Archive of Our Own ^beta

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❝ halcyon days pt i ❞

Portals.

The things that connect our world to another dimension, one filled with monsters. Creatures that are more gruesome than your worst nightmare. They have no regard for human life. Humanity is practically bugs compared to the likes of them, and they are willing to stamp them out without a second thought.

The people who fight these creatures are known as "Hunters". Hunters risk their life daily, and so they are treated well. They are cherished, respected, loved.

Case in point: Hunter Eden.

Named after the legendary garden in which Adam and Eve resided in the Bible, she was one of the most powerful S-Rankers ever known, despite being a Healer. She was incredibly strong in her own right, despite rarely ever relying on her healing abilities. Known to crack steel with a single punch, she was usually depicted with a triumphant fist in the air. Up until her untimely death, she was so popular that she had her own clothing line.

Even so, her civilian identity was a closely guarded secret. The reasoning behind this was to protect any people she might have cared for, as her title of “Incredibly Powerful S-Ranker” would have garnered her quite a few enemies. Truly, only a few people knew her real name.

And even fewer knew what she left behind after death.

When you’re little, you meet a boy. It’s nothing special. He’s nothing special, even with his eyes that shine like miniature moons. But to you? To you, he’s everything.

It starts like this;

It’s your first day of your new school. You, newly turned 13 years old, are inexplicably nervous. Which is so weird because? You're strong. You know you’re strong. This was supposed to be trained out of you. You have no right to be nervous. You’re supposed to be strong. But right now, you're still a kid and all you have is yourself, and the Charizard plushie you’ve lovingly named Jiho. But you can’t show your nerves. No weakness, no fear.

You take a deep breath. You can do this. Definitely. Totally. Absolutely. You’re the strongest here. You can protect them. You can protect everyone. You take a breath, followed by your first step into the school courtyard.

There’s. . .
. . .so many people.

There are going to be so many eyes on you, watching you. Staring. Looking for weakness. But you’re supposed to be strong, you can’t—

You can’t be weak. You can’t.

If, if you were weak, then. Then everything was for nothing and that—
That stings.

Okay, who are you kidding. You can’t do this.

Nope. I’m out. Not dealing with this, not today. Nope nope nope nope—

You turn on your heel and walk right back out.

But there is a throng of students gathered at the front, so many of them (1—3—8—12—so many, too many), and they are all tightly packed together like sardines. Milling around, a mix of skin and fabric and hair and. And. And. They’re blocking the exit.

They’re blocking the exit.

You feel your chest start to constrict. A band wrapped around your lungs, squeezing every breath out of you. There’s no way out (—the windows are too small, too compact to fit you; the classroom doors are filled with eyes; there is skin brushing against yours—), you feel like a live wire. Every sense heightened, a rush of adrenaline, a spark of something. Like when you break a rib, the sensation of bones splintering like old branches. Hard enamel rubbing viciously against the elastic of your rubber lungs, stretched tight like a cord over the bare spaces in between your clockwork heart. The band tightens with every inhale.

You suck in quick breaths.

You can’t breathe.

Oh, your air is gone, you can’t feel it your lungs are tightening tightening tightening—

The crowd jostles you along with it. Every touch of fabric against your skin is sending your nerves alight. Adrenaline. The drugged slowness of fear, terror. Cortisol. Tears well up in your eyes. Stop, you think. You’re supposed to be strong, why are you so weak? Stop, stop, stop, stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop, I can't, I can't, I can't. . . You claw at your head, desperate to get rid of the fog. You need it to go away. You need to breathe. Air. You need air. Go away, go away, go away, goawaypleasepleasepleaseplease—

Your breaths come fast and shallow. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts hurts hurts hurtshurtshurtshurtshurts. . .

A hand grabs your elbow.

You barely notice, too out of it. It tugs lightly—skin on skin on skin on skin on flesh on bone—and you are helpless to follow. Please don’t hurt me, you whimper, I’m sorry, please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .

Your eyes are blurring up, unshed tears clinging to your lashes. You can’t think through the haze of smeared thoughts like bugs on a windshield. Your head feels like it’s stuck in a blender at full speed, whirring whirring whirring. You can’t do anything, you. You can’t think. Fuck.

You can’t think.

You’re so stupid. If you can’t think your way out of a situation, then you’re in danger. And if you can’t think your way out of the danger, then you’re useless.

Danger, your mind screams. Danger. Danger. Danger.

You curl up into yourself. Making yourself a smaller target, so there’s less of you to hit. Stupid. You thought you would be over this by now. You should be over this by now. But clearly, you’re not. You’re so useless. So stupid. So weak.

Coward.

