver, stopping at the entrance to a scrap yard in downtown Yongsan-gu.

Minki was already there, with three other boys. Yeonjun smiled. He had picked them well, just as
Yeonjun had asked. Not burly, big ones – skinny ones that don’t look intimidating. And don’t forget
the gasoline.
“Before we get out,” he said, “promise me this is the first and last time.”

He was saying it as a courtesy. He expected the man to lie and say yes. But instead, he flashed a
wide smile, silver teeth glinting and snorted.

“Nah, bitch, I’ll be back. And if you don’t pay up the next time, I’ll knock on the doors of the Blue
House, let Grandpops know what his boy’s up to. Consider the money protection investment. Keep
paying me, and others won’t turn up at your door asking for loot.”

Yeonjun narrowed his eyes. “Your boss won’t mind?”

“No one’s seen or heard of him for months and even if we had, why the fuck would he care that
we’re blackmailing a rich cunt?” was the scornful answer.

That settles it.

If Yeonjun had had any lingering doubts, they were ejected with the globule of spit the drug lord
hawked from his mouth. It landed in the ashtray, which he then picked up and proceeded to blow
his nose into. Before the boy’s disgusted eyes, he set it back on the side shelf and got out. “Get rid
of that thing before I get back,” Yeonjun snapped at the driver, getting out on his side and
slamming the door.

“Where is it?’ he asked Minki. He meant the gasoline, but for appearance, it looked to be a request
for the collected money.

“Dong Soo has it,” he answered, nodding towards the gates of the scrap yard. They were lying
open, abandoned, which was highly unusual. Yeonjun didn’t question it. He didn’t care who
walked in on this, he just wanted it over and done with.

“Hurry the fuck up. Don’t have time to be hanging with kids all day,” the drug lord grunted,
following them at a shuffling pace.

“You’ll get your money,” Yeonjun said. The other boys walked ahead, and one completely turned
the corner and vanished. It was the cue. The rest hung back, allowing Yeonjun to pass through
first, along with his blackmailer. Minki led them into a small avenue carved out between piled-up
heaps of scrapped cars. The ground was like red clay, pliant and surprisingly sweet smelling. The
gasoline can lay on the side, open, looking empty and abandoned. And on the other side, was the
briefcase.

“60 million won. Since you’re coming back again, I don’t see the point in giving you anymore,”
Yeonjun said simply.

“Do I gotta count it or can I trust you?” the man said, going over to kneel before the case. He could
hardly keep the glee off his face. Before he could open it, Yeonjun posed a new question.

“How many teeth do you have?”

“What?” he turned, distracted.

“I said – how many teeth? Thirty-two right? Because you’ve got a lot of silvers.”

“What the fuck is your point?”

“Just curious.”

“Ten silver. Eighteen my own. Christ.” He started to work the bindings of the case again.

“You should have thirty-two. I guess that’s less for the police to work with when they have to
identify you.”

“You what – “ he turned, and was met with a face full of foul-smelling petrol, drowning his words.
He landed on his ass, spluttering, as he coughed out the stuff he had ingested.

Yeonjun went the old school way and dropped a match. He had considered a lighter. However, the
thrill of striking a piece of wood and seeing it flare to luminescence was quite unlike anything else.
It flared with stunning splendour, roaring up the man’s leg quicker than his eyes could follow, and
turning his figure into a wobbly mess, enveloped by a shimmering heat curtain. The gasoline was
potent. He was shrieking – as was to be expected – but the speed with which the flames gorged on
him meant he did not have the ability to stand up and try to run. Yeonjun expected him to, just the
way he’d seen in films. He was rather disappointed he hadn’t. He had envisioned rolling an
abandoned tyre after him and taking a picture for his Instagram. If questions arose, he would have
passed it off as a movie screengrab. #aesthetic.

“This is so messed up,” one of the boys muttered, a plump, rotund of a kid named Yongji.

“No, what’s messed up is that in prison, you have to bend over and stretch out your butthole and
cough three times to prove you’re not trying to smuggle anything in,” Yeonjun said, bland as
porridge. “Our fathers are rich enough to get us off, gentleman, but we’ve sold drugs to ordinary,
middle-class kids too. If their parents decide to post to social media for help, this could cause a
revolution and all of us would be in jail quicker than you can say ‘Asshole.’ We’re not our families
only heirs. We are expendable. This – “ he gestured at the slumped, burning body “ – is our
insurance.”

“Well, our insurance stinks,” Minki grunted. “How do we get rid of him?”

“We don’t,” Yeonjun said. “His Geomjeong-pa tattoo is probably burned off by now. If the police
identify him, it’ll be a no-brainer. Another criminal dead by mysterious circumstances. If a fellow
gangbanger finds him, so what? We can’t be identified. He probably came to me under guise of
secrecy, wanting to monopolise the blackmail. We’re perfectly covered.”

Yeonjun’s confidence was usually bang on the dot.

Not this time.

The drug lord had told someone where he was headed. A favourite prostitute of his in Jung-gu,
who he told everything and one day wanted to marry. When he did not return within the hour as he
had promised, she began to worry. At first, she called all his friends, and got the same answer –
they had not seen him all day. One of them decided to pass on his absence to the Yongsan boss,
Choi Minsoo. And since the missing individual was a highly profitable drug runner, Minsoo
tracked his journey to the Choi house, enclosed within its gated community, and from there, it was
an easy matter of contacting traffic controllers to map out a CCTV journey to the scrapyard.

There, they found him.

And from there, the matter went up, right to the highest rung of the syndicate, to the Butcher
himself.
The prisons in Busan were unlike the prisons in Seoul.

Seoul was the capital of this proud, tiny country for a reason. It had standards. Down near the east
coast, Busan ran wilder than the sea and the standards it upheld spoke to an ancient, feudal era, still
ingrained within its people. It did not matter how many high-rises were built in Busan, or how
many farmers and rural folk decided to move there and change the course of their simple lives.
Crunched between the Yellow Sea and the East Sea, primal and vast, the wild order of nature
seeped through the ever-growing metropolitan, reminding it of its roots.

Its correctional facilities were no different, though it could be argued the most potent, and rawest
manifestations of a typical Busan dweller could be found wasting away in their depths. The largest
was set upon a white, rocky hill, like something out of a murder mystery about an ingenue wishing
to experience the chaos of the sea for the first time. It was isolated from the rest of the city,
overlooking the sea on all three sides. With its high, stone walls and electric fences, the more
forlorn of its occupants could only have wishful dreams about suicide by drowning, staring at the
sea day in, day out.

Ma Dong Seok was not one of those people. He had not started out life with the expectation that he
himself would end it. Halfway through, he had come to terms with the fact that he would be
dragged from Life’s embrace, fighting for all he was worth. Never, would he cut the rope loose
himself.

But after seven years of mostly isolated prison stay, even the strongest, hardiest man could drown
in the black ink of depression. And he did, often. He kept it at bay through exercise, and the
memorisation of his bible, and long-winded conversations with God that usually ended with, “Why
the hell am I even talking to you? You have more important shit to deal with.” He always spoke to
Him though, he couldn’t stop. There were very few human beings in the facility who wished to
speak to Dong Seok now, after the first month when he had cracked together the skulls of two
other prisoners and both had died on the spot. The prison guards had sprayed him with a water jet
that would have taken down a lesser man but Dong Seok was built like a tank, and made of hardier
stuff. They’d had to use six tasers before they could get him down.

His tattoos marked him out as a Yong Geondal henchman. It was a common curiosity as to how
he’d landed in prison. He was clearly a well-trained fighter, and a seasoned mobster. Those types
never got stuck in the judicial system’s grip too long before someone bailed them out. But seven
years passed, and no one came to bail out Ma Dong Seok from his personal hell.

And then one crisp November Thursday, someone did.

“Prisoner 89. You got a visitor. Step outside. We’re heading to the holding cell for a change of
clothes. You get an hour.” The guard’s expression was stiff when he opened the door. He was the
only man brave enough to deal with Dong Seok on a daily basis, and Dong Seok had rewarded him
with the respect of not making his job harder.

“Sounds like a joke,’ Dong Seok grunted, not moving from his seat in the barred window.

“I assure you, it ain’t.”

“My wife and I are divorced, and she’s taken the kids to America. I ain’t got no other family. It’s a
joke. Must be some other Ma Dong Seok.”

“You’re the only Ma Dong Seok in the jail. I got a message from your visitor. Said you’ll know
him. Used to be an acquaintance of…Jang Mi Kwan?”

At that name, Dong Seok’s muscly frame tightened.

His visitor was waiting in the mess hall. The entire room was empty, except for a table in the
centre, illuminated by the white light of the winter sun. It glanced off the man’s pseudo-ice blond
hair, setting it adrift in a halo. His suit was deep emerald and velvet. In a strange fit of nostalgia,
Dong Seok remembered his daughter’s obsession with the Harry Potter franchise, in particular the
blonde white boy in the green house (he couldn’t remember names for the life of him). Something
as simple as a colour scheme had him lowering his guard a tad. Dong Seok wondered with
disgruntlement whether prison had blunted his edge.

“Was told you wanted to see me. Would have liked being told who the hell you were before I was
dragged out of my cell for this waste of time,” he grunted, planting himself down on the opposite
chair.

What struck Dong Seok first was how young he looked.

The tattoos peeking out from his collar, marring his porcelain neck, set him out as a gangster. Such
thickly set tattoos were unusual on anyone but members of the crime underworld. But his face was
round, and he had lips the colour of coral that seemed as if the worst they could do was pout in
annoyance, not growl and bark orders to men hardier than himself. He was frail, and his face gaunt.
But he stared Dong Seok in the eye, something men far bigger could barely manage when Ma
Dong Seok looked the way he did now. Like he was capable of crushing anything with a heartbeat
between his fists.

“I hardly dare to believe you were dragged,” the young man said dryly, eyeing the much shorter,
skinnier guards who had accompanied him in.

Dong Seok didn’t crack a smirk. He sat there, fists on his knees, back straight, eyebrows gathered
like storm clouds. “Why am I here? And who are you?”

“My name is Min Yoongi, “ he said, extending his hand across the table. When Dong Seok left it
hanging, he withdrew it and continued as if it hadn’t happened. “I belong to Yong Geondal. Or
perhaps I should say…Yong Geondal belongs to me.”

Dong Seok didn’t react. He had heard of Yong Geondal. Some of the newer, flashier inmates
professed to belong to this seven year old elusive dragon gang. They were never in jail for more
than a week, bailed out with hefty amounts of money and never again returned. He figured one of
the kkangpaes had won in its petty bid for glory and changed up its name, because he could not
remember hearing Yong Geondal when he was still a free man.

“Does it?” he sneered. “Or does daddy let you walk around in expensive suits and pretend you
control things?”

Yoongi smiled, lips stretching into an easy smile. “My father is dead. So is my mother. I was
adopted by an aunt who hated me and kicked me out of her home. I survived, somehow. Until at
the age of nineteen, I was kidnapped by Jang Mi Kwan, son of Jang - or “Mosquito” as he was so
popularly known – and forced to be his slave for six months. He raped me, abused me, broke me in
every possible manner which you can imagine. Though, with your size and strength, your
imagination would come nowhere near the reality as I think you could never be hurt the way I was.
But, I killed him, and I employed the use of certain power players in Busan. By which I mean I
exchanged sexual favours until I got what I wanted, and I suppose I chose well, because the Mayor
has a good heart and decided not to use our relationship against me. Mi Kwan’s death triggered a
war, which I’m sure you heard about behind bars. It must have thrilled you, since his father was
the one who put you in here on a false charge of murder. The war left nothing but paltry crumbs
behind and I gathered them together to make bread. I’ve ruled it for seven years, but unfortunately,
certain indications in my declining health suggest that I will no doubt die in perhaps a year, or
sooner, considering my line of work.”

Dong Seok was no meathead. It didn’t take him long to absorb the large amount of information he
had thrown his way, though it came out quick and fast, smooth as rapidfire bullets. He kept up and
by the end of it, his eyebrows were lifting from their usual position.

It was not plausible that a boy as frail as this one could have manipulated an entire city’s criminal
underworld into doing his bidding, but stranger things had happened. The Mayor bit made it a little
more believable. Unlike in Seoul, where politicians made a conscious effort to keep their images
clean of the mafia, Busan was not so polished. They got their hands sticky and no one questioned it.

“Someone out to kill you or something?’ Dong Seok said. “I’m no longer a hench man. I don’t kill
people for pay, or do security, if that’s why you’re here.”

“If I asked you to kill what is threatening to kill me, I’d have to ask you to rip my heart from my
chest,” Yoongi answered. There was a bated silence, in which Dong Seok’s eyebrows furrowed in
confusion for the first time, dropping his steely exterior. “I’ve had two heart attacks, and I’m told a
third one may kill me. I have cardiomyopathy, and I have a better chance than anyone to get a heart
transplant by pushing myself to the top of any hospital’s waiting list. But I don’t want a stranger’s
heart beating in my chest. Not like this. You see, I had planned to plant C4 in strategic locations
around Busan, wherever Yong Geondal ruled strong. I wanted to blow up its heart, just as mine is
about blow up. Take it down with me. But I spoke to someone whose opinion is surprisingly
important, and I’ve decided that perhaps that is not prudent. And that I should find someone to take
my place instead.”

A guard dropped his cuffs, and Dong Seok twitched, annoyed to have the moment interrupted. He
turned back to Yoongi, as if half expecting him to have disappeared. He was still sitting there,
motionless.

“Why me? I’m no leader. I’m a thug. A henchman. I follow orders,” he grunted. “And most of all,
you don’t know me.”

“You command a room the minute you enter. An unmatched quality for a leader, I would think. As
for not knowing you, I wish to. If you fail me, I will have you killed. If you won’t, you get your
freedom, and never will you rot behind bars again. Do we have a deal?”
No, we do not have a fucking deal.

There was something wrong with this man, and it wasn’t a failing heart. For an abused child of
poverty, he behaved like a spoiled, sheltered young princeling living in an ivory tower, unaware
and blind to the reality of the gritty subjects he ruled. Though ruled would be putting it a tad
strongly. Dong Seok had no doubt most of the major bosses in Busan stuck to Yong Geondal as a
way to avoid civil strife, something which broke out far too easily in this city. Under the united
banner of the dragon, they could follow their own desires and machinations and leave Min Yoongi
none the wiser. Though perhaps he had guessed they weren’t entirely loyal by his decision to use
C4 and blow up their bases of operation.

“That’s it? You offer me freedom and the keys to an entire syndicate and…nothing else?” Dong
Seok grunted.

“Nothing else? I can offer you a far better lawyer so you can see your girls again.”

“You’ve done your research,” Dong Seok said wryly, “But no. That wasn’t what I meant. You’re
not demanding much of me.”

“I’m asking you to take on the backbreaking mantle of kingpin. The figurehead, the aim for any
assassination attempts, for all the blame to be laid on. It’s no easy job. You’re going to hate it, I
promise you. But once I have you familiarised with the workings of Yong Geondal, you won’t be
able to leave. Because men like you, Ma Dong Seok, fall into the traps of others if you aren’t in the
ultimate seat of power. Once I release you, you’ll get into a fight with someone else, also rich, also
powerful like Jang, and lose your freedom. People haven’t yet forgotten your name. I guarantee
there are enemies waiting for you out there. If not for my offered protection, they’d be on you the
minute you stepped out through the front gates.”

There was something calm, unearthly and settling about the way he spoke. As if every woe and
trouble in the world could come undone with the dulcet power of Min Yoongi’s voice. Dong Seok
stared him down. The young man did not quail. He stared right back and for the first time since he
realised he had the power to make men shake at the knees, Ma Dong Seok felt he had met his
match.

“You have a deal,” he said curtly, nodding at the guards, who came closer. It was a topsy-turvy
situation, for a prisoner to be signalling his captors to indicate he was ready to leave. A flicker of a
smile tickled Yoongi’s lips as he noticed this.
Before he left, Dong Seok only had one more thing to say.

“Before I’m let out, it’d be nice if you told them to change up the menu once in a while. Sick and
tired of my kimchi tasting like crusty socks,” he grunted.

Taehyung doesn’t know the meaning of sleep.

He’s turned Jimin into an insomniac too and he spends his days like a walking ghost because
Taehyung’s fucked the life out of him the night before. Taehyung sleeps at the end of these nights,
without needing to be sang to, or a dose of dope injected in his veins. And despite the exhaustion
chasing on its heels, it’s so good. It’s – so – fucking – good.

It’s what Jimin screams at the top of his lungs as the handcuffs eat into his skin, drawing blood and
Taehyung yanks the chain harder just to be a bitch. He loves watching Jimin’s ass bounce on his
cock, and when he pulls like this, it bounces harder. Jimin drowns in the lube and cum-stained
sheets, yelps escaping him with each powerful thrust. He’s stopped telling Taehyung it hurts a long
time ago. Jimin is just as self-destructive. Each time he steps foot in Taehyung’s room – they still
sleep separately sometimes – he knows he’s playing with life or death. This isn’t what sex with a
lover should be like, he knows. Taehyung doesn’t know the meaning of easing in anymore. He
grabs Jimin as soon as he’s in the room, as if he hasn’t seen him for years, and sinks his teeth into
his neck, dragging him down into the bed. The sheets become a terrible mess of cum, blood, sweat
and tears.

Each time Jimin gets tangled in them, he feels like he’s going to die. He wakes up the next morning
reborn. He knows each and every last alignment of Taehyung’s teeth. The indentations of his bites
are like tattoos on his skin now. One hasn’t yet fully healed before a fresh one is given. Jimin
fingers them during the day. It’s become a habit. They’re usually all over his legs and arms and
it’s a pure blessing he hasn’t been bitten in a place where it could really hurt. There is something
wrong with Taehyung, he knows. He isn’t taking his medication? Or he’s back on the heroin?
Something. He doesn’t talk, so Jimin doesn’t know.

And like a fool, when Taehyung’s arms wrap around him, and his mouth whispers sweet things in
his ear, Jimin forgets to force the truth out. Except for certain nights, when Jimin is in the mood,
Taehyung’s language is always sweeter than candyfloss. He loves Jimin and he wants to say it
every which way until there are no words left - just violent, clawing, nasty sex. He’s started getting
more creative with it. They both finally have the liberty to.

There’s an entire basement underneath the condo and Taehyung turned one of the bunkers into
their own personal sex dungeon. Sex swings, chains, the lot. Jimin will never forget the first night
Taehyung strung him up with rope and he panicked. He started to cry and hyperventilate from fear
and Taehyung let him down fast, hugging him tight and apologising, for what, he didn’t know.
Jimin figured it was some sort of PTSD from the last time he had been tied to a chair, starved and
then beaten.

They never used the ropes or the chains again. But the sex swing was fair play. As were the
spanking implements, the fucking machines, the clamps – everything else really. The fucking
machine was Jimin’s favourite. Splayed out on his front, his lower half trembling as the dildo
plunged into him with rhythmic persistence, as Taehyung’s mouth steals what is left of his sanity
through kisses. It is the first time Jimin reaches true subspace, as he kisses his boyfriend and is
fucked senseless by a robot. Since then, he is addicted.

It is why he falls into the world of pain and pleasure Taehyung enjoys so much. He wants that
feeling again, of floating in a disassociated bubble, with only Taehyung’s husky tone to ground
him. Taehyung gets his high from heroin, Jimin gets his from the kind of sex he has never even
dreamed of.

The kind of sex that leaves him crying into the pillow for a long time afterwards, not because he is
sad, but because it releases stress in a pure, perfect way. The kind of sex that turns Taehyung into a
god, with the secret to Jimin’s entire being in his hands. Taehyung rules him in the bedroom, and
Jimin wants nothing more than to submit because recently, he’s had to keep his shit together for
the both of them.

Like a ritual, Taehyung ends every mindless, hurtful fuck session with the same gesture. Trailing
his tongue from the bottom of Jimin’s sweet chin, over each succulent lip, up to the pretty tip of his
nose, and then stopping at his forehead, where he seals the sinful, loving trail with a chaste kiss. A
whispered, “I love you, nightingale,” sounds at the end of it and then he falls to the mattress,
passed out.

Jimin jerked out of his trance, as if resurfacing from the edge of sleep, that terrible sensation of
falling headfirst. He gasped a little, coughing, to dispel the stirring of blood in his crotch. If he got
hard, it would hurt. He was going commando because it hurt too much to wrap his cock up and
he’d forsaken the usual suit for a loose hanbok.

Mother’s office – or ‘The Lair’ as Jimin had christened it – was looking unusually small today.
Perhaps it was the lack of light. The November sun was paltry. Or perhaps it was the change of
décor. Jimin loathed the streamlined white and sci-fi design of the place, and had the entire thing
overhauled to mirror a professor’s room in some dated Oxford college. It reminded him of his
father’s study, a place he’d often sat with his mother, late into the night, reading the books he kept
locked away in his library and wouldn’t let Jimin read just out of spite.

Rather than carpet, he had opted for a dark oakwood floor, woollen rugs, and furniture that had the
same hue. Burgundy, oakwood and black made up the colour wheel, and bookshelves now hid
away the giant plasma screens, the abundant vault of weapons and a safe which had held many an
old Kim family relic. The Jewel of Busan now sat in state there, sheltered by a glass case, resting
atop a lit podium. It was very dramatic, the whole thing, but Jimin felt he had the right to be. He
had spent seven years in the depth of poverty. He was twenty-two now, life had barely started, but
he felt like he’d lived an age. Interior decoration was the least of what Jimin had the right to be
theatrical about.

Taehyung’s only contribution had been the baby hammerhead sharks, a delivery that had taken
everyone by surprise when it arrived. They were named War and Famine and swam happily about
with Cersei as if they’d always belonged there. Taehyung certainly had a flair for the dramatic too.

Taehyung hadn’t contributed much to the daily running of Geomjeong-pa. He’d made a good run
of it for three months, until he suddenly lost his footing. A bad heroin trip had caused the same
fights between them and he’d agreed to get help. He took his medication for about a month,
suffering the withdrawal symptoms, but as his mother’s death anniversary neared (something
Jimin did not initially know of), he relapsed and progressed from Brown Sugar to China White, the
purest, most potent form of heroin there was. He couldn’t be spoken to then.

Jimin had a faint inkling it was Wonho that was supplying him with the stuff as every other man
that went in and out of the house was monitored. But he couldn’t pin it on the bodyguard and
decided to dismiss him to serve in Madame Go’s security team instead. Taehyung never went
anywhere, anyway. Ahmeti was good enough for the pair of them.

Speaking of Ahmeti, Jimin’s relationship with him was forced at first, once it became clear that
without Taehyung, he needed to talk to someone in the condo or he would go crazy. He wasn’t
friendly with any of the henchmen. He didn’t know them by name or face like Taehyung did, and
he hadn’t earned their respect. Violence, was the only language Jimin believed they spoke, and he
didn’t need that sort of respect.

However, Ahmeti was always around and eventually, they had to talk.

“You’re only here until I can find a replacement. A Korean replacement.,” Jimin said bluntly.

“Hadn’t pegged you for a racist, boss,” was Ahmeti’s sleek answer.

“I’m not. It’s just more convenient if I had a Korean guard. The men are hardly welcoming to
strangers, and a foreigner as my personal bodyguard alienates them even more.”

“Not true. My Korean is brushing up fine, and I am in fact on very good terms with Madame Go
and a few other bosses you probably don’t remember the names of.”

“Excuse me?” Jimin turned to stare at him, as if annoyed he’d even dared to answer back.

Ahmeti shrugged, chewing on the toothpick propped in the corner of his lips. “It’s okay. You will
like me eventually, and you will like that you like me. I didn’t like you when I first met you. The
boss knows. I told him you were a strange creature. A tiny, fish-lipped, Korean, baby-man, were
my exact words.”

Jimin grabbed the first thing he saw on the desk – a handset – and threw it at Ahmeti’s head. The
Albanian caught it, with reflexes faster than a viper, and his sallow cheeks dimpled as he struggled
not to laugh. He licked his lips and wagged his thick, shapely eyebrows and said, “Nah, I promise.
You will like me, boss. You just don’t know it yet.”

Tiny, fish-lipped Korean baby-man? More like skinny, big-eared, Albanian asshole. The insult
didn’t matter much. Jimin was hot around the ears that Taehyung and Ahmeti seemed to have had
heart-to-hearts about him. And knowing Taehyung, he probably complained half the time. He
wasn’t about to talk of his love for his boyfriend in front of this hardcore mafioso.

Adnan Ahmeti, for all his droll humour and snide smirks, made it easy to forgot, he had
assassinated a head of state because his old boss didn’t agree with the man’s politics. He was
dangerous, and he was more than equipped to protect Jimin from the sorts of feral monsters hidden
in the ranks of Geomjeong-pa. Upon hearing the slightest hint that Taehyung was out of action,
they would be on the condo like flies. As loath as he was to admit it, it was Ahmeti’s continuous
presence at his side that kept Jimin cocooned in the indestructible bubble that divided a kingpin
from his subjects. Because at the smallest sign of revolt, it was the foreign mercenaries that got out
first, and one with such status as Adnan Ahmeti didn’t have one single reason to stay if he didn’t
want to. Jimin didn’t know why he stayed really, and he didn’t care to. There were things hidden
behind the man’s black eyes he didn’t wish to know. If humour was the worst he had to put up with
from Ahmeti, then he would take it.

Six months on, and they were amicable.

Jimin had no reason to chide him for anything, not even his snide comments, which he knew when
to rein in. It hurt him to say it, but Ahmeti was quite possibly the most perfect companion he could
have asked for in a world in which he was increasingly isolated.

Taehyung spent his days holed away in his room, and Jimin was left to be the unofficial right-
hand, giving seals of approval, signing documents, execution warrants, contracts. He had called it a
kingdom in a hyperbolic sense, but until he was on the throne itself, he was unaware of how true
this was.

The five major districts were controlled well by the people whose hands they had been delivered
to. Minsoo, as per usual, was the most efficient. A delicate truce had been formed between them. It
was only Minsoo’s reluctance to be the visible face of Geomjeong-pa that kept him from lashing
out at the shift of power. And Jimin did not give him much reason to be pissed off further. Once he
proved his ability at being far more level-headed and patient than Taehyung was, Minsoo’s
tolerance levels rose an inch.

Until the unexplained death one of Geomjeong-pa’s own men. It was unofficial law that murder
within the ranks was punished harshly. It did not mean it didn’t happen. There were always ways to
frame the death of one’s enemy and get away scotch free. But leaving an enemy burned alive in
plain sight, in a public scrapyard, was just bad taste.

They were taking the body away when Jimin got there. Dressed in maroon velvet, he looked out of
place amongst the burlier men hanging around. But he was used to the wayward stares by now, and
barely even noticed. The tattoo problem had been solved. Jimin now had a dagger tipped with three
stars on the back of his neck, plain to see once his collar was shifted, and a nightingale stabbed
clean through with a stem of thorns just below the scar from Taehyung’s knife. He was planning on
getting more. The pain it elicited was wonderful.

“The police know of this?” he asked Minsoo, handkerchief over his mouth to staunch the terrible
smell of charred human.
“They tried to get on the case until I let them know we were on it,” Minsoo said. “I hope you’re
going to thrash the brat that did this. If you don’t, I will.”

“Brat?” Jimin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Choi Yeonjun. The underaged drug dealer Taehyung decided to bring into the fold. He’s been
dealing in methamphetamine and weed, usually amongst the rich party kids in Gangnam, but
occasionally to school kids also. He’s only seventeen, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s the
president’s fucking grandson, I’d have him whipped and then recruited full-time for the gang. Kid
makes a good turnover.”

Jimin showed no indication that the name Choi was familiar to him. That didn’t mean much in a
country like Korea where such surnames were common. But he knew of it from the family name of
one of his mother’s best friends. It had not immediately clicked in his mind when he saw Yeonjun
on TV with the President, that his mother was one and the same as the woman Jimin remembered
from his childhood.

“What do you want me to do?” Jimin said eventually.

Minsoo turned on him, black eyes flashing. “What do you mean what do I want you to do?”

The younger shrugged, trying to resist the urge to step back. “I don’t know. You brought me here
for a reason – “

“Tell me, boy, why are you sitting in that condo, doing Taehyung’s job for him, when you appear
to have even less of an ability than he does to control anything? At least that coked-out maniac
makes the hard decisions.”

“I’m more…administration. I don’t usually think up punishments or – whatever. I’m not the violent
sort,” Jimin frowned.

“Oh, and you think I enjoy hearing the screams of men I’ve brutalised? It’s the job you signed up
for. Deal with it.” Minsoo hawked up as much nasty phlegm and saliva as he could, and spat it at
Jimin’s feet before following behind his men as they carried the black-tarp covered body away.
“Remind me to find a way to brutalise him when I get the chance,” Jimin muttered to Ahmeti.

“Brutalise him when you get the chance,” Ahmeti supplied promptly.

But Jimin was in no mood for laughter. He didn’t want to hurt a high school kid. But he did wish to
hurt Taehyung. It appeared his refusal to harm children did not extend to safeguarding their health
and wellbeing. Although, Jimin felt a shiver run down his spine as he glanced at the charred bit of
ground. Whoever had done this was no ordinary child. A Taehyung in the making perhaps,
sadistic, vengeful and full of hatred. Forced immolation was hardly the first thing one would
expect a child of seventeen to think up.

It was all becoming a bit much.

Last week, a parcel was delivered to the condo, with the mutilated, chopped-off ear of a man Jimin
did not even know existed. The Yakuza had sent it, to signal the end to some bloodthirsty feud
between Inagawa-kai and Jung Woo Sung, before the latter had been initiated as the Mapo-gu boss.
Jimin discarded of the ear, had the message relayed to Jung, and sat in confusion for a whole five
minutes wondering in the fuck had just happened.

Was this all there was?

Not knowing what was happening in every reach of Geomjeong-pa’s hold on Seoul, but benefiting
financially anyway? A kingpin now less a ruler, than a gatekeeper. As long as Jimin kept the
politicians in their pocket, fed the cops money, controlled the stories the media put out which
might affect businesses the gang was affiliated with, everything ran on its own devices and ran
well. Without the kingpin, the common mobster could not live in his world of anarchy and chaos.
And without the common mobster, the kingpin had no leverage to be dancing the Danse Macabre
with the true power players of the city. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, but fuck, was it
dull at the top.

The first thing he did when he got back to the condo was hunt out Taehyung.

It was as if it was all he ever did in his spare time now. Hunt out his boyfriend, and make sure
today wasn’t the day he had overdosed on the heroin he was smuggling in.

He was cross-legged on the centre of his bed, with 65 lb worth of puppy bounding around on the
pillows behind him. Chrollo was now nine months, thoroughly spoilt and entitled, but well-natured
despite it. He was partly the reason Jimin refused to share a bedroom with Taehyung. The older
man found no qualms in letting Chrollo into the bed, and though Jimin loved the dog, he didn’t
want it on his sheets when he was trying to sleep. He didn’t want it on the sheets at all. But
Taehyung was barely training him and by the time Jimin got round to it, when he returned to Tae,
Chrollo reabsorbed his bad habits and Jimin’s work went to waste.

Taehyung’s hand cradled a game controller, with an empty box of takeout and a soda can resting on
the bed post, his eyes fixed to the TV screen. His hair had grown out – surprisingly fast in the
space of 6 months after he failed to trim it – and was now in a ponytail behind his head. It got
greasy sometimes, until Jimin physically had to push him to shower. But he never stopped being
beautiful. It wasn’t humanly possible for Taehyung not to be beautiful, regardless of the state that
he was in.

“We have a gourmet chef downstairs, taken from – what I have no doubt was a highly satisfying
job as a celebrity chef in the States – willing to cook you whatever you want. And you opt for
cheap takeout?” Jimin sank onto the bed beside him, sighing, though he couldn’t keep a faint smile
of affection off his face. “You can take the boy out of Geochang, but you can’t – “

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Taehyung interrupted, without looking at him.

“Bad mood?” Jimin said. “Did the heroin shipment not come in on time?” There was rancour
behind his words, a little too much than was necessary, but he couldn’t keep it out.

“You’re not the type to use cliched adages. Don’t make me fall out of love with you,” was the
equally vicious, and very unnecessary answer.

Jimin stared at him in speechless indignation. Finally, Taehyung had to look at him, and his eyes
gave away nothing. They were dark as the horizon on a stormy night, and it made Jimin shiver to
look into them. He dropped the game controller and his hand slapped against the back of Jimin’s
neck, yanking him in with a rough, careless motion, crashing their lips together. Behind them,
Chrollo stilled, and then barked, rushing to investigate. Jimin felt his tongue on his cheek and
pushed them both away, face flashing with anger.

“Is this just what we do now?” he growled.

“What?” Taehyung said, acting nonplussed.

“We fight, and then fuck? Do you need the anger to be able to fuck me well? Is that it? Am I not
attractive to you anymore?” Jimin snarled, shoving him. He was so fucking angry and nothing he
thought of doing was enough. He wanted to wrench his hair from his head, scratch his eyes out,
punch him – something. Taehyung a frustrating piece of shit when he decided he wanted to be
difficult.

“I missed your lips, so I kissed you. You get all that from a kiss?” Taehyung sneered.

“Oh, don’t fucking play innocent. It doesn’t suit you,” Jimin snorted.

“Sit down – “

“No, go fuck yourself – “

“I want to drip honey in your ass and lick it out.”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. Taehyung’s face was deadpan, and for a moment, Jimin wondered if he’d
heard wrong.

“You…what?” he blundered.

“You heard me,” Taehyung repeated, ushering Chrollo off the bed and out of the room with a stern
click of his tongue. “I want to jam my tongue in your fucking ass and eat the honey out of it. Like a
bear with a honeycomb.”

Jimin was speechless.

Ten minutes later, he was on his hands and knees, pants down, mewling pitifully as Taehyung
delivered on his promise. The gourmet chef had the honey sent up when it was requested, but the
ending result of using it was nowhere near as sexy as anticipated. It was sticky. It got everywhere.
Jimin was about to lose his mind by the time Taehyung’s tongue found his tight ring of muscles.

Taehyung showed no restraint. The fantasy itself was fucking stupid and insane and proof of
everything going wrong with his mind, but Jimin as per usual, could be convinced if it was
Taehyung delivering the argument. And his tongue argued his case very well. He had the younger
bent in half, legs splayed beside his ears, and he plunged his tongue into his ass as if it were his
cock. He sucked up every last bit of the sticky sweetness before admitting defeat. Without lube, he
wasn’t about to get anything else inside Jimin and Jimin wasn’t about to let him.

“I’m gonna go shower,” he muttered, pushing Taehyung off. His mouth was slick and glistening
with honey, and his eyes were glazed.

“You’re still hard.”

“I have a right hand.”

Jimin knew his attitude was typical of his own father, rather than his mother. He chose to ignore
Taehyung’s quiet, but very apparent breakdown, as long as he wasn’t lashing out. After that
ethereal night at the hot springs six months ago, Jimin had predicted something very different. As
naïve as it was, he had hoped for the closest semblance of a ‘happy ever after’ that two people in
their situation could get. The world would not change for them, but they could change for each
other. That was all Jimin had expected.

And at first, he himself had changed. He stopped nit-picking, or casually insulting Taehyung as
was his habit. Just because he knew his boyfriend could take it and didn’t overly mind, it didn’t
mean it wouldn’t bite him in the ass one day. Jimin lavished him with love and attention in that
first month after they confessed to each other, though Taehyung’s behaviour remained unchanged.
That should have been enough of a warning sign for Jimin that he was turning into his mother.
Always willing to go all-in and all-out to work on a relationship that was meant to be two-way.

He didn’t use his right hand in the shower after all. Once he got the honey off, he returned to his
room and found Taehyung sitting on the floor by the window. He was wearing his black bath
gown, suggesting he had showered too. Jimin sighed, setting his phone on the dresser and shoved
his hands into the pockets of his own gown.

“What?” he sighed.

Taehyung didn’t answer with words. He got up and walked closer, stopping only once his hands
touched Jimin’s waist. Jimin couldn’t help but laugh a little when Taehyung’s playful smirk
nuzzled at his cheek. He bunched up his shoulders, making himself smaller in Taehyung’s embrace
and allowing himself to be pulled to the bed as if he weighed nothing. He liked that difference in
body frame and weight, though sometimes, Taehyung throwing him around the bed wasn’t as fun
as it sounded. When a man who was as used to inflicting violence as he was, the lines very often
blurred to a painful level.

“What?” Taehyung mimicked him.

“I think there’s still honey up my ass,” Jimin said.

“Want me to lick it out?”

“No,” he giggled, punching his shoulder. Taehyung responded by tripping him up and dropping
him on the bed. He got the gown off Jimin, his own following suit straight after. His dick was
already swollen and standing to attention and Jimin felt his body tense up with excitement, and
always, that little bit of nervous anticipation. He could never get used to the size of it penetrating
him, even if it got better once the sex picked up speed.

“Spread,” Taehyung commanded.

Jimin did as he was told, legs stretching out like the wings of a butterfly. He wasn’t as flexible as
he once was – a lessening in regular physical activity perhaps – but it was still enough for
Taehyung to get between his legs comfortably. He bent down and licked a wet stripe from his
asshole, to his balls, right to the tip of his soft penis. Jimin gasped, closing his eyes as he felt his
cock twitch. It came alive with every repeated lick, until Taehyung’s mouth was drooling all over
its firm, hard length.

He reached up to distract Jimin with fragile, trembling kisses all over his face, as he slicked up his
dick up with lubricant and lined it with his entrance. No amount of preparation worked. Jimin
wailed into his mouth as he entered in one, smooth push. His hands shook, flying up above his head
as he arched his spine and his heels dug into Taehyung’s buttocks, legs closing around him.
Taehyung stayed still a while, allowing him to adjust. Adjust, he did. Eventually, Jimin began
squirming, impaled so thoroughly on his cock he was sure he could taste it in his mouth. His
moans turned to growls, hips twisting and gyrating for Taehyung’s visual pleasure, as he worked
his dick.

“Move, please, move – “ Jimin gasped.

“Yeah?” Taehyung chuckled, snide to the very last as he sucked on Jimin’s fingers.
“Move, move, move – “ was the cried response.

He pulled back out, almost fully, and then slammed forward like a hammer, catching Jimin before
he could go flying up the bed. The thrust was abominably hard. Jimin’s teeth clenched, and his
tongue got trapped between them, but he barely noticed. Taehyung’s face hovered over him,
shaking out of view whenever he drove back in and Jimin’s entire world trembled. His expression
was demonic and tender all at once. As if he wanted to rip Jimin from limb to limb and put him
back together with all the love in the world. In that moment, Jimin would have let him.

“You’re – going – too – fast – you’re g-gonna – make – me – come – “ Jimin panted, pushing his
hand against Taehyung’s torso as he struggled to control the pleasure building in his core. His
prostate ached from the brutal hammering, and he was holding out because fuck was it humiliating
to start coming within a minute, like some horny bitch in heat. He was still angry with Taehyung,
and the man seemed to think sex wiped everything like a clean slate. Jimin’s reaction probably
wasn’t helping.

“Come then,” he rasped, and Jimin lost it.

He tried to curl up, bringing his knees back up to his chest, feet pushing at his lover’s shoulders,
but Taehyung heaved forward, jumping onto the bed without missing a single beat in his thrusting.
He didn’t let him ride out the orgasm and settle. He bent Jimin nearly in half, just like before, and
thrust down with even more speed and energy. His balls thumped against Jimin’s ass, strong thighs
flexed as he maintained the awkward position with perfect balance. But he slipped eventually, as
he started to feel the pull of an orgasm himself, and they ended up pressed to each other, Jimin
struggling to breathe and Taehyung no better.

His long fingers plunged into Jimin’s mouth, jamming it open, as he drove in the last few vigorous
thrusts. Tears traced the pretty lines of Jimin’s face, sobs muffled as he began to come again. For
once, he wasn’t crying in secret because Taehyung was losing his mind and he could do nothing to
stop. He was crying because him losing his mind was starting to result in these spontaneous,
heated fuck sessions that got better and better each time.

After they had both gotten tested, Jimin’s favourite thing to do was – what he thought was a little
crudely termed – ‘breeding’. Split condoms were the usual sight littered over their bedroom floor in
the past but not anymore. It was beyond any other experience to feel Taehyung swelling and
exploding inside him, filling him to the brim. Jimin felt his cum coat his walls, filling him with
heat and need and a blurring sense of displacement. It was as if he lost his identity in that moment.
He had the liberty to be a cum-dumpster and have everything Taehyung had to give, fucked into
him until it gushed out past his thrusting cock because his ass was already too full.

“Fuck….ba-aaabbby…” Jimin whined, holding him close as his eyes fluttered shut. He opened his
cushioned lips, allowing his tongue to laze over Taehyung’s sweaty shoulder, the insides of his
thighs aching when he clamped them around his waist. His hand drowned in the hair spilling loose
from Taehyung’s ponytail and he fingered it softly, dazed with post-orgasmic affection. “I love
you…”

He felt Taehyung’s lips smile against his neck. Jimin didn’t say it often enough, whereas his
boyfriend was open with the phrase, throwing it around every which way, whenever, wherever.
Jimin didn’t think the term would lose its potency if he said it too often. He just feared its effect on
Taehyung would lessen the more he spoke it.

And it didn’t matter how many times Taehyung tried to reassure him. Nothing in the world would
rid Jimin of the fear of being left alone if he made himself vulnerable.

There were plenty of places in Gangnam funded out of Geomjeong-pa’s pocket. Not least, the
twenty-five shisha parlours that had popped up on all sides of the district. Shisha was becoming a
rapid sensation. In a country where the smoking of drugs was prohibited by law, shisha was an
innocent enough cover for those who wanted to live on the ‘wild side’. The wild side was anything
but – a bit of sprinkled marijuana into a heap of fruity nicotine was hardly revolutionary – however
the rich kids who spent their time in such parlours, were loose with the cash.

‘Escaping’ was not a concept Jimin recognised or acknowledged. There was no escaping from the
condo, from Geomjeong-pa, from anything in this city of demons masquerading as functioning
humans. But at least within the cloudy embrace of the shisha parlours, the lights dimmed, the
music softened, and his brain was allowed to heal and lick its many wounds.

And Ahmeti was happy, since one of the parlours was run by an Albanian and apparently, finding a
fellow countryman in Seoul was like finding a mouse dropping amidst rat droppings (his own
words). Jimin was so taken aback by the odd comparison, he had to ask if it were perhaps some
Albanian metaphor that wasn’t translating well into English. It wasn’t. Ahmeti had simply decided
rodent droppings was a good basis of similarity.

A week after the honey incident, there was still no word on the little shit that had burnt one of
Minsoo’s drug dealers and left him cooked to a crisp. It would not be easy getting his hands-on
Choi Yeonjun. Taehyung refused to lift a finger, and Jimin could not walk up to the Choi house
and reveal his face. Yeonjun’s mother would recognise him. He had been around her way too often
as a child. Though his mother zealously hid his visual identity from the public and every casual
acquaintance, Mrs Choi had been a frequent visitor. As of this moment, Jimin had paid cops to get
on the case, and they were going by process of elimination, targeting the more vulnerable kids in
the iljin circle. The ones who were likelier to crack, and find a weak spot, through which Yeonjun
could be caught by the neck and dragged out.

One of the cops happened to be Namjoon.

As Jimin had predicted, he was doing a thorough job of protecting Jungkook. He wouldn’t reveal
where he had moved to, along with Seokjin. Jimin knew Namjoon believed he was compromised,
no doubt due to prolonged ‘exposure’ to the enemy. And in a way, he was thankful. The distance
was good. Though he was curious about Mother’s doings in this time. It would be foolish to think
she was sitting on her ass and doing nothing. The fact that she even had a place to run to – because
Namjoon wasn’t funding anything with his paltry cop salary – meant she had money and resources
to her disposal still. But Jimin decided that this problem at least, would be Taehyung’s if it ever
reared its head. He was done cleaning up every sordid mess.

One such mess happened to walk in that afternoon as he sat in a closed off VIP area in the
Albanian-owned shisha parlour Billionaire. Ahmeti was leaning over the bar, chatting away in his
native language to one of the bartenders (who didn’t at all seem perturbed by his tattoos, and the
gun very visibly hanging in his armpit holster).

Jimin glanced up briefly when the doors opened, before returning to the pages of the Kindle on the
table. But then he frowned, slowly lifting his head again. A blonde girl wearing shades had half her
face whited out by the blinding rays of the sun in the area of the parlour where she stood. One of
the servers spoke to her with familiarity, as if she was here often, and then Jimin noticed she wasn’t
alone. Hidden at first behind one of the pillars, stood the figure of a slim young man. His hand was
clenched around the top of a cane, face hidden by a mask. His hair was loose around his head,
falling into his eyes. But there were clear signs of an undercut growing out. A very familiar
undercut.

Jimin got up abruptly as they pair were taken to the elevator and the doors closed behind them.
Ahmeti noticed the sudden movement, and called, “Alright, boss?”

Jimin waved him down as if to say it was, before abruptly heading for the stairs. He made an effort
to seem as unhurried as possible, because he knew the glass balcony upstairs would bring him into
direct view of the opening elevator. His attempts to remain inconspicuous until he could read the
opening doors were for nothing. The minute they slid back, he made eye contact with Jungkook.

He practically saw him mutter Fuck though his face was hidden by the mask, and attempt to retreat
back into the elevator. Lisa – Jimin could now see that it was her – turned in confusion. But before
he could pull her back inside, Jimin called out loud enough for it to carry –

“Yah! Jeon Jungkook!”

A small silence fell over the people sitting upstairs, which quickly dissipated as they returned to
their previous conversations. Both Lisa and Jungkook froze like rabbits in headlights. Her hand
went to her waist, and Jimin held up his palms to proffer a declaration of peace.

“Taehyung’s not with me,” he said quickly, and the change in atmosphere was noticeable.

Jungkook sank against the wall of the elevator, looking tired already, though he was leaning
heavily on the cane. He couldn’t stay standing too long. Jimin stared back at him, as if he was
seeing a ghost, and his hands shook a little as he came closer. Lisa sidled out of the elevator, with a
mutter of, “Guess I’ll leave you two to catch up. I’ll go get drinks…or something.”

“No, don’t go – “ Jungkook spoke up, but Jimin nodded quickly before she could have a chance to
change her mind. He would deal with her deception later. As far as he had been told, she’d gone
back to Thailand with her father after the brief scare of a possibility that Taehyung would try to
coax her father into brokering what a fake engagement between them. It appeared it wasn’t a scary
enough possibility if she was now ferrying around the one person Taehyung would gladly kill at
the bat of an eyelid.

“Come on,” Jimin murmured, offering his shoulder to Jungkook. Helping him came naturally.
He’d been in plenty fights whilst they were both still in school, and there had been more than one
occasion he’d needed Jimin’s shoulder to get back home. It felt normal. It felt right.

The arm around him was stronger, not as weak or as frail as it had been when Jungkook had been
laid up in the hospital. But it shook a little, either from weariness or pain, Jimin didn’t know. But
he was eager to get him sitting down as quickly as possible. A waitress hurried to open a door into
one of the more secluded VIP lounges and Jimin helped him inside.
“Where’s your wheelchair?” he said, as soon as the door closed.

“Don’t need it,” Jungkook grunted, falling onto one of the cushioned banquettes. Belying his
words, his face was drawn with pain, and his hand convulsed a little as he set down the cane.

“You need the wheelchair, you’re just being a stubborn brat and forcing yourself to get over a
serious injury,” Jimin snapped.

“Guess it wasn’t that serious was it?” Jungkook scowled. “Clearly, I wouldn’t even be able to stand
upright with a cane right now if it was. And if you must know, the wheelchair is in the car. I
wanted to walk without it.”

They fell quiet. Jimin focused on him, heart hammering, blinking slowly as if at any second, this
scene would fade away. He hadn’t seen Jungkook’s face for so long, it felt surreal. His phone with
all of their photos had been smashed by Taehyung the night he’d kidnapped Jimin in the alleyway.
He had nothing else to keep Jungkook’s face vivid in his memory. And now it was back, beautiful
as ever. Though it had hardened in all the right places. He was no longer soft around the edges; his
jaw was firm, his cheeks indented, his nose was no longer gawky it was strong, and his eyes were
hooded. The weight gain helped. He had an eerily similar expression to Taehyung when he set his
lips like this and glowered. The longer Jimin gazed at him, the glower faded, and he began to
return to the young boy he had once been.

Jimin wasn’t about to continue an argument he didn’t even have his heart in. Not now.

He moved abruptly, ending up on the banquette, arms flung around his neck. His hand went up to
grip at Jungkook’s hair, holding his head close to his own, fighting back angry tears. He didn’t
know which thing in particular he was angry at. There were far too many. But life, most of all.
Jimin tended not to be aware of how young his own age was until he was with Jungkook, and saw
the struggle and torment reflected in his eyes. The pain of not knowing where he fit, or what his
purpose was. With Taehyung, he was genuinely younger in age, but had to act older just to provide
some semblance of stability to a relationship that was far from it.

He pulled back and saw Jungkook’s cheeks were just as wet as his. Jimin swept his hair off his
face, kissing it all over, eyes shimmered with fresh tears. He didn’t trust himself to say a word.
Jungkook was refusing to look at him, glaring at the floor, fist tightened on his knee. Not even
when a tear trailed down the bridge of his nose and hung off the tip, did he reach up to wipe it off.
It was as if he thought ignoring the tears would mean he wasn’t suffering any sort of emotional
torment.
“You’re with him now,” he said, a statement of fact, not a question.

Jimin couldn’t lie. So, he didn’t say anything, fingers whispering through Jungkook’s hair. It was
soft to the touch, and he knew exactly how to stroke it to soothe him. But it wasn’t working.

“I found out how he killed my friends. Mingyu and Yugyeom. And Choi.”

Jimin’s hand stopped. His face crumpled, but he refused to let out a sob. He wasn’t going to cry if
Jungkook wasn’t. That was how it worked.

“D-do you mean to kill Taehyung in revenge? Is that why you’re in Gangnam?” he whispered.

Jungkook smiled bitterly. “I can’t kill him.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t be touching me like this if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“But who am I kidding? You’re his kept whore now, you won’t mind. I forgot. Your standards
slipped.”

Jimin smiled, eyes crinkling as the truth poisoned the air between them. “Yeah, I guess they have. I
did what I had to do to survive.”

“You did, and then you gave into it completely,” Jungkook said, his eyes harsh as he swatted his
hand away. “You could have killed him by now. But you haven’t. It’s obvious why.”

“Why should I have to do your job for you? What reason do you have that’s good enough to let
him live?” He was testing the waters, seeing how serious Jungkook was. Though if he actually was
planning an assassination, he wouldn’t let onto Jimin. Just like Namjoon, he would no longer trust
Jimin with a thing, and whilst that hurt, it was hard to feel slighted. Jimin’s hand was touching
Jungkook, feeling him, warm and alive, under his touch after so long. He did not have the capacity
to feel anything but an enveloping sense of contentment.

“Because he’s my brother.”

Jimin laughed. “Yeah, pull the other one. Good to know you still have a sense of humour. What a
weird thing to joke about.” He lifted the cane onto the table, so he could move closer, half
expecting Jungkook to pull away. But the younger didn’t. instead, he turned his doe eyes on Jimin,
and they were wide now, showing no hint of deception. Jimin stared into them, fingers skirting
Jungkook’s cheek, smile fading slowly.

Epiphany.

Yes, that was the word. An overwhelming surge of understanding and revelation. Links between
puzzle pieces that at one time seemed unrelated. They raced together, like an old black and white
film strip, where the individually hand drawn characters slowly came to life as the slides were
flipped through. And then they were dancing, smooth and uninterrupted, as if they had never been
divided in the first place. It made sense.

“Taehyung is your – oh shit.” Jimin broke off as his voice cracked.

Jungkook said nothing. His chin wobbled, but he forced it to still, and then looked away, playing
with the ring on his finger. Jimin’s hands flew up to his mouth, eyes round as saucers.

“You fucked him,” was the first incredibly stupid, unfeeling thing that jumped from his lips. He
hadn’t meant to. It was just the first put-together image the rushing strip of film spat out and he
failed to put it through a mental filter first.

“You know, I’ve thrown up all I can thinking about that, but it never gets easier to remember that it
is in fact true,” Jungkook smirked bitterly, “I lost my virginity to my older half-brother.”

“H-half – oh, yeah – your mom – I – “ Jimin broke off, hand sliding back over his mouth, not
trusting himself to say anything that would alleviate the intensely uncomfortable tension.

“They had a relationship he didn’t want to continue. And then Seokjin hyung’s father took her in.
My grandfather, I should say, since my mom was the result of an affair he had. Just a line of
inglorious bastards, aren’t we?”

Jimin barely had time to process the first familial secret before the second hit him like a 150 pound
hammer. “Wait – Mother – I mean, Seokjin – he’s your – “

“Uncle. Mom was his half-sister. And he knew all this time, but he hid it from me.” Jungkook
reached for the cane, flipping it over and tapping it on the ground. He put on a pseudo cheery
demeanour on and beamed. “Not worth being initiated into any family, so I was left as an
afterthought until it was absolutely necessary to reveal truths I’ve been seeking my whole life.
That’s the world I now live in. Didn’t think it could possibly get worse, but here we are.”

“Jungkook, no, wait – “ Jimin held onto his arm, when he made as if to get up. He wouldn’t let go,
clinging to him until he stopped straining. He ran his hand across Jungkook’s shoulder, forehead
pressed to his cheek. He didn’t know what else to do. The words to respond to this weren’t coming
so easily but Jimin recognised the feeling of isolation and he knew what Jungkook was like when
he thought he was backed into a corner, unloved and alone. “H-how did you find out – about Kim
Bong Ju – “

“I spoke to him,” Jungkook said, without missing a beat. “He told me everything. All about how he
loved your mother to the point of insanity. And how he – “ he paused, turning to look at Jimin with
a changed expression. It was softer somehow, vulnerable. It frightened Jimin instantly. “ – he said
he had a third baby. And it was with your mom. She told your dad it was a still birth but the baby
was fine and he was given up for adoption.”

Jimin scoured his brain for that memory first, before he had a complete nervous breakdown. He
refused to process the magnitude of this and it was the only reason he still had his wits about him.

He sifted back through the years until he landed in 2003. His mother had been forcibly committed
to an intensely private psychiatric institution by his father. Jimin had only been six years old, and
he could still remember how miserably he had cried as the long winter nights passed without the
comfort of his mother to hug him to sleep. It must have been after the baby was born, because he
remembered asking the maid why mommy had suddenly lost her belly. He had liked it, liked
resting his head upon it when she read him bedtime stories. She had never really explained to him
why it had grown, as if she didn’t like the reason. Jimin was only six but he knew better than to
press her for the truth. By the time he was old enough to understand pregnancies, she had told him
the same lie she’d told his father.

“W-where is he?” Jimin croaked, his voice parched as if he hadn’t drunk a drop of water in years.
“My mom’s baby.”
“Dad wouldn’t tell me.”

“Jungkook, he’s my brother – “

“He’s my brother too!”

“Oh fuck, of course he is!” Jimin burst out laughing hysterically, leaping to his feet. He felt like he
was about to tip over the teetering edge of madness. “And fuck - he’s Taehyung’s brother too!
We’re literally connected by this fucking baby none of us have ever met!” He stopped suddenly,
going unnaturally still. “You didn’t kill Bong Ju, did you?”

Jungkook shook his head, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He’s alive. I have him in a
rehab facility somewhere far from here.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my Dad.”

“That is not a reason! That man is the cause of everything shitty that has happened to either of us!
And to Taehyung!”

“Oh, so you’re here to be the devil’s advocate after all – I knew it – “

“Jungkook don’t be fucking unreasonable!” Jimin shouted, “You think Taehyung would be in the
state he is today if that man had had the courtesy to go back and clean up after himself and take
care of – what was then – his only son?! Tae is twenty-four! He doesn’t deserve this shit any more
than we do – “

“Oh, it’s Tae now?” Jungkook giggled, though the sound was anything but humorous. “Of course it
is.”

“Don’t be like that,” Jimin scowled, “I’ve called him Tae before.”
“Not whilst staunchly defending the fact that he is a mass murderer and a child-killer, just to try to
put him on the same level as us.”

Jimin lost the strength in his legs and sank down onto the table. “You heard about the Yoo Sang
Woo incident then.”

“Yep. The Red Trauma,” Jungkook sneered. “If he was Seokjin hyung’s chosen heir, he’d be
making him so proud. Mother’s done some atrocious shit, but nothing so hideous this early in her
career. I’m surprised you didn’t stop him. They say he forced you to play the piano on stage as it
happened.”

“I wasn’t forced. I was trying to distract the kids,” Jimin muttered, “And I begged him not to kill
them and he agreed. But the wilder the violence got, he seemed to lose himself, and then he just did
it. Out of the blue. Kind of like how you ignored me and killed Hoseok. Both of you are good at
ignoring good advice when it comes from me. Familial trait, perhaps?”

Jungkook ignored the quip and rolled the cane between his hands. He was pale as snow, and
extremely stressed, but Jimin’s head was no longer geared towards making him look less wound
up. He was drowning in a sea of blackness he couldn’t keep at bay. He hadn’t felt this on edge
since the Red Trauma, and he was either going to throw up or start screaming, he wasn’t sure
which.

“Pretty sure he suffered a psychotic break that night, though he kept insisting he was on his meds,”
he said eventually, his voice defeated and broken. “Said his first one was when he burnt down the
Serpent Noir with both of us inside.”

Jungkook’s reaction caught his attention immediately. He tensed, looked guilty, and then settle
into subdued silence, eyes trained on Jimin’s ring when it caught the light.

“What?” Jimin urged him.

“Dad suffered a psychotic break when he burnt down your parents’ house,” he admitted.

“Can you not call him Dad? I find it insulting,” Jimin said. “To me and to you. That man barely
qualifies as a father. He’s a fucking sperm donor. He doesn’t deserve this sort of attachment from
you.”
“I haven’t had my mother my entire life, and I’ve grown up always wondering who my father was
or if I had any relatives at all. You think I’m doing this to insult you? I’m doing this so I won’t
drown in the rage of how brutally life has fucked me in the ass since the minute I was born,”
Jungkook growled through clenched teeth.

Jimin got the message, albeit reluctantly, and dropped the subject.

“I think Dad’s skipping on his medication too,” Jungkook continued, in a calmer voice. “They did a
search of his room to find out where he’d hidden the pills but couldn’t find them. He’d been talking
to himself three nights in a row. Like the whole – gesturing, pacing, acting out entire scenarios as if
there was someone in there with him. One of the nurses saw him.”

“Like father, like son,” Jimin muttered. “Taehyung’s skipping his meds too. He’s become a
recluse, and he can’t go a night without stifling sleep paralysis. Oh, and he’s also a heroin junkie.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows disappeared behind his fringe. “He what?”

“I’m pretty sure Wonho –his bodyguard before I dismissed him – was getting it smuggled in for
him because I took every other measure to stop it. Though I can’t do much. He might have dropped
all his responsibility, but he still commands more respect than I do. They all know what I am to
him. I see it in their eyes when I walk past, and that Choi Minsoo’s bred an especially nasty lot.
Apparently, they’ve got bets running over who gets to rape me first when someone gets around to
kicking Taehyung off the throne.”

“I fucking hate that old bastard,” Jungkook snarled through gritted teeth, Jimin’s casual tone doing
nothing to lessen his anger upon hearing the predictably lewd behaviour of a bunch of thugs.
“Seokjin doesn’t care about Taehyung as much as he does about gutting and hanging Choi Minsoo
out to dry. And he will. I’m going to help him.”

“That’s who you’re going for? The Yongsan-gu boss?” Jimin laughed a little, “I may as well hand
you the gun and the key to the condo so you can have try your luck with Taehyung. Tell Mother
she’ll need an army or it’s not happening. We’re caged in all sides by that man’s influence. It’s the
only reason Taehyung’s allowed to be a fucking failure of a kingpin and still stay in power. Minsoo
needs his puppet.”

“He wouldn’t have the power he does if Taehyung hadn’t handed it to him,” Jungkook chided
sharply. “Though if he’s a heroin addict now, guess he’s making Minsoo’s job a whole lot easier.”
“Yeah, maybe I should have him committed wherever it is you put Kim Bong Ju.” It was meant to
be a humourless, dead joke. Nothing about this situation was amusing. But it reminded him of
something else. Something that didn’t make things necessarily worse, but certainly didn’t improve
them. “Taehyung tried to burn us both alive because he thought you killed his dad. If he finds out
you lied, and hid him away, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“He’ll try to kill me. What’s new? Only reason he didn’t do it last time was because that wasn’t
about me. It was about taunting Seokjin hyung,” Jungkook said.

“Perhaps he’ll have a change of heart if he finds out you’re related.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“No.”

They stared at each other, and though they’d had many moments of helpless fear in the past,
nothing was quite like this one. Because despite being relatively safe, and one of them having more
power than he could ever have dreamed off thanks to his boyfriend’s mental decline, neither had
felt so vulnerable and open to attack. There were targets on all sides, and some still waiting to be
set up. Perhaps more so for Jimin, but Taehyung alone was more than enough of a threat for
Jungkook, and now with the added intentions of Seokjin to go after Minsoo, there was no telling
what state they’d be in by the turn of the next month. That was how unpredictable kkangpae life
was.

Jungkook extended his hand first. Jimin took it without hesitation. Their palms connected, warm
and still without callouses, despite how many guns they’d held and punches they’d thrown. The
softness of youth was still present. Jungkook twisted his hand around until their little fingers
hooked together. Jimin’s lips quirked into a smile and his eyes crinkled. Jungkook’s face broke into
the first real smile he’d given him thus far.

“Remember that promise we used to make before we went out to drink and do crime?” Jungkook
asked.

“You mean shoplift beer, run away giggling as the owner chased us, and then almost throw up
after tasting the stolen goods? Yeah, sure. Crime,” Jimin snorted.

“As far as I remember, you were always good at chugging beer,” Jungkook shot back.
Jimin laughed, holding onto his finger tighter. “Well, I do have a natural knack at being better than
you at things.”

Jungkook’s smile faded a little, dark eyes becoming solemn. “I used to tell you then, that I’d die
defending you, because I thought we’d never have to reach such a terrible point.”

“Yeah,” Jimin said softly. “Though I’ll admit, I always knew we might. But I meant it when I
reciprocated the promise.”

“I feel like it’s time to renew that.”

“You think one of us won’t be alive by the new year? There’s only a month left. Give us a little
credit,” Jimin chuckled, but there was no sincerity behind it. Everything felt grey and shit and
burdensome.

“Doesn’t matter when, Jiminnie.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

He interlaced their fingers together, as if afraid Jungkook would pull away if he didn’t. funny how
that happened now, when in the past, it was Jungkook clinging to Jimin’s hand in the hopes that he
wouldn’t try to escape his grasp.

“I would like to see you again,” Jimin said, softening his voice somewhat in hopes of convincing
him.

“I can’t tell you where I live.”

“I know, but – “

“I don’t trust you not to tell Taehyung.”

“I’m going with the belief that he won’t care you’re his brother and will in fact kill you. So no, I
wouldn’t tell him.”

“If he beat you up again, wouldn’t he able to get it out of you?”

“Jungkook, he’s not going to beat me up – “

“Didn’t he beat you up when he was supposed to have loved you? You came into the Serpent Noir
looking as if you’d run a few rounds in the boxing ring,” Jungkook said. “I know you lied that you
killed Hoseok, but still. You looked as if he’d tried to kill you.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen now,” Jimin said, and it sickened him how contrived he had to
sound to make it convincing.

“No? Not even if he’s skipping his meds and taking heroin? If he decides in a fit of paranoia that
you’re against him, you’re done. Dad did the same thing to Jo Ara and he said he loved her too.
You’re living with a ticking time bomb, Jimin, face it.”

Jimin had faced it. He had stared into the abyss so long, the abyss was staring back. But nothing
good would come of admitting it to Jungkook. He was stuck between two individuals who would
become hellbent on destroying each other at the drop of a coin.

He couldn’t express his worries about one to the other without choosing a side. He couldn’t tell
Taehyung Jungkook and Seokjin were about to go after Minsoo and possibly set Geomjeong-pa
alight with the most disastrous gang civil warfare since the 70s. He couldn’t tell Jungkook he woke
up some nights to see Taehyung’s eyes wide open, glinting in the dark, and wondered when the
demons in his head would tell him that Jimin was his greatest enemy and killing him would be the
only thing that would silence the noise.

“It’s not going to happen,” he assured Jungkook, and his voice was stronger than his truth. “I
promise, it won’t.”
Taehyung’s breakdown is only just starting tbh.

Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter, and if not here, please do leave a comment on twitter
or chat to me in DMs, I appreciate any option. I love talking to you guys about the plot
theories you have and possible endgame!
 Caged Tiger

Trigger Warnings: Extreme violence, gore, implied/mentions of rape .

The smut nearer the end is also very rough (asphyxiation, degradation) so proceed with caution.
It might make you form certain opinions immediately but hold on them till the end of the
chapter. Nothing is as it seems.

His hair was like his soul, untameable.

He thought standing before the mirror and hacking away with scissors would make it do
something different. Make him look different. Make his nose smaller, his ears smaller, his acne
less prominent. It didn’t really do any of those things. Though it did get him beaten by his
grandmother for messing it up. She’d complained about it being too long but being short in the
‘wrong way’ was also bad. So, he’d decided he would dye it orange and let her go wild.
Surprisingly enough, she didn’t. She sat at her table drinking her four ‘o’ clock tea with biscuits
and just stared at him. Taehyung asked her, “What do you think, Halmeoni?” and all he got was a
resigned smile and a nod. She was tired. Since his grandfather’s death, they’d hired someone to
help around the farm, but she was still exhausted, especially since Taehyung couldn’t resist his
worse nature and go into town to fool around with his new, highly dangerous friends. After his last
birthday when his father’s card failed to show up, Taehyung’s behaviour took a turn for the worse.
Halmeoni’s decision to move to Busan in the near future was partly due to wanting him away from
the bad crowd in Daegu he’d fallen in with. She had little idea that Busan was waiting with worse.
She would approve of Hoseok if she met him. But she never did. Taehyung had a sense, the longer
he looked at the woman that had raised him, she would die soon.

He accepted the knowledge with little emotional upset. It would hit him once she passed, and
exactly a year later, three months after he turned eighteen, she did. It was as if the last chain
connecting him to his pure, sheltered innocence, severed, and he was left alone, wandering in the
dark.

Hoseok was his saving grace, but not really. He was a cop-in-training in Daegu, and after that
strange night when Hoseok arrested Taehyung and things changed between them, it wasn’t long
after that the latter moved to Busan permanently. He’d sold the farm and blew the paltry sum he
got on a month’s worth of binging on drugs and alcohol. Taehyung was not one for good decisions,
never had been. But he was skinny, and prone to pissing people off.

His first few months in Busan were a nightmare.

It climaxed in a truly horrendous night during which the local drug dealers Taehyung ran with
were swallowed up by the sharks of Yong Geondal. One of his friends pissed a big man off, and the
rest were on them like hounds. Dragged to a dirty, grimy room filled with immigrant workers
kidnapped for menial labour, Taehyung was forced to watch as one after the other, the leader of
the group pissed in his friends’ mouths. He was last in line, kneeling, red with rage and tied with
his hands behind his back. He knew there was something worse that would happen later. He saw
the way they leered at him. But in his mind, he was invincible, and it hadn’t clicked what a truly
awful situation he was in. Luck wrapped Taehyung like a caterpillar’s cocoon, because seconds
before that wet, dripping, piss-stinking purpled cock came anywhere close to his mouth, the door
opened.

He could tell by the way the man shook his dick off and tucked it away that the newcomer was
higher up in the ranks. He didn’t look it though. Short, slim, dressed impeccably in blue velvet,
right down to his shoes. Soft minty hair lay flat on his forehead, fluffed perfectly as if he’d run a
hand through it several times before landing on a state he liked. His eyes were hooded, lips cocked
into an inquisitive tilt. He looked down each of the boys, paying no mind to the immigrant workers
huddled around. Why would he? They weren’t even human beings to this man, they were just
pawns who had forsaken their nationality and were now at his mercy in a strange land. If the
Korean boys on their knees were helpless, there was no describing the state of the foreigners
behind them.

“What is this?” he asked, in a voice as gentle as the wind on the western hill slopes. “They look
young. Why are they tied up?”

“That one, thought he could get away with stealing a 100 kilograms worth of cocaine from me,”
the boss grunted, nodding at the first boy who was still retching with the swill of piss in his mouth.
“Thought I’d let them have a taste of what happens when you cross Yong Geondal.”

“Have you pissed in his mouth yet? He doesn’t seem to be retching on the tang of your dehydrated
urine.” The man in blue velvet nodded at Taehyung, baleful little boy kneeling at the end, orange
hair sticking to his forehead, drenched through with sweat.

“Was about to,” came the dry response, as the others laughed.

Taehyung’s heart sank. It appeared this new higher-up was more than approving, and he’d soon
have his mouth christened too. The man who had tucked his cock away, continued, bolder now. “I
was gonna take him home. You know…give him a little beat around.”

“To your home?” the mint-haired stranger said, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh. I guess this isn’t your
average little beat around is it? I didn’t know you swung that way, Jun.”

“Oh, I don’t, I’m not a faggot,” Jun said confidently. “But this one barely qualifies as a man, so
–“

“Because you think he’s pretty?”

“I’m more man than you are, you sack of rancid shit,” Taehyung barked, hawking as much spit as
he could from his throat and launching it at him. It didn’t get anywhere near, much to the
amusement of his friends.

“No, Master Min, because once I’m done getting my fill of them, I’m going to sew up all the holes
he has and throw him in the fucking sea. Those ones, I’m killing right now. But the maknae’s
mouthy. He deserves it, no?” He said it with a cocky little jut of his hips, slaving his tongue over
his crusty mouth as he grinned at Taehyung. The boy was on the verge of throwing up, but he
would be dragged to hell screaming before he showed weakness. He didn’t even move.

“What if I want him, Jun?” the mint-haired stranger spoke again.

A distinct chill settled over the room. All eyes swivelled between Jun and the newcomer, who had
about four men standing behind him, twice his size, with knuckles that looked as if they could split
skulls in one bash. Jun fidgeted, pissed off, but conceding. “Then you can have him, boss. I don’t
mind.”

“No, no, no – see, Jun – “ he walked closer, laughing a little. “I don’t think you realise, what this
situation is. When someone wants something in this gang, and it appears to belong to someone
else, then they have to fight. The winner takes the prize, and the loser…dies.”

The movement was quicker than Taehyung’s eyes could follow. Whoever this Master Min was, he
was a formidable marksman. Pulling the gun from his holster was half the talent. It whipped out
and the bullet hit its mark before Jun even realised there was a smoking hole in the centre of his
forehead. He keeled and fell flat into the stone floor. None of his men moved, though several
throats bobbed nervously.

Master Min nodded towards Taehyung and he was hauled up, still spitting and scratching against
his restraints. But he was no match for the brawn of his captors and was dragged to the door with
ease. The last thing he heard was Master Min saying, “Kill them,” and his friends’ screams of
distress. Five gunshots, and silence. Only the soft, whimpered moans coming from the immigrant
workers could be heard. He didn’t utter a sound. He didn’t think he could make one if he tried. His
eyes were wide, as he was pulled out onto the street, the cold wind kissing his face. Thrust into the
back of a car, hands still bound, Taehyung wondered how long it would be after raping him that
Master Min would have him thrown into the sea, just like Jun had said.

Master Min said nothing to him on the car ride to wherever it was that he lived. Taehyung was
thrown into an awkward position. He had no way of looking out the window unless he heaved
himself off the seat in which case the burly men sitting opposite would no doubt break his ribs. He
kept his eyes on the mint head of hair peeking above the passenger seat and thought of the prayer
of The Three Jewels like his grandmother had taught him. Taehyung was raised Buddhist, but he
had never paid it much attention, neither had he given much of a fuck about the vague Christian
beliefs his grandfather held. But he knew the Lord’s Prayer by heart thanks to the Christian
elementary school he had attended and for once, he turned religious in the back seat of a mobster’s
car. Of all the things Taehyung thought he could take, rape was not one of them.

But much to his suspicion and surprise, there was no such hell waiting for him at the Dragon
Tower. In a penthouse apartment, furnished as a rich bachelor pad would expect to be –
streamlined and unhomely – he was untied and told to go take a shower. Master Min vanished the
minute he walked through the door. When Taehyung was led in, he was given the instructions by
the guards, and did not see the mint-haired kingpin the entire night.

It was only next morning when he woke to the smell of a cooked breakfast, for the first time in a
year, that Taehyung descended the steps and found Yoongi standing over the stove. He was
surprised. He would have expected someone else to be doing it for him.

“Sit,” was the tersely given command.

“Are you trying to get into my pants? It’s gonna take more than a good breakfast and saving me
from the assholes who work for you.”

Yoongi looked over his shoulder, eyes black. “Sit.”

Taehyung sat.

His short-lived defiance drained when he saw the breakfast put before him. Pancakes drizzled with
honey, strawberries and cream, omelettes, French toast, boiled eggs, tea. He’d never had a
continental breakfast in his life, but he dug in without hesitation. The older man sipped on his tea
with more refinement, barely picking at the sugared croissant on his plate. He simply watched
Taehyung eat.

“What? So, you’re not trying to fuck me? You’re going to fatten me up to eat, are you?” Taehyung
snorted.

“You have a very vulgar disposition for such an angelic face,” Yoongi remarked.

“So, you do want to fuck me.”

“You overestimate your charms. Your face is attractive. But I value wit and refinement of tongue.
Neither of which you have.”

Taehyung didn’t understand exactly what he meant, so he shrugged it off and kept eating.

“Where are your parents?” Yoongi asked. “How do they feel about you being in these iljin
gangs?”

“My mom’s dead, my dad left when I was little, my grandparents are both dead and I sold the farm
in Geochang to move here.”

“So, you have no authority figure.”

“I don’t need no authority figure.”

“Of course, you don’t. This world isn’t for you, Taehyung. As much as you think it is.”

“Don’t tell me what isn’t for me,” Taehyung snorted, dropping a piece of omelette into his mouth.
“Got my kneecaps broken at sixteen for talking smack to the wrong person, but guess where he is?
Six feet under, and I’m at the top of the Dragon Tower eating breakfast cooked by a kingpin.”