I’m sorry, you beg. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry—

“—ou okay? Hey? Can you hear me?” A voice disperses the wisps of smoke clouding your head and you jolt. You didn’t notice. You didn’t notice. Fuck. You didn’t notice. The blurry figure leaning over you seems to take your silence as a negative, and begins to speak slower. “Can you hear me? You don’t have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head.”

The voice is strangely soothing. You feel your body loll towards it, it cuts through the messiness in your head like a razor’s edge.

You blink away the droplets that cling to your lashes, partially obscuring your view. You need full visibility. You need to keep track of all your threats, all your assets. “I. . .” The figure solidifies into a boy kneeling in front of you. Messy dark hair and big grey eyes. They look like moons, you think, fascinated.

He reaches out to touch you and you flinch away instinctively. Please, don’t. A hand hovers in the space between you two. Hesitant. “Okay. That’s good. Okay.” The boy says quietly. He withdraws his hand and says nothing about the tear tracks that carve their way onto your cheeks.

You tug your knees up to your chest, arms encircling the width of your thighs. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

“. . .”

“. . .”

An awkward silence blooms between the two of you, wherein you tuck your face into your knees, trying to snuff out thoughts of the waking world and the boy plays with the fraying hems of his hoodie.

Then:

“Did you know, that Flareon is the only Fire-type Pokémon that can’t learn Solar Beam?”

The question is so random, so unexpected, you blink. Huh? You find him smiling nervously at you when you lift up your head to shoot the boy a confused look.

“Ah. . .sorry, I just didn’t know what else to say. . . Do you like Pokémon? I saw a Charizard on your backpack.”

“Mn. That’s Jiho.”

There’s another pause where the two of you scrutinize each other as tentative allies instead of two hostiles colliding, like a supermassive black hole. You won’t go so far as you say you trust him, but he proves himself to be. . .significantly less likely to stab you in the back, at the very least. You watch the boy with unabashed curiosity and he does the same, though he’s more subtle about it. A thought occurs to you.

“Why did you help me?”

“You looked scared.” He says, simply. “I didn’t want you to be.” And, really? That’s it? That’s all? You shake your head. How can someone be so simple? If you were back there, the others would have wrangled multiple favors out of you as payment. Even still, there would be the matter of punishment to consider. He wouldn’t like your weakness, and so your moment of hesitation would be rewarded with discipline. Of course, you couldn’t be punished if you were dead. . .

But there’s this boy, this stranger, who doesn’t know you. Yet he still helps you, looking for nothing in return. You stare at him blankly. He begins to sweat. You like at him like you’re mentally cataloging a list of all his sins.

“Sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for. . .”

“You apologize a lot for things that aren’t your fault.” You note blandly. The boy flinches.

“Sorry. . .” Then he seems to realise that he’s just proving your point and shuts up.

Watching him stare at the ground, you decide he would be a better ally than an enemy. There are people who would take advantage of his kind nature. Besides. You owe him a debt now. “My name is [l/n] [y/n].” You say. His eyes widen as he sees it for what it is. An olive branch, a peace offering. The idea that someone—and a complete stranger at that—could understand your motives so easily makes you nervous. You bury your face in Jiho’s plush fur.

“It’s nice. . .to meet you, [l/n].” He says, slowly. “My name. . .is Sung Jinwoo.”

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❝ halcyon days pt ii ❞

After that incident, you find yourself gravitating towards Sung Jinwoo more often than not and vice versa. It should feel strange, but it’s not. Probably because he saw you have a panic attack and helped you through it. Bonded by trauma and all that.

During class, the two of you sit next to each other. You don’t speak at all, but when the words on the page blend into one big chunk of soup swirling black onto white, you’ll find a piece of paper lying innocuously on your desk. He doesn’t give you the answers, though. He just writes an explanation in neat strokes and for that, you’re grateful. It would seem too much like pity otherwise.

You spend your lunch sitting together on the school rooftop, because you don’t have anywhere else to sit. Sung Jinwoo talks a lot. About his sister. About his eomma. About his appa. Your shoulders brush on occasion, but you don’t say a word. You just listen silently, humming occasionally to show you’re listening. You don’t mind the company.

As you don’t really have a lot of money to spend, you tend to go some days without food. You need to save up for your rent, and your secret cash stash just in case you need a quick escape. While you’re used to it, Sung Jinwoo seems to be incredibly averse to the idea of you not eating three square meals a day. You don’t have the heart to tell him you barely eat one. So when you find small offerings of homemade gimbap and bulgogi and rice with kimchi placed on your desk, you silently consume the food.

When the other children sneer at you for being disturbing and weird, he says nothing but stands quietly at your side. A silent supporter. It doesn’t change much, not really. You’re not sure it should change much. He’s weaker, so you should be the one protecting him. Not the other way around. But he’s there all the same. And that changes everything.

Your debts are piling up, you think. If he continues being so kind to you, you’ll never be rid of him. You’re so stupid. Accepting his help, yet unable to do anything to balance out the scales. He helped you once before, still continues to help you now. All you have to offer him are your talents, but you don’t think he would look kindly upon your offer of taking out his enemies for him. He wouldn’t want that.

Kindness, love, care. These are shackles of the worst kind.

All you can do for him in return is make sure he stays safe. The other students tend to avoid you like the plague, citing you’re too “emotionless” and “doll-like” that “it’s creepy”. With the added safety net of your presence, Sung Jinwoo soon becomes a deterrent for bullies seeking to make themselves feel bigger. The only downside is that the other students avoid him too, for fear of you sucking out their souls with your creepy demon eyes.

He doesn’t seem to mind you drifting after him aimlessly. He doesn’t seem to mind your silence, or your creepy demon stare. He smiles at you sometimes, though you don’t know why. Smiles denote happiness, according to studies But there’s nothing about you that would inspire happiness. So why. . .would he smile. . .at you?

The two of you are at that tentative space between friendship and who knows what. You don’t even know what friendship is. You’ve never had a real friend before. All you have is Jiho, and you’re not sure if that counts.

You were lonely even before you knew what loneliness was.

But you know it now. You know it viscerally, the same way you know how much force it takes to break a typical human femur (4000 newtons), how long you need to crush a windpipe to strangle someone into death (4 to 5 minutes), the quickest way to a man’s heart (through the fourth and fifth ribs).

You really don’t want to be lonely anymore.

But you deserve it.

“Hey! Sung Jinwoo!” Hwanbo Hangyeoul (age 14, 125 lbs, 163 cm, tends to favor his left side when fighting) swaggers up to your seat and slams his hands on the desk. Sung Jinwoo flinches. You do not.

“What do you want.” A flat tone. You find yourself surprised to find that Sung Jinwoo has enough brains to recognize a clear threat when he sees one. The way his body tenses, resigned, shows that this is a rather common occurrence.

“Nothing, nothing! I just wanted to hang out with my pal, can’t I do that? It’s a free country, you know.”

Your fingers flex when Hwanbo Hangyeoul wraps an arm around Sung Jinwoo’s shoulder, ruffling his hair. But you say nothing. This isn’t your battle, not yet. You’ll intervene if it’s necessary. When it’s necessary.

Sung Jinwoo sighs. “I’m serious. What do you want.”

The smile slides off of Hwanbo Hangyeoul’s face. “I want you to stay outta my business? You know, I nearly got suspended cause of you.” You do know this. You remember overhearing Han-seonsaengnim talking about it in the teacher’s lounge. That one of the students had been caught cheating. It hadn’t taken you too long to find out specifically which student. So yeah. You know this. Sung Jinwoo does not.

You didn’t know that he was the one to catch Hwanbo Hangyeoul in the act, though. You must be losing your touch.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. But you’re gonna pay for it, aren’t’cha?”

The arm around Sung Jinwoo’s neck tightens. Panic flashes on his face. You wait. 1. . .2. . .3. . . It takes 4 to 5 minutes for strangulation to be fatal. 9. . .10. . .11. . . There’s enough time. 16. . .17. . .18. . . This is not my battle, you tell yourself. This is not my battle. 21. . .22. . .23. . . I can’t fight for him. This is not my—

Soft wheezes escape from Sung Jinwoo’s mouth as he struggles to breathe, primal terror settling in. He claws desperately at Hwanbo Hangyeoul’s arm. He isn’t strong enough though. God, you think. [y/n] to the rescue, I guess? You place your hand on the bully’s arm. “Let go,” you order. There’s no one around to see you.

Hwanbo Hangyeoul sneers. “What’cha gonna do about it? Stay in your lane, bitch.”

Your nostrils flare briefly. Your nails dig in, tight enough to hurt—to draw blood—and you slowly, forcibly, pull his hand away. He’s only 125 lbs. Weak on his right side. You could take him, easy. Everyone is out for lunch. There are no witnesses, except for the cronies that follow Hwanbo Hangyeoul around like lost puppies, though not nearly as cute. He winces, eyes widening in faint fear as the pain sinks in. You’re not scared. He is. “I’m not going to tell you again. Let. Go.”

“Okay, okay, jeez! I let go, you happy?”

“Very,” is all you say before you whip around and slam your palm into his nose.

It’s quiet on the rooftop.