Yoongi burst out laughing, but stifled the sound, as if he hadn’t intended for it to slip out. He put
his fingers against his mouth, eyes twinkling. Taehyung grinned. He had a very innocuous smile,
boxy with a slight overbite. It could put anyone at ease. “Well, what did you say to warrant such an
extreme response?”

“Your mother is a whore and should have swallowed.”

Yoongi made the mistake of taking a gulp of tea, and it almost came shooting out through his
nostrils.

In that moment, Taehyung knew was set. He would never again find himself in a dirty warehouse,
being forced to open his mouth and become a piss receptacle. This was the start of the rest of his
life going up, and nothing would ever bring him down. Yoongi never asked if he had someone
significant in his life, not that Taehyung had anyone to name. Hoseok would re-enter his life a year
later and become someone Taehyung was terrified of losing. But for now, he was free to be the
object of desire for one of the most powerful men in Busan.

He was winning.

He won over and over when he finally got into Yoongi’s bed. But Master Min made him work for it.
He showed no signs of attraction to Taehyung; gave him no indication he was wanted for anything
other than his savvy quick-talk and succinct taste for violence. His methods worked.

Taehyung wanted everything he couldn’t have, and Yoongi had struck gold with this most
important part of his core personality. The younger constantly made an effort to seduce the older,
finding ways to draw his attention. Whether that be walking around pants-less (and at one point
naked), or simply drawing the conversation down a more sexual avenue, Taehyung pulled out all
the stops and got nothing back. He was barely out of his teens, and his immaturity showed when he
tried to flirt. His attempts to make Yoongi jealous over the news that he was now sleeping with a
cop friend who was newly stationed in Busan, went unnoticed.

Yoongi decided when he would show that Taehyung’s attempts at flirtations were in fact hitting
their mark quite often. And when he did, the younger was introduced to a whole new realm of
pleasure, one that involved a large amount of pain. Inflicting pain was something he knew he
enjoyed, but receiving it was uniquely different. He spent more than one night chained up in
Yoongi’s bedroom, playing the part of willing, obedient pup if it got him what he wanted. Not even
when Yoongi found out he was hiding Hoseok’s status as an undercover cop in Yong Geondal, did
he banish Taehyung from his side.

Taehyung expected him to. He himself would have done. He didn’t think much of it when Yoongi
took a shine to Hoseok as well – the man was beautiful, and coupled with his pure intentions to do
good, he saw the appeal – but there was a feeling of being edged out of a relationship forming just
fine without him. His own with Yoongi had only ever been mentor-mentee with a side-helping of
sex, and it hurt and irritated him to see Hoseok find pleasure in the company of his boss. He never
said it out loud, but Taehyung wasn’t stupid. Only two years divided them in age, but Hoseok was
wise beyond his years, and Yoongi was the same. It was a triangle, with one point being shaved
off.

It never blossomed into full-fledged jealousy. Hoseok’s “death” was enough to cut off the entire
chapter and drown Taehyung in the guilt of knowing he had encouraged him to accept the
undercover operation. Yoongi’s emotions were sealed behind a wall Taehyung could never break
through, so he was left to drift on his own, an anchor with no chain, sinking to the bottom of a
pitch-black sea of depression. Drugs, alcohol, sex – he partook of the usual vices to erase his mind,
but nothing quite worked as much as murder did.

Yoongi was getting sick of him. Taehyung couldn’t bear the thought of being pushed away, and
denounced, like he did to so many of his other henchmen with impunity. They weren’t having sex
anymore, and he wondered if a third person was necessary for Yoongi to remain interested in him.

It was this thought that re-entered his mind when he saw a young boy in a hospital in Seoul, curled
up under white sheets, the sun dancing over his blonde-bleached hair.

Taehyung was only meant to be in the capital for a couple days. But he’d stretched his visit after
making new friends in Geomjeong-pa. They were enforcers, just like he was, so not very high up on
the rungs. But they had plenty to tell him about the fucked-up way the gang was run. A man in a
dress wasn’t their idea of appropriate authority, but Taehyung found the idea novice. As novice as
he found the thought of a twenty-five year old, mint-haired man running a syndicate in Busan. It
made no sense, but that was the appeal.

He was in the hospital to visit one of those enforcer friends that day. He’d been disembowelled and
left for dead, but the assailant hadn’t done a thorough job and by some force of miracle, he was
alive, conscious and spitting furious. The hospital staff were having a tough time convincing him
that if he moved, the dressing on his injury would burst and his guts would come right back out.
Taehyung found the whole thing hilarious, wondering what it felt like to have your stomach opened
like a sack of potatoes. Though he was usually the one splitting the sack.

Going out for a wander in the corridor, he attracted stares. Tall, young, handsome, dressed in all-
black, he stuck out in a sea of white, blue and green scrubs. Not to mention the tattoos and the
eyebrow piercing he’d had freshly put in a couple days ago. Yoongi would hate it, but he could
always take it out if they ever got to sleeping together again. Taehyung really, really wanted that to
happen. He was lonely, something he hadn’t admitted to himself fully, and he was miserable. Only
Yoongi’s complete domination in bed removed him from the trauma of his own mind and plunged
him into a subspace unlike anything Taehyung had ever experienced.
Up ahead, he paused upon seeing a young man step out of a hospital room. He was lanky, with
dimples that pierced deep as he smiled at an approaching nurse. They muttered together in
whispers. He showed her a badge and Taehyung immediately turned away, pretending to look up
at a wall of leaflets. Cop. He tended to attract the provocation of law enforcement in Busan. He
didn’t know how different they were in Seoul but he would never trust the fuzz. He waited until the
cop was gone, and then walked down to the room he’d just left.

A young boy lay on the bed – there was no telling if he was a teenager or an adult – staring up at
the ceiling, blonde hair flush to the pillow. He had large eyes, slanted in a way that suggested they
could be as seductive as they were innocent. His profile was impossibly perfect. Smooth forehead,
flowing into a pert, pretty nose, and lips so full he had a permanent pout. But his jawline was hard-
edged, suggested he was long past puberty, and his neck was long and graceful, dipping into a blue
pullover that hugged him just right. He was so beautiful in the sunlight that Taehyung was
reminded of the Grecian statues Yoongi liked to decorate his apartment with. The androgynous
muses that drove creatives throughout history mad to capture their beauty. A photograph certainly
wouldn’t do this one justice.

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Taehyung hadn’t realised he was gawping, open-mouthed, as he stood in the doorway and cast a
full-fledged shadow which the other had noticed. His pretty eyes narrowed, flashing with a scowl
and Taehyung knew the cop had been here on a gang-related incident. He recognised the
vulnerability in other young gangbangers like himself, hidden behind masculine bravado that they
thought could save them. In his case, it could. He had the physicality to prove it. But he wasn’t so
sure about this bandaged, bruised, broken young man lying in a bed. Though he certainly had
enough anger in those dark eyes to incinerate Taehyung.

“I’m staring at you, dickhead,” Taehyung snorted. The boy’s hand went for the nurse’s button and
Taehyung lifted his palms in defence. “Touchy. You’re gonna tell on me?”

“I was going to call for a jug of water,” was the acidic response.

Two minutes later, Taehyung returned with a jug filled with water and ice and two glasses. The
boy’s name was Jimin, or so he said. He leaned over with a murmured thanks to take a freshly
filled glass and drank, eyes closing. Taehyung’s eyes followed, mesmerised, down to the trail of his
throat as it bobbed when he swallowed. How his rosy pink lips glistened and dripped with a water
droplet he sucked in before it could fall. How he let out a soft whimper of a sigh as he lay back,
cradling the sling on his arm. He looked to be Yoongi’s type. Beautiful, perfectly made, with a soft
mouth inclined to smiles. Just like Hoseok. As they conversed in awkward, brief sentences,
Taehyung learned Mother had sent her thugs to batter him in an alleyway, not liking how close he
was getting to her protégé. He also read between the lines that Jimin was sick of his life but had no
clue on how he should escape or make it better for himself.

Taehyung decided for once, he would be the one offering a helping hand. It was for selfish
reasons, but what wasn’t?

Jimin was surprisingly quick to accept the offer. Become a drug runner for Yong Geondal in
Busan, and never have to come to Seoul, except for quick stop-offs. Taehyung suspected the police
officer he’d seen leave the room was on Jimin’s scent for something, but the boy wouldn’t give up
what.

It was fun breaking him in those first few weeks.

He was deliciously inept at everything. Clearly, his only role in Geomjeong-pa was to be cock-
warmer for the guy he’d gotten a beating for. Taehyung knew the derogatory terms he referred to
Jimin with were a result of his own insecurities. Most lay sealed tightly between Jimin’s pink,
pouty lips. Taehyung had no game. He was oblivious to people who fancied him unless they threw
themselves at him. And if he fancied someone, they always fancied him back. He never had to graft
for what he wanted. Jimin didn’t fancy him back and he was also blissfully unaware to the fact that
Taehyung really, really, really wanted him to be his cock-warmer instead.

Taehyung’s version of “game’ was to take Jimin along on one of his excursions as Master Min’s
enforcer. He assumed the boy had seen such violence consistently in Seoul. He didn’t hold back as
the barbed-wire bat in his hands bashed his victim’s face into obliteration. Jimin was crouched in
the corner, flinching with each meaty thwack, covering his face to protect it from flying bits of
brain matter, bone fragment and blood. Taehyung sank to the ground once he was done, sweaty,
breathless and grinning. When he saw Jimin’s round eyes peeking through his fingers, pupils
dilated, he crawled over to sit beside him. It was a fact – everything elevated to double the intensity
in Taehyung’ system when he killed – including his arousal. He sat as close to Jimin as he possibly
could without touching him, and gathered his legs up to his chest, staring at him. After a moment’s
silence –

“You know…the first kill, is like the first orgasm. Your heart pounds in your ears. Your fingers are
wet. Your brain’s reward system goes haywire. And you can’t shake the feeling you’ve done
something very, very, wrong,” he drawled in a husky voice.

Jimin’s head snapped around, jaw slack with disgust. “What?”

“You wanna do him?” Taehyung beamed, pointing to the man taped to a chair by his friend’s
corpse.

“No!”

Taehyung’s smile flickered and vanished. A scowl replaced it and with the sullen pout of a child
who didn’t know how to get what he so badly wanted, he pulled out his gun and shot the man
straight in the head, eyes still fixed on Jimin.

Needless to say, it wasn’t a good start.

Taehyung gave up, settling on treating Jimin the way he treated his other acquaintances. Until that
night on the yacht when he had to share him like a sex toy with the man he idolised. Taehyung
surprised himself with the resentment he felt the next morning. He left as soon as possible, unable
to stomach watching Jimin wake up and interact with Yoongi outside of a sexual setting. He didn’t
know who he’d be more jealous of.

He never truly believed Jimin fancied him back until the moment he walked out of the shower, in
their tiny Yongsan apartment, and the younger came a-knocking.

The way his eyes glanced down against his own will, how he sucked his rosy bottom lip into his
mouth, how he tried to swallow down his attraction. Taehyung saw it then. Jimin liked him back.
And it was as if Taehyung was hammering that truth in when he fucked him, so he could never
deny it again.

Night after night, in the bed, against the wall, on the dresser, in the shower.

There was nothing quite like the feeling of Jimin’s thighs clamped around his waist, his high-
pitched, tender, bird-like cries echoing in his ears. Taehyung didn’t keep his own moans stifled
because he was self-conscious. It was so he could hear Jimin better and concentrate only on him.
The nails splitting his skin, the pearly teeth biting into his neck, the wet mouth scraping over his
jaw. The way he writhed and squirmed and danced his hips, back and forth, back and forth, in time
with breathless moans and pleas of “Oh fuck – h-harder – harder – please god, fuck me harder!”
Jimin lost himself during sex, lay all his inhibitions and principles aside and became Taehyung’s,
to thoroughly abuse until he was sore and aching. It was why they got on so well when the clothes
came off.

Jimin.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and brushed his boyfriend’s soft locks of hair behind his ear.
Taehyung blinked, slowly, as if hardly daring to believe he was there, sleeping like an angel. He
slept so innocently. Curled up, little nose pressed into the cotton pillow, pink mouth squished open,
letting out a whistling snore. Taehyung was glad Jimin had no trouble sleeping. Even if so many of
his nights were filled with dreams. Bad ones. Ones that made him toss and turn and cry for
Taehyung until the older rolled over and held him, soothing him like a child.

“Wake up,” he whispered, prodding his nose. “Wakey-wakey, nightingale, wakey- “

He stopped.

It didn’t feel right. His fingers did not find the tenderness of Jimin’s skin awaiting them. He felt
something wet. Like sticky fur.

Taehyung gasped, lurching forward onto his stomach. His throat clenched and he gagged, ejecting
the mouthful of dirt he’d ingested. He was lying on the ground, face covered in earth. It fell from
his hair in clumps. His suit was wrinkled and tattered, and he had cuts all over him. He looked
down and saw his shirt was in shreds split by three claw marks that sliced his chest. They would
scar. Darkness encroached, punctuated by the lights dancing in front of his eyes. He stumbled back
over a cross bow and mumbled, reaching for it. There was light towards the west of the cave, and
he couldn’t look directly at it without recoiling.

And then he saw her.

She was splayed out on her side, rigor mortis setting in. Her claws were out, stained with blood and
earth, and her eyes were wide, as if she had died in the clutches of extreme fear. Her ears were
frozen backwards, jaw slack. Her black and white fur was patched with scarlet, an arrow in her
head, three in her side.
Taehyung let out a wail that wasn’t human.

He dropped the cross bow, hands flying to his hair. His knees hit the ground, tears spilling down
the side of his chin and hitting the soil. “No, no, no, no – “ he kept muttering over and over as he
crawled to Rani, hands clutching at her fur. She was cold. He pulled out the arrows, tears streaking
clean lines through the grime on his face, as he begged her to move, little considering that if she
did, he would be dead. It was then that he noticed the needle tracks on his arms and the soreness
around his nostrils. He felt the white powder crusted there and winced as he rubbed it off and felt
the skin sting in protest. Taehyung took a deep breath and sank against the tiger, shuddering as he
let out a sob.

Snippets of what he had done last night returned to him.

On his own, he had doused himself in heroin, followed by meth, and then clearly, cocaine. His
body’s resistance to drugs was superhuman. Mixing a variety of them was nothing new. But
something told him he’d finally verged on an overdose. There was vomit pooled on the ground
nearby. His muscles felt as if they had been individually dried and stripped and put back together.
Everything hurt. He had no idea how he’d managed to get a crossbow and fire it in time to take
down a tiger in attack mode. But then he realised she probably hadn’t tried to attack. As anxious as
she was, she would have cowered in her cave, even when he entered it, refusing to charge him for
fear of being tasered. Animals in captivity always had the same fear. She’d died like a lamb to the
slaughter. Taehyung wasn’t sure if it was her blood on his face or fresh tears, but everything hurt.

A sound at the mouth of the cave had him scrabbling up. He reached for the crossbow and on
instinct, fired.

He heard a roar and recoiled. Only for a moment. The light was extinguished, blocked by a huge
shadow. He could hear voices chattering at him from all sides. KILL. KILL. KILL. He only had one
defence mechanism. KILL. Taehyung started firing, using the arrows he’d plucked from Rani’s
corpse. The roar diminished to a hurt whine, and the shadow vanished, only to be replaced by
another. He saw what looked like a ghoul, with a mouth stretched wide open, blacker than death.
Taehyung screamed. He fired again, and it fell away. Screaming, all around him, it wouldn’t
quieten. And neither would he. It was as if he was trying to drown it out with his own shrieks.
Another ghoul appeared and he fired directly at its head, but there were no arrows left. It charged
him.

Taehyung swung the cross bow back –

“TAEHYUNG STOP! AHMETI, HELP ME!”

“He fucking shot me! Fucking ass-hole!”

Taehyung raged and fought, almost managing to throw his assailant off. At least until he felt the
hands by his ears. The touch rang familiar. Hyperventilation dulled his hearing, but the ghoulish
appearance he saw began to shimmer and blur, back into a face that was more beloved. Jimin’s
eyes were wide and horrified, cheek smeared with blood. He was staring at Rani, hands wrapped at
Taehyung’s collar.

“Oh god, what did you do?” he murmured.

Taehyung blinked, grunting as he tried to regain his bearings. But then another ghoul appeared over
Jimin’s shoulder and he lost his shit. His hand flew up to shove his boyfriend off, but Jimin’s fist
connected with his face first.

He was out like a light.

“Didn’t know I looked that scary,” Ahmeti muttered, crouched down to peer over Jimin’s
shoulder. “Fucking dickhead shot me.” He still had the arrow embedded in his shoulder, and he
was keeping it there. It was the only thing keeping the blood from the wound staunched.

“Chrollo?” Jimin said breathlessly, shaking his hand out. Striking Taehyung hard enough to make
him faint, even when drug-addled and hallucinating, was harder than it should have been.

“Shot in the leg. He’ll be fine. I got two of the guys to take him back up to the house.”

“Help me with him.” Jimin tried not to look over at the tiger as he pulled Taehyung up and forward
until his head was in his lap. It felt like a sucker punch to the gut when he realised she was dead.
He’d woken that morning to find the bed empty and knew exactly what Taehyung had done. It was
instinctive at this point to just know. “You need to get that seen to,” he told Ahmeti once they
managed to get Taehyung back up to the house and into his bed. “Lee!” A man hurried inside
seconds after Jimin’s call. “Have someone brought in to clean out the tiger enclosure.”

“What do I do with the tiger, boss?”

There was a moment of silent surprise that flickered through Jimin. Just like the ten individual
times prior it had happened. Taehyung’s personal henchmen were starting to call Jimin ‘boss’, and
with more frequency. He ignored the thrill that rushed through him every time and answered, “If
you know how to skin animals, feel free. If not, find someone who can.”

“You gonna make a tiger rug?” Ahmeti snorted. “Very colonial of you.”

“It’s not fair how she died. I don’t want her to just rot in the ground and let the maggots devour her.
She deserves to have some part of her remembered,” Jimin muttered.

“And what about – “ Ahmeti grunted, as he tugged out the arrow. It hadn’t gotten through his
shoulder, partly due to the thickness of his coat blunting the force and speed. “ – this one?” He
signalled down at Taehyung.

“Let him sleep it off,” Jimin answered, throwing the bedsheets over his sprawled figure. “He’s
going to need his energy later.”

Taehyung woke several hours later. The punch had worked to take him out. But the silence in the
room meant when he stirred awake, he rolled over and fell back into welcome nothingness. When
his eyes finally fluttered open, he reached for his phone, assuming to see the 3rd emblazoned across
it. It was the date he remembered, though he couldn’t remember checking. He couldn’t remember
the last time he’d done much of anything.
It wasn’t the 3 rd, it was the 28 th.

And to his horror, Taehyung couldn’t remember any single day of this month that had gone by.
Waking up in the cave next to Rani’s dead body was his last recollection, a rushing, chaotic blur.
He stopped, struggling to pull memories from his mind. What had Jimin been doing? Had he even
been around? For twenty-five fucking days –

It didn’t matter how strong the drug trip was, surely, he couldn’t have blacked out an entire month.

Taehyung stumbled to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Just as he stepped back to kick
it down, a piece of paper slid under it. He snatched it up and recognised Jimin’s handwriting.

There is a man on the other side of the door, fully armed. I’ve instructed him to shoot you in the
leg if you break the door down. Shower. Get dressed. And when you’re done, knock three times.
He’ll open it.

p.s. Act like a fucking child, get treated like one.

Taehyung felt his ears burn, rage searing his skin as he tore the note up. His hands curled into fists
and he snarled under his breath. He could see the moving shadow of someone outside. Since when
were his men taking orders from that son of a bitch? In that moment, Jimin wasn’t the love of his
life. He was a nuisance, a fucking pest standing between Taehyung and blissful obliviousness. He
was standing between him and the heroin.

Make the twenty-five days fifty.

He shattered everything on the way to the en-suite. Furniture went flying. Most of it through the
broken window. The man outside the door stood firm. Impressive. He didn’t know how the
nightingale had managed to use these twenty-five days to be able to command his men, but he had
done it well. Not a single peep came from outside. Taehyung climbed on the ledge and peered
down.

Looking directly up at him, snipers trained on his head, were two men. They said nothing.
Smacked gum, and hid behind shades, perfectly cool. Taehyung hissed and moved. He froze when
he saw their fingers squeeze. The pull of the trigger to the right sent a warning bullet into the wall
beside his head. He was a caged animal and they were tasked with keeping him in until he learned
to play nice. The sudden vivid image of grabbing Jimin’s pretty head and bashing it into the
concrete over and over helped Taehyung to work out some of his anger. He calmed down enough
to get off the ledge and clambered back into the room. He did as the note asked, scrubbed up well,
combed his hair, ignored the trembling of his fingers. Withdrawal was going to be a bitch the
second time round. His hair was now past his shoulders, tangled and knotted with dirt and blood.
He washed it out, gingerly scrubbing around the claw marks on his chest which weren’t serious
enough to need bandaging. They started to bleed again once he was out of the shower though, and
he spent a while cleaning the wounds up.

In his absence, someone had entered the bedroom and left a suit, deep grey and freshly pressed.
Standing beside it was a young girl, looking as if she were scared out of her mind. She had a chair
prepared, a black cloth in hands and hairdressing tools laid out on the table. When she saw him, she
bowed low and murmured, “Sajangnim ordered that I cut your hair, sir.”

“The what now?” Taehyung snorted. She looked too afraid to repeat herself and he did it for her.
“Sajangnim.” He spat on the ground, and then lurched to sit in the chair. She worked quickly,
despite the tremors in her fingers. Snip, snip, snip. His hair fell to the ground, fringe diminished
until he could actually see clearly without having to constantly push it back. She smoothed the hair
back off his forehead, spraying it in place and then proceeded to start clearing up the mess.
Taehyung didn’t care she was in the room. He removed the towel around his waist and started
getting dressed. He knew she was eyeing him – whether it was for the tattoos, the claw marks, or
the physique, it was unclear – and dressed slower. That drop of showmanship never left him, the
urge to spread his feathers like a peacock and prove his power over other human beings simply by
existing. At some point though, she stopped stealing glances and left, in as much a hurry as she was
when she cut his hair. No amount of attraction could trump fear.

Taehyung stopped the door from fully closing behind her and opened it wider to see a gun aimed at
his leg. “I’m dressed and washed, and my hair’s been fucking cut,” he snapped. “What more do
you want?”

The man didn’t answer. Taehyung didn’t recognise his face. He was a new one. He turned to nod
at someone and then stepped back, indicating Taehyung could come out. He accompanied him
downstairs.

The condo appeared abandoned. Not a single sound could be heard throughout, and as the sky
darkened, this was unusual. Taehyung had initiated an open-door policy and it had become a
gathering place for Geomjeong-pa higher ups. Not a single evening was it quiet like this. But there
were no cars outside, and no men standing around. Nothing but silence.

Dinner was laid out for him in the dining room and after eating alone, he was told a car was
waiting outside. He didn’t bother asking where he was being taken. It seemed a moot point.
He sat in the back, a deadened shell, and stared blankly out at the blinding blur of lights. Seoul was
still unfamiliar to him. He missed the crisp sea-salt air of Busan and the fresher tang of Daegu.
Seoul’s polluted air was nasty. The feeling of homesickness came from apathy. He knew this.
Though there was no obvious sign that he wasn’t still the man at the head of Korea’s most
powerful syndicate, he knew when he was powerless. But it was the not knowing that was more
torturous. Twenty-five days of blank. Jimin. Choi Min Soo. Ahmeti. Jeon Jungkook. Kim Seokjin.
Kim Namjoon. Madame Go. Lisa. Names dangled before his eyes, trailed by many others, all left
hanging. All enemies in some way or another. And twenty-five days had passed with Taehyung
knowing little to nothing about what had changed regarding each. In an institution like Geomjeong-
pa, time ran faster due to the unpredictable setting. A whole lot could have happened.

Taehyung sat up as he recognised the district. Yongsan-gu. The alleys got more and more familiar
until finally, he was sitting stick straight, staring out the window. The last time he’d been down this
particular street, he was still Mother’s enforcer, and had ended the night covered in blood, being
hauled out of a dog fighting pit. The building was packed on the outside with parked cars, most
black, and men dressed in the same colour, earpieces drowning under collars and shaved heads
glinting in the light of the street lamps. It looked like there was something going on inside. This
amount of activity usually revolved around a kingpin’s personal invite. And yet the kingpin of
Geomjeong-pa was sitting in the back of a sedan like some sort of prisoner of war.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked the driver. The man did not answer, instead getting out and
opening the door for him. The man Jimin had left to watch over him did not bother to reply either,
instead indicating he go towards a back exit into the club.

Taehyung moved as if in a dream. He saw familiar faces shimmer past, including Madame Go. She
sat perched in her bodyguard’s lap, a preening butterfly, fluttering her fan before her face and
tittering when her minions made simpering jokes. Upon seeing Taehyung, she let out a vivacious
cackle, and called, “Well, look who it is! The Butcher, ladies and gentlemen!” All around her,
people clapped and laughed, the mockery ringing in his ears like poison. Taehyung made to move
towards her – possibly to snap her scrawny, wrinkled neck, he wasn’t sure – but his guard prodded
him with the gun and forced him to walk straight ahead.

He saw plenty faces he recognised inside the dark, smoky depths of the many corridors that wound
around the main room of the fight club. Writhing, half-naked girls, thugs smoking and jeering,
drinking and snorting things up their nostrils. It was all characteristic of a Geomjeong-pa party. He
questioned why he couldn’t see the ones who lurked around Choi Minsoo’s private circle, or indeed
the man himself. Before he could consider the meaning of his absence, he was distracted by the
raucous noise from inside. Chanting cheers. There was a fight going on. And by the lack of
barking, the fight was between men, not dogs.

A strain of guitar chords blasted through the speakers, the music changing from Nas to Roxette.
An odd contrast.
I know there’s something in the wake of your smile

I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yea ~

“What the fuck is this?” Taehyung muttered, as he looked down to see his guard shove a hammer
into one hand, and a machete in his other. He recognised the latter’s sleek ebony blade. It was a
combat weapon, the kukri 1280, and he’d used it on the night of The Red Trauma. The minute he
felt his fingers wrap around the firm hilt, he had the urge to swing it. It was instinctual at this point.
There was no reason to, not that he could see. It didn’t strike him immediately anyway. But when it
did, he laughed, incredulous, turning to stare at his overseer. “You’re kidding me.”

He got no answer. Simply an outstretched hand holding a phone. The numbers were ticking
upwards to indicate an open call. Taehyung snatched it and put it to his ear, barking, “What?” His
face sank when he heard Jimin’s soft voice on the other end.

“Don’t die, Taehyung,” he said.

“What?”

“This is necessary. I told you I’d help you get off the dope if you co-operated, but you didn’t. Now
everything’s gone to hell. Every single man under this roof would jump at the chance to kill you
where you stand. Prove you’re still the Butcher they once feared, or your body will be at the
bottom of the Han river come morning. So, don’t d– “ he paused, and even through the noise
around him Taehyung heard his voice crack. “Kill them all, Taehyung.”

“Kill who, motherfucker?” Taehyung snarled. His anger was still primely riveted on Jimin due to
the forced actions he had been undertaking all morning. But before he could grill him further, the
other line went dead. He let out a curse and threw the phone. It shattered against the wall, the
machete clinking against the hammer in his hand. Somewhere in the main room, an announcer was
introducing the fight of the night. He heard ‘the Butcher’ and then a rising crescendo of booing that
followed.

Twenty-five days. What the fuck had happened in twenty-five days?

There were two separate entrances into the pit, though there was the more popular option of being
thrown in and climbing out. Taehyung could smell the sweat on the air, soaked with a tang of
metallic. Blood had already been shed tonight, no doubt just a warm up for the main event. There
was something beyond anxiety worrying his gut. It was concern for Jimin. As much as his anger
was far greater, something told him that Jimin had been pushed to this by a third party. Had a coup
d’état taken place, they wouldn’t have been in that condo. They’d be six feet underground already.
Whatever had happened as Taehyung spent his days in a drug-induced haze in his room, was
peaking tonight. As the roar of the crowd got louder, he knew it would be heard throughout the
entire neighbourhood. The police wouldn’t dare try to intercept. With a gathering like this,
everyone armed to the teeth, it was asking for the sort of trouble the Yongsan police had learned to
avoid.

Taehyung took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs and cricked his neck. At the end of the short
corridor, was the mesh door that led into the pit. He could see a guy covered in tattoos, shirtless,
built and six feet tall. He was swearing up at the crowd, pacing like a raging bull. Yakuza. So, it
was a gladiator game and Taehyung was the beast being set upon the prisoners of war. Made
sense. Except kill them all rang in his ears. How many were there? He was suffering withdrawal
symptoms and he wasn’t in his right mind. How many could he realistically kill before he
stumbled, and his own machete was rammed into his face?

There was no time for such questions.

He felt the push to his back, and inside the corridor he went. The door slid shut behind him, lock
clicking in place. Taehyung dropped the hammer and hit his fist against his head. Drugs would
have been nice right about now. He hit his face over and over until the pain kicked his entire
nervous system into overdrive. A scream tore from his mouth, drowned in the scream of the crowd
and the music. The Yakuza was at the other side of the mesh door, kicking it, hollering something
about in Japanese about Taehyung’s mother being a whore.

Taehyung let him see the machete in his left hand. The door swung upwards and the crowd went
wild. The man charged. Taehyung’s machete arm flew up in defence, as the other pulled back. His
opponent didn’t see it coming. The claw end of the hammer was in his gut before he could lay
hands on him. Taehyung swiped his other arm and the machete cut nearly clean through his neck.
His head wobbled, eyes full of rage, unaware of the brutal assault. It happened so quickly.
Taehyung head butted him and the man’s head toppled until it was only attached by a few meaty
strings of muscle, blood spraying out like a geyser. He fell backwards and Taehyung lay into him
with the hammer. He didn’t stop until he saw the pale pink of his guts thrashing in the pool of his
blood. Digging his hands into the man’s hair, he wrenched his head clean off, severing the last
cluster of flesh still keeping it attached. He turned and threw it into the pit, where above, the crowd
was getting impatient. When they saw the head roll, a cheer went up.

But the minute Taehyung walked in after it, the booing cascaded. It was hard to tell who they hated
more. Him, or the enemies they would be feeding to him, like mice to a snake.

He stood there, dead centre in the spotlight, hand over his eyes, trying to spot familiar faces. They
were like hyenas, drooling for entertainment. He was the caged tiger, baited until he snapped.
Around and around he turned, waiting to see that familiar face. He couldn’t see Choi Minsoo at all.
At an event this large, he would have been forefront and centre, flanked by jeering henchmen. That
was troubling.

A loud slur to his upper right made Taehyung flinch. There were a bunch. He recognised them as
Madame Go’s lackeys. The bigger one was making explicit gestures. They weren’t hard to
decipher. Something about getting Taehyung bent over and fucking him from behind. He spat, and
the ball of liquid landed by Taehyung’s feet, speckled with pieces of chewed cigar. Taehyung
kicked the dirt over it, before turning his eyes back up.

Clear shot.

He turned on the spot, wielding the hammer like a shot put. He let go and it zipped through the air
–

Straight into the offender’s forehead.

He was still grinning, enjoying the laughs he was giving the crowd. The noise fell a little. His
smile faded a tad. None of his had the presence of mind friends to grab him as he toppled forward
over the railing. He crashed down the sides of the pit and onto the ground at Taehyung’s feet. He
bent down and dug the hammer out. Glancing up once, he grinned at the others and pulled his cock
from his trousers. Chaos broke out, but Taehyung’s maintained a steady stream of piss, not
stopping until he’d fully relieved himself on the dead man’s face. It didn’t matter how many men
he killed. They heard the rumours and devolved to only one insult. If only they knew how it got
under his skin.

He buckled up his trousers as the horn sounded for another “competitor.”

Most of the crowd was still vehemently expressing its hatred for him. But the rest were starting up
a cheer. Didn’t take much to please the masses. A hammer in the head. Ruptured intestines. A
decapitated skull. Not much at all.

The gate swung up again.

This new contender was armed. With fucking nunchucks. It seemed there was a conscious game
being played. Each one would have a bigger weapon. The last would probably have a machine gun.
Taehyung burst out laughing upon watching the man square up. He recognised the tattoos. The
man was Chinese, and a Triad member by the looks of it. They’d sent him fucking Bruce Lee.
He was good with the dancing bits of wood. But Taehyung himself was never one for the elegant
martial arts. No decorative flying kicks unless he was wearing metal spiked boots and half his
victim’s jaw would tear off when they connected. Krav Maga was his game. Ugly. Underhanded.
Brutal.

He charged the Triad member. The other chose to go for a roundhouse kick. He timed it well. It
would have sent Taehyung’s head snapping with a sharp crack. If only he hadn’t been faking. His
knees hit the ground two seconds before the man’s foot swung through the air where his face had
been. The machete lashed out. Taehyung kept skidding, the splatter of fresh blood dripping down
his face. He crashed into the side of the pit, leaping back onto his feet. His opponent tottered.
Taehyung bent down, peering to see where the machete had hit. “I hit your dick. Sorry bro,” he
said, pulling his head back as the man sank to his knees. Taehyung kept his hold strong and pushed
him forward until his forehead was touching the ground. And then he hacked. Over and over,
hitting the knobs in the top half of his spine. Head number three. He retrieved the one in the
corridor and with a hearty swipe of the machete, took the one of the man he’d pissed on. Arranging
them neatly into a pile on the far side of the pit, he turned to survey the crowd.

Ahmeti was at the northern end of the pit, leaning against the railing and chewing on an apple.
That didn’t seem out of place at all. Or perhaps that was because it was Ahmeti. Jimin, Taehyung
mouthed at him. The Albanian kept chewing, face blank.

The horn sounded again, and Taehyung saw red.

There were two next, both Korean, both armed with knives. Taehyung had no intention of getting
stabbed. They had no intention of getting their heads lopped off. They fought well. Or maybe it
was the illusion of good fighting since there were two of them and Taehyung had to summon more
agility just to stay on his feet. But a minute in, and one was put out of commission by the dull edge
of the hammer to his sciatica disk, and the machete jammed into his open mouth, the corners sliced
through. Taehyung drove him back against the wall, as the man shrieked, blood gurgling from his
cheeks when the blade pushed deeper. Sweat blossomed on Taehyung’s face as he drove it
forward, through skin, muscle and bone. He stopped when it was clear the guy was dead. He
returned to the other, flipping him over and ignoring the pained convulsion he suffered as his
shattered back hit the floor. Glancing up at Ahmeti, Taehyung chopped of the man’s baby fingers,
one after the other. He put the pointy end into each of his ears before throttling him. His face
turned red, then purple, then blue. And then the little fingers popped out from the pressure and his
eyes bulged. He went limp.

Another roar of approval went up. Ahmeti was laughing and applauding. It was one of his own
methods of killing he’d mentioned to Taehyung, and he looked flattered he’d even remembered. He
signalled to the right, mouthing Jimin. Taehyung turned.
At first, he thought he was hallucinating. Another psychotic break perhaps. But the ringing in the
ears and the multiple disembodied voices were quiet. And yet how else could what he was seeing
be real?

The crowd parted like the Red Sea before him. As if nothing had ever changed. As if Taehyung
hadn’t shed blood, sweat and tears to overthrow his rule.

Kim Seokjin stood tall, holding up a glass of wine in salute. He was saying something to the people
to which he got an uproarious response. But Taehyung didn’t hear it. He was shaking. The only
remnants of Mother were in the jewels Seokjin wore in his ears and the flamboyant violet colour of
his suit. He took a sip from the glass after hollering konbae and everyone in the vicinity with a
drink followed his lead. When he lowered it, he beamed down at Taehyung.

Taehyung pulled his arm back, hammer gripped tight, ready to blow his brains out –

He was mere seconds from letting it go, already itching to lay into Seokjin when he fell into the
pit. It was a close one. But he was distracted. A deep red suit appeared beside Seokjin, face in
shadow as he said something to Ahmeti who was now behind him. He turned and unlike Seokjin,
there was no smile on his face. He must have seen the betrayal that washed over Taehyung’s
expression because his brow furrowed.

The horn sounded and still Taehyung didn’t move.

Jimin was gestured behind him, eyes getting larger with panic. But they twisted with anger the
longer Taehyung refused to move. His mind was blank. He heard the footsteps behind him,
running. Jimin’s arm lashed out like a coiled snake, and a gun appeared in his hand. He didn’t even
blink when he fired. A groan rippled through the crowd, and as one, a bunch of men began yelling
slurs in Jimin’s direction. Drunk, no doubt. They wouldn’t have dared otherwise. Taehyung looked
over his shoulder to see the man he would have fought, dead on the ground with a smoking bullet
hole in his forehead. He had a length of chain looped around his fists. Up above, Jimin was yelling
back at his attackers, until it was an all-out shouting match and guns were drawn. Ahmeti solved it,
by sneaking up behind the two loudest and crashing their heads together. They dropped, with their
guns, straight into the pit.

A hush fell.

Taehyung finally tore his eyes away from Jimin’s face. He disarmed the two unconscious men and
sat beside them, a gun in each hand. The horn sounded again, and the door lifted. Dogs. The fight
outside the pit was starting to devolve into chaos. It was almost quieter inside it. Both of the
animals were pit bulls, muzzles freshly taken off, foam flying from their jaws. They snapped at
each other, but since there were other distractions, they ran to them. First, to the pile of heads,
licking at the blood. And then, over to the unconscious pair. One of the pit bulls began to chew on
the first man’s leg. The other wandered up to Taehyung.

It barked. Hard. Right up in his face, drool and blood flying. Over and over. The aggression would
have been clear to see had his entire body not been quivering. The dog was terrified. He had been
kicked and abused all his life and now all he could do was gnash at strangers, never trusting that
one would be kind. Kill them all, or they’ll kill you. Taehyung didn’t move. He stared it right in the
eye. His hand came up, clicking the safety off his gun, and pressed the barrel under the dog’s jaw.
He knew it would understand the feeling. It had probably been bred and raised in the mafia. The
power of guns would be well understood.

It was. Its ears flew back, and its eyes almost popped from its skull in fear. Taehyung held the gun
still until it stopped barking and just stood there, trembling. With his other hand, he reached to pet
it between its ears. He would have lost his entire arm if the gun wasn’t keeping the animal in its
place. Slowly, with each stroke of his fingers, the dog began to relax. Taehyung removed the gun
and it sank onto its paws immediately, whining under its breath. It was covered in scars, castrated,
its tail hacked off, and it had a limp. The other one looked younger and fitter and there appeared to
be some relation. Father and son.

Ahmeti had knocked the heads of the two men together so hard they weren’t even waking up to a
pit bull mauling them. Taehyung clicked his tongue and summoned the other dog. It was as testy as
its father but slowly, it approached. It sniffed at Taehyung’s face, its first instinct to bite. But a
stern Down, boy had him shrinking back.

The horn didn’t sound again. Taehyung was too well-armed, there was no point. Guns, pit bulls, a
hammer, a machete, chains and knives. Up above, the people who had placed their bets in his
favour were celebrating. There were a lot. Had he been maimed, they wouldn’t have let him come
out of the pit. He would have been put down right there, as revenge for losing them their money.
And if he’d been killed, all would have taken turns to piss on his corpse before throwing it in the
river. Fickle. Chaotic. Uncontrolled. This was Geomjeong-pa. It needed order to rule it, cold, hard
logic. Taehyung had none of these things. He could threaten fighting pit bulls into silence, but he
couldn’t do the same to the human hordes that if left to their own devices, could set this city on
fire.

Yoongi had said as much about Yong Geondal.

Why do I never listen? Why the fuck don’t I listen? Taehyung closed his eyes, fighting back tears.
On either side of him, the dogs were nuzzling at his face. They stank, of blood, sweat and shit. But
their affection was sincere, and he let them press up to him. It wasn’t helping with the urge to cry.
He missed Hoseok in that moment. He always missed Hoseok when hit with another betrayal,
another kick to the gut, another setback. Hoseok was the only pure thing left in his heart - he
believed this with all his might. Perhaps he felt that way because he was dead and could never hurt
Taehyung with anything but his absence. He knew it would be dangerous to cry in the pit, under
the bright lights, with everyone watching. Lucky for him, the dogs licked each tear as it fell, until it
just looked like they were trying to show him affection. He sat there, nose red, eyes redder,
expression blank. He refused to look up at Jimin. He was the only one who would know Taehyung
was crying just by looking at him.

The lights went down and finally, the door opened to signal he could return. The dogs went with
him, glued to his side and snapping at anyone who approached too close. Ahmeti was the only one
brave enough to actually enter the make shift cloak room built under the main room, left of the pit.
The fluorescent lighting made him look sicklier, his eyes hollower, but his grin was full of life.

“Knew you’d survive that,” he grinned, clapping him on the back. “Even though, you’re a little shit
and almost killed me earlier today.” He pointed to his bandaged-up shoulder.

“Your Korean got better,” Taehyung grunted, sitting down and unbuttoning his shirt.

“Sure did.” Ahmeti reached into his pockets and produced a packet of biscuits which he proceeded
to tempt the dogs with. They had tags around their necks, but they weren’t inscribed with names.
They were built-in tasers for an actual dog fight. It was how to get a father and son to fight -
forcing the anger into both their systems. They left Taehyung’s side, inspecting the biscuits Ahmeti
presented.

“So, what changed?” Taehyung said.

Ahmeti eyed him sharply, and then gave a grunt of a laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

“I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Fair enough. Choi Minsoo took his slice of the pie and ran with it. Yongsan-gu is now largely his.
He took a good chunk of the men working for you and stole a lot of your business too. For about a
week after, shit was hanging by a thread. And then we received a gift in the mail. A torn off ballsac
and a note signed Mother.”
Taehyung closed his eyes and shook his head.

“He sent a video. Yeong Gil Ho owned the ball-sac apparently. Put his nuts in a woodwork vice
and tightened the screws until they literally – popped right out.” Ahmeti made obscene gestures
with his hand. He and Taehyung shuddered simultaneously, closing their legs. “Second bit was
funnier. Fucked him in the ass with an electrocution wand. He screamed like a pig being
slaughtered. Did not know the man they called Mother had it in him. But he had everything
covered in plastic sheets. Knew what he was doing – “

“What did Yeong Gil Ho do to warrant that?”

“Nothing. Kim Seokjin wanted to be the Gangnam-gu boss and get back in. He must have heard
about Choi Minsoo and you being doped out of your mind. Guess he pressured Jimin into handing
control of Gangnam to him. See, when they say ‘kids don’t do drugs’, these are the consequences
written in fine print. You fucked up when you went on your little drug binge. Your bodyguard, that
big trunk of a man, Wonho – vanished off the face of the earth. Jimin’s got men hunting him
down. Thinks he got you hooked on the heroin on purpose.”

Taehyung glanced into the mirror attached to the wall to his right. He looked insane. Every last
inch of the skin on his face was stained crimson, eyes shining bright through it. His hands and
clothes were no better. He rubbed his hand through his sticky hair, ruffling it until it stuck out in all
directions.

“Yeah, so I fucked up. Hardly news,” he said.

“Your punishment will be that withdrawal period. I don’t envy you,” Ahmeti answered, standing
up as he did. “Oh, and one more thing you might like to know – you were voted out as kingpin.
The five district bosses unanimously voted for a change of leadership.”

Taehyung knew who, before he even asked. There was only one logical reason he still woke up in
that condo, if he had truly been deposed as the head of Geomjeong-pa. But rather than answer,
Ahmeti just smiled wryly and said, “Have fun reuniting with your boyfriend. I think you two will
have a lot to talk about.”
“Chrollo…”

His dog shrank from his touch, and Taehyung’s heart shattered.

It was only at first. They weren’t called man’s best friend for no reason. The closer Taehyung’s
hand came, Chrollo eyed him with those large golden eyes, whining and whimpering, terrified. But
he wouldn’t recoil any further. It was as if he knew to be obedient, the two contradictions tearing at
him. He put his head on his paws and continued to whimper when Taehyung’s hand stroked
between his ears, until finally, he stopped shaking. Not even when his master put his head against
his side did he make another sound or try to get away. He could probably smell the blood on him,
but he didn’t turn to lick him clean.

Jimin was still at the fight club. The condo was quiet. Taehyung wanted to take a shower, get rid of
the stickiness clinging to his skin. But he was sick to his stomach thinking of what he had done to
Chrollo. He sat with the dog till he fell asleep, his eyes drifting closed, wet nose snuffling into his
paws. He was so big now, but he was still only a baby at ten months. Getting shot in the leg by his
own owner – he hadn’t deserved that. Taehyung made a mental note to spend the next month
lavishing him with all the food, cuddles and walks he wanted to go on. It was the least he could do.

There was no processing the night’s events.

So, he did not try. He let his mind go blank in the shower, a blank drone, nothing more. He felt
free. The sort of freedom he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. The way he’d felt when he was with
Yoongi. A weight was lifted from his shoulders. You were never meant to sit on the throne. You’re
the shadow behind it. The thought came unbidden to his mind, and it settled in the crevices,
making a home for itself. It made sense.

Stepping out of the shower, he checked his reflection. He was starting to look like his old self, with
the tattoo on his neck almost looking brand new. Maybe the blood had done something to make it
gleam so bright. He slipped on a pair of slacks and a shirt and then walked out of the bathroom,
looking back to close the door behind him.
“You took your sweet time.”

Taehyung’s head snapped around.

There he stood, in his red silk suit, pristine from head to foot. The garnet ring on his finger glinted
as he swept his hand through his hair, wet tongue slipping out to slick over his plush lips. In his
hand were the opera glasses he’d been using to watch the fights in the dog pit. He looked like a
posh prick. The types Taehyung loathed with all his might growing up because they always seemed
to have more than him, and yet still, treated their privilege as if it were nothing. It was the first time
he looked into the eyes of the man he fell in love with and saw a stranger.

Not for long.

Jimin’s jugular vein still throbbed when Taehyung’s fingers pressed into it. He still choked the
same. Eyes wide, lips curving into a half-smile as if daring Taehyung to go further. He let out a
broken gasp, squirming as if it were giving him pleasure and not pain. Taehyung pressed harder
until Jimin’s face started to turn purple. Only then did he let go. The younger let out a muffled cry
of relief as they both grabbed for each other at the same time.

“Should have throttled me –

“Fuck you – “

“Ahmeti told me what happened. I wouldn’t have been put down there if you hadn’t approved it –
“

“But you looked hot – “ Jimin’s words devolved into a giggle, hands grabbing the sides of his head
to pull him closer. “You didn’t die, just like I knew you wouldn’t – “

“What deal did you make with him, huh? How’d you get Kim Seokjin to vote you in?” Taehyung’s
fingers dug into his cheeks. But nothing he could do or say was bringing fear into Jimin’s eyes.
And as fucked up as it was, that irritated him. Fear was the only way Taehyung knew how to
control people, and Jimin was proving to be uncontrollable. Right now, when Taehyung had little
idea of where he stood, that was dangerous.

“I gave him Gangnam-gu,” Jimin said, sweet as cherry pie and breathless, whether from arousal or
pain it was hard to tell. “He sent me Yeong Gil Ho’s balls in a padded envelope and I did the only
logical thing. Makes sense to bring back an OG when because of your failure, Choi Minsoo
threatened to bring this entire thing crashing down. Do you know where you were the night Choi
tried to lay siege to this place? You were high off your rocker on the roof, chained to the bench
because I couldn’t trust you not to jump off the balcony.”

“He did what?”

Jimin turned his head sharply to release himself of Taehyung’s hand. “Exactly. The pit was the
least you deserved. You’re lucky I lo – “ he stopped. Love was a hefty word, unbefitting the
circumstance. “You’re lucky I think you’re hot,” was what he settled with. He scratched his
fingernails down the sides of Taehyung’s neck, biting into his lip. “You looked hot down there. It’s
different watching you go crazy when there’s no danger to my own life. It’s like art.”

Taehyung didn’t move. Jimin licked the corners of his mouth and slipped out of his shoes. He
reached into his breast pocket and removed one pill bottle after another, dropping them into his
palms. “Take your medication. You’ve got a rough month of withdrawal ahead of you. But I’ll let
you fuck me to take off the edge, promise.” He stuck out his tongue, eyes glittering with mischief.
Taehyung just stared at him, slightly disgusted at his lackadaisical mood. It was as if he were
possessed by a spirit who was opposite to him in every way. Or perhaps, Jimin in power was the
spirit, the flip side of the same coin. And Taehyung’s introduction to this side of him was
christened with blood and bone and flesh.

He turned away, medication clutched in his hand. Jimin’s face fell as Taehyung sat down on the
bed, obediently going through the bottles, one by one, downing the pills with a glass of water from
the jug on the nightstand. He walked forward, kneeling by Taehyung’s legs and wrapping his arms
around his calf. Taehyung ignored him, even when Jimin pressed his cheek to his knee and blinked
up, waiting for him to pay attention. He screwed on the last cap and wiped his mouth, his upper
half falling back onto the bed. Only then did he nudge his leg out of Jimin’s grip.

“Taehyung – “

“Leave me alone.”

“Taehyung, please.” Jimin leaned up to crawl onto the bed between his spread knees. He got
nothing. The other continued to lie there, eyes glassy and blank as they stared up at the ceiling. Not
even when Jimin’s small hands cupped his face, bee-stung lips pressing to his cheek, did he move.
“What do you want, hm? You can do whatever you want to me. Tell me how to make it better.”
Jimin could hardly believe how aroused he himself was. He hadn’t returned to the condo with the
intention of climbing into Taehyung’s bed, but here he was, practically begging. He dropped kisses
all over his face, mumbling sweet nothings under his breath, trying to stir Taehyung. And yet he
was the one who ended up with a semi-erection and a pinkened face, hair bed-ruffled as crouched
face-level with the other. “Do you want me on my knees? Do you want me to beg? Call you sir?
Master? Daddy? Bend over and – “

He let out a yelp as Taehyung’s hand snapped around his throat. The shock was quickly replaced
by excitement as the older flipped him onto his back. He fell like a rag doll. Jimin had little self-
control when it came to sex with this man. He didn’t care about being emotionally guarded, with
all the barriers up. He wanted to be ruined. And by the nasty glint in Taehyung’s eye, it was
exactly where he was headed.

“God, you hate me don’t you?” Jimin couldn’t help laughing, wincing as the hand around his
throat tightened. “You don’t even have much to hate me for yet – “

Slap.

The moment Taehyung’s hand connected with his face, it left his head ringing. But it didn’t deter
Jimin. He blinked away the stars, bending and spreading his knees, inviting Taehyung between
them. “Hit me again,” he said. But because that was what he wanted, Taehyung didn’t. The hand
on the neck was a different matter. He choked him, with just the one, until Jimin’s eyes started to
roll into the back of his head, high-pitched sounds escaping in his struggle to breathe. Taehyung let
go and he gulped in air as if he were dying. Jimin coughed, limbs still weak, but managed to
wriggle out of his trousers as Taehyung knelt over him and watched. He spat on his palm, sliding
his hand into his boxers.

“Weren’t you proud of me, Daddy?” Jimin whispered. Might as well choose the term of address
since Taehyung didn’t seem up to it. His hand rummaged around between his legs, his cock hot to
the touch, and getting harder by the second. He lost track of his thoughts, too busy pleasuring
himself, but peeking up at Taehyung’s stone-cold face made him slow down. With a seductive lilt
to his voice, Jimin repeated: “You know…the first kill, is like the first orgasm…your heart pounds
in your ears…your fingers are wet…your brain’s reward system goes haywire…and you can’t
shake the feeling you’ve done something very – very – wrong – “ this last word was muffled into
the sheets as he squeezed his cock tighter. His eyes were dewy as he raised them again. “I
remembered every last word. It felt like my first kill tonight, even though it wasn’t. When I shot
that man to save your skin…it felt good. Aren’t you proud of me?”

The sentence punctuated with a slap. This time, Jimin didn’t make a sound. He forced the pain to
convert to pleasure and behind his eyelids in the welcome black, it did. He opened them, only to
suck on his bottom lip with a petulant pout. “We haven’t had sex in almost a month. I need you so
bad, at this point I’ll let you do anything. Just say something,” he pleaded.

Something stirred inside Taehyung, faced by that forlorn expression. When he leaned down, Jimin
reached up with a smile. But Taehyung’s hands went around his wrists like a vice, slamming them
down to the bed. The heat of his skin rolled off against Jimin’s, breath cooling the places it
scorched. The younger struggled not to push his hips upward.

“Do you love me?” Taehyung whispered.

“So much,” was the unhesitant answer.

“We’ll test that tonight.”

“I love you. You won’t ever change that.”

It looked as if he was determined to. Jimin saw the haunted expression in his eyes, and for a
moment, regretted sending him into that pit. Only for a moment. Taehyung gave it good. Time he
learned how to take it.

“Slick-talker,” Taehyung hissed.

“Love of my life,” Jimin smirked, before the other’s long fingers pushed into his mouth, cramming
it shut. He gagged, twitching in discomfort, but his eyes almost popped from his skull when
Taehyung’s other hand pinched his nose shut. He wasn’t prepared so he hadn’t drawn breath. The
older held both his orifices shut until Jimin started to convulse. He let go and the smaller boy
retched.

“Say it again,” Taehyung said.

Jimin couldn’t. His voice was gone. In the process of coughing, he’d swallowed spit down his
wind pipe and no sound came out when he tried to speak. That didn’t deter Taehyung. He
wrenched him down the bed, tearing off his clothes, not caring how hard his nails caught skin.
Jimin kept coughing, attempting to clear his windpipe and not doing very well. Thoroughly
reddened, hair mussed, he was pulled over Taehyung’s lap. He knew what was coming. His feet
dug into the bed and he mouthed fuck as Taehyung’s hand gripped the tip of his cock, where it lay
pressed between Jimin’s body and his knee. He let go just as it started to ooze pre-cum and the first
slap that landed on his ass, echoed. It wasn’t the first time he’d spanked Jimin. The younger knew
the power in those large hands. But he wasn’t aware that Taehyung might have held back in the
past. He felt that slap in his spine, kept from lurching forward by Taehyung’s hand in his hair.
“Oh god!” he gasped.

Taehyung landed another and Jimin squealed. Fingernails scratched at the bed sheets, body
writhing to get away from the pain. It was only instinct. But it seemed to enrage Taehyung further
and the slaps rained down hard until Jimin’s face was drenched in tears, and saliva pooled at his
lips as he attempted to hold back sobs. Taehyung slowed down after ten consecutive spanks.
Jimin’s cock was semi-erect and reddened by pressure, and all he could do was whine and squirm
as Taehyung’s hand smoothed over his buttocks.

“You’re the worst,” Taehyung murmured. And Jimin whispered back, “I know, Daddy.” Taehyung
hadn’t approved of the use of that word, but he rolled his eyes and ignored it. It seemed to fall
unbidden from Jimin’s mouth. When he was making a conscious effort to be naughty and
seductive, it showed. But he was half out of his mind, blinking away tears as his body lay limp
across Taehyung’s knees.

The older lifted him up, dropping him on the bed, ignoring Jimin’s cry of protest as his inflamed
skin met with the friction of the sheets underneath. With a slide of his foot, Taehyung opened the
drawer under the bed. It was chock full of sexual deviancy, things they had both collected between
them, testing them out on one another during long summer nights filled with wine, drugs and sex.
Well, it was January now and the frost was hard on the ground.

His belt still lay on the nightstand and with a quick swivel of his fingers, he had Jimin’s wrists
bound above his head. His pretty face was motionless as he watched Taehyung, eyes wide and full
of questions. Taehyung could never resist that look, of doe-eyed adoration. Ever since that night in
the sauna, Jimin had learned to trust him and that expression took over his face often. But he didn’t
want to look at it right now, even as from the corner of his eyes, he knew how hard he was biting
his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed.

Jimin sniffed, blinking away fresh tears as he watched Taehyung check the charge on the hitachi
wand in his hand. It induced a Pavlovian reaction from him the minute he heard the vibrations. His
cock was already twitching from semi to full erection and he had to resist the urge not to wriggle on
the bed. Better not to show too much anticipation. Taehyung hadn’t mentioned that this was
punishment, but there was anger in everything he’d done so far, from the bruising grip of his hands
to the spanking. Jimin wanted to bide the time and watch the anger leave him. It was too early to
let his guard down yet.

Taehyung pushed his legs back, until his ankles were by his ears, with a stern, “Don’t lower them.”
Jimin knew he’d fail at it the minute that wand started to vibrate. But he nodded, blinking rapidly.
It was already difficult not to moan when Taehyung’s hand touched his cock. His fingers slipped
around the base, wrapping a fleshlight case around it, the pink tip pooled with pre-cum. Jimin tried
to level his breathing. His thoughts were slipping away. All he could focus on was that thumb
brushing the underside of his cock, teasing it until it was so hard it was weighed down, resting
against his navel. At the first gentle touch of the magic wand, Jimin yelped, twisting to the side
and lowering his legs. Retribution was swift. Taehyung’s hand crashed down on his thigh, and the
pain overcame the pleasure.

“I-I-I’m sorry, Daddy!” Jimin cried, pulling his legs back up on his own now, hands fisting up.
“Slut,” was Taehyung’s vicious answer, spitting on the base of his cock. Jimin agreed without
hesitation, “Y-yes, I’m a slut, I’m your fucking slut – “

Taehyung waited until his quivering calmed, before turning the wand on and pushing it against the
flesh light. This time, he did it right under the frenulum. Whenever he licked that little knot of flesh
between his swollen glans, Jimin always came within seconds. Taehyung’s tongue was no joke.
But the wand had thrice its intensity and Jimin’s pink toes curled as he sealed his moans behind
clamped lips. Taehyung watched him, knowing just when he was about to come. Whenever he
released his bottom lip from the restraint of his teeth, it meant he was preparing to scream as his
orgasm hit him. He let it go and Taehyung pulled the wand away. Jimin’s “NO!” was loud enough
to warrant a heavy slap on his other thigh. He screwed his eyes shut and apologised again, lips
turning downwards into a sulky sob.

“You don’t deserve to come,” Taehyung told him, and he was silenced. Eyes wide, chest heaving,
he watched as Taehyung lowered the wand to his leaking, abused cock and put it to the plastic of
the fleshlight without turning it on. He was waiting for something. Jimin shook his head and said,
“I don’t, Daddy.” But when Taehyung put the vibrations back onto his cock, he was gasping and
panting for a climax, needier than ever. It came with an unwelcome surprise.

With his free hand, Taehyung smothered his nose and mouth. Jimin screamed against his palm,
suffocation and orgasmic throes sending his body into a panic. Taehyung removed the wand and
his hand at the same time, until edged and breathless, Jimin was half delirious against the wrinkled
bed sheets. He did it over and over until his cock was an angry red and his eyes were rolled so far
back into his head only the whites could be seen. And then his body went limp. He’d managed to
hold back an orgasm but the suffocation had lasted too long this time. His legs slackened, losing
their taut position by his ears as he passed out. Taehyung didn’t hesitate two seconds, snatching the
jug of water from the nightstand and crashing the contents into Jimin’s face.

He came to with a spluttering gasp, pulling away from the ice-cold shock. Taehyung grabbed him
before he could fall off the edge of the bed, keeping him pinned and his thighs apart. He slid across
the silk sheets and onto the floor beside Jimin’s hanging head, wiping the water from his eyes with
a deceptively tender touch. “That’s all it took to take you out?” he cooed, kissing his mouth with
filthy, wet kisses, tongue forcing itself between Jimin’s spit-soaked lips. He could only whimper in
response, still shivering from the slap of the cold water. To add insult to injury, Taehyung pulled at
his hair, yanking him further down the edge of the mattress until his mouth was forced to hang
open. He spat in it, jamming it shut and shoving him back onto the bed. Jimin’s reaction was
unchanged from the last time he’d done that. For the first time since they’d started, he showed true
anger, his restrained hands scratching at Taehyung’s wrists. Taehyung kept his mouth shut, both
hands pressed to the underside of his jaw and his chest against the top of his head.
“I thought you wanted to be a slut for me? Huh? Look at you – “ he growled, kissing all over his
closed mouth. When he finally let go, Jimin heaved in air, the sound melting into a whine as his
bound hands clutched ineffectually at Taehyung’s chest. His fingers brushed over the claw marks,
feeling them through the material of his shirt and he opened his lips wider. “I do,” he whispered
back, “Spit again. I’ll take it.” But Taehyung did no such thing. He kissed him instead, from the
same upside-down position, tearing at Jimin’s full lips with the hunger of a starved beast. He didn’t
stop until blood started to seep from the cuts his teeth created. Some of it smeared on Jimin’s chin
as he arched his whole body in an attempt to keep Taehyung’s mouth pressed to his.

Taehyung drew back and got rid of his own clothes, finally. His cock was hard against Jimin’s
damp cheek, the clear drool of pre-cum marking out pretty patterns on his skin. Jimin reached his
tongue out past the corner of his lips, hungry to lick it up. But he didn’t need to beg. Taehyung
shoved the entire length into his mouth and held it there, hands leaning on Jimin’s ribs. It pushed
so deep, he saw the outline marked against Jimin’s throat as he choked and swallowed. He pulled it
out, dripping with saliva, and Jimin’s moan of, “I want more,” enticed him to push it right back
inside. Jimin gagged on it willingly, even as he kicked his own legs from the discomfort of having
very little air left to inhale. Taehyung fucked his face with impunity, slapping his cheeks one after
the other, growling filth that had Jimin groaning in answer.

“Do you want it in your ass, you dirty little whore?” he hissed, thrusting into his throat and
moaning as he felt Jimin retch around it. “Y-yes, I want it – please, Daddy, I want it – “ Jimin
mumbled out. He was no longer ashamed of sounding like a mindless, worthless fucktoy. In that
moment, it was all he ever wanted in the world. Even in the face of his fury, he trusted Taehyung.
Fuck morality and fuck ethics. This was it.

Jimin’s begging took its toll eventually, because Taehyung pulled out and jumped onto the bed,
crawling over and landing on the floor on the other side. He grabbed his ankles and pulled him
down to join him there, undoing the belt around his hands and forcing him to bend his legs so far
back his ankles were behind his head. The lack of movement this new position afforded was
cathartic. All Jimin could do was tremble and wait for his lover to wreak havoc, just the way he
wanted, plaintive whines falling from his lips as Taehyung dribbled lube over his throbbing cock.
His asshole quivered, yearning for the weight of that delicious, engorged shaft pushing past the
sensitive rim. He had never felt so helpless and needy in his life. It didn’t much help matters when
he looked up to see Taehyung watching him with that look he got just before he tore Jimin to
shreds.

“Please…” Jimin whispered, and much to his surprise, it worked.

That first thrust was orgasmic. The way Taehyung’s dick strained and throbbed against his prostate
was too much to bear. Jimin tried to keep himself from coming but before he figured out it was
happening, his cock shot out cum. There was so much of it, it wouldn’t stop. All over his chest, his
neck, his jaw, and even his lips, settling salty in the cracks where he’d only just licked away the
blood. He babbled Taehyung’s name, as if he was the demon possessing his body and forcing his
limbs to dance and tremble in the clutches of his climax. Taehyung gave him no time to recover,
fucking him through it, even as Jimin yelled at the top of his lungs that he was going to die if he
didn’t stop. It was hyperbole. If he’d stopped, he would have screamed he’d die if he didn’t keep
going. It was an overwhelming rush of feeling he hadn’t experienced in a month and the very fact
that Taehyung was inside him again brought him close to losing his mind.

Taehyung’s fingers stuffed into his mouth again and Jimin moaned around them, barely sounding
human to his own ears. His abused cock bounced against his navel, still spitting out ropes of cum
with each hard thrust of Taehyung’s dick. He shook his head to clear his vision, relishing the feral
look on Taehyung’s face as he fucked into him. His jaw was tightened, nostrils flared, spit flying
from his mouth as he forced Jimin to tell him just how badly he wanted it. And Jimin concurred,
over and over, how much. Until he was coming again, his rectal walls clamped down on
Taehyung’s thick rod. His prostate screamed for relief but it got none, the force used against it
persistent and never-ending.

He squeaked when Taehyung pulled out, turning him over onto his stomach. It was as if Jimin
forgot what words were, struggling to ask what he was doing, what he wanted. All he could do was
gasp and let the older manhandle him into the new position. He tied his hands behind his back this
time, the belt slotting into the red welts it had created. Jimin caught sight of his own reflection in
the mirror opposite and a high-pitched moan keened from his mouth as he saw how utterly ravaged
he looked. He’d looked fucked up after sex with Taehyung in the past, but nothing on this level.
His hair was all over the place, cheeks still wet with tears, lips bloodied and puffy with repeated
torture. All over his body there were scratches and red marks flowering, some bruises apparent,
others making themselves felt but still invisible as of yet. His head sank against the sheets, eyes
closing against the barrage of tears, and he spread his knees for Taehyung.

It didn’t surprise him when he felt the wet, tight heat around his fingers. Taehyung had an oral
fixation, something Jimin found out in pleasurably escalated moments here and there. Fingers,
tongue, lips, cock – he sucked with complete enjoyment. As he did, his thrusts slowed and Jimin
mumbled in content, keeping his fingers still for Taehyung to suck on each one. “I love you so
much,” he made the mistake of whispering halfway through, and the roughness returned.
Taehyung’s hands came around the sides of his face from behind, forcing his lips to part and
stretch open. Jimin ignored the pain of the already cracked skin splitting further, blood starting to
dribble down his chin. He closed his eyes and focused on nothing but that glorious cock inside
him, fucking his sanity away.

And when he did, he felt his prostate throb. Taehyung’s mouth was pressed between his shoulder
blades, his speed picking up. Jimin’s high-pitched keens mingled with Taehyung’s snarls until
finally, their bodies locked when they came together. Jimin’s hoarse screams faded to husky moans
as he felt his ass brim with the heat of Taehyung’s cum, all of it, dripping down the backs of his
thighs. There was so much, it kept leaking out even when he’d pulled out his cock. He wasn’t
paying attention when the belt loosened and came off his wrists, but when it did, he sank to the
bed, on the verge of breaking but so thoroughly sated.
Taehyung was no better. The fight had taken almost everything out of him, and the last vestiges of
his energy were spent revenge-fucking Jimin. His head fell onto the bed, and Jimin’s eyes opened
slowly. He reached for Taehyung’s hand lying limp on his chest and pulled it against his lips. It
hurt, but he kissed it over and over, tear-soaked eyes staring at him. “I love you,” he whispered
against his skin.

In answer, Taehyung rolled closer, sliding his arm under Jimin’s worn out body, pulling it on top of
his own. He adjusted the pillows, taking a blanket from the back board. It was dry and smelt good,
unlike the sheets they’d just destroyed. His hand wrapped around Jimin’s head, fingers rifling
through his fringe as he set his chin on top of it. “So…you’re kingpin now. The nightingale sits at
the top of the chain and rules the carnivores,” he murmured, deep voice rumbling through his chest
and straight through the boy lying on top.

“Kim Seokjin thinks he’ll be second-in-command now that Minsoo’s gone,” Jimin whispered.

“He’ll kill you and make himself first-in-command. Surprised you didn’t see that coming when you
let him back in.”

“I won’t let him. You can be the second most powerful man in the kingdom. Be my enforcer.
Protect me and I’ll protect you. That’s how it works. You’re good when you have a single task. But
ruling broke you. Impulse decisions, and then resorting to heroin when they nose-dived…that’s not
your game. I want to see you recover, Taehyung.”

Taehyung scoffed lightly, arms squeezing around him. “Well, at least you get your birth right back.
Can’t seem to shake the thought karma was winding us both about in order to come to this
conclusion.”

Jimin smiled but was too tired to answer, and within minutes, both were asleep.
In the morning light, Jimin tended to his wounds in the bathroom, alone.

Taehyung was still asleep, and that was a miracle in and of itself. Jimin had escaped his hold with
stealth he didn’t know he had. A quiet chorus of ‘ow, ow, ow’ sounded from his lips in the shower.
It hurt too much to really scrub anything down, so he just stood there, letting the warm water open
up thinly clotted scratches and wounds. Standing at the wash basin afterwards, one foot up against
the tiles (even as his muscles screamed in protest) to apply soothing cream between his ass cheeks
wasn’t a new occurrence. He’d gone through plenty of morning-after routines like this. But the
only difference was, he didn’t feel angry or resigned or hurt. He just felt…guilty. It was as if the
harm inflicted on his body, that he had accepted willingly, wasn’t enough to make up for what he
had to do today.

Jimin steeled his expression in the mirror. It was easy to look this cold, but not with Taehyung.
There was an incinerating quality in his dark eyes that tore the truth from Jimin whether he wanted
that or not.

His lips looked a little better after the fresh application of coconut oil but he still couldn’t stretch
them open too much. Eating was out of the question. Taehyung had done a number on them. Jimin
couldn’t help smiling a little, though he had to hold his hand against his cheeks to disallow the
muscles from stretching further.

Despite all the physical strain…he felt good.

He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. And that was saying something since he’d managed to
alienate one of his only friends left and was soon going to do the same to the only other person he
cared for. He sighed and put on one of Taehyung’s shirts over his body. He didn’t think he could
handle anything more tight-fitting. Out in the bedroom, he wandered around, picking up abandoned
clothes, sex toys and the emptied bottle of lube, tucking them away into drawers or throwing them
aside in a ‘wash’ pile. He pulled back the curtains and the view outside, that once irritated him
beyond measure, put him at ease. Now that he owned it, it was different.

He knew being voted in as de-facto leader was simply a matter of mafia bureaucracy. But it was
hard not to feel in control when he had the Butcher himself at his right-hand, his reputation freshly
solidified by last night’s event. They didn’t have to see Taehyung shake and cry and be tormented
through his withdrawal period. All they saw was how viciously and how madly he could destroy
anyone pitted against him. Even Kim Seokjin would think twice before carrying out whatever
underhanded plan of action Jimin knew he was hiding.
An involuntary shudder went through him at the memory of opening that neatly labelled, padded
envelope. Jimin thanked Providence every day since that he had flipped the envelope over to its
side rather than thrust his hand in, as had been his first instinct. The smell was terrible, and the way
they’d just flopped. Every man in the room had discreetly covered up his crotch when it became
clear it was a pair of severed testicles. Even as it sickened him, Jimin couldn’t help drawing the
nasty comparison to poorly cooked eggs, with the yolk spilling out of the protective whites. Except
the insides were white in this case.

Kim Seokjin certainly knew how to hammer a point in.

With Choi Minsoo’s very recent betrayal, Jimin had jumped at the only logical conclusion. But it
turned out Seokjin was prepared to offer something more than just the balls of his would-be
predecessor.

Something far more valuable.

“What time is it?” Taehyung mumbled from behind him.

Jimin turned, sunlight dappling the corners of his small smile. He walked over to the bed, climbed
on and sidled close to Taehyung. Their hands intertwined, Taehyung’s expression solemn in
comparison to Jimin’s.

“I would kiss you but – “ Jimin signalled to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung murmured, reaching up with a soft hand to curl his fingers under his chin.

“It’s fine. I wanted it,” Jimin shrugged. “You don’t understand how pent-up I was in this last
month. I wasn’t even a weekly masturbator in the past. But now it’s like – one day goes by without
my legs wrapped around your waist, and my body goes haywire.”

Taehyung’s response was to pull him down until he was lying beside him. He turned onto his side,
nose nuzzling against Jimin’s, hand in his hair. “Pretty boy,” he whispered. Jimin giggled, tongue
curling out to flick at his upper lip. “No, you are.” Finally, he got something akin to a smile from
his boyfriend, though it was only a quirk of the mouth. They lay there a while, staring at each
other. When Jimin tried to get up, Taehyung’s hand tightened around his arm, pulling him back
with a whisper of, “Don’t leave.”
“I need to get my phone, baby,” Jimin whispered back.

“I’ll get it – “ he sat up to reach for the nightstand opposite, and Jimin also sat, taking it with a
murmured thanks. Taehyung rubbed his eyes, sighing as his muscles screamed with exhaustion.
Come night time, he would want that heroin again, but he was alright for now. The incessant
itching that came with not getting his daily dose hadn’t struck yet.

“I know you say you’ll be serious about getting off the dope, but I’m worried,” Jimin said, going
through his phone. When Taehyung leaned over to see what he was doing, he chuckled and pushed
him away.

“I will be serious,” Taehyung said, like clockwork.

“Sure, you say that. But if you’re to be my right-hand, out and about in the city, it’ll be easier for
you to secure more China White. Or Brown Sugar or whatever else stupid names they come up
with for the rat poison you inject up your veins.”

“You don’t trust me?”

Jimin looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “No. Do you think I should?”

Taehyung opened his mouth as if to answer, but then he raised his eyebrows and sighed as if to say
‘fair point.’ He sank back against the backboard, pillows cushioning the impact, and then stared
straight in front, eyes creasing at the corners tiredly. Jimin glanced at him, finger poised over his
screen. It was a bittersweet moment, the culmination of everything he had ever worked to achieve
in his life after his parents’ death. The only desire he’d had, entwined with the only desire he now
had.

“I need you to have a better incentive,” he started to say, before his voice cracked.

Taehyung’s eyes swivelled sharply to him, noticing the change in tone.

“If you won’t do it for me – I need you to do it for someone,” Jimin continued, forcing the strength
back into his voice.
Taehyung sat forward, eyes still puffy with sleep, eyebrows drawn together. “What are you on
about?”

Jimin didn’t break eye contact as his hand slipped the phone into Taehyung’s palm. The other still
looked confused as he lifted it up to frown at the screen. As soon as he did, Jimin slowly began to
slide towards the edge of the bed, one foot set on the floor. He saw Taehyung’s shoulders tense and
his eyes widen, and got off the bed completely. There was a gun in the top drawer of the nightstand
to the left of the bed, but he didn’t reach for it, refusing to believe his life could be in danger. But
when Taehyung threw off the blanket and knelt in one swift motion, Jimin wondered why he
trusted this man as much as he did. He might kill him. Over this, definitely.

“W-what is this?” Taehyung choked out. He was breathless, as if he’d run a mile just to say the
words.

“You recognised him,” Jimin said, almost in wonder.

“Why would I not – what – I – this – “ he was getting more and more out of breath, ears turning
red. Until finally, it erupted from him in a scream, as if it was the only way to get the damned
words out. “Why the hell wouldn’t I recognise my own father?!”

He only had one leg off the bed and that was all it took for Jimin to retreat to the door. Taehyung
saw the shadows move under the gap and knew there were guards standing right outside. He kept
his movements slow, but the way his fist shook around the phone spoke clearly to what he wanted
to do. It looked fragile, easily broken in his large hand, the screen still displaying the video. But it
was paused. Taehyung pointed to it, face crumpling. He looked to be on the verge of hysterics.

“I-I know what you must be feeling right now, seeing him alive – “ Jimin started to say, holding
his palms out, both in defence and to soothe. But it didn’t work.

“Alive? You’ve got him strapped to a fucking chair on an IV drip! He’s covered in blood – what
the FUCK DID YOU DO?!”

The sheer intensity of the volume of his voice ripped through Jimins’ eardrums like an explosion.
He felt the door shake behind him as they knocked, but didn’t try to open it and let them in.
Taehyung was keeping his distance. Jimin had a whole speech planned for this moment, but now
that he was faced with Taehyung’s devastation, not much was coming out.
“Jungkook didn’t kill him. And Kim Seokjin knew where he was. He traded him for Gangnam-gu
–“

“He traded – “

“Listen to me! That man may be your father, but he killed my parents! Yes, Seokjin fucking traded
him for Gangnam, he knew how much I wanted to have him in my hands!” Jimin cut across.

“This is what you wanted?” Taehyung’s voice succumbed to a disbelieving whisper. “This?” His
finger jabbed at the screen over and over. Jimin had watched the video a hundred times before he’d
decided it was the one to show Taehyung.

He’d been there in person - though it was behind a two-way glass window - watching Kim Bong Ju
forced into a chair and beaten around by four much bigger men. Even in his tired, hallucinating
state, he was agile and strong. Jimin wasn’t risking anything when he sent in four of them to
subdue him. He’d been trapped in that room for a week and a half now, either passed out or
screaming Jo Ara’s name when conscious. At least, that was the report Jimin received. He hadn’t
actually gone into the room himself. It felt anti-climactic to. The only reason he wanted to go in
there was to put a bullet in his head.

“I was going to kill him the minute I got him. And never let you find out he had ever been alive,”
Jimin said quietly. “But then, how would I encourage you to get clean, Taehyung? And how would
I ever control Jungkook and keep him quiet?”

Taehyung’s head cocked at the name he loathed, lips pulling back from his teeth. “Jungkook? Is
this what it’s about? You teamed up with that piece of shit and hid my dad from me? To blackmail
me?!”

“NO!” Jimin roared. “Shut the fuck up and let me talk!”

Taehyung’s arm lifted and he knew what might come next. Taehyung and phones didn’t have a
good track record. Jimin held out his hand, beckoning slowly with his fingers, as if coaxing a child.
He was hardly daring to hope, and yet, Taehyung approached, extending the phone to him. Slowly.
There was something in his actions and in his eyes that was so rarely seen, Jimin mistook it for
anger.

But it was fear. Pure, genuine fear.

Taehyung was scared.

Jimin took his phone back, and steeled his heart, refusing to look into those big, dark, frightened
eyes. He pocketed the phone and pressed his back flat to the door.

“Behave,” he said. “Or I will kill him.”

“You can’t hold me hostage on this – “

“The trouble with you, Kim Taehyung, is your entire life, no one has ever managed to control you.
Except for your daddy issues. They’ve always succeeded.”

He couldn’t see it for himself, but from the way Taehyung flinched, Jimin knew his face was hard
as stone. He felt as if he were made of stone, all the emotional switches from last night switched
off and held down by pvc tape. They wouldn’t budge, not unless the tape was prised away. It was
against everything his mother had ever taught him and it felt good. It was the most conflicted
feeling in the world. He still loved Taehyung, so deeply it hurt, and yet a part of him relished
finally having the sort of control that could truly keep him in line.

“You’re going to regret this, Jimin,” Taehyung said hoarsely. His eyes were red, body shaking as
he tried to grab onto a nearby chair. His hand came up to start scratching at his other arm, tremors
twitching through him.

“You can’t threaten me with death or torture anymore,” Jimin said.

“I w-wasn’t – “ Taehyung broke off, wincing as he accidentally scratched open a fresh track mark.
“B-but if you hurt him, you’ll lose me. I swear to god – you’ll never see me again.”

Once upon a time, that line would have made Jimin jump from joy. Now, it made him tense up
with dread. But he kept his resolve. “His life is tied to mine. If I die, so does he. You know, just in
case you change your mind about how much you need me in your life, as compared to the father
who abandoned you.”

Taehyung sank into the chair, laughing quietly. He looked deranged, but that was nothing new.
“Jimin, if you hurt him – “

“I said I wouldn’t, as long as you do everything in your power to get clean again.”

“N-no see, that’s too simple – I don’t believe you – “

“You either trust me or you don’t. Either way, Taehyung, your father’s safety is on the line. If I
still had my mother’s life to protect, I sure wouldn’t be going about it this way.”

Taehyung lifted a finger and pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“If that’s how you’re going to be – “

“ I said, get the fuck out!” Taehyung barked. His fists wrapped tight, crashing into the dresser as a
growl tore from his throat. He close to foaming at the mouth.

Jimin’s hand slipped over the door knob, and he twisted it. “Try and sleep. You won’t be let out of
here. Not today anyway. You can break everything you want, just like you did in the other room.
But you’re staying here. And one last thing – “ he was now on the other side of the doorway,
already starting to pull the door shut.

“About Jungkook. You’re going to want to talk to him.”

 Roses Are Red

Throw us a positive comment, eh?

TW: Violence, Gore, Degradation (sexual – pretty much a hatefuck at the end but it evens out,
you’ll see what I mean)

Ma Dong Seok did not betray Yoongi’s trust in him.

He headed straight for Mosquito Jang’s home upon his release from prison.

He was built like a tank; he didn’t need reinforcements. Under his snug fitting turtleneck, he had on
a Kevlar vest that barely made an impression through the fabric. A single diamond chain circled
his neck, a trophy of days gone by, and his hair was slicked back with the grease hoodlums
drowned in during the 80s. It was quite the archaic imagery.

Mosquito was at dinner with his latest 20-something bimbo wife when Dong Seok’s leg hit his
front door like a battering ram. Since his glory days as owner of a slice of the Busan city pie,
Jang’s means had lessened considerably. He did not have the security afforded to Yong Geondal –
no fancy automated gates and trained personnel to defend him – but he was an old serpent and he
was hardened with all his tricks learned on the streets.

Dong Seok burst into the dining room, grabbed the largest Ming vase and launched it. Jang used
his wife as a human shield and the porcelain shattered on her chest, fragments embedded in her
exposed neck. The blood splatter was like the careless brush shake of an abstract artist. Her
husband thrust her aside like a useless sack of meat, blood drenched through his striped suit.
“You cunt,” were his last words, spat from between cigar flecked yellowed teeth.

Jang drew both his guns as the door flew open and two men came skidding in. They were relatives
of his – Dong Seok recognised the shrewish features – with the same tattoos, denoting their
common gang affiliation. And it wasn’t Yong Geondal. The first Dong Seok lifted as if he weighed
no more than a feather and threw him at Jang. The other fired two bullets into the man’s gut in
quick succession before the corpse hit him and both went crashing to the ground. Dong Seok
grabbed the second man by the head and snapped his hands around. The man’s neck was wrung
like a useless piece of rubber, the crack of his spine echoing as a shard of the fragile chord pierced
through the front of his throat.

Jang’s gun chambers emptied into the wall, the furniture, the windows, but not the machine
barrelling at him across the table. Dong Seok used his fists for old time’s sake. They landed on
Jang’s face like dead weights, crushing his bone structure as if it were made of butter. The bigger
male could have gone on for a while, until the Mosquito’s face was a smashed mess of blood, bone
fragments and muscle matter. But a lucid thought filtered in through the red rage.

His conversation with Master Min.

Dong Seok paused and felt Jang’s pulse. Barely there, but definitely alive and with severe brain
injuries. Fingers slipping in the sticky scarlet ichor, Dong Seok dialled on his phone and called a
friend of his he’d known since high school. The man was the CEO of his own private hospital to
the south of Busan, and it was not the first time he’d be admitting a mobster into his care. It was
mob money that had helped him raise his institution and Dong Seok’s dirty work most of all. The
debts he owed his old friend were endless.

Within ten minutes, the paramedics were there, and Jang was lifted onto a stretcher before being
taken into the back of the ambulance.

It was with the news that Jang was on life support, that Dong Seok went to Yoongi’s home the
very same evening. It was be the first time he’d be seeing Master Min since their talk in prison.

He did not receive the reaction he was anticipating. In his mind, it was poetically primal about
taking the heart of one’s enemy. But most of all, Dong Seok was hoping Yoongi had given up his
idea of “grooming” him to take his place. It was a mixture of sullied pride at this far younger man
assuming he could train him, and plain old disillusionment with the throne. It was not a pretty place
to be and he was not the one for the dirty job. He wanted to earn his cash the good old way, move
to America and try to restart an honest life for his children’s sake. Dong Seok hoped offering
Jang’s heart would be motivation for Yoongi to embrace life and continue on down the road of
blasé sociopathy.

He was taken into the parlour of the penthouse apartment, and found the room shrouded in semi-
darkness, illuminated only by the electric fireplace. Sitting uncomfortably straight-backed and
tense on a footstool was Huening Kai, a young male of about eighteen or nineteen. He was pale as
a china doll, curly hair tumbling over fragile features. He had a distinct inability to look men
straight in the eye, especially men as large as Ma Dong Seok. But he stood up without missing a
beat, and bowed deeply. Dong Seok grunted in response.

His attention was focused on the high-backed armchair, turned towards the window. Only
Yoongi’s crossed legs were visible, coated in high-quality fabric and crowned by tartan slippers.
He was dressed like a Bond villain, with the deep blue velvet robe and cigarette holder, but his face
was straight out of a Guadagnino flick. Dong Seok’s shadow fell over him and Yoongi’s
expression flickered. He seemed out of it, tripping on some hippie drug that made his pupils dilate.
But it only took him a second to focus and then the eyebrows drew together and his gaze was knife-
sharp once more.

“You’re covered in blood,” he remarked.

Dong Seok glanced down .“So I am. It’s the blood of a mosquito.”

Yoongi’s lips curled up into a half-hearted smirk. “That’s nice.”

Dong Seok expected a little more of a reaction but did not press the matter. “I got him taken to
hospital. He’s on life support. Thought you might have changed your mind about dying and accept
his heart as fucked up tribute. Fucker smoked one too many cigars but aside from that, he was a
health freak. We were friends once, so I should know.”

Yoongi said nothing. The clock ticked away, weighing down the atmosphere with a dull counter
that did nothing to soothe the tension bristling from Huening Kai. The young man looked about
ready to cry, or faint – either was likely. Or maybe that was just the way his face was.

“Mr Han died in his sleep this afternoon,” Yoongi said.

It took Dong Seok a moment to remember who that was. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes. He is a loss. An incredibly, profitable, loyal one. I may have treasured him more than as a
chess piece on the board, but we won’t speak of that. That’s neither here nor there.” He laughed
lightly, tapping his cigarette off into the ash tray. “People die in this business, never get attached.
But when one dies of old age, be glad.”

Dong Seok understood there was sadness there but it was so robotically expressed, he didn’t know
what to do with it. Even if Yoongi had cried, he wouldn’t have known what to do except for an
awkward shoulder pat and he didn’t think that was on the cards here.

“You know Huening Kai?” Yoongi said suddenly, jabbing his thumb towards the young man. “He
will be taking over from Mr Han. The new bookkeeper so to speak.”

More minutes of silence passed.

Then –

“I’m assuming you don’t want Jang’s heart then?” Dong Seok said.

Yoongi tapped the cigarette holder against his milky white teeth and scoffed. “The sentiment is
appreciated. But the heart of a mosquito isn’t the best thing to be carrying around in one’s ribcage
for luck.”

“Alright, I’ll tell them to turn off the life support.” His tone was matter of fact as he pulled out his
phone. His fingers flew over the keypad as Yoongi poured them out some type of alcohol from a
fancy decanter into two tumbler glasses. The stench of ethanol was powerful and yet when Yoongi
took a sip, he barely even winced at the bitter sting in his throat. Dong Seok had learned long ago
not to trust men who could hold their liquor.

“I feel my men slipping away from me, day by day, inch by inch,” Yoongi murmured, as if there
was no one else in the room but himself. “I know there are coalitions forming. As soon as I gave all
these cockroaches another chance to survive and scuttle about, I knew it’d only be a matter of time
before they bit the hand that fed them. But tearing them all down and starting over is an option
that’s lost to me. So what can I really do except sit up here and wait for the day a hitman manages
to do his job and take me out?” His voice was dreamy, as he paced before the window. One
porcelain finger pressed to the glass, leaving a soft print and then he chuckled. “They should hire
Taehyung.”
“Right. Well. Don’t know who this Taehyung is but if you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t know
how things have changed since I was locked up but when I first joined a gang, the leader was a
public figure for his men. He got down and dirty with them, built rapport, remembered names,
families, kids. There was trust between them. It’s your choice if you want to sit in this gilded
birdcage, boss, but trust me when I say – a little friendliness goes a long way.” Dong Seok pressed
his lips together at the end, knowing he’d overstepped but prepared for the consequences. When
he’d first seen Min Yoongi, he’d laughed inwardly at how small he was, never imagining he could
hold authority. And now here he stood, on eggshells.

Yoongi said nothing for a while. His calm was unsettling, like watching moss grow on a statue, the
decay of time fast forwarded. His eyes were far too old for his face, and they were unblinking as
they stared at Dong Seok. But then he laughed, the sound melting into a velvet croon. “Hm. Make
friends with mobsters. Well that’s certainly original.” He turned and his heels clicked over the
polished floor as he retrieved his phone from the table.

Dong Seok tried again. “The issue is, men fear what they do not know. And they don’t know you.
Fear is a good tool for a kingpin but not like this. The good type of fear – you go out and beat a
man to death, crush his skull, pull out his intestines and drape them over your mantelpiece or
something. Bad type of fear – closet yourself away and become a recluse.”

“You know when I first met you, I didn’t think you were the type to give lengthy scraps of
advice,” Yoongi snorted, without looking up from his phone.

Dong Seok knew he was getting nowhere. He considered bowing out and leaving both these
strange individuals to it. But on impulse, he blurted –

“You could always come for a drink.”

“Where?”

Dong Seok threw out the first name of a bar he knew was frequented by Yong Geondal men. “The
Snake’s Eye.”

Yoongi huffed humourlessly but his expression was thoughtful. He glanced over at Kai. Dong
Seok realised he had mistaken grief for fear on the boy’s face. Mr Han must have been a close
friend. His large doe eyes were still red from tears, but he looked considerably subdued now.
“What do you say, Huening Kai? Would you like to go for a drink at The Snake’s Eye?” Yoongi
asked him.

Kai floundered. He stared at his boss, and then Dong Seok. The older gave him a little wide-eyed,
pseudo-threatening look to indicate he should assent. So he did. Head bobbing like a dashboard
toy, he stuttered out, “If you’d like to go, th-then of course, Master Min.”

“Isn’t he just precious?” Yoongi said wryly.

Dong Seok grunted, face scathing.

“Well, you win Ma Dong Seok. I shall take your suggestion. And if the treason talk doesn’t end
with a rare public sighting of me, I believe I have C4 lying around somewhere.” Yoongi flipped his
phone in his hand and the chuckle he let out sounded more like a broken sob. And yet still, his face
was a mask of granite. Nothing escaped. Nothing went in. “And I believe the correct terminology
for employing the C4 would be to – what was it – ah yes…go postal on these bitches.”

Dong Seok didn’t even want to know.

Jimin’s oral fixation was going wild.

He sat at the head of a round table, as the windows outside shook under the fury of a freak
halestorm. Lightning cracked, the distant gurgle of thunder at its tail. It was as if the gods
themselves were at war and Earth was the prize. Such manners of thoughts were not alien to Park
Jimin’s mind. He had been raised by his mother to make the mundane extraordinary, something he
only understood later to be a cleverly designed coping mechanism. Mother knows best. He sat
there, in his best red velvet suit, wearing rings he didn’t like (but for the gravitas they gave him),
and a new tattoo that made his arm ache, whilst struggling with the urge to unwrap a lollipop and
shove it into his mouth. That was the second coping mechanism he’d developed all on his own. It
started with the pacifier as a child, then all manners of candies, pencils, fingers – all at the risk of
being beaten by his father for being a lily-livered pansy. Into adulthood, and he found his new
distraction in Taehyung’s trousers. Now, nothing soothed him more than to feel his boyfriend cry
out from the pressure of Jimin working out his issues orally.

Fuck, he missed him.

It was a game, pretending to be a hapless, floundering young fool in front of these far older,
seasoned criminals. When they saw Jimin with his legs curled up under him in his seat, they
thought ‘idiot’ and moved on, assuming he had nothing important to contribute. They still thought
of him as Taehyung’s whore. It was fear of the Butcher that kept their guns from being drawn in
Jimin’s direction, he knew that. No amount of business acumen and good decision-making would
change that. This wasn’t a chaebol with investors. It was worse than the animal kingdom and he
wasn’t measuring up. Though he found it fun to override them all when he got tired of their
dismissals and put forward a compacted plan of action to replace their wishy-washy manner of
solutions to problems. None thought with as clear a business mind as Madame Go and even she let
her base origins get the better of her.

So far, Jimin had been pulling off the gormless act well. Six individual times he’d managed to
save them from steering their own districts into ruin by changing drug distributions routes or
pressuring the wrong rich man for protection money. And always, Ahmeti’s sullen presence
remained behind him, a silent reminder for the other three that questioning Jimin’s new status
would be a fatal mistake.

Today however, was not such an easily led meeting. It was the first time Kim Seokjin, Gangnam-
gu’s new boss, joined them in one of Lotte Tower’s loveliest penthouse rooms.

And he wasn’t buying an inch of his kingpin’s naïve display.

He sat closest to him on the right side of the table, watching with snide amusement as Jimin’s
airheaded pretences swept right over the others. The talk was centred around the prostitution
business, as per usual. These days, it seemed Madame Go’s flourishing organisation was the only
thing keeping Geomjeong-pa afloat. Pornography, which had once been a thriving market, no
longer quite cut it. People preferred the raw realism of amateur videos, of watching the girl/boy-
next-door get fucked, not exaggerated sexual escapades with insane camera angles. But the oldest
business in the world, prostitution, always turned a profit. Except when the sudden annexation of
Yongsan-gu meant the sway held by Geomjeong-pa lessened to such a degree that even the
prostitutes were daring to go on strike over a fairer pay cut. All the good business was in Yongsan-
gu. Everyone knew that. And with Choi Minsoo offering their weight in gold and protection to
boot, three of Madame Go’s most prized girls had already crossed enemy lines. One she’d
managed to get killed, staging a suicide in her own apartment. The other two were now Minsoo’s
concubines and turning a profit for him on the side with the stolen black book of clients.
As Kim Hyun Bin so eloquently put it: “If we can’t keep the whores in check, what are we really
good for?”

Seokjin hadn’t said a word throughout the meeting, and Jimin was starting to worry. The man’s
poker face was cast like iron. Nothing got through, nothing got out. He knew enough about him to
know he didn’t give a rat’s arse about the whores or the pornography. His main interests lay in
drug distribution and the carefully controlled political circle his father had built up in the 90s and
maintained all the way to his death. Kim Seokjin’s eyes were trained to observe ways to dominate
an entire country and it’s judicial system. The eyes of Kim Hyun Bun, Jung Woo Sung and
Madame Go were attuned to scrabbling like rats at the next big pay cheque. It was the difference
between growing up poor and growing up rich.

Which was why Jimin and Seokjin understood each other, albeit grudgingly.

Jimin fingered the dagger tipped with three stars on his inner wrist and wondered what Taehyung
was doing. Passed out most likely. Alcohol was not denied him when he asked for it. Jimin had
tried to put a teetotal rule in place but in response, Taehyung had spent half an hour trying to bash
through the door with his head. His face was bloodied and he was on the verge of passing out by
the time someone noticed and restrained him. Jimin didn’t want to accept how ill his boyfriend
truly was. The alcohol kept him steady and honestly, who in this dirty world of theirs ever made
good choices anymore? All he had to focus on was keeping Taehyung alive. Rehab meant letting
him out of his control and –

“If we’re done talking about the harlots of the red-light districts no one cares about, I have a
suggestion to make,” Seokjin drawled.

All eyes swivelled his way. He sat up, plump lips tilted down, broad shoulders flexing under a
cream and scarlet brocade coat. He no longer went out dressed as his alter-ego, but there was no
taking Mother out of him. Her flamboyance and love of theatrics was present in everything from
the jewels glinting in his ear, to the butterfly knives he’d been playing with through the first half of
the meeting. He eyes were black as stone, his smile polite. “Our most profitable brothels were in
Yongsan which is no longer ours, so we just wasted forty-five minutes talking about jack shit,” he
said. “I was hoping our esteemed sajangnim would step in, but it appears he favours shop talk
also.”

Jimin shot him a dead-eyed stare and Seokjin’s grin widened. Turning to his bodyguard, he nodded
his head and the man went over to the doors, opening them wide with a low whistle. Two others
answered the call, flanking a young man between them. Jimin recognised him immediately.
“Here we have the little shit who set one of our most profitable drug dealers on fire,” Seokjin said
pleasantly, and then for Jimin’s benefit, added in a lower voice, “See, I don’t know about you – but
having the President’s grandson in our clutches could prove useful in more ways than one. Do I
have to tell you why or can you make the connection, Jimin-ah?”

“Condescension isn’t a good look on you,” Jimin murmured back, eyes fixed on Yeonjun. The boy
stood tall, with a most sullen scowl on his face. There was something incredibly familiar about that
expression but Jimin couldn’t put his finger on it. It was like an itch at the edges of his mind,
urging him to see the obvious.

“Yes, well, neither is accepting my father’s hard work going down the drain,” Seokjin hissed back.
He leaned closer in, but Ahmeti’s sudden step forward made him pause. Baleful eyes turned up
towards the Albanian and he spat, “Down doggie” before turning his attention back to Jimin. “You
and I both know we are fucked. Choi Minsoo doesn’t need the territories we have. He has the one
that matters and is expanding into the smaller districts as backup.”

“Right. So what do you suggest I do to this one?” Jimin murmured, “Chop off his finger and send
it back to his family as bait?”

Seokjin paused to give him a dirty look. “God, Taehyung’s rubbing off on you in the worst way.
What on earth would that achieve?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment because he managed to kick your arse off the throne.”

“I may be off the throne, but I am more than capable of wringing your scrawny– “

“Are you two done whispering like little boys in the corner of the classroom?” Kim Hyun Bin’s
voice ricocheted through the electricity-charged atmosphere.

Jimin kicked back his chair. “Gentlemen. Lady. Do continue. The young man and I need to have a
chat.”

He didn’t wait for an assent. Seokjin’s eyes were burning into him like twin lasers, and Jimin
wished he had Taehyung’s claw hammer to rid him of both. Ahmeti grabbed Choi Yeonjun’s
shoulder, steering him forward. The boy slurred out a curse but for the most part, he was easily
subdued. He was skinny under the perfectly pressed suit, manicured hands and conditioned hair.
Jimin was reminded of himself at a younger age. There was no hiding a golden spoon.
In the room next door, the kid lost much of his bravado and looked suitably apprehensive. Some
cornered animals got quiet. Others got louder. He was the latter.

“So what I burned your pathetic excuse of a drug runner?” he spat, without giving Jimin a chance
to open his mouth. “He wasn’t very profitable for you anyway! He was trying to extort extra
money from me and my friends and probably pocketing cash on the side from the profits he made!
As far as Geomjeong-pa’s concerned, I did you a favour!”

Jimin slicked his tongue over the back of his bottom teeth and played with the ring on his finger.
His face was deadpan, feline eyes dusky as he watched Yeonjun in silence. He’d learned this tactic
from Yoongi. The empty stare, until the other person felt like they were burning from the inside
out. Yeonjun began to glow red.

Ahmeti coughed to fill the silence.

“What should I do with him?” Jimin asked the Albanian in his own native tongue. He knew
Yeonjun was probably taught English and would understand it if used. Jimin had started to learn
Ahmeti’s language mostly out of curiosity and partly out of a desire to make the hitman feel more
at home in Seoul. He had been mentioning wanting to return to his home country for a while now
but Jimin wasn’t quite sure he was ready to make that sacrifice. In a world of cutthroats and
turncoats, Ahmeti was a constant he couldn’t afford to lose.

Ahmeti shrugged, eyeing Yeonjun with a distasteful scowl. “He’s a little shit, sure, but he doesn’t
warrant death. Can’t lash him either. Parents would come running. Could kidnap him and demand
a ransom. Scare him good and proper. Break him psychologically perhaps. Sixteen isn’t too young
to be taught a rough lesson. He wants to play with the big boys? Learn the rules of the game.”

Jimin clicked his tongue and reached into back pocket and drew out a revolver. The boy flinched,
though he tried to hide it behind the darkening of his scowl. But there was no hiding the fear in his
eyes. Jimin aimed the barrel at him, squeezing the safety.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” he said quietly.

Yeonjun didn’t move. At first, Jimin thought he would maintain his stubborn silence. But then, the
boy’s lips parted and he drew in a shaky breath, eyes starting to brim. Only one tear fell, rolling
down his cheek and vanishing into his collar. His voice on the other hand, was steady, infused with
arrogance like the rest of him.
“Because of who my family is,” he said.

Jimin scoffed. “I had a family such as that once. It’s spectacular how such names can come
toppling down. Give me a better reason.”

“I’m an asset to your gang – “

“You’re no asset. You’re just a kid who slipped through the cracks and impressed my boyfriend
enough to sit at the grown-ups table for a while.”

Yeonjun’s jaw clenched. So did Jimin’s finger on the trigger.

“I’m not ready to die,” he blurted out.

It was a slip of the tongue and he recoiled the minute he said it. Jimin tried to put himself in
Yeonjun’s place but it was near impossible. If he still had his fortune and no obligation to mix with
the nasty world of the mafia, he would have remained where he was, safe. Yeonjun’s bristling
energy put him on edge. It irritated him and pulled him along. It reminded him of Taehyung.

Jimin’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“That’s for me to decide. Not you,” he said levelly.

Yeonjun’s mouth opened and words vomited out, foolish in their nervousness. “If that were true,
you would have pulled it by now. The Butcher would have.”

“I’m not the Butcher,” Jimin countered, voice dangerously sleek.

“Oh yeah? What are you then?” he retorted.

Jimin pocketed the gun and went closer. The snap of his heel echoed in the sparsely decorated
room. 6 steps in total. Yeonjun was slightly taller but it didn’t matter. His shoulders slumped a little
when Jimin’s eyes drained of all emotion, blank and opaque once more. His face was carved like
marble, but in comparison, his voice was like gems soaked in honey.

“I am the shadow behind the Butcher you never heard about. He is the sword in my right hand and
you are the rag doll in my left. My power lies not in blowing your brains out and ruining these new
marble floors they just laid out. I’m more inclined to visit those you love. Have them watched.
Insert puppet politicians with pockets weighed by my dirty money into your grandfather’s cabinet.
Open up the avenues. Mark down times, hobbies, people close to your family. For instance, your
Grandpops is an avid lover of the theatre, no? He wouldn’t be the first president to have his head
shattered to smithereens in the VIP box of a theatre hall.” He moved closer still, voice lowering to
the softest decibel it could be above a whisper. Yeonjun was not moving a muscle. “I won’t destroy
you physically. I will slowly and systematically destroy everything that gives you agency in this
world, until you become another statistic in this country’s suicide rate.”

Yeonjun’s breath released in a low, rattling exhale. He laughed a little, but it was a pale sound. It
certainly didn’t match the glassed over eyes and the tight set of his mouth. He didn’t say a word,
and he didn’t need to. Jimin looked away, a tense feeling in his stomach. Enjoyment. Bullying a
sixteen year old boy was enjoyable. The realisation was ugly and menacing and it was quickly
followed by the urge to throw up. But he couldn’t betray that on his face. Yeonjun might have only
been sixteen but he was still a wild card – couldn’t be killed, couldn’t actually be harmed. But he
could be frightened and that much was very obvious by the way he had his fists clenched by his
thighs, adam’s apple bobbing every ten seconds.

“Ahmeti. Some water for the gentleman, please,” Jimin said softly, turning to face the window.

When the Albanian didn’t move, he turned and saw him staring blankly in Jimin’s direction.

“Was that code for ‘drown him’?” he said in shqip.

“No,” Jimin said incredulously. “Get him some water. He looks like he’s about to faint.”

He felt like he was going to faint. Sweat cooled on his forehead like a thousand tiny pinpricks of
steel. His insides were frozen lava, clogging up his airways and leaving his knees weak. Only
moments ago, he’d been running hot, furious at Seokjin and irritated by this gnat of a boy too big
for his breaches. Ahmeti returned with a water bottle carelessly thrust in Yeonjun's direction and
the weight lifted some. Jimin turned around, face wiped blank and buttoned up his blazer as he
went closer.
“Don't think about crossing this gang ever again. The minute the desire to cause trouble rears in
that wretched head of yours, remember this feeling -" he drew the revolver, arm quick as a viper,
and stuck the barrel under Yeonjun's jaw. He didn’t think about where the three bullets left in the
chamber could have landed. He pulled the trigger.

The click was empty.

But Yeonjun's mouth wasn’t. He blanched, limbs quivering as he sealed his lips against a barrage
of vomit. Jimin stepped back with a faintly disgusted expression and Ahmeti kicked forward a crate
lying in the corner and his expression was more than amused.

“You could have killed him,” he said after leaving Yeonjun with the men who had dragged him
here. “ I know you didn’t know what the odds were.”

Jimin took a deep breath and released it with a faint laugh. “It was a very Taehyung thing to do,
wasn’t it?”

“He’s careful around kids,” Ahmeti snorted. “This is all you, boss. Welcome to beyond the line.”

He said it jokingly enough before sauntering out of the room with a grin, but his words hit Jimin
like a hammer in the guts. Welcome to beyond the line. Every day he sank deeper into denial. That
was one mistake Taehyung never made and the one mistake that was truly impossible to come
back from. But it was hard not to make it. When good men were forced into bad circumstances,
sometimes delusions of righteousness were the difference between survival and utter self-
destruction.

Speaking of bad circumstances –

He pulled out his phone, finger sliding over the screen. The man on the other end replied in
monotone. His voice had matured considerably since Taehyung had led him into that jazz lounge
the fateful night of the Red Trauma. Back then, he was only a newbie, an eager member of the
infamous Black Cap squad. Now his voice was gravelly, as if he’d smoked ten packs of cigarettes a
day and murdered as many men.

“Any word on Wonho?” Jimin asked.

“No, sir. We’re waiting on word to attack the King Sejong bar.”

His teeth sank into his bottom lip. He’d forgotten about that and yet he had been the one to devise
the plan. One of Minsoo’s closest henchmen had made the King Sejong bar his favourite haunt. He
had a name – Hwang Ki Joon – but was more commonly known by his moniker, ‘Grizzly.’ He was
certainly built like a bear, and yet despite what looked to be a meathead façade, the man was
keenly intelligent and prized as one of Minsoo’s lieutenants. Jimin was banking on two things –
Minsoo giving up large portions of the Yongsan territory or allowing Grizzly to be tortured and
murdered. If the latter rang true, he would be thoroughly interrogated and the torture would simply
be a tool. It was a win-win, except the King Sejong bar was manned by old, hardy gangsters and
the only men available to Jimin were the Black Cap squad. No one else would risk their life on a
fool hardy mission such as this, and he wasn’t banking on their success either. He was sending
them to die because he had no room for them in the ranks.

Man up, his mind hissed at him right on cue, you signed up for the job. No one forced your hand.
Better you than Mother. And better them than someone far more reluctant. If they want a fight, let
them thirst after one and find it.

He knew his subconscious was right. The Black Caps were delinquents and if they weren’t allowed
to expend their energy on the actual enemy, they would resort to bullying their own. Since the
triumph of the Red Trauma night and the glory Taehyung had given them, they’d made a habit of
drunken revelry and more than a few street corner prostitutes had suffered at their hands. The
average citizens weren’t safe either. Young men went by their own rules, for better or for worse.
Jimin would be doing society a favour, as long as he repeated that to himself enough.

Yeah. That’s what it is.

Seokjin's day had gone pleasantly enough.

He’d woken that morning in his new apartment and remembered he had seized back one of his
territories. And then he'd had the enjoyment of seeing his rival make a complete fool of himself at
the monthly meet-up. Whatever he'd said to Yeonjun had left the boy a little pale but nothing more.
Seokjin would have paid to see Jimin’s intimidating tactics for himself. That being said, he would
never underestimate the pretty little fucker. Jimin's path to where he was now was unmatched. The
level of dogged resilience and spirit needed to have him endure everything he had, just to end up on
the throne itself was a commendation even Seokjin had to grudgingly give.

But Jimin wasn’t the enemy. Choi Min Soo was. And every single day that Seokjin lifted his head
from his imported silk pillows, and removed the eye mask, it was the sunlight that washed away
his fantasies of maiming and torturing Minsoo all kinds of inhuman ways. It was all his dreams
were filled with these days and for that, Seokjin was thankful. The other option would be to dream
of the two sacrifices he’d made to regain what he had.

He had not seen Jungkook’s reaction to discovering his father had been handed over to Jimin. He
didn’t want to see it. He wasn’t as cold and dead inside as he would have wished and Jungkook’s
trembling bottom lip always reminded him as such.

Seokjin’s father couldn’t have cared less about his bastard grandson. Seokjin later found out he’d
intended on raising the young boy to be groomed and trafficked to the highest bidder, to do with as
they chose. They hadn’t told young Seokjin that. They simply told him that the new baby around
the house would be gone soon and he had reacted accordingly. Just that morning he had offered his
small finger to the child and felt him squeeze his fat little fist around it. Jungkook had been crying
for hours, lips wet with drool, eyes brimming with fresh tears and little bunny nose reddened. No
one wanted him, no one really cared. But when Seokjin gave him a finger, he started to quieten,
though his lower lip still trembled. It was that tremble that he had in his mind when Seokjin threw
a tantrum against his own father and demanded that he wanted to keep the baby. He demanded to
keep Jungkook like he was a toy or a stray animal picked up off the street. And he might as well
have been. For as long as Jungkook had no concrete family outside of the Kims, he was all
Seokjin's and his loyalty ever strayed. Even his found family – Jimin, Lisa, Mingyu, Yugyeom –
hadn’t done much to cut the apron strings. But the sudden appearance of a father who had
abandoned all his children, was a different story.

Seokjin would never understand why fathers were some of the most coveted beings on earth
simply by merit of being unattainable. Even in their presence, most were absent. Geomjeong-pa
had a Mother not a Father because he had no intention of abandoning his inheritance. And if that
meant betraying the fling he'd been enjoying with a cop, so be it.

He still remembered how they’d fucked the last night before Seokjin went to meet Jimin. It wasn’t
a easily forgettable handful of hours. Seokjin didn’t often feel breakable or fragile. But when
Namjoon’s gained hands groped for the most sensitive parts of his body, Seokjin crumbled. He
gave as good as he got and made the cop feel an equal amount of pain twisted into the pleasure but
in the end it was him bent over and pleading with Namjoon to give him a glimpse of those caramel
dimples before he lay into him. Seokjin’s skin marked easy and he always came out a thoroughly
exploited canvas after the cop was done with him. And it also struck him as faintly amusing how
he could not get out of the mindset of calling him a cop. Even when Namjoon’s voice broke in his
ear and his deep rumble turned into yearning, whispered moans, Seokjin kept the detachment.
With each whimper he let out when Namjoon’s strong fingers pressed into his bruises, the steel
around his heart stood strong.

Perhaps that was why it was so easy to betray him and leave him in the dust with Jungkook.

At least that was how it had remained until a week into being Gangnam’s new boss, and the
appalling state of the syndicate became all too apparent.

“I realise you feel like you’ve been stabbed in the back but believe me when I say I have your best
interests at heart, Namjoon-ssi.”

“It's Namjoon-ssi now is it?”

“I promise that in order to return the status quo, I will pay you in full for your efforts to keep me
hidden. Let’s strike a deal.”

“Not interested -"

“I hand over Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung and Kim Bong Ju over to the police once I regain control.
I know there’s an incredibly long list of charges stamped on the last one. And the first is the Blue
Tails maniac who evaded capture. The second...well he speaks for himself. So, what do you say?
Do we have a deal?”

“This deal isn’t just to thank me for protecting you , is it?”

“Clever boy...Keep Jungkook as far away from all this as possible until it’s over. I’ll deal with the
fallout of his hatred. Your only duty is to keep him alive. And you managed to keep me out of
prison so I have no doubt in your abilities.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Contrary to my whimsically sarcastic tone, I truly am not.”

Click.

Namjoon never called back but Jungkook wasn’t at Seokjin’s door with his gun drawn so clearly,
the deal was in place. If only it hadn’t gotten so complicated there in the middle. His father would
have flayed him alive for sleeping with a dirty cop, never mind an honourable one. And as with all
sons and their fathers, Seokjin felt vindicated to defy the old man, even from beyond the grave.

He missed his wardrobe more than he missed Namjoon though.

The domestic outing to shop for new clothes had been fulfilling for a spare second. But it did not
match the splendour of his wardrobe at the condo. The wardrobe which Jimin now had in his
clutches whilst the dresses inside gathered metaphorical dust.

It was with the rancid memory of his disused clothes that he clicked away at his plants with the
pruning shears. White roses looked lovely, but caring for them was a bitch. In a room filled with
light, the little fuckers could still not get enough. Pots of them lined one side of the conservatory
and there he sat in a kimono gown, ensuring each one was pristine. Stereo speakers crooned out
Paul Anka’s Put Your Head On My Shoulder. In the other corner, curled up in a Moses basket lay a
baby white tiger, exhausted after an afternoon’s vigorous play. Seokjin had reached out to the same
contact who had procured him Cersei – the woman was somewhat of a Cruella de Ville when it
came to snatching away wild animals and selling them on the black market. He had called her on
the day he received the news of Rani’s death. It was his own special way of mourning. Replacing
the pet he’d cherished since he’d first held her as a baby, with an identical one. Never having to
face her death seemed an ideal way to cope. In the vein of Rani’s name and origin, he dubbed the
new cub Dawon, its namesake the mythological beast ridden by the goddess Durga, and she was
now the only vibrant activity in a still, dead, cold apartment.

An acrid cough and Seokjin’s shears stopped their incessant snipping. Rosebud mouth pursed and
his eyes slid to the right, the sunlight washing out their onyx dark colour to molten honey. Pale
fingers lowered the shears and he twisted in the window seat, fixated on his audience. A fat little
man, about 5”2 in height, dressed in a pinstripe suit that by some miracle retained all its buttons
over the swell of his paunch. He had sweat on his upper lip and kept nervously slicking back his
modest layer of hair. In his meaty little hands was clutched a briefcase and despite his inherent air
of nervous fidgeting, he maintained a steady gaze when the younger stared. He was a banker, and
had dealt with many a stubborn customer refusing to pay up their debts. Seokjin had not borrowed
much but had accrued a great deal of interest on a certain amount whilst living in Namjoon’s
cramped apartment. He had bargained to pay it back as soon as he returned to his rightful place at
Geomjeong-pa’s helm, except much had changed since then. It was a Yongsan bank, and once
Minsoo had overtaken the district, the pressure increased. He could easily pay, considering
Gangnam’s coffers, but he simply did not want to. It was money flying straight into Minsoo’s
pockets and he knew the old bastard was bolstering up the fat little banker’s courage. Once he
failed, armed men would be sent after. It was a matter of pride, not money.

Seokjin broke the silence first, feline eyes lowering back to his flowers. “Get this rotund bowling
ball out. He’s disturbing my roses,” he drawled. The guards by the door moved immediately, hands
stretched out to grasp the man’s arms. The banker shrugged himself out of the grip with surprising
brashness.

“Listen here – “ he drew two steps closer, but Seokjin’s head snapped around and he froze, dead in
his tracks. The bravado remained. “ – you know who sent me. You know what he’ll do. And you
have the money to pay me back. Write a cheque, and we can be done with this farce.”

Seokjin stood up, pliers dangling loosely in his hand and closed the distance between them. A
smirk flickered over his lips as the banker had to crane back his head to look up at him. With a
patronising little lift of his eyebrows, he bent down, hands resting on his thighs so they were face-
level.

“I do not want to pay you back, and give that rat Choi the pleasure of bleeding money from me, as
if he hasn’t already drained the life’s blood out of my father’s syndicate,” he said, voice dulcet with
fake amiability. “Now you just go and waddle back on over there, and give him my regards. Let
him know the hangman’s noose is drawing close.”

He flicked the banker’s nose and the man looked about ready to lunge. With a saccharine smile
that left his eyes hard as stone, Seokjin turned to walk back to his seat. The guards were already
starting to pull and shove the visitor towards the door. But then their boss’s voice rang out, “Wait”
and they paused. Seokjin stood against the window, light framing his magnificent silhouette and a
pensiveness on his face that fit bizarrely with the context. He beckoned with two fingers at the
banker, who begrudgingly began to walk his way back.

He never saw the pliers coming.

They remained sheathed behind an embroidered fold of the kimono as Seokjin ran his hand
through his own hair, opening his mouth as if about to say something. With two feet left between
them, the pliers whipped out. The tip was blunt, requiring a great deal of brute force to split open
the banker’s neck but it worked. As much as he loathed getting his hands dirty, Seokjin was well-
practiced in the art of maiming and slaughter. He watched with a keen interest as the man’s pupils
dilated, briefcase striking the floor and hands flailing in confusion. His brain was sending him all
the wrong signals, the agony of the wound so devastating that it couldn’t help him figure out where
it was. All he could do was sink to his knees, blood squirting like a fountain, all over Seokjin’s
kimono, his shoes, the polished floor and the creamy white of his rose petals. The sweat on the
banker’s upper lip turned red.
Seokjin was already seated by the time the his body hit the ground. Blood crept out, an ominous
pool of dark red so untainted, the reflection of the chandelier could be discerned in it.

Put your head on my shoulder

Hold me in your arms, baby
Squeeze me oh-so-tight
Show me that you love me too~

Seokjin turned off the music and breathed out softly in the silence. The man made less noise being
dragged out in a pool of his own red than he had made walking in with his pompous heeled boots.
A mask of indifference moulded itself over Seokjin’s young features and he stared blindly at the
red-speckled roses. He recalled Joohyun reading Alice in Wonderland to their young son and
remembered thinking what a ridiculously farcical character the Queen of Hearts was for wanting
her roses painted red against all odds. Well, there was a reasons roses are red. Maybe white just
wasn’t his colour.

The pliers hit the floor with a sickening crash and in the corner, Dawon jerked awake with a pitiful
mewl. She struggled to clamber over the edges of the basket and ended up swaying side to side,
paws clinging to the wicker as wide eyes stared at her owner. Seokjin studied his palms, blood
dried in the lines. His father’s words seemed to scrawl themselves over the expanse in gleaming
silver cursive.

Mediocrity should not, and shall not be rewarded, or else society will crumble and the meek shall
inherit the earth.

“You’re not meek, are you?” Seokjin smiled weakly in Dawon’s direction.

The cub seemed to sense attention was on her finally and went still. When Seokjin stood, she began
trying to get out of the basket again, but he crouched before her and stroked a hand down her spine
to calm her. She was hungry, going for his fingers as if they were her mother’s teats. The blood
didn’t seem to phase her in the slightest, and her tongue lapped hungrily, needle-sharp little teeth
pricking at his skin. She stared up at him the entire time and he felt as if he were standing over
Jungkook’s baby basket again.

“You’re not meek. You will rule,” he whispered, though he was no longer speaking to the tiger
cub.
The concept of a 9-5 job was wholly alien to Jungkook, and never in his twenty-one years had he
imagined he would be happily working in one. Well, happily was a casual usage of the word. He
was happy for the distraction. But ironies piling atop ironies, the job was administrative and based
at Mapo-gu station. It was the same building Jimin had been left outside with his blood staining the
steps. If Jungkook focused, he could imagine seeing the faintest discoloration on the grey. It was
all he had left of the man he’d once loved. Imagined stains on concrete.

A part of him always knew Jimin would betray him the minute Kim Bong Ju’s status as his father
was revealed. It was why he’d even gotten involved with Geomjeong-pa. Kim Bong Ju was the
reason he’d lost the life he thrived in, and had lost his mother, the only person Jungkook now
believed he’d ever really loved. He didn’t think Jimin capable of love. The man was a rolling wave
of enigma, crashing through the world like an endless tsunami leaving nothing but wreckage in his
wake. Love truly was impossible for one such as him. He should have taken him at face value and
accepted the truth earlier; god knows, Jimin had given him plenty of outs.

Jungkook was not in the police database, so finding him an admin job within the four walls of the
station where Namjoon could keep an eye on him was handy for the elder. He had been promoted
from an ordinary police officer to a senior one, with fast track to inspector on the way. It was not a
commendation. It was a bribe from the seniors in his department to help him keep his mouth shut
and keep the secret of the Blue Tails fiasco. No one would be booking Jimin again any time soon,
but there was the problem of the officer who had discovered his involvement to begin with.
Namjoon now had his own office, away from the messy cubicles of the other cops and Jungkook
made it a point to spend most of his working time in there. He was used to the vast silences of his
chemistry lab, surrounded by maximum three people at a time who all took orders from him and
the chaos of a police office was unbefitting to his nature. Namjoon didn’t mind, and besides, he
needed Jungkook’s intel often. He had shared with Jungkook about his deal with Seokjin but he
wanted more men, important lieutenants that Seokjin would never have given up. That was where
his nephew came in incredibly handy.

A focused Jungkook was bad enough. Jungkook with a grudge was lethal. He had once claimed not
to know much about the inner workings of Geomjeong-pa, but now the names, ranks and modus
operandi of its greatest thugs rolled off his tongue like liquid gold. Namjoon was starting to suspect
his memory was borderline eidetic with how exhaustively he defined blueprints of buildings
owned by the Black gang that he had been to once or twice only. He was also a dedicated worker.
Nothing was below him. He stood by the copier for as long as he was needed, copying files as
they came, doing odd jobs for every cop that asked, filling out paperwork that wasn’t his
responsibility. Namjoon had to eventually stop him from pulling more than his own weight.

“Join me in here for a sec,” was what he’d usually say when he summoned Jungkook to his office.
The younger male would respond swiftly, asking if there was more paperwork to fill out and
Namjoon would resist the urge to laugh. Despite all his knowledge of just how dangerous this man
was, there was something endearing about his need to please. “No,” he answered that particular
day, “I just have something I want to show you.”

Inside his office, stacked in towers halfway up the walls were files. Jungkook blanched a little.
Even he was only human and couldn’t face such an ominous pile of paperwork with cheerfulness.
Namjoon waved dismissively to indicate they weren’t for him and offered a seat opposite his desk.

“What you’re seeing are files stretching back to the 80s, each assigned to a Geomjeong-pa man.
They’re considered a backlog because as you can imagine, nothing gets sorted and no one gets
booked. But I’ve been considering a highly controversial proposal to present to my seniors. I
wanted to know what you thought of it.”

Jungkook glanced away from the files and at him, eyebrow lazily lifting. “Hit me.”

“The best way to reduce the backlog is for the police to have multiple encounters with all these
men who are still living. It would clean up the garbage a lot quicker.”

“So, you’re talking extermination but with a lawful title slapped on,” Jungkook said slowly.
“Aren’t there regulations in place to train officers in hostage negotiations so as not to lead to
encounters?”

“Of course. Except that’s usually a rule for the average criminal. When dealing with a highly-
organized criminal machine, all armed with the very latest weapons, the proposal of mass
encounters would no doubt be taken with extreme enthusiasm. As long as it was kept on the down
low of course.”

“So cops are just one side of the same coin.”

“No,” Namjoon said quickly. Too quickly. It seemed he had taken offence.

Jungkook’s eyes glittered, faint dots of red appearing in both cheeks.

“It seems your allegiances still lie elsewhere,” Namjoon said quietly.

“They don’t – “ Jungkook blurted out. He calmed himself, curled his fist on the hard wood of the
desk and then laughed in mirthless defeat. He let out a rumbling sigh and sat back, tongue pressed
to the inner rim of his cheek. He decided not to broach the topic further and after a few minutes’
silence in which he stared blankly at the certificate framed behind Namjoon, he stood up and began
to pace slowly around the desk. Flicking a finger through the blind slats over the window, he said,
“Why are you so obsessed with Seokjin still?”

Namjoon removed his glasses and lowered them with a quizzical quirk of an eyebrow. “Excuse
me?”

Jungkook scoffed quietly. “He'll discard of you once your worth diminishes. You’re nothing but a
hapless pawn he just happens to have slept with.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone -"

“No, don’t get all formal on me,” Jungkook burst out laughing, but the sound was cold and short
and left a ringing echo. They went still, staring at each other, heartbeats in time with the ticking of
the clock.

Jungkook moved first.

He was only inches away from Namjoon’s chair. The older didn’t move a muscle when he bent
down, expecting nothing out of the ordinary. Until Jungkook’s palms cupped his face, at once soft
as silk and rough when his fingers mapped the hard contours of his jaw. There was no moving
then. It was as if a shot of icy nitrogen had been inserted into Namjoon’s veins, numbing
everything except for his lips. Jungkook’s were softer than sin, tasting of the cherry lip balm he
was so fond of and that Namjoon had teased him about plenty times in a good natured way. His
lips were tender, caressing Namjoon’s open, tongue flirting shy and swift with the inner rim of the
upper and sweeping over the bottom. And for a moment, Namjoon kissed him back.
“No!” his usually deep voice came out rough and shaky, face blanched of all colour and eyes wide.
Rather than wipe his lips with a thumb, his first instinct was to lick and it didn’t go unnoticed by
Jungkook.

“What? Are you a secret half brother of mine too?” came the acrid response.

Namjoon couldn’t say anything for a while, heart hammering at an impossible pace. It wasn’t more
so the action, it was the unexpectedness of it. Jungkook lowered himself onto the desk before him
and a hand reached out to curl around the bottom of the officer's tie, playing with the embossed
material.

“He doesn’t love you,” he said quietly.

“And neither do you. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What would that be?”

“You think I’m in love with him, so you think I’m some kind of possession of his and you’re
rearing to ‘steal' me away. You’re doing what you accused him of.”

“And what did I accuse him of?” Jungkook’s voice softened along with his eyes, large and dewy in
the bright lights.

Namjoon was about to answer, except his breath suddenly latched in his throat. Jungkook’s
mannerisms threw him off. Contrary to appearances, he’d learned his fair share of manipulation
from Mother. The coquettish tilt of the head, the smug twinkle of the eye, as if he knew more than
everyone around him. Namjoon swallowed in a desperate attempt to wet his extremely dry throat
and shook his head.

“I’m not your revenge pawn. Don’t use me in your petty quarrels with your uncle.”

“You think selling me out and handing my father to the man who wants him dead more than
anyone else in the world, is a petty quarrel?” the younger spat, but the anger cooled within
seconds. It was a 180 from his previous inability to control himself. Now, he sat with a relaxed
spine, a disaffected expression and his black eyes the only thing that gave away the pent-up rage.
But it cooled quickly, and he was back to his coy, slightly yearning façade. “Don’t think so low of
yourself that for a man to kiss you, there has to be an ulterior motive. I kissed you because I like
you. Not because of anyone else. And if I’m not wrong, you most certainly kissed me back.”

Namjoon decided not to counteract or agree. Instead, he grabbed the nearest file and began to
appear supremely busy, though he had no idea what his eyes were scanning over. After a silence
that seemed to stretch on forever, he cleared his throat and remarked, “If you want your father
back, you should probably find some way to contact Jimin.”

“Isn’t that your job? Seeing as you’re all buddy-buddy with Seokjin hyung now? He would get you
a direct line in. Or does that not coincide with your plan to go behind his back and shoot some of
his best men in illegally orchestrated police encounters?” Jungkook returned to his seat with a
gentle huff.

“You go back and forth on Seokjin. Thought it wouldn’t matter to you what I do behind his back.”

“No, but I was making a point. All of us go behind someone’s back at some point or another.
You’re not holier-than-thou because you’re a cop. You’re just as dirty. And if you can betray him
on this – “ he leaned forward over the desk with a disarmingly bright smile, eyes crinkled up all
sweet and innocent. “ – you can betray whatever one-sided loyalty you have to him, romantically,
sexually, I don’t know. You wanted to kiss me back, but the honourable part of you jumped out
and the next time we kiss, I’d rather you keep a lid on it because I was quite enjoying your kissing
technique, officer.”

Before the older could reply, Jungkook lifted himself out of the chair with a soft whistle that rang
reminiscent of the Oldboy theme, and sauntered out of the office. Namjoon was left to the madness
of his own thoughts, the room feeling colder as the clock continued to tick.

Yoongi took Ma Dong Seok’s suggestion with surprising tenacity. Dong Seok had not really
expected him to come down with the “riff-raff” as he had once heard his boss refer to the general
mob. But it was certainly a baffling surprise when a sudden commotion at the doors of the The
Snake’s Eye was followed by muted hisses of “It’s the boss!”

As one, like naughty little children, gangsters on all sides removed their feet off the table,
straightened collars, retied boot laces and pocketed guns. The hired prostitutes scattered here and
there to act as if they weren’t illicit feminine company, straightening out skirts and hopping onto
banquettes as casually as if they were the wives and girlfriends of men who had paid them to be
there.

“Why are they acting like they’re in school?” Dong Seok grunted to Kim who stood near him
fixing his cuff links.

“Boss doesn’t like the prostitution business. Has to deal in it, obviously, but thinks it’s too much
like the Black Gang up north. Doesn’t like any mention of being measured up to them. Doesn’t like
prostitutes.”

“And what about all this – “ Dong Seok gestured as if to fix an invisible tie.

“He’s killed men for having crooked ties in his attendance.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Why do you think he’s the Boss?”

A fair statement. Of course, most megalomaniacs had their fatal quirks, and why should Min
Yoongi, with his porcelain, slight frame, be any different?

He walked in, demure as a china figure, arms loosely swaying at his sides, before one hand
casually lifted to do up a button on his jacket. He’d chosen a black suit. No colours, no fancy cuts,
just plain old black and white. The aim was to fit in and clearly, an attempt was being made. He
paused, as if surprised by the quiet deference in the room. Dong Seok saw the wheels turning in his
head, before a smirk quirked his pale coral lips and he uttered the words, “If this is how you
celebrate a Friday night, clearly I’m not paying you bastards enough.”

A faint ripple of laughter bristled through the room, like a breeze through a cornfield. But still,
tension. Dong Seok met Yoongi’s eyes and he disguised a small nod with a cough. They’d
discussed basic tactics of integration; the older was baffled at how little Yoongi knew of
socialisation, though considering the shady circumstances which led to his rule, it made all the
sense in the world.

“Drinks are on me,” he announced lazily.

Immediately, the room perked. A cheer rang out, followed by another, and then another, a domino
effect of celebration until by the time Yoongi took a seat at the central banquette, the level of noise
returned to normal. There was no procession to go greet him. He sat unbothered, guards behind
him, swirling a cocktail stick around his glass as Huening Kai sat at his right hand, sipping on a
glass of champagne. The boy had pink in his cheeks, the first flush of colour Dong Seok had really
seen on him. He joined them after about ten minutes, greeted by Yoongi with a curt nod.

“Do you think I’ve won the approval of the masses?” he asked.

“Dumb fucks like this? You come down every Friday for a month, buy a round of drinks and
they’ll be loyal like neutered dogs,” Dong Seok grunted back.

“And just like that, the King avoids the guillotine,” Yoongi remarked, taking a sip of his drink.
Dropping his card on the table as a floor-tender approached, he snapped his fingers towards Kai.
“Show him what you found today – “ and then turned to Dong Seok with a chuckle “ – you won’t
believe what this kid has nested in his pocket.”

When the older man’s eyes turned on him, Kai looked about ready to combust. For a second, he
didn’t move, bright red in the face. Dong Seok began to grin in amusement and as if to make him
stop, Kai huffed and unbuttoned his front jacket, pulling away the left side carefully. He pointed
into his breast pocket, indicating for Dong Seok to lean in closer. Tucked away inside the crimson
silk was a tiny bird, sleek brown of plumage and shaking ever so slightly. It’s obsidian eyes were
glassy and wide open, head bobbing from left to right as it sensed it’s safe haven had been
compromised.

“Why do you have a bird in your pocket, mate?” Dong Seok grunted.

Yoongi snorted, hiding his mirth behind a pale hand. Kai asked him if he’d taken his heart
medication and the grin wiped off. With a small mutter of “little shit" Yoongi turned to accost one
of his lieutenants nearby.

“It hit my bedroom window and I thought it died but it was breathing,” Kai explained to Dong
Seok.

“And you decided to stick it in your pocket?”

“I nursed him all morning. Google said to keep the bird somewhere safe and warm until it got it’s
strength back. And I didn’t want to leave it on its own because the minute it got some vigour back
it tried to fly straight at the window again.”

“Little dumbass,” Dong Seok chuckled. The young man shot him an uncharacteristically cold
scowl and despite himself, his laughter died away.

“Anyway, I’m keeping him here for safekeeping and he seems to be doing fine,” Kai explained,
gently touching his breast pocket from the outside.

The boy stayed in the centre banquets long after both his boss and Dong Seok were playing pool
with the others. Yoongi was getting drunk, as communicated by the deep flush of his cheeks, but he
seemed fine. Over exertion was dangerous for his heart and yet not once did he have to sit and
catch a breath. Dong Seok wondered how exactly he was able to keep up such a clean façade. Just
by looking at him, no one would have guessed he could drop dead at any moment should his heart
decide it was at capacity.

He was not entirely sure if the sycophantic gathering of men was a result of enjoying their boss’s
presence, or merely a crass indication of how drunk they were. But it bode well for Yoongi that
he’d seen them at their most relaxed, and vice versa. It opened up channels that would otherwise
have become routes to mutiny. No one liked an omnipotent leader sitting in the clouds. Wars were
fought over less.

Around midnight, the doors flew open. It was not uncommon for minor rival gang factions to storm
Yong Geondal hotspots, especially on a Friday night on the town. It usually ended in a skirmish,
the cops being called, paid off, all parties dispersing. A new thing Yoongi was learning about the
way his kingdom existed – nothing was entertaining without a little bloodshed. Except tonight was
highly unusual, in that the men who stormed in were fully armed with guns. None of the bullets hit
their mark before the bottle shelves behind the bar shattered and the entire room launched into
chaos. Half the Yong Geondal thugs were fighting amongst themselves, whilst the other half
battered the intruders. The music was turned up louder to disguise the noise, the girls kept dancing,
and Yoongi was in hysterics.

He was lying on the bar, half-drunk bottle of cheap vodka in hand as he giggled over how his heart
might not be the thing to kill him in the end.
“I know you’re set on dying, but for now you should live, so get your butt off the bar, grab a gun
and fire or hide,” Dong Seok told him, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder as he looked around
for the boy.

Kai was crouched in a corner, distracted from the whole ordeal behind him. It was a good job he
was turned away and in the shadows. Tear tracks glistened on his porcelain cheeks the minute
Dong Seok bade him turn around. He would have gotten a punch to the face by anyone else for the
vivid display of weakness.

“The fuck are you crying about? Surely you’ve got a gun on you – or a knife at the most,” the older
said gruffly.

Kai shook his head, speechless for a moment, and then slowly opened his coat. The little bird was
still inside. Dong Seok lifted his eyebrows as if to say ‘What’ and reached down to poke at it.

“It’s dead,” Kai mumbled, wiping his tears quickly. “And you can laugh at me all you want. I
know I’m a coward who doesn’t belong here.”

That was indeed his first reaction, but Dong Seok curtailed it. With a deep sigh, he looked around,
figuring out how he could avoid trying to comfort this strange young man. “You’re not a coward,
boy. You care about animals more than you care about people. Understandable. Come on, get up
before someone sees you. You can put it in a box and give it a funeral if you want – just not here.”

“Who died and made you boss?” came a reluctant mutter, and Dong Seok pretended he hadn’t
heard. Maybe the boy would grow up to be a tougher nut yet.

Between them, they managed to get Yoongi out and straight into the back of the sedan he’d arrived
in. He was able to walk, but his aimless laughter was impeding much of his ability to. He slumped
into the backseat, dark hair pressed to the fogged up window and drew a shaky heart. Kai chuckled
a little when Yoongi looked to him for smug approval, but his eyes remained wet with mourning
for the little bird. Dong Seok got into the driver’s seat – seeing as the man himself seemed to have
disappeared – and started up the car. As it began to roll away from the pavement, Yoongi settled
himself comfortably, staring at Kai with wide, owlish eyes.

“Have you ever been in a car pileup?” he said suddenly.

Kai shook his head, unsure where this was headed, but knowing better than to ask.

“You know – seen the cars topple and skitter like dominos? And through tainted windows every
driver’s tearing at their wheel, trying to escape. They almost do. But then the ten tonne lorry loses
control and guess what – it’s an oil tanker. It topples. And then one after the other, shit starts
blowing up. And you’re stuck in your flipped over car, watching the toppled lorry skittering
towards you, knowing you won’t get blown up but that you will be pulverised under tonnes of
metal and rubber before its contents blow up everyone else.”

“N-no boss, can’t say that I have. Have you?” Kai ventured.

Yoongi shook his head. “No. But I was trying to come up with the best analogy to describe how it
feels knowing my heart might kill me before an enemy’s bullet.” He paused to slump further in his
seat, dark eyes vacant. “And also a way to encompass the feeling of discovering Hoseok was dead.
Because it came in bits and pieces, the growing realisation that he was gone. The news was relayed
in a short, brief sentence, but it took a while to sink in. I shot the first man who entered the room
after I found out, you know. As if by some macabre mysticism, it would be an exchange of souls
and I’d have Hoseok back in my arms where he belonged.”

There was no sound in the car. It was hard to know if Dong Seok was listening. The radio blared
away softly.

“I-I’m sorry,” Kai said, eyes wide as he figured out how best to step this minefield. “I’d heard of a
Jung Hoseok in the gang from Mr Han but I didn’t know he was your friend – “

Yoongi gave him a dead-eyed glance and the boy fell quiet. “A friend? That’s what you got from
that?”

“Boyfriend?” his voice trailed off, unsure.

Yoongi shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, he’s gone. And in a way, once I achieved what I most
wanted in the world – Yong Geondal and power – I had to replace it with another obsession. And
now that my obsession has vanished into thin air, it feels like a good and fitting end that I should
let nature take its course and vanish into thin air myself. Granted he and I may not end in the same
place…”

“You believe in Heaven and Hell?” Surprise registered in Kai’s voice.

He shook his head. “Not particularly no. But he did. And if my version of belief is true, it won’t
matter. If his is true, well I hope he’s happy. I suppose I just won’t be able to join him and that’ll
be the end of that.”

The statement was so matter-of-fact it was almost easy to miss the tremendous wave of pain
hidden behind it. The alcohol helped to hide it some, but as Yoongi lay there motionless, Kai knew
he was struggling to hold up the veil of detachment he so easily maintained whilst sober. It was the
talk of Death that reminded him of the creature he held in his pocket, and with a careful hand, he
scooped it out. He ran a gentle finger through the dusky brown feathers, grimacing as he wondered
where he’d gone wrong or if it was simply inevitable for the bird to pass.

“He alive?” Yoongi mumbled.

Kai turned with a twitch of surprise, not realising he’d been watching. He shook his head. “He died
at some point in there.”

Yoongi sat up, groaning as he ran his hand through his hair, before reaching out for the bird. Kai
gently let the small thing fall into his palm and watched as the boss examined it with
uncharacteristic gentleness.

“You didn’t cry over it did you?” he asked.

Kai shook his head immediately. “I still don’t know what kind of bird it is.”

“Huh. Well, if I’m not very much mistaken…” Yoongi tilted his head, eyes narrowed, before he
laughed a little. “I’ll be damned. It’s a nightingale.”

Kai never quite found out what that expression on Master Min’s face was as he handed back the
bird, but he made sure to give it a small funeral later of which he was the only attendee. He did
care for animals more than he cared for humans, but who could blame him?
It was December 30 th and the Christmas decorations were still up.

And yet Christmas hadn’t been celebrated. The condominium sat dead silent, and on the highest
floor, locked away behind two doors and a heavy padlocked chain, sat an even quieter prisoner.

Taehyung had become well accustomed to captivity by now. He received daily videos of his father,
as an assurance that he was still alive, and spent most of his time draining his mind into empty
hobbies. Surprisingly, art was one of them. At least when he was drawing, he was less focused on
all the unsaid things he kept in a box locked away in his mind. Things he’d always wanted to say to
the father he believed was dead.

Jimin didn’t come to visit him very often. Taehyung knew why. It wasn’t the excuse of heading up
the kingdom. It was simply reluctance to see what he’d done to the so-called love of his life. Their
lives had turned into a see-saw of Stockholm Syndrome, with either one having the upper hand at
different times. Right now, Taehyung had the shorter end of the stick, and Jimin couldn’t face the
reality - he was exactly what he’d feared he would turn into.

But on December 30, even he could not stay away.

The footsteps on the other side of the door were familiar. Every son of a bitch in this condo was
heavy-footed. But not him. If it were even humanly possible, Taehyung could have sworn he
glided, not walked. Soles kissed the ground in soft whispers, and he’d breeze past, smelling like a
flower-filled meadow, looking like a fallen angel from a Cabanel portrait. And when the door
opened, he brought that sweet fucking scent with him.

Taehyung’s fist crushed around the pencil, flipping it over and snapping it over the bridge of his
thumb. His ears burned crimson, breath laboured. Jimin’s very proximity was enough to send fury
rushing through him. How things had changed. The younger came close, delicate, unbothered,
trailing his finger over the sketchbook with a little smile.

“You’ve improved,” he murmured, voice tender with affection.

“Yeah?” Taehyung muttered, hiding the remains of the pencil under the table. “You came here to
evaluate stress-art?”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?” Jimin let out a bubbling laugh of delight. “How sweet. No, but
you really are good. Rest is doing you good.”

The corner of Taehyung’s eyes crinkled as he strove harder to suppress the homicidal urge to slam
Jimin’s face into the wood of the table. He was hoping the younger would leave, quickly. He
hadn’t visited in a couple days, and Ahmeti was the only daily visitor. Taehyung was doing just
fine without Jimin, or so he told himself. His eyes followed the journey of Jimin’s small hand, the
ring on his baby finger glittering in the sun. He was still talking, in that honey-drenched, velvet
voice that could make Taehyung’s cock stand to attention with a single word. Arousal, hatred and
anger were a powerful combination. Jimin’s arm brushed Taehyung’s shoulder, and it became too
much. His knee jerked, striking the underside of the table as his hands flew to grab the younger.
Whether he was intending to act on his arousal or his hatred was unclear.

Either way, Jimin wasn’t fucking around.

Before Taehyung could even pull him down, the cold barrel of a gun was jammed under his chin.
He hadn’t seen him pull it out. Both froze. Jimin’s eyes were wide, an expression of incredulity
painted over his features. Taehyung’s mouth was ground shut, eyes glimmering with black rage.
His hands dug into Jimin’s arms with bruising force, but he knew better than to try and budge them.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Jimin whispered.

“You’re the one with the gun,” Taehyung whispered back.

“Because they call you the Butcher and I’d be stupid to forget it.”

And yet he didn’t let him go. Instead, he gave into the insistent grip of Taehyung’s hands and
lowered himself onto his lap. It was no innocent motion. It was deliberate, straddling him whilst
maintaining eye contact and pressing the gun into his soft flesh. When Taehyung loosened his
fingers, Jimin let out a soft gasp of pain - the throbbing that followed was intense. His hand slipped
under the black tie looped around Taehyung’s neck, dewy rose lips parting as he leaned in and eyes
lustful as they took in every feature of his boyfriend’s face. The gun didn’t move.

“Get off,” Taehyung hissed, even as his own fingers slid up Jimin’s thighs, forcing him to straddle
tighter.

“Let me go then,” Jimin mumbled, both his hands now wrapped tight around the gun, shoulders
folding up a little as he pressed closer still. He liked that feeling of being small in Taehyung’s lap.
He liked how his tattooed hands grabbed at him and made him feel breakable. Most of all, he liked
how Taehyung knew it. “I miss you,” Jimin sighed, lips closing over his hard-edged jaw. “So
much.”

“No, you don’t. You miss my dick.” His spite was acerbic.

Jimin threw his head back and laughed, though the sound became more of a moan when Taehyung
shifted under him. The small distraction was enough for the older to hit the gun right out of his
hand. Jimin jerked, attempting to lunge for it, but Taehyung’s hands were like steel as they
clamped around his head and forced him still. He brought their faces close, breath ghosting over
Jimin’s lips.

“I thought you missed me,” he whispered, a smirk starting to form for the first time since Jimin had
entered.

The younger tensed and then slackened, brow furrowing. “I do,” he muttered, voice whiny with
plaintiveness. He was afraid, but he was trying not to show it. And in a way, the fear was getting
him off. Taehyung’s nose stroking up the centre of his throat; his large hands gripping his hair;
strong, firm thigh nudging up against Jimin’s crotch – they were all adding to the arousal.

“I brought you a gift,” Jimin mumbled.

“What?”

“It’s on the table by the door.”

Taehyung looked over his shoulder and saw the white box. “What is it?”

“A bluetooth vibrator. I thought you might like to watch how I squirm as you control it,” Jimin
purred. “You get to do what you want to me.”

“I want to kill you,” Taehyung said.

“Well, you could always try. Consider it a birthday present.”

Taehyung’s jaw clenched, and he looked down at his lap. Jimin’s smile faltered and his heart sank.
But then his lover looked up and the look in his eyes took his breath away. Pure, demented need.

The red velvet suit was off within minutes, and Jimin was spread on the desk like Taehyung’s
favourite dish. The sketchbook was still under him, pencils scattered about. Neither cared. He was
moaning already, soft and quiet, in between gentle pants as he traced his fingertips up and down his
own chest. In the pale sunlight, his dark hair was encircled by a halo, dusted all over his forehead
and the table underneath; it fringed his forehead, shaving years off his age. Taehyung had never
said it outright, but Jimin knew how much visible vulnerability on his face got him off. It was why
his tan fingers trembled as he stroked them down the smooth line of the younger’s jaw, caressing
his chin and smiling as he mewled.

“I want to please you, Daddy…” Jimin breathed out. Usually, the nickname came out when his
blood was racing. But it felt natural to almost whisper it out, as soft as Taehyung used
‘nightingale’. He inhaled, running his hands down to his abdomen and sucking his lower lip into
his mouth, plump and wet. “It’s your birthday. You deserve it…”

He put his entire index finger into his mouth until it was thoroughly coated in saliva and then
brought it down to his hole, circling the puckered rim. Eyes rolled back into his head, pleasured
mumbles echoing as he teased the sensitive skin. He didn’t notice Taehyung walk over to the door
and bring over the box until he began to rip it open. He flung aside the packaging carelessly and
checked the sex toy was fully charged before flipping it over in his hand.

“Here, use my phone, it’s got the app on it – “ Jimin murmured, reaching for his jacket. Taehyung
slapped his hand away with a “I know where it is” and dug into the breast pocket, pulling it out.

“Passcode?” he grunted.
“3012,” Jimin replied.

“You know you shouldn’t put birthdays as passcodes.”

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things, but here we are.”

There it was. Jimin saw him bite back a smile and that in turn made him preen in satisfaction. He
relaxed, doe eyes soft as he gazed adoringly at his boyfriend’s face. But it didn’t last long.
Taehyung figured out how to use the app quick enough, but ignored Jimin pointing out that the
lube was also in the box. Before his boyfriend’s stunned eyes, Taehyung put the sex toy to his
mouth and licked it, taking it between his lips so that it would be coated in saliva.

“Fuck – what are you – FUCK!” Jimin’s confused inquiry turned into a scream as Taehyung
pushed in the first inch of the vibrator into him. “Fucking asshole! I told you to use the fucking
lube – mmmffhhh!”

He was silenced by Taehyung’s fingers prising into his cheeks, forcing his lips into a pout and
killing his ability to speak. He had the most intense look in his eyes, mouth open as he breathed
deep and kept pushing the toy between Jimin’s clenched walls. The pain wasn’t unbearable but it
was enough to make Jimin’s pants quicken as his fists clenched. Once it was fully in, Taehyung let
go of his face and he let out a desperate gasp of relief.

“See? Wasn’t that bad, you big baby,” Taehyung mocked.

“Please don’t ever fuck me without prep,” Jimin gasped, unshed tears falling out as he blinked. “I
think your dick would actually kill me without lube.”

Taehyung grunted, finger sliding over the screen. Jimin tensed, preparing for the discomfort of
having an unlubricated orgasm with a sex toy shoved deep in his ass. But it wasn’t as bad as he’d
imagined. The lack of lube increased the grating friction the minute the toy began to vibrate. His
surprised gasps turned into lilting croons, as he turned over onto his front, lifting on his knees.
Taehyung’s eyes flickered between his quivering hole clenched desperately around the toy and his
blissed out face, lips gleaming with spit. He reached out to flick the tail of the vibrator and Jimin
full out moaned, glancing back at him with an almost betrayed expression.

“It’s so good,” he whispered, like it was an accusation.

Taehyung set the phone down and flicked his finger across it. Jimin twitched, voice breaking as the
vibrations increased. His tongue was poking out between his lips, eyelashes fluttering. Taehyung
reached out to trace a finger down the wet, pink flesh and Jimin opened his eyes, cheeks dusted
pink and the tip of nose turning the same colour.

“You look like a puppy with your tongue hanging out,” his boyfriend teased, eyes crinkling into
sweet crescents. It was such a long time since Jimin had seen him smile like that, his own
expression melted and he giggled. It didn’t last long. Taehyung pinched his tongue and pulled it
further out of his mouth, lips drawing back from his teeth in a snarl. “Wicked little devil tongue. I
should rip it out.”

Jimin batted his eyelids and jerked his head a little to make him release. “Please don’t…”

Taehyung stared at him, and then abruptly, heightened the speed of the toy and lunged his head
down to kiss him. Jimin’s scream was lost into his mouth, a small hand flying up to claw at
Taehyung’s shirt. The kiss was sloppy, wild, wet. Perfect. Jimin practically sobbed “I love you” as
he had his first orgasm and Taehyung answered with a hearty spank to his ass, shoving him close to
a second orgasm with barely a breather from the first. Jimin almost lost his balance and tipped
forward off the table had it not been for his lover’s large hand grabbed onto his thigh, keeping him
anchored. Taehyung’s face pressed into his hair and through his hiccups, Jimin heard him inhale
deep.