Sung Jinwoo stares at his hands. You suck on a lollipop, absently musing on the crunch! the delicate cartilage in Hwanbo Hangyeoul's nose had made as it shattered. You probably shouldn't have done that, you think. The uniform sleeves slip down your arm as you do so. They’re too loose. The nurse, Lee-seonsaengnim, had tutted with displeasure when you entered the office, citing a bloody nose as the reason for the blots of red staining your uniform. She’d handed you a change of clothes, a lollipop, and warned you to be more careful next time. Mm, strawberry. Sung Jinwoo stops staring at his hands and stares at you instead. Still, you say nothing.

“Hey. . .”

“. . .”

“Um. . .thank you for saving me. You must think me really weak, huh?”

You tilt your head to the side, to show you’re listening.

“Sorry. . .you should have chosen a better friend than me. . .”

And oh. Is that what you are? Is this what friendship is? . . .it’s not so bad, you think. You could get used to this. Okay. Okay. You two are friends now. Okay.

“I’ve never had a friend before,” you say casually. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Really, it’s not. The fact that you’re admitting your vulnerabilities in front of a tentative ally, without any proof that he will not use this information against you, makes your skin crawl. “So I don’t know what the protocol is but. . .aren’t friends supposed to help each other?”

Pop. Out comes the lollipop.

Sung Jinwoo is watching you with big, big eyes. “Well. . .yeah?”

“So I just did what any friend would, then? I helped you. It doesn’t matter if you’re weak right now. I’m strong enough for the both of us. But I won’t be forever.” You shrug, going back to your lollipop. And that’s all for today on [l/n] [y/n]’s words of wisdom!

“So. . .what do I do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” You frown, pointing your lollipop at him. “Just get stronger. Duh.”

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❝ halcyon days pt iii ❞

When you get home to your apartment later that night, you stiffen with your fingers still on the doorknob. There’s someone inside.

You don’t know how exactly you know, it’s practically instinct at this point. Situational awareness and all that. Movement out of the corner of your periphery, maybe? You’re not certain, so you straighten up, trying to seem as casual as possible when you open the door. Oh, yes, don’t mind me, I’m just a normal teenager.

You roll your shoulders, kneeling down to put your bag in the cubby under the table. At the same time, you slowly slide your hand up the side of the drawer, feeling for the knife you taped there earlier.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the figure warns. You draw back your hand, careful to keep the movements slow. Nonthreatening. Warning bells go off in your head. Danger. Danger. Danger.

You get up, taking measured steps towards the sofa the figure is reclining on. “What are you doing here?” Your fingers flex, once. Twice. You feel the steel pressed into your sleeve. Okay. This is fine. This is fine. Okay. Okay. Okay.

“Why, I’m hurt.” Adjust your grip carefully so the hilt fits nicely in the palm of your hand. The blade is light, easily held.

You move, swiftly. Aim for the jugular, or the carotid, which causes blood loss, equating to near-instantaneous death. 3 to 5 minutes to be fatal. He just flicks the knife out of your grip. It lands with a clatter onto the floor and he scoops it up, twirling it between his fingers. “Do you not want me here, [y/n]-ah?”

“Sorry, ahjussi-nim,” you mumble. It’s fine. It’s fine. “Just had to make sure.” You sink into the plush chair. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Ahjussi-nim shakes his head. “I just wanted to check in on [y/n]-ah. How are you? How are your accommodations? How’s school? Making friends?”

You pause. An interrogation. . .? But why not just say it outright? “Ahjussi-nim, are you asking for a report?”

“Ah. . .no. I am asking how [y/n]-ah has been. Not a report. Just casual conversation. Also, I brought chocolate!” He holds up a large packet of those expensive chocolates wrapped in gold foil that you see on TV. He tosses it over to you. 95000 won, the label reads. When he catches your stare, ahjussi-nim laughs. “Only the best for [y/n]-ah!”

Okay. . . you shrug. “I’ve been fine. The accommodations are fine. School is. . .fine.” You hesitate for a minuscule amount of time. Do you talk about Sung Jinwoo? Would that constitute as small talk? Of course, ahjussi-nim is very perceptive and catches your moment of weakness.

“Oh~? Something happened? [y/n]-ah doesn’t like the school? [y/n]-ah thinks the teachers are useless? Or maybe. . .[y/n]-ah has a crush~?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You roll your eyes and sniff the chocolate carefully. It doesn’t seem to be poisoned but. . .you never know.

“Ahjussi-nim, no. Why are you here, really?”

Ahjussi-nim sighs. “As expected, nothing gets past [y/n]-ah. So smart, ah. . .” He wipes away fake tears. Ahjussi-nim is so dramatic, honestly. . . Then he straightens up and it’s like a switch has been flipped. His eyes, which had been filled with warmth previously, become cool and inscrutable. “Now. I’m sure [y/n]-ah knows the deal?”

You nod.