“You love me, huh? Slut,” he hissed.

Jimin’s entire body shivered with an inimitable thrill at the word rolling off Taehyung’s tongue
like liquor. He nodded, biting into his lip as he tried to keep his second orgasm at bay. It was going
to start hurting in a minute with the lack of lube. Taehyung moved around behind him and stroked
his tongue over the stretched rim of his hole, as the toy sent shockwaves through Jimin’s nervous
system. His calves kicked up, one after the other and he was keening, loud and desperate, as his
forehead touched the table. His prostate throbbed and fuck the second orgasm hit like a freight
truck. Taehyung’s teeth clamped around the tail of the toy, elongating the severity of sensations by
pulling it out of him as Jimin came and came and came. He’d practically screamed himself hoarse
by the time the sex toy was out, breathless and sweaty, going limp against the desk.

By the time Taehyung’s turn came to get naked, Jimin was almost slack in his arms, breathing
shallow and ragged. He used lube this time, sliding into Jimin’s swollen opening with relative
ease. The younger kept whimpering “Fu-ucckk” under his breath as Taehyung’s thrusts sped up,
bouncing his smaller frame in his arms as he sought his own release. Jimin’s ankles locked behind
his back, begging him to use him as he pleased. It was as if he were hunting for forgiveness
through Taehyung’s relentless destruction of his body.
And it was destruction alright.

An hour and a half in, and Jimin’s windpipe felt like it was one giant bruise, and still, he kept
pleading for Taehyung’s hands around it like a choker. His thighs were savaged by bites, and his
neck was much worse off. He was pretty sure he’d strained his wrist from having it twisted behind
his back too hard but he barely noticed as his feet hammered the ground with his umpteenth
orgasm. He’d lost count of those too. No sooner was he down from one high, then his boyfriend’s
feral growl was drilling into his ear, forcing him towards another. He took it all like a heavyweight.
Drool, cum and tears marred his beautiful face as he lay sprawled under him like his very own doll,
and still, Jimin parted his legs like it was the only instinct he had. Taehyung looked no better. He
was scratched up, blood smeared over tan skin, lip cut from an extra hard bite of Jimin’s teeth,
bruises forming on his arms where his lover had gripped too hard.

Their last orgasm was mutual, with Jimin pressed to the fogged up window, body vibrating like a
drill as he came soundlessly. Taehyung had a mouthful of his shoulder, teeth snagged into the flesh
to drown out his stunted scream as he rutted like an animal, drawing out what he could before his
energy slackened. Jimin could barely feel his own limbs, sweat cooling on his forehead and
dripping into his eyes as he slid down the glass, still wrapped in Taehyung’s arms. They sank into
the window seat, the younger sprawled over the elder.

Jimin was close to passing out, the rhythm of Taehyung’s chest, lulling. He noticed when it
faltered. His eyes opened, blank as they stared into empty space. It happened again – the stutter of
Taehyung’s ribcage as if he was holding in a sob – and Jimin raised his head as much as he could
without feeling dizzy. Taehyung had his arm flung over his eyes, but there was a certain set to his
mouth that Jimin knew well. It was turned down at the corner, bottom lip slightly sucked in to keep
it sealed shut. Jimin’s hands trembled as he tried to lift his arm away, mumbling as he pressed
kisses all over his boyfriend’s chin.

“Why are you crying?” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s your birthday, don’t cry…” It was such a
stupid thing to say and he knew as soon as he said. He wasn’t a child to comfort. But it was the
first thing that came to mind to make him stop.

Taehyung let his arm fall away, revealing reddened, glassy eyes. Jimin’s heart clenched and
shattered into a thousand pieces as his thumb stroked over those long, fluttering lashes, tears
clinging to them like dewdrops. His own bottom lip quivered as he pressed kisses to the side of
Taehyung’s face. It was like everything that he used as a defence was broken down, and his
emotions were rubbed raw, every last one heightened. And the sight of his boyfriend crying was
the trigger.

“Go back to your birth right and leave me alone,” Taehyung managed to croak out.
Jimin’s breath escaped him like the first notes of a death rattle. Summoning the last ounce of
energy he had, he heaved himself off Taehyung, landing on the rug below the settee. The post-sex
glow had a funny way of numbing reality. He felt the pain, but he found no suitable reaction to
unleash it. His legs quaked as he dragged himself to his feet, but lost his balance and promptly fell
against the table. Jimin’s body sank, forehead lowering to touch the wood with shaky breaths. In
the glass reflection, he saw how split his lips were, kissed and bitten so much they were visibly
swollen in size. There was a cut on his cheek he didn’t remember getting.

“How can you fuck me like that, and then tell me to leave?” he rasped.

The accusation in his voice was rampant and he loathed it. It felt like a sucker punch to the gut. A
role reversal that he had never seen coming. This was his thing. He was the one who let Taehyung
fuck him like an animal and then turned over in the bed to give the cold shoulder. He was the one
who was the victim. He was the one who had been hard done by. Not this man who had killed
countless souls and had stabbed the one he proclaimed to love straight through the chest.

For a while now, he had been operating with the mindset of a victim determined to end his
powerless state. Jimin only now understood how many things he’d gotten away with in light of his
own conscience. Telling himself he was the victim was one way to come to terms with what he had
become. But there was a point of no return and it was etched in the black caverns of his lover’s
eyes.

Taehyung sat up, looking in an equal amount of pain and physical distress as Jimin. There was
always a tinge of regret after sex like this. Regret over going so hard when there would always be a
next time. It’s what they both forgot, because fucking like there was no tomorrow was the only
thing they were both good at.

“Get out. You got what you wanted,” Taehyung scoffed hoarsely, reaching for a packet of
cigarettes on the table. He lit one up with that dexterous ease he never lost when he did small
actions like this. The kind that could still make Jimin’s insides quiver.

He slid off the table, staying on his feet by sheer willpower alone and walked over to sit beside
Taehyung. They both smelt of sweat and sex, but the older had on cologne and it was heady,
stroked across his pulse points which only moments ago had been hammering. Jimin wanted to
lean in, inhale, and never lean away. He curled his fingers under Taehyung’s chin, coaxing him to
turn his head.

“I haven’t fed you birthday cake yet, my love,” he said.

He was so beautiful it broke Jimin’s heart. It was unfair that he should have a face that belied his
actions. Though he had no doubt that if Taehyung were less good-looking, Jimin would still have
spread his legs for him at every available opportunity. As much as he lied to himself about it, he
thirsted for his lover’s chaos because it gave him pleasure when those hands that hurt and abused
his enemies, laid themselves all over him.

This new being honest with himself policy was rather efficient.

Taehyung put the cigarette back to his lips and shook his head. “Leave.”

“But I don’t want to.” Jimin’s voice lowered to mask the crack in it. It was all he could do not to let
his bottom lip tremble as heat sprung to his face. Having as many orgasms as he had done usually
made him emotional, hence why they communicated the best during and after sex. But he didn’t
want to be vulnerable this way. And he certainly didn’t want to leave Taehyung. A small hand
slipped across the larger man’s chest, Jimin’s breath ghosting soft and tender over the skin of his
shoulder as he leaned in. “I would do anything for you, my love. You know that. But I can’t let you
leave this place until I know you won’t return to your old habits. It’s been a recurring nightmare to
be woken up and told you’ve overdosed. That’s not how I want you to leave me Taehyung. At least
if I lost you in gang-related violence, I would have something to focus my anger on, a vengeful
route to take. But with drugs, I have nothing except hatred of myself and hating that I didn’t try
harder to help you.”

Taehyung’s cheekbones stretched into a smile that was more of a grimace. “Yeah, we all know
how skilled you are at the revenge game.”

Jimin pursed up his lips and then deflated. “Alright, if you need your space, I’ll leave you alone.”
He heaved himself to his feet, trying not to wince as every muscle in his body shrieked in vehement
protest. He was just about to bend to pick up his scattered clothes when Taehyung spoke again.

“Let me see my Dad.”

Jimin stopped what he was doing, freezing mid-motion. Taehyung had asked for this before. But it
was during heated fights, tantrums, screaming matches. Never like this. With his voice chalky and
hoarse, and his body covered in marks of their sexual battles. There was something different about
this plea. Jimin turned, and in the sunlight, the halo returned to his dark hair, softening his features
and making them sweet. Taehyung’s eyes turned honey-brown as they glanced at him, but the gaze
stuck, mesmerised by the simple effect of natural light. He never needed much to be stunned by
Jimin’s beauty.
“Y-you want to see your Dad?” Jimin murmured, sitting beside him again. Obvious question. But it
wasn’t asked for that purpose.

Taehyung lost the steel in his expression and shakily tapped his cigarette into the ash tray on the
table. He swallowed, and then nodded. Jimin’s brow furrowed and he sucked his bottom lip into
his mouth with a quiet sound of sympathy. A hand went back up to cup under Taehyung’s jaw, a
shiver running through Jimin as he felt how firm and moulded it was.

“You can see your Dad,” he said.

Taehyung’s shoulders tensed. “Really?” His eyes widened and for a moment, Jimin saw the
abandoned little boy with Daddy issues leap to the surface. The big eyes, the big ears, the big nose
and the cherubic hope that the parent who had run away would realise he’d made a mistake and
come running back to save him. It was all he needed to nod emphatically, not trusting himself to
speak at first. Eyes sparkling with tears he couldn’t explain, Jimin whispered, “Under strict
supervision. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust him. His reputation precedes him and I
won’t have him doing something to you.”

“He’s my dad, why would he – “

“He’s a recovering addict and a schizophrenic. We’ve had him on steady medications but that
doesn’t mean he’s changed as a person. I know you consider him your father but he ran away for a
woman he couldn’t have and sacrificed the son he should have kept. Murdering my parents aside, I
wouldn’t have liked your father very much regardless, Tae.”

Jimin explained as gently as he could, but the kick of betrayal in Taehyung’s eyes wouldn’t leave.
But, whereas once he would have thrown a fit and paced back and forth in his determination to
bring Jimin around to his viewpoint, he simply nodded now and accepted it. The relief was
palpable. He clearly hadn’t expected Jimin to give in and it only solidified the power exchange that
had taken place between them.

“I love you,” Jimin said after a length of time, fingers squeezing into Taehyung’s bicep. When he
didn’t get a response at first, he buried his dejection and started to reach for his jacket again. But
then –

“I love you too, nightingale.” And his large hand came down to rest on the crook of Jimin’s knee,
sliding up to his thigh a little. The next moment, Taehyung frowned and then looked up at him.
“Did your cock just twitch?”
“What? No – “ Jimin tried to pull his leg away but Taehyung’s shit-eating grin returned with
frightening speed and he was pulling it right back.

“I think it twitched when I called you nightingale – “

“It did not!”

“Wait – “ he leaned in and Jimin crumbled, almost whimpering as Taehyung grabbed his arm too,
anchoring him. His chest was heaving as his boyfriend’s silken lips lapped at his ear, and
whispered those three words. He gave it about a quarter of a minute, noticing nothing had
happened in Jimin’s southern region. And then he let out, “…nightingale” and just as he’d said, the
younger man’s shaft jerked. It was more of a jerk now and it was getting harder by the second.

“I’m sorry for being turned on when you profess not to hate me,” Jimin scowled.

“Oh come now, don’t be pouty,” Taehyung growled, “you know how I love to bite your pouts
when you get all mad…”

“Get away – “ Jimin pushed his hand into Taehyung’s cheek and tried to turn him away but the
older was already pulling him into his lap, practically making him topple onto his knees. Jimin let
out a scream of pain before he could stop himself, and immediately Taehyung ceased his teasing.

“What?” he said anxiously, large hands cupped around his slim waist.

“Nothing…just be careful. I have bruises all over…” Jimin mumbled, settling himself at a slower
pace to straddle him. He sank against Taehyung’s broad chest, whining under his breath as the solid
heat of him did its work in erecting his shaft. The pain was sort of delicious. It hurt in the best way,
stretching out his already exhausted muscles, Taehyung’s gentler touch becoming the balm on his
wounds. He was careful now, asking Jimin if he was ready, massaging his back, his thighs (careful
not to press against the bruises) and leaving soft kisses all over the top of his collarbones as he
waited for him to adjust.

Finally, Jimin mumbled “ready” and Taehyung’s freshly lubed-up fingers slipped between his ass
cheeks, massaging the cold, soothing liquid over his sore hole. He shuddered in a confusing mix of
pain and pleasure, nipples hard against Taehyung’s tongue as he rutted gently, getting his cock
some much needed friction against the hard line of his boyfriend’s abdomen.
He sank down on him with a breathy sigh, arms wrapping tight around Taehyung’s neck and
shoulders as he felt the familiar stretch. Taehyung’s hands smoothed over his ass cheeks and then
under, stroking back up and making them bounce. A constant croon of agonised pleasure
reverberated from Jimin’s vocal chords as he rested his head in the crook of his lover’s neck and let
him do the hard work. When he came, his thighs clamped, shivering and tight, as his cock lodged
against Taehyung’s abdomen and his rectal walls spasmed over and over. “Don’t bite,” he begged,
knowing the other wouldn’t be able to resist the urge the moment his climax hit. He obeyed for
once, soft lips pressing to Jimin’s shoulder instead as large hands held the younger’s small frame
tight. Their moans dissolved into whimpers as they clung to each other and floated in the dusky
post-orgasmic haze. Jimin turned his head first, lips pushed tight against Taehyung’s jawline as he
mumbled something along the general sentiment of love.

They keeled sideways on the settee, Jimin releasing a steady streams of pained whimpers as his
entire body ached. He was like a limp doll in Taehyung’s arms, attempting to curl up as his lover
nuzzled into his neck with soft grunts of exhaustion, caramel-coloured fingers spreading over the
porcelain of Jimin’s skin. Every bruise he came over, the smaller winced, until finally he had to ask
–

“If it hurts so much, why do you egg me on to do it?” he murmured.

“To do what?”

“Hurt you.”

Jimin hesitated. “Because I need the pain, to help me…feel. I live in a vast expanse of grey, and
your hands give it colour.”

“My love doesn’t?”

“It does.”

“But it’s not enough.”

“No.”

“Was it ever enough?”

“No.”

Silence.

Jimin spoke again. “But I could never live without it. Ever. If I lost you, the grey would fade to
black and whenever my world turns black, I drown. It’s a terrible paradox but grey is progress.”

“Honesty’s a good shade on you.”

Jimin burst into sparkling giggles, body shaking as they burst from him like bubbles of light.
Taehyung’s face melted into a smile too, cheek pressed to his lover’s chest as it gurgled with
delight. It finally felt like his birthday.

Jimin was true to his word about the cake. He took him downstairs, red velvet suit back on after a
quick shower, with Taehyung dressed in denim jeans and an open collar black shirt. His hair was
swept off his forehead by a bandana of the same shade, and the lingering touch of power was all
over him once more as he walked down the hallways of the condo, side by side with Jimin. Every
guard they passed bowed his head in acknowledgement, eyes following Taehyung’s gait. Jimin
wasn’t stupid – he knew they all wished for the return of the more dynamic leader. But he wasn’t
here to act out a Godfather movie and turn Geomjeong-pa into an action set. He was here to keep it
held together until something had to give and he could find some way to escape once and for all
and take Taehyung with him. Or convince Taehyung to come with him. There was the little snag
named Kim Bong Ju in the equation.

“Where is he?” Taehyung asked, as Jimin lifted a forkful of cake to his mouth. He opened his
mouth and chomped down on it obediently but his large eyes remained glued to Jimin’s face,
waiting for an answer.

“Downstairs. In one of the interrogation bunkers,” Jimin admitted. The interrogation bunkers were
built to imitate police interrogation rooms, with the added joy of extreme torture. But despite
allowing himself the joy of watching a few of his hunch men rough Bong Ju up the first day, Jimin
had left orders for him not to be harmed. Besides, the man spent most of his time cowering in a
corner of the room when he wasn’t doped out on medication. Revenge didn’t feel as good as he
thought it would. Fantasies rarely matched up to reality, and it was such a basic truth he was angry
at himself for not grasping it sooner.

“I want to go now. I’ve waited long enough,” Taehyung mumbled through a mouthful of icing.
Jimin leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, licking up some of the white sweetness. “We can
go. But it’s the first day. I can only let you see him through the one-way mirror – “

“Why – “

“I swear I’m not doing this to be cruel, but baby steps. You haven’t seen him in so long, and he
hasn’t seen you either. I think it’ll be overwhelming for you, especially on your birthday and I’d
rather you come to terms with having him close by first and then work on how you’ll approach
him. Besides, he may or may not be stable and I don’t want to risk anything.”

Despite Taehyung’s clear reluctance to agree, he could see Jimin truly did not mean any harm by it.
Despite the younger’s avidity in hiding his emotions, he knew him far too well to not see his
earnestness. So, he nodded and agreed for the sake of agreeing, impatient and barely able to keep
any of the cake down. It was a strange, cold sort of birthday, even with Jimin there. In the past,
Taehyung had always celebrated with plenty of drunken friends around him, guns and knives
wedged into holsters, and a city full of entertainment to indulge in. He wasn’t used to such
quietness.

But he was grateful for it when they finally descended down the elevator into the basement level.
He was grateful for Jimin’s hand slipping into his when his heart suffocated his throat. Even
though he had to pull it away when the doors opened, Taehyung was grateful to have him there,
leading him. Because despite being down here a dozen times, he’d suddenly forgotten his way. His
mind was a blank buzz of negative emotion, as every insecurity he’d ever had regarding his father,
roared like a chimaera and attacked his jugular. Jimin kept glancing back at him, worry in his eyes,
and saw only a stony expression, dark eyebrows pulled together.

The door opened into the small antechamber looking into the interrogation bunker and the single
guard who sat inside, stood to attention. He hurriedly pulled out his earphones, phone dropping to
the floor. Jimin kicked it around and snorted when he saw a Hugh Jackman romcom paused on the
Netflix app.

“Having fun?” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir. But he fell asleep and – “

“Get out,” Jimin cut him off.

He bowed and left his phone on the ground as he scurried towards the doorway. Taehyung was still
standing there, not moving to let him past, until finally, the guard had to push himself out. He
looked positively queasy doing so but Taehyung gave him no reaction. From his vantage point, he
couldn’t yet see the window looking into the room.

“Come on,” Jimin said softly, standing at one end of the window frame as he waited for his
boyfriend to approach.

Slowly, Taehyung left his post at the door, releasing it to let it swing shut once more. He looked
about ready to throw up, face blanched of all colour. A hand reached out to touch the wall for
support, and Jimin began to walk forward, afraid he might collapse. But Taehyung shook his head
slightly, as if to say he was fine. By the time he got before the window, he had his fist pressed to
his mouth to disguise the quivering of his lips, and his jaw was set. He stopped at the right corner,
eyes blinking as they adjusted to the light inside the bunker.

Bong Ju was asleep, curled up on a bed to which he’d been handcuffed. He was on suicide watch,
but Jimin didn’t know how to tell Taehyung or if he should.

Minutes passed, and Bong Ju’s son stared at him in silence. His shoulders slowly relaxed, fist
coming away from his mouth. The sparkle in his eye was visible even despite the dim lighting,
cheeks reddening up. There it was, the tremble in his bottom lip as he tilted his head slightly, like
one might do when observing a terrible tragedy. Hands pressed to the window, fingers splayed out
and his forehead touched the glass next. Every breath he drew in, shivered, releasing in a dry sob.
When he finally let his eyes close, fat tears dropped from each, sparkling like rough gems before
they struck the window sill and shattered. He stood with his head against the glass and cried like a
child getting his heart broken all over again.

Jimin stared at him, transfixed. His own heart was clutched in an icy fist of misery, but he couldn’t
get himself to move. He’d never seen such raw grief on Taehyung’s face, the closest being when
Hoseok had passed. But this was different. This was something more primal, harking back to a
time when he still stood a chance of not becoming what he was today. All Jimin could do was
watch as Taehyung was stripped down to the most pained version of himself, sobs echoing through
the quiet room.

Finally, he jerked forward and reached for him. The minute his hands touched his shoulders,
Taehyung collapsed against him. The sudden crumpling of his whole weight took Jimin by
surprise, and he tried to support him but as the taller sank to the ground, he had no choice but to go
down with him. He held him close, cheek pressed to the top of his hair as Taehyung shook all over.
Jimin tried to say something, anything, to make him stop, but nothing materialised in his mind.
Instead, he used his own sleeve to wipe the tears, the snot, the drool – cleaning him up, and trying
to joke about it with a broken, “You’re such an ugly crier, I love you.” Taehyung’s lips stretched as
if he were about to smile but it was only a fresh wave of sobs. Jimin let himself fall back against
the wall and cradled him, his eyes dewy as he held Taehyung’s head to his chest. Whatever this
onslaught of emotion was, it would manifest later in much sharper ways, for better or for worse.
Jimin wished it would stay to tears alone, but things never worked out so easily for them.

So he traced patterns on his boyfriend’s tear-stained cheek and whispered that he loved him, all the
while nurturing a growing suspicion that Taehyung would always love the man in the next room
more.

Funny how he could have planned ahead a decade the second flames first consumed his home, but
nothing could defeat fate’s twisted tendency to bring things back into a full, deformed circle. Here
he sat, with neither revenge nor the great love his mother always dreamed of.

Here he sat with nothing but his arms full of the most beautiful boy in the world and a grey heart
tainted by growing inkblots of black.
 Taehyungie
Chapter Notes

TW: Extreme Violence, Mention of suicide

I don't know if this chapter makes much sense in the flow of things because it's been
so long, but I tried. Oof. It was a monster. 28k words almost, people.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Ode to a Nightingale – John Keats

Many emotions in the world wrought havoc on the human heart, but none so much as betrayal.
Jimin likened it to a honey-coated knife, sliced through the ribcage with a blade serrated like shark
teeth. Taehyung asked what the honey was for. Jimin answered, So you can remove the pieces of
my heart after and enjoy them as delicacies. Second time lucky and all that. This conversation had
occurred a while ago, the rancour long gone, but he still sat and thought about it on nights he
couldn’t sleep, of how two such awful people could still point fingers and lay blame on the other
when they fought.
But they didn’t fight much anymore.

They were numb, adamant on holding onto one another in a world that had truly left them stranded.
The top of the mountain remained lonely place, with little oxygen and freezing temperatures that
made body heat sparse. But two was better than one when it came to love.

The bubble of disassociation strengthened with each passing day. Jimin preferred to watch
Taehyung sitting in the small antechamber room, as he observed his father who remained
unawares, rather than go play his part as the sajangnim of Geomjeong-pa. He had given up. He
knew what Madame Go and the other district bosses were doing. Encroaching on territory that
wasn’t theirs, stepping out of their lanes to meet their own ends. Most especially, he knew Seokjin
was actively laying the foundations to retrieve his throne. The handful of men who were still loyal
to him, still loyal to Taehyung even, kept him informed in the hopes that he would order them to
retaliate. They were thirsty for blood, and the longer Jimin went without satisfying them, the
likelier it was they’d switch sides. He didn’t care anymore. The world was closing in and all he
could do was curl up in a dark room, watching the love of his life stare at his father as if an ocean
divided them and not just a single wall and door.

Jimin envied him and loved Taehyung in the same breath; had that been his mother in the other
room, he wouldn’t have been as hesitant. He would have been in there, arms wrapped around her,
crying into her shoulder like the young child he still couldn’t expel from deep within. But instead
he watched the strongest man he knew, sit hunched over, dark eyes motionless and focused, mouth
turned down, as if the meaning of life resided in the ageing man in the next room. Those once
coarse palms that held guns like they were a natural extension of his limbs, now tugged anxiously
at the hems of his expensive tailored shirts. So brave, always, but in this matter, he remained a
nervous wreck.

It was all he thought about - Jimin knew this. And he was starting to wither under the knowledge
that he was not the only thing on his lover’s mind anymore. He wanted to be. Once upon a time,
Jimin wanted Taehyung to stop obsessing over him as if he were some prettily dressed prize to
covet and possess. And now, all he wanted was the thirsty fire to return to those black eyes eyes
and for Taehyung’s greedy hands to manipulate every inch of his body like he truly meant it.

Dressed all in white one evening, this desire for attention in the younger reached new heights.
When the clock struck eight pm, Taehyung got up from the dinner table and summoned Chrollo –
the usual sign that he would go down to stare at his father for hours and have the dog curled up at
his feet. Jimin interrupted the routine, by reaching out a hand and grabbing his wrist. The way
Taehyung’s eyes turned on him made him shiver, as if he were a stranger who had no right to be
there. But the expression lasted about a second, and his expression melted into one of quiet inquiry.

“Stay a minute. Your father’s not going anywhere,” Jimin said gently.
“You can come and sit there with me,” Taehyung said, missing the point.

Jimin sighed, pressing his lips together as he lowered his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with a
napkin. “Tae, we haven’t slept in the same bed since I took you down there to see him. And I’m
not about to bring a sleeping bag to join yours. You either man up and go in there to face him, or
you return to the real world and act like you have other commitments to attend to.”

Taehyung chewed his lip for a moment. The cogs were clearly turning his head. He began to pull
away and Jimin uttered, “Please,” surprising even himself with the quiet desperation evident in his
voice. Chrollo whined, padding back and forth, looking from one to the other, sensing the restless
energy and not liking it one bit. He did not like it when he saw them at odds with each other.

“I want to talk to him,” Taehyung blurted out and then when he saw Jimin’s shoulders sink, added,
“And then after, I’ll come upstairs to sleep. I promise.”

He sighed, knowing nothing would come of it. It wasn’t the first time Taehyung had claimed he
could walk into that sparsely furnished room and speak to his father like a man. Every single time
he’d chickened out and this would be no different. But for duty’s sake, he accompanied the older
downstairs, with Chrollo in tow. As Jimin opened the room to the antechamber, he switched on the
thermostat and started reminding Taehyung to turn the lights off when he fell asleep, fussing at
him in another one of those strange instances of domesticity. But he was to get no answer. Turning,
he saw him standing at the door to the main chamber, face pale, jaw set.

“Open it,” he said simply.

Jimin didn’t ask if he was sure. He didn’t think twice. He vanished into the smaller room and hit
the control panel, opening up the door before he could change his mind and ask Taehyung if he
was positively certain he was ready. For all that Jimin had been impatient for him to make
progress, when it came down to it, he looked more nervous than the other and waited with bated
breath as the door slowly opened in the other room. Bong Ju was reclined on the bed, an arm
thrown over his eyes, the very vision of a man defeated. Jimin brushed his hand over Chrollo’s
head as the dog scampered past, hurrying to crawl into the bed set up for him, amber eyes blinking
slow as he observed the man riveted on the scene before him. Taehyung’s eyes looked larger than
normal, and Jimin saw him visibly swallow a couple times, to wet his parched throat. Bong Ju
didn’t move. Taehyung kept clenching and unclenching his fists and the sheen of sweat on his
forehead was visible even from this distance. He was dressed in a white shirt and slacks, something
indescribably innocent about his demeanour as he stared at his father with bated breath.

Bong Ju’s arm shifted and he lifted his head. Their eyes locked. Jimin abruptly turned away, his
own full of hot tears and hands shaking at his sides before he too tightened them into fists. He
missed his mother. The feeling hit him like a punch to the gut and he realised that no matter how
much he loved Kim Taehyung, he couldn’t bear to stand here and watch him reunite with the father
who had taken what Jimin loved most in the world. He wasn’t that selfless. Wiping the tears as
they rolled down his cheek hot and fast, he left the room, practically running towards the ground
level, and dry-eyed by the time he stepped through the elevator and out into the entrance hall. The
rippling waters of the tank shimmered blue over his stark white face, and his black eyes washed
out to an eerie grey, ridding his reflection of all emotion.

When life gets too painful…dance.

Jo Hara’s words were always innocuous, if genius. She had her way of soothing her son’s troubles
by encouraging him to dance with her. They waltzed, fox-trotted and twirled their worries away
whenever she could get him to agree. The older he got, the harder it got. At some point, Jimin no
longer wanted to dance away the knowledge that his father was an abusive drunk who hated both
him and his mother. But she never changed. Her consistency was childish and once he was older,
he only agreed to keep her from being upset. But ever since she’d died, he’d danced just the way
she’d asked of him, whenever the pain hit like a lorry full of explosives. And he danced a lot,
mostly alone, sometimes with Taehyung watching, sometimes with his boyfriend, slowly, teaching
him each step until he was able to move with Jimin seamlessly enough.

Jimin’s fingers stroked over the speakers dock on the nightstand in their shared bedroom and his
finger slid randomly over the most listened to playlist. Lana Del Rey’s soft, hazy vocals mellowed
through the air, as the first harmonious chords of The Next Best American Record wrapped around
him like the embrace of an old friend.

Loose white trousers and a white shirt, he hadn’t changed out of his night clothes since this
morning. There seemed no point. In the deceptive silence that enclosed the condominium, time
seemed to have stopped, needing nothing to signify its passing by the humdrum activity of
changing his attire. Lifting a white chiffon scarf off the back of a chair, Jimin span it over his head,
releasing it and letting it float softly down over his face.

Whatever's on tonight, I just wanna party with you

Topanga's hot tonight, I'm taking off my bathing suit
You made me feel like there's something that I never knew
I wanted~

He danced for his mother.

When he danced for Taehyung, there was always a hint of seduction, an allure, to bring him closer
and leave him helpless to the sensuous sway of Jimin’s carefully constructed movements. But for
her, it was innocence and a guileless energy that had him spinning and dancing off the furniture
with light leaps and bounds. Through the translucence of the white scarf, he could almost picture
her sitting in the chair by the window, clapping her small hands in delight as she cheered him on.
No one had so unconditionally supported and loved him as she had done, and it was a sentiment
strong enough to weave itself into his daydreams. Of her, just sitting in a corner, watching.

The illusion shattered when he breezed past the window and his head turned, catching sight of a
reflection in his peripheral vision. Jimin drifted back down to Earth, realising the song had
changed. When?

Taehyung stood in the doorway, arms folded before him as he gazed in silence. Jimin’s eyes held
all the questions he couldn’t get himself to ask. When they widened so, it was as if the stars
themselves sank into their depths, turning them into mirror pools of light. If he had inquired,
Taehyung only had one answer.

He covered the distance between them within seconds and then they were kissing. Their lips
conjoined, soft and wet, Taehyung’s tongue seeking out the heat of Jimin’s as his breath left him in
a muted gasp. His hand slipped from the smaller male’s face down to his throat, wrapping around it
with ease as the kiss became desperate. Words would still not come. He drowned in the taste of his
lover, the heat of his body and the pearly tinge of his breath, the only things he was able to register
in the muffled quiet of the room. They were on the bed before Jimin could ask again, Taehyung’s
hands stroking over the smooth satin of his abdomen under the lifted shirt, fingers tracing the
perfect planes of his pelvic bone.

Jimin’s questions slipped out of his mind when he arched, hands locking behind Taehyung’s neck
and legs wrapping around his firm waist. The dancing had already made him loosen up some, a
thin sheen of sweat coating his neck, instantly licked up by his boyfriend’s tongue, all the way up
until it found his lips once more. The brush of his large hands was relatively soft on Jimin’s toned
thighs, but the first thrust of his cock deep into him was anything but. The force sent the smaller
the rest of the way up the pillows, head almost striking the board behind it, until Taehyung’s hand
slammed the wood and kept it from colliding with Jimin’s skull. The air left the younger’s lungs in
a hefty gasp as he gazed up at Taehyung with stunned eyes; that first dizzy rush of penetration was
always intense, but this was something more. Taehyung’s hand came down to alight on Jimin’s
neck once more, as he maintained leverage on the headboard with the other. Slowly at first,
Taehyung squeezes his fingers into the creamy skin of the boy’s throat, rolling his hips back and
winding them forward. Deep, slow, lustful strokes, making sure Jimin felt every inch of his ridged,
swollen cock caressing his tightened, sensitive walls. His expression was focused, as he set up a
steady pace, fingers expertly massaging the pulse points in Jimin’s neck.

Jimin’s hips matched his with persistent need, back arching, thighs clamped. Every stroke of his
cock against velvety walls had him moaning, sweet and drawn out, face flushed and hair damp with
sweat. He could hardly breathe, and Taehyung’s hand on his throat wasn’t helping. But he never
wanted him to remove it. He wanted the familiar weight of it there, pinning him down, his wet
thrusts echoing in his ears as he whispered how perfect Jimin felt around him. His hips snapped
with harder force, thrusts shortening, moaning under his breath as Jimin clenched harder in
response. “Right there, baby?” he whispered tenderly, and Jimin almost melted, even as his small
frame shook. “Do you want my cock there, Jimin-ie? Right – here – “ Two double thrusts in quick
succession and he jammed himself inside, keeping the pressure on Jimin’s prostate as he urged him
to come.

The younger was crying at this point, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he cried out that
yes, yes, yes, he wanted him right there. He desperately rolled up his hips in response to
Taehyung’s, his insides coiled with a fire that spread through him. His cock twitched and started to
spray out ropes of cum all over his chest and the underside of his chin, but the pressure of
Taehyung’s was forcing him towards another orgasm quicker than he could keep up. Toes curled,
teeth clenched, nails clawed and Jimin came apart, eyes rolled into his head as tears cooled his red
cheeks. His voice was high-pitched and broken as he called for Taehyung even as he was right
there. The older responded by wrapping his arms tight around his shaking limbs, caging him as he
let his own orgasm take him. Jimin’s screams dissolved into whimpers, as Taehyung’s groans were
lost into his neck, his ass filling up with the heat of his seed. He could feel it leaking out around the
larger male’s cock and each spasm of his length made Jimin’s walls tighten more, milking him for
every last drop.

Bird-like coos of pleasure were lost into Taehyung’s neck as Jimin clung to him for dear life. His
muscles were already worn out but now he was at the point of slumping from exhaustion. His lover
pulled out, falling onto the pillows beside him and Jimin tiredly turned to face him. A small hand
smoothed over Taehyung’s firm chest, eyes closing when he felt the other’s larger hand squeeze at
his waist.

“Did you – ?” he trailed off as their eyes met.

Taehyung nodded.

“Are you alright?”

Taehyung nodded again. Jimin had an idea that he would not be getting any details and quite
frankly, he was alright with that. He didn’t want to know. It would feel like an intrusion anyway,
and besides, the envy would re-stir. He smiled a little, pulling in his boyfriend for a chaste kiss that
turned into a deeper, more passionate one. They fell asleep like that, lips still locked, occasionally
moving against one another, until finally, they went still.
Huening Kai was not the inflammatory type.

When injustices were done against him, he swallowed down the bile in his throat and moved on,
praying on the undeniably hard hand of karma to take his vengeance for him. But then again, he
was only eighteen going on nineteen, and raised in a world where being pretty and slender did not
do him much favours. But one thing he most certainly was not, was stupid.

He was not blind to the fact that Min Yoongi held Ma Dong Seok in high esteem, not for his
personal qualities – and certainly not because they were compatible as people – but because Dong
Seok had a rough edge about him, a steel glint in his eye that indicated he knew what he was
talking about. And in Yoongi’s weakening state, he wanted stability, not what was right.

Dong Seok was not right.

Kai knew it from the moment he first introduced an “acquaintance” to Master Min, suggesting him
for the role of his private bodyguard after his previous one was assassinated in a dispute involving
someone’s wife, a stash of cocaine and sheer ego. Dong Seok’s next “acquaintance” was another
older man, Gyu, a half-Spaniard with a fake leg and a leer that turned Kai’s spine to ice. One by
one, more and more of Yoongi’s closest were taken out in mysterious accidents or left
incapacitated, and he continued to accept recommendations from Dong Seok as if he couldn’t see
what was going on. Kai didn’t want to believe that. In the back of his mind, he was certain Master
Min had some sort of an elaborate master plan to stop the sneak takeover happening right under his
nose, but when he saw those dark circles emblazoned on pale skin, he wasn’t so sure. He was
committing a slow form of self-immolation, willingly drowning into Death’s arms and refusing the
medical help he could afford. The first time Kai had seen him, back when Yoongi had no idea he
even existed and always went around with an orange-haired boy at his side, he had been in awe of
how dynamic he was despite his slight stature. There had been a fire in him then, burning quietly
and strong, which was all but extinguished now. He had given up, and left his legacy to the mercy
of Ma Dong Seok, who was more concerned about nepotism and the return of the “old ways” than
the focus on cybercrime that Yoongi had implemented. Dong Seok was more concerned with
racketeering and good old-fashioned threats to pay protection money.

It was all going wrong.

Ma Dong Seok kept Yoongi protected and in luxury, safe from those who might want to put a
bullet in his head and claim the throne as per the usual rules of the gang. His style of takeover was
mediated, languorous, sneaking into the cracks in the armour until finally, Yoongi would pass and
Dong Seok’s cronies were in every available position of power. All such positions resided in the
Council, an association much like the one in Seoul, where Geomjeong-pa’s five bosses were
known as the Organisation. Control the Council, control the gang. Barring two or three, Dong
Seok’s friends saturated the sway of influence by a huge margin.

Huening Kai was not meant to worry about such things. He observed, and kept his mouth shut, but
it was not his place to say a word. Dong Seok had pulled him from his bookkeeping duties and
assigned him as a practically round-the-clock watchman for Yoongi. The boss already had a doctor
on-call, but it was Kai who regulated his medication and took his meals up and drove him about.
Whenever that last happened, it was usually a bi-weekly visit he made to his lieutenants, collecting
news of progress, and Dong Seok was always with them, having warned them in advance what to
tell him and what not to tell him.

Kai could make his peace with that eventually. After all, he was not thirsting for power, and he was
hardly trying to be in Dong Seok’s place. He just did not like the underhanded behaviour from a
man who claimed one thing to Yoongi’s face, and did another behind his back. Honesty from a
criminal was a funny concept.

What he could not make peace with was the knowledge that he was collateral damage.

The realisation him late one night, at a party hosted by Master Min. It could hardly be termed as
such, more so a gathering of his most loyal men and a few foreign allies, from the Yakuza and the
Triads respectively, who had chosen to extend a hand in trade to Yong Geondal over the obvious,
but deteriorating choice of Geomjeong-pa in the North. Though much of the conversation revolved
around Mother and the Butcher and other famous monikers. The fascination people had with them
could never be denied, and their pretentious claim to titles rather than names made the syndicate
legendary to the point of mysticism.

The young man was dressed to the nines, as per Master Min’s order that he should attend and
mingle. “After I’m gone, you’ll need your new connections to keep you afloat,” was his dryly put
assertion. For some reason, Kai got a lump in his throat as he watched the sheet mask of Yoongi’s
face remain smooth as marble. He wasn’t in love with his boss or anything, but there was a degree
of fondness that came with being around someone as often as he was. “What if I choose to leave
once you’re gone?” he’d asked, and the look Yoongi gave him still made his heart clench with
cold.

“Once you’re in the ouroboros of gang culture, it’s for life. You should know this by now.” When
Kai didn’t answer, Yoongi proceeded to scoff, throwing back his whiskey with a sly murmur of, “I
guess reality is a real cunt, huh?”

Kai couldn’t fathom never seeing the end of tattoos, gold teeth and expensive cologne that still
managed to smell bad. And yet here he was, suited up in emerald silk, his jacket fitted impeccably
and his shoes polished so bright, reflections could be discerned. He sat at Yoongi’s side in silence,
far too young to involve himself in any of the conversations. The boss may not have been that
much older than him compared to the other men in the room, but there was still an authority to the
granite of his voice that commanded attention when he spoke, regardless of who he was. Amidst a
deepening discussion of the night of The Red Trauma, Kai slipped away for some fresh air, pale
cheeks dusted with an unhealthy shade of pink. He was a lightweight, could barely hold his liquor,
and was already regretting the decision to down a glass of whiskey just for the sake of a dare.
They’d guffawed, teasing the kid as if he were nothing more than a little toy in their midst and Kai
had caught the bait. He was paying for it now, as he stumbled and swayed his way up the eerily
abandoned staircase in the foyer. There were still usually staff around at this time of night,
wandering around the penthouse apartment, making sure everything was clean and locked up.

After a quick trip to the bathroom and many splashes of icy water to his face, he stepped out
feeling a little better, breathing deep and deciding he would excuse himself to Master Min. He’d
had enough.

His path to the staircase was unhindered, save for a sliver of light emanating from one of the
bedrooms. Curiosity killed the cat. He pushed a thin hand up to the wood, peering into the crack
between the door and the jamb and was caught, just as the man inside turned. He was a tall
Russian, by the name of Kesar, compact and well-built despite the reedy impression he gave on
first glance. His dark blonde hair was neatly parted at the centre, gleaming like satin in the dull
light and his eyes were a cold, cold blue, a shade Kai had never seen before. He withdrew into the
dark of the hallway, hurrying towards the staircase as if he had never seen inside that room, or
what Kesar was doing. His footsteps sped up when light flooded the floor behind him, but by the
time he started to run, the older man intercepted.

“Why so hasty, little rabbit?” Kesar purred, voice gentle in comparison to how dark the sneer on
his face was. Kai could not pretend he didn’t understand. In fact, from the way the man had a
knowing twinkle in his eye, it appeared the younger’s ability to speak more than ten languages was
common knowledge.

“Please get off me. I need to – “ Kai broke off, his brain not processing the correct words to speak
in Russian in his current state of distress. Otherwise, he was perfectly fluent.

“You need to what?” Kesar cooed, the patronising tone causing a swell of nausea to rush into Kai’s
throat. The man lifted a rough hand and brushed down the side of his face, and the younger could
smell what was on his fingers, evidence of what he had been doing in the privacy of the bedroom.
He tried not to retch, nails scoring his palms as he attempted to dodge and make a line for the
stairs. But the Russian grabbed him by the biceps, lifting him up off the ground as easy as if he
were a rag doll and forcing him to stand to attention before him. “You’re not being very hospitable
to your guest, Huening Kai.”

“You’re not my guest. I didn’t invite you,” Kai said through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”
“No, you didn’t invite me. Your boss did. He serves up a good meal, huh? But it’s a shame,
because I was expecting you to be on the menu.” At Kai’s flinch of surprise, Kesar’s teeth flashed
into a predatory smile, the enamel unnaturally white save for a silver tooth to the left. “You expect
me to believe you’re his bookkeeper? Dong Seok told me he’s a homo, and clearly, he’s got good
taste. How many times a night, hm? I bet you keep up well.”

Kai ignored the vulgar question and posed one of his own, send with more bravery than he felt.
“What would your friends back in Moscow think if they found out you were a homo?”

Kesar threw back his head and laughed, the sound coming out more like the rapacious bark of an
old dog. “Oh I ain’t no homo, kid. But then again, you ain’t no man. Too pretty to be a boy, but too
much dick to be a girl. I like them like that.” His hand went down to grab at the crotch of Kai’s
trousers, and the younger swatted him away with a furious sound.

All the laughter drained out of the Russian’s face. Kai shoved him, and made a last mad dash for
the stairs, knowing he could not call for help as it would be sheer suicide to display weakness, but
also knowing that if he did not get away, he’d be left for dead once Kesar was done with him.
Yoongi had never expressed much favour towards him, and Dong Seok was such an authority
now, Kai truly believed the Russian would get away with his murder without any repercussions.

Kesar caught him before he made it, tearing at his shirt and buttons flew left and right, skittering
across the floor like marbles as Kai clawed at his face to make him get off. The older man’s vile
torrent of racist abuse strengthened and he almost gave up when he felt the scruff of his collar
bunch up and his feet almost leave the ground again. But a lucky backwards kick and his heel
connected with the centre of his attacker’s legs, causing him to let go and allow Kai to sprint for
the stairs one last time.

When felt the heavy hand land on his shoulder again, his own flew to his pocket. The swiss knife
unfurled in one clean zip of a movement as his arm lashed out to the left. He heard Kesar’s curse of
pain, as the cut sliced at his waist. Not enough to kill him, but just enough to make him trip just as
they reached the top stair. Kai helped him along, both hands meeting with his mid-riff and sending
the man tumbling down the wooden steps until a vicious crack was heard at the bottom and he was
left a crumpled heap. But he was still alive. Something overcame the boy when he heard the
Russian’s tangled groans of agony, his arm laying out at an odd angle. With the knife still bloody
in his hand, Kai flew down the stairs, launching himself off the last three, and landing dead on top
of the older man, thighs straddling his waist as he lifted the blade and began to stab. The first squirt
of blood was cathartic, splattering over Kai’s face, copper on his tongue as his breathing quickened
to a pant and he could no longer control the involuntary movement of his arms.

Not even when the doors to the dining room opened and Dong Seok and his cohort walked out
with agape expressions, did Kai cease his madness. Kesar’s shirt was a sopping mess of blood, his
chest punctured with fifteen stab wounds and his gut slashed with ten. He made no sound, nothing
more than grunts as he put his whole weight behind the attempt to annihilate his would-be rapist’s
corpse. Not even when he heard the clicks of several safety mechanisms, did he stop. Kesar’s
buddies had their barrels aimed right at his head, some starting to clench the trigger.

It was Yoongi’s voice, rolling over the gathering like an ocean wave of calm, muttering something
in broken Russian. It appeared to be some sort of placation, and the more words he threw into the
silence, one by one, the Russians began to lower their weapons. Whatever he had promised in
exchange for their comrade’s death, had had its intended effect.

“Get him off the body,” Yoongi snapped, and more than one pair of hands grabbed at Kai’s arms,
lifting him.

They locked him in the wine cellar whilst they debated what to do with him. Kai sat in a blaze of
numb, ears ringing and heart pounding in his ribcage. He knew he would probably be shot and
killed and thrown into the sea where no one would ever hear from him again. His infraction was
too great: murdering a guest of his master’s, under his very roof. Men had had their teeth pulled out
and shoved down their windpipes for less. Fifteen minutes later, a triangle of light blossomed on
the stone tiles and the door was thrown open, a rough hand gesture of beckoning directed his way.
Kai hauled himself to his feet, unsteady on his legs as his thighs seized up with lactic acid. Yoongi
stood by the right of the doorway, expression muted, in that way he had of staring at a person and
making them feel as if they were on trial for their life, isolated from all that made them important.
It was a sharp gaze, peeling off layers until Kai felt as if he might as well be shivering outside in
nothing but the flesh he’d been born in.

“Why did you attack him?” the question was posed not as a demand, but a mild inquiry, like
chamomile tea to the boy’s nerves.

“H-he tried to – “ Kai paused, too ashamed to say the word ‘rape’ in front of the men standing
around. His eyes burned as he stared at a spot on the ground inches from Master Min’s feet,
refusing to look up or speak again. Yoongi silently waved them away, and then reached to tap his
cane against Kai’s calf. It was an order to follow. Once in the privacy of one of the lounge rooms,
Yoongi took a seat by the electric fire, lowering himself into the chair with a soft huff of breath
that hid more about the stress his heart was under than his demeanour did. “Don’t sit,” he said
sharply, when Kai moved. “I don’t want blood on my upholstery. It’s a bitch to get out. Taehyung
would never listen. Although – “ he paused to chuckle “ – Taehyung would also get his arse beat
like no one’s business.” He stopped, and such a yearning expression crossed his features, that for a
moment, Kai forgot his own troubles and focused only on him.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a reed-like voice, forgetting to address him with the honorifics.
Yoongi’s eyes remained glazed, as if he were looking at Kai but seeing someone else. Déjà vu. The
younger’s hand was quivering at his side, a side effect of the stabs of adrenaline still coursing
through him. Yoongi noticed and his eyes focused again, lips thinning out.

“Dong Seok wanted you out of the syndicate, out from under the shelter of Yong Geondal’s name,”
he said tonelessly. “If such a thing happened, where would you go?”

“I don’t know,” Kai answered honestly. “Both my parents are dead and I’ve been an orphan since I
was one. I don’t know of any relatives. I was born here, I’m a citizen but with no prospects
considering I never received a formal education. The only way I can get up in the world is by
venturing to the other side and this…well, this is it.” He wasn’t usually so talkative, and when it
came the subject of himself, never so eloquent. But he felt a freeing spirit arise in his conscience
and somehow, he was at perfect ease speaking to his boss as if he were a friend. Strange,
considering they were discussing his possible banishment.

Yoongi said nothing for a few minutes, let the silence hang. Then, he grunted and tapped his cane
on the ground a couple times. “I told him no. He doesn’t like you very much, I’m afraid. You give
him the creeps.”

“He gives me the creeps,” Kai retorted.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Pardon?”

“Come on, boy. We’re not in the best friends club here. We’re in the business of removing
obstacles that irritate us. What are you going to do about him?”

Was this a trick question? It was impossible to gauge with how smoothly blank Yoongi’s face was.
It was rather eerie to watch. Kai chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Hypothetically speaking then, since the answer you really want to spit out is putting you at odds
with yourself,” Yoongi rolled his eyes.
“Kill him,” Kai said simply. “since that’s the law of the business.”

“You think you could kill Ma Dong Seok?”

“I didn’t think I could kill Kesar an hour ago.”

Yoongi laughed. “Fair point. Either way, I suggest you wise up on what you’re going to do, defy
him or side with him. I won’t be here for much longer and I’m sure you’re seeing as well as I the
sway of influence he’s starting to wield.”

So he hadn’t missed Dong Seok’s nepotistic habits. Kai wanted to argue, scold the older man for
giving up so easy, for abandoning all that he had worked for – for abandoning Huening Kai, the
orphan who had finally started to realise what it was to have a guardian. Even with his coldness,
his refusal to be gentle or forgiving, Yoongi was more family now than the young man had ever
had.

But he couldn’t say all these things, not without receiving a heavy blow to the face with the wrong
end of that cane. So instead, he got onto the ground and did a full bow, forehead keeled to the floor
as he murmured a thank you and apology and a promise to do better. Contrite enough. Yoongi
muttered something dismissive, and Kai took the message, getting to his feet and with one last
bow, began to exit the room. But before he could, Yoongi lifted a hand and reached into his
pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. Written on it was the code to a remote server, a password
scribbled just underneath.

“I want the server wiped clean after the videos on it are encrypted and sent to the intended
recipient. Let him know that they were never sold on any websites, at least not how I’d intended
them to be, anyway. He can consider them…a honeymoon gift. Number’s underneath.”

The number was familiar. Kai had seen it flash up on Yoongi’s screen plenty times, though it never
had any form of caller ID to identify it. But he knew who it was just by the way his boss spoke to
him, that elusive predecessor of his with the orange hair.

Once he was back in the privacy of his own room, he retrieved a burner phone from under his bed,
dialling out a number by heart. He only had to wait about fifteen seconds before someone picked
up on the other line.

“I don’t think he has long left and Dong Seok’s gaining traction. Something happened today which
might tip the scales for me. If you really want to make a move, do it before Master Min passes or
else we’re all fucked.”

He didn’t wait to hear anything else, already fearing he was being listened to. He’d scoured this
room for bugs, well-versed in the best places to hide and disguise them. There had been a couple,
which meant he was being observed casually, but not as a potential threat. He’d never been
questioned as to why the bugs had been removed which suggested whatever they recorded wasn’t
even being reviewed. However, the good old ear-outside-the-door never got old and he could have
sworn someone had walked past. A housekeeper no doubt. Dong Seok would want to keep an eye
on him from now, he was already being established as somewhat of a favourite of Master Min’s.

Kai set to work on the server without delay, laptop open on the neatly made bed as he bit his nails
and waited for the contents to load. Videos. Ten of them. And by the thumbnails, he knew exactly
what was on them. It was the same two figures, wrapped around one another, fucking in various
positions, the videos titled with dates and not names. His fingers shook a little as he opened up the
encryption software stored on his computer, resisting that little voice in his head that said just one
peek. He couldn’t for long, not when he recognised the face in the fourth video, could just about
make out the elegant slant of the nose in his profile, shaggy dark hair tumbling all over his
forehead. It wasn’t dyed orange, but it was undeniably him, the man whose name his boss often
whispered at night, alongside the more mournful keens of the other name, the one who was long
dead.

Kai clicked. At first, he heard voices muttering, but no one in the frame. And then Taehyung’s face
filled the camera as he set up the recording device and landed on the bed with a careless grace,
mattress bouncing underneath him. A moment later, alongside him on the sheets crawled the most
beautiful man Kai had ever laid his young eyes on. His alabaster cheeks turned redder than embers
so quickly, he might as well have been in the room with the both of them, staring at the way they
latched onto each other as if they’d been born for the purpose alone. He heard Taehyung whisper
his name somewhere in the middle – Jimin – and the smaller responded with a mumbled moan of a
giggle, followed by a sharp sound of pain as his back hit the footboard of the bed and he cried,
“You’re crushing me!” The way Taehyung treated him made Kai’s ears turn as red as his cheeks at
first, but for a very different reason – he didn’t understand how the bastard could bear to throw
around such a gorgeous creature, so roughly that a couple times Jimin’s head almost struck the
corner of the nightstand in what would surely have been a fatal blow. But he appeared to like it, at
least if the louder moans were any indication. Taehyung’s appreciation of him came in bursts of
growled words – Urgh, look at that pretty face – look at that fucking face – as he rammed his
partner deeper into the mattress until Jimin’s choked groans could barely be heard over the loud
slap of skin and heavy breathing.

He abruptly closed the video and pressed his legs together tight, a slender hand curled against his
lips as he glanced around, feeling caught. He’d watched porn before, but this was something else,
to know they weren’t acting, to watch them fuck like their very existence was downgraded to wild
pleasure and violent need. The cursor hovered over the other files as he began to encrypt five of
them. He managed to resist temptation for them, one after the other, until finally, the last one sat
alone, a black rimmed box against a white expanse of nothing. Once it was encrypted and sent, he
wouldn’t have access to any of these. Master Min had trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t
make copies and save them and he hadn’t. So what was the harm in watching this one once, and
then never seeing it replayed again, except in fragmented interpretations in his mind?

Kai clicked before he could refute his own logic. There was something different about this right off
the bat.

Jimin was sprawled on the bed, striped shirt well past his thighs and socks clad over his feet as he
propped up a ring binder on his half-reclined chest and skimmed through the pages. He was a
speed-reader, just like Kai, eyes travelling left to right twice as fast as an average person whilst the
information was all stored away in neatly labelled compartments in his head. Small hands clutched
the edges of the binder and Kai had the innocent thought of how it would feel to kiss them. His
own lack of aggressive desire surprised him considering how much the previous video had affected
him but it was difficult to explain what he felt when he saw Jimin, this man he knew even less than
Taehyung. With the older, there was that burst of attraction to the god-like features, the primal aura
he had and the deep, deep voice which could make anyone undress with a few well-chosen words.
But when he saw Jimin, he felt a strange reverence, sad in its essence, deeper in its want, as if
sitting by him would make Kai more content than actually touching him. Taehyung had raw
animal attraction, like one’s first unattainable crush. Jimin had the quality of being impossible to
tear one’s eyes away from, with the whispering wonderment of whether he was even real or not.
Kai was trapped in the sensation.

He left the realms of his room and was there in that smaller bedroom with the dull yellow light
bulb being the only source of illumination. He could almost smell the musky sweet scent of those
bedsheets, covered in a fabric that brought back décor of the 70s. It was a temporary situation for
them, clearly, neither looked able to live in a sparsely furnished place like that. They looked as if
they were meant to be dressed in the world’s best finery, sitting on pseudo-thrones cushioned with
velvet, like gods gazing down upon the lesser. But in that moment, they were just two young boys,
trying to fit into one rather small bed. Jimin said as much to Taehyung, telling him to go to his own
room, and they proceeded to bicker for a while, part of it involving a playful slap-fight which
culminated in Taehyung bundling a giggling Jimin into his arms and threatening to do unspeakable
things to him.

“Alright then do it,” came the teasing invitation, and the atmosphere thickened, as they both stilled
and gazed at each other, nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest. Jimin moved first, thighs clenching around
Taehyung’s waist as he moaned into that first contact of his mouth touching the other’s. It
progressed quickly. Their clothes were off, barely a word exchanged, but there was something
infinitely different about the way Taehyung’s arms slipped around the smaller now, and it was
reciprocated in the way Jimin rested his little hands on those broad shoulders, as if he couldn’t
imagine a comfier brace. And then they were entwined, pressed so tight together it was impossible
at times to discern whose limb belonged to whom. Everything from their lips to their chests to their
hips were glued together and for the longest time, neither would let go. It felt like the longest
anyway. The video was only eight minutes long. And they weren’t done by the time Jimin
mumbled that this wasn’t the kind of content Yoongi probably wanted, and after a moment’s pause
to think, Taehyung reached over and turned off the recording.
The screen went black.

Kai quickly dropped the video into the encryption software and then kept his hands folded tightly
in his lap to keep from copying it. It felt gross to do so, to even want to do so, but he knew he’d do
it anyway at the tiniest lapse of resolve. His stomach pooled with heat and his head span with the
memory of Jimin’s crystal-clear voice sighing out Taehyung’s name. He hoped he would never
meet them, ever. If he did, it was all that would be going through his mind, of how he had seen
them at their most vulnerable, in a place where neither was used to being watched, even though
they had so willingly recorded ten of their encounters for Master Min. The notification pinged and
Kai let out the breath he was holding, hurriedly clicking a button to permanently delete all ten files.
He slammed the laptop lid closed and fell onto the bed, the knuckle of his thumb pressed to his
teeth as his dark eyes glazed over, mind drifting back to a cramped bedroom with flowery sheets
and boys that made his head spin.

Unrest was rife in the city of Seoul.

Political turmoil was one thing, but underground turmoil was quite another. Minsoo’s rebellion
against Geomjeong-pa had birthed various other factions breaking away on their own. It began
with embezzlement, pocketing their own share of the funds from money laundering, kidnapping
prostitutes, cyber-crime - and then, when no one punished them for it, they took over the
consumption of funds until Geomjeong-pa was no longer the flag under which they marched. Some
of the older mob bosses and lieutenants were still exacting consequences for the sake of loyalty to
the old Mr Kim and his family name, but it was starting to become a solid fact that the gang had
lost its once strong leadership. There was no word from the condo, the address of which was now
famous amongst the scions of the underworld. Everyone ran wild on their own agenda, but no one
had yet thrown down the gauntlet to take over the condominium. It was the symbolic throne, the
mark of rulership and once a few of the mutineers were tired of operating free-hand, someone
would eventually turn their eyes towards the whitewashed building set in the thick, jungle-like
greenery at the edge of the city.
But for now, the status quo of chaos suited everyone just fine.

There would have been a time when walking through Gangnam’s decadent strip of night clubs
owned by various patrons from Geomjeong-pa, would have gotten one strip-searched if one were
an unfamiliar face and not dressed in a tight mini skirt and heels. The streets and alleyways of this
particular hotspot were crawling with mobsters, the entire small network crawling with criminal
activity. Anyone outside of the circle was an intruder. And if a cop wandered into their midst, they
had to be in the mafia’s pocket and recognised by name and face - no exceptions.

Yet here he was, with his police badge around his neck, and fully holstered up. Namjoon couldn’t
remember the last time he’d walked through this part of the district without looking over his
shoulder at least once every ten minutes. The steady tap of the cane beside him seemed to drown
out the hectic vibrancy of the area at night.

Jungkook’s sense of style had changed considerably. No more windbreaker jackets, or scuffed
trainers and tracksuit bottoms. It was double-breasted military woollen trench coats, patent leather
boots, fitted trousers and crisp shirts. He walked with a straighter back now than he did when he
didn’t need a cane. And the walking aide was luxury itself, made of carbon fibre with a silver
snaked carved just under the handle which he gripped with a glove made of genuine leather. He’d
put the money Seokjin had left him to good use, even if it was only towards appearances. But in
Gangnam, that was the only thing that counted.

The physiotherapist Jungkook had reluctantly made a habit of seeing had kept a detailed chart of
his improvement. He had come far. He was no longer on an endless cycle of painkillers and at the
most, had to set aside time in his day to go for a half an hour walk. Working in an office meant
prolonged periods of sitting, and no matter how many times he got up for the photocopier, it
wasn’t enough. Jungkook had argued against going out in public once, in either a wheelchair or
later with a cane. He feared looking like a helpless invalid. It wasn’t the case anymore. The cane
gave minimal support, and he walked with his other arm swinging, hand ruffling through tousled
locks, as every female and male passing gave him a quick head-to-toe scan whilst trying to be
discreet. Namjoon got his fair share of glances too but Jungkook was a peacock and peacocks
always dominated attention.

It was as a small smile dimpled his cheeks, whilst watching Jungkook study himself in a window
reflection, that Namjoon noticed the time. “We should be heading back,” he said.

“What’s the hurry?” Jungkook drawled, pulling up the hem of his glove and releasing. The leather
smacked against his skin and echoed in the quiet street.

“It’s gotten way too dark, it’s the dead of winter in January and the wolves will be out to play
soon,” Namjoon answered, giving a pointed glance towards a shorter street opposite where men in
black suits were already skulking. He slipped away his badge.

The younger male paid them no mind. Ironic really, since a few of them might have been able to
identity him. This wasn’t Yongsan – he wouldn’t be killed on sight by Minsoo’s men. But it was
better that Seokjin not know where his vengeful nephew was and what he was up to. Most
importantly, Namjoon was a lone cop amongst criminals and he wasn’t secretly one of them. The
danger was definitely greater for him.

Jungkook tucked his silky hair behind his ears and made his way back to the older. Dark eyes
sparkled and coral pink lips glistened wet with the slick of his tongue. Namjoon kept blank. His
mind was replaying that moment in the office he’d felt those lips touch his and he hadn’t
immediately recoiled. “You have your badge, and your licence to carry a firearm, right?” Jungkook
said. When the older nodded, he nodded with a pleased smirk, patting Namjoon’s broad chest.
“Let’s walk around a short while longer. Have some real-life police encounters. I’ve always wanted
to see them in person, officer.” He tilted his head and batted his eyelashes for dramatic effect,
bursting into laughter immediately.

Namjoon bit the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, that’s enough joking. We’re going back.”

He turned to leave, but Jungkook’s hand on his elbow stopped him. The smile was wiped, and his
pale face held no indication of humour now. “You know, I was holed away in Mother’s bunkers
for so long, toiling away in those labs, that it slipped my mind – you may not know how much of
an ace sharpshooter I am.”

“What are you – Jungkook – “ Namjoon grabbed at him, but he was already marching his way
across the eerily silent stretch of road. The traffic lights turned red as Jungkook’s cane rapped out a
vicious staccato on the concrete. His expression switched from empty to welcoming with
frightening speed as he held up a hand of greeting to the men they’d seen earlier. There were about
five of them, and three were huddled around a single lighter held by the fourth.

“Hi! Jeon Jungkook! Mother’s little helper! Remember me?” he called, getting closer still.

There was an exclamation of recognition from one of the men, he who stood closest to the edge of
the street and could see Jungkook’s face clearly. He said something, but Namjoon didn’t get to
hear what. Jungkook answered with a raucous laugh and then his hand moved faster than the eye
could follow, straight into his breast pocket and out. The gun was a Beretta M9A3, a suppressor
attached to the muzzle and the man never saw it coming. He fell like a sack of bricks. Before the
others could even begin to reach for theirs, Jungkook fired four more times, arm perfectly straight
and moving with clean accuracy. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Namjoon felt bile rise to his throat as the familiar clench of PTSD strangled his lungs in a terrible
wringing vice-like sensation, until he almost doubled over and retched. He’d seen Mother and her
men shoot far more in the space of minutes, but it was something else entirely not to see it coming.
And then when Jungkook turned and barked with laughter, hands splayed with the theatrics of a
court jester – “Let’s do more!” – Namjoon saw that the young man had not in fact changed, he had
simply learned to disguise his inherent insanity better. The insanity that ran strong in his family,
from his grandparents, to his uncle, to his mother and then his father both. He’d never stood a
chance.

Two dots of pink glowed bright in Jungkook’s cheeks, black eyes sparkling even brighter.
Namjoon’s warning hand was shrugged off as a door was kicked open further down the street. Out
burst two more men, slightly drunk, with clearly no idea what had happened outside. Namjoon
caught a glimpse of the dagger tipped with three stars, marked on their wrists. The one closest to
Jungkook fell to another bullet. The other lunged but the younger man flipped his cane the other
way round and smashed it into his face with such force, he was propelled backwards. Jungkook
stopped to stand over him, grin bared, and shot him execution-style.

“So how many is that? Seven? Seven encounters. Pull out their wallets – they’ll have ID. You can
close seven files on your return to the station, officer, very well done. Commendable. Excellent
job.” He spoke with such a collected demeanour, only a tad breathless as he burgled the corpses of
their wallets. Namjoon took each one with a deadened expression and followed numbly when
Jungkook spun his cane again and marched towards the end of the street. Back and forth, he struck
the walls on either side – it was that narrow an alley – and sang rhythmic songs in happy gibberish.
This was Jungkook in his element. He walked with a spring in his step, no sign of the limp – it was
as if the dopamine rush of murder crushed the pain he would otherwise have been feeling in his
lower back.

“Wait!” Namjoon called after him.

He stopped at the end of the street, and began to saunter his way back.

“Look, you can’t just – “ Namjoon’s words were lost to the wind as Jungkook’s hand hit his chest
and shoved him to the wall. The tip of the cane pressed to the underside of the chin and the
suppressor on the gun caressed his cheek almost gently. Jungkook’s lips were inches from his,
breath hot and tasting of the blackberry cider he’d been drinking.

“Are you a top or a bottom?” Jungkook smirked, voice low and shaded with layers of promise.

“What the fuck?” was the acrid response.

“I’d let you break my back all over again. It’d sure be a hell of a lot more fun than when it was
fucked up the first time,” he sneered, tongue flicking out to wet Namjoon’s jaw. “I bet you top
really well. Driving forward with the force of all that active duty officer training. Mother always
did have a sore throat the mornings after you just “happened” to be staying over.”

He was pressing closer. Namjoon could practically count the non-existent pores in his porcelain
skin. There wasn’t a blemish on him, carved and moulded features tinged with an arrogance that
suited them well. Lips pursed to drop a virginal kiss on his cheek, a striking contrast to the dirt of
his words.

“But here’s what I fantasise more about – topping you. Grinding in you until that rich voice cracks,
and your dimples dent your cheeks with each grimace as you struggle not to come too soon. I bet
you’re a silent one, soundless moans and what not. But the moment you came with a cock up your
ass, bet you come apart and bring the roof down with your screams. And I bet it’d be a thrill to dip
my tongue into those dimples and taste the sweat pooled there – taunting the big bad police officer
for becoming a helpless little pup – “

It hit him then that he could have tried harder to stop the boy from doing what he had. When
Namjoon wanted something to stop, he did his utmost best in order to make it, and he knew that he
had faltered and let Jungkook go ahead with his executions out of some skewed sense of justice.
They weren’t innocents that he’d killed after all.

No, it’s still wrong.

Namjoon’s hands hit his chest hard and Jungkook fell back. At first, his eyes widened in shock as
he tried to catch himself. He managed it, cane striking the floor, and then his face lit up with a
bright cackle of glee.

“Not even if you paid me,” Namjoon spat, walking ahead.

The cane rapped out a quickening rhythm of annoyance as it followed behind him. He could almost
imagine Jungkook pouting in that feral way of his that was far from cute. Spoilt brat to the very
end.

“You really like Seokjin, don’t you?” Jungkook called. “Even though he couldn’t give less of a shit
what happens to you.”
He got no answer.

“Well, you know what, officer? Let’s make it so that he does have to give a shit! Maybe he’ll pay
you some attention after this!”

Namjoon was already on the next street, finally out beside open road, and when he turned back,
saw Jungkook disappearing into a convenience store. Despite his every urge willing him to leave
and not be a part of whatever hell Jungkook would unleash next, good sense argued otherwise.

The younger was standing at the counter, showing off his dagger tattoo to the equally young clerk
as some sort of camaraderie ritual. Laying eyes on him immediately told Namjoon he was not an
average, broke student working part-time to make ends meet. He was covered in tattoos, and the
most significant was on the back of his neck: a dagger tipped with three stars to match Jungkook’s.
This entire store had to be a front for some kind of illegal business. Namjoon was about to display
his cop badge and demand to be shown the store rooms in the back, when Jungkook suddenly put
his hand on the back of the clerk’s neck, still talking real friendly.

“Hyung, meet Sung-ki! We’re same age buddies! Sung-ki here works for Geomjeong-pa too but
nothing major, ya know? Just choice strains of ganja here and there so he doesn’t have to eat ramen
every night. Student diets are so poor, right?” His manner of voice was alarmingly carefree, and
coupled with the frenzied glitter in his eye, it was quite something to behold.

“What are you doing?” Namjoon muttered, tensed and ready to move.

Jungkook pointed up at the CCTV with his cane. “He’ll be watching this later. Let’s give him the
kind of performance he adores. Here kid – “ he grabbed Sung-ki’s hand and started to pull him
towards the counter.

“H-hey, what are you doing – “ the boy stumbled over his words with a pale face and nervous
laughter. Once Jungkook slapped his hand onto the till and pinned it with his own, the words
turned into a repetitive stammering of ‘no, no, no’.

“Jungkook!” Namjoon roared, lunging.

The knife was drawn and brought slashing down with the accuracy of a guillotine. The chop barely
caught meat. Only the tip of the boy’s index finger flew off but the blood was copious, crimson
pooling into the sides of the till and staining the banknotes kept inside. Sung-ki’s mouth stretched
in a soundless scream that punctuated with a pained rattle of air through his lungs.

“Any closer and I slit him like a pig – “ Jungkook said warningly, setting the blade to his throat a
mere second after, effectively halting Namjoon in his tracks.

“Why are you doing this?” the older said hoarsely, his face as ashen-coloured as the clerk’s, who
was now starting to retch and throw up bile (though he had the good sense to throw up away from
where Jungkook’s hand was clamped to his wrist). “Tell me this isn’t all for him.”

“No. No of course it isn’t!” Jungkook barked, still with that half-crazed rasp in his voice. “I’m
doing it because this is who I am!”

“Jungkook no – no, you are not – “

“I’m fucking batshit, and no one will ever love me! Not him – “ he pointed the knife at the camera
“ – not Jimin, not you, not my mom, nor my dad or my grandfather – I am the monster you’ve all
created out of your own hypocrisies and weak willed bullshit! MOTHER ARE YOU PROUD OF
ME?!” He screamed this last towards the CCTV once more, the savagery in his tone spiralling to a
peak. His expression looked to be on the verge of something, tears or laughter, it was hard to tell.

Namjoon acted on impulse, despite the sudden clench in his ribs. He drew his gun and aimed it
directly at Jungkook’s skull.

“I will shoot you in the head and close your file without a second thought. Let him go,” he said,
level and assured, more so than he felt.

Jungkook dropped the blade to Sung-ki’s wrist, priming for another swing. The clerk began to
plead once more, sobbing in a terrible keening pitch.

“NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!” Namjoon yelled, thoroughly afraid Jungkook was about to call his
bluff.

For a split second, he seemed to consider it. But then the frantic light in his eyes extinguished, and
he dropped the knife. Grabbing a pack of dish towels hanging to the side of the counter, he tore one
open and wrapped it around Sung-ki’s hand, muttering for him to put pressure on it. Namjoon kept
the gun trained, ignoring the lightheaded feeling coursing through his extremities. Jungkook put up
his palms once as if to say he was done, and bent down to retrieve the fingertip. Removing a
baggie of cocaine from his breast pocket, he emptied it with a careless flick and dropped the
severed limb inside. “Go to the hospital four blocks from here. Ask for Dr Jun and get it
reattached. Or leave it severed and gain street cred. You seem to begging for it already with the
shitty tattoos.”

Namjoon watched in disbelief as Sung-ki actually hesitated. Tears marked trails down his cheeks,
but for a moment he looked as if he were considering the implications of a missing finger to bolster
his rep. But then he sobbed and snatched away the small bag and sprinted out of the store.

“Alright officer, I don’t plan on resisting arrest,” Jungkook drawled, brushing past Namjoon and
nudging up up against the gun barrel as he did.

Namjoon directed one last look at the CCTV and followed him out.

It was that same, singularly guilty expression, that Seokjin observed on his phone screen a few
days later, whilst in the foreground, an elaborate stage suited to the operatic glory of the Seoul Arts
Centre twirled and glittered in his peripheral. High society often held events around January to
battle the doom and gloom of the wake after Yuletide festivities, and as one might expect, they
were gloriously decadent. The President himself sat in one of the private boxes, he and his wife
holding up matching opera glasses with their attention fixated on the red-haired sylph whirling
about on stage, re-enacting the Dance of the Seven Veils. The production was Salome and the
company performing it was Russian. Seokjin usually spent more time spying out each new face in
the crowd, deducing who was known to him and who was a stranger. The ones he did not know
would be handed business cards after the show, compliments of Mr Kim. If Seokjin did not know
them, it meant new money and he could sniff those out from a mile. Gaudy jewellery, garish
laughter, eyes whipping left to right as if to gauge how well they were fitting in, and a tendency to
overcompensate on small talk. He usually presented himself as a venture capitalist, until they had
accepted a good amount of money in return for an ownership stake in their business and he no
longer had to commit to a dull façade of respectability.
Seokjin did much prefer this more elegant style of criminality. So much more refined than the
savagery of peeling a man open and turning his innards into abstract art.

One of his men had sent the video as an email attachment with the added bonus of informing him
that the clerk in the video had been accosted on the way to the hospital by a couple of Yongsan
men. Needless to say, the dagger on his wrist did not buy him any favours. In the mortuary, the
coroner would discover it was fake, created in a fitful urge to brag and fit in with his new iljin
buddies on campus. It was a mistake that cost him his life.

But Seokjin didn’t care what happened to the clerk. He was a footnote, human collateral. The sleek
line of his ivory cut jaw was disturbed by a twitch as his eyes met with Jungkook’s in the fuzzy
glare of the camera. The boy looked insane. He was regressing. Something he wanted, hadn’t been
immediately thrown into his lap and this was his way of showing displeasure. Seokjin worried at
his fulsome bottom lip and tasted copper in his mouth soon enough from the unforgiving dig of
enamel into flesh. Namjoon had lied about Jungkook’s supposed renewal of energy at his police
station. The brat was falling off the rails. But he was Seokjin’s brat, and Namjoon had reneged on
his promise – nothing in the world made him see red like unfulfilling results on what he considered
a business transaction.

“Sir – “ came the confused response when he got up out of his seat as the interval ended and the
curtains drew back.

Seokjin waved off the inquiry of his guards, pulling out a pair of shades and slipping them on in
preparation for the hellishly ugly lighting in the opera hall’s expansive corridors. He flung out his
arms and his overcoat was slipped on with a second’s delay, which got the man in question a hearty
elbow to the face. “Look fast,” Seokjin purred at his victim’s pained grunt.

They got stares left and right, most directed towards the slim, tall young man in front. No doubt to
these commoners he looked like the spoilt second son of a chaebol – very few would guess he had
once been the ghost puppeteer of their city’s entire system of rule. Slender fingers twirled his rose-
gold phone out of his pocket and he scrolled and tapped with a hiss of a sound between his front
teeth. At the top of the steps outside, he paused to survey the evening sky with the gloriously
haughty expression of a creationary god. Seoul’s skyline winked back, city and mobster caught in a
morbid love affair in which she housed him within herself and he wreaked havoc whilst
worshipping every inch of her. Oh, how he wanted Yongsan back to make his slice of Seoul’s pie
whole again. But before he could, there was one more thing he had left to do: give those two
wretches a last chance to redeem themselves.

“Pick up, you whore,” he muttered, picturing Jimin’s thickly lashed eyes fluttering in that way he
had of making himself agreeable to those who did not know him well. Just like his mother. Seokjin
had always admired the woman, but he was far too begrudging to acknowledge how wonderfully
her son came out to be exactly like her.
Korea’s very own Jackie Kennedy had suffered a worse fate than anyone could have imagined but
that boy of hers had grabbed at everything with his greedy little hands and clawed his way back to
the top of his stolen fortune with the tenacity of a honey badger. The Butcher’s Whore, they called
him, amongst other disagreeably homophobic claptrap, though they were careful not to use faggot
around Seokjin. He had never given them any reason to doubt his sexuality except for the fact that
he still slathered on lipstick as if it were more powerful than the sleek little Beretta M9 he carried
at his waist.

The dial-tone rang shrill. No one was picking up. No one would pick up. Geomjeong-pa’s
headquarters was no more. It went where the power was and there was no power left in the silent
condominium, nothing more than the shark which swam beneath, the only creature of true mettle
left in the godforsaken place.

Seokjin hung up.

His profile cut a sharp line through the star-strewn expanse of velveteen sky, eyes as black as his
skin was pale, mouth set into a straight line of an anger so visceral, it only manifested after an
especially long period of humiliation and suffering at the hands of those he considered lesser.

“This won’t do,” he said quietly.

“Boss?” Min spoke up from behind him.

“I’m tired of this enervation, settled over everything like a layer of poison dust, deluding us all into
thinking we’re getting somewhere when in fact we’re declining.”

“I don’t understand, boss.” It was the way he said it, nervous, slightly shaky, that told Seokjin
everything he needed to know. Those who were meant to rule, ruled. The rest were expendables.

He turned to his men with a blinding smile and brought his hands together with a resounding clap.
“Call out the troops. Every last man loyal to me, every last man loyal to the Geomjeong-pa name –
send out a message – when the signal is given, run free through the streets of Yongsan and tear
down Minsoo’s hideouts until the streets run red with the blood of traitors. I want the riots to rival
’87, because once we’re done assaulting his stolen legacy, I want the citizens of this cankerous city
to rise up and riot against the government for their inability to control crime, and when it’s all over
and done with and yet another President impeached, I want the next leader of this great land of
Goryeo to be under my boot like the slutty little footstools my father always turned his presidents
into.”

He delivered his speech with uncharacteristic passion, and it was telling by the stunned faces of his
man that he had suggested something not even their thirst for blood could fathom. The upheaval of
an entire city by its most notorious criminals to gain puppet-control of the ultimate seat of power.
The old Mr Kim had built his patronage of the Blue House through donations and connections,
until eventually he had each president’s ear and took a hand in the rigging of votes every election
until his death. Seokjin wanted full-on war to force the current President down and start over from
scratch, as if it were as easy as turning a leaf in a particularly violent chapter of the ugliest book
ever written.

It was thrilling. His eyes followed them, one by one, as their spines straightened out, bones were
cracked, and gold teeth flashed in the light of the street lamps. More than a few of them ran their
hand over the dagger tattoo on various parts of their anatomy – neck, hand, arm, chest – it was
quite possibly the most genius idea his father had come up with. People loved an ideology, a cult, a
concrete symbol to stand behind. That dagger with the three stars was god to these men, more so
than Seokjin, more so than any other boss they might have. That dagger was Geomjeong-pa and it
was how Mr Kim had ensured his creation would endure even if its leaders rose and sank like ships
in a cascading tsunami of power and rivalry.

“Min, you spread the word. The rest of you, you’re coming with me. Tonight’s signal will be in our
hands gentleman. Don’t let me down, or you will find yourselves twelve feet underground because
six is simply never enough.”

There was a growled assent, boots hitting the ground as they bowed, more composed than any
soldier in the army.

Seokjin had agreed to ride in only one car since his placement as Gangnam’s new boss, the Inkas
Armored Mercedes-Benz G63, and it was a fucking beast. Its elongated design gave it something
of a hearse-like quality but he rather enjoyed the visual metaphor. Built to withstand high powered
ammunition and explosions, it was quite literally a menacing sight to behold when driven down a
public road and the price tag of 1.2 million dollars was not quite enough in his opinion.

As he got into the driver’s seat, the men in the back were already beginning to arm themselves with
various weapons hidden away in compartments under the leather upholstery. Every nook and
cranny in the Inkas was designed to hold some sort of firing weapon, knife or explosive device - it
was a mobile powerhouse of destruction. Seokjin’s favourite was sitting on the dashboard, the IMI
Galil, polished to perfection, phallic as most rifles were, but sleekly feminine in its contours, as if it
were custom-designed to be held by his hands. He tucked the hem of his silk shirt into the tightly
wound waist of his fitted trousers, and retrieved the curved magazine from the glove box, feeding
it into the rifle in all its 35-round glory. He hadn’t used the Galil in a long time and most of it was
spent keeping it up on a shelf, gathering dust. It felt holy to feel it in his grip once more.
“Boss, I don’t mean to be a pain in the neck, but are you certain we should be doing this so last-
minute? ‘Cause I know men will turn out but so will the cops and if we’re not better organized – “

The unlucky fucker who had chosen to sit in the passenger seat to bring up this concern, was
named Dong. Or ‘Pincer-Claw’ as he was known due to the missing ring and baby finger on his
left hand. He was also missing an eye. In fact, he had so many fucking things missing, it bore no
reason as to why he thought he should be giving advice. Seokjin didn’t say a word. It was the
turning of his head that silenced Dong who was now sitting with a rather shifty expression on his
face, eyes suddenly finding the screen on the dashboard more interesting.

“Open the door would you? And step out. I don’t need doubters,” Seokjin said calmly.

“Boss, I’m not saying I don’t want to do this – “

“Get. Out.”

The ones in the back considered Dong lucky to be walking away from this at all. He had just about
opened the door and was shifting himself out, when a delicate, “Darling, wait –“ caught him off
guard and he turned –

- coming face to face with the business end of the Galil. Seokjin fired. 34 rounds and barely a jolt
to his wrist. God, the fucking rifle was a beauty. Dong’s corpse slumped, bullet hole smoking in
his temple as he keeled, landing on the tarmac outside with a muted thump. Seokjin reached to
close the door, started up the Inkas and drove on a few paces, only to go into reverse gear and race
back. Screams were heard in the parking area as someone noticed the huge armoured monster
backing up directly onto a body sprawled in its direct line of fire. Every man in that car minus the
driver, winced as their comrade’s bones were crushed to oatmeal consistency. Seokjin went back
and forth a few times, ironing him out, and not until his blood burst through ruptures all over his
skin created by the pressure, did he finally roll off the car and keep on driving out towards the gate.
Behind them, there were people aghast, too terrified to reach for their phones and call the
emergency services.

And so it began.

He rolled down the window, a blissful smile greeting the warm January breeze as it ghosted over
his face and ruffled his hair until it was arrayed all over his skull with the careless charm of an
aristocratic rake. There was only one place he was headed tonight. It was a home he’d been to
countless times as a child, dragged there as a social obligation by his mother who considered the
lady of the house her best friend. Funny how that turned out.

Choi Minsoo’s wife was no ordinary woman.

Bae Kang Hee had been a founding member of Geomjeong-pa if one counted the procuring of
prostitutes to work in its newly opened salons in the 70s to found something. Before there was
Madame Go Hyun Jung, there was Ms Bae, the bane of streetwalkers from Incheon to Hongdae.
There wasn’t a single girl she laid her eyes on that she didn’t immediately force into working for
Geomjeong-pa, therefore having them lose their autonomy and rights to a full wage. It was only
once she married Minsoo that she took on the role of Stepford wife and became one of the elite
socialites of Seoul’s rich circle. Seokjin had seen far too much of her growing up and he’d never
particularly liked her plasticky form of domestic entertainment. Whereas his own mother was
elegant if cold, Kang Hee reeked of a lower-class desperado who donned real pearls like they were
fake and wore too-bright pink lipstick to reserved brunch gatherings. She had no grasp of genteel
propriety and she had always hated Jimin’s mother who had once run in the same circle – all the
rich men’s wives did – due to her ability to carry off an upper-class appearance far better.

No, Kang Hee was no ordinary woman, but then again if she was, Seokjin wouldn’t have chosen
her and her daughters as leverage.

The house Minsoo lived in was built within a gated community, closeted in by trees that were
sparse of leaves and gave an outsider a direct visual line into the frost-strewn, neatly cut lawns.
Here lived doctors, lawyers, politicians, judges and the mobsters who had something to prove.
When an armoured vehicle of such size pulled up to the gates, the guards were out immediately,
marching up in their pompously ironed outfits, ready to ask for ID and a name as to who they were
here to meet. Seokjin accosted them with gentle greetings, as the back window rolled down. Lee
didn’t hesitate – one bullet for each and a knife in the throat of the nearest.

“Thank you, darling,” Seokjin drawled, as Jun jumped out and disappeared into the security booth
to find the controls for the gates.

“S’no problem, boss,” Lee answered, a little red in the face at hearing the term of endearment
Seokjin so freely doled out for his men. It wasn’t so much being called ‘darling’ by a man. It was
the knowledge that he could say it one second, sweet as syrup, and rip out your guts the next. He
was volatile and volatility frightened the kinds of wolves who only ever went after strait-laced,
predictable sheep.

He took them with him, a retinue of five men walking in a rather smart v-shaped formation, for not
having planned it. Whoever was in the home would know not to open the door once the bell was
rung. But formalities were not in order today. Seokjin recognised the brand name on the door bell –
it was the same security team he used for his own home, and he knew any forced entry through the
door would set off the enhanced protection program, with the metal shutters rolling down on the
windows, the full works. But he also knew that it was not triggered by windows and Minsoo was
far too arrogant to install bulletproof glass in a gated community so affluent.

“Go for the windows,” Seokjin remarked, nodding to the men.

Their behaviour remained uniform, regimented and precise, a tribute to the military days of each.
There was no hooligan behaviour – no hollering, no sneers, no taunts – the ones to keep close were
the silent, deadly kind who would much sooner use silencers on their guns than the vulgar roar of a
rifle. But Seokjin was in the mood for theatrics tonight. He fixed his cufflinks with a soft humdrum
whistle as Lee sprang through the window and a muted shot was heard. No doubt a servant
walking in at the wrong time. His figure appeared through the bevelled glass, as the other four
vanished through the windows, bandages wrapped tight around their hands to avoid cuts.

Seokjin walked inside with the languid ease of a panther in its pissed-on hunting ground. He felt
alive. He hadn’t gone out on a hit like this for a long time, not since his father had died. He’d
forgotten the adrenaline that it created, a wicked, tangible buzz of metallic on his tongue and a
warm feeling in every joint as electricity trembled at his fingers. He set the Galil on his shoulder
and tilted his head back, ears perked for the gunshots he kept hearing left and right. They were
efficient. He hadn’t even needed to say “kill them all.”

Jun returned, wiping his hands off with a cream handkerchief and a speckling of blood on his
throat. In gruff Japanese, he said, “I saw one of the girls run upstairs, boss. I think they’re with their
mother.”

“Three girls and their middle-aged mother. This should hardly be difficult.”

“What would you like us to do with them?”

“Hand the daughters over to Madame Go. Have them on the market by tomorrow night, and inform
her to make it an auction. As for the mother – she’ll be armed, so careful. Bring her to me.”

And with that, he took up post in the foyer, sitting in an expansive velvet chair with his legs
crossed. Every so often, another terrified servant would come running and a lazy flick of the rifle
brought them down like bowling pins. Senseless violence in the name of pragmatism was
something he excelled at. Minsoo was in Japan. Anyone escaping this house could send word, and
his surprise would be ruined. He wanted Minsoo to find out his home was destroyed when he was
ready for him to know.
It took all of fifteen minutes. Kang Hee had only had enough time to arm herself with a pistol and a
machete. And by the time her bullets ran out, she was far outmatched by five burly men. The
daughters were dragged down by the hair, the youngest twenty years old and the oldest twenty six.
They looked younger in that moment, as they screamed for their mother, and she assured them in a
shivering gasp of air that everything would be alright.

Until Kang Hee laid her eyes on Seokjin and became stiller than ice.

Seokjin waved, fingers fluttering delicate. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Her lipstick-smeared face twisted into mocking contempt. “No. I pictured this day happening and
that you’d be stupid enough to try and steal back what my husband rightfully took.”

“Rightfully. That’s a loaded word, Mrs Bae,” he drawled, biting down on his bottom lip as he
polished the barrel of his rifle, wrinkling his nose with a little smile in the direction of the three
terrified young women. It was then that he noticed a fourth, being pulled along by Jun. She seemed
compliant, her hair neatly braided, unlike the bird’s nest the others had become. She looked to be
about nineteen.

“And who might this be?” he asked.

“Found her in the attic. They had it kitted out to look like a regular apartment. Asked her what her
name was and – “ Jun grabbed her jaw and yanked it open. She made a sound of protest, strangled
and weak. Seokjin craned his neck in interest as he saw that she had no tongue in her mouth. It was
a stub in the back, slightly purple, but very much healed. An old wound. He looked to Bae Kang
Hee for explanation, and when he got nothing but defiant silence, turned the rifle at her oldest
daughter and shot at her feet.

Kang Hee jumped as if she had been shot herself, eyes closed through the frightened sobs of her
children. “She’s not mine,” she growled out through clenched teeth.

“Whose is she then?” Seokjin inquired.

“She’s my husband’s bastard. I killed the whore who bore her, but he told me we had to keep the
whore’s runt. And seeing as how I loved the son of a bitch, I decided to comply as long as she was
out of my sight.”
“What happened to her tongue?”

Truly satisfying malice appeared on Kang Hee’s face then, her upper lip curled into a gleeful
smirk. She wouldn’t answer for a moment, her dimples deep in her cheeks. It seemed as if the
memory was threatening to pull hysterics from her. “An enemy of his mistook her for my
youngest. They took her and tortured her and when I got the ransom call, I pretended I knew
nothing about it. So, they cut out her tongue and sent it to my husband, which was the first he
heard of it.”

Seokjin’s eyebrows shot up. The girl was staring at Kang Hee as if she’d never seen her before, as
were her three biological daughters. She hadn’t told this story before.

“Hell hath no fury…” Seokjin murmured, and Kang Hee finished off in a sing-song, “…like a
woman scorned.” He threw his head back and laughed, fingers clawing into the arms of the chair as
his entire body shook. “God, you really are one cold bitch, aren’t you?”

“You can take the dumb mutt. No point taking mine. He’s always loved her most anyway,” Kang
Hee spat.

Seokjin rose from his chair. “Oh, we’re not here to take anyone. Just send them across to their
rightful place. These ones – “ he nodded towards the first three “ – will be going straight to
Madame Go. Not much love lost between you two is there? I imagine she’ll be sending your girls
straight off to one of her famous sex parties, with all those rich men you and your husband usually
mingle with. Bet they’d love to have a go at the forbidden fruit.”

The girls started to cry again, pitiful whimpering sounds of sheer terror. Kang Hee launched into
screeching abuse at the top of her lungs the moment he had mentioned Madame Go’s name. He
jerked his head to the men, indicating that force could be used as long as their faces weren’t
injured, and then proceeded to watch with a spiteful smile as Kang Hee fought tooth and nail to get
out of the grip of both Lee and Han. They were forced to lace an arm each through hers to keep her
elevated off the ground and stop her body from trying to drive forward.

“You’re going to rue the fucking day you set foot in this house, you tranny wretch!” she screamed,
feet hitting the ground in pure rage as she now struggled to tear away and hurl herself at Seokjin.

He barely blinked. Instead, he walked up to the dumb girl, and prised open her jaw to see her cut
tongue for himself. A clean surgery. Whoever had done the torturing had done a wonderful job.
When he asked if they had put her under anaesthesia first, she nodded, tears spilling from her eyes
like twinkling pearls. She was pretty in the way one had to look twice to notice, more innocent than
pretty, really. But she had a nice, simple demeanour and he felt rather sorry for her to have been
born into a house of devils such as this. When he asked her name, she signed out the hangul
characters for Choi Yujin.

“Well, I guess I’ll keep this one for myself,” he told Kang Hee, as if it were nothing more than a
bland statement about the weather. “The imagination is a wonderful place. I bet Minsoo will go
insane wondering what I’m doing to her the longer he refuses to give himself up and surrender.” He
bent down and crouched in front of Kang Hee who had gone motionless once more, her cheeks
sallow and her lips flecked with spittle. “But you and I both know I’m just a tranny with a taste for
cock, right?”

“Your mother would be ashamed.” Kang Hee’s voice came out in a poisonous hiss, words barely
audible. “You became so incompetent my husband took your entire kingdom from you and then
you hid with your tail between your legs like a common street dog. And to top it all, you’re a skirt-
wearing faggot. She’d have smothered you with a pillow when you were an infant if she’d known
what you’d become.”

“Oh I have no doubt. My mother was a harsh woman. It’s why you two got along so well. But let it
not be said I’m an undutiful son. In honour of her memory, I’ll let you throw yourself out of the
highest window in your palatial mansion, rather than be executed at the hands of one of my men
here.”

It was in her eyes. The unsettling knowledge that she would die. It was as if in that moment, Kang
Hee wiped her mind of the trauma of knowing what would become of her three girls, and the horror
of not being able to protect them. She was stripped clean of all her earthly relationships and given a
chance to die on her own terms. Practical animal that she was, she nodded and Seokjin gestured for
her captors to release her. She shook them off, eyeing his rifle as it aimed straight at her midriff.
With a light sniff, she smoothed out her Prada suit dress, fixed her pearls and made a sorry attempt
at patting down her hair (it was cut into a bargain-bin version of Lady Di’s iconic style and Seokjin
thought it rather tacky, but this was not the time for fashion critique).

“Lead on,” she said, her deep voice hoarse.

Seokjin walked behind whilst Lee and Han flanked the front and to the side. The highest floor was
the fifth, and ironically enough, it was her stepdaughter’s attic room. It was decorated like the
typical bedroom of a young girl, fairy lights strung everywhere, art on the walls, childhood dolls,
plush toys and a dressing table with a mirror that was covered with perfume bottles and makeup.
Seokjin picked up one – Paco Rabanne Olympea – and gave a soft spritz on his own wrist and then
his neck. The smell was divine. He gestured for Lee to hold out his hand, and the older man very
reluctantly did so, knowing full well he could not deny the boss. He physically winced when the
perfume sprayed over his wrist. For sniggering, Han got a blast to the nape of his neck, until both
of them were sulking like moody school boys.

“Bet that hurt more than getting your finger chopped off, huh?” Seokjin snorted, eyeing Lee’s
missing ring digit. The fragile masculinity of his henchmen never failed to amuse. He had been
abusing it for a long, long time, starting from when he was a young ten year old and had demanded
his bodyguard to sit and endure a makeover. Seokjin knew how to perfectly threaten grown men
into silence at an age when he shouldn’t have known better – had he had any less mettle, they
would have gone straight to his father and he would have been thrashed more than usual.

“Remove your shoes, pearls and those rings on your fingers. I like them. I don’t want to see them
stained with blood,” Seokjin ordered Kang Hee.

She did so without protest and then slowly moved towards the window. Every step she took was as
if laden by concrete shoes, her entire frame wracked with tremors she couldn’t control. Seokjin
slipped his hand into Lee’s holster, and the man moved to allow it, before stepping back as the
boss followed behind Kang Hee.

“You know, interesting thing about my mother’s memory – “ Seokjin spoke up, tapping her
shoulder. Kang Hee turned, not sensing something was off. She never saw the knife coming and
only felt it thrust into her stomach before it lacerated left, gutting her with an incredibly controlled
twist of the wrist. “ – I don’t give a rat’s arse about it. Fuck her, and fuck you.” He spat into her
face as the light died in her eyes, the grip of her bony hands on his forearms weakening whilst
blood splurged over the ground, drenching her perfectly embroidered skirt and soaking her
stockings red. He turned to look at Lee and Han who stood with perfectly blank faces. “String her
up from a utility pole outside Yongsan’s police station. Once that’s done, send a message to each of
the district bosses, including Park Jimin and Kim Taehyung. Let them know Mother is back and
she’s taking back what’s hers. They’ll know to come when they hear of the fights breaking out in
Yongsan.”

Inviting Jimin and Taehyung was a courtesy he didn’t think they’d accept. The former had made
the latter as weak as he was, though it would certainly be something to see the Butcher finally
throw himself into the frontlines, harking back to the days he was simply Mother’s lackey. If
Yongsan’s Mad Dog came out to play, half of the traitors would drop weapons and submit to a
unified Geomjeong-pa without the slightest hint of resistance.

Oh, Seokjin did hope he would come. If he did not, Jimin’s head would be the first to go on a pike
and he would make his bastard lover watch. If nothing else, it would certainly make for an eventful
evening. And how fitting it was, that it was Sunday today. He could think of no better allegory
than to baptise this city in its own pungent blood, rotten to the very core with no redemption in
sight.
The call came in at around half past midnight, phone ringing insistently.

Neither Jimin nor Taehyung picked up, not even when the house phone began to trill. That one
usually never made a sound. The entire condo sat in dead silence, except for phones ringing left
and right, as the extension of each was tried by the caller, and there was no response. Finally they
went quiet.

Jimin didn’t move, eyelids fluttering shut, soft as petals, as Taehyung nosed at his collarbone. His
small hands were restrained above his head with the silk of his lover’s tie, elbows bent and spine
arched with the push of Taehyung’s hands marking its every ridge. He couldn’t stop shivering.
Overcome, spent and so, so exhausted but needy to an extent he never thought he could be, for
anyone. Edged to the point of tears, he balanced himself in Taehyung’s lap and tried not to move
for fear of causing accidental friction to his cock and coming before he was given permission.

“You’re being so good for me, baby…” Taehyung whispered, lips plucking at the protrusion of his
creamy collarbone.

“I-I am?” Jimin whispered back, syllables broken, desperate for praise. He was lost in a part of his
mind he did not unlock often, an enclosed space with no room for anyone or anything except
Taehyung. And he welcomed him with open arms each time he knocked, with his sultry voice and
his dextrous hands that could bring anything unravelling, most especially Jimin.

“Yes, baby, you are…such a good boy…the sweetest, the best…you never disappoint me – “
Taehyung’s fingers swirled over Jimin’s abdomen, tucking under his own shirt draped over the
smaller male’s body.

Jimin wept, teeth worrying his bottom lip as tears soaked his blindfold, leaking out from under the
silk fabric and Taehyung paused to glance up. He licked them up, low murmurs of adoration lost
into Jimin’s skin as his lips cushioned his cheek and his hands spread over the contours of his back,
dancing over frail shoulder bones and slim waist. Jimin was on fire, sobs erupting from him as the
sheer intensity of affection showed by the other made his insides disintegrate, useless, liquid,
nothing. He was nothing if Taehyung wasn’t there to breathe life into him, an empty shell of clay
moulded by his lover until he was exactly how he had always meant to be – filled with him,
covered by him, drowning in him. He grabbed at his own blonde strands of hair, allowing
Taehyung to feast on him as if he were a choice dessert, able only to shiver and coo as the thrills of
his lover’s mouth went straight to his cock.

“I’m being such a – “ he paused to hiccup “ – a g-good boy for D-daddy…I want Daddy to make
me c-c-come for him – “ his words ended in a strangled keen when Taehyung bit around his nipple,
hands clenched to Jimin’s struggling frame.

He carried him to the bed, lowering him onto the sheets where his ethereal face drowned in a
silvery pool of moonlight, every feature highlighted by pure need as his eyes turned up to meet
Taehyung’s. Jimin let out little gasps of yearning, so wound up that he barely felt human. But in
Taehyung’s eyes, he was more than human, he was a seraph, pale skin glimmering with reddish-
pink in the places his lover’s large hands gripped too tight, or his lips had fed on, bruised to
perfection. He was carved like an Adonis statue, still too worryingly thin for Taehyung’s liking, but
moulded with painstaking detail, from the contours of his abdomen to the slim ankles that arched
into the loveliest small feet. He could spend an eternity just worshipping his feet alone, cupping
each rosy ankle in his palm like a devotee. Jimin’s whimpers continued, as Taehyung nipped along
the skin of his inner thighs, fingers sliding under the backs of his knees, touching him, squeezing
him, marvelling at him. His cock was erect, liquid drooling from the tip, viscous and transparent,
wrapping around Taehyung’s fingers when they extended underneath. Without sight or touch,
Jimin had obediently grinded on his lap for minutes at a time, stopping when he was commanded,
only to pick up the pace again, losing his climax again and again. Taehyung enjoyed edging him. It
made his voice pitch higher, almost feminine in its clarity, and it made him leave the places in his
mind that gave his eyes a cold quality and let him retreat to a safe, dark corner where he was
nothing but primal and needy and all Taehyung’s, in body and in essence.

Taehyung kissed the tip of his cock and Jimin let out a cry, a musical note quivering on the air. His
sob caught in his throat and he hiccupped his way into begging again, weeping like a child with his
bottom lip jutted out as he forgot to call his lover’s name and lapsed into streams of ‘master’ and
‘daddy’, sheets rustling under his every impatient squirm.

“Turn over, nightingale,” Taehyung whispered, aiding him with his rough hands which were much
too gentle on Jimin’s hips, coaxing him onto his knees without letting his cock move too much. He
was on the very verge of orgasming and the slightest jolt would tip him over the edge. He couldn’t
even sob properly, resorting to low, plaintive keens as drool hung from his lip and fell to the pillow
below. Taehyung’s hands slipped over the sweat coating his skin, grabbing around his sides and
fingers playing over his ribs like piano keys, as his mouth teased at the spot behind Jimin’s neck
which always, always made him cry like an angel. The younger leant into the touch, pressing his
head closer to Taehyung’s as his bound wrists dug into the pillow, and his eyes grew wetter behind
the blindfold.

“C-can I have the blindfold off, Daddy?” he whispered, gulping in great gusts of air as Taehyung’s
teasing ministrations to his neck became merciless. He responded to the request by undoing the tie
of the red silk with his teeth, tugging it loose where it nestled against Jimin’s freshly dyed blonde
hair. The smaller moaned his approval and immediately turned to look up at him, lips stretching
into an endeared half smile as his eyes lit up at the sight of Taehyung.

Taehyung couldn’t count the nights and days he’d spent wishing Jimin would look at him like that,
back when there seemed no chance that he would. That voracious, wide-eyed stare of sheer
adoration, as if Taehyung was his god, and Jimin his only creation, made to adulate him with every
fibre of his being. It was a paradox that Taehyung felt like he was the one at the foot of the altar
every waking moment, and not just when he was in bed, covered in Jimin’s bodily fluids and
observing the starlit-look in his eyes as he kissed him from head to toe.

“My beautiful boy…” he murmured, hand cupping around the underside of Jimin’s jaw and tilting
it up for a deep kiss, distracting him from what he was about to do. His own cock was already
coated with lube, his hand having sloppily overturned the bottle in his haste a couple minutes ago
as he kissed along the rim of Jimin’s thighs. The younger was blissfully unaware, his pink tongue
coaxing out Taehyung’s as he moaned into the kiss, not caring how painfully his neck was having
to crane back just so he could. But the spell broke when he felt Taehyung line up with his entrance
and then push in. His scream was so startlingly sharp, it left Taehyung’s ears ringing for a moment,
as he grabbed at Jimin’s buckling body. His orgasm hit him with the first thrust, voice box closing
up after that first surprised yell, legs spasming and his upper half collapsing instantly. Taehyung
held himself inside, as he held Jimin closer still, working through every quiver and clench of his
walls and struggling tooth and nail not to come himself.

Jimin found his voice and immediately started to cry again, tears dripping down his face like
perfectly polished gems, shattering on the back of Taehyung’s brown hand where it was propped
against his chest. He kicked his legs a little, the aftershocks overwhelming him as his whines got
louder with every inch of Taehyung’s cock pulling out. “I-I’m too sensitive, Daddy, p-please - ” he
wailed, clawing at Taehyung’s bicep where it curled protectively around his straining body.

“I like it when you’re sensitive like this, nightingale,” Taehyung mumbled, half-delirious as he
grasped mouthfuls of the flesh on Jimin’s neck, leaving him with large, bruising hickeys. “I like
fucking you when you can’t take it anymore…can you come for me again, little one?”

Jimin let out a sound of defeat, the sudden use of the phrase ‘little one’ doing something strange to
him that he couldn’t quite place, but really, really liked. It would have embarrassed him to realise
this had he been in his right mind, but he wasn’t – he wasn’t in his right mind at all. So, he nodded
and muttered, “Yes, Daddy” with a sniff and a clench of Taehyung’s cheek with his small hand as
he lifted his head for another kiss.

“You’re doing so well…” Taehyung kept whispering into his rose-stained lips, even as he fucked
him with the rage of a hellhound, giving his small, battered body no mercy as it quailed under his.
Jimin’s screams were lost into a muffled array of skin and lips and hair, as Taehyung’s head and
limbs engulfed him, drowning him below them until he could see, smell, feel, hear and taste
nothing else. His rim was sore, from a particularly violent bout of fingering he’d endured only that
afternoon, their lunch forgotten on the table as Jimin bent over and spread his thighs willingly for
Taehyung. Every thrust of his cock now was as deliciously painful as it was sheer bliss, and he
focused on loosening up so he could come and have the friction cease for the moment. But even as
he wanted the shreds of discomfort to end, he wanted Taehyung to have his fill, to take from him
until Jimin was an empty vessel with nothing more to give.

“Are you gonna come?” he choked out, desperate for the approval that Taehyung always gave
before he unravelled, gorgeous face twisted with ecstasy. “P-please come – w-wanna feel you
filling m-me up – “

Taehyung’s answer was to wrap his other arm around him too, sinking them both down against the
bed without something to prop them up, as he swallowed up Jimin’s bitten lips. It only took a
couple more minutes for him to finally paint the younger’s insides whites, rutted deep as a growl
turned to a scream and then a shivering moan as he felt Jimin come with him, grasping his cock
tight, disallowing it to move any further. In the balking light, his eyes looked silver as he started to
beg, “No more, n-no more,” when Taehyung moved again.

“Okay – okay, it’s okay,” he was quickly reassuring him in a quiet croon, higher pitched than
usual, which he knew calmed Jimin when he was at his most distressed. It worked now too, as he
winced at the tight grip of Jimin’s rim before his cock fell out. They lowered to the bed and Jimin
sank onto his front, face still marred with tears and slight smears of saliva, both his and
Taehyung’s. “I…don’t feel very strong today,” he said in a hushed whisper, almost apologetic as
his eyelids closed and fresh tears squeezed out.

Taehyung felt a lump in his throat, a familiar call for him to give into emotion he so rigorously
repressed, and for a moment, he almost did. Pushing in closer until his face was tucked against
Jimin’s, he held him close and answered, “That’s okay. You don’t have to be strong, little baby.
You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. You’ve got me.” Jimin hiccupped, nose
flushing red as he made a little whine of a sound and wrapped his hand around Taehyung’s waist,
nails digging soft into damp flesh. “Promise?” he said. Taehyung nodded, suddenly forgetting how
to form the word ‘promise’ and trying to make up for it with a brilliant smile, a kind of comforting
happiness he didn’t feel deep down but would fake till the end of time if it meant Jimin curled up
in his arms like a cherub and slept safe and sound.
Slowly, Jimin’s eyes focused, returning to his senses, and the lost, broken little boy didn’t look
quite so broken anymore. He blinked steady, didn’t hiccup as much, and his grip on Taehyung
loosened just a tad. Taehyung wasn’t having any of that. He mumbled something about “hold me
tighter” and fidgeted his way into Jimin’s personal space even more until every inch of their
sweaty skin was plastered together, and the younger was trying not to giggle as he clasped his
fingers through his lover’s soaked strands of hair. “My needy little boy,” he murmured, pressing
kisses to his forehead, to which Taehyung smiled and wrapped around him closer.

“Weren’t you the one crying like a baby and begging me to let you come moments ago?” he
mumbled back.

“Oh shush, let me have this,” Jimin chuckled, so overcome by a surge of love, it terrified him. It
hurt to love someone so much, and he was waiting for it to feel less immense but it hadn’t yet and
that glorious ache in his chest was still always there, even when Taehyung’s lips pressed to the
outside of it.

Slowly, softly, they descended from the clouds, listening to each other breathe, losing themselves
to the airy rhythm, loathe to tear their eyes away from each other. Taehyung’s hand was calm when
it brushed Jimin’s neck, his usual nervous energy gone. It put Jimin at ease, something he wasn’t
all too used to being around him, but that he welcomed anyway. “I like it when you hold my throat
like that,” he mumbled, stretching out Taehyung’s long fingers to rest against his pulse points. “Not
squeezing, just holding...it makes me feel secure...”

Taehyung responded by cupping it, exactly the way Jimin wanted and the younger almost moaned
out loud as he closed his eyes and sank into the sensation. Taehyung’s eyes followed him,
expression mirroring Jimin’s blissed out one, honey brown eyes melting with desire. He kissed him
again, nails gripping into Jimin’s scalp, such urgency behind his action that the younger
whimpered, overcome by the sudden display of aggressive passion. The kiss took the breath out of
him, flushing his cheeks crimson as he struggled in Taehyung’s grip whilst not really attempting to
get away at all.

“I love you so much,” he managed to gasp out, half pinned under the weight of the taller, and
laughing in delight when he received an answer that was filthier in essence yet no less devoted. But
when Taehyung’s hand went between his legs, Jimin sobbed, “No more, Tae, please – “ to which
the older lifted him from the bed in a flurry of bedsheets that spread like angel wings and swung
him in his arms until the sobs became laughter and Jimin was laughing like a child. It was that
nose-wrinkling, ear-splitting, almost ugly cackling that still managed to be so, so beautiful because
it was a soul in its most carefree state. Taehyung set him down gently on his feet and Jimin
alighted like a ballet dancer, even as pearly tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, shimmering
with happiness.
They danced naked in the light of the waning moon, to no music except the gruff whisper of bare
feet on Persian rugs and the quiet grunts and gasps of air as their lungs exerted and their limbs
swung. It started out as the typical ballroom waltz – they both knew that well enough – but turned
into something else entirely, contemporary in its fluidity and lack of rules, but clumsy in its
execution. Every time Jimin twirled, Taehyung grabbed for him too soon, always too eager, too
hungry to touch him and pull him back, possess him and make him his own. He wouldn’t let him
at arm’s length, not even when Jimin shoved at his chest. The shove wasn’t playful, neither of them
giggled. It was tense, the brown of their eyes turning black as they glared at each other, and Jimin’s
chest scar starting to hurt as he fought against his lover’s vice-like grip. He didn’t tell him to get
off, he would never do such a thing, not now, and neither was he entirely sure he wanted him to
either. But it felt natural to fight Taehyung as much as it felt right to pull him close, so close that he
was nestled somewhere inside him that was nearer and dearer to Jimin than his own beating heart.

The tussle intensified, until finally, Jimin stepped on Taehyung’s foot deliberately and made him
stop. He stumbled away on shaky legs, shrinking into a shadowed corner of the room, head turned
away and arms curled in on himself.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Taehyung was on edge instantly, long fingers prising under Jimin’s
arms to pull them apart and cradle himself between them again. But Jimin kept his resistance,
clutching at his own skin so hard his nails left strips of red on the sides of his ribcage, as with a
shake of his head, tears flew like bullets, a few landing on Taehyung’s shoulder. “Jimin-ie, please –
“

“This doesn’t feel right,” Jimin whispered, choked on the sheer force of his own emotion, this
feeling he hadn’t welcomed and could have lived without.

“What doesn’t feel right?” Taehyung asked, shaking with agitation and a need to know everything
that had upset him in order to crush it with his bare fists. He only had two reactions to seeing Jimin
upset – murder everyone else in sight simply for daring to breathe near his precious nightingale,
and kissing every last crevice of Jimin’s flesh until the boy stopped looking so fragile. But that
could never be, even he knew that deep down. Jimin was the living embodiment of kintsugi, his
every splinter, every bruise, every cut filled in with liquid gold, including the scar that Taehyung
had given him, which gleamed defiantly whenever the light shed on it, reminding the other of just
how badly he had betrayed their love. Taehyung hated that scar and yet he kissed it, each time
Jimin shed his clothes, as if it were the altar outside a temple and he would be denied entry if he
did not pay his respects. Jimin’s kintsugi defined him – his brokenness only increased his beauty
and it was something Taehyung had to force himself to live with.

“Us. This. It doesn’t feel right to be this happy,” Jimin answered, voice a tiny mutter behind the
compression of a small hand locking it in. “I’ve spent thirteen years of my life suppressed under
the acceptance that I might never be happy, that my every action has to be selfless, in favour of the
family business. The remaining decade I spent knowing I would never be happy but focusing only
one thing – vengeance – and now I have neither of those lives left and th-this is like a new one
about to start that I can’t fathom how it will end but it will be bad, I know this. It was never written
in the stars for me to be at peace and after I killed all those people – “ Jimin’s voice melted into a
faint whimper, before he clenched his eyelids and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to get through
to the next words, “ – I know I’m going to get what’s coming to me because I can’t turn it off like
you can. I don’t have my revenge left to take. All I have left is the dreadful sensation of having
something on my back, like a weight growing heavier, reminding me that all those dead souls will
somehow drag me down with them, that nothing goes unpunished and just like your father is proof,
so will I be – “

The rest of his broken sentence drowned into Taehyung’s palms, as the elder smothered his face
between them, shushing him like one might do to a small child or a young kitten, with heartbroken
tenderness and a little sad amusement at how cherubic Jimin looked when he let himself go like
this. He waited, until the younger’s sobs had abated some, before kissing his small palms, lips
brushing over the pink.

“My father has killed ten times the number of people these precious little hands of yours were
forced to, and you did it to save someone whose life you didn’t have to care for. Most of those
people in the casino that night were rich thugs or their filthy rich acquaintances with no scruples of
their own. You chose to save a police officer over them and yes, my moral compass might be
fucked up, but I will always say that you did right.” His voice was firm, unyielding, as if he was
attempting to quash Jimin’s guilt through the power of words alone, which wasn’t entirely possible
but the younger did calm a little, watching him with wide eyes.

“You don’t get it,” Jimin managed finally. “All the way to the elevator, I was preparing to shoot
myself, right here – “ he pressed Taehyung’s hand under his chin, long fingers nestled to his
jugular “ – but when I got out of those silver doors, something clicked and I was on autopilot, as if
nothing else in the world mattered except what I was setting out to do and Namjoon’s screams in
my ear. I-I think I turned my conscience off and the first time I realised that I wanted to kill myself
again because the very thought that I might become like – “ he stopped, having been about to say
‘like you’ but changing his direction in the last second “ – that, was enough to remind me I’m
cursed, without salvation, and always will be. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of
finding and killing your father b-because at the time, I thought I’d lost you for good…”

He trailed off, burying his face into Taehyung’s hand again, the sobs turning into low keens of
misery as battered emotions reared like a many-headed Hydra. Taehyung had his arms buckled
tight around him and still, Jimin felt cold, the heat radiating from his boyfriend’s body seeming to
reflect off his skin, leaving him trapped in a shell of ice he had long been trying to escape from.
Taehyung didn’t try to talk anymore, he simply held him, dark eyes pensive as he watched for
minute changes in Jimin’s face where it sat cupped in his hand, whilst the other massaged gentle
circles into his lower back. The clock read one in the morning. In the distance, the blaring sound of
sirens was heard, layering on top of each other until it was clear the accident in question had to
have been tremendous. It did not occur to either of them that it was in any way related to the phone
calls crashing through the house earlier, though as if to remind them of their ignorance, Taehyung’s
phone began to ring again.
Rather than pull away, he took Jimin with him, sitting at the edge of the bed whilst the younger
took his place on his lap, wrapping both his arms and legs around him as tight as he could, face
pressed into the golden valley of Taehyung’s collarbone.

“What?” Taehyung’s voice barked out, rough and irritated, though it contrasted how gently he
cupped the back of Jimin’s neck, cradling the boy against him.

“Look out of the window.” Seokjin was breathless, though his voice was still fine as organza,
shimmering down the phone. Taehyung turned his head and at seeing the curtains only half drawn
back over the massive window of a wall, nudged Jimin. The younger clapped his hands together
and the curtains pulled back further, revealing a sky so darkly blue, the stars were hard put stealing
the show. A full moon blazed at it’s very centre, free of the chokehold of clouds and bathing the
condo and the surrounding jungle in a swathing of silvery blue. “Yongsan is burning and you’re
nowhere to be found.”

Taehyung’s eyes focused as Seokjin’s words filtered through the post-sex haze, and it was then that
he remembered the pile up of sirens and his gaze followed the skyline towards the east where thin
trails of black smoke plumed into the sky, starting out much thicker close to the ground, but
shrinking to nothing by the time they reached for the stars. “What the fuck is going on?” he
murmured, as Jimin’s head lifted.

His phone pinged with a notification and after putting Seokjin on speakerphone, he opened the
attachment sent with the message. Yongsan police station was recognisable straight away, but it
was the angle of the photo that made it seem alien, a dystopian building from a science fiction
novel where everyone died at the end. Someone had taken it from the ground, aiming up at the
electrical pole upon which hung the lifeless body of a woman in pink, one heel missing and the
other dangling for dear life on the stiff angle of her toes as rigor mortis froze them into a hooked
position.

“Seokjin…who is that?” Jimin said, face even paler in the light of the moon.

“Oh good, you’re there too,” was the snide response. Gunshots were heard in the background and
then a barked command from Seokjin was followed by a door slamming. “It’s Choi Minsoo’s wife.
The rat will be back from Japan any moment now to a full-scale mutiny. Well, I say mutiny – “ he
laughed “ – I mean slaughter. His closest men are incredibly loyal and the sentiment is passed onto
those below them. I didn’t bother giving them a chance to surrender. They either give up his hiding
place the minute he sets foot here or I kill them all and their families.”

Taehyung got to his feet in a swift movement, Jimin rolling off his lap as he did. His lips bared
back from his teeth, every muscle bristling with rage. “Are you fucking insane?! Those are
Geomjeong-pa men! They still belong to us! You’re trying to fucking wipe out the operating
system of an entire district and it’s our most profitable one!”

“When you took everything from me, did you ever envision I might turn as numb as you to the
consequences of my actions?” Seokjin retorted coolly. “I must say, on this side of the glass, not
caring what happens is a lot of fun. I have nothing left to lose, Kim. Gangnam is nothing compared
to the birth right you took from me and then proceeded to ruin with your inability to keep that
fucking head and dick of yours in check. Yongsan turned on me, not you. I will always be the head
of Geomjeong-pa no matter which son of a bitch thinks he has a right to plant his arse on my
throne. They committed mutiny against me, and now I’m going to burn them to the ground until
they come crawling out on their hands and knees. I’m going to admire the sight of them begging
for their lives, as Minsoo’s decapitated body hangs overhead, bleeding onto their wretched backs!
The cops are here already and there’s full-scale rioting, citizens included – all the other bosses
have joined the fray. I’m giving you the chance to redeem yourself and help bring me Minsoo’s
head. Otherwise, once I’ve got his, I’m coming straight to that condo and giving your nightingale
to my men as spoils of war. You can watch, and as the last shred of sanity leaves your pretty eyes,
I’ll pluck both out and feed them to your dog.”

Click.

“It’s a trap,” Jimin said, without a second’s pause. “He’s luring us out – Taehyung, don’t go, don’t
give into his threats – we can fortify the building, get twice as many men as he has here within the
hour. He’s not going to get inside – hell, we can even get a SWAT team out as long as the
Commissioner General doesn’t get his name involved – “

Nervous ramble, on and on, he couldn’t get his tongue to stop. Taehyung stood facing the window,
broad shoulders tensed against the scenic foreground of the estate gardens and the jungle beyond;
Seoul’s skyline was a pretty diamond strip on its edges, their surroundings were so secluded. The
phone was clutched in his trembling right hand. He turned to look over his shoulder and Jimin
quailed at the expression in his eyes. It was a desolate shade of gloom, flecked with that ever
familiar flare of anger that Taehyung could never quite get rid of.

“We have to go,” he said.

“But why?” Jimin almost shouted. “You just reconnected with your father and now you’re running
headfirst into a sure fire way to get your head knocked off! Why do none of your decisions make
logical sense?”

“We have to go,” Taehyung repeated, more firmly this time as he walked back to Jimin and took
both his hands between his own. “We find and kill Minsoo first and the victory becomes ours, not
Seokjin’s and then we can get rid of him too, once and for all.”
“We. Since did when did running this shitshow become an us thing?” Jimin’s lips curled into a
miserable smile, tears starting to wet his eyes as he forced away the vulnerability that was
beginning to creep back in. All he wanted to do was bawl like a child and wrap himself tightly into
Taehyung’s arms until the sheer pressure of feeling his embrace numbed the pain and the hollow
pit of grey nestled in his stomach.

“Since there became no me without you,” Taehyung answered, large hands cupping Jimin’s soft
cheeks between them, touching their noses together with a quiet inhale. It didn’t help Jimin’s urge
to cry, and he ended up sniffing, bottom lip sucked into his mouth as his brow furrowed and his
fingers grabbed at Taehyung’s arms, foreheads touching, skin warm. Fuck, his skin. Golden-
brown, stretches of smooth and scarred, scented with the coconut body butter Jimin insisted on
rubbing into it every night under the pretext of putting him through a skincare regime, when it
really just calmed him down to touch every part of Taehyung and reassure himself that he was still
there, that Jimin had him.

“You’re going to get us killed,” Jimin whispered.

“I’d rather die with you – with this pretty face and these pretty hands and these – fuck, I’m not as
good with words as you are – “ Jimin shushed him with a fond chuckle as Taehyung’s agitation
crept through and he shook his head adamantly to indicate he knew what he was trying to say. The
truth was, Taehyung didn’t believe there were words to describe that sensation when he laid his
eyes on Jimin. Of teetering disbelief, followed by an all-encompassing fear, and then a maddening
rush of pure love. Disbelief at the fact that he was real, fear of losing him, and love – because
Jimin was love itself and Taehyung couldn’t picture a world where they hadn’t met and he hadn’t
let that feeling he hated so much take him over. In the sun, his edges were blurred, light glinting off
his platinum hair and seeming to absorb and emanate from his pores until his eyes turned a liquid
gold and his coral lips glittered. It hurt to look at him then.

“You are good with words. My stomach somersaults when I hear you call me nightingale,” Jimin
admitted, pulling Taehyung gently onto the bed with him. With slender arms and soft kisses, he
was back in his lap, a rather transparent plea for him not to leave, or to try. He said as much, in that
way he had of making his voice quiver like butterfly wings when he wanted something really,
really bad. “Please don’t leave your nightingale…I’m lost without you…if something happened to
you, I wouldn’t be able to live – I can’t go on, not without you…please…” his eyes wavered with
reflected light, nose pink with the effort of keeping a fresh wave of anguish held back.

“Baby, nothing will happen to me, and least of all, you. I’ll drink the fucking blood of any man
who even looks at you wrong, you know I will. I’ve done worse.”

Jimin let out a laugh, a clearer sound than the jumbled whispers. “You really said that with the
softest voice you could muster, but such cruel sentiment. Oh, my love, you’re so full of violence –
“ his sentence cut off as Taehyung’s lips crashed against his own and then followed a few minutes
of nothing but frenzied, hungry kisses, fingers tugging at hair, teeth, tongue and lips and pure
desire. And when Jimin broke away for air, lips swollen and chin a little bruised from how eager
they’d been, he finished his sentence, “ – but I adore it.”

“Then come with me,” Taehyung said, swallowing hard as he pressed his lips to Jimin’s jawline.
“You’re the bravest man I know and I wouldn’t have anyone else at my side when the bullets are
running out and the enemy draws closer.”

Jimin let the numbness of reality take over, allowing it to remind him that this was indeed
necessary, that Taehyung wasn’t as illogical as he had accused him of being, and that showing up
to what was promising to be the greatest clusterfuck Geomjeong-pa had gotten itself to since its
inception, was the only way to make sure neither of them were in a position to be separated.
Seokjin was the biggest threat against both of them, as come what may, Minsoo would be done
with by the time the night was over. With his wife hanging from an electrical pole and his
daughters no doubt in Seokjin’s clutches, the man was at his last stand. Mother would be the
enemy once more.

“You can’t stay here, baby, and I have to go,” Taehyung persisted. “If Seokjin is right and every
lieutenant in Geomjeong-pa is out on the streets right now, this place is up for grabs. Even fortified
and with me and you inside it, it won’t stand. They’ll blow it up with us inside it for not joining
in.”

Jimin heard and registered his words as perfect gangland turf logic, but it was difficult to accept.
He let out his breath in short gusts of air, unrest increasing, brow knotted with worry and lips
clamped thin. “Then what about your father?” Taehyung’s shoulders shuddered under his small
hands and Jimin held onto him tight, reassuring him wordlessly.

“He’s been on his medication. He’s strong. And lucid, most importantly. He can take care of
himself but I can’t risk him being alone,” Taehyung said eventually. “Not going to risk taking him
off suicide watch either, even if he’s agreed to the steady course of meds. Ahmeti can watch over
him in the car.”

“You think Ahmeti’s going to want to wait in a car?” Jimin chuckled.

“Not without a hefty pay cheque he won’t. Good point.”

With much reluctance, and a mumbled whisper of “Do we have to? Fuck…” Jimin finally allowed
himself to be lifted up off the bed, carried like a child in Taehyung’s arms as the older walked to
the closet. Jimin didn’t turn to watch as he keyed into the pad right at the very back and the grind
of the walls turning in on themselves, echoed in the enclosed space, separating to reveal the
weapon stockpile behind. It was a marvel, really. Neat rows of rifles and revolvers and pistols,
things that caused such blatant chaos settled into such wonderful order. Daggers encased in velvet,
grenades in hollowed trays and embossed with generic patterns. Gold and silver edgings glinted on
each holster strapped to the wall and housing a weapon, each one tucked in like a much-loved
infant. And it was telling, the way Taehyung ran his hand down an AR-15, eyes glowing with more
than just the lights decorating the inside of the weapons compartment. Jimin watched him intently,
feeling his heart sink when vitality returned to his lover’s expression with each renewed stroke of a
gun or a knife or even an axe. Taehyung was at home amidst the promise of violence, and he was
at home in Jimin’s arms – the two halves of him lived in harmony and no matter how much he
hated it, Jimin had to face up to the truth that he had to share the space in Taehyung’s soul.

“Go get dressed baby. I’ll join you in a bit,” he murmured.

Jimin left without saying a word, moving into the outer area of the closet where one half was
dominated by his clothes and the other by Taehyung. A real domestic set up. Every suit he’d had
tailored for him was designed to be as comfortable as possible in a combat scenario, so there was
no question of opting for any other outfit choice. But it felt as if he were dressing for his own
funeral when he put on a $3600 black Giorgio Armani with silver pinstripe and a white dress shirt
underneath capped with a blood red tie. The splash of colour was vulgar even to his own eyes, but
Jimin put it on with a certain determined ferocity to his movements. This entire fucking situation
was vulgar. He knew Seokjin had snapped and his first call of order was to plunge Yongsan into
war, a man who had nothing to lose; and to think, he’d had the gall to call Taehyung out of control.

“God, you’re gorgeous – “ Large hands grasped at his waist from behind, followed by the rumble
of a baritone voice lost into the curve of Jimin’s neck.

“Hearing the word ‘God’ from your lips feels so sinful,” Jimin murmured absently, eyes pale in the
bright lights.

“You adore it, I know you do. Especially when I growl it in your ear when I’m deep enough to turn
our bodies into one entity. Are you going to deny it?” The tone was far too playful, but Jimin gave
into it, expression melting as Taehyung’s lips scraped over his skin, whispering odes of love into it,
as if they could manifest into inked words and Jimin’s flesh was the holy parchment he wanted
them inscribed on.

“Don’t try to distract me from this mistake you’re making me embark on with you,” Jimin
murmured, though by the way his limbs slackened into his hold, he was already won over.
“I have to go – or else, he seizes power if he wins, and I get dragged from here by the hair and
executed for being a coward. And the safest place for you is beside me, you and I both know this.
Who protected you in Busan, huh? Remember when you were just a lonely, scared kid, with no
idea where to turn, freshly beaten up in the hospital and no roof over your head to go back to? No,
look at me – “ he paused to turn Jimin around when the younger sighed and shrunk away.
Taehyung took his face between his hands, honey brown eyes melting as he stroked his thumbs
over those perfect velvet cheekbones. “ – there’s nothing I’ll regret more than roughing you up the
way I did just to test your mettle. I should have known you were strong. But once I did, it was
always me and you against the world. I kept you safe and you had my back. We can’t be apart,
because when we are, Jimin, bad things happen.”

“I know,” Jimin mumbled, the corners of his eyes crinkling up with emotion as he tilted his face
and allowed Taehyung’s kisses to warm up his cheek. His own hands travelled up the other’s lean
arms, digging into the firm musculature, reassuring himself he was still solid, still there. He
couldn’t lose this feeling of warm weight, of having Taehyung in his arms like this – fuck, the very
thought made his heart tear itself open and shriek in unmatched pain. “Come on – you need to get
dressed,” he said, voice weak in his failure to hide how overcome he was. But his guidance was
firm when he pushed Taehyung away.

He dressed him like his mother used to fuss over his father’s clothes, in those rare moments when
they were peaceful and not waging war. Taehyung spoke to him about the stats on his newly
acquired guns from Russia, shooting off descriptions and sizes and kill counts for each with such
ease it was a marvel he said that he never did well at school. His memory was near-eidetic. Jimin
was paying very little attention to the technical jargon he rattled off with passion, but he was
paying full attention to the contours of his beautiful face as his cheeks reddened slightly and his
lips moved, chest vibrating with the bass of his voice whenever Jimin’s hands brushed against it.
Last, came the black tie, and with his softest motion yet, he knotted it neatly, dropping a kiss on
Taehyung’s neck, just over his jugular, for safekeeping.

“I’m done?” Taehyung asked, as if they were merely attending a formal function and he was
admiring himself in the mirror.

“You’re done,” Jimin assented in a quiet voice, tender with a love so sad he felt it bruise his rib
cage, heart aching with every beat. “I’m better with a knife so – “ he held up the 12.5” tactical
blade, sheathing it into the holster at his hip, but when Taehyung made a face, he rolled his eyes
and reached for the first Glock he laid his eyes on. The taller shook his head, clicked his tongue,
and moved Jimin’s hand to the one next to it, a sleek black beauty with the rather musical name of
Sig Sauer P226. Jimin took it off its wall grip and flipped it over in his palm. “Is this really better
than a Glock? I wouldn’t know, but I swear it feels better to wield the other one – “

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Taehyung insisted. “You’re wearing Kevlar under the suit
aren’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Jimin huffed, meaning it in a completely sarcastic way, but the way Taehyung’s
eyes flashed made his body tingle.

Taehyung leaned down to press a greedy kiss to his mouth, leaving him breathless and his ears red
when he finally let go. “Don’t speak to me like that when we’re all fully dressed, or I’ll risk the
wrath of the entire syndicate and drag you back to the room just to fuck you all over again.”

Jimin inhaled and let himself consider such a possibility, of giving into his own selfish desire. He
considered riding Taehyung with rolls of his hips that made the elder’s toes curl, as the rioting
bastards got closer with their pitchforks, thirsting for blood. He pictured screaming for Taehyung to
fill him up, his legs spread in the air, as the bed swayed dangerously and the door was kicked
down by furious gangsters.

But even Jimin knew dying in bed, a coward’s death, was no way to go.

The negative emotions returned seeing the care Taehyung showed his father when he explained to
him what was going on. Kim Bong Ju seemed fully aware of himself and his surroundings,
something of his younger days returning as he paced back and forth with a stiff, military posture.
Jimin stood behind the two-way glass and quietly gaped at how much of him had gone into
Taehyung. If they had the same haircut, and he saw them from both from behind, the slender, firm
build would have deemed them impossible to differentiate. Until they turned and one had deeper
lines, deeper scars, deeper sadness.

“I want to join in. You’re wild to think I would just let you walk in there without protection,” Bong
Ju said.

“Appa, I’m the one protecting you,” Taehyung said, gently enough, “I can’t risk something
happening, not after – “ his voice broke, but then he cleared his throat, brow furrowing “ – not after
all this time. I refuse.”

“Son, you don’t know Choi Minsoo like I do, but I appreciate the concern,” was the gruff response.

To Jimin’s surprise, they truly were acting like a father and son who had lived together all these
years. Kim Bong Ju didn’t waste any time on lingering looks or affection for his eldest born. His
love was communicated through clinical words and assertions. He would have certainly kept
Taehyung in check had he been bothered to be around. Jimin watched them argue back and forth,
with Bong Ju claiming to know every last scrap of Minsoo’s battle tactics, saying he never changed
them, simply changed his terrain, and that this time would be no different. He’d position his men,
make a deal with the cops, go in for a sneak attack and take out the lieutenants like lambs to
slaughter with strategically positioned traps – he knew Yongsan like the back of his own hand,
nothing was stopping him from introducing military precision into chaos. “Don’t forget –
underneath the guise of a riot, this is a battle that will win a war. You cannot afford to lose.”

“Then you can talk to your son through an earpiece. There still is no reason for you to be there in
the midst of it all.”

Bong Ju and Taehyung turned as one, the latter breathing in sharply, as his eyes flitted to his father.
Whatever Jimin had thought before about Bong Ju’s tough love, vanished as he saw how the older
man’s eyes displayed shock, then a vulnerability alien to his hardened face, and finally, the purest
form of grief Jimin had ever seen in another human being’s eyes. He knew he looked like his
mother – watching Bong Ju teeter on the edge of a breakdown wasn’t his first clue – but even he
wished he didn’t look like her then, just to save from seeing the man he hated the most look
so…pitiful. Jimin had always envisioned his mother’s killer to be a typical villain, an cackling
megalomaniac, and everything that had led up to this point systematically broke down the fantasy
until finally, this became the anticlimactic peak.

A sad, old man staring at him as if he held the secrets of the universe in his eyes.

Jimin felt a knot in his throat and blinked, furiously dispelling tears Bong Ju did not deserve. They
hadn’t come face to face whilst he was fully conscious – this was the first the older was seeing of
him and it was making Jimin want to shrivel up in pain. He steeled himself, directing his gaze
towards Taehyung, and with a rough growl in his voice, informed him he’d be waiting in the Benz
with the driver. “I’m also having Ahmeti take Chrollo. There’s nothing to be done about Cersei if
they do choose to return and attack the place.”

Taehyung nodded, his gaze now more intense when it turned to his father, and not in a good way.
The way Bong Ju looked at Jimin, he hadn’t once looked at his own son the same, not even when
they’d had that first meeting. “Dad, come on – “ he said, slipping his arm through his.

“He looks like her – he is her – “ Bong Ju stuttered.

“Yeah, but you can’t look at him like you’re seeing her, he’s my boyfriend.”

“What?” The misery vanished from his father’s voice and he froze, head snapping around.

Taehyung tensed, instantly defensive, but he did not backtrack. “He’s my boyfriend,” he said
firmly. “And he has been for a while now.”

Bong Ju seemed to be mulling over something in his mind, and whatever it was, ended on a
neutrally positive note. He allowed Taehyung to begin walking again, murmuring under his breath.
When his son asked him what, he said, “I don’t understand it entirely, but…it comforts me to think
of you two…together. If he’d been a girl, you might have had a kid and – “

“And what? There’d be a chance for another clone of her?” Taehyung said, a little more
aggressively than intended. “Dad, you killed her. You can’t continue living in this fantasy and
hurting him with the mention of it. The only reason he’s lived so long after the grief of her death
was to find and kill you. In fact, I’m not even going to let you be near each other if I can help it – “
Bong Ju’s hand clawed into his arm, a pleading, desperate grip, and Taehyung flinched.

“N-no don’t do that. Don’t.” It was all he could manage to get out, and until Taehyung nodded to
placate him, he wouldn’t move. With one hand in his pocket, the younger began to go through a
mental list of his father’s medications wondering if perhaps somw had been missed. He looked
positively anguished at the thought of not seeing Jimin again and that in itself put Taehyung on
edge. He’d never imagined his father to be like this either – Jimin wasn’t alone in that feeling.

Ahmeti was sitting behind the wheel of a Mercedes G-Class, yet another one of Mother’s vehicular
trophies. For once, he was in a suit, high cheekbones gleaming in the soft lighting of the car as the
deep blue of the sky began to lessen somewhat. Dawn was not far.

“Park it a couple blocks from the Garrison and keep your earpiece turned on. We’ll be back within
the half hour,” Taehyung told him, as one of the guards got Chrollo to jump in the back, separated
from Bong Ju by grace of a few seats. They were instantly friends, his father reaching a hand to the
dog and offering a hearty scratch behind the ears, which Chrollo accepted with a happy pant and
wag of the tail.

“What exactly are you planning on doing, boss?” Ahmeti said curiously. “I’ve seen what’s
happening down there. It’s a madhouse. There is no order – hell, it doesn’t even look like South
Korea anymore.”

“I’m going in, finding Seokjin and killing him where he stands,” Taehyung answered. “I should
have killed him when I had the chance rather than play that foolish gamble with the cop on saving
his life. The men still loyal to Jimin and I have orders to assassinate Minsoo on sight. Two birds,
one stone. Take care of my father – should anything happen to him, it’s your testicles I’ll be
wrenching from your body.”
“Ouchie,” Ahmeti whistled, but he nodded curtly. Taehyung wouldn’t have trusted his father with
anyone else, he wouldn’t trust Jimin with anyone else. Not a single one of his native kinsmen, but a
foreigner, who still had a thick accent and struggled with Korean grammar. That was the man he
trusted with those he loved most.

“Your dad on his meds?” Jimin questioned when Taehyung got into the back of the Benz with him.
In the rear view, the remaining armoured cars were already pulling out, holding men, foot soldiers
armed to the teeth, complete with police ballistic shields. All the stops were being pulled for this
one since no one knew exactly how to deal with a syndicate inciting riots on the streets.

“Yeah, he is. He just – had a momentary lapse when he saw you. I’m sorry,” Taehyung muttered,
not able to look Jimin in the eye as he pulled out his phone with one hand whilst the other attached
a suppressor to the muzzle of his Beretta.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Jimin said gently, moving to sit beside him, small hands cupping his jaw
between them, fingers stroking over velvety tan skin. Just under his chin he felt the scruff of the
morning shadow he hadn’t shaved properly and his abdomen immediately clenched, heat pooling.
It was ludicrous how easily Taehyung could turn him on simply by existing. “It’s alright, Tae. You
don’t have to be on eggshells around me when you talk about him. I’ll admit, emotion overtook me
but I hadn’t planned on acting like that – I’ll do better next time – “

“No,” Taehyung interrupted firmly, arms latching around his waist. “You don’t have to do better at
anything, you’re already perfect.” Jimin’s breath left him in a soft sigh and it was swallowed up by
Taehyung’s lips sealing his, kissing away the notion better than words could. When they broke
apart, the car was racing full speed down the road and the city lights were a streak of electric
whites and blues and reds and greens, trying to catch their attention and failing completely. Jimin
was lost in the innate glow of Taehyung’s eyes instead, veiled by those long lashes he loved to feel
brushing over his skin whenever the older teased him with little kisses and pecks, just before they
became savage bites and bruises. “You know, I don’t hear you calling me by anything other than
Taehyung very often. Apart from in bed of course…”

“I call you Taehyungie in my head all the time, but sometimes it feels wrong to say out loud.” The
first half of his sentence had them both giggling like pre-schoolers, but the second half, Taehyung’s
grin vanished and Jimin’s faltered.

“Why?”

“Because it feels like a jinx, like I’m too happy. You know – the way I told you before when – “
when he’d had his breakdown that he could in no way gain control over. Jimin shuddered to think
of the vulnerability he had displayed; regardless of how lovingly Taehyung had enveloped him in
his arms, weakness in himself still irked him.
“Call me it now. For luck,” Taehyung teased gently, pouting his lips to kiss Jimin’s bottom one,
his hand cupping the back of the smaller’s neck and massaging away the knots in his muscles.
Jimin almost moaned, pulled along and shifted around with the strong pull of Taehyung’s hand, not
minding it in the slightest. A flutter of lashes, a bite of his lip, a quiet whimper, and he let out, “I
love you, Taehyungie.”

And then he was pinned to the door as Taehyung kissed the living soul out of him. It threatened to
turn into a full on make-out session, with both of them ignoring the presence of the driver in favour
of drowning in each other. All either of them could hear were the breathless moans, the wet sound
of tongues colliding, the rustle of clothes as they were pulled, all indicative of a kiss that neither of
them would fully recover from for a good few hours. But that was the point. Taehyung wanted to
ram a bullet into Seokjin’s forehead with the loving sting of Jimin’s teeth still fresh on his lips, like
some sort of holy sacrament. When they pulled apart, Taehyung’s hand gripped the lower half of
Jimin’s face, fingers digging into cheeks as he whispered all manners of nonsensical passion,
shaking his head a little as he couldn’t get his fill of his boyfriend’s wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked face.
They stayed in that position, Taehyung half on top of Jimin, until the car finally rolled to a stop and
the younger had to remind him why they’d set out in the first place.

Taehyung sat up, pulling Jimin with him and kept him tucked safely under his arm as he dialled
Seokjin’s number. His eyes turned to look at him and Jimin almost quailed at the sheer potency of
the look they held. It felt like Taehyung was creeping under his skin by power of gaze alone and
the steady flush of red on Jimin’s neck rose until it peaked at his ears, colouring them a deep pink.

“Where are you?” Taehyung muttered into the phone, not tearing his eyes from Jimin for a
moment. After about ten seconds, he hung up. Somewhere in the near distance, a crash was heard,
followed by car alarms and screams that tore the night asunder. “He’s at the Grand Hyatt. I’m
sending men in to go first.”

Twenty men went in, in a tight formation of ballistic shields and rifles at the ready, but the report
came back that the hotel lobby looked ransacked. Blood smeared the luxury décor as if it were part
of it to begin with, pretentious artwork designed to look as appealing as possible to the critical eye.
Huge potted plants had been upturned, creating a bizarre mixture of bloodstained soil scattered
over marbled floors and carpets, carelessly flung over corpses. Most of them were night staff, a few
guests, though it was deduced that most of the hotel’s guest roster had locked themselves in their
rooms with whichever staff had been wandering the upper floors at the time. The ground floor truly
was abandoned, as if a tornado had hurled through.

“No one here, boss. Few dead Geomjeong-pa men, a couple security guards, the receptionist –
that’s about it. Looks like there was a fight but it ended fast.”
“I’m getting antsy sitting in this fucking metal box,” Taehyung snarled in response, kicking open
the passenger door before Jimin could get in a word.

“Taehyung, are we still positive it’s not a fucking ambush – “

“It’s not. I know how Mother works. This isn’t her. She’s grand entrances, not sneak attacks like
Minsoo. Her version of ambush is outnumbering her opponent and crushing them. That hotel’s a
better place than any to set up snipers, withdraw our boys already on the streets, and plan our next
move.”

Jimin wasn’t entirely sure it was a good plan, but there were no good plans, not anymore. Not
when the minute he stepped out and saw the street, all his misgivings vanished to be replaced by
numbing shock. There were cars crushed into each other, still smoking. Shop windows shattered,
alarms blaring, people running from one building to another, without paying any attention to others
around them. It was like walking into a dystopian apocalypse except even those held some sliver of
hope. The cop sirens were far away, probably at the other end of the district where the violence
was worse, and these next few streets were on their own, left to the mercy of looters and petty
thugs.

“Yoongi used to believe in all that Norse mythology shit. Bet he’d call this Ragnarok if ever there
was one. Man shall fight man, friend against friend, brother against brother.” He spoke this last
sentence in English, his deep voice lowering to an almost lull of a volume, accompanied by the
acoustic crunch of his leather shoes meeting with the broken glass all over the pavement. “I wonder
what he’s doing right now.” He spoke as if he hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud.

“The streets are so empty, it’s unsettling,” Jimin mumbled, pushing up his face mask to cover his
lips and nose. “It’s like everyone’s abandoned it and left a ghost town.”

“Probably gone to some safe location. First thing you do in a riot like this is leave home and
scarper, wherever you can find shelter, even if it is two in the morning.” Taehyung cocked the
hammer on his gun as the streamlined, curve of a building appeared against the velvet blue sky and
the road they turned onto appeared a little busier, teeming with emergency vehicles racing back and
forth. He walked right into the blaring traffic, no sweat, coercing Jimin to hurry up and close the
distance between them.

“I haven’t walked a road alone in so long, this feels unnatural,” he admitted when he caught up to
the taller. Taehyung didn’t reply immediately and Jimin glanced over at him with some trepidation.
He knew that look. The dead-eyed stare, the hard set to the jaw – he’d seen it so many times in
Busan just before Taehyung rammed into a victim’s head with a metal bet. He was turning off the
empathy switches one by one and Jimin’s remark got no response.
The hotel’s entrances were all sealed, except for the main one, the automatic doors guarded by two
of their own men in armoured body suits. Taehyung didn’t say a word to them as he walked past,
his strides purposeful and shoulders relaxed, the lazy grace of a hunter at the top of the food chain.
“Find out where he is and quick,” he barked, eliciting three of the men inside to volunteer
immediately, eager to get out of the way of what was a very loose hand Taehyung was swinging
with the gun in its clutches. “Turn off the power. No elevators, nothing. No one goes up, no one
comes down. The guinea pigs hiding in their rooms can wait for the cops to save them.”

Jimin could only hope there weren’t many families up there with children. The backup generators
kicked in but the lighting was neon, ugly, a clear sign that something was wrong. Whoever was
trapped in those rooms upstairs had to be on the verge of a breakdown –

“What are you thinking about?” Taehyung’s voice cut into his reverie and Jimin quickly shook his
head. “Nothing. Just…worried. Seokjin is a backstabbing piece of shit.”

“I backstabbed him too so I suppose he’s trying to break even. But I don’t think he left this hotel
willingly. Clearly, he got caught in the middle of something – “ he gestured around at the scene of
sheer devastation.

Jimin noticed something then, a glint of gold hidden behind a blue jacket. He went over to turn one
of the dead men onto his back and a detective badge slipped off his chest. “The cops were here,” he
murmured. “What could have driven them out?”

As if on cue, there was a shout of “Boss!” and their attention was pulled towards where two of the
men had just prised open the elevator doors after noticing the growing pool of dark red seeping
from underneath. Seven bodies, piled haphazardly on top of each other, soaked in their own blood
as if they’d been dunked in a bath of it. They were all police officers.

“This isn’t Seokjin,” Jimin said instantly, swallowing down the bile that rose at the sight. “He
would never do this to the cops, not with his father’s habit of a longstanding truce with Yongsan
station. It would bring him far too much unwanted attention. This is something else. It’s – “ he
paused, kneeling down to lift back the collar of the corpse closest. His throat was slit, a smiley face
across the throat but with the end jagged and more open, as if the knife had been twisted like a
corkscrew. It was a signature. “Lisa was here.” His voice came out thin as chalk.

“Who?” Taehyung said, forgetting the name for a moment. All it took was Jimin answering with
“Jungkook’s Lisa” for comprehension to dawn on his face.
“Why would she be - “ he froze mid-sentence as something was heard up above in the elevator
shaft, a clanging that echoed all the way down. “Double the watch on the stairs,” was all he said to
the others, who scattered left and right without a word. Their obedience was unmatched, it was no
wonder they were kept so close.

“If that blonde bitch was here, it means the runt wasn’t too far behind,” Taehyung continued in a
sharp growl. “And I’ll see to him after I’m done with his uncle.”

“Taehyung, there’s something I have to tell you – “

But he was already gone, marching down the remaining length of the lobby and up the stairs, past
two of his foot soldiers standing guard, up to the first floor. Wrong fucking timing for that
revelation. All Jimin could do was follow after Taehyung with a reluctant hand wrapped around his
own gun, like an overly paranoid guard himself. There was an odd tension in the air, metallic and
finetuned razor-like, as if they were failing to see something obvious. That smiley face slit of the
throat was too familiar a wound for Jimin not to shudder the moment he saw it, but the feeling of
foreboding grew the further away they got from that cursed elevator. And in the complete silence
on the first floor? It worsened.

“Taehyung, I think we should go back down,” Jimin said, but his voice came out scratchy, throat
dry. He tried again, louder this time, and Taehyung turned to stare at him.

“You’re white as a sheet, baby. Here have some water – “ it was the strangest of sweet things to do
in the predicament they were in, but over he went to a water cooler and lifted up a plastic cup as if
it were totally normal. Filling it to the top, he handed it to Jimin who took it with a trembling hand.
After a couple of sips, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“Can we please go back down now? We have no reason to be up here,” he pleaded.

“What is it? Why do you look so afraid all of a sudden? Because of what was in the elevator?”
Taehyung asked, “Jimin, anyone can slash a throat, it wasn’t her.”

“Then who was it?”

“I don’t know! Some sick freak in Seokjin’s entourage who had a sick fantasy about slaughtering a
bunch of cops in an elevator!”
“If they managed to overcome the cops that were here, why did they leave the damn hotel?” Jimin
shouted right back, getting more and more incensed the less Taehyung paid attention. “If Minsoo’s
guys attacked, they would still be here! Not a lot of time elapsed between you calling Seokjin to
find out where he was and then dispatching your own men!”

“Yeah alright, you know what, if you’re that worried, we can go back downstairs – “

“Thank you – “

“ – and leave the hotel too, since it totally makes sense to leave the best stronghold we could have,
just on a hunch.”