“Good. But sadly, my schedule has filled up. I will no longer be able to check in on [y/n]-ah until two years have passed.” Silently, you wonder. Why does ahjussi-nim sound so strange? You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself. You know the basics of cooking simple foods like rice and kimchi. . .sort of. And even if it doesn’t end up too well, you can just buy instant foods from the convenience stores.

God bless convenience stores.

Seriously.

You know how to clean. You know how to heavily incapacitate and-slash-or kill a person 12 different ways with a pair of chopsticks. You’d’ve been fine on your own. Ahjussi-nim keeps talking, and you snap back to reality.

“This ahjussi begs for [y/n]-ah’s forgiveness. As penance, this ahjussi will give [y/n]-ah many, many chocolates. So many chocolates! And also an emergency contact to call in times of need. This contact will watch you and keep you safe.” Like a handler, then? You’ve had a few of those before. None of them had lasted too long though. . . “I have taken great pains in finding a great one. They must be a good Hunter. Strong, but kind. And good with children. So I have decided. Your emergency contact will be S-Rank Hunter Sung Ilhwan!”

You blanch. S-Rank Hunter? Isn’t that going a bit too far? Besides, if worst comes to worst you definitely won’t be able to beat an S-Rank Hunter in a fight. This little side project will not turn out in your favor. . .

Ahjussi-nim smiles widely at you. “Please take care, [y/n]-ah! He will come over sometime tomorrow for a quick check-in. And if Sung Ilhwan is not treating you right, you can tell me and I will set him straight.” Ahjussi-nim cracks his knuckles menacingly. You sigh, inwardly. Okay. Okay. Cool.

Ahjussi-nim stands up suddenly. “Well! I must be off. Please forgive this ahjussi, [y/n]-ah. And before I forget.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handful of letters. “The children say hello and send all their love!”

You regard ahjussi-nim cooly, though your brain is screaming at you to grab the letters and run back to your room. But you force yourself to stay seated until you hear the door click shut behind him. No weakness, no fear. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you. Keep your wits about you.

When you’re certain ahjussi-nim has left, you let out a huff. Okay. Okay.

You eagerly tear into the envelopes. Most of it contains the children back at the orphanage detailing things that happened in their lives. Messages like:

“[y/n]-sunbae, today I cot coght caught a fish. . .”
“Sunbae, I miss you! Cheok-ssi is so mean, did you know what. . .”
“Hi sunbae :) this is Sookyoung :) I ate hotteok for breakfast. . .”

Or something similar. As you immerse yourself in the stories of the children, you find yourself relaxing. They’re safe. They’re okay. Okay. Okay. You haven’t failed them, not yet.

By the time you’ve finished reading through the letters, it’s nearing midnight, but your work isn’t done yet. You crack your neck. Time to see what you can dig up on Sung Ilhwan.

Not so far away, Sung Ilhwan shivers violently as a feeling of dread comes over him. He sneezes. I’m doomed… he thinks mournfully. Aigoo…I just wanted some peace and quiet…

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❝ bloody knuckes&clockwork hearts pt i ❞

For the record, when Sung Ilhwan said he wanted a peaceful night, he did not mean this.

This being, a standoff in a dirty alleyway near the side of a convenience store between a few mobsters and what seems to be a teenager. Practically a baby!

The kid bares their teeth, a tangle of messy hair flopping into their eyes. “Don’t touch me.”

“Aw, are you scared?” Righty—the one on the right—coos.

The man in the middle—Ilhwan’s gonna call him Eyebrows cause those are some seriously bushy ones—laughs. “Come on, kid. Just give us all your money and we’ll let you go. Promise.”

“Yeah,” On the left, Lefty chuckles. “Promise. . .”

“You’re really stupid.” The kid snaps, and Ilhwan groans inwardly. God. Where are the self-preservation instincts of kids these days? He’s seen Hunters with more will to live than this kid in particular. They can’t be older than, what, twelve? Thirteen? Jeez. “I already told you, I have no money. I spent it all on noodles.”

That piques his interest. The kid is scrawny and clearly malnourished, but with lithe packed muscle, the kind that comes with years of serious training. They bounce lightly on the balls of their feet and from this angle, he can clearly see the way the child’s eyes flicker between the three men, the alleyway, and the ladders on the walls. Scouting for escape routes, Ilhwan’s brain helpfully reminds him. He’s seen this before, many times. On Hunters giving in to their ‘fight-or-flight’ instincts. On street kids with their steely-eyed calm, looking for their next target. The kid’s eyes flash once in his direction, cautious, before they turn away. It’s almost imperceptible but Ilhwan catches it. Of course he does. And the fact that the kid noticed him before anyone else despite him cloaking his Mana signature. . .

Hm. Interesting. . .