Jimin stopped dead in his tracks, pulling his hand out of Taehyung’s. “I can’t stand you. You’re
fucking mocking me.”

Taehyung tried to control the smile that was spreading, but his cheeks lifted against his will and he
laughed, bright, chaotic laughter that echoed through the empty hallway. He half ran back up the
top three stairs, hands reaching to engulf Jimin’s face between them, lips colliding. Jimin broke
away, slapped him, but then pulled him in for another kiss almost as if he were on autopilot, his
anger pushed down with every soft caress of Taehyung’s lips on his own. The taller mumbled
something as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and Jimin’s eyes half-opened, lifting onto his tip
toes to cling to him better as he whispered, “What?”

And then his eyes snapped fully open.

“JUNGKOOK NO!”

The scream he let out echoed like a blast, hands shoving Taehyung out of the way. But Taehyung’s
first instinct was to turn and push Jimin behind himself, and as the stronger of the two, he won out.
He barely had a nanosecond to register the figure standing at the end of the corridor, before the gun
danced in Jungkook’s hand and Jimin felt – felt Taehyung’s entire body knock back into his from
the force of the bullet hitting his chest.

Jimin’s mouth was still stretched into a scream, but no sound came out. Or perhaps that was just
the ringing in his ears. Jungkook was a blur, racing towards them as Jimin fell to his knees with
Taehyung’s body going limp in his arms. As if from far away, he sensed himself reaching out to
keep Jungkook at arm’s length, as the younger male grabbed Taehyung and pulled him out of
Jimin’s grip. Jungkook yelled something at the armed men running up the stairs, pointed the gun at
them and then jammed it against Taehyung’s head.

A knife lodged itself to Jimin’s throat and the soft, floral scent of perfume crept through the black
fog settling over his conscience.

“Surprise,” Lisa whispered from behind, voice hoarsened by drug abuse, but her hand no less
skilful. She had the knife jammed where she knew the tiniest slit would drain him.

She said something to Jungkook, who was staring at Jimin with a half-crazed look in his eyes.
Jimin’s heart melted around the edges for the barest moment, as he saw the frightened young man
he had once known, reaching for him through those jaded orbs of pitch black. But he vanished with
a single blink, leaving behind only the reason Jimin’s entire existence would shatter in a matter of
seconds.

“Fuck this,” Jungkook said, and Jimin didn’t hear him but rather saw his lips form the words.

The world ceasing to turn was no cliché. Jimin felt every cell in his being grind to a screeching
halt. He saw Taehyung’s fingers flinch – he was alive – and then Jungkook’s hand tightened, the
barrel of the gun buried in those beautiful curls Jimin had run his hands and his face through so
many times. He would never be able to do it again. Of all the thoughts he could be having in that
miniscule frame of time, it was that he would never be able to run his fingers through Taehyung’s
hair again.

Silence swallowed him whole, blissful, erasing the vicious dig of the knife to his neck.

Pure, angelic silence.

And through it cut the harrowing sound of a trigger being compressed.

Chapter End Notes

Seokjin…bro…you gave him the wrong information on purpose, didn’t you?

(p.s. this is not the end, please don’t scream at me ><)

I would just like to note that the conversation between Taehyung and his father was
purposefully kept out of the fic. This is a symbolic choice as much of this fic is
defined by Taehyung not having a father and always keeping that pain close to his
heart, just as Jimin doesn’t have his mother. The pain in both derived from this loss of
a parent has driven this story and turned it into what it is, so any direct interaction,
dream or otherwise is minimised to keep it so.
 Ceasefire

TW: Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression

( The scenes near the end are happening simultaneously)

(Prior to the events of Chapter 15’s end – undetermined time)

He knew Namjoon would never throw him out.

Easier to keep him from going off the deep end if he was nearby, even if that meant enduring the
discomfort of knowing what Jungkook was capable of. In that cold, dank apartment, where he’d
spent nights lying awake in bed, listening to Seokjin try to muffle his screams into Namjoon’s
shoulder, Jungkook was once again trapped. He had full control of his legs, could walk out any
time, but he was trapped in a cage that had been weaving itself since the day he was born. It was
still not at its strongest, but the air in his lungs was being squeezed out ruthlessly.

Namjoon snored in the other room and Jungkook shifted, only just noticing the wetness of the
pillow under him. He touched his hand to his cheeks. Drenched. When had he started crying? In
the mirror opposite, he was a brazen mess, pink cheeks, pink nose, knotted hair, red eyes. How
could he have been in hysterics and not realised? Silence crept through the room, settling into the
cracks of the floorboard and the damp on the wallpaper. Only the clock’s incessant tick pulsed
through his ears, reminding him he was not asleep. He sat motionless for a few minutes, a dull
weight growing on his chest until he grabbed for it and it worsened. No matter how he clutched at
his throat, the inability to breathe worsened and he launched himself off the bed and across the
floorboards, throwing open the window like a man dying. Jungkook gasped in air, greedy gulps of
it, holding it into his lungs to get the oxygen into his blood. Slowly, his breathing returned to
normal, limbs draped over the sill like a marionette with no controller.

It was three am.

The witching hour. The time when all the devils left Hell and raced up to squat in the crevices of
Jungkook’s skull. It had always been this way, ever since he was twelve and first learned how
much pain soothed him. And then at sixteen, when he learned that enough pain brought a
blackness afterwards, that he would willingly float away on. Mother had had him briefly
committed and on his return, handed him monopoly over the drug laboratory she had built under
the condo. A blatant tactic to keep him distracted, and it worked, for a time. But he couldn’t let go
of the pain. He wanted that, and if she wouldn’t let him get into fights, he fought himself and came
short, just so he could feel his skin scream in protest at the abuse.

Heavy footsteps thudded towards the bathroom. Namjoon wouldn’t hear him, he was a deep
sleeper. Something about that was comforting and he’d tested it twice now, when the nightmares
consumed his soul and fresh layers of sweat bloomed to replace the ones that had dried. Those
were the worst night terrors. It was then that he had quietly gone next door and slid into the bed,
curling up without touching Namjoon, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of his body
lulling him to sleep. He always woke up before him and was gone before he was any the wiser.

His reflection was terrible, the mirror highlighting every patch of dry skin on his face, the mottled
reds, the dark circles. Jungkook had never considered himself particularly good looking, despite
being told so countless times, but right then, he thought himself as downright ugly. A quick brush
of his teeth and at least his mouth no longer tasted like a rotten corpse.

He lifted his wrists, eyes trailing the blue-green veins, remembering how he used to sketch the
pattern with his own blood on the bathroom tiles at school, like some macabre protest. He also
remembered the first time Jimin kicked the door down to his en-suite when he didn’t answer for
ten minutes and rushed to grab the razor from his hands. He still remembered how musical his
voice sounded in anguish, like a perfectly pitched flute, raging at him, small fists beating at his
chest. Jungkook wasn’t even listening to the curses and the pleading and the demands to know
what had driven him to it. He just watched his beautiful face with a dopey smile, the red streaks in
his eyes fading with each gentle swipe of the bandage on his wrist. Jimin always bandaged him up,
it didn’t matter what the reason was. His small hands were diligent, voice lowering from frantic
fury, to comforting coos, nurturing him like a child, as if he thought that would stop Jungkook the
next time.

Maybe Bloody Mary could work, but the spell to summon would bring Jimin running through his
door instead. At three am, all sorts of thoughts became rational. Jungkook removed the straight
razor from the cabinet, flipping it open. Namjoon had laughed when he’d seen it, not expecting
Jungkook to have such old school tastes when it came to grooming. He didn’t. He used straight
razors like everyone else. This was not for his face.

Closing his eyes, he pictured Jimin’s face. The blade touched his skin and in his mind’s eye, Jimin
blew a kiss. Jungkook slid his hand across, slow, letting out a soft, whistling exhalation and a
shivering sob of a sound that he swallowed. A tear slipped out. The imagination was a vivid place
and his was 4D right now. He could almost feel Jimin’s breath on his neck, the nuzzle of his
pointy nose, the cushion of his kiss with those lips that could raise Jungkook on a high that no drug
could. When had he told himself he had stopped loving that boy? Because he hadn’t.

“I haven’t,” he sobbed out loud, “I haven’t, I haven’t, I haven’t – Jimin hyung – “ The whimper
turned into a muffled grunt as he slid the blade across a second time, a perfect centimetre and a half
apart from the first. He was practiced. With every fresh cut, Jimin kissed his face, his hands
sprawled over Jungkook’s firm chest – he was getting bigger, meatier, growing out of Jimin’s
giggling claims that Jungkook would always be a skinny little boy. His skinny little boy. In those
quiet moments of solitude as teenagers with bottles of alcohol they should not have had, and rolled
joints, Jungkook found his Shangri-La, his beauteous peace, in the stars glimmering bright in
Jimin’s eyes. Kisses, so many of them. He would have been satisfied with nothing more than those
kisses if that was what Jimin wanted. But then he let him touch him more, undress him, reach into
places Jungkook had only fantasised about before. Jimin had him by the throat and he was hostage
to his own sorry emotions.

“Jungkook-ah?” Namjoon’s deep voice reverberated through the wood of the door. At getting no
response, he turned the handle and pushed it, expecting it to be unlocked. For a moment, he stood
there baffled, still red-eyed with sleep, and then he saw Jungkook. He froze for a second, and then
leapt into action with the quiet efficiency that came with his profession. No panic, not like Jimin.
He sat Jungkook down on the closed toilet seat, and propped open a first aid box, deftly tying
bandages around his wrists, asking him in a calm voice how long he’d been doing this.

Jungkook shrugged. “Ages.”

“You cut open old scars? They were starting to fade,” Namjoon said, his large hands gentle as they
wiped the scarlet off Jungkook’s palms with a wet wipe.

“Yeah.”

The officer looked up and in those brown eyes, Jungkook saw that emotion he so loathed: pity. But
he didn’t have the energy to confront him over it. Namjoon helped him up as if he were an invalid
and took him back to his room, telling him to sit tight and while he brought him some chamomile
tea. When he returned with two steaming mugs, he found Jungkook curled up on the other side of
the bed, crying his heart out. The sobs weren’t loud. They were those awful, stifled sounds, almost
squeaks as Jungkook tried to quell them.

He didn’t respond to Namjoon’s gentle touch, as he set the mug of tea on the nightstand.
“I heard you cry out his name. It’s what woke me up.”

Jungkook said nothing, eyes vacant.

“Jungkook, please drink.” With gentle touches, and soft encouragement, Namjoon finally managed
to make him sit. The younger slumped, shoulders down, head hanging, his hands refusing to cup
around the mug Namjoon placed between them, until the older had to physically hold them
together. “Why?” he asked simply.

“I’ve always done it. It’s no big deal,” Jungkook answered.

“When you do it crying out the name of the man who betrayed you, then it is.”

Jungkook looked up, sharply. “Who said he betrayed me? Seokjin betrayed me. Jimin just didn’t –
or couldn’t – love me. How is that anyone’s fault but my own?”

“If he couldn’t love you, why did he lead you on? Why did he use you as a safe haven all those
years he was in Seoul, presumed dead? And the moment he found someone better, he vanished.”

“You think I haven’t raced through these very thoughts a hundred times over? I’m over it. I’m over
all of it. My lot in life means this is how I end up. Let me cut in peace and just leave me alone,
alright?” Jungkook snapped, taking an angry gulp of the tea, burning his tongue, and promptly
banging the mug down on the nightstand. He made to get up, but Namjoon’s hands were firm on
his thighs, forcing him back down.

“Just stay put. For a little while. I don’t think you should be alone right now,” he said, as gently as
he could muster.

“You don’t have to pretend to care. I know you’re a cop and that’s basically your job – “

“Jungkook do you think I pretend to care when I put my life on the line for the people of this city?”
Namjoon cut across sharply. “That’s fucking offensive. I realise you have little regard for what
anyone other than you does, but take my advice and don’t imply such a thing again. I’m not faking.
I think you should stay here because I do not want to lift your lifeless corpse from that bed in the
morning.”
Jungkook wouldn’t meet his eyes – they were blank, fixed on a spot on the wall that only he could
see. His palms and fingers, pink and trembling, hovered over his knees, until Namjoon’s slipped
under them, steadying. The contact of skin on skin seemed to jolt something out of the younger,
and he whispered, “No one will ever love me. I’m unlovable. Always have been, always will be.”

“You’re not -"

“Have enough respect to not just say that. I’m not a fucking child -"

“I mean it. You’re not unlovable but you don't need love either. Life dealt you tough cards but
you’re still here, despite it all.”

“Yeah.” Bitter laughter echoed. “Slashing my fucking wrists over it.”

“A moment of weakness at 3am doesn’t constitute the entirety of who you are, Jungkook-ah.”

Jungkook pulled his hands away sharply. “I don’t need or want your pity. Just leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you in pain, Kook.”

“You said I'd be fine, right? Believe that.”

Namjoon gave up arguing. Instead, he got in his side of the bed and gave Jungkook the option of
walking out. For a long moment, Jungkook remained seated on the edge, but then he abruptly
keeled over, crawling back to the pillow. He kept his back turned to Namjoon, as the older stroked
his shoulder, patting him as one might do to a child to have them fall asleep.

But he wouldn’t fall asleep, and therefore, neither could Namjoon, large hand resting on the curve
of Jungkook’s petite waist.

“I’m going to kill him, you know,” Jungkook said.

“Who?”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“But he’s your –“

“Don’t say it.” The bed creaked, as Jungkook turned to face him in a rustle of bedsheets. “Don’t.
He’s the reason I lost Jimin, the reason I underwent so much pain, the reason Seokjin hyung was
dethroned. If Kim Taehyung hadn’t entered my life, I’d be fine right now. And for that reason
alone, I’m going to rip open his belly, stuff it full of animal excrement, and hang him off the roof
of Mother’s condo.”

Namjoon blinked, a shiver rendering him motionless. He couldn’t get used to this amount of sheer
violence, he could not –

“I’ll help you,” he blurted out. “He deserves to die.”

“Glad you agree,” Jungkook answered, and he seemed somewhat placated, head finally sinking
into the pillow properly.

And just like that, the disturbing turn was over. But the pain in Jungkook’s eyes wasn’t, and when
he put the knuckle of his thumb to his mouth, other hand stroking the bandages on his wrist,
Namjoon knew who was on his mind. He offered physical comfort, a squeeze of his back, his
waist, giving him reassurance that even if the person he wanted wasn’t there, at least he wasn’t
alone. It was in that trembling moment of vulnerability and hopelessness, that Jungkook’s eyes
glittered in the dim light and he mumbled a request Namjoon had to get him to repeat.

“Can you kiss me?” And after a pause, “Please?”

“Jungkook, I don’t think it’s a good idea – “

“I’d have asked it of anyone in the bed with me. I just need to feel something.”

Namjoon felt a twinge of something strange to hear that, a sad little drop in his stomach, but then
he chided himself for it. He was the one who had rejected him – why was he feeling so odd about
Jungkook wanting a kiss that was as meaningless as it was faceless?

He considered his options for a whole minute, before shuffling closer. Jungkook’s hand came up,
caressing the strong line of Namjoon’s jaw, and their lips connected in the middle, wet and soft.
Namjoon didn’t know for how long they kissed, but he felt Jungkook fingers explore halfway
through, finding the waist of his slacks, dipping under the band to find that he wasn’t wearing
boxers. A tan hand wrapped around the pale one, but Jungkook was persistent, kissing him deeper,
with a passion that went from a spark to a flame.

The bed creaked, as the clock ticked closer to 3:45am. Jungkook’s whimpers were filling up
Namjoon’s ears, muffling his good sense and leaving him helpless to the firm hand wrapped
around his cock, tugging. A mumbled inquiry as to lube and condoms was easily solved by a brisk
search of the drawers under the bed – his supply hadn’t finished from the last time he’d bought
them.

Seokjin’s face flashed before his eyes and he had to physically shake his head to get it out.
Jungkook lay on the pillow below him, flushed, eyelids lowered halfway as his thighs spread open.
“Hyung…” he whispered, and the invite dragged Namjoon forward hook, line and sinker. The first
push of his hips was met with resistance, and a pained cry from Jungkook, panicking the older for a
moment. But he was met with, “I’m fine – I’m fine, promise – keep going – “ and both Jungkook’s
hands digging into the flesh of his buttocks to force the rest of him in.

They fucked in missionary, nothing fancy, but at the younger’s pace. First hard and fast, then slow
and deep, until he was gasping for Namjoon’s lips on his own and their orgasms entwined, moans
mutually lost into hungry kisses. Jungkook’s damp hair criss-crossed over his forehead, cheeks
pink, lips blood red, and his porcelain hands were slippery with sweat as they traversed the planes
of Namjoon’s back, ass spasming around the cock buried deep inside.

“ ‘M so tired,” he murmured, and there was something about the way he said and looked, that
melted the edges of Namjoon’s heart. It was impossible to believe what and who he was in that
moment. And though he fought it, the comparison filtered in.

Seokjin was sleek and refined, even when unkempt after sex, giving Namjoon an almost business-
like peck on the lips before he turned over and fell asleep instantly. Jungkook continued with the
messy kisses, cock-warming him, hips fluttering every so often as he praised how good Namjoon
felt inside him, how well he’d fucked him, how wonderful it was, and then slowly, his eyes began
to close, words slurring. When the older fell to the side of the bed next to him, Jungkook turned,
half-asleep, and buried his face in Namjoon’s chest, an arm and a leg thrown over him, hooked to
keep him bound there.
The last thought Namjoon ahead was surprisingly coherent, though he had no follow-up.

What the fuck am I doing?

(Present Time)

Yongsan police station sank into chaos the moment the dead woman’s body was found hanging
outside.

For lack of sheer numbers to handle the devastation breaking out, the Mapo-gu police sent out
every available man, with a direct line to the Commissioner General to keep him updated on the
actions of every task force. It was a wonderfully prime choice of night to wreak havoc by the
kkangpae – a public holiday meant that a large part of the police force in the entire city was on a
rare 24 hour leave. The ones remaining were piled into taskforces with no way to prepare for any
of this. They were poorly equipped for the blatant explosion of gang warfare, with no apparent
rhyme or reason, and yet the orders they received were merciless.

Open fire with intent to kill, unless the option of surrender is accepted.

Perhaps with a police force in full numbers, the parameters would have been more lenient, but as
Namjoon quietly holstered up, he tried to ignore the blatantly gleeful grins and chuckles going
around the office. They could not hide their excitement. Most were dirty cops, but they had their
pride to level out – they’d take the money and shoot the givers happily.

“Namjoon,” Sergeant Hwang appeared in the doorway, four other officers behind him. “I’d like
you to head up this division.”
Division? But there’s only four. Namjoon’s shoulders straightened, grim expression forming on his
face. “Sir.”

“Of this station, you five are the only ones with rigorous combat training. And you alone have the
most intel and knowledge of this man.” A photograph was produced and tacked to the wall.
Namjoon was reactionless, save for a twitch of a muscle in his jaw. “Kim Seokjin is out on the
streets, and by report of some of our men undercover, the instigator of tonight’s events. If this
bloodbath achieves nothing else, his capture must be one of them. It’s imperative. Mark my words
the police force will be blamed for this, and we must ensure we have someone to offer up as the
scapegoat.”

“I’d hardly call him a scapegoat, sir,” Namjoon answered. “He’s a puppet master to the very end,
with or without his crown.”

“And you know very well how dangerous a man can be if he has everything to gain and nothing to
lose. So find him. The other teams will do everything possible to divide and conquer much of the
mob population roaming the streets – somehow, somewhere, you’re bound to find Seokjin
unguarded or at his last stand. The army have been called, tanks will be scouring the streets soon
enough, as will further ground troops to aid the riot police. But you and your team will be some of
the first men into the melee. Can I trust you with this?”

“Sir!” Namjoon’s salute was stiff, snapped to attention, though his mind was in bits. Once, he
would have exchanged his soul to be assigned such a mission by none other than the Sergeant he
had idolised. Now, with the knowledge of these men and their underhanded connections with the
mafia, as well as that persistent ghost of a feeling he got sometimes when he looked at Seokjin’s
photograph, he was broken inside.

The team was adorned in typical riot police armour, ballistic shields and batons, guns secured in
armpit holsters. It felt ridiculous, to be so thoroughly padded and bolstered when average cops
went into gang squabbles with nothing but a gun and a badge. But this was no average squabble,
and it was clear the moment they stepped out towards the van, and saw the nearby skyline tainted
with rising plumes of black smoke. Fires everywhere. Distant screams. A district alive at a time
when everything should be lulled in slumber.

“Last sighting of Kim Seokjin, Seobinggo-dong, Yongsan-gu. Last sighting of Madame Go was in
Hannam-dong though she is now reportedly dead. Which means there was either infighting or
involvement of the Yakuza gangs in the neighbourhood, also affiliated with Choi Minsoo. Choi
himself was last seen all the way over in Hannam-dong also, about a hundred men at his disposal to
begin with. No sign of Kim Taehyung thus far but we can assume he will turn up – he’s got his
own team hunting him down. Grand Hyatt was briefly under siege by the Yakuza until further
petty kkangpae stragglers came along and a shootout occurred. Reports of grenade attacks on the
survivors. Hannam-dong isn’t our concern, they have plenty officers going after Choi as well. Kim
Seokjin is isolated by the interference of the petty kkangpaes and the Yakuza over in Seobinggo-
dong, and whatever’s left of his troops, will be taken care of by the three teams headed there. We
aim solely for him and his closest henchmen.”

“So two of the biggest crime bosses in the city are stuck in opposing ends of the district in a fight
meant to be with each other. It’s like watching a pack of wild dogs fight.” An officer hawked and
spat onto the ground, not too far from Namjoon’s feet.

Namjoon suppressed a sigh, the briefing having dried out his throat. He grabbed a water bottle off
the bench in the back of the van and drained it whole, wordlessly checking each man’s armour as
they got in past him. He shouldn’t be in charge of this. He was too young. Too young, too
inexperienced, too frightened, too invested.

It wasn’t a good sign that as the van drove across speed bumps, every upward lift of his body
reminded him of Seokjin’s doing the same in his arms. Of his dulcet tone, so darkly seductive,
urging him onto try things his normally conservative self would never have done. But he’d done
them and enjoyed it, always with Seokjin’s teasing smirk at the end as if to say I told you so, prude.

Stop thinking of him like that!

Namjoon’s brain instead forced images of the men he had seen torn open from belly to throat. Of
the crying girls streetwalking with their mascara running and blood not dried on the seams of their
thighs. Of stinking night clubs with drugs running free, sold to kids as young as thirteen if they
could get fake ID. Seokjin was head of an organisation so hideous, so abhorrent, that not even a
lifetime of torture would make up for the pain he had caused. And yet here Namjoon sat,
wondering how it would feel to have that ghostly, slender hand brush his face again, his heated
skin cooled by its touch.

“You alright there, Kim?” Soo called over to him.

“Yeah, sure, fine. A little hot,” he muttered back.

“It’s about to get hotter where we’re going, boy.”

“Yeah! Straight to hell!” another joined in and they were off, laughing like the veterans they were.
They weren’t afraid of this, it was just another occasion to suppress and order and control and then
return to life as a cop in an otherwise peaceful district. Of course – they weren’t in the organized
crime division, they didn’t have to see what Namjoon had, and they most certainly did not know
the level of rot that lay under Seoul’s pinstripe streets and neon lights.

Namjoon was heavily armed with the knowledge and afraid.

Partly for himself, and partly for Jungkook, who had left the house yesterday evening and not
returned, despite insistent phone calls and text messages. Namjoon sent him a last one as the van
raced around a corner, the streets getting narrower.

Wherever you are, stay safe. I’ll be seeing you soon.

Ahmeti sat in silence for the most part, wondering when he should book the tickets and risk
returning to Albania. Because this was just taking the piss. All around, helicopters grumbled their
way across the sky, sirens screaming in despair, distant screams –

He hadn’t left a war torn place just to end up in another, and above all else, Adnan Ahmeti valued
comfort. This – being seared in the back of the head by a pair of sunken eyes – was not comfort.
He bore the pressure for a while, but finally it became too much.

“If you wanted to give input on your son’s actions, you shouldn’t have killed his boyfriend’s
mother,” he snapped into the darkness of the car behind him.

A scoff echoed, followed by the rustling of shoes, and then Bong Ju’s face appeared out of the
shadows, arms leaning across the passenger seat. Despite the hardships he had seen, his features
were still handsome, roguishly so, with elements of both Jungkook and Taehyung apparent in their
depths. But despite the resemblance, both must have taken mostly after their mothers. Ahmeti
rattled the AK-47 in his lap with bristling impatience.
“I’d be out there with them if I didn’t have to babysit you,” he scowled.

“Then let’s go,” Bong Ju said simply.

“I don’t think so, old man.”

“Old? You look twice my age.”

Ahmeti’s head snapped around, dark eyes flashing, filled with the reflection of Bong Ju’s placid
smirk. The Albanian crumbled, a bark of sordid laughter lifting the mood, and then an abrupt kick
of the car door sent it flying open.

“Alright, fuck it. What’s he gonna do to me anyway? Exactly – nothing. I’m way too valuable an
asset.”

“I’ve seen that crazy spark in my son’s eye. Don’t be too sure,” Bong Ju said, getting out after him.

“Well if shit hits the fan, I have his Daddy in my clutches, don’t I?” Ahmeti smiled back, cocking
the rifle and aiming it right at Bong Ju’s head.

Chrollo was still sat quietly in the back, licking his paws. He had finally become accustomed to
mass spread chaos around him, and no longer twitched nervously at the sound of a car racing past,
or explosions, or bullets. Taehyung would have been proud to see him then. Ahmeti called one of
his Serbian friends, a long time affiliate of Geomjeong-pa and instructed him to take Chrollo back
to his place, which was about a few blocks from there. “Precious cargo” he called the dog, and
informed him that Taehyung would have both his ears sliced off and fed to him were anything to
happen to the dog. But for the price of two thousand dollars for a simple dog-sitting job, Miro was
more than happy to take on the deal.

Once Chrollo was gone (Miro came armed with dog biscuits so the pup was very content to follow
him), they went on their way, Bong Ju armed with nothing but a metal bat he’d found lying by the
sidewalk. He was in the process of wrapping the tip with a discarded scrap of barbed wire when
about six men dashed around the corner, masks on and armed to the teeth. Ahmeti's rifle began to
spray bullets but a few got through, and the older man swung the bat with an ease and skill that
could only come with years of practice. The Albanian whistled in admiration as one of the
attacker's jawbones fractured cleanly, blood spewing, a useless gurgle sounding from his throat.
“I see where Taehyung gets it. He’s good with a bat too,” he remarked.

Bong Ju swung it up and brought it crashing down on the man’s skull, caved. “Funny. I always
promised myself I’d go back and teach my son to play baseball like normal fathers did. Seems like
in a way, he caught on.” He swept back his hair with a bloodied hand, spine straightening, and for
the first time, he looked as if he were in his glory days, the spitting image of Taehyung with
Jungkook’s smile and eyes. He set the bat on his shoulder, stalking along the pavement like a wild
animal on the hunt, Ahmeti close beside with his rifle drawn.

There was no distinction between who was Geomjeong-pa and who was not. Someone came
running, and both men let the air explode in a showering of blood and crushed bone matter. There
was no distinction to be made – it was each man for himself.

Bong Ju’s thoughts lay with his eldest and middle child, the third being far from his conscience for
quite some time. Yeonjun would be protected, no matter what, having found himself adopted into
the most powerful family in the country. The twist of fate that had led to that eventuality couldn’t
have been orchestrated better. But he couldn’t rid from his mind the broken expression in
Jungkook’s watery eyes as he video called him for the last time, overcome by crippling depression
and pain in his spine. Anger burned for only seconds before Bong Ju would remember it was
Taehyung that had done it to him, created that crack in his voice that never quite faded. And just as
he knew every last way to kill a man and cause him unimaginable pain, Bong Ju was at an
opposing stance with his children – he didn’t have the first fucking clue what to do to make any of
it better.

Not when his mind was snagged on the ‘what ifs’ and not the ‘what was’.

The ‘what ifs’ were wrapped up in Jimin’s eyes, staring at him with such hatred it was impossible
to believe he spent every night in the arms of his enemy’s son. If Jimin had been his, Bong Ju
wondered how differently life might have gone. Ara might not have been so stubborn in staying
with her husband for the sake of her son. He would have had the fake passports ready in hours and
they’d have vanished from the country, spirited away to a secluded corner of the world to raise a
baby they both adored.

And yet that would still leave Taehyung and Jungkook alone, you fucking piece of shit.

“Hold on a minute,” Bong Ju muttered suddenly, stopping to rest against a wall as his breath came
short.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re not that old,” Ahmeti sniped, but the comment went ignored.
He swept the blood off the end of the bat with his palm, not caring for the scarlet stain on his skin,
and stood there a while, staring into blank space. A dig into his pocket and a bottle of pills was
used to steady shaking hands. His body became still, and the guilt that so easily pervaded honey-
brown eyes, dematerialised, leaving only jagged stone in its wake.

The Grand Hyatt was not far, a building deathly silent, except for the windows on the upper floors,
all with curtains drawn back as the frightened guests peered out and waited for help to turn up.
Ahmeti pretended to aim the rifle up, cackling when the faint echo of screams was heard through
open windows, figures dipping down to the ground.

“They’re like cockroaches. Look at ‘em scatter,” he sniggered.

“Stop that,” Bong Ju said, “we’re being watched.”

And it wasn’t by the two guards standing just past the glass revolving doors. Two police officers in
fluorescent vests stood safely at the other side of the road, one muttering into a walkie talkie. There
would be more here soon, providing back up as these two weren’t stupid enough to try and
confront or arrest a single Geomjeong-pa man on their own. But the place would be crawling with
cops quickly enough and Bong Ju’s steps quickened, determined to get Taehyung out of there and
find base someplace else. There was a heavy metallic weight in the air, of trouble impending – this
was nothing yet, the rest of the district was too quiet all of a sudden, a stark difference from the
explosion of sirens just minutes ago.

They were let in without question and the hubbub in the lobby ensued the minute they entered.

At first, Ahmeti’s gun went up, aimed in the direction the henchmen were running, up to the stairs.
But at Bong Ju’s startled exclamation, he paused to focus, eyebrows flying up when he saw Jimin,
trussed under the arm of a blonde girl. But it wasn’t what had made Bong Ju cry out. Jeon
Jungkook was crouched over Taehyung, who appeared unconscious, and as Jimin’s voice broke
into fleeting, pained sobs begging him not to, his hand stilled. Bong Ju recognised that stilling of
the hand very well – it was the moment when the point blank shot was inevitable – his mind was
made up.

“Jungkook-ah.” He didn’t shout, so as not to panic him into a sudden move. But his voice carried,
deep and mellow, causing heads to turn.

Jimin sank a little when he saw him, relief flooding his features, though the next moment he
winced when Lisa’s knife dug in deeper, drawing a thin ribbon of scarlet over his skin. He had full
opportunity to ram his elbow into the girl’s ribs and catch her off guard, but it was telling that he
was not. Perhaps he sensed a crack in her furious façade, and knew she would not willingly murder
him. But hurting her and moving in Jungkook’s direction would ensure the pull of the trigger.

Bong Ju’s attention riveted to his middle child again.

Jungkook’s eyes glittered as they bulged out of his skull, his hand trembling around the handle of
the gun. He looked to be on the verge of tears but he was not – he simply had one of those faces so
beautiful, the slightest waver in emotion made it look tenfold. Bong Ju was abruptly reminded of
his mother, the girl with the same large eyes and stick-straight black hair, who’d looked at him just
like this the last time he’d said goodbye. There wasn’t love there, not for him, but an overwhelming
fondness. It didn’t matter – he loved the child she’d given him just the same, though he’d never
had the choice to, or the mental capacity. Protected by the highest echelons of a mafia family could
serve to protect a baby somewhat, after all, he wasn’t their eldest born, he would not be expected to
take over. But fate was cruel, and in the twists of Bong Ju’s own decisions, he now regretted not
fighting harder as he saw the remains of Jungkook’s broken heart spill from his eyes.

“Appa?” his voice was hoarse, broken, his finger easing up on the trigger.

“Jungkook-ah, get off your brother.” It was a statement that was to decide if Taehyung lived or not,
but came out strangely domestic, as if Bong Ju was merely telling his boys to stop playfighting and
the younger had bested the elder.

Jungkook obeyed with the innocence of a child, though he didn’t remove the gun. It remained
lodged to Taehyung’s temple. “Don’t you see? He’s the problem. He always has been. He’s the
worst of your sons. Just let me do this and I promise, you won’t ever have to even talk to me again
–“

“Kook – “ Jimin whispered, but Jungkook pointed his free hand at him, face contorting with such
rage it was frightening to watch. “YOU, SHUT UP!” he screamed.

Bong Ju hastened up a few steps and the men either side parted to let him through, but their
weapons remained aimed at Jungkook.

“Jungkook, put the gun down – “

“No, I’m sick of sharing everything I love with him – “

“Killing your brother is the one thing in life you’ll regret most, I promise you. It’ll make living
unbearable and haunt you till the day you die. Take it from someone who knows Death inside out.”

Bong Ju’s voice was still soft, but stern, his dark eyes burning into Jungkook’s, willing him to put
down the weapon. Taehyung was stirring, mumbling Jimin’s name, and it was heartrending to
watch the latter reach for him, still caught by the bite of the girl’s knife. Jungkook stared at the
motion with a blank face. It seemed to decide for him. His grip firmed on the gun, and Bong Ju
began to say his name, quickly, over and over, getting louder –

Jimin was beside himself. “Kill me! Why won’t you fucking kill me instead?! I’m the one that
caused you the pain! I’ve always been the reason behind it, not him! Kill me, Jungkook!”

Jungkook sneered, for a moment enjoying how much the older looked as if he were about to lose
his mind. “I would never kill you. I’m stupid enough to still love you but this – this I don’t love – “

“If you kill him, you’ll kill me too,” Jimin gasped. It was difficult to speak, not because of the
knife, but because of his heart pounding in his throat. It was so close – he could taste Taehyung’s
death on his tongue and it was kicking his body into a state it had never been in before. He
couldn’t even name it as panic, it was something beyond. “Jungkook, I’ll die without him – I’ll die
– please – “

Through the hyperventilation, Lisa’s grip became looser, until finally she let go, her knife stained
with his blood, and an unreadable expression on her face. But Jungkook – not Jungkook – he was
crying now, though there were no sobs, just tears.

“Why is it always him?” he choked.

Jimin crawled – no, scrabbled over – at the same time as Bong Ju did, the minute Jungkook’s hand
relaxed around the gun again. Bong Ju pulled Taehyung away, bodily dragging him and putting
distance between them whilst Jimin flung his arms around Jungkook’s neck and squeezed him so
tight, the air was knocked out of his lungs.

Ahmeti flapped his hand at the henchmen to back off further, before kicking the knife from Lisa’s
hand and grunting, “Up, girlie. Way past your bedtime. Kids running about these days with
weapons. Tsk.”
Bong Ju had Taehyung propped against his chest, hand pinching his cheek gently as he coaxed him
out of unconsciousness. “Hey – hey, baby bear, come on – no time to sleep, get up – “ He brushed
over Taehyung’s front and sighed when he felt the Kevlar under the shirt – Jungkook must have
shot at it and the force had knocked him out.

“Omma used to call me that…” Taehyung mumbled, still dazed as he blinked up at his father’s
face, forgetting where he was for a moment. “Grammie told me…”

“No, Omma used to call you honey bear. I called you baby bear,” Bong Ju laughed, and his eyes
crinkled, a sight that made Taehyung’s eyes do the same, identical. He remembered those eyes,
smiling just like this, in dreams he’d had so often, he felt he could touch and bring them to life if he
tried. But now a portion of them were real, right here, his father’s arms cradling him as if he were a
little boy again, with no trouble in the world except how many pranks he could pull without being
put in timeout.

The sound of Jimin sobbing snapped him out of the haze, and with Bong Ju’s steadying hands on
his frame, Taehyung struggled to get up, breathing heavy. That first sight of his boyfriend clasped
in Jungkook’s arms was incinerating.

But Jimin was far too overcome to register the flash of anger on Taehyung’s face, and silently
reached to grab at his hand, holding on tight once he had it. Jungkook wouldn’t lift his head from
Jimin’s shoulder, long hair hiding his face. Taehyung allowed Jimin to pull him closer, murderous
stare focused on the back of Jungkook’s head, and then buried his face in his lover’s neck, kissing
his skin with the ferocity of a man who had almost missed his last chance to do so.

“Aha, boss – not the best place for a family reunion,” Ahmeti said, glancing down at where the
remains of their group was lurking by the doors. “Or a gay reunion. You’re surrounded by armed,
homophobic heterosexuals with weapons and it’s anarchy outside.”

Taehyung stood up first, helping his father to his feet also, before he turned on Lisa. She was still
sitting with her back to the wall, fingers wrapped in bleach blonde hair, a dead look in her eyes. She
shot him a shrug, as if to say ‘well, what are you gonna do?’

“Can I trust you enough to give you a combat knife?” Taehyung said.

She seemed caught off guard, shrugging again. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Since Jungkook’s
chickened out.”
“How’d he rope you in anyway?”

“Came back to Seoul to escape an arranged marriage. And first person I thought to call was
Jungkook. The rest is history, considering he’s my only best friend after you slaughtered the first
two.” She spat at the ground before his feet, then wiped her face smooth with remarkable
swiftness. “You can trust me with a knife. Got bigger fish to fry right now.”

“Don’t give her anything,” Taehyung told Ahmeti. “She can make her own weapons and she stays
with you.”

“So first I babysit your father – turned out tremendously, by the way – and now I babysit a Kill-Bill
wannabe?”

“Who the fuck are you calling a wannabe?”

“You, Umpty Thurman – “

“Shut up!” Taehyung exclaimed, eyes wide. “Ahmeti, I said what I said. Watch her. Jimin, let go of
him and get up, we need to get out – “

The glass doors in the lobby shattered before he could finish his sentence, several grenades
launched in with frightening accuracy. Most of the men managed to get out of the way, but four of
them were blasted, their broken corpses crashing into rubble and smoke. As one, the remaining
leapt into action, either ducking for cover when more were flung in, or racing for the nearest exit.
It was fight or flight, and in a split second, the decision was made. Jungkook pulled Jimin with
him, as if they were back in their younger days, running from the cops – it was second nature to
drag his best friend with him at the slightest hint of danger.

“He’s holed up in a high rise!” one of his men came racing back up the stairs towards his boss,
rather than out the other way like the rest. “Choi Minsoo! A couple blocks from here! If we go
now, we can get at him! Madame Go is dead – the Japs were parading her body - and her boys
have changed sides, but they’re scattered throughout the district. It’s only Minsoo and his best and
closest in that building!”

“How do you know all this – “ Taehyung was cut off by another grenade blast, this time, feeling
his father’s arm push him down, Bong Ju’s upper half a shielf against the impac. As soon as the
dust settled, he pulled away, furious, exclaiming, “Don’t put yourself in danger like that! I can
protect myself!”

“Boy, don’t tell me about danger! Move!” Bong Ju barked back.

Taehyung found himself herded from the place, as sirens began to scream, much too close for
comfort. The sky was getting lighter, as night slowly wore off, but the scenes of madness doubled
and tripled the further their feet carried them. A car burned on a side street, blocking the way in,
and nearly every window of each building was smashed in, bodies hanging over sills and electrical
lines cut overhead. It was a lawless state. But as Taehyung was noticed by the Geomjeong-pa
stragglers they passed, slowly, their numbers grew, more and more of its members deciding to join
for the sake of not being caught alone by a bigger group of the enemy.

Gunshots rang out the moment they came into sight of the high rise, fired from the windows with
impunity.

“With the way they’re wasting bullets, they’re well stocked,” Taehyung observed, eyes flicking
over to where Jimin had his hand on Jungkook’s back, whilst they too gazed up at the tower.
“We’re going to have to charge in past the bullets. There’s no blind spot. And I’d rather not be
doing this when it’s daylight, which it will be soon.”

The men behind him were dead quiet, listening, as the gunfire stopped, leaving only an angry echo.
He unfastened the Rolex around his wrist, and as he put it away, he felt the Jewel of Busan tucked
in his pocket. It almost slipped out as he removed his fingers, but he shoved it back in before Bong
Ju noticed. The last thing he needed was his father to be distracted, especially considering there
was no way in hell Taehyung could make him stay out of this.

“He was your friend,” he said, making an attempt anyway, “You sure you want to do this?”

Bong Ju scoffed, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “No such things as friends in the gang world,
son. Only allies. And alliances break all the time.” He glanced at Taehyung, grimacing as he
slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not letting you go in there without me.”

Taehyung smiled, empty. “I know. Now can you convince him to let me go in without him?” He
nodded towards Jimin.

Bong Ju’s glance slid to the boy, and his only response was a quiet snort. “Not if he’s like his
mother I can’t.”

“Boys, we go in with what we got,” Taehyung announced over his shoulder to the gathered troops.
There weren’t many. “If you want more weapons, you know what to do. Kill and scavenge off the
corpses. Don’t look back, don’t try to get out of that building. Ahmeti and Yoo are gonna be
standing watch outside, shooting anyone - from either side, our own or theirs - who tries to get out
before that building and Minsoo is under our control. Understood?”

Murmured agreements, nods. The sky grew lighter still. Sunrise was approaching fast.

“You – with Ahmeti,” Taehyung said to Jimin, snatching a rifle off the man nearest and dropping it
into Jimin’s arms.

“But – “ the younger protested immediately, only to get a cup of his chin from Taehyung.

“No.” He gave no explanation, just a curt denial, and with a dark glance at Jungkook, began to
cross the road. Jungkook didn’t ask – he followed without question, shooting Jimin an unreadable
look over his shoulder, almost as if he were trying to figure out who he was. Jimin bit back a scowl,
cocking the rifle, as Ahmeti watched, an amused glint in his eye. The bastard always enjoyed their
“angsty teenage behaviour” as he called it, and the addition of Jungkook had to be the cherry on top
of the cake.

Up front, Taehyung had a ballistic shield in hand, held up with one arm whilst not missing a beat in
his walk. In his natural element he was always glorious, tall, straight-backed and dressed in a suit
that hugged every line of him with merciless perfection. Ring glinted on his finger, catching the
light as he whipped out a Beretta and aimed at one of the ground floor windows, dropping one of
the shooters on first fire. There were six ballistic shields between thirty or so men, and for that
ratio, four casualties was a lucky number.

And then they were gone.

“This is gang warfare at its finest, is it?” Jimin muttered, almost to himself. “A grubby building,
police closing in, and a dirty standoff?”

“It sure is. I’ve seen worse,” Ahmeti agreed pleasantly. “Thing is, thugs get romanticised but we’re
all gutter rats, trying to get a glimpse at the stars, just like everyone else – except more
aggressive.”
“Oscar Wilde at a time like this. Seems appropriate. Do we move?”

“Give it a minute. Let ‘em get nice and distracted,” Ahmeti drawled. They waited, and in the
course of a minute, sirens wailed closer. Yoo muttered something about “looks like some of us will
be cop killers by the time tonight’s over” and then the Albanian clicked his tongue, beginning to
move. The building had broken out into an eruption of noise and flashes that illuminated windows.
The gunfire had to be attracting the attention of anyone in even a ten mile radius, it was viciously
raucous. Jimin winced with the particularly loud bangs, taking up post outside the automatic doors,
just as one opened and let out a man running at breakneck speed. He was slow to lift his weapon,
letting the other two batter the man with four bullets between them, and hung back when they both
identified him as a Yongsan man, not their own.

“You were slow to draw on purpose,” Ahmeti said without glancing up. “If you want to die,
continue with the reluctance for murder. Very noble of you, Mr Blue Tails.”

Jimin hissed, the moniker rough and brutal, hitting right at his core. But when Ahmeti’s sharp eyes
snapped up, his face wiped blank. “How are they not here already?”

“Who?”

“The cops.”

Yoo scoffed. “You didn’t hear?” He flipped his phone around, pausing mid-scroll to flaunt the
contents of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS: FIRE BREAKS OUT AT BUSINESSMAN CHOI KIBUM’S GANGNAM

VILLA

“The Choi Kibum? As in the president’s son?” Jimin said.

A nod. “Apparently a few families were staying over for the Choi daughter’s birthday celebrations.
No word on any survivors. So you see, whilst they deal with that clusterfuck, this little scuffle is
out of the news.”
“Hey, I know that kid,” Ahmeti said suddenly, craning to see the phone screen again.

“This one?” Yoo frowned, “Choi’s eldest?”

“Yeah. The boss met up with him once or twice. Apparently he’s an iljin – handy tool for drug-
dealing amongst private school kids.”

Jimin gave a cursory glance at the screen, though his eyes stuck for a moment, riveted on Choi
Yeonjun’s face for some reason. But then, he turned away, mind empty save for what he would do
the next time those doors blasted open and he had to shoot on command.

Until ten minutes later, and not a single person came out.

“We should go in,” he said.

“Boss’s orders – “

“Damn his orders, he’s in there vs a hundred men with thirty odd and decreasing!”

“Boss’s orders – “ Ahmeti barked, as Jimin dashed for the doors. The Albanian’s massive hand
engulfed the scruff of his neck, dragging him back despite Jimin’s enraged scream. The younger
span his rifle in his hand with skill Ahmeti wasn’t expecting, and jammed it into his side.

“Fuck – off – “ Jimin snarled, eyes red and entire body shaking like a drill. His soft lips didn’t look
quite so soft pulled back from his teeth and he looked fully prepared to pull the trigger.

Ahmeti shrugged, lifting his hand up in surrender. “Go on then.” Yoo exchanged looks with him
and then rolled his eyes with a ‘fuck’. As one, both followed Jimin, guns at the ready.

There was no one on the first floor – there were thirteen stories – and none on the second nor third.
It looked like a bulldozer had rammed through, corpses piled, gold teeth, necklaces, rings, smeared
in blood, the stench putrid. Jimin stuffed his nose into the muffle of his own shirt, though it didn’t
help much, and raced up the stairs, two at a time, without losing speed. A man fell through the fire
escape door, and he fired a round. Yongsan, not Geomjeong-pa. The relief was weakening. The
fourth floor brought action. Noise. It was a back office, and all the cubicles were crumpling one
after the other as they were used as strategic defence points against bullets, men popping up every
so often to fire back at their opponents.

The three newcomers ended up standing directly behind some of the Yongsan group, crouched
behind their makeshift barriers. Jimin lifted the rifle first, Ahmeti’s taunt in his mind, and snarled
against the power of the machine gun as it rocketed out round after round. Seven men fell to their
combined firepower, before Yoo dashed around to chase the three stragglers, vanishing through
another door.

“Taehyung?” Jimin shouted across the room, and got a brief yell back of “Tenth floor!” from the
six survivors. He turned to stare at Ahmeti, who scowled and signalled for him to leave, with a
growl of, “Don’t get killed or he’ll have my head.”

“Okay, cool. Don’t die either,” Jimin said, patting him on the back before running from the room.

Further up, the scenes were indescribable.

He had to pause a couple times to throw up.

A men was dangling over the railing, sawn almost in half from the waist. Another was screaming
and thrashing, clutching at his eye, a bullet jammed in the ruined socket. Jimin grit his teeth and
set a handgun to his head, putting him out of his misery. But there were too many, injured and
twitching, to be put down, and he had to suppress his gag reflex to as he grabbed onto the walls.
There was no walking freehand, not with the amount of blood all over the floors. ‘Workplace
Ethics! Happy Co-Workers, Happy Life!’ a framed notice announced blithely, scraped in bloodied
handprints. Jimin found humour in very bad scenarios, and he giggled now, practically able to feel
the sanity leaking from his ears.

A crash and his head spun. A huge monster of a man came around the corner, dragging two poor
fuckers with him. One was soundless, the other shrieking. The beast put the loud one out first,
thwacking him against the wall like a rag doll, brains exploding over pristine tiling. He snapped the
other’s neck, tearing his tongue out just for the sake of it, and letting it drop from his palm with a
growl that sounded more animal than human. It was clear he was high on something, and yet even
without it, the man was a monster. Jimin’s mind went pitch white, blank, failing to remember his
name but recognising him as one of Choi Minsoo’s security detail. If they were separated, it meant
Minsoo was in trouble. And that meant –

The beast rushed him.

Jimin let out a yell of fear, and began firing for his life. He felt and saw the bullets fire and staccato
stab into the man’s huge frame, and yet he kept running, beady eyes zeroing in on Jimin as if he
were a last meal, intent on tearing him to pieces with his bare hands. Jimin crashed into the double
doors, still firing, screaming, “Die, you ugly fuck!” as the rounds finally came to an end. He
slipped on the blood, enough wits about to catch his fall with his hand, but instead of the hard floor,
it hit something soft, and then the beast finally collapsed –

Directly on top of him.

The softness was a corpse, crushed on top of another, and then another – he counted them in his
moment of sheer terror, just before the 240 lb deadweight crushed him. His nose was certainly
bruised if not broken, and it took him a moment to break his face free to breathe. It came out in the
most inopportune place, just under the dead man’s armpit. “For fuck’s sake – “ he gasped, shoes
skidding in guts and blood as he struggled to get a foothold in the beast’s stomach and at least try to
heave him off. The reflection in the glass wall opposite made him wince to see the blonde of his
hair a deep red, dyed by the cloying texture of blood. Jimin had to pause mid attempt to crawl out
of the sandwich of dead bodies, just to catch his breath, and it was then that he had another urge to
laugh, a tired, defeated sound that steadily intensified until he was gasping for air in between
chuckles. This is probably what it feels like for babies to be born. Gross. The thought rose
unbidden as he slipped his legs out from under his attackers massive weight, lubricated by an
abundance of blood.

Hoppity hop, up on your feet –

Nope.

There was still more in his stomach. Jimin doubled over and threw up on the dead bodies,
apologised to them, threw up again, apologised profusely. It felt wrong. So, so wrong -

The elevator doors slid open and he turned, eyes round. He had no weapon at hand, and was
directly in the line of fire. FUCK.

“Jimin-ah?”

Jimin almost sobbed when he heard the baritone, skidding in the blood in his haste to run to
Taehyung. The taller caught him with a moaned sigh of relief, both landing against the elevator
wall, arms wrapped around tight each other. Jimin didn’t even care that Taehyung was as dirty as
he was, to the point where his usually curly hair was sitting flat against his head, soaked in blood.

“Ow, your machete’s digging in,” Jimin whined, and Taehyung grunted, shifting position only a
little, but keeping his hold tight. He grabbed Jimin’s face to try and kiss him, but the younger
wriggled and avoided. “Fuck – no – I just threw up – “ and was promptly answered with a slap on
the ass and a “Shut up” as Taehyung kissed him anyway. And just as he always did, Jimin gave in,
though his muscles ached and Taehyung’s hold was too aggressive, too needy, too desperate. As if
not holding Jimin like this would destroy him from the inside out – the kind of passion neither
could have imagined before they lay eyes on each other. The kind of passion that killed.

“Ahmeti said you’d come inside and I fucking panicked – “ Taehyung drew back to come up for
air “ – c-cause that bastard – Grizzly’s brother was last seen going back down to finish the rest of
us off and – “

“That beastie?” Jimin muttered, directing his attention to the mound of dead meat with a soft
squeeze of his cheeks.

Taehyung gawped, and then exhaled in a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that beastie. Did you kill him? I saw
him rip a man’s jaw in half with his bare hands! Jimin!”

There it was again, the inappropriate laughter; Jimin threw his head back, body almost doubling in
reverse, hands covering his face as his mirth sparkled in the air. Taehyung’s face was still frozen in
disbelief and amusement, eyes going from the dead man to Jimin.

“I think he was already worn out, but god, I emptied an entire round and a half on him before he
fell on top of me,” Jimin gasped, still shaking with giggles. The corridor was silent, starting to fill
with the shy light of dawn just before the sun rose, and it felt…nice. He held onto Taehyung, cheek
smashed up against that broad, hard chest he was so used to, not caring that they both stunk of
blood and sweat. They both stood there in a daze, unwilling to pull apart.

Taehyung broke the silence, with a sudden flinch. “Oh fuck, he was chasing Jungkook – “

“What?” Jimin cried, scrabbling out of his hold. Taehyung was just as quick to run, but not as fast
as the younger who was already tearing down the corridor despite the extremely precarious state of
the floors. He crashed into the doors, bounding up the stairs, heartbeat fluttering with fear as he
reached the next floor. It became a disgusting task of checking each body that remotely looked like
it could be of Jungkook’s build. Seventh, eighth, nineth floors – he wasn’t there.
Taehyung found Jungkook on tenth, shouting for Jimin, who fell to his knees and crawled to the
limp figure in his arms.

“Jungkook! Kook-ah!” he gasped, tearing open his shirt to listen for a heartbeat. A tense moment
followed, and then he threw back his head and groaned. “He’s alive – I think he’s been knocked
out, check him for injuries.”

“No,” Taehyung grimaced.

“What?”

The older fidgeted, passing Jungkook onto Jimin’s lap instead. “I like to pretend we didn’t
unknowingly commit incest but feeling him up on purpose – “

“Great, now you reminded us both,” Jimin muttered, taking over. No, he did not want to think
about the time he’d encouraged them to join him in the bed, out of his mind on drink and weed.
Jungkook didn’t have any open wounds, just a bump on the back of his head, probably from a
heavy object – or a particularly strong fist. The beast hadn’t done his job properly, no doubt
distracted by the poor souls Jimin had seen him mutilate.

“Unghgnh – “ Jungkook slurred, starting to come to.

“Hi, troublemaker,” Jimin said sweetly, waving his hand over his eyes. “How many fingers?”

Jungkook’s chin crumpled as he scrunched up his face in concentration. “F-four. Shit, what time is
it?”

“Grizzly’s brother got you hard, huh?” Taehyung snorted, sitting back on his hands.

Jungkook stuck up a weak middle finger, and then went limp as he regained his bearings. Jimin
held him, stroking his hair off his face, ignoring the blood making it sticky. His eyes flickered to
Taehyung who had a black expression, seeming a million miles away. Surrounded by dead bodies
and the ruined devastation of a bloodbath, it was a moment of such strange peace, Jimin didn’t
want it to end. Funny, that.
“How many left of Minsoo’s men? Out of hundred you must have at least got three-quarters from
what I saw on the way upstairs,” Jimin said.

“Between me, Jungkook, Lisa and Appa, we wiped out forty-six. Counted. We got heavy hit at the
start and lost five, but then another ten cause of Grizzly’s brother, so we were left with about half
of what we started with. Now including you and Ahmeti and Yoo, there are ten of us and Choi’s
barricaded himself in on the thirteenth floor. Can’t kill him. Need him to hand over to the
Commissioner General so he’ll have his men let us go. They’d do it either way or else they
wouldn’t get paid for their troubles. But you know – bargaining chip’s handy after the shit pulled
tonight.”

“The rest of the city’s in shambles. The President’s son’s villa caught fire with a bunch of families
inside apparently. And there’s been no word from Seokjin, Jung or Kim, though I heard Madame
Go is dead.”

Taehyung clicked his tongue and nodded, laughing. “Yeah. This night’s going down in history.
Wonder what they’ll call it.”

“If we don’t play our cards right with the cops, then the Butcher’s Rampage, I bet,” Jimin
remarked, though he smiled when their eyes met.

“Okay, I’m fine now,” Jungkook groaned, rolling off Jimin’s thigh and getting on all fours. When
he failed to stand, Taehyung slipped one arm into his, whilst Jimin did the same with the other,
both of them heaving him up to his feet.

“God, how much do you weigh now?” Jimin grunted.

“154 lbs,” Jungkook said with no little pride, cracking his neck and then immediately touching his
head with a soft ‘ah’.

In a similar situation to the one on the fifth floor, the elevator doors slipped open and Jimin was
once again without a weapon. Taehyung reacted quicker, Beretta aimed to fire, lowering it when
Ahmeti and Yoo appeared, with another two of the men behind them from the six they’d found
fighting in the fourth storey office.

“Cops are closing in tight,” Ahmeti said, and there was no trace of humour in his face. It was
drawn tight, and he looked his age for once.
“What? You don’t believe in the power of the Butcher no more?” Taehyung challenged, cocky grin
only adding to the fact that he was covered in the blood of his enemies. “We’ve got Choi cornered.
They’ll want him.”

“Right, well, the SWAT teams are running up the stairs as we speak – “

“Then we better get a head start. Jungkook, move – “

With a rough push, he propelled his younger brother into running, hand reaching back to find
Jimin’s. They connected for the barest second but it was enough. In the emergency stairwell, the
coordinated footsteps of the special task force could be heard ascending, shouts from further below
as more officers garrisoned the building in. Yells were heard as they were ordered to halt, but as
expected, they went ignored.

“Where the fuck is Chrollo?” Taehyung suddenly directed at Ahmeti, halfway up to the eleventh
floor.

“Miroslav.”

“Oh. Good.”

“You just remembered?” Jimin shot at him.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind if you haven’t noticed – “

On the thirteenth floor, a door was off its hinges, opening onto the CEO’s room. Choi Minsoo was
bound to a column holding up the ceiling, and his only remaining guard was tied up behind him,
both gagged. Bong Ju sat on a chair, wrong way round, smoking on a cigarette as a gun dangled in
his hand. Lisa had someone else’s phone in her hands, and by the sounds of it, she was cross-
legged on the reception desk playing a game. The remnants of Taehyung’s group sat around in
states of disarray, hair messed, sweaty, thoroughly worn out. None looked ready to fight a moment
longer.
“Who let him out?” Taehyung asked, pointing at Minsoo.

“They were preparing to jump from the window,” Bong Ju said tiredly, staring at his old friend
with a dead expression. “Only found out cause the first idiot chose the window that lines up with
that one – “ he pointed across to the glass wall “ – saw him fall.”

Choi Minsoo looked as if he had many, many words to fire at Bong Ju, but the gag in his mouth
was impeding the ability to. Instead, he shook his head, blood dripping into his eyes as he cackled
around the cloth, shoulders shaking hysterically. Taehyung made a face, and sank to the ground,
pulling open the first few buttons of his shirt and sighing as the doors flew open and the special
taskforce ran in bellowing at the top of their lungs. Not a single one of the mafia moved, gazing
emptily in their direction as the aggression rose. Jimin shot a panicked glance at Taehyung as he
was dragged to his feet, hands cuffed behind his back, but the tranquillity on his boyfriend’s face
reassured him some. Of course, being arrested made sense. The Commissioner General needed to
have them in one place at his mercy to feel as if he were somewhat in control of the situation
before he let them go. Please let that be the case, he prayed, as he was shoved towards the stairs,
large hands bruising his arms with their grip. He tripped on the first step and was promptly cuffed
around the head by one of the officers.

“OY!” Taehyung barked, and the room lulled, except for the chatter of radios. He looked ready to
tear the offender’s head from his neck, but at Jimin’s subtle shake of the head, he stilled. “Easy,”
was all he said, before he too was cuffed. Jimin didn’t break his gaze until he was forcibly made to
walk, but a smirk creeped over his lips as if to promise Taehyung what was waiting for them when
they inevitably returned home.

Perhaps it was a sign of his disintegrating psyche that the effect of being drowned in the blood of
other human beings made him want to ride his boyfriend until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

Or maybe it was just fun.

Fun, fun, fun.

Thing had gone quite literally to shit and back before Seokjin called Taehyung.

The phone call was a ruse, an attempt to appeal to Taehyung’s pride and lure him out of the condo,
against what would no doubt be sage advice not to from Jimin. The truth was, Seokjin needed the
help.

He and his men had wreaked straight havoc for the space of half an hour, without interruption,
smashing in shop windows and cars, blowing up one of two major casinos monopolised by the
Yongsan gang, and setting fire to each and every person attempting to escape. But contrary to the
impression he put out, not every one of the bosses had come out upon being summoned. Kim Hyun
Bin sent eleven men and a case of Molotov cocktails pre-prepared, whilst Jung Woo Sung sent a
van full of weapons (and a few Russians) but nothing more. Both had decided to take the stance of
choosing the winning side, and neither was putting their bet on Seokjin.

The rage was indescribable.

Seokjin had every last man they sent, shot execution style, and their heads delivered taken back in
a basket. It was a warning. Once this was over, Jung and Kim would have their headless bodies
dangling next to Choi Minsoo and his wife, he was adamant.

Madame Go came out in full force with her men, but was impeded in Hannam-dong by the sudden
appearance of a Yakuza offshoot, moments before Seokjin’s men left the Grand Hyatt lobby in
ruins (the cops had fought bravely but there was no real contest). There wasn’t a doubt in his mind
she was dead and the Japs had taken the body to put it on display, as the feral culture of gang
warfare demanded (display the trophies). Her men were not fighters; she surrounded herself with
pot-bellied drunks who were only good at bullying whores into submission.

It was Taehyung he wanted to hear of, but there was still no word on where the motherfucker had
vanished to after the initial nod that yes, he had indeed left the condo with a small group in tow.
Quantity didn’t matter when it came to the men Taehyung had – they were some of the most lethal
fighters Geomjeong-pa possessed, and their allegiance to the kingpin’s security was unrivalled.
Seokjin’s own father had laid down the law on that – kingpins would change, but their protection
did not.

But fuck, did it feel good to fight with his own two hands.

The larger part of Minsoo’s “army” were still here, in Seobinggo-dong, whilst their leader himself
had been whisked away to wait it out elsewhere. Without Jung and Kim’s reinforcements, Seokjin
and the Gangnam regiment were forced to subdue and slaughter where they stood, against cops,
Yakuza and Yongsan turncoats alike.

Except eventually, he and his remaining henchmen (about twenty of them) backed out.

After it became clear that the most ideal route was to find a stronghold and let the Yakuza and the
Yongsan men face the cops to weaken numbers on both sides, he called the retreat. Seokjin didn’t
run from a fight, ever, and besides, he didn’t need to. This was turning out to be a game, hardly life
or death.

It felt like a shame to exploit one of his favourite patronage sites for such a hideous purpose, but
the National Museum was the only building in the vicinity with perfect standpoints to pick off the
enemy one by one with sniper fire. And Seokjin could sit and have a cup of coffee (desperately
needed) whilst drying out his shirt. The red did look good, but he’d forgotten how disgusting
bloodstained clothes felt as they dried on bare skin.

“Start shooting at will before the army turns up,” was the command he gave as one of the staff
entrance doors to the museum had its lock shot open. The entire scene flashed in reds and blues as
a fire engine raced past, quickly followed by a police car. “Hyun, there’s a fabulous little café just
down the right of the entrance – you know how to operate a coffee machine, don’t you?”

His orders so blithely given were taken as seriously as if they were growled. Hyun bowed low,
nodded and dashed off, as if the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. Seokjin peered up at the
newer instalments in the museum, sightseeing, and whistled in admiration at a temporary fixture –
a kneeling angel with spread wings, right at the centre of a domed hall that expanded onto an
exhibition centred around Sejeong the Great. He knew for a fact the throne on display was a
replica, (the real one was in a collector’s showroom), and he snapped his fingers, pointing at it.
Two of the men moved to it without a word, lifting up the restraints on all four legs and bringing it
over the red rope and down the dais. A comfortable spot was found up on a deck that overlooked a
curved wall of glass, marble floor polished so clean, Seokjin could see every last speckle of blood
on his shirt.
“Here,” he said, and the makeshift throne was placed, just as the bushes outside exploded in flame,
three men screaming at the top of their lungs as they were trapped in the crossfire – Molotov
cocktail made to perfection. He flung aside his overcoat, yawning as he took a seat, tired to his
very core. “Well, this all didn’t quite go to plan, did it?”

Up above, the snipers found their perches, windows opened to accommodate the business ends of
the rifles set at perpendicular angle to the sills. They were relaxed but meticulous, firing every
seven seconds, one cop for every two Yakuza, though with the cops, they fired to injure, not kill. In
the distant vicinity, alarm bells began to ring in one half of the museum and Seokjin barely lifted a
shoulder.

“Security team will be here in about ten minutes I expect. Take care of them. Oh – and tell Hwan I
changed my mind. A bottle of the finest red the food court has to offer. It’s not too far from the
café. There’s maps all over the place if he gets lost. I know how he gets.”

Precisely eight minutes later, Seokjin was presented with a bottle of Château Méaume (“it’ll do”)
and a long-stemmed glass, which propped elegantly against the webbing of his long fingers. The
security van showed up, but halfway down the road twisted around and drove off. A wise decision.
The thugs and the cops were at a ceasefire, neither of them backing down, and so, for the time
being, Seokjin’s men were too. He took the opportunity to pull out his phone and scroll through his
contacts, as the first glimpse of the sun made it over the horizon.

The dial tone kept ringing. No answer.

[I do hope you’re either dying or dead to be ignoring my call] he shot off as a message.

And then he tried again.

This time, it worked.

“What?” Jungkook barked. He sounded breathless, and the sound of shouts and yells in the back
somehow managed to be louder than him. That zing of knives and the roar of bullets was a little
further away, but no less coherent.

“I see you decided to join the party tonight. Which must mean Namjoon is occupied,” Seokjin said,
his voice chilled.
“Yeah, he’s busy. He’s a fucking cop, this is his job.”

“And where, pray tell, are you?”

“None of your business.”

“It is if you’re putting yourself in harm’s way – “

There was a muffled thud and then a slam and suddenly, the background sound was drowned. He
must have locked himself into a closet.

“I’m with my real family. My dad. The man you sold out, because it served your fucking purpose.
Selfish bastard that you are – “

“Ah.” Seokjin laughed, head thrown back. “So, you must be with Taehyung and Jimin too, neither
of whom are dead I’m assuming, or else I would have heard the news by now. You know, you’re
many things, Jeon Jungkook, but a rebel against your own impulses you are not. I was sure you’d
have killed one of them at this point.”

He got nothing but laboured breathing in answer.

“Mmm,” he continued, “but then again, killing one of them would upset Daddy dearest, wouldn’t
it? You’d forsake the family who raised you and kept you, for a man who was too weak to do
either. That does sound very Jungkook-like of you.” There was hurt in his voice, but he disguised it
quickly with another sip of wine, ignoring how wet his eyes felt.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Jungkook answered, and his voice wavered. “You don’t. You
never made me feel like I was your family. If you wanted to, you would have at least treated me
better - with kinder words, that’s all I asked. Not the riches and the cars and the drugs – just a kind
word, an opportunity to call you ‘hyung’ and not ‘Mother’ like the rest of the gutter rats. You spent
our entire lives distancing yourself from me and now you have the gall to say I’m doing the same?
I may be a lot of things, Seokjin, but I’m not a hypo – “

He broke off, but Seokjin heard the crack in his voice. He could almost picture how much like an
upset bunny rabbit his nephew looked right about now. Just like that tiny baby mewling in his cot,
with his big, shimmering eyes, and trembling chin and lip, nose pink with how long he’d been
crying. His hand reached out, index finger extended, as if he were offering that little baby boy
comfort to hold onto once more, but there was no warm grasp to answer, no giggling coos. Just
Jungkook’s sniffs on the other end of the line.

“Is your father good to you? Does he make you feel like you have a family?” Seokjin whispered.

“He calls me son, and he stopped me from killing Kim Taehyung. No one else in the world could
have stopped me in that moment, not even Jimin. But he said I’d regret killing my own brother for
the rest of my life.”

“He’s right. Killing family members hurts. My father himself suffered from his own crimes against
his kindred. Kim Bong Ju has a purpose then.”

“Where are you?”

Seokjin smiled, looking down at his lap, and then around. His men had backed off slowly, giving
him the space, already knowing they might suffer backlash should they catch him in a vulnerable
moment.

“I am…at the opera,” he answered. “It’s a tragedy. A glorious one.” Lifting up a hand, he
signalled.

Up above, the snipers began to pick off the rival gang members at a faster pace. Chaos unfolded
again, the cops running for better cover and firing in their confusion. They hadn’t yet realised there
was a third enemy faction hidden away in the museum.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Namjoon went, would you?” Seokjin asked.

“No, but I know the soldiers are out on the streets now. We’re almost done here. Where are you?
We can get you out before they get there. Someone said you were in Hannam-dong but it’s only us
here.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Seokijn answered. “Don’t worry. I’m simply waiting for these officers to
enter the museum. Once they do, something will be hashed out, money wired, we’ll be allowed to
leave. I just wanted to see what would happen if I upended the city for one night to murder Choi
Minsoo for his betrayal, but it looks like you have it handled. Give him hell, Jungkook. I want to
see his remains presented to me under sixteen silver domed platters. Eight of them will be his
wife’s.”

Jungkook made a snorting sound, very much like a reluctant laugh. “Just hurry up and get out of
there quick.”

“Oh? You want to see me now?” Seokjin said playfully, though his eyes still hadn’t lost their
reddish quality. “Thought you hated me?”

“I don’t hate you. Besides, we’ve lost a good chunk of our men in this fight, we’ll need to unite the
rest and who better to lead them? My support is for you. I won’t kill Taehyung, but I’m not going
to make it easier for him to rule again.”

“Well, I’m very flattered for your support, Jeon-ssi. A weighty packet of banknotes will be on your
desk tomorrow morning,” came the wry drawl.

“See to it that it’s weighty indeed,” Jungkook answered, putting on a mock deeper tone. “Anyway
– “ his normal voice resumed, “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yes,” Seokjin replied, suppressing a smile. “And Jungkook?”

He could never have explained that faint feeling of finality he suddenly felt before the call ended. It
was as if something urged him to speak his truth before the chance was over. Right there on the tip
of his tongue, words he had never said, words Jungkook couldn’t even dream he’d hear from him.
But they didn’t come out. They couldn’t. Old habits died hard. Instead –

“I’m proud of you, dongsaeng.”

And I love you.

Jungkook’s grin, so hard to control always, could be heard in his voice when he answered,
“Thanks, hyung.” There was another crash against the door, and he said, “Gotta go, bye – “ before
the tone clicked and he was gone.
Seokjin lowered his phone into his lap, swirling the remnants of the blood-red wine. His eyes were
blank as one of his men told him that there were more officers outside at the museum entrance. He
didn’t blink when one of his snipers was felled by a headshot, perfectly aimed from an opposing
building by an army sniper. Whether it was hubris or indifference, he did not move, not until the
gunshots began to ring out.

“They’re shooting to kill,” Seokjin murmured, and the flinch that went through his guards was
chilling. These were men trained to fight, but cossetted in the belief of their own invulnerability.
Thus far, the Geomjeong-pa name had always protected them, turned a large percentage of Seoul’s
cops dirty and safely tucked them in their pockets. This situation was new. But seeing their boss
barely even shrug a shoulder was beyond eerie. They saw one certainty but his reaction offered
another, as if they could walk out of this alive and safe.

“Boss, what do you want us to do?” his closest asked. Hoon-Jung, his oldest and most trusted
bodyguard, the burly man who Seokjin had first seen when he was only two years of age and who
had been entrusted to the young heir’s protection ever since.

“Fire, of course,” Seokjin smiled emptily. “If they want a fight, it’s what they’ll get.”

Across on the staircase, one of the newer members of his guard threw up his hands and yelled “I
surrender!” only to receive eight bullets to the face. The bloodied streak he left on the stairs as he
slid down was like the unrolling of a red carpet. Hoon-Jung’s face became grim, and his grip
tightened on his firearm as he nodded to show he understood. Fight to the death. Four of them
formed a sort a shield wall around Seokjin as he slowly descended the steps, making sure to step in
the blood. Bullets flew. Debris. Bang. Bang. Bang. When had he stopped being sensitive to all this
awful noise? Not a lock of hair on his perfectly formed head was out of place, though his white
shirt was sprayed with the red consequence of bodies flying left and right. There were soldiers in
the lobby and they were firing. But a team of about five dressed in black tactical armour were
steadily making their way forward, ballistic shields in front.

Heading for him, and not firing. They needed him alive.

Seokjin smiled, brilliantly, white teeth on display and he beckoned them as if simply inviting them
for a cup of tea in his parlour.

Hoon-Jung was the only one that remained by the time he entered the hall with the temporary art
fixture, the angel’s black wings blocking out the sunlight streaming in through the expansive glass
walls behind it. Seokjin’s arm shot out as his bodyguard let out a yell of pain, staggering. He’d
taken six bullets, but like the tank he was, he kept going until the seventh one was too much.
“Sajangnim – “ was the last thing Seokjin heard him say, as their hands met in a brief hold.

And then he let go, allowing Hoon-Jung to sink to the floor, dead.

Pristine scarlet footprints followed him across the marble tiles, as he craned his neck to observe the
minor sculptures. They were only there to accentuate the glory of the angel, the centrepiece.

“Kim Seokjin!”

He didn’t turn at the familiar gravel of that voice. But he smiled, his heart suddenly beating a little
faster. His shoes clicked against the floor as silence fell. They were all dead. Red dots of light
flashed across the floor – snipers – and he walked across them, thinking of Rani and how much she
used to love playing with those red lasers. Just like a big ol’ kitty cat. Sweet, sweet Rani.

Seokjin glanced over his shoulder, and that coy smile made every man in the room inhale – even if
they lied to themselves and pretended otherwise. As the light framed his tall silhouette, it was as if
Namjoon could see him dressed in one of his favourite ruffled dresses, jet-black hair fluttering
around his head, looking so natural and so real, it was hard to believe it was just a wig, a persona.

“I sponsored this exhibition you know,” Seokjin said, and through the dead quiet, his voice carried,
light and airy. “I promised I’d be there to attend its opening, but somehow, life got in the way.” He
tilted his head and grimaced with the usual hard-to-please attitude. “It could be better, but I
suppose it’ll do. Art leaves me a little clueless sometimes, but I can fake understanding it very
well. People expect me to understand beauty for some reason. I wonder why.”

He turned to face Namjoon and the four others now in formation behind him, guns aimed. Seokjin
threw his arms out with a laugh, and Namjoon had to resist the urge to grin. It was a sudden urge,
and it surprised even him, why he found humour in it. Yet there it was. The sarcastic implication
that simply because he was beautiful, he should understand beauty. But the truth was, Kim Seokjin
only accepted beauty that conformed to his standards, and as had been proven, Namjoon did not
share those. But he still had to bite back a smile at Seokjin’s playfulness.

Wrong, wrong, so wrong, that in the end it cancelled itself it out and was right.

“Surrender,” Namjoon told him. “You’re surrounded.”

“I can see that, darling,” Seokjin purred, waving dismissively up at the three snipers now sat on the
balcony above with their rifles aimed at his head. “You killed the rest. Why not me?”