Eyebrows’ grin fades slightly. “Okay, kid. Be serious.” He reaches out to grab them by the arm, and the kid stops dead. Ilhwan isn’t sure if they’re breathing anymore, their face is tight with suppressed. . .something. “We don’t wanna hurt you, but we will if you don’t listen.”

Ilhwan sighs. Guess he’s gonna have to step in.

Kyunghye would never forgive him if he let a child get hurt.

“Hey,” he says, melting out of the shadows. The men startle.

“Wha—”

“How did—?”

“Let go of the kid,” he jerks his chin to the aforementioned kid, who is watching him with narrowed eyes. He can almost see the thoughts running wild. What is he doing? Why is he helping me? Believe me, kid, he thinks. If I knew, I wouldn’t be here. “‘Cause I don’t wanna hurt you, but I will if you don’t listen.” He mocks.

Eyebrows’ nostrils flare. “Listen here, you punk—!”

But what exactly he wants Ilhwan to listen to never makes itself known, as immediately after, Eyebrows collapses backward with a pained screech. Blood flows freely from a cut in his thigh, dragged diagonally downwards. “Wah—?!”

Ilhwan raises an eyebrow.

The kid darts to the side the minute Eyebrows releases his grip and lashes out. A quick kick to the back of his head and the man is out like a light. By the red splatters decorating the blade they brandish at the others, Ilhwan assumes that was what caused Eyebrows’ wound.

“I told you not to fucking touch me.” The kid hisses viciously, as Eyebrows slumps onto the alley floor. “It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.”

Lefty’s eyes dart between Ilhwan and the kid. Trying to figure out who’s the bigger threat. Most might say Ilhwan, but the kid has a knife, which tips the scales in favor of the kid. Righty, meanwhile, has no such qualms and rushes straight at Ilhwan with a bullheaded roar, throwing a hard swing with his right hand. Ilhwan just rolls his eyes and catches the punch lightly in his fist.

“W-what. . .?” Righty stutters. Ilhwan twists Righty’s arm, hard, and the mobster squeals with pain as he feels his bones snap. “Ah, ah, ahhhh!” His eyes roll back in his head as he crumples onto the floor.

Ilhwan stares silently at the man for a few seconds, before suddenly remembering. The kid. But when he turns to look, Lefty lies unconscious on the floor with blood pouring from numerous cuts on his body. The child meanwhile is panting slightly but still holding onto the knife.

“Hey, kid,” Ilhwan calls. The kid’s head snaps up. The expression in their eyes startles him. They look like a cornered animal. Wary, eyes darting between him and Righty on the ground. Looking for an escape. Predator and prey, “You okay?”

“Yeah. . .thanks for the assist, ahjussi.” The kid mumbles.

Ilhwan tilts his head to the side. He has no doubt that if worst came to worst, the kid could handle themselves. The three mobsters would probably have ended up worse for wear, though.

While he sports no injuries, the kid has only a split lip and a black eye, which is rather surprising. For someone that age to have sustained only a small wound against men twice their size. . . Impressive. The kid—and really, he should find out their name soon because he can’t keep calling them ‘the kid’ in his head—notices his gaze and stares up at him defiantly before squaring their shoulders and turning around to march out of the alleyway. “Okay, ahjussi. I’m leaving now. Thanks again.”

“Wait,” Ilhwan says. The kid tenses. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Ah, I can’t tell you.” The kid shakes their head regretfully, gnawing on their lip. There’s a nervousness to their actions that rouses Ilhwan’s curiosity. Could this kid be in some sort of danger? There are lots of organisations out there. . .especially the mafia, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume the kid had fallen in with the wrong lot.

“Why not?”

“Is ahjussi really stupid?” The kid sneers. Ilhwan is rather amazed by how well the kid keeps themselves composed. He can barely see the anxiety hidden in those eyes. If he wasn’t looking for it, he’s not sure he would have found it. “ Does ahjussi not know about stranger danger?”

A tick mark forms above Ilhwan’s forehead, and he takes a few quick breaths to calm himself. Jeez, this kid. . . “Tell me, or else this ahjussi’ll report you. As far as I can tell, a kid wandering alone at 11 o’clock at night isn’t very good. You almost got mugged. Besides, shouldn’t you be in an orphanage or something?”

The kid shoots him a look so venomous he swears he loses a few years of his life. “Ahjussi should learn to mind his own business. But fine. If ahjussi wants to be assumed as a pedo or something, I don’t care. I’m [l/n] [y/n]. Happy? Will ahjussi leave me alone now?

Ilhwan freezes, because [l/n] [y/n]? No. . .it could be a coincidence but he’s pretty sure he’s heard the name before. . . It could be a rather common name? Or maybe he remembered wrong?

He scowls.