“Because – “

“Because you need a scapegoat, a public execution to appease the angry masses when they realise
what happened tonight. Of course.” Seokjin nodded emphatically, turning around again to ascend
the platform steps on which the angel sat. He reached out, brushing the backs of his fingers over
the statue’s bicep, whilst the other ran down its jawline, studying it for its imperfections. “I told
you to take care of Jungkook. He’s knee-deep in it. With Kim Taehyung no less – “ he paused to
address the snipers above “ – you guys should really be arresting the Butcher, I mean, he’s the
current kingpin. Imagine the headlines – Police catch the Butcher of Seoul in deadly night raid!
Maybe the public will forgive your ineptness.”

“Seokjin, we don’t have all morning. Just give yourself up,” Namjoon said, and his voice echoed in
the hall, tired and raspy.

The older reached out a hand. “Commissioner General on speed deal I expect?”

Namjoon shook his head. Seokjin arched a brow.

“He’s not…available,” the younger answered.

“He’s never not available, not unless…oh.” It was a moment of complete realisation. Whereas
before, Seokjin had still been sarcastic with his comments, now it appeared to sink in. In the past,
even with an ordinary, but important gang member in the cops’ clutches, the Commissioner
General would be ready on the phone, willing to negotiate a deal. But perhaps the deal was now
going to be extended to the kingpin alone, and Seokjin was no longer so. His head lowered in a nod
– makes sense – but his smile didn’t fade. “So…what? Do I just…surrender? And then?”

“We take you in, you’re put behind bars, until your trial. And there will be many. Representatives
for Interpol, CIA and SVR are already in Seoul – I’m sure other intelligence networks will send
their people soon enough. Long career for someone so young.”

Namjoon kept his eyes fixed on Seokjin as he spoke, watching for any minute changes. Nothing.
Head tilted, ankles crossed, hands behind his back, as if he were listening to a vaguely interesting
seminar. But his voice was ice-cold when he answered.
“And you think you can just parade me around like a puppet to each one of these intelligence
service whores?” he questioned. “That you can come in here and arrest me like some common
criminal? My father is Kim Seojoon, a man who contributed more to this country’s economy than
he took out of it – “

“A criminal – “

“Who is still spoken of highly amongst the generation he belonged to for doing more for this nation
than the dirty government rats ever did! They take our money gladly and call it bribes, but does the
public ever see it? No! This night is what the bureaucrats deserve – and look at you, their little foot
soldier, willing to die for a cause that was never pure to begin with. Namjoon, you were far better
at my side and we both know that.”

“Is anyone going to go ahead and arrest him or not?” Namjoon twitched as he heard the crackle of
the voice in his headpiece. Slowly, he removed his helmet, laying it on the floor, along with his
gun, before showing his hands to Seokjin to indicate he was unarmed.

“You have the power to reveal all the dirt in the government, and even the police force – but you
need to be on trial and in the public eye to expose it,” he said, his voice dipping to a lower register
as he approached the steps.

Seokjin scoffed. “Why would I want to reveal it? I’ll get nothing out of it. I’m not a moralistic fool,
Kim Namjoon.”

“But there’s still time to change that – “

“Why ever would I want to change it?”

The officers behind him were getting restless, and Namjoon was struggling to keep his composure.
Sweat cooled on his forehead and his throat felt intensely dry. Because he knew where this was
headed, and it was like being stuck in an upturned car as a gas truck swivelled across the road right
towards him. Helpless in the face of impending disaster.

“Seokjin, please,” Namjoon implored.

The older stuck out his bottom lip in a sweet pout, and the smile that followed was so breath
taking, the knot in Namjoon’s throat tightened. He hated it, he hated this, he hated feeling like this
– FUCK. This was a criminal he was negotiating with to ensure a peaceful arrest, and here he
stood, feeling as if he were begging his estranged lover to come home with him.

“There’s always something I’ve wanted to ask you, Kim Namjoon,” he said. “Stayed in the back of
my mind for ages.”

“Will you surrender and come peacefully if I answer?”

Seokjin nodded, and then, so did Namjoon, preparing himself.

“Did you fall in love with me?”

There was an awkward cough in his earpiece, and Namjoon felt his entire body turn red. One, huge
blush of a colour. He could practically feel the stares of his fellow officers burning into the back of
his head, as Seokjin’s dark, cool eyes gazed at him like he was the only man in the room. There
was an unsaid implication that Seokjin wanted nothing but the truth. And yet he seemed to
understand Namjoon could not outwardly express his answer. Instead, he saw it in the way his
brown eyes turned up to gaze at him, riveted, powerless, enchanted by Seokjin’s smallest
movement – like it was puppy love. The older laughed, but it was a tender sound, as if it truly was
just the two of them in the privacy of that cream-coloured bedroom they’d shared their first night
together.

And then he turned and the guns were cocked.

He didn’t make any other sudden movements. Instead, he began to reach for the angel’s face,
cupping it in his hand, neck craned back.

“What the fuck is he doing?” the earpiece crackled, and there was a moment of baffled silence as
all eight men in the room watched Seokjin kiss the statue’s lips as if he were kissing a lover.

Namjoon pressed his own together on instinct, breath coming short. It looked like a farewell kiss.
Sweat rolled down his temple and he held out a palm to the others to hold their fire.

“Namjoon?”
“Yes, Seokjin?”

“I refuse.”

“What – “

It happened in the blink of an eye. Too fast to pin down. But suddenly there was a pearl-handled
revolver in Seokjin’s hand and he whirled around, graceful as a dancer, the barrel aimed right at
Namjoon’s forehead.

The room erupted with noise, bullets raining down on their only target. Seokjin’s body shuddered,
jerked like a marionette with its strings being cut, as patches of red blossomed over his shirt. There
were so many bullets, the force of them embedding into his body was holding him up for a few
torturous seconds before he was allowed to fall, finally.

Namjoon screamed “CEASEFIRE!” and heard his voice as if from some distant corner of the
universe. He dashed up the stairs, catching Seokjin before his head hit the ground at the angel’s
feet. The revolver skittered and Namjoon grabbed for it, checking its magazine.

“Empty! It was empty!” he roared furiously, throwing it across the room.

“He was aiming at you! We did what we had to do!” came the barked response from one of his
team mates.

Namjoon waved it off, so overcome with a mixture of frenzied fury and grief that his hand
convulsed. Seokjin was still alive, barely, blood gurgling from his mouth, and even in his shattered
state, that fucking smile was faint but present.

“Seokjin, why?! Fuck!” Namjoon shouted, hands slipping uselessly over the wounds dug into
Seokjin’s flesh, one burst of fresh blood after another – he was riddled with metal, and it was a
miracle he was even clinging on. There was no calling for the paramedics. Moving him would
mean quicker death.

“Zugzwang,” Seokjin whispered, fingers curling weakly against his arm.

“Fuck you,” Namjoon sobbed, tears rolling thick and heavy, drowning in the blood soaking his
clothes. “Fuck you, Kim Seokjin. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you – “

“J-J-Jungkook – “ Seokjin choked out, and this time, the smile vanished, as the pain took over, his
eyes glassy, blinking slow. He was leaving, soul already dislodging from his body. “J-Jungkookie
–“

Namjoon didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. It was a final selfish request for him to protect
the boy Seokjin hadn’t been able to protect himself. And just as Namjoon was weak to everything
else this man did, he nodded, over and over, until Seokjin registered his assent. The hold of his
fingers loosened, and the corner of his lips twitched. His death rattle was quieter than the roar of
his life had been, eyes glazing over, pretty as a picture.

The sun’s rays filtered over the angel’s shoulders, basking the havoc of the night’s events in its
warm embrace, golden. Behind him, the room was a hubbub of activity, and he felt hands on his
shoulders, shaking him, muttering words of encouragement as he was coaxed to release Seokjin’s
lifeless corpse. His head rang, aching with pure agony, and tears blinded him against the light now
filling up the room, sanctifying it. He was holding the body of one of the world’s most notorious
criminals, and looking forward to a career filled with medals and accolades. But the only thing he
could think about – the only stupid, pathetic thought he had - was how small Seokjin felt in his
arms, utterly weightless.

As if he’d never existed to begin with.

 Sic Vita Est

Mentions of violence, suicide and child trafficking/abuse (this last will be in italics so please
be aware.) Animal death.

The aftermath of the ‘Silent Night’ rocked Seoul to its rotten core.

Named as an antithesis to its reality, it was all that was trending on the worldwide news platform
for a week. The sudden public acceptance by the government that Seoul had a major crime
problem, threw its citizens for a loop. Everyone knew of Geomjeong-pa, but no one knew the
extent, for Mother was a discrete leader, and believed in assimilation and camouflage, unlike the
flamboyantly violent gangs of the West. The Silent Night was the public unveiling of a problem
Seoul had kept caged, hidden from its inhabitants.

And when the sun dawned, the nightmare was far from over.

Choi Kibum’s villa was still burning three hours after the fire had started. Both Mr and Mrs Choi
were dead, along with two other couples with four children between them, visiting them at the
residence. The only survivors were the President’s two grandchildren, Jiyeon and Yeonjun,
dragged from the flames kicking and screaming, both crying out for their parents. Jiyeon had been
saved by the presence of mind of her elder brother; he’d lifted her and run towards the exit the
moment the ceilings began to cave in, not making the mistake of trying to rescue anyone else.

And within an hour of the news reaching the Blue House, the President was dead.

Amidst the chaos breaking out in the National Assembly, none thought to keep note of the man
who had just received news his city was burning, and his only son and his wife were dead. Perhaps
President Choi saw that he would be given no time to mourn his child, given no respite for the
mistakes of his predecessors who had allowed Geomjeong-pa to infiltrate the city’s depths.
Perhaps it was simply an impulse decision, when the grief weighed so intensely, that tears were not
enough. His wife was collapsed in the parlour, slipping in and out of consciousness as attendants
fussed, and in the noise and the bustle, the President quietly slipped away to his office.

They found him, five minutes later, brains blown out over the wall behind, a smoking gun in his
lifeless hand.
According to the Yushin Constitution, Article 48, the Prime Minister Jae Sye-Kyun was next in
line to take over the presidency and due to the quick-thinking actions of the Chief Secretary, was
rushed to a safe place immediately.

The news leaked fast and the actions that followed were swift.

When a head of state died, no matter where in the world, a rat race ensued. The mourning could
come later. But in the immediate aftermath, there would be cockroaches scrabbling desperately to
get to the top of the molehill before the ceiling opened up and the heavens shed light on the victor.

The head of the NIS backed Major General Ryeo Shin-Il for acting-President, sending out a
taskforce to hunt down and assassinate the Prime Minister in pursuit of this aim. An elaborate
scheme was being drawn to illustrate to the general public that this had all been the doing of the
mafia in order to upturn the country’s government, one which they were unhappy with. Much of
Korea’s government officials chose to act like criminals that fine morning, hidden safely behind
the shield of the mafia who became the perfect scapegoat.

It was almost marvellous to think that the entire upheaval of Korea’s government began with the
whim of a young man, barely out of his teens.

The reason behind half the anarchy now clutching Seoul in its chokehold, sat quietly in the back of
an ambulance, foil blanket wrapped tight.

Yeonjun didn’t much feel like celebrating. He’d known the moment he was learning how to
effectively cut gas pipes that he would achieve his goal. He just didn’t know what would happen
after, not exactly. Jiyeon would be given to one of her mother’s relatives. Yeonjun was adopted, so
really, he had nowhere to go. He hadn’t banked on the nightmare he saw unfolding on the screen of
his phone, as videos poured in from all corners to detail the war that had raged between the cops
and the mafia all night. The paramedics stuck a mask over his face again and ordered him not to
take it off and when he asked after his sister, he was told she would be fine as well, and that it was
a miracle they both survived.

Miracle? He thought not.

Saving Jiyeon had been a last minute, calculated move.

To be the only survivor, that too, the adopted son, would not look good, and Yeonjun was nothing
if not about appearances. Saving his sister and the true blood heir of the Choi family meant that he
would be hailed a hero and he had a fair chance upon being the executor of her newly inherited half
of the estate whilst she was still under age. Their grandparents had no right to it, he had heard his
father talk of it once to his lawyer, in accordance to a will he’d drawn up with his wife. Yeonjun
would get half, and Jiyeon would get the other, with no word yet on who the executor for her
would be. Whoever it was, once he turned 19 in two years, Yeonjun could make a bid for it and
Jiyeon would be under his thumb for the rest of her remaining life.

He was nothing if not cynically practical.

He put down his phone and lay back down on the bed as the ambulance doors closed and the initial
reports of the President’s death began to explode all over the news channels.

For Choi Yeonjun, life was going exactly as he’d planned.

Across the country, people woke in the early morning and prepared for their daily commute, only
to face the news that Seoul was burning and the President was dead.

It was a combination of the worst news a nation could receive during peacetime, and the reactions
ranged from shock to grief to anger. No one knew what to do, no one knew what was happening.
That the attack on the city was an inside job was not at first publicised, and believing North Korea
had finally made its move, the rest of the country’s largest cities went into wartime mode. Every
available soldier on active duty was called to patrol the streets and stand guard at every toll booth
on the expressways that pieced the land together. Companies granted their workers emergency
leave, as the mayoral governments urged people to remain at home until news returned from Seoul
as to what would happen next.

Riots ran rampant in the capital. The criminal underground had run amok through the night, and
the citizens were now protesting in daylight, raging at the government. It was not just Yongsan.
Various factions of the underworld, including that of the Yakuza had torn up their grudges on the
streets and it had spread from district to district like wildfire. There was a momentary lull in public
anger when the President’s death was announced, but it did not last long – it only intensified the
panic, the realisation that they were at an unprecedented crossroads in the nation’s history and no
one seemed to have any concrete hold on the situation.

Most politicians were designed for peacetime, and empty threats of retaliation and war, but not the
real deal. And so it was proven, in the spring of that year as the National Assembly pushed forward
six different presidential elects and the Prime Minister was forced to hide due to several attempts
on his life.

Min Yoongi watched from his bed and laughed, weak, but fully absorbing the humour of the
situation. The remote flipped in his pale fingers, still glittering with the rings he favoured so much,
and at his side, Kai sat in ghostly silence, transfixed by the plasma screen. He had taken to wearing
velveteen suits in the style of his boss, deep, jewel-toned colours that set off his pale face to
perfection. In that regard, he and Yoongi could almost pass for brothers, by their complexions and
the way they dressed.

Yoongi’s final day was close, but there was no telling when he would slip away. He often
displayed bursts of health here and there, walking unaided except for a cane, exploring the vastness
of the gardens he had had built on the penthouse roof, all 8000 square foot of it to cover the
apartment itself. It was truly an abode for a king, though the monarch in question was eager to
leave. Other days, he couldn’t get out of his bed at all, drifting in and out of sleep, whilst a team of
nurses waited on him hand and foot.

Today was one of those days, though when he received a phone call halfway into the breaking
news report, the laughter he let out was sharper than before and startled Kai from his reverie.

“Boss?” he said, concerned.

Yoongi dropped the phone to the side, a lazy smile plastered over his lips, as tears glistened in the
corners of his eyes.

“Mother is dead,” he said simply.

It took Kai a moment to recall the image of her in his mind, the photographs he’d perused as he
studied the files on Geomjeong-pa stowed away in the archives. Mr Han, his predecessor had been
a strict advocate of paper records, but Kai had digitized every last one, encrypting it with a code he
had been working on for a year or so prior and had tested on several of the most talented hackers he
knew. None had been able to crack it. His focus on cybercrime was something Yoongi supported,
though he never actually implemented it by way of ordering Ma Dong Seok to change his focus.
Yoongi no longer cared enough. But Kai was determined that his method would bring Yong
Geondal to the same level of sophistication as their Seoulite counterpart.

And it was that sophistication, that he remembered most whe thinking of Mother. Her elegance
was mirrored in the sleek uniformity of her regimented troops, including the Organisation, her five
most prized bosses. Kai had read up on the workings of the syndicate late into the night to the
point where he fantasised his own framework for how Yong Geondal could be reformed to mirror
its excellence.

Though now upon her death, a new thought mired itself in his conscience. Perhaps the façade was
just that – a façade to hide the canker. Maybe there was no correct equation to aligning a criminal
syndicate into shape. After all, lawlessness was anarchy and anarchy was uncontrollable by grace
of its very definition.

His heart dropped into his boots as the sentence Mother is dead rang through his head.

He left Yoongi alone for his morning rest, and quietly thanked whatever god there was that Ma
Dong Seok was not staying over. He had made a habit of it, mostly to keep an eye on the people
who surrounded the ailing kingpin, Kai included after the fiasco with the dead Russian.

[Come over. I let him know this morning we’re getting a new housekeeper.] he texted as he
descended the stairs.

He got no response to the message but he knew she was probably on the move. There was no way
in hell she’d make him wait, or herself. Finally, there would be someone in this house he truly
trusted.

Half an hour later, a cab pulled up on the road below, and a petite woman stepped out, dressed in an
unassuming trench coat and heels. She’d made herself over to blend in with the average middle-
class woman on the streets of such a wealthy district. Clever girl. Two uniformed guards moved
towards her immediately, and then ordered her to wait. From the highest level, Kai watched it all
take place by grace of his tablet, the camera feed pulled up on the screen. She turned up her face
and looked directly at him – she knew every camera planted in the building and in Yoongi’s own
home, she knew exactly where each audio bug was as well. She’d been the one to position them
when Kai had given her the blueprints.

“Yes, let her in. Master Min knows she’s coming,” he drawled over the phone when it rang right on
cue.
Three minutes later, the elevator in the hall outside pinged, and Kai rushed down the grand
staircase and across the marbled floors, as if the devil himself chased at his heels. Flinging the door
open, he ran into her arms like a child.

“Kai!” Wheein hissed, on guard as she peered over his shoulder to check the vicinity.

“There’s no one here, noona,” he mumbled into her shoulder, eyes screwed shut. It was a familiar
position, one he was used to since he was six and she was twelve, both frightened children far from
home, with no other protection but each other.

Eventually, he broke away, and there was a little redness around his waterline that she immediately
laughed at. Of course, it was Jung Wheein’s prerogative to laugh at any weakness she saw in her
dongsaeng. Kai didn’t mind. Her refusal to mollycoddle his weaknesses was the reason he was
only frail in appearance. She was the reason he could stab a grown man to death and move on with
his life. Wheein was everything in Huening Kai’s world and without her, he’d be dead.

“You didn’t have the time to dye out the blue tones in your hair?” he said, a little critical as she
dumped her bag onto the parlour table.

“Listen, you told me Master Min liked dyed hair and flamboyant suits. I decided to fit in, ” she
said, surveying her surroundings with the pride of a lioness exploring her territory.

“Yes, but we’re supposed to be his staff,” Kai countered.

“If the master displays an objection, I will dye it dull brown. Promise.” She held out her pinky
finger and offered him a smile that made his heart bleed. He’d seen that same smile so often when
she was keeping herself together just so that she wouldn’t break down and worry him. Now, it was
a relief unlike any other to know that her smile was as close to genuine as it could be. He held out
his pinky finger and they grinned at each other, children again.

Her introduction to Yoongi was a brief one. The kingpin was visibly distracted by the news
channels on TV and the constant barrage of correspondence he was getting on his phone and
laptop. A simple change in housekeeper wasn’t going to hold his attention. Wheein didn’t talk of
the unrest in Seoul once as they explored the house. She remained blithe, happy, as if the world
were at peace. Kai brought it up, tentative.
“Do you think it’ll affect our plans?” he asked as the sky outside grew dark and the fireplace
flickered with the flash of counterfeit flames.

“No. It’ll help in the long run. All the trading deals Geomjeong-pa loses, guess who they’ll come
straight back to? Yong Geondal.” Her hair was tied into a neat chignon, and she was dressed in a
simple sheath dress, pumps flung to the side. One hand twirled a wine glass, and her slender body
curled up in an armchair as if she were the true mistress of the house.

Wheein had an innate power of presence about her that Kai mimicked often but could never quite
manage. He thought it had something to do with her belief in the fact that she was invincible.
Except he’d seen the broken shards of dreams in her eyes and the happiness that she wore like
tattered rags – Wheein was not a happy person, but something she most certainly was not, was
depressed. Kai could not speak, for his battles with depression had been rife with ups and downs
and at this point, only observing his friend could make him hold onto some semblance of sanity.

“All our men know what they’re going to do on the day?” Kai asked.

Wheein nodded. “Pitch perfectly. Wonho will also be there. Formidable, that one. Muscles – “ she
grunted to make a point.

“Do you have a crush?” Kai giggled.

Wheein shook her head immediately. “If there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s never admit to
crushing on a man. It’s the first step towards destruction. I will stick to my women and I’ll be
happy, goddamn it.”

“A woman can stab you in the back too.”

“Mmhmm. But the kind of women I’m into, they don’t weigh 176 lbs and are easier to throttle in
their sleep. If they betray me, of course.” She winked.

Kai’s laughter echoed. “Fair enough.” There was an amiable pause, in which nothing could be
heard through the house except for the cleaner in the kitchen, and the TV droning upstairs. Often it
was like this and Kai could find himself a good chair and an even better book to let the night carry
him away on its back. “You never told me how you met Wonho.”
Wheein drained her glass and set it down, sighing as she massaged the balls of her feet. “Damn
high heels…I met him cause he lost a kid to the Mosquito’s ring too. He didn’t tell me if it was his
son or what, but from the way he said it, I’m pretty sure the kid died.”

Kai winced, and his face blanched of what little colour it had left. Wheein noticed immediately and
reached out to clasp his hand within her own. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here, baby.”

He nodded, over and over, as if to reassure himself of that, but he felt so nauseous he couldn’t see
straight. It took him about ten minutes to calm down, Wheein coaching him with his breathing,
until he could muster the courage to speak again.

“I thought I’d die in there,” he admitted, quietly, voice torn like frail paper.

“But you didn’t. You’re alive, little baby. And you deserve to be,” she answered, thumb stroking
over his knuckles.

“It doesn’t feel that way often. It – “ he hiccupped, tears starting to pour down his face in
abundance. “I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t be alive a-and going right back into this business when
the others all vanished or died.”

“Kai, listen to me.” Her voice became gentler but her eyes were determined, hard as ice. “We aren’t
going back into this because we want to. We’re not psychopaths. But if we want to keep more
children from getting hurt, then we need to be at the top, where it makes a difference.”

“Master Min couldn’t do it. And I know what happened to him. He cries about it in his sleep
sometimes. He thinks I doesn’t know. A-and I heard rumours from Mr Han that it was Mosquito’s
son who took Master Min when he was really young. He couldn’t stop those fuckers entirely, how
will we – “

“Because we’re us. Wheein and Kai. We’re the motherfucking A-team and we are going to crush
these stupid, rotten cockroaches under our feet and pour champagne as we piss on their corpses. Do
you understand?” The vitriol in her voice was something he was unused to, and it worked, just
enough, to recharge him. The longer they stared at each other, the tighter the corners of his lips
became, and Kai resumed the mask he’d practiced for so long. He nodded, tears still sparkling on
the planes of his cheekbones. She wiped them away, her touch a soft caress, and tersely smiled
before pouring herself another glass of wine.
They talked some more, quiet murmuring words, about mundane things. It was their safe zone,
talking about the domesticity of life, rather than the grand, terrible vision they both had to level the
uneven playing field they’d been given in life. Kai’s mind wiped clean of the brief spark of misery
he had felt, but he was not so lucky with his dreams later.

They came for him, as midnight struck and he lay curled up in his bed, pillow clutched to his side.
He couldn’t sleep without something to hold onto.

He heard the voices in the background get louder, until they broke through the neural fuzz of his
lucid thoughts and dragged him into nightmare.

Black, utterly black.

He doesn’t know what they’re saying, but he can’t stop fixating on the red light. Wheein has told
him it’s a camera, that it takes pretty pictures and memories so one can look at them later. Kai
doesn’t think he’s a pretty picture and neither is this a memory he wants to revisit. He’s six years
old, and the middle of his legs really hurts, and there’s blood on the sheets. His tears dried just
minutes ago – he’s been told it isn’t what good boys do. They don’t cry. He’s being fed and given a
roof over his head, so when he’s asked to do something, he needs to show a little gratefulness. Kai
didn’t mean to be ungrateful, but when the pain started, he didn’t know what else to do. Thankfully,
he hasn’t been beaten for it, and can now sit quiet and watch as the three men opposite debate
over something he doesn’t understand at his little age.

The smaller one – Wheein calls him the ‘Wolf’ – is the one who hurt him, and he’s talking about
‘rates’ and ‘bids’ and ‘auction’s closing’.

“I’m not going lower on the price. C likes him, E kept meandering and A is offering too low though
his coffers are full, the miserly bastard.”

“So C it is?”

“Go with C. Auction closes in thirty minutes so let him know someone’s bid higher. See if he ups
the price.”

“Kai, turn around. Take your pants down again. And look at the camera, kid – quickly! Over the
shoulder, that’s right – “
And then they’re sending him back to his room and Wheein’s there, sitting on the windowsill with
her long braids, just waiting. When she sees him, she comes running over and as soon as she picks
him up, he starts to cry. She’s not very big herself but she’s got strong arms and he’s very small for
a six year old.

“It’s okay, I’ll clean you up, don’t cry, little baby, you’re okay,” she murmurs, stroking his hair as
he falls flat on the bed, barely able to move his legs without fresh tears spilling out.

She cleans him as gently as she can, and another little boy helps, getting up from his mattress to
come over. Kai is the youngest and they all have a sibling-like bond where they protect the baby
more. Except the world they’re in, they can’t protect a single thing. Not Wheein, kidnapped on her
way home from school in Jeonju, brought to Busan, an only child, her parents having no way of
finding her again. Not Kai, sold to Wolf by a drunken uncle who stole him from his mother’s bed
and never told her what he had done. And not Jun, the third little boy who had been borne to a
prostitute, her pimp taking the baby off her as soon as she had given birth.

They were children with broken lives, forgotten in the shadows.

Adult Kai holds some lucid awareness in these nightmares, knowing the worst of what his younger
self has to endure hasn’t yet started. He would call it a happier time to at least return to Wheein
after the pain is over. But there are still new owners, dark rooms in huge mansions where Wheein
can’t get to, and he’s shrouded by cigar smoke and the aggressive touch of large hands.

He has these nightmares every night without fail, and yet it’s still a struggle clawing out of them.

Sweat doused the pillow and Kai’s limbs thrashed as he tried to release himself from the grip of
those hands. Heavy ones, pinning him down. He was yelling at the top of his lungs and when he
finally broke free, it was because he’d managed to fall off the bed, the impact with the wooden
floor jolting him awake.

Gasps sounded thick, as if he were a dying man, and he crawled across the floor, only managing to
get upright when he found the door. Wheein’s room was right down the corridor. He had the
luxury of running to her again, he could –

As soon as he burst out, his eyes fell on Master Min.

He stood downstairs, in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, hands behind his back, cane left to the
side. Even in his dressing robe, he cut an intimidating figure. His head was turned, profile clean
against the moonlight, and his eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Huening Kai.” The deep voice rolled out, crooned and yet carrying across the distance between
them.

Kai was shivering, but he tried to slap himself back together, a short strike to his cheek with a hand.
He straightened out his night shirt and went down the stairs, legs like jelly, sweat beading on his
forehead.

“Sir? Are you alright?” he asked.

“Are you?” came the retort, and Kai stumbled.

“Er – ah – y-yes. I’m okay. J-just coming down for a drink of water.”

Silence. Yoongi’s head stayed in its turned position and Kai continued to stare at him.

“Well?” Yoongi said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get your drink of water.”

“Oh! Right…” Kai hurried left towards the kitchen. He washed off his sweaty palms under the tap
first before filling up a glass and draining it in one go. After a pause in which he thought himself
suitably calm, he walked back into the lounge and waited for Yoongi to speak, hands clasped
before him respectfully.

The older man didn’t, content with simply standing by the window a while and allowing Kai to
stew in his own wait. Eventually, he turned and strolled past, ascending the stairs one at a time.
The last thing he murmured to Kai is, “Don’t let your nightmares swallow you whole, or your
whole life will become one.”
Kai didn’t understand what he meant, and didn’t have the nerve to ask. His whole life was already a
nightmare, so the warning, if that was what it was, had come far too late.

But he kept the words in mind when three days later, as Wheein watched the door, he put a pillow
over Ma Dong Seok’s drugged-out face and fired a single bullet clean through feather down and
skull. He remembered the words till his own last breath many years later, mostly because they
comprised of advice he never took.

Sic vita est.

Taehyung’s reaction to the revelation that he had another sibling, was as far from melodramatic as
it was possible to be. In the numbness of the Silent Night ending, nothing much could cause the
same level of emotional unrest. As law enforcement and the criminal underworld slunk into their
respective corners, both licking at their wounds, there was a No Man’s Land period that was
unspoken but confirmed. The President was dead. A few caged mobsters who would be released
due to some “insufficient evidence” bullshit were the least of anyone’s worry. Mother’s death was
a victory the cops would take and not ask for another for as long as it took the city to right itself.

Bong Ju was the one to tell him.

It lasted precisely ten minutes, in Mother’s office, and when Taehyung walked out, his face was as
blank as it was when he’d walked in. When Jungkook asked his father later how Taehyung had
taken the news, he was told there was only one response. “Of course he is.” Not a change in his
expression, nothing. He was dead on both the inside and outside and it showed. Bong Ju on the
other hand was relieved, as no extreme display of emotion meant that no extreme reaction would
occur. But there was an instinctual knowledge that no one was to speak of it to Taehyung again.

In exchange for the release of Adnan Ahmeti, Park Jimin, Kim Bong Ju, Jeon Jungkook, Kim
Taehyung and Lisa Manoban, Choi Minsoo was handed over to the police, with no allies to come
to his aid. Kim Seokjin’s name was taken out of the scapegoat agenda, the first step in returning
Geomjeong-pa to the relative anonymity it had enjoyed for decades. Minsoo’s gang would be
treated as its own entity and the idea that there was a functioning crime empire in the city, would
be laughed off as a preposterous notion. One day, at least, when the aftermath of the Silent Night
didn’t sting so bad.

The Organisation, what was left of it, reconvened the very next night, as Seokjin’s body lay in the
morgue, prepared for embalming. The loss of Gangnam and Jung-gu’s bosses meant more
mobsters than usual turned up, petty drug lords working under the Geomjeong-pa canopy and
hoping that the Butcher, the only remaining visible authority, would mark one of their hopeful
bunch down as the successors. No such thing happened.

The events of that board room marked a period in Geomjeong-pa’s history that changed its
trajectory for the start of the new decade.

At one end of the table, Taehyung sat in silence as Kim Hyun Bin and Jung Woo Sung argued with
the seven other men sitting in scattered distance around the mahogany slab. The arguments
revolved around who would take control of Yongsan now that it was once again Geomjeong-pa
territory. Taehyung’s fingers danced a coin about, with rhythmic pace, his eyes occasionally lifting
in Jungkook’s direction. His younger brother was white as a sheet, cane clutched between parted
knees, eyes fixed on an indeterminate spot on the table. He hadn’t spoken much since the news of
Seokjin’s death, but he hadn’t cried either. Jimin also sat in silence, hands limp in his lap.

All three boys had carved out their path in the syndicate with fire, rage and blood, but now they sat
in the ice cold, frozen.

Kim Bong Ju was not present, having declined the further chance to be involved with anything
gang-related. Ahmeti sat by the window, Chrollo beside him, and he’d point out things for the dog
to look at as if he understood. Lisa sat on Jungkook’s other side, as blank as the other three
youngest, and just as broken.

The ceaseless spinning of the coin stopped and Taehyung’s palm slammed it on the table.

As one, heads turned and silence fell.

“We vote for a new kingpin,” Taehyung announced.

“What?” Jung laughed, an uncertain sound.

“You heard me. I’m stepping down.”

“And where will you be going?” Kim countered.

“Does it matter?” Taehyung spat, and that brief flare of anger was enough to shut the older up. He
sat up, fixing the lapels of his suit and took a deep breath. “I will offer a candidate. If you have any,
you put their name forward. But also know that when you do, I will shoot you dead where you sit.
And none of you can draw your guns as quick as I can so don’t bother. HANDS ON THE
TABLE!”

The roaring climax to the speech was aimed at one of the men at the far end who was sneaking a
hand towards his holster.

Jimin’s eyes swivelled towards Taehyung and were distracted by the backdrop of the window-wall
behind him. Plumes of smoke still rose into the air from varying ends of the city, and the TV on
mute in the far corner displayed images of devastating destruction, fires and blood and piled body
bags. He wanted to cry. To sit there like a fucking baby and cry, a human right, he would think. But
it spoke to the web he’d woven around himself that he was not at liberty to do something so simple
and so expected.

“Keeping it in the family,” Taehyung announced. And for a split, stunning moment, Jungkook
thought he would acknowledge the one thing neither of them had been able to meet each other’s
eye over. “Jeon Jungkook. Kim Seokjin’s nephew by grace of his mother, who was the old Mr
Kim’s illegitimate daughter. You all – “ he nodded towards the older men “ – have done great
service to the syndicate and it will be rewarded, granted you don’t turn on it. But Jungkook is
young, and he’s done enough to prove he’ll continue to be the reason the gang thrives. Half of this
empire runs on drugs and there was a reason Mother had him in charge of her most profitable drug
factory. And also, if you don’t vote for him, I’ll fucking hang each and every one of you from the
rafters because this is not a fucking democracy - we’re criminals. Now vote.”

He flung his coin towards the centre of the table.

Jimin flinched at the metal clang. Was this punishment? Was he punishing Jungkook for being his
brother? Because why on God’s fucking earth, would he subject him to the hell that was
Geomjeong-pa’s crown? He glanced towards Jungkook, hoping he would say something, do
something, because of all things, Jimin could not be the one to speak up against Taehyung, not in
front of all these hyenas. But Jungkook just sat there, deathly still, his face carved into the
porcelain contours of a funeral mask as he stared at Taehyung, steady and unnerving.
Taehyung smiled.

“I vote willingly,” Jung Woo Sung said, breaking the silence and sliding forward a coin with
Sejeong the Great carved onto its face. “This country runs on tradition and clan, I don’t see why
Geomjeong-pa should be any different. Jeon Jungkook it is.”

Kim nodded and slid forward a coin also, looking none too upset at the decision. No doubt they
saw in Jungkook a young puppet, someone whose strings were easily manipulated. But they didn’t
appear to recognise the glazed indifference in his eyes, that so eerily mirrored the one Seokjin had
the day his father was assassinated. In fact, most of the men throwing coins forward with grunts of
approval seemed to have forgotten that members of the Kim clan thrived whilst they were young,
as much as they did when they were old.

Either that or Taehyung’s threat to shoot them was just too compelling to show discontent over.

Once there was a neat pile of coins in the centre, Taehyung rose from his seat. He flicked an
eyebrow at Jungkook, signalling that he do the same, and at a slower speed, the younger got up.
The implication did not need to be voiced. They moved away from their seats, walked around the
table, and swapped positions. Lisa left her chair the moment Taehyung took Jungkook’s, as if she
were physically unable to be in close quarters with him.

Silence fell again, and this time, it stretched as Jungkook failed to say a word.

“Are we voting for new district bosses next?” someone grunted from the corner.

“There won’t be any,” Jungkook answered swiftly. The sound of his voice had been absent from
the moment the doors closed, and it was as if it belonged to someone else. His throat was scratched
and sore from crying, and it showed in the deeper scrawl of his speech. He looked older, as if he’d
aged ten years in the space of a few days, though perhaps it was the way he’d swept his hair off his
forehead that caused the effect. “There will be lieutenants, assigned to the syndicate’s dealings, be
that drugs, embezzlement, cybercrime, arms trading or prostitution. Choi Minsoo is a prime
example of a district flourishing over the rest and giving rise to thoughts of mutiny. If the new
regime doesn’t work, we’ll return to the old way.”

“It’s not so easily done,” Jung retorted, “It would be better to stick to the old way until we can get
back on our feet.”
“Is that a suggestion?” Jungkook answered.

“Very much so. In fact, I say that - ”

Jungkook glanced to the right, and jerked his head. A guard standing against the far wall drew his
gun, aimed and fired. Jung slumped forward, head dunked into a pool of its own blood.

“Anymore suggestions, gentlemen?” Jungkook said.

None.

“I don’t give a fuck what any of you think or want. You’re old men, with old habits, until you
decide you’re ready to revolt and bite the hand that’s fed you for decades. It’s what Choi Minsoo
did and now my uncle is dead.” Jungkook slipped off the leather gloves bound around his fingers
and dropped them onto the table. A slight tap of fingernails on wood and he smiled, a brief, vacant
expression that made the ice flood through Jimin’s veins. “Lisa Manoban will be my right-hand.
And so as not to allow rumours about my sexuality to undermine my rule, I have proposed to Choi
Yujin, Minsoo’s only surviving daughter, and she’s agreed to marry me.”

Looks were exchanged, as a flurry of questions hovered in the air that no one dared to voice.

Jungkook didn’t linger on the subject and moved onto the topic of the funeral and the mass
execution of Minsoo’s most loyal men who had refused to switch back to the winning side.
Taehyung didn’t say a word for the rest of the hour, and neither did Jimin, both sitting in silence at
the far end as a barrier formed between them and the rest of the table, pushing them right back
where they belonged – on the outside. Briefly, their hands touched under the table, but neither
risked it, pulling away within seconds.

The Organisation was effectively dissolved once the doors reopened on its final meeting. Choi
Minsoo was a lesson learned and Jungkook had absorbed it well, Jung’s execution acting as the
seal on the decision.

“Yujin?” was the first thing Jimin said when the room was empty save for Taehyung, Ahmeti and
Lisa. “The girl who had her tongue cut out?”
“I didn’t cut it out,” Jungkook retaliated.

“Is she being forced into this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes it does.”

“No she isn’t. She’s relieved actually. It’s not like she doesn’t know what this life’s about but her
stepmother must have treated her like shit because she accepted straight away and had a list of
demands. One being a house to live separately in and that we only have sex for the purpose of a
baby, and that too, scheduled. I executed Jung for demanding less.”

“A funeral and a wedding. An antithesis for the ages,” Taehyung snorted.

“You’re not invited to the latter, rest assured,” Jungkook said.

“Good. I would have burned the invitation.” Their words were hostile but there was nothing
malicious in the way they looked at each other. Apart from the inherent blank, there was a flicker
of respect from Taehyung for once, and Jungkook did not lap for it like a needy puppy dog.
Character development.

And then they both looked at Jimin.

He had nothing to say. For once, he was truly drained. It was funny, considering how many times
in the past he’d claimed to himself he was tired of everything, and that he couldn’t go on, but then
realised he very much could. But now, when there was a clear portent to input something valuable,
to save Jungkook from himself or erase the directionless vacancy in his lover’s eyes, Jimin came up
short.

“I hope you succeed, Jeon Jungkook, in whatever you intend to do with this shit show. I really
mean that,” he ended up saying, with a smile that was weak but genuine. Jungkook recognised it,
that pretty light in his eyes that he’d once go crazy for, not knowing what to do with himself. And it
was magnificent to him that he could just sit there, as Jimin smiled at him, and not feel the urge to
throw himself at his feet.
It had taken bloody long enough.

The funeral was hold two days after Seokjin’s death.

His coffin was laid out in state in the entrance hall of the condominium, cast an eerie blue in the
light of the tank underneath. Mourners from all across the underworld came to show their respects,
and for each and every one, seeing Cersei slice through the waters underneath was an experience
they’d never forget till the day they died. Most had never visited the fabled condo, and it was as
much a chance to pay homage to Kim Seokjin as it was to marvel at the grandeur of his legacy.
Mother was a figure of myth, and she remained so, even as they saw the body stretched out within
the confines of the coffin – death was still surreal when it came to describing a tour de force so
young and so vicious. But most of all, every eye was drawn to the jewels around Seokjin’s neck.

Tucked neatly over the collar of his shirt, there they were, emeralds lined with white diamonds,
draped over the elegant curve where his neck met his shoulders, catching the light, immobile and
perfect. Jungkook insisted he be buried with it, and Jimin, the only living claimant to the necklace,
had no objections. It made him sick to look at it now, a symbol of his mother’s cursed entrapment,
and the excuse through which Taehyung had been pulled from Busan and thrown to the dogs of
Seoul, to become the worst version of himself. If there could be superstition tied to an inanimate
object, the Jewel of Busan deserved every last bit of it.

As all the attention of Geomjeong-pa’s grassroots and elite turned to Jungkook, the Butcher had
returned to the shadows, an act of deliberation on his part. He didn’t talk as much these days, or
spoke to anyone outside of Jimin, Ahmeti and his father, and he appeared content – or about as
content as anyone in his position could be.

Both he and Jimin sat for a good few hours on one of the chairs laid out in the grand hall, in a safe
corner, the blue lights of the tank shimmering over their faces as their fingers entwined.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung asked him, and it was a silly question considering the circumstance,
but considerate nonetheless.

“I’m alright,” Jimin admitted, watching Taehyung’s calloused thumb stroke the soft back of his
hand. He smelled like lilac and whispered dreams of childhood, of everything soft and innocent.
Yet Taehyung’s hands were coarse like parchment, the lines of his palms caked with blood even
when they weren’t. Never had Jimin’s heart ached so for a singular, contradictory creature. “I love
you so much, it’s wild.”

Taehyung beamed, and the sight of his childish smile, made Jimin giggle. Both of them gazed at
each other like happy schoolboys in love for a moment. And then the smiles began to fade, as they
always did.

“He’s going to do well as the next kingpin, and that is a terrible, terrible thing,” Jimin finally
remarked, looking in Jungkook’s direction. He hadn’t moved since the coffin was laid to rest on its
stand, knelt on the mats laid out before it, the funeral wreaths forming a barricade between the
visitors and the rest of the house.

“It’s not our problem anymore,” Taehyung muttered. “It’s his family legacy. We were caretakers.
Now we can go back to being – “ he stopped and shrugged.

“Freelancers?” Jimin joked, though the mirth in his voice didn’t last when he saw Bong Ju walk
over to Jungkook and crouch beside him. His son didn’t move his head to acknowledge him but he
was clearly listening as his father put his hand on his shoulder and murmured in earnest tones. “We
don’t belong here. There’s no purpose left.”

“Yeah, I guess your purpose here ended once you met him,” Taehyung answered, eyes also
straying towards his father. It was impossible to tell what churned in their depths, but Jimin could
make an educated guess that it was sibling jealousy. Bong Ju seemed a little more protective over
Jungkook, but then again, the way he had managed to pry the younger off Taehyung at the Grand
Hyatt, said different. And even then, Jungkook had asked why is it always him. The need for
validation in his two sons when it came to him would never end, clearly.

“Jungkook showed me the video of his confession back at the drag club. As much as I hate to
admit it, he loved my mother. It’s a kick in the fucking gut to accept it was his mental illness acting
up when he did what he did. I wish she hadn’t let him into her life. As unhappy as we were, being
alive and with me is still something she would have chosen over…that.” His eyes were fixed on the
Jewel of Busan as he spoke, and in the faint mist of tears that formed over his eyes, the green
reflection of the gems danced and quivered. Taehyung’s fingers locked with his were the only
anchor, keeping him grounded even though every part of him wanted to curl up in misery. He still
couldn’t look at Bong Ju straight, or at least, for no longer than ten seconds.
“I don’t think whatever’s waiting after death will ever forgive our family,” Taehyung admitted.

“If it’s as cruel as your family, I’m sure it won’t make a difference.” For anyone else, such words
out of a lover’s mouth would have caused more than a pained flinch. But Taehyung didn’t even
turn to stare at him, knowing that every last word was soaked in the bitter truth. All he could do
was hold on tight to Jimin’s hand in fear that he would pull it away. At the ripe young age of
twenty-five, he knew he had dug himself a hole too deep to climb out of. But he clung to the rope
he’d been given in Jimin’s petite form, as if using him to escape his sordid past would work. In a
perfect world it could, for Jimin’s list of crimes would always be smaller and more justified than
his.

The sun sank closer to the precipice of the distant horizon, and the shadows flared dark and long.
The stream of mourners had thinned out somewhat, but only because the more high-ranking
members of the gang were allowed in now and the rest were told to return tomorrow. Through it
all, Jimin and Taehyung sat in the corner, Jungkook knelt before the coffin, Bong Ju by his side
and Chrollo with his head on his paws, watching Cersei cut through the water with surprised eyes
each time. The clock struck midnight before the hall was eventually cleared and the remnants of
the food served in the dining room was cleared away.

“You should get some sleep, Kook.” Jimin went over to him and whispered in his ear. He wasn’t
moving, a pale statue, muscles hard under Jimin’s fingers when he squeezed his shoulders. He
would never get used to feeling him built so strongly, not when he’d first known him to be as
skinny as a reed pipe – the comforting old days, as he now called them.

Jungkook didn’t answer, but he began to shift, lifting out of his kneeling position. The guards
stationed around the room were on high alert immediately, just as they once stood to attention
whenever Mother made a move. Jimin knew by the way the younger’s eyes flicked around, he
wasn’t used to this level of attentiveness, and there was no clear reaction as to how he felt about it
either. Numbness formed a mask, and he was trapped behind it, the tap of the cane echoing as he
went towards the elevator. A hand was lifted to brush off Jimin and Bong Ju both, as they made an
attempt to follow, and he got into the glass box alone, his gaze avoiding theirs.

Lisa vanished soon after, and Chrollo happily walked away with Taehyung’s father who bid his
remaining son a good night and a promise to take his medication, before retiring to the bedroom
that had been furnished for him on the first floor. The guards moved out, taking up station on the
driveway, nearer to the gates and walls surrounding the estate.

And then, all that were left, were the Butcher, the Nightingale and the shark.
And Mother, if a dead body could be counted.

“Do you want something to eat?” Taehyung called to Jimin from the dining room. He emerged
with a plateful of cake, though it didn’t look as if he himself was planning to eat it . Jimin shook his
head, queasy.

“I think I might throw up if I tried.”

“Fair enough.” Taehyung returned the plate and then joined Jimin where he stood by the coffin.
They didn’t talk for a few minutes, just staring at Seokjin laid out, the embodiment of utter peace.

“He looks so small,” Jimin murmured. “And yet in my head, he’s always been this terrifying giant.
I think it was the broadness of the shoulders. When he stood up suddenly, they cast a shadow, and
plenty of times, he’d do the standing up thing in front of his office window which would block out
the light.”

“I think he did that on purpose. He had his intimidation tactics nailed down right to the minor
details. He had his tiger sitting free in a corner when I first met him. She came up to me and licked
my hand and I was pretty sure if she had decided she wanted to eat me, Mother would have let
her.”

Jimin snorted, and the sound echoed in the quiet expanse. “I already know what Jungkook’s micro-
intimidation will be.”

“The tap of that cane?”

“How did you know?”

“Because it gives me the fucking creeps, so I can’t imagine what it’d be like for people who are
actually afraid of him.”

Jimin didn’t reply, though he half-smiled. His eyes were refusing to move from Seokjin’s
unmoving face. Only the dead have seen the end of war. A Plato quote seemed incredibly cliché to
bring to mind before a coffin, but considering who the occupant was, it’s was fittingly macabre.
Tomorrow, after Seokjin was buried, Jungkook’s reign would begin, and the blood war of drugs,
sex and violence under Seoul’s pristine carpet of presentability, would resume. It was the way of
the world. Sic vita est.

“Stop thinking,” Taehyung said.

Jimin shivered, breaking out of his trance. “What?”

The older slipped his hand around his waist, clasping his other with Jimin’s hand and pulling him
around until he was forced to hold onto Taehyung’s shoulder.

“I know what that look is. The cogs in your brain whirring a thousand miles a minute. When your
brain starts moving like that, it’s either everyone else is in trouble, or you. No in between. So just
stop, and be with me.”

Jimin breathed out, as Taehyung’s cheek pressed against his head, their fingers laced. There was no
music, but the movements happened on their own, as they swayed softly to the beat of their own
hearts. If he could die in this moment, he would be satisfied. There was no direction, no next thing
to do. Perhaps his brain was unable to rest easy, but it was undeniable that for the first time in ten
years, Jimin had no plan. And not having a plan, felt wrong. Not having a goal, felt doubly worse.
As much as he loved the man whose body heat was so securely lined with his own, he also knew
Taehyung did not do well with lack of direction either. They both needed somewhere to be,
something to do, and one of them at least, no longer wanted to be in the criminal underworld to do
it.

“Let’s leave,” Jimin whispered.

“Are you tired? Do you want to go to your own room or with me?” Taehyung asked, soft lips
pressing to his forehead.

“No.” He leaned his head back and the blue lights of the tank erased the dark of his eyes and
turned them a strange silver. “I mean let’s leave Seoul. Let’s go to a different country altogether
and just…try to exist for a couple years without any of this haunting our shadows. If it doesn’t
work out we can always come back but…I think I’m going to leave, regardless of what you choose
to do.”

He thought he saw a hint of hurt in Taehyung’s eyes at the last line, but then he shrugged and
kissed Jimin’s cheekbone. “You say that as if I’d be able to exist here without you. Where are you
thinking?”
“England. My mother always said that once she’d found a way to divorce my father, she’d take me
there and we’d live quietly in a cottage in the rural countryside somewhere. Definitely not in
London – I have a feeling we’d bump into a few familiar faces we don’t want to see.”

“I suppose the offshore bank accounts will come in handy then,” Taehyung yawned, turning his
head to sink into the side of Jimin’s neck, his eyes closing. The movement of their bodies did not
still, their feet still shuffling in the silent waltz beside Mother’s coffin. “I was meaning to
contribute towards opening up an orphanage, but I guess I can leave the money with Jungkook to
do it.”

“You liked my philanthropist criminal idea, huh?” Jimin chuckled.

“Mmm. I thought I might name it the Nightingale Home and not call it an orphanage, so, you know
– the kids don’t feel the repercussions of the word.” He didn’t lift his head, even when Jimin tried
to shift his to be able to look at his face. “I’ve done so much bad shit in my life that I can never
make up for or take back. But if I can keep the least loved children of our society from turning into
me, then at least that’s something. There’s no doubt in my mind plenty of them will have
Geomjeong-pa affiliations as they grow up, but seventy percent of these mobsters have never even
had to kill a man. It’s the remaining thirty percent who do the dirty work. They should stick to the
seventy.”

“The quiet ones,” Jimin remarked.

“What?”

“The thirty percent. They always say to watch for the quietest man in the room, for he’ll always be
the most dangerous.” Jimin took Taehyung’s face between his hands and turned it towards his
own. “You’ve gotten quieter with every passing month, and you’re near silent now. Like the
stillest of waters.”

He smiled a little when Taehyung nuzzled at him, fingers slipping over warm caramel skin, but he
couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes, and the urge to cry was hot in the back of his eyelids.

“Do you miss the way I used to be? The loud, obnoxious asshole?” Taehyung questioned.

“Sometimes,” Jimin admitted, sniffing a little. “Because I remember you’d still think twice about
killing someone. They may have called you Skull-Crusher but at the most, you broke their bones
and then dumped them in front of hospitals. Thinking Hoseok was dead led you to your first real
spree and now…you don’t hesitate to shoot a man right between the eyebrows.”

“Survival, Jimin,” Taehyung said.

“I know – “

“And love. I’ll kill a thousand men and have my skin flayed for the rest of eternity in Hell if it
means you don’t have to take another life. I’d do anything for you.”

Jimin’s lips quivered, and he smiled through the spring of tears now flooding the rim of his lash
line. “I wish you wouldn’t. I really wish you – “ the rest of his sentence was muffled by
Taehyung’s shirt as the taller pulled him into an unyielding embrace. Jimin’s fingers clawed at the
material covering his back, as he sobbed into Taehyung’s shoulder with the devastating knowledge
finally sinking in –

Taehyung’s path in life could have changed, but it had been ruined irreparably when he’d met the
love of his life.

They had ruined each other.

The funeral was held at noon the next day.

Gentle spring rain had been falling all morning, and it thickened now, striking the rooves of
umbrellas, and stifling the prayers read by the monks. Seokjin had been raised a Christian, but had
become atheist the moment he’d hit his teens. It was Jungkook who wanted some kind of funeral
rites and went with the Buddhist tradition, though he still refused to allow Seokjin’s body to be
cremated. It would be buried beside his father and mother, and he wanted a mausoleum built over
it, a real family plot in which he himself would end up if fate allowed.

As per Buddhist funeral rites, everyone was dressed in white.

It looked like a gathering of angels, the white of each suit pristine, tattoos hidden, the gold of
chains and watches muted. Under the canopy of their umbrellas, every head was bowed and only
the monks knelt on the earth, their beads dripping wet, and their voices casting a harmonious
gloom over the proceedings, as the coffin was prepared for lowering.

Jimin’s eyes kept going to Jungkook, the young man’s profile as statuesque as ever, but the tears
rolling down his face blurred by the falling rain. For those who did not know him, he was not
crying. But Jimin recognised that marble edge to his jaw when he clenched it so hard, his teeth
would hurt later. His lips were pressed together, and his fists were tightened over his cane. Beside
him, Choi Yujin stood, mostly for appearances, just as she had been yesterday – this funeral was as
much a chance for the syndicate to bury its old leader, as it was to scope out the new. And as with
any kingdom, the subjects were put at ease at the thought of a queen and an heir-to-be.

Jimin had heard Yujin’s story from one of the men who had been with Seokjin the night he’d gone
to Choi Minsoo’s home. It was just another one of those tragedies Jimin was far too jaded to now,
but it was a small inkling of hope knowing Jungkook hadn’t forced her into marriage. And he
already knew he would not be cruel to her and her conditions would be met to the last, though with
what had happened to Seokjin’s wife and child, Yujin would never know again what it was like to
live in true privacy. Jungkook’s paranoia was already evident by the fact he had only two
bodyguards for himself, and three for her.

Lost in his own thoughts as he gazed at them both, he almost failed to miss Lisa’s eyes boring
sharply into his head. When she caught his gaze, she nodded towards the right, glancing over at the
far edge of the gathered crowd. Jimin turned his head, as discretely as possible, and saw nothing at
first. At least not until a shadow moved under a tree by the edge of the cemetery. It took him a
moment, but he recognised the way Namjoon stood.

Tensing up, he immediately brushed Taehyung’s fingers with his own. When the older leant down,
Jimin murmured, “Namjoon’s here. His face is plastered all over the papers. He’ll be ripped limb
from limb if he’s noticed.”

Taehyung straightened, as if Jimin had said nothing of consequence, but he was waiting for the
opportune time to move. When the coffin was lifted onto the pulley and lined up with the opening
of the grave, he took his chance and slipped out of the crowd, heading directly for the tree under
which the police officer stood.

“Put this on. Now,” he said tersely, pulling a face mask from his pocket and handing it over. “Why
are you here?”

Namjoon didn’t answer, slowly sliding on the mask. His eyes were red, and when he noticed,
Taehyung’s own narrowed.

“Been crying? You miss him?” he snapped quietly. “You should miss him. ‘Cause now my brother,
the loose fucking cannon, is ruling in his place and it’ll go good for a while, before everyone gets
royally fucked in the ass, you included.”

“I just came to pay my respects. I didn’t mean for Seokjin to die, I wanted to take him in alive. But
he turned and aimed an empty pistol at me – he never wanted to be captured. He was going to die
that night whether any of my team wanted it or not.” Namjoon’s voice was level, but the pain in it
could not be disguised. His hands kept curling and uncurling, and his broad shoulders hunched
whenever he ducked his head. Taehyung had never seen him this way, not even when he had been
undercover and forced to watch both he and Jungkook slaughter two people in a hotel room.

“You loved him,” Taehyung said. It wasn’t a question.

Namjoon didn’t answer.

“Of course you did,” Taehyung scoffed. A few people on the outskirts of the gathered crowd at the
grave were starting to look over. He slapped Namjoon on the shoulder, as if to be reassuring,
though it was far from it. “Just go. Before they find out who you are. You’re on the fast track to
become Inspector, and then no doubt Superintendent and on and on until I bet, one day you’ll be
the Commissioner General and will have to learn how to get fucked in the ass like a good boy by
Jungkook and his syndicate. You get what you wanted, Jungkook gets what he wanted, the price is
paid.”

Namjoon seemed to realise staying there was not an option. He nodded, gripping his umbrella
tighter as his other hand dipped into his pocket. Slowly, he turned, but only took a few steps before
he faced Taehyung again.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” he said.

“Tell who?”

“Jungkook.”

“For what?”

“For not being able to get him out like I promised.”

Taehyung didn’t need to ask out of what. He knew. Jimin had told him about Namjoon’s attempts
to talk him out of the gang world without knowing the darker reason behind why Jimin stuck so
doggedly to it. It was idealistic and it was stupid, but then again, good police officers always were.
And the world never changed for them, ever. All they could do, was a few good deeds, and pray
that in the long run, a domino effect would bring about real change. But most had to turn their
backs on those they had tried to save as the rain fell harder on their heads.

It was the last time Taehyung or Jimin ever saw Namjoon, the memory of his tall frame walking
out of the cemetery being the last.

Merely four days after the burial, things began to return to normal.

The country was still in shambles after the President’s death, and even though the ten days of
official mourning were not over, there was already a race to launch emergency campaigns for the
next leader.

For Geomjeong-pa however, a steady exchange of hostages and bartering was carried out until
captured police officers on their side were handed over in return for valuable mobsters behind bars.
They were the ones with the experience and the loyalty, and Jungkook needed them at his side,
whereas the ones who had petty track records or were only in it for the affiliation, with no
information that could threaten the gang if they snitched to the cops, were left to await trial and
sentencing.

Jungkook did not want the condominium to be like the Blue House, a place for one kingpin after
the other to reside in. They weren’t politicians, they were criminals, and to have a set place for the
head of the syndicate to live in after all that had happened, was suicide. The building was emptied
and cleaned down as if it were contaminated. Mother’s clothes collection was the first thing to be
carefully gathered and put away. Each dress was neatly packed into its own wrapping, and every
jewel was put in its own case, which was then stored in an underground warehouse as if it were a
highly sought after stash of the finest cut cocaine.

Then, Cersei was put down.

It was considered an act of mercy as the condominium would be empty and though people could
still be brought into feed her, tiger sharks were more social than other types. She had become
accustomed to not having another shark with her in the tank, but the loss of people up above would
make her descent into eventual depression and a refusal to eat, slower and more painful. Jungkook
was aware of her friendly and rather curious nature, as she was most regularly seen swimming
under the entrance hall, often hovering when someone leant down to engage with her through the
glass. They couldn’t have her removed either, as the frightened specialist Jungkook had bought in
(aware he was surrounded by gangsters), informed them that she would not survive in the wild,
having been hand reared as a lone shark by humans.

Ahmeti offered to do the deed, having used a harpoon gun before, but Jungkook wouldn’t have it.
In his view, she didn’t deserve to be killed by someone who hadn’t cared for her. A cage was
pushed into the tank, and Jungkook stood inside it, waiting, armed with the weapon. She swam
past a couple of times, seeming to recognise him and therefore only pushed up against the cage
once to show she knew who he was. Friendly fire.

In a matter of minutes, it was over. He waited until he could fire directly at her head to make it as
painless as possible, and she was dead within seconds, the blue of the water clouded a brilliant red.

Jungkook sank to the bottom of the cage and cried like a baby.
They made their plan to leave a fast one.

As soon as the funeral rites were over and the condominium was emptied out, Taehyung and Jimin
set up camp in a penthouse hotel suite in Yongsan, temporarily staying there until the plan to
depart was finalised. Jimin had chosen Cornwall as their destination for the time being, and
Taehyung had no objection, seeming indifferent to everything but the thought of simply being with
the younger, wherever he was going.

There was no question about the fact that Bong Ju would be staying put.

With his shaky mental stability and his tendency to disappear when things got truly rocky, it was
decided he was better off in the city he called home. Besides, Jungkook would have no family left
if his father also took off, and so, to allow him to feel useful and not like an ageing responsibility
on his sons, he asked him to be head of Yujin’s security detail. Once they were married, and she
became pregnant, it would be his own grandchild whose protection he’d be overseeing, and most
importantly, it meant he would not need to be anywhere near the active dealings of the gang. It was
a deal Bong Ju took with quiet acceptance and relief.

As for Jimin and Taehyung, they had their bags packed when Jungkook finally came to see them
off.

He looked different the moment he stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse. Jimin
couldn’t help but be proud of how mature he now was, tall, handsome and perfectly poised, the
cane only adding to the overall effect. He fixed his cuffs the same way Taehung did; he tilted his
head to observe his surroundings the way Mother did; he smiled in a way that said he knew
everyone’s secrets even though they did not know his, just like Jimin; and he had a stare that could
burn through one’s skull, like Namjoon. He was an amalgamation of all the people who he had
taken to heart long enough to absorb their habits, and he was glorious. The swept back hair helped
to highlight the tattooed wings of the phoenix on the nape of his neck, curled around to the sides of
his throat. The scar on his left eyebrow had been cleaned up and a slit cut in. The tattoos on his
fingers were touched up and so was the dagger tipped with three stars on the inside of his wrist.
Polished.

“Leaving already?” he said dryly, noting the carry-ons standing by the entrance.
“Soon,” Jimin smiled, and hurried forward to hug him. At the last minute he stopped when he
remembered the henchmen standing not too far behind, but Jungkook’s little quirk of a smile
reassured him and he wrapped his arms around the younger. The embrace was returned, tight, and
when they broke apart, Jungkook’s smile was wider and he looked like the young boy who still
had wild dreams of being something more than a petty criminal. Only for a moment.

When he saw Taehyung appear around the corner, his spine straightened and the lines of his face
hardened out again. It was a need to look tough before the other, like any younger brother might
with the older.

“Alright lad?” Taehyung said, holding out his hand for a shake.

“Been better. You?” Jungkook answered gruffly, their hands colliding.

Jimin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We should be flying out tonight if things go well.”

“I was going to ask if you needed access to any other accounts, apart from the one you said you
already had,” Jungkook said. “What’s the value on it?”

“Twenty eight million dollars and counting,” Taehyung answered.

“Ho-ly shit. Did you rob Mother before she died?” Jungkook retorted.

“It’s mostly assets Yoongi put in my name and forgot to take back. The rest are from deals that
went down in the Golden Triangle. I managed to expand Geomjeong-pa’s territory there, so I got
paid well.”

Jungkook’s tongue swirled over the inside of his cheek, eyes dark as he observed Taehyung.
“You’ve got a free pass to come back here any time, I hope you know that.”

“I don’t want to,” Taehyung answered, with not a hint of indecision.

Jungkook scoffed mirthlessly. “Good choice. Regardless, don’t be strangers. Keep in touch. If not,
I’ll have people hunt you down.”
“Duly noted,” Jimin chuckled, and Jungkook’s face softened again.

Taehyung’s phone suddenly rang, shattering the moment, and he picked up the moment he saw the
caller ID.

“Hyung?” the tremor in his voice when he said the word made Jimin’s head snap around. There
was only one person he called that with such uncertainty in his voice. But then, his expression
became confused. “Who the fuck are you?”

Jungkook and Jimin waited in suspense for about a minute or so, watching the colour drain from
Taehyung’s face. When he finally hung up, he went over to the counter to pour himself a glass of
water.

“Tae, what is it, baby?” Jimin said quickly.

“It’s Yoongi. That was – his – fuck, I don’t know – Han’s replacement? Kai, or whatever his full
name was. He said the doctors are saying he’ll pass at any time, and that he asked to see me one
last time. I-I have to go. You can head to Cornwall tonight, nightingale. I’ll join you once – “ he
couldn’t finish the sentence. Another person to bury.

“No, I’m going with you,” Jimin said without thinking, sliding his arm around him and kissing his
cheek. “I’m not going anywhere without you, not now, so don’t make me.”

Taehyung didn’t have the energy to argue, his knees weak as he leant against the wall. All his
effort seemed to be heading towards not collapsing. Jungkook looked troubled too, but more so for
the complication itself.

“I don’t think you should go without protection,” he said.

“What? Why? It’s Yoongi, what would he do – “ Taehyung started to say defensively.

“He’s dying, and there’s an entire gang waiting to be fought over,” Jungkook interrupted. “Do you
really want to be in the middle of that without security? If nothing else, take two of my men and
Ahmeti, I’ll lend you a chopper.”
“Thank you, Jungkook,” Jimin said quietly, as Taehyung failed to give a response. He was reeling,
and Jimin had a good idea why. In the chaos of Seoul, he must have forgotten Yoongi’s declining
health for a short period of time and the guilt was crushing him even as they stood there. “Tae, this
guy on the phone – Kai – did he mention Ma Dong Seok at all? You said Yoongi wanted him to be
next in line, right?”

“I don’t think he did. He didn’t say much except Yoongi was passed out so he couldn’t talk but that
when he’s lucid he calls for me – and Hoseok.”

At Hoseok’s name, Jungkook inhaled sharply and looked away.

“We’ll go right now, okay?” Jimin reassured him, kissing him again as he brushed his fingers
through his soft curls. “We can leave half of the luggage here and take the essentials, and then
return once – “ Taehyung’s hand squeezed his arm so hard it was painful and stopped talking to
hug him instead.

“I’ll send two men around and there’s a landing pad up on the roof. Will an hour be enough to get
ready?” Jungkook cut in.

Jimin nodded, and then started to guide Taehyung back to the lounge area where he poured him a
whiskey on the rocks and gently told him to drink. Jungkook and Jimin exchanged whispered
goodbyes and another embrace, with the expectation that they’d see each other again when the pair
got back from Busan.

“Be safe,” Jungkook murmured, and his grip on Jimin became protective when he did. “I don’t like
that you’re going out of the blue, but I know why you have to. Just – be careful. If Seoul is a
madhouse when a kingpin dies, it’s nothing in comparison to Busan.”

Jimin was as afraid as he should be going back to the city where it had all started, but for
Jungkook’s sake, he was nothing but smiles and strength, as he told his friend he’d be seeing him
again very soon.

Soon.
 This fic is drawing to an end and frankly, I am growing tired. I have received so much
support, it’s unbelievable, but with it, extremely hurtful things that despite my best efforts, I
still haven’t been able to ignore or forget.

People can be extraordinarily cruel, and mental health awareness only stretches to their own,
not others, it’s been proven time and time again. But as the writer, complaining about
anything instantly puts one in a bad light I’ve noticed, and I’m sure other writers have too.

At this point, I am finishing the series out of dedication to it, and the fact that I’ve never
worked on something so long and successfully finished. I should have kept writing for me and
the story, the only reasons that mattered, but instead I let its reputation carry me away and
dictate how I felt about it, good or bad.

I do apologise, and I hope you’ll stick with me to the very end if you’ve stuck with me this far.
 Among The Stars

Arrangements had been made for Chrollo to go with Ahmeti on his return to Tirana, as Taehyung
and Jimin were not going to England via private jet. Until they had sorted out proper
accommodation and made a down payment on a house, neither wanted to put their puppy through
the hassle of such a move without being settled properly themselves.

But Jimin hadn’t expected it to be as emotional as it was when they said their first temporary
goodbye. They would see him again on their return from Busan, just before seeing Ahmeti off on
the jet a Russian friend of his had lent him. Yet even for this short parting, Chrollo was agitated,
scampering back and forth with little whines and howls whenever either Taehyung or Jimin left his
sight.

“He doesn’t want to leave,” Ahmeti commented, more subdued than Jimin had ever seen him. He
had not expected to be able to go back to Albania for the rest of his living years, but an unexpected
change in the law had the government offering him an invite to return, provided he bring with him
a hefty sum (meant to contribute towards the nation apparently.) He was excited, even if he did not
show it, and the brief trip to Busan had him on edge as much as it had Chrollo, though for the sake
of both Taehyung and Jimin, who he had come to be quite fond of in a fatherly way, he made no
arguments.

“Chrollo we’ll be back,” Taehyung cooed at him, scratching under his chin as the dog whimpered,
head tilting side to side. Jimin joined in, arms wrapped around his neck and kissed all over the top
of his head with a shaky laugh. Taehyung noticed immediately. “Are you going to cry?”

“No – shut up – “ Jimin mumbled, burying his face into Chrollo’s jet black fur.

“Oh great, now I have two puppies to comfort,” Taehyung giggled, reaching a hand to scratch
under Jimin’s chin too.

The younger swatted his hand off, but his face lit up into a brilliant smile, eyes sparkling with
unshed tears. He’d wiped them clean by the time they got up onto the roof where the helicopter
was waiting. Jungkook was on his phone, his retinue of two bodyguards standing behind, and
about ten others were stationed around the chopper, fully armed. The two he’d given for their
protection were already inside, and Ahmeti was about to board next but came back down to give
Chrollo a final goodbye. He proceeded to get licked all over his face and made a show of being
disgusted as he wiped it off. And then, he promptly gave him the rest of the packet of doggie treats
in his pocket.
“Not all at once – oh, never mind,’ Jimin sighed as the puppy immediately snatched it up and
emptied its contents within seconds.

Taehyung caught his leash, and led him over to Jungkook, explaining that he was to be a good boy
and stay with Uncle Kook until they got back. Jungkook was grinning as he watched Chrollo
hesitate between obedience and defiance, though he settled on the former when the leash was
handed over. He didn’t seem to be very accustomed to Jungkook’s hand on his head, but he didn’t
show any adverse reaction, knowing he had to sit and be good. He liked to please his owners, and
though he didn’t trust the loud beast they were about to climb into, he trusted them. That was all
that mattered.

Taehyung straightened after giving Chrollo a final kiss on the head, and his smile faded a little
when his eyes met with Jungkook’s. An offhanded smile didn’t seem to be enough, so he offered
the handshake again, his only last resort. Jungkook was glowering, though perhaps that was an
attempt to keep any other expression from touching his face. With a jerk, he pulled on Taehyung’s
hand and the other came around to press between his shoulder blades in a half hug. Taehyung
tensed, but didn’t pull away. Slowly, his other arm came up to do the same, patting Jungkook on
the back.

“Take care of him,” Jungkook muttered.

When they pulled apart, Taehyung’s eyes were unreadable, but he nodded, just once. Neither
smiled at the other after that, but there was no need to. In that brief embrace, both had silently
accepted that they were bound by blood, and that would never change. It was a cathartic moment.

“Tell Dad I’ll come by first thing when we get back,” Taehyung said, and Jungkook said that he
would.

Bong Ju had fallen ill and was currently in hospital, mostly due to his sons’ worries. It appeared to
be the flu, but neither was taking any chances.

With a final “Bye-bye Chrollo, my boy” Taehyung left to climb into the chopper, and then only
Jimin was left.

There was no trying to quell the smiles now, and Jungkook’s face split into one that mirrored
Jimin’s as they pulled each other in.
“I’m so proud of you,” Jimin mumbled.

“Stop hugging me like that,” Jungkook mumbled back, even though he wasn’t loosening his hold
either.

“Like what?”

“Like this is the last time we’ll see each other. You’re seeing me again. And then I’m going to
come and find you in Cornwall, or wherever place on this Earth you two hole yourself up in. I’ll be
the ghost that never stops haunting you.”

Jimin beamed, pulling back to cup Jungkook’s face with his hands. The younger felt his heart ache,
and to quell the strength of the sensation, he smacked a kiss to Jimin’s forehead which was
immediately responded to with a laugh and a punch to his shoulder.

“Best ghost to ever haunt anyone, I think,” Jimin said, plucking at his chin. “I’ll call you as soon as
I get there, and before we leave to come back. Take care of yourself. The city’s dangerous right
now and – “

“Yeah, Jimin, I know. I’m not a little boy anymore,” Jungkook smiled, though it looked as if he
were struggling to keep it happy.

“I know,” Jimin replied quietly. “I just worry.”

“Go right now before I talk Taehyung into letting you stay behind.”

Jimin extricated himself from the hug, and then began to back away towards the chopper. Their
hands parted last, and Jungkook’s eyes were now clearly glistening in the brightness of the setting
sun. Taehyung leaned down to clasp Jimin’s wrist and helped pull him up, where he settled into the
seat beside the window. The door was closed and Jimin held up a final hand of greeting as the
helicopter rose up.

His last view of Jungkook was of the tail of his coat billowing in the wind from the blades, hair
whipped around, free from its swept back style. Chrollo was sitting beside him, also staring at the
movement of the helicopter, his shadow dark on the ground as it merged with Jungkook’s. The
sun’s rays touched Jungkook’s frame, lighting up the pale of his face and turning it a warm gold as
his eyes followed the chopper’s ascent. He lifted his arm once in farewell, and then the contraption
turned away, facing its new direction, and he was gone.

Their arrival in Busan was similar to the departure from Seoul.

Yet another landing pad, and people on the roof, waiting. Except there were only two in the front,
and a single guard standing by the fire exit door. Ahmeti had his hand on his holster even once it
became obvious that one was a woman and the other a thin young man, who looked as if he
couldn’t harm a fly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jimin said, noticing the way his finger was slipping over the safety of
the gun.

“I don’t know this city, nor do I know these people. Precaution,” came the response.

The helicopter landed, and Taehyung pushed open the door, alighting first. The scent of the sea hit
Jimin full on, and a shudder raced through his bones as memories of his last time here flooded the
crevice of his brain. Unpleasant memories. Heated ones. He was never happy, not in this city. And
yet, it was where his mother had been born and raised, so perhaps it was finally time to forgive
Busan for the pain it had caused him. He dropped to the ground as graceful as a cat, and followed
Taehyung as the taller approached the pair.

“You must be Kai,” he said, as the younger man bowed low.

“Yes, sir. And this is Jung Wheein.” Kai gestured to the woman beside him, whose bow was
significantly less deep. She had a mouth that was set so it was as if she would smirk at any
moment, except the darkness in her eyes wouldn’t allow it. Hers was a most sceptical gaze, as
compared to her companion whose large eyes seemed ready to swallow up his face. He was staring
at Jimin, and then Taehyung, and then back to Jimin, as if losing his train of thought, and it took
Wheein jabbing him in the ribs with an elbow to get him to twitch and come back to the present.
“Master Min is in his room. He’s only just woken up.”

“How is he?” Taehyung asked, immediately distracted as he reached his hand back to ensure Jimin
was following.

“Better today than yesterday. But he isn’t well at all,” Kai answered.

The truth behind Huening Kai’s constant staring was unknown to the objects of his fascination, but
it was most certainly being felt. Jimin put it off to the nerves of a young man suddenly thrust into
position of spokesperson for his boss, but Taehyung was a little annoyed at the way his glances
kept travelling towards Jimin. Kai’s mind was attempting to remain focused, but he couldn’t help
the visual images from being let in. He had seen both of them at their most vulnerable on those
videos, and now here, he was in intimidating proximity. It was a bewildering thing to know how a
man looked in the throes of pleasure before one even met him, and he couldn’t connect either of
them to their younger recorded versions now that they were here in the flesh.

“Would you like to see your room first?” Wheein said suddenly, as the elevator doors opened into
the apartment.

“Who are you? The housekeeper?” Taehyung snorted.

“Yes, actually.”

She missed the ‘wow’ he mouthed as he glanced at Jimin who was struggling to bite back a grin.
“Tae, I’ll go to the room. You should probably go on and…” he trailed off, clearly uncomfortable
at the thought of going to meet Yoongi this soon. Taehyung nodded, not needing any further
explanation and as Wheein took Jimin towards the stairs, Ahmeti, the two guards and Kai were left
in the entrance hall.

“Lack of security here, don’t you think?” the Albanian drawled in English as he wandered over to
look out of the window, eyes scanning the shimmering blue expanse of sea. “Doesn’t feel like the
home of a kingpin.”

“Well our kingpin presumptive has suddenly vanished off the face of the earth, so I’m afraid we’re
not afforded much in terms of security until the rest of the gang figures out what they’re doing
next,” Kai answered in perfect English himself. His own ability to lie innocently, surprised even
himself, though he knew none of these newcomers were amateurish enough to believe him. They
probably thought he didn’t know what he was talking about.

“And who is the kingpin presumptive?”

“A man by the name of Ma Dong Seok. Yong Geondal legend. Some are saying he got caught in a
quarrel with factions of the gang, but his body was never found, so we’re not sure if he’s been
murdered or kidnapped somewhere.”

Ahmeti turned, scanning him from head to toe. “You’re a foreigner?”

Kai shook his head. “Born and bred here. My father was German.”

“And what are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is your purpose here? You have barely any tattoos and certainly not the build of a fighter.
Are you a servant boy?”

“I’m a bookkeeper,” Kai frowned.

Ahmeti sneered, and no attempt was made to hide his contempt. “Bookkeeper. Even gangs have
such things in this day and age, huh?”

“With the amount of money they make, I should think so.”

The Albanian exchanged looks with the Geomjeong-pa men who were freely grinning where they
stood by the door, and feigned solemn understanding with a nod. “Of course, of course. Well, I will
leave you to keep your books, as I am tired and in need of a drink. Should have been on my way to
my home country right now, were it not for your dying boss.”

Kai watched him go to the kitchen and start rummaging around the fridge as if he owned the place.
What a strange man. He dressed like a 90s fetish club bouncer, and yet there was a resilience in his
movements, controlled and measured, as if his body was restrained from launching into a natural
mode of attack. This man, wherever he had come from, was the kind of fighter he had accused Kai
of not being, and somewhere in the back of his head, this worried the younger. It did not bode well
to have such men in the house, not right now.

Upstairs, Wheein was acting out the role of housekeeper well, pointing out the fresh towels, the
sheets, opening up new packs of toiletries for the en suite and asking Jimin what, if at all, would he
like for dinner. She amazed even herself with the charade, as the other didn’t show any sign that he
was suspicious with her behaviour. Although, with the way he quietly ignored most of her words, it
appeared to him he had been born rich. She had lived in the homes of the rich before, though not as
a servant but as the secret stashed away, usually in the basement or the attic. She’d seen the
children and wives of the rich men who’d bought her, breezing around their palatial homes without
a care in the world, and to them, the servants were invisible. Jimin was acting like she was invisible
for a moment, until his eyes finally lifted from his phone, and he smiled. The smile made her pause
for breath, a little taken aback by the way it lit up his face. From all that she had heard about the
Butcher and his bizarre infatuation, she understood why now.

“Thank you for all this,” Jimin said, and he had a light, detached intonation to his voice that made
her want to draw in another breath for some reason. “Though, you’ve prepared so much, do you
think he might…take a while to pass?”

“He’s been like this before,” Wheein explained. “But not this bad, so we truly thought it would be
his last leg. And then he’s never called for Kim Taehyung-ssi before either, but he insisted that he
come so we thought it best to call in case he could. All this is just a precaution in case he does hold
on and you decide to stay for a short while.”

“I don’t think we will, even if he does improve. We have somewhere to be after this – “ Jimin
paused, as he realised he was telling this to a complete stranger, and besides, why would a
housekeeper be interested? So, he smiled again, and the conversation petered out until Wheein left
him to himself.

She found Kai in the living room, and the surrounding areas empty. “Where are the guards?”

“They wanted to do a quick perimeter check of the building,” Kai answered.

“Message him.”

“I already have.”
“Alright. Just make sure he knows that he can’t turn up here with anyone else when it happens.
Just himself. As soon as it’s over, I’ll send out the signal for the others to arrive.”

“He’ll come on his own,” Kai said. “I don’t think he would even think about back up, not with the
way he was the last time we met him.”

“Yeah, well, grief does that to a man. As does revenge.”

“Do you – do you think Master Min will die soon?”

Wheein, halfway back to the stairs already, turned at the fragile quiver in Kai’s voice. He closed
his mouth and tried to look stronger than he felt, but she saw right through him. She’d guessed he
had grown a sort of attachment to the man who had taken him in once Mr Han had died. In fact, it
was easy for her to forget as she had no real connection or care for Master Min herself. Her face
softened, and she nodded.

“I think so. I think he was probably holding on to see Taehyung-ssi one last time.”

“But he never called for him to come,” Kai said, deathly quiet now. “I lied.”

“You had to,” she said. “Otherwise how would we manage any of this? If seeing Taehyung gets
him to die sooner, it’s better for him not to suffer, and it’s better for us as well.”

Kai nodded, but the weight in his stomach was wretched. None of these people had done anything
to him, not Taehyung, nor Jimin, nor Master Min. But the threads had been carefully woven, the
wheel of fate already set in motion, waiting as the clock inched closer to Yoongi’s eventual death,
the event they had been waiting for since Kai was taken into Mr Han’s employment.

Everything was leading up to this.

He couldn’t lose his courage now.

The expression on Yoongi’s face when he saw Taehyung was as if he were seeing a ghost. His
hand twitched, lifting an inch from the bedspread and he smiled, eyes drifting closed, then open. It
was how Taehyung knew Yoongi believed him to be a figment of his mind, for the older never
greeted him with a smile. Such affectionate gestures came later, and were hard won.

“Hyung,” he said, and suddenly, he was a teenager again, surly and orange-haired, as broken inside
as he tried to pretend he was invincible on the out. And every glance in Yoongi’s direction had
been full of worship and awe, at this man who was smaller than him in stature and yet a giant that
Taehyung could not hope to overcome. At one point, Yoongi had been anything and everything,
and as he took his weak, pale hand between his own, Taehyung sucked in a shuddering breath,
trying not to let it out in a sob. This was wrong. Seeing him laid out on a bed, feverish and limp,
hair matted to his forehead – it was against his nature, and the guilt of not checking up on him in
the last week of madness, threatened to choke him.

“You’re really here,” Yoongi whispered, as his fingers curled against Taehyung’s palm. “Why are
you here, you little fool? It’s dangerous. Everything’s going to shit. Go away.”

“Shut up, hyung,” Taehyung laughed, and it sounded more as if he were crying as he bent over to
kiss the back of Yoongi’s hand. “I came because you called for me. And because I’m going to
leave the country soon and I can’t go without seeing you one last time, you stubborn, irrational
man.”

A grating scoff spat out from Yoongi’s lips, and his teeth bared in a chuckle. He didn’t remember
calling for Taehyung, but he knew his tendency to mumble things whilst in the throes of fever
these days. “Irrational because I chose the hard way out and not the easy one? Spare me the
theatrics, kid.” He lifted his other hand with great effort, and covered Taehyung’s wrist with it.
“I’m glad you’re leaving. Run as far as you can and don’t come back if you can help it. Ever.”

“Yeah, I’m going to do that. But not before I see you off.” It was the first time Taehyung had
voiced out loud the certainty that Yoongi would pass on, and he was proud that his voice remained
steady.
“I assume you’ll be running with that nightingale of yours,” Yoongi smirked.

“You assumed right,” Taehyung smirked back, eyes still brimming with tears he was forcing back.

“You stabbed him once, and I had him saved. Don’t make the same mistake twice, because there’ll
be no one left to save him from you the next time.”

“I won’t, hyung. I love him more than life itself. I love him in a way I never thought I could love
someone, not even you or Hoseok hyung.”

“Yeah…that’s my Taehyungie. Always overdramatic and emotional.” Yoongi’s brow furrowed,

and there was a hint of wetness in his eyes when he beckoned for Taehyung to lean down. The
younger did, and his hand sifted into his curls, stroking them off his forehead in circles, the way he
used to do to get him to sleep in the past. Taehyung gave in to the touch and rested his head on the
sheets at Yoongi’s side, feeling the slight rise and fall of his chest as his weak heart pumped blood
as best it could around his body.

“I wish you’d chosen to live,” he whispered.

Yoongi’s fingers found his scalp, cupping the back of his head. “I was tired before my heart started
to give out, Taehyung-ah. I was tired when I broke out of my captor’s home and fooled myself into
thinking I still had fight left in me. I was tired when my parents died and I was handed over to an
aunt who couldn’t imagine loving a little boy that wasn’t hers. I think everyone’s tired – this life
fucking sucks – but some of us are just better at pretending we aren’t. You helped me to pretend, as
did Hoseok, but when you both left, I found that I couldn’t pretend any longer.”

Taehyung’s lip jutted out, eyes closing tight as his body shook with a quiet sob. “If I hadn’t left,
would you have wanted to live?”

“You had to leave, aegi-ah, or else this city would have eaten you alive. I was fucking selfish for
wanting Hoseok all to myself, and I was stupid for seeing you as competition. But I will never
regret sending you away, ever. You achieved more in Seoul than you could ever have in this city.
And you found Jimin.”

“Stop teaching me life lessons when you’re lying on your deathbed! I fucking hate you!” Taehyung
wailed, arm wrapped around Yoongi’s waist as he sobbed into the cotton sheets. The elder
smacked his head to chide him and laughed properly for the first time in weeks.
It was how Jimin found them later, Yoongi’s hands on Taehyung’s head, whilst the younger lay
curled up on the bed beside him. The older man had his eyes open, though barely, and his head
turned the moment Jimin pushed at the door. They didn’t say anything at first, just staring at each
other and then Jimin walked inside with a slight tremor in his hands that he couldn’t explain.

“You look like you’re walking into the headmaster’s office,” Yoongi said, dry as ever.

“Feels like it,” Jimin muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Sit. But don’t wake this one, or he’ll start crying again. I’ve never
been impervious to his tears, and I still am not.”

Jimin’s heart squeezed tight at the thought of Taehyung crying, and his expression filled with
concern as he leaned over to see his eyes were slightly puffy. Taking a chair from the table by the
window, he brought it over to the other side of the bed and took a seat. Yoongi looked terrible. His
skin was as white as the bedsheets, and his eyes were circled with red, either from lack of sleep or
recovery from constant fevers. Either way, there was no denying that Death was crouched over
him, waiting to steal him away at any moment.

“He said you’re both leaving the country. Where?” he spoke briefly, as it was paining him to
breathe.

“Cornwall,” Jimin murmured. “We thought we might buy a home there and make it the permanent
stead.”

“Another seaside town, huh?” Yoongi chuckled weakly. “Can’t say I blame you. You couldn’t get
anything more different to Seoul or Busan than an English port town.”

Silence returned, and as the seconds wore on, Jimin thought Yoongi had fallen asleep. But a slight
deeper breath told him otherwise.

“Have you had any arrangements made for the funeral?” he ventured to ask. Anyone else and he
would never have been insensitive enough to ask. But this was Min Yoongi. Practicality was his
strong suit.
“I don’t want a funeral. I want my body to be buried at sea,” he answered. At Jimin’s look of
surprise, he continued, “I still have to tell Taehyung. I don’t know when I’m going to die, but I can
feel it’s close.”

“Y-you don’t want to be buried where your parents were? Or perhaps where – Hoseok is?” his
sentence lowered into utter quiet, as the burdensome guilt of Hoseok’s death would never leave
that special cavity in Jimin’s heart where he kept the many painful regrets he was cursed to carry.

“Hoseok is fine on that mountain where the sun shines – or so I was told,” Yoongi answered, with a
mere jerk of his shoulder. “Besides, I might be a rotten apple, but I believe in something waiting
beyond and if it’s meant to be, I’ll see him anyway. Doesn’t make a difference. My parents on the
other hand died whilst at sea – their boat sank. I know you’re poetic enough to appreciate the irony
of my dying wish.”

Jimin certainly could. His own parents, what was left of their charred corpses, were promptly
cremated and then locked away into a vault, and he had never managed to hold the urns in his
hands. Not that he wanted to. His image of his mother was a living, breathing, dancing sylph of a
woman, not a jar of dust.

“He says he loves you more than life itself,” Yoongi said.

Jimin took a deep breath, feeling warmth sprinkle through his veins, and struggled to hide his
emotion. “I feel the same way.”

“Funny how love works. You say all these big things, and then when it comes to it, it never quite
goes as planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hoseok once said something similar to me. And I certainly began to feel that way about him. But
look where we are now.”

“We’re trying to keep it from happening to us. That’s why we’re leaving.”

“And I sincerely hope it works.” Yoongi’s voice droned out into a low croon, as his eyelids
drooped. Jimin watched him hover on the brink, before finally, his lashes touched against his
cheekbones and he was asleep.

He didn’t bother waking Taehyung, leaving them both there, and left as quietly as he’d come in.

The peace in the apartment was a welcome thing. Compared to the condo in Seoul where some
type of action was always abound, this place was filled with floor to ceiling windows that looked
out onto the ocean, and was so high up, the noise of the streets below was a distant fantasy. Jimin
prepared food for himself and Taehyung on his own, assuring Wheein it was no trouble. Taehyung
liked his bulgogi more than anything else, and he thought the elder could do with something to sate
him after the journey and the grief of seeing Yoongi. The scent of the cooking managed to
eventually attract Ahmeti who after questioning after it, then told Jimin he and one of the other
guards would be going out to eat at a street vendor that had caught their eye. The remaining one
would stay at his station though with the heavily armed security system around the penthouse, it
didn’t look as if any of them would be needed once the doors locked behind them.

Soon after, Kai entered the living room, and not expecting to see anyone in the kitchen, froze for a
moment, watching Jimin humming away in his own little world as he stripped up the beef into thin
slices. He didn’t manage to look away in time as the older felt he wasn’t alone and looked around.
Jimin nodded in greeting, and continued what he was doing as Kai lowered into an armchair,
cheeks red. Far too late to pretend he’d never been there and leave.

“How old are you?” he heard Jimin say, and he physically looked around as if there were anyone
else the man could possibly be addressing.

“Nineteen.” Kai cleared his throat, stood, half sat back down again, changed his mind, straightened
up and hovered towards the kitchen counter. Awkward.

“I’d say that’s young but considering most people start out young in this business, I’m not
surprised,” Jimin commented, laying out strips of beef in the grill. “Were you out on the streets
first?”

“K-kind of. But then I met Mr Han and he said I could be his assistant. Just kind of stuck around
after that.”
“I remember Han. How is he?” Jimin poured himself a glass of wine, and then offered to pour Kai
one, but stopped when it was politely declined.

“He’s dead.”

Jimin stopped pouring. “Old age I hope?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I’m sorry. You must have been close.”

“We were. I never really knew my dad, so he kind of became like one.” Kai cursed himself for not
cutting himself short after ‘we were.’ Why was he making conversation with this man like they
were friends?

Jimin ran his hand through his hair, an instinctual motion. Kai’s mind drifted backwards, to that
night he had chosen not to encrypt and wipe the drive but had looked inside it first. That habitual
stroke of his hair was a steady theme in those videos. He usually did it when they were switching
positions –

“Would you like some bulgogi? I made it for two but I think I might have miscalculated,” Jimin
said kindly.

“Sure,” Kai whispered, unable to get his voice to its normal level of volume.

Jimin left him with a plate before taking the other two upstairs and returning one last time for a jug
of water. He smiled at Kai again, a cursory gesture, before he vanished up the stairs, but it left the
young man feeling as if he’d been struck over the head with a sledgehammer. There it was, that
terrible feeling of utter shame and horrible guilt, even though this had nothing to do with him, they
had nothing to do with him.

This entire trap had been laid for the sake of repaying someone else, it was not his fight.
So why did he feel as if he were the only one to blame?

Upstairs, Jimin found Taehyung in their room, shirt unbuttoned, hair ruffled and eyes rimmed red
as he sat hunched on the bed. He looked like he’d been to hell and back. When asked if Yoongi
was asleep, he nodded, and Jimin immediately lay the jug down on the dresser before going to him
and wrapping his arms tight around his neck. As Taehyung shifted to do the same with his waist,
Jimin climbed into his lap, thighs straddling him as he hugged him tight.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I wish I could make it better.”

“You are, just by being here,” Taehyung said, words muffled into his shoulder.

“And to think, you told me to stay behind.”

“Yeah, I say stupid things sometimes, you’ll have to learn to ignore me.”

Jimin giggled, catching his face between his palms and kissing his lips with soft, little kisses as
their noses bumped. “I already do, sweetheart. Now come, we need to get some bulgogi inside you.
You look famished.”

All throughout the meal, he couldn’t help from touching Taehyung, in some way or another.
Innocent brushes of his shoulder, his hair, squeezing his arm, just reassurance, reminding him that
he wouldn’t be alone, not here, not ever. That Jimin was his, in both happiness and in pain.

“This place must hold a lot of memories for you,” he murmured once dinner was over and
Taehyung sat on the floor beside the bed, caged between Jimin’s legs. He didn’t have many here
himself beyond the traumatising aftermath of the knife wound Taehyung had given him.
“Lived here for a good year,” Taehyung murmured.

Jimin set down his wine glass on the nightstand and stroked his fingers over his boyfriend’s
temples, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Taehyung gave him a small smile, leaning up to drop a
kiss on his mouth, licking at the plumpness of his bottom lip.

“We don’t have to talk about it. Or anything, if you don’t want,” Jimin murmured, stroking the tip
of his nose down the line of Taehyung’s.

“When you look at me upside down, your cheeks get puffier,” Taehyung murmured back.

“What?” Jimin laughed.

“They got fuller, like you’ve shed a few years and gone back to being a baby.” He reached up to
hold Jimin’s head in place as this time, he gave him another upside-down kiss, though with more
fervour. “I love you,” he whispered, and then another kiss. “You beautiful creature, I love you so
much.”

He twisted around and Jimin backed up onto the pillows, pulling Taehyung with him until the older
landed between his parted legs. Then followed a few minutes of breathless kissing, the kind where
fingers tore into hair, thighs quivered and clamped tight, and moans were stifled but then let out as
both drew up for air.

“I don’t have lube – I didn’t bring any,” Jimin breathed, lips still connected to Taehyung’s as his
hips moved up on instinct, grinding against the bulge between his boyfriend’s legs. Taehyung’s
teeth sank into the flesh of his throat, teasing the sensitive spot with wet licks of his tongue straight
after. He knew every erogenous zone like it was the back of his hand, and Jimin never failed to
turn into putty under him when he targeted them.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, voice hoarse, as his hips sank down and pinned Jimin’s , causing
the younger’s voice to stutter and pitch at the friction to his cock.

“Y-you can go look,” Jimin answered, nails clawing down Taehyung’s arms, as if he would refuse
to let him go if he tried. Neither moved from their position, and he parted his thighs wider as
Taehyung’s thrusts became desperate, grinding through the material of their trousers until Jimin
was crying out that he was going to come. The older didn’t stop until he did, a wet patch on the
crotch of his pants, whilst his own erection remained fully hard in his own. Landing a slap on
Jimin’s ass, he kissed his cheek and said he’d be right back.

Taehyung went straight to his old room, knowing what he used to keep in one of the many
bathroom cabinets, and also knowing they probably hadn’t been moved. Much to his surprise, he
found the door closed with light pouring out underneath. It had to be one of the two, the
bookkeeper or the housekeeper. Scratching the back of his head, he tapped a fist against the door,
waiting for the approach of footsteps. It was Kai, pale-faced and tired, but when he saw Taehyung
standing outside with his tousled hair and slightly flushed cheeks, he straightened.

“Sir?” he asked, in a reedy little voice.

“This used to be my old room. Mind if I look in the bathroom for something?” Taehyung
countered.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Lube. I used to keep lube in the bathroom cabinets.”

“That was yours?”

“Was?” Taehyung breathed in, trying to hold his patience. “Please tell me you didn’t throw it out.”

“I-I think there’s still a bottle – I’ll go find it – “ and with burning red cheeks, Kai turned around
and practically ran towards the en suite.

“Strange kid,” Taehyung muttered. He waited a couple minutes, leaning against the doorjamb as
his eyes surveyed the room in silence. It hadn’t changed much since he’d been here, minus the
nerdy posters on the wall. Star Wars predominantly. Yeah, he looked to be the type who’d be into
that. Kai returned with the gift from god held out in his palm, and Taehyung took it with a quick,
“Thanks kid,” and turned to hurry back as fast as he had come. He didn’t turn to see Kai peek out
the doorway with round eyes and a piqued curiosity that he would never try to sate, ever. It was
just…strange for him to know what they’d be doing such a short distance away, seeing as he
already knew the details.

“Oh you found it!” Jimin moaned in relief when Taehyung reappeared.
“Fuck yeah I found it,” Taehyung growled, landing on the bed as Jimin shrieked and giggled,
already attempting to pull open the belt buckle of his trousers.

They didn’t start with any foreplay or the teasing and the kinks. Straight to missionary, hungry for
the intimacy of clutching at each other as the sky outside brightened with starry pinpricks. Jimin
didn’t try to hold his moans back, crying out Taehyung’s name with every other inward thrust that
split his body in half, and Taehyung wouldn’t tire of hearing it, kissing him every now and then,
just to have the syllables stroked over his tongue. It was mid-kiss that Jimin squealed “I’m gonna
come, I’m gonna come!” and his pace increased, shoving him up against the headboard as his cock
plunged in and stole the last droplets of air from Jimin’s lungs when he orgasmed.

The shake in his leg was instantaneous, kicked high into the air and trembling non-stop as
Taehyung continued to fuck him, the abuse to his prostate merciless.

“Stop…stop, stop, stop – “ Jimin began to wail, the overstimulation heady as he gulped in oxygen.

“Uh-uh…come for me again, nightingale…come for me, baby…you look so pretty when you
come all over my cock…” Taehyung whispered into his hair, angling the thrusts with ruthless
precision until Jimin’s voice was gone and all he could manage was a squeak here and there as his
body propelled to another high. He was shaking all over, trembling like a little bird in the cage of
Taehyung’s arms, and the older couldn’t get enough of him. Every stroke of his soft locks,
brushing his lips over his dewy, freckled cheeks, failed to hammer it into Taehyung’s head, that he
would have this for the rest of his life. Jimin was too beautiful to believe, and it was harder to
digest that he of all people, could deserve something so immaculate.

“Come inside me – I want you to come, Taehyung – “ Jimin whined, biting down on his quivering
lip as he sobbed, tears leaking out the corner of his eyes.

They’d foregone the use of a condom so it was all Jimin could feel, every ridge on Taehyung’s
length as it pressed into him. He kept his walls taut, clenching down every time the other pulled
out, until his speed became frantic and stuttering, signalling that he was very close. His cry of
Jimin’s name was lost into his lover’s hair, hips locked tight as he convulsed and finally gave into
his own ecstasy. Jimin clung to him with both arms and legs, lost in the darkness behind his eyelids
as he felt himself float away on the back of the indescribable closeness. The skin of his cheek was
lusciously soft against his own, and Jimin nuzzled into it, whispering sweet words of love as
Taehyung emptied deep inside him.

They sank to the bed but didn’t break apart, bodies still connected. Jimin shifted a little, giggling as
Taehyung kissed his nose, his cock slackening slowly. Lazy blinking led to even lazier kissing,
hands mapping each other out.

“Are you gonna keep me inside you until morning, hm?” Taehyung rumbled, eyes closed already.

“Yeah. Not letting you go anywhere,” Jimin whispered, hitching a thigh around his hip tight, as he
tucked his cheek under his lover’s and snuggled in close. “Sleep well, my darling.”

They rose in the early morning at about the same time, showering together, and coming out a little
over half an hour later, covered in fresh hickeys. Taehyung went to check on Yoongi but found him
sleeping, and then returned to the kitchen where Wheein had already laid out a breakfast for both of
them. It was clearly ordered in.

“I…am not a very good cook. At least, not presentable enough,” she grimaced. “The nurses cook
for Master Min, and everyone else around here seems to prefer takeout.”

“Of course it’s fine, you don’t have to worry about it,” Jimin said quickly, “Thank you for ordering
in.”

“She’s a housekeeper for Yoongi, in the Dragon Tower, and she can’t cook?” Taehyung muttered
once they were safely in the dining room. “How the hell did she get this position?”

“Well, she and Kai seem to know each other quite well, so I’m guessing it was nepotism,” Jimin
said lightly. “Come on. This is a better cooked breakfast than anything we could have made.”

“I’m not complaining. Just suspicious.”

“Well, there’s no time to be. I just hope they’ll be okay after. Neither look like they’re involved
with gangs, though I think Kai said he was on the streets briefly before Mr Han picked him up.”
Taehyung grunted. “He wasn’t a gang member. He looks like he’d snap in half after one day down
there. He must have been a rescue.”

“A rescue?”

“Kid from a sex trafficking ring. There were way too many around here, Mosquito’s being the
largest.”

“Oh.” Jimin stopped chewing on his brioche, suddenly feeling his stomach overturn. “I guess he
has the look that they…prefer. Fuck, that’s so nasty.”

“Mosquito wasn’t working officially under Yong Geondal when he orchestrated the ring. It was his
own private side business. But allowing the rats with influence into the circle enables them to
continue. Either way, gang or not, rich men always find a way to feed their own desires, it’s how
the world works.”

Jimin didn’t answer, feeling anything he might say would come off puerile. He hated it all with a
vehemence so strong, and yet nothing he could say or do would ever make it better. Not whilst, as
Taehyung had said, rich men continued to exploit the rest of the world to their own horrific whims.

It went without being said that Taehyung was going to spend most of his day at Yoongi’s bedside.
Jimin had no desire to leave the apartment and despite no one else being around, he had no
objection. Being alone could be considered a pastime and he was really rather fond of it. Besides,
Yoongi’s library was immense and the last time Jimin had been here, he was too lost in the misery
and anger of his situation to appreciate it. After combing through section after section, The Old
Garden by Hwang Sok-yong caught his eye. He had been one of his mother’s favourite authors and
she often used to scribble little quotes from his books and slip them under Jimin’s pillow or into his
pockets.

He wasn’t sitting there an hour before the sound of footsteps came hurrying down. Taehyung
called for him and Jimin called back to let him know where he was.

“Yoongi hyung wants me to take him out on the yacht,” he said, as soon as he turned the corner.

Jimin snapped the book shut, expression confused. But when he saw the corners of Taehyung’s lips
droop, he realised what it meant.
“Is he…?”

“I don’t know. He just asked,” Taehyung blinked, trying to hold back tears. “I think he’s close. I-I
think he knows.”

“Alright, I’ll help take him down. Ahmeti’s close by too, I’ll call him in.”

Yoongi no longer wanted his IV attached. Taehyung looked to be on the verge of arguing as he
settled the older man into the wheelchair, but a gentle touch of his arm from Jimin managed to
convince him that it was better to accede to Yoongi’s decision. It was understandable that he didn’t
wish to have the thing attached in that moment.

As Taehyung pushed the wheelchair up the ramp pulled down from the side of the yacht, Yoongi
caught Jimin’s eye. The younger was hanging back, his instincts making him aware of the fact that
this was not his place to be. Yoongi’s mouth quirked into a little smile, and at first, it looked
defeated, especially with the half-hearted lift of his hand in a wave. But it wasn’t. It was the truest
form of relief Jimin had ever seen on his face, rid of that stony mask he had worn most of his
teenage and adult life. It was as if he were free, finally.

And then Taehyung wheeled him into one of the cabins and he vanished from view. The younger
returned after a minute or so, descending the ramp to approach them.

“Call me as soon as you’re back, okay?” Jimin murmured, hands brushing up his arms. His eyes
were kind but worried as he squeezed Taehyung’s shoulders and tried to give him some courage,
some way to remain strong on the lonely journey ahead. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Okay,” Taehyung nodded, and it was an almost childish gesture, as if he were afraid and alone,
leaving his support system for the first time. Jimin leant up to kiss him, lips pressed tightly together
for as long as it took Taehyung to respond. When they broke apart, it became an embrace, and
Jimin sank into it as he felt the familiarity of the large hand cupped to the back of his head.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too, nightingale.”

Ahmeti, some distance away, was pretending to inspect his nails (as he always did when these two
‘got it on’ as he put it). But when they stopped, he also smiled at Taehyung, brow furrowed in
sympathy as he gave him a pat on the back.

“You’ll be alright, kid. As Jimin said, give us a shout when you’re back. I’ll come down if you
need anything. I think we should be okay in terms of getting back to Seoul on time. The ideal thing
would be is that word gets out of his passing after we’re already up in the air.”

“Yeah, only Kai knows we’ve brought him down here. No one else,” Jimin said reassuringly.

Taehyung nodded and his lips stretched into a grimace-smile, before he turned and walked back up
the ramp with his hands in his pockets. He knew how to sail the yacht, and there was no need for a
third person to actually get it out to sea. Jimin and Ahmeti stood watching as the ramp rolled up
automatically and the roar of the engine coincided with the blast of a single hor, the great white
ship trembling against the water. The mooring released and the yacht began to cut through the
blue, coursing away from the other boats until it was free of them.

“Bet they’ll be wondering who’s sailing a boat today of all days,” Ahmeti muttered, hand lifted to
shield his eyes from the sunlight.

He had a point. The city was still partially on lockdown, with soldiers patrolling the streets as the
situation in Seoul remained precarious. There were threats of riots breaking out in Busan, but it was
nowhere near as bad as the capital had been. Eventually, Yong Geondal would come alive too, and
though the resulting race for the throne would not be as devastating as Geomjeong-pa, it was
nothing Jimin wanted to stick around and see.

On his way back up to the apartment, he wondered if he should ask Huening Kai whether he
needed a job elsewhere. Jimin saw himself in that pale, worn face and he hated to look at another
young man ruined by the life he had been inadvertently thrust into. Jungkook had plenty of non-
mafia connections in Seoul, and for a boy so clever, it surely wouldn’t be a stretch to find him a
place to work that was safer than the one he was on.

He made a mental note to discuss it with Taehyung later.

Once the yacht was safely set on autopilot, Taehyung returned to the main cabin, with the huge bed
and the arching windows looking directly onto the blue of the Eastern Sea. The whole room was an
open-plan, taking up an entire level on the yacht, the windows on the other side looking back
towards Busan as it drew farther and farther away. Yoongi was lying on the bed, talking in half-
whispers as Taehyung cleaned up the room a little and then poured out two glasses of whiskey, the
decanter sitting tall on the tray.

“Who wants to drink plain old water on their deathbed, huh?” Yoongi winked, attempting to make
Taehyung crack a smile as the younger sat on the bed beside him.

“Yeah,” Taehyung tried to laugh, but the sound came out hoarse and broken.

Yoongi’s head twisted around to look at him, a frown on his lips. “Don’t sulk. I raised you better
than that, kiddo.”

“I’m not sulking. I just – “ Taehyung pressed his lips together. His eyes were reddening, but he still
wouldn’t cry. “I hate this. You’re what? Twenty-seven? And I’m sitting here with you waiting for
you to die. This isn’t the way life is supposed to fucking go.”

“And how is it supposed to go, oh wise one?” Yoongi chuckled, lifting his glass to his lips and
taking a small sip. The smallest action seemed to drain him of even more energy, and he leant his
head back on the pillow with a quiet sigh.

“I don’t know. You’re just not supposed to die,” Taehyung muttered.

“Mother died. And she was what…twenty-seven too? It happens, Taehyung.”

“You’re not like her! You were never like her! You weren’t an inherited golden spoon – you
fought your way up from the bottom and this is not what your fate should have been! And it
wouldn’t have been if you’d – “ he stopped.
Yoongi simply gave a grunt, emptying his glass and handing it over to be filled again. “Think
about it this way. Life isn’t very long. You’ll see me again sooner or later, and when you do, you’ll
never be rid of my face because rumour has it, the shit that comes after this, is eternal. You’ll be
sick of me then, but guess what? You’ll be stuck, asshole.” He punched Taehyung in the shoulder,
though the other barely felt it.

Taehyung started to laugh properly now, eyes getting wetter as he flung an arm across to wipe
them on his sleeve. “Yeah. Whatever, asshole.”

The yacht sailed on for four hours, travelling almost 300km into the East Sea, though neither knew
nor cared. They spoke in low voices, reliving memories, of meeting each other, of silly days spent
in the streets of Busan pretending they weren’t who they were…and of Hoseok. When the
conversation lingered on him, it was as if sunlight seemed to fill the room up, making it more
spacious, illuminating every corner until not a shred of darkness was left. Hoseok was the symbol
of happiness that had been shared by both for the brief time they were together, all three of them.
His optimism, his youthful energy, and the way he could never, ever look on the darker parts of
their souls without claiming he was in fact the worst of both. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. But he
was always positive that Yoongi and Taehyung were better than they gave themselves credit for
and for two young boys who had grown up thinking they were the wretched dregs at the bottom of
a very deep barrel, Hoseok was the closest thing to divinity back then.

“Tell him I miss him and I’ll see him soon,” Taehyung whispered into Yoongi’s shoulder.

The elder was speaking less now, and Taehyung knew this was it, that it was getting close. “Tell
him that I tried to be good but I failed. But I’m trying again. He always said not to stop trying, and I
want him to know I didn’t.”

Yoongi made a weak sound, and his lips curled into a little smile, eyes unfocused as he gazed into
empty space. “Tell him…yourself.”

“What?” Taehyung lifted his head to blink at him, lashes heavy with tears.

“He’s…right there, kiddo,” Yoongi whispered back, and when Taehyung followed the direction of
his gaze, he saw nothing.

But he knew what was happening and though he’d coached himself for the last few hours, he
couldn’t help the way his face crumpled into child-like grief. With superhuman effort, he
swallowed down a sob, staring at Yoongi’s face through wavering vision.
“What’s he saying, hyung?” he choked out, his hand slipping into Yoongi’s. It was too weak to
grip his back.

“Wants – he wants – “ Yoongi trailed off, struggling to remain conscious. He didn’t speak for a
short while, breathing raggedly, eyes only half open. “He wants me to come dance with him. But I
hate dancing…”

Taehyung laughed through his tears, but it was a terrible sound, so ridden with emotion that it came
like a groan. “Dance with him, hyung.”

Yoongi took another breath and this time, there was a slight rattle. Taehyung pressed his lips
together to keep in a cry of pure misery as hot tears welled and splashed down his face, dripping
onto Yoongi’s hand.

“I’ll dance…” Yoongi managed to say, “I’ll dance with you…”

Taehyung sank onto the pillows beside him, cheek pressed to his hyung’s arm as their hands
remained entwined. And when Yoongi’s eyes filled with sunlight, he was already halfway
somewhere else, going somewhere Taehyung couldn’t follow. His chest rose one last time and then
sank in a quiet hiss of a sound, before ceasing to move.

Finally, Taehyung let the floodgates open and cried like a child. Great, heaving sobs that were
soundless, just as he had done when he’d clutched Hoseok’s unmoving body to his chest and
prayed that he would lift up his head and smile one last time. This moment was no easier because
of his preparation for it. The eventual moment of letting go hurt just the same, and for a good
while, he couldn’t sit up and look at Yoongi’s face without feeling the urge to curl up into a ball
and scream.

He lay there with him for another hour, allowing numbness to take over as the boat was gently
rocked by a breeze that had the waves lapping at its sides.

It took him an hour to sink into the state where his emotions were somewhat sealed off and he
could function without crumbling. Gently closing Yoongi’s eyes, he kissed his forehead and
started to remove the rings on his fingers. He’d said he didn’t want to be buried in them. As
Taehyung fixed the collar of his shirt, he felt something crinkle in the breast pocket and reached
inside to remove a note. It was folded into two halves and upon opening it, he recognised Hoseok’s
handwriting.
Somehow, it never gets easier trying to stop loving you. I’ve tried countless times. But I can’t. So I
hope you carry this note around knowing you’ve ruined my life with this love I can’t handle, Min
Yoongi.

I love you, you incorrigible bastard.

Forever yours.

Hoseok :)

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Taehyung began to cry again, laughing a little as his thumb stroked over the
smiley face Hoseok had tacked on. He could almost imagine the tiny dimples around his mouth as
he put on a passive-aggressive smile after finishing the note. Though he would have been
incredibly nervous leaving it for Yoongi to find, because it was the most open he could be without
completely breaking apart. Humour had always been Hoseok’s best defence mechanism.

Taehyung kissed the note and tucked it back into Yoongi’s pockets. It didn’t take long to shroud
him in the body bag Yoongi himself had chosen. He had thought it out to the very final detail,
including 38lb weights that he wanted chained to his ankles to sink his body as soon as it was given
to the water.

Once he was done, he went back outside to lower the stairs into the water, staying there a while,
gazing out on the great wide expanse of sea, without a strip of land in sight. Skin warmed and
golden in the light, he returned to the bedroom and carefully lifted Yoongi up off the bed, carrying
him out. The water was warm around his feet the lower he went, and the railing wide enough to
make the descent easy. Whether it was the numbness taking effect or not, Taehyung barely felt
Yoongi weigh anything, and neither did the weights attached to his feet. On the last step, as the top
of the shroud began to touch the water, Taehyung’s face scrunched up again, but he held back the
sobs long enough to kiss his hyung’s forehead through the cloth, over and over until his tears
soaked the white.

“Safe passage, hyung,” he whispered, and lowered Yoongi’s body into the azure of the sea.

It remained afloat only for as long as the weights leant on the steps. As soon as Taehyung let them
go, the white of the shroud began to dip underwater, and disappeared within minutes, despite the
clarity of the sea’s colour. Taehyung stayed seated on the last step, head bent down over his arms
as his shoulders shook.
The sun finally began to set, getting brighter as it neared the horizon, purples and pinks infiltrating
the highest reaches of the sky up above, casting the yacht into a dark shadow.

Taehyung’s crouched figure remained seated at the bottom, alone.

He remained true to his word and called Jimin the moment he got closer to shore, but he said he
wanted to spend the night alone on the yacht. His lover didn’t have the heart to argue, and stayed at
the apartment, though he wouldn’t relax until Ahmeti went down to check the anchors were safely
moored and Taehyung had had something to eat and drink.

Jimin was so used to Ahmeti’s presence and his tendency to disappear every now and then only to
reappear when he was needed, that he did not immediately call to ask if he was making his way
back up after visting Taehyung.

The two other Geomjeong-pa men had already gone down to check on the yacht when they saw it
reappear on the distant skyline, though neither had informed Jimin of the fact. Ahmeti found
Taehyung in about as wrecked a state as a grieving man could be, and left him to it, once he’d
ensured the refrigerator was stocked with food. Lighting up a cigarette on his way off the ramp, he
was in the process of sending it back up when something caught his eye. In a shadowy corner of
the beach down below, just under the pier, was some sort of an object lying comatose, and rather
large by the look of it. It only stood out due to there being nothing around it. A brief flash of lights
from a distant passing car lit it up.

Not it. Them.

Ahmeti recognised the dead bodies of the Geomjeong-pa guards, and his lips parted in a muttered
exclamation of “Ya Allah” as everything clicked into place in that final moment.
His lit cigarette toppled off the side of the pier, and he made the mistake of turning to run for the
ramp, rather than giving a shout to attract Taehyung’s attention. He didn’t make it even a couple of
steps.

The muffled zip of a bullet shot from a silencer attachment met its mark in the back of his head,
killing him instantly.

The last rays of the dying sun were caught in Adnan Ahmeti’s eyes, the expression of surprise still
reflected there as his body keeled over the side of the wood and fell onto the sand below.

A car door slammed shut, and a tall masked man stepped out, bulky in musculature and head held
high. He walked with the focus of someone who had made his peace with his life thus far and now
only had one goal in mind. The heavy thud of his footsteps crossed the ramp, and from inside the
yacht, Taehyung barely registered it, still slumped in an armchair in a daze of mindless sorrow.
When the stranger entered the room, he didn’t look up, half expecting it to be Ahmeti, but not
immediately becoming alert even when he realised the shadow was much larger.

When his eyes finally lifted, the man was removing his mask, and in the dim light, Taehyung’s
expression flickered with the surprise of recognition.

“Wonho,” he murmured. “Where the hell have you been?”

Wonho stared at him, eyes devoid of feeling. He looked like a man who had seen enough of the
world to know it would not get any better. And there was no trace of the harmonious indifference
he wore around him like a cloak when he was in Taehyung’s service. The only trace of emotion
that roused on his face the longer he stared at his former employer, was a hatred Taehyung was all
too used to seeing on the faces of others.

“What are you doing here?” Taehyung said eventually, making no move to go for his weapon or
the phone. Both were lying on the kitchen counter, and he was seated by the window, a good
fifteen feet away. Perhaps, if he had tried to lunge for them, he would have gotten there before
Wonho got a chance to do much. But in his current state, his mind was no longer working on a
logical path, and besides, Wonho was not an average member of a gang. The man was military-
trained, in a regiment that was the Korean equivalent of the Green Berets. If there were a handful
of people in the world Taehyung would be hard put winning against in hand to hand combat,
Wonho was one of them.

“I came to talk, boss.” It was the way he said boss, that told Taehyung everything he needed to
know. The dry, acerbic loathing piled into that one syllable – he was here for something Taehyung
had done, and could no longer remember. It was just a matter of when he chose to reveal it.

Wonho sank into the chair opposite, with a genial smile, and lifted the whiskey decanter to pour
himself a glass. “I’d go get some ice, but leaving you unguarded in moments such as this has
gotten more than one person killed,” he said pleasantly.

Taehyung smiled, lazily. “Well, you would know.” His eyes had been a vulnerable, tear-stricken
honey brown all day, but they began to harden now, as his knuckles tightened on the arms of the
chair. “Speak. You also know I don’t like long, distended speeches to explain to me what exactly
I’ve done wrong.”

“You talk as if you’re leaving this boat alive,” Wonho said quietly.

“Maybe I won’t. Maybe I will. My luck has always been charmed,” Taehyung scowled.

“Okay, I realise you hate clichés, but I did come here with a story to tell, so if you would be so kind
– ?” he trailed off, gesturing at Taehyung to give him the signal to continue.

Taehyung closed his eyes to resist the urge to roll them and then grunted, lifting two fingers for
him to go on.

“My name is Lee Hoseok, but you already know that, of course. I later found out why you
wouldn’t let me use the name. In fact, I found out pretty much everything there is to know about
you. Watching, waiting and gathering information has its perks, though I’ll admit it wasn’t for any
nefarious purpose beyond wanting to know who you were.”

“And did you find out?” Taehyung drawled, kicking up one leg over the other, before leaning back
with an exhausted sigh.

“I did,” Wonho nodded. “Sad little boy who grew up to become an aggressive man. But weren’t we
all sad little boys once who took it out through aggression at some point or other? I don’t begrudge
you that. But you know your own story, so why repeat it and take up your precious time. I’ll tell
you mine. You can let me know when you recognise bits of it. Yes?”

“If you fucking tell me, that you’re another one of my father’s sons, I swear to god – “ Taehyung
began to say, but was cut off by a chuckle from Wonho.
“No. I’m cursed, but not that cursed. Now shut the fuck up, and listen, for once in your life.” The
command was so placidly given, it managed to take effect. Wonho took another sip of his drink,
and then sat back, mirroring Taehyung’s complacency. “I was born to a single-parent family, as the
only son, so effectively I was the breadwinner. I guess you sort of know what that’s like, except I
didn’t have the luxury of grandparents and only had an ill mother and a sister to take care of. I
wasn’t free to wander the streets like a penny dreadful thug and beat the cash out of people – “

“Is this a tale disguised as a holier-than-thou sermon, cause if so – “

“I told you to shut up – “

“All I’m saying is, don’t bore me – “

To his credit, Taehyung didn’t flinch when the muzzled suppressor gun fired a bullet into the
armchair, just above his shoulder. His lips sealed, drawn taut into a line.

“I made the mistake of thinking joining the army and using my physical capabilities would
eventually give me the capacity to rise in the ranks and eventually start earning enough to send
back home as well as put into savings for when my sister got closer to college age. Life’s a load of
bollocks, isn’t it? You make plans, you watch them get shitted down the drain.” He chuckled
and patted his knee as his eyes turned towards the water twinkling under the lights of the city
outside. “I didn’t account for her plans being different. My mother’s medical bills were being paid
for, but her health worsened, until she finally gave in and passed. And then, my sister decided to
tell me she’d met someone and was content being a housewife rather than completing her
education. When I asked to meet him, she made all sorts of excuses but assured me that he was a
rich man, and that he would take care of her well. I was soon posted near the demarcation line so I
never got the chance to stick around and ensure this man was truly as harmless as she painted him
to be. I didn’t expect her to get married without inviting me, but in retrospect it made sense,
considering who the attendees at the wedding were. They were all mafia men, obviously, because
as you’ve probably figured out, he was one of them.”

“Oh yeah? What allegiance?” Taehyung cocked a brow.

“Yong Geondal,” Wonho smiled, and the expression managed to send a chill down even
Taehyung’s spine, who was seasoned in the art of facing man who were hollow on the inside.
Immediately, his mind began to rummage through his memory, for a story remotely similar to this,
and yet he kept drawing up short. “Anyway, they had a son. For a few years, they were happy,
though I refused to speak to her after I found out the truth about her husband. Another mistake I
made. That of pride. I should have tried harder to watch out for her, as soon enough, she and her
husband were caught in the crossfire of mafia business gone wrong. They had a son, little boy – “
he paused to hold out his hand at about a height of three feet with a small smile “ – and he
survived, though they were both killed. I returned from my outpost immediately and began to make
arrangements to adopt him as his legal guardian. But I was told that the paperwork would take a
while and that for the time being, he would be put in the system. I was allowed to scope out the
orphanage, and was reassured it was one of the city’s best, funded by the mayor himself. I was
fucking agitated that they wouldn’t just let me have him as his only surviving blood relative, but
bureaucracy, eh?”

Taehyung’s heart was starting to plummet, as he had a feeling this story was heading towards the
harm of this child, and if there was one thing he didn’t condone, it was hurting children. But he
also couldn’t make head or tail of why he was the one at fault.

“I won’t cut corners and try to build the suspense,” Wonho continued, voice colder. “The
orphanage was funded by the mayor because the mayor was a known paedophile. The entire
institution was a pick ‘n’ mix for him and his rich friends, and the orphanage director was very
well aware of the fact when she took my nephew in. The paperwork was being delayed on purpose,
as when I went to visit two weeks later, it still wasn’t done, and I was told that my nephew was
being considered for adoption. They even had me meet the couple, a lovely pair of rich freaks with
no children of their own. I said no, that I wanted to be his guardian, but I once again chose job over
family when my superiors called and said my time was up. I could either return to the outpost or be
demoted in rank. You see, my nephew never physically told me – and I guess this was because he
didn’t entirely trust me either, as here was a man claiming to be his uncle who he’d barely seen
growing up – but when I left him there the first time, he was abused by four different men, who
took him out of the orphanage each time. When he saw me again, I noticed he was quieter, but I put
it down to him being upset in his new surroundings and instead focused my energies on arguing
with every last bureaucratic asshole at the mayor’s office to get him out. But you know, kids who
are abused, they get this glassy look in their eye after the first time. I’ve seen plenty more since
then, even after they’d grown into adults. That hollowness in their eyes never leaves. That was
what he had and what I failed to see.”

Taehyung sucked air into his lungs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really fucking am. But however you think
this is tied into me, it isn’t. I’ve never dabbled in that disgusting shit, and I never would.”

“Wait for it,” Wonho warned, lifting a finger. “When I went back to see him the second time, he
was gone. They said the young couple had adopted him. I asked for their names and address but
was told that for security reasons, they couldn’t disclose the information. I hunted them down
anyway, and they had me thrown off the property, though not before I caught a glimpse of him
gazing at me through the window. It was the last time I ever saw him. He was nine years old. I got
the news whilst I was up north. He’d been playing by the lake at their estate and drowned when the
nanny wasn’t paying attention. It was a lie, of course. I found out later something went wrong with
one of the men he’d been sold to and medical help wasn’t called in time.”

Taehyung felt his fingers grow colder, and there was a steady feeling of nausea he couldn’t dispel,
threatening to consume him whole. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t
matter.

“And that was it. The only family I had left in this world, gone, because as usual, I failed to protect
them,” Wonho remarked. He sounded matter-of-fact, as if he’d gone over the story so many times
in his head, that talking about it out loud had it lose most of its terrible sting. “I wasn’t to find out
till much later that the couple who had adopted him had done it so that they could rent him out
easier, and make money off him from the men who were willing to pay. Let me tell you, I’d never
tortured anyone before, but I did a good job on them both. By the time I finished peeling the wife’s
skin off her body, she was still somehow alive, but barely. He was in tatters, hanging from the
chains on the ceiling, legs amputated. I had him gargle acid to finish him off. But it didn’t quell
that urge to right how terribly wrong it had all gone. So then, I started digging deeper. I wanted to
know what had caused my sister and her husband to die in the first place. Their old house was still
untouched, no one willing to buy it after knowing what had happened. A lot of their things were
still there, though most were of sentimental value, and nothing worth stealing. I went back on a
whim, going through my sister’s things, already knowing I wouldn’t walk out of that house without
shooting myself in the head. But I decided to visit my nephew’s room one last time. His little
drawings were still all over the walls, and he’d done them of happier times, with both his parents in
each one. And on the desk, there it was – his last birthday card for his mother. I opened it up and
something fell out.”

Wonho moved suddenly, reaching for his breast pocket as Taehyung tensed, his heartbeat
hammering on the edges of his skull. He pulled out something small, rectangular and white, and
then dropped it on the table between them. With slow, hesitant movements, Taehyung reached for
it, recognising the imprint of dried blood in the corners.

KIM TAEHYUNG it arrogantly announced right in the very centre, with smaller italics underneath
that read Best Laundromat in Busan, and an embossed phone number on the back. That number
was long out of use, but he cringed at the memory of those business cards he’d made. He’d thought
himself very clever for using laundromat as a way to cover the fact that it was money-laundering
he was really advertising. In fact, he didn’t even know why he’d made them expect in a whimsical
fit of wanting to seem important. Young and stupid.

And then it struck him.

Of all the people he’d handed the cards out to, or thrown at, he remembered one particular instance,
in a sunlit kitchen, where the laundry was hanging out to dry in the back garden and soil was
scattered over the tiles. He remembered ruffling a little boy’s hair as he gave him the card.

“Do you remember killing Cha Jiwoo and his wife, Sun-Ah?” Wonho said softly. “My nephew’s
name was Cha Sun-Woo. Six years old when you killed his parents. Six years old when he was
first raped. Nine, when he died. He tucked away your business card as if it were something
precious he’d been given, hardly even realising what it meant. I read the name on the card and my,
oh my, did I dig like a rabid dog for information on you. I hunted down men in Yong Geondal and
I shot them in the head once I was done, in and out, never stopping in one place. Until I finally
found out who you were and that you’d already left for Seoul by that point.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me as soon as you were hired to be my protection?” Taehyung murmured,
his voice too chalky to raise as he held the card in his palm. The embossed letters were beginning
to dance before his eyes.

“Because it felt too anticlimactic. And I still wasn’t sure you weren’t linked to sex trafficking rings
yourself. I wanted to be completely sure about you. To your credit, you weren’t, but it didn’t
change my desire to rip your head from your shoulders. I was nothing to you, just another guard,
and that worked in my favour. And with the way you were living, I saw you’d end up ruining
yourself sooner or later and dying a horrible death. Introducing you to heroin was sadism on my
part. Because if there’s one thing I learned about you Kim Taehyung, you’re not very good at
saying no when your urges are saying yes.”

Taehyung scoffed, the dark circles under his eyes seeming to deepen with the waning light. “So
you thought you’d turn me into a dope addict and watch me inject myself to an early grave? You
have patience I’ll give you that.”

“No. I had to leave,” Wonho pointed out. “I received more information about the ring of abusers
who had stolen kids from that orphanage. I decided to leave you in a hopefully worse state, and
return to Busan. You never questioned why because of the ravage of the addiction, and Jimin who
would have, was too distracted with keeping your new empire held together. It was really, a perfect
situation. But you know the story that followed in Busan, right? Classic revenge story. Hunted
them down, one by one, rammed knives and bullets into their guts, slaughtered them like sheep. I
had nothing to lose, so the ramifications for me were slight. I did get caught however, the night I
was planning to return to Seoul to finish you off. As I left the home of the last man on my list, I
was ambushed by a girl and her band of merry men. She later told me she was one of the few kids
who had survived the same sex ring Sun-Woo had been taken into, and before myself, I’d never
seen someone so hellbent on making the fuckers pay. I stole that kill from her apparently, so I made
a deal with her. If she helped me lure you here, I would turn over the jewellery worth millions I’d
stolen from every one of those bastard’s houses. Her name is Jung Wheein. Sound familiar?”

Thus far, Taehyung’s sense of self-preservation was low. But hearing the name and remembering
her face, he instantly thought of Jimin, no doubt up at the apartment with both her and Kai, alone.
He bolted from his chair and leapt towards the counter where his gun lay. Behind him, Wonho
picked up the table, the decanter and glasses shattering on the ground. He flung it at Taehyung’s
back and the younger male crumpled. Even so, he tried one last time to scramble for the gun which
had clattered to the floor, but was dragged back by a hand on the scruff of his neck. Wonho flung
him like a rag doll and he crashed into the wall opposite, groaning under his breath as pain
spiralled through his body.
“Are you worried about your little nightingale?” Wonho sneered, aiming the gun at him. “Don’t
worry. They’re not going to hurt him. He’s not the objective here. They weren’t even here to hurt
you. Min Yoongi didn’t call for you. In his sane mind, he never would have wanted you to come
here in the midst of the panic. But I was counting on your loyalty to him, and I was right. You see,
I’m fucking tired of this charade I have, of living day after day, pretending as if I have anything to
live for, when I don’t! Nothing except taking out the man who started it all. I don’t want to pretend
any longer, Taehyung. I want it to end. And for that to happen, I need to kill you first.”

“So what – you’re just going to kill me for something I inadvertently started?” Taehyung spat,
dragging himself to his feet.

“You killed them for nothing!” Wonho roared. “Cha Jiwoo’s brother didn’t kill your precious Jung
Hoseok! None of that circle you slaughtered before leaving for Seoul did! You were a stupid
fucking boy, with no regard for anyone but yourself and then you left, as if you hadn’t ruined an
innocent life! You’re as guilty as the men who raped Sun-Woo!”

Taehyung bit down onto his bottom lip, hand trembling at his sides as he closed his eyes and
breathed in slow. He was staring Death in the face and yet somehow, his body’s defence
mechanisms were still fooling him into thinking he could reason with a man who had been driven
mad by things far out of his control. Taehyung didn’t know how to reason with other madmen – it
was one of his few weaknesses.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out finally, the words quivering on the air like a bird’s wing, before he
reeled them back in and repeated it louder. “I’m so sorry.” His knees began to bend, sinking him
down onto the ground, before he keeled over in a full bow. It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing was
ever enough after the horrors he had just heard, but it was the only thing he had left. The only small
thing he could offer in the hopes that he would be able to walk out of here and take Jimin with him.

Wonho’s firing arm began to lower, and his expression faltered the longer he stared at the back of
Taehyung’s head. And then it sank down completely, gun hanging loose at his side. He dropped it,
and the sound made Taehyung flinch.

“Get up,” Wonho said.

The younger did so, exhausted to his very bones as he leant back against the wall. Wonho made a
vague gesture towards the exit, as if waving him away before he changed his mind. Taehyung
didn’t trust it in the slightest, but he had no other option except to dance to whatever tune Wonho
was playing. But he managed to get past him without any sudden movements. It was as his back
turned for a moment, reaching for the phone on the counter, that Wonho spoke to catch his
attention again.

“Taehyung.”

He turned.

Wonho took a single step to close the distance and his hand moved so quick, Taehyung didn’t even
see it. His entire body shuddered from head to toe as Wonho’s lips came close to his ear.

“This is how you could have let Sun-Ah walk out. You could have told her she could leave, and I
could have taken her and Sun-Woo far away from the world they were trapped in. But you didn’t.
You had no mercy.”

Taehyung inhaled sharply, lungs making a terrible, grating sound. Wonho took him under the
shoulders and dragged him back towards the wall, where he sat him down, slumped beside the
nightstand. The hilt of a knife stuck out from his chest, the bone of his ribcage shattered by the
blade. Something was punctured, his heart or his lung, he didn’t know, but it hurt to draw breath. It
hurt so fucking bad.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be dead in a short while. Try to crawl for help and you’ll be dead a lot
quicker,” Wonho said calmly, as he drew the curtains over the large windows and the surroundings
blacked out.

A minute later, the room exploded with the sound of a bang, and then a heavy thud.

Wonho was dead. Self-inflicted bullet wound straight to the cranium.

Taehyung whispered out Jimin’s name as the phone rang, fingers twitching weakly over the
wooden floor, before he slipped into welcome unconsciousness.
Though he knew Taehyung needed to be alone, Jimin couldn’t fall asleep without talking to him.
There was no harm in telling him goodnight over the phone, surely. His scent was still all over the
pillow beside him and as he failed to drift asleep, the more his longing increased. Finally, he
grabbed his phone and dialled, waiting for him to pick up.

He didn’t want to try again after the first call failed. A thousand anxieties crept into his mind about
disturbing him, but the sudden inexplicable urgency to see him overtook the rest and Jimin was out
of the bed within seconds. In his haste, he didn’t pause to think of calling Ahmeti or either of the
other guards first. His mind was fixated on only one aim and when the warmth of the spring night
air struck him, he sped up. The yacht was floating by the pier, he could see the ramp was still
down. Relief flooded his heart. That meant Ahmeti was inside with him.

Jimin never paused to look around as he crossed the pier. His peripheral vision was briefly blinded
by the passing a truck on the road, the flash of its lights dousing the sight of Ahmeti’s body lying
on the small stretch of sand underneath. Light footsteps took Jimin up the ramp and then he was
inside the yacht, heart bursting with hope that Taehyung wouldn’t be annoyed to see him. His first
planned sentence was to apologise and then go to him and hold him tight until he couldn’t find it in
himself to scold Jimin.

But his words died on his tongue when he walked into the bedroom and found it engulfed in near
darkness. None of the lights were on, not even the clock that usually sat on the nightstand. He
could see the bedsheets were in disarray and thought he caught Taehyung’s figure curled up there.
Rather than go to him immediately, Jimin headed for the window first, murmuring under his
breath, “Baby, it makes the room stuffier to draw the blackout curtains…”

He reached up and began to pull on the ropes to draw them back, a soft smile on his lips as he
gazed up to see the night sky open up above him. Jimin’s eyes always turned innocently large when
he looked up at the stars, and tonight, there wasn’t a single cloud to ruin his view.

“There’s so many stars tonight, Taehyungie,” he said, laughing in delight as he saw one shoot
across the sky in a neat arc. “Look – “

He spun around, and his voice died like the last notes of a flute.

Taehyung’s eyes were open, fixed on him, though he was struggling to keep them that way. The
pallor of his face was sickly pale, his golden hue gone. One hand slumped at his side and the other
was hanging loose over his waist, sweat glistening on his forehead. It took Jimin a moment to
notice the hilt of the knife but when he did, he sank to his knees, crawling to him as fear, such as he
had never felt, flooded his body.

“No,” he gasped, great, big, heaving gulps of air that turned into sobs as Taehyung keeled into his
arms. “No – nonononono – Taehyung, please – no – stay with me – don’t you dare – “

“Jimin-ie…” Taehyung whispered, hand squeezing around Jimin’s arm, head lolling back over the
other. He had never gripped him so weakly. It felt wrong to feel the size of his hand clutched there
with no power behind it. “Water…”

“Y-yes – water – “ Jimin repeated, as if he’d forgotten the use of language and words were coming
to him in bits and pieces. It was only once Taehyung moved that the blood became visible, soaking
the front of his shirt, creeping out onto the floor in, insidious scarlet. He let out a cry when he saw
Wonho lying dead on the other end of the room, but there was no time to think. Water, Taehyung
needed water.

He rushed back with it, falling to his knees again as he poured out a glass with a hand shaking so
hard, that most of the contents of the jug splashed down onto the ground.

“I-I’m sorry – I’m so sorry – “ Jimin cried, wiping the tears now blurring his vision as they raced
down his cheeks.

“S’okay baby, go slow,” Taehyung whispered, wincing as the very effort of words made his entire
chest rack with pain.

His lips parted when Jimin put the glass to his lips, one hand tucked behind his head to lift it.
Taehyung’s head sank back into his lap as with the same fingers that could barely function, Jimin
dialled the emergency services. He could barely talk as the operator on the other end asked what
service he needed. Somehow, he managed to convey that Taehyung had been stabbed and that they
were on the eastern wharf of Haeundae beach. The phone dropped from his hand as soon as he
heard they would send paramedics as soon as possible along with instructions to keep his wound
compressed.

He knew what that meant – they were already under pressure from the riots that were breaking out
in the city, in imitation of Seoul – it had been all over the TV screen back at the apartment. It
would take them a while. And in the remaining sanity left in his mind, he knew there was no
compressing the wound, and there was no taking the blade out to do so. The slightest shift made
Taehyung’s entire body seize up and his face contort in such agony it was painful just to look at
him. Either his lung or his heart were punctured, but not enough for immediate death. It was a
deliberate injury, meant to slow down his demise.

Jimin’s soul was screaming in utter agony but even past the noise in his head, he tried to talk, tried
to keep it together for him. “What happened? Taehyung, what happened?”

“I killed his sister – and they took her son away – p-put him in a sex trafficking ring – it was m-my
fault Jimin, I s-swear – b-but I didn’t kn-know – and then he – killed himself – I-I shouldn’t have –
k-killed him – J-Jimin – the little boy – h-he died b-because of – me – “ Every word came out with
great labour, and when he coughed a little, tears leaked out of his eyes and his fists clenched as he
tried to keep the pain at bay.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay – ssshh, don’t talk if it hurts – “ but it wasn’t okay, it wasn’t. Though
Jimin had no mental strength left to piece together what Taehyung had stuttered out, he knew one
of his past crimes had caught up to him and was now lying dead in the corner. For a moment, he
even forgot who Wonho was, as his thoughts filled with keep him calm. “I called the paramedics,
Taehyung, they’ll be here any minute now. You and me, we’re going to get off this ship and go
back to Seoul to see Chrollo, remember? Then we’re going to go all the way to Cornwall and
Taehyungie – “ Jimin paused to sob, pulling air into his lungs as fresh tears cascaded “ – baby,
we’re going to be so happy there, I promise. Just you and me, no one else. J-just stay strong for me,
okay? Th-they’ll be here any minute now and we’re g-gonna leave – “

In that moment, Jimin knew he would die, but trying to make Taehyung believe he wouldn’t, made
him believe it. Almost.

Taehyung was struggling to remain awake. He had dipped in and out of consciousness every few
minutes, until Jimin had showed up, and he was now feeling even drowsier, the pain fading fade.
Suddenly, his eyes focused and he was suddenly more lucid as he gazed up at Jimin’s face, a smile
growing.

“You…” he whispered.

“What is it, baby?” Jimin sniffed, arm clutched protectively under him, the other hand brushing his
curls off his forehead. It entwined with Taehyung’s and he lifted it to press to his cheek, eyes bright
with diamond tears.

“You…” Taehyung tried again, breath coming slower. “…are the most beautiful creature I’ve…
ever seen…nightingale. I must be the luckiest wretch to have ever been born…to have you…”
“Taehyung, don’t talk,” Jimin pleaded, “please don’t talk, you’ll hurt worse – “

He swallowed, shaking his head, as more tears slipped out of those brown eyes, sweet as honey.
“We’re going to be so happy, Jimin…you and me…we’re gonna dance among the stars…”

If he had tried to hold it in before, Jimin couldn’t keep the sheer anguish back anymore. He
hunched over, head pressed to Taehyung’s as he clutched him to his chest, feeling the waning
whispers of his breath. Taehyung’s fingers pressed into his arm one last time before his hand began
to slip back down. His pulse was still there but faint, barely there. Jimin’s knees were drenched in
blood, his hands, his shirt, everything.

“I love you, so, so much, Taehyung,” he whispered into his ear, the sobs wracking his body
violently. “You are loved, you’ll always be loved. Do you hear me? I love you. So, so much, baby
–“

Jimin prayed to anything that was up there that Taehyung’s soul left his body safe in the
knowledge that he had the most precious love of all. For a love given by choice would never be
like any other. It was stronger than Death, and he needed Taehyung to know he had it so he could
take it with him.

Please let him have heard it, please, please, please –

Let him die with love, please.

He felt the last breath Taehyung took ghost over his skin, the last time it ever would.

And then he was gone, eyelashes curled over the tops of his cheekbones, and a half-smile on his
bloodied lips.

The scream Jimin let out threatened to rip him in half.

Never had he felt pain like this before. It was beyond it, something more, something worse,
something with no name. A feeling so horrendous it drowned the world in a darkness that
disallowed the presence of light. The sound clawed from his lungs and stole what little oxygen he
had until he was paralysed for a few terrible seconds, unable to do anything but sit curled over his
lover’s body as it lay cradled in his arms.
It was how Kai found him.

Wonho had messaged him before he went aboard the yacht, and told him not to come down until
an hour later, and the same to Wheein. But it had only been forty-five minutes or so when he heard
Jimin walk past his room and go downstairs in a hurry. Kai called Wheein then, wherever she was
in the city, and told her that Jimin had gone down and that he would find them both.

She was in a bar a couple streets away, receiving payment for a drugs shipment she had helped
orchestrate the previous month. Kai wouldn’t go on the yacht without her, and only once she
appeared, hair flying behind her in the night air, silver case clutched in one hand, did he move up
towards the ramp. He kept his eyes averted from the three dead bodies below, knowing they would
be there.

Jimin didn’t look up when they entered. Kai’s eyes widened when he saw the state he was in, blind
and deaf to everything around him.

“Oh fuck,” Wheein muttered when she saw Wonho. “Fuck my life.”

Kai flinched upon noticing the man in the corner, and now, came the urge to throw up. If it hadn’t
been for Wheein shaking his shoulder, he would have sunk into a stupor, unable to do anything
useful. But as soon as she did, he snapped to and turned to her with wide eyes, awaiting instruction.

“We need to get them off the boat,” she said, “Kai, hurry – help me get Wonho off first – “

Before she could finish her sentence, Jimin suddenly moved. It was a lunging whip of his arm,
straight for the gun that was lying discarded a few feet away. Kai hurtled towards it without
thinking and snatched it up first. The look in Jimin’s bloodshot eyes made him recoil as they turned
up to his. They were hollow, pitch black and shimmering with tears – he didn’t seem human as he
held out his hand for the weapon.

“Give it to me,” he said hoarsely, his soft, melodious lilt of a voice deepened by the soreness of his
throat.

“No,” Kai blurted out.

“Please.” Jimin’s entire face melted with grief, as his body trembled with a shuddering sob. “It was
for me. Not for you.”

It took Kai a moment to realise what he was saying, and his face fell.

“No,” Wheein cut in sharply. She wasn’t addressing Jimin. She was looking at Kai. Perhaps she
saw in his face the desire to hand the gun over, and end that wretched suffering. “Kim is Jeon’s
brother. But he was in love with this one. Wonho said so, remember? We need to keep him as a
hostage so that he won’t come straight to Busan and hunt us down.” She walked in front of him,
blocking his view of Jimin. “Kai. We’re rebuilding the world afresh for the two of us, and for the
kids, remember? Just you and me. If Jeon comes to Busan to find us now, we have very little to
protect us. Once we’re stronger, we can give him Jimin and his brother’s body. One needs to stay
alive. Now come – “

Kai nodded, as if in a daze, and began to help her lift up Wonho’s body. He was far too heavy even
for the both of them to carry, so they ended up having to drag him out, as a trail of blood followed.
Kai struggled desperately not to let tears stab at his eyelids as he remembered what Wonho had
told him of the life he’d led thus far to avenge his sister and his nephew. As they lay him out near
the railing of the pier boardwalk, he briefly lay his hand on the man’s head, whispering, “May you
find the peace you lost in life, hyung.”

He ran back inside when he heard sirens in the distance, and found Jimin clutching Taehyung as
Wheein tried to pull him away.

“Help me with him!” Wheein called to Kai, and there was panic on her face, as well as a reluctance
to do what she was asking for help with. It was written all over her face. She was not a callous,
cold soul, not like the men they had grown up around. The sight of Jimin screaming and crying
was enough to break any heart and Wheein was no different. There was no time to even attempt to
comfort him – there was no time to comfort him at all.

“I can’t live like this anymore!” Jimin wailed, fists clenched into Taehyung’s shirt as he kept him
close to his chest. Wheein stumbled away, getting to her feet and backing off, appearing lost for
new ideas. Kai wasn’t moving, staring at Jimin. The man was beside himself, choking on his own
sobs, truly pitiful in his misery. “I-I can’t,” he hiccupped, smearing his hand over his eyes to wipe
the tears. “I’ve lost thirteen years to revenge – I’ve lived thirteen years pining for someone who’ll
never come back, someone who loved me more than I loved myself – please, don’t make me live
like this again – please – “ he sank his face into Taehyung’s hair, but the words were still
intelligible.

“Don’t make me live another second without him.”

Wheein’s hands were shaking at her sides, as she sniffed and turned away, heading for the door.
“Kai, do something – “ she said, and her voice broke. It was the first time he had heard it crack like
that. She never cried in front of him, and she wasn’t about to start now. It was why she made the
mistake of turning her back.

Kai approached Jimin slowly, careful not to make a sudden movement, and he crouched down.

“Please,” Jimin whispered, lifting his head.

He really was so beautiful, his hair tangled on his forehead, dampened with sweat and blood. In his
arms, Taehyung’s face had lost the hard edge that spoke to a life lived in difficulty. There was
innocence there now, all awareness of the pain he had ever suffered, gone in the blink of an eye.
Jimin wanted the same. Kai saw it in his eyes.

And he did the only thing a human being could.

He had never held a gun before, never fired it, but he had seen one handled plenty times. His hand
shook slightly, as he laid it on Jimin’s shoulder, whilst the other pushed the gun barrel against his
chest, right over his heart. He could feel the hammering of its beat. Kai leaned in until their
foreheads touched and Jimin’s breathing turned shallow.

“Thank you,” were the last words Park Jimin ever spoke.

Wheein didn’t flinch when she heard the gun go off. She knew what Kai would do, but didn’t want
to admit she had no desire to stop him, not in that moment.

In utter silence, she helped him lift Taehyung first and carry him out onto the pier. They took Jimin
out right after, laying them next to each other. Wheein didn’t say a word when Kai quietly tucked
Jimin’s hand into Taehyung’s.

“We can’t go back,” she said numbly. “He would never let us stay in this city, this country even.
Not now.”

Kai straightened, and for once, he was the one who was focused. Looking her in the eye, he
reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s leave,” he said simply.

“And go where?”

“Let’s get on this yacht and sail away. It’s loaded with money. All of the deals you made, all the
valuables Wonho stole from the houses of those rich bastards, they’re hidden away on the boat.
But I can’t live this life, noona. I’m sorry I realised it so late, but I can’t. I can’t kill another man, I
won’t do it. Even if we tell ourselves we’re doing this to save more kids from men like that, they’ll
always find new ways to do what they want. It shouldn’t be on us to sort out the ills of the world
and become monsters ourselves. We should be selfish, noona. Live good lives for the sake of all
the little ones who couldn’t – “ he took a deep breath as he was hard put trying not to cry “ – who
couldn’t make it out with us.”

Wheein said nothing, for what felt like the longest time. But as Kai finally started to cry, quiet,
shaking whimpers, her brow furrowed and she clenched her fists.

“Oh I hate how much sense you make sometimes. I really do.”

“We need to leave now, noona. We don’t have much time.” The sirens were indeed drawing closer,
and soon enough the police would be there, attempting to identifying the bodies and then word
would travel fast, if it hadn’t already.

Wheein nodded, and without sparing a glance up at the Marine City twinkling in the dark behind
them, they were back on the yacht. Kai had sailed it plenty of times whilst Yoongi was alive, but
never as far as they were planning now. He had a brief plan in his head – fuel stops in Taiwan, and
then the Philippines before onto Papa New Guinea and finding their final stop to be in Darwin,
Australia. His mother had once told him his father had relatives there – perhaps it was time he
sought them out. As he stood in the captain’s cabin, waiting for the engines to warm up, his eyes
strayed to the right.

Kai would never forget the sight as long as he lived.

Hand in hand, they lay, their heads tilted towards each other, as the stars lighting the sky shone
down bright. The noise of the city faded, until all that was left was the long stretch of pier, below it
the sea heaving, nature’s silence enveloping the scene in a moment of peace that was immortalised
in Kai’s memory till the day he died.

And then he steered the yacht around, turning it towards the future, as up above high, two threads
of starlight dove across the heavens.

“Love belongs to the broken ones, for there is no greater healer.”

~AD INFINITUM~

13.04.20

It is never easy for a writer to kill any of their characters.

They are cherished and nurtured from page one, and the writer holds them closer than what
appears in writing, as not everything gets to be written down. Their little quirks, their habits,
the preciousness of when they were children, their growing pains – everything.

But sometimes, it just fits.

There is a certainty that the story began with them and that with them it must end.

Thank you for staying with me till that end. My insecurities ate me alive whilst writing this,
and the voices in my head took over until they were all I could hear. But finally, it’s finished,
the longest, most ambitious work I’ve ever embarked upon. The one that convinced me
writing could be a vocation and not just a hobby.

Thank you for loving all the minor characters in this work, even the animals.

Thank you for loving Seokjin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook the way you did.

And most of all, thank you for loving the Butcher and his Nightingale, the ones who
convinced me to begin writing their story a year and a half ago.

~A~
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