His memory is near-perfect, there’s no way. He takes a closer look at the kid. Big eyes, average height. A glower plastered to their features. . .yup, it’s definitely the right one. He’s seen the pictures. He huffs a laugh. Of all the kids to meet tonight, it had to be this one.

“If ahjussi is done staring,” the kid—[l/n] [y/n]—snaps testily. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

His choice of words does not escape [l/n], whose eyebrows furrow. Clearly, they’re analysing the statement in their head. Damn. Sharp kid. “Ahjussi is coming with me. . .?” At Ilhwan’s answering nod, they pause. “Then that means. . .” [l/n] turns horror-struck eyes onto Ilhwan. Oh? So they know about the assignment, huh? “No.”

“Yup.” He grins, feral. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, kid.”

Chapter Text

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
❝ bloody knuckles&clockwork hearts pt ii ❞

When you wake up the next morning, you pray to whatever higher being is up there that yesterday was a fever dream. A hallucination. Literally anything to prevent it from being the truth. But no. When you step out of your bedroom, a tray of freshly made bulgogi chicken and rice coated with seaweed lies on the dining table. There’s a little note, too.

It reads:

Hey, kid,
Enjoy the meal. Don’t die or Chairman-ssi will castrate me.
I don’t want that.
Enjoy!
- that one Ahjussi <(>w<)b

You groan. Of course. The one time you would actively prefer the hallucinations and then this happens. God. Why are the hallucinations never there when you need them? And that ahjussi uses kaomojis too, like a weirdo.

. . .

But food is food. It probably isn’t poisoned, because you don’t think ahjussi-nim would take very kindly to that, so.

You take a cautious bite, and have to suppress a groan. After weeks of living on instant noodles and cheap gimbap, this bulgogi is like heaven. The flavor. . .so sublime! A gift from God, truly! Your eyes sparkle. Delicious.

Then you remember who made it and sober up. Stupid ahjussi, spoiling my meal even when he’s not here. . .

That ahjussi is an S-Rank Hunter. You got a small taste of his power before, and you remember how easily he had disarmed the idiot mobster. Even though the generic henchman lacked technique and precision, he was strong. And yet that ahjussi took him down easily. You will have to be really careful in the future.

You sigh. It’s a school day today. Fuck.

I’m too tired for this. . .

Sung Jinwoo is there waiting by the school gates. You feel your pace quicken when you notice him. “[l/n]!” He smiles, which quickly turns into a look of worry when he sees your face properly. “Oh, no. . .”

“What’s wrong?” You question, patting the skin on your face. “Is there blood on my face?”

“No?!” Sung Jinwoo looks horrified. “Why would there be blood on your face?”

You shrug. It was a valid question. People tend to panic when faced with situations they are unaware of how to solve. Blood tends to trigger panic, as do tears and vomit. With one out of three, the odds aren’t too bad. It was either one or the other, to be honest. Blood was the safest option, anyways.

“Your face! Your eye is bruised!” He sounds flustered, hands fluttering around as he turns your head every which way to get a better look at your black eye.

“Oh. I got mugged yesterday, so that’s probably why. . .”

“You got mugged!?” His voice rises higher for some reason, which usually denotes either fear, worry, or anger. You frown. What reason does he have to be scared when you’re here to protect him? Is he angry at you. . .?

“Yes?” You pause. Maybe it’s not common to be so calm about it? You’re not scared because you have your training but others don’t have that luxury. Perhaps you should pretend to be scared? But no. That wouldn’t work, since Sung Jinwoo would see right through you. Might as well go with the truth then. “It’s okay, there was this ahjussi. . .”

“That ahjussi. . . He saved you?”

“Kinda. . .” You hesitate. That’s pretty close to reality, it should be okay, right? Nevertheless, it seems to calm Sung Jinwoo down and he stops his frantic examination of your head. You stifle a wince. Good, because the sunlight is giving you a throbbing headache. Stupid mobster and his stupid meaty fists, you grumble inwardly.

“Okay. Do you want to go get an ice pack for your eye? It might hurt less.” As always, Sung Jinwoo proves his superiority to the rest of the peasants you call classmates by covering your eyes with his hands to block the light, thereby staving off the pain of a migraine. He then steers you towards the nurse’s office that way, and you. . .trust him enough to follow. Maybe. Maybe.

Lee-seonsaengnim grumbles but gives you the pack anyway, along with a cherry cola lollipop and a warning to stay out of trouble.

By the time lunch comes around, the ache has gone down marginally and you find yourself lying in a daze with your head resting on the wooden desk. Your feet kick against the wood of the chair.

Thud.

“Hey, [l/n],” Sung Jinwoo whispers.

Thud. Thud.

“Mm?”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Do you want to come over to my house today?”

You stare, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, brain working into overdrive.

You and Sung Jinwoo have only been friends for a few weeks. Nearly a month, actually, now that you think about it. You’re close enough that you share personal information but not close enough to be at the “meeting the family” stage. Which works out well enough for you because you have no family to speak of.

Unless the orphanage caretakers count? Or the whores you used to sneak out to talk to when you felt especially tired and lonely?

Besides, you’re still not sure of the etiquette regarding friendship. Is that a common thing, friends going to each other’s houses? You can’t really invite him home, since it’s in the less. . .savory part of Seoul. And there’s also your little. . .mobster infestation. But still, would it be okay for you to go to his house without letting him see yours in return? Equivalent exchange and all that. . .

Sung Jinwoo seems to take your silence as a negative and you see his head droop sadly. “But it’s okay if you can’t! It’s up to you, haha. . .” He attempts a smile. He just looks depressed. You feel the space between your lungs clench.

Gnawing on your lip, you turn your head towards him. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother. . .but if you’re sure? Then I don’t mind. It sounds nice.”

“R-really?” His eyes sparkle. Too bright, you think, burying your face into the sleeves of your uniform. Moon boy is too bright.

“Mm. Yeah. Wake me up when it’s over.” With those words, you turn over and fall asleep.

After school, Sung Jinwoo drags you over to a beautiful woman with long black hair who stands gracefully at the school gates. She looks like a magical dokkaebi or a park faerie. “Jinwoo-yah,” She says fondly, patting his head. “And who’s this?”

“Eomma, this is [l/n].”

Oh, you think. This is Sung Jinwoo’s eomeonim.

“Oh?” She turns to you and smiles. Her eyes soften when she notices the black eye and the split lip, a mix of worry and confusion warring on her lovely features. “So this is your special [l/n]-ah, Jinwoo-yah? Annyeonghaseyo. He talks about you all the time.” She adds in a stage whisper.

“Eomma. . .!” Sung Jinwoo wails.

You smile, a little awkwardly. “Really?”

“Yeah. . .you’re my first friend, you know?

“You’re my first friend too. I’d probably talk about you a lot, if I had anyone to listen, so I guess it balances out. . .”

Sung Jinwoo perks up. Park Kyunghye, on the other hand, frowns slightly as she dissects the meaning of your words.

“Annyeonghaseyo.” You bow your head. “I’m [l/n] [y/n]. It’s nice to meet you, Park Kyunghye-ssi.”

She smiles. Ahhh. . .such a sweet, polite child. No wonder Jinwoo is so taken with them. “Just call me Kyunghye.” She reaches out to pat your head. You see the movement in your periphery and smoothly duck out of the way, moving to place Sung Jinwoo in your blind spot so your full attention is on Kyunghye-ssi. She pauses and slowly retracts her hand. “Are you going home now, [y/n]-ah? Are your parents here to pick you up?”

“Oh, no.” You shake your head. Jiho bounces with the movement. He looks miffed, so you reach out a hand to steady him. “I just walk home, by myself.”

Her smile stiffens, just a bit, but you don’t notice.

“Hm. I see. And where do you live?”

You pause, for a moment. Pros, cons. Pros, cons. Pros: your friendship with Sung Jinwoo depends on her approval, so you should tread warily. Cons: she could do. . .something. You’re not sure what. Call child services, maybe? You doubt that ajhussi-nim would let them take you. But still. She’s Sung Jinwoo’s eomeonim.

Okay. That’s it then.

You rattle off your address, and Kyunghye-ssi’s smile turns frosty.

That. . .that’s an hour away by foot, Park Kyunghye thinks furiously. And in such a dangerous part of town too? Ilhwan told me he stopped a child from being mugged there, just yesterday! And [y/n]-ah is such a lovely child too. . .

These thoughts are unknown to both you and Sung Jinwoo, who is regaling you with stories about his appa’s cooking. Apparently, it transcends reality, it’s so good. It’s like it’s been made by a professional chef.

“Eomma,” Sung Jinwoo says, “Can [l/n] come over for dinner?”

“Of course,” Kyunghye-ssi smiles warmly. “Do you need to ask your parents for permission?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I live alone. It’s okay.” There is literally no easy way to tell her that you don’t have parents, so. . .this will have to do.

Kyunghye-ssi’s smile becomes downright frigid as she ushers you towards her car. Not that you notice, too busy fidgeting with Jiho. Sung Jinwoo does notice, however, and his eyebrows furrow. He’s not stupid. He knows you’re. . .kind of strange (major understatement, he’s seen the amount of knives you keep hidden in your bag). But you’re his best friend. It doesn’t matter if you’re strange or weird. You keep him safe from the bullies. So he’ll keep you safe from your monsters.

That’s what best friends do.