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<You can play this as you read.>
Ah, shit.
Sehun had no idea how long he’d been sitting on the floor. Seriously, his legs were starting to go numb, his back hurt from the awkward angle he’d slumped into, and his mind was so foggy it felt like he’d been living inside a static-filled screen.
He was pretty sure he’d been laughing like a damn madman a while ago, but somehow—somewhere in the middle of it all, he stopped. Now his throat hurt and his chest felt heavy, and for some reason, he couldn’t laugh anymore.
There, he stared at his hands—trembling, slick, and twitching every few seconds—as if they weren’t even his. There was nothing in his eyes, nothing except that sinking, gnawing awareness that he’d done something irreversible.
Sehun killed someone—not just anyone actually, either. Kang Sohee—Jeon Jeongguk’s wife, the perfect socialite with a diamond smile—was dead, lying on the carpet a few feet away.
He could still see the faint bruise marks on her neck, shaped exactly like his fingers. His arms still stung from where she had scratched him earlier as she fought back. A thin smear of red clung beneath his nails—red from Sohee’s blood when he tightened his grip around her throat, his fingers sinking into her skin.
The thought made Sehun’s stomach twist. He’d dragged Sohee out of the ballroom, down the corridor, into the elevator, and straight to his room—with no hesitation, no cleanup and no plan at that. It was as if his senses were clouded by just anger and impulse and whatever the hell had been brewing in his head since the night started.
Then the realization hit him. Once the commotion downstairs died down, people would start wondering where Sohee went. Someone would retrace her steps, check the cameras, maybe even ask the hotel staff.
Jeongguk would probably notice first—of course he would—and then the rest would follow. It wouldn’t take long for them to end up here, in this room that already reeked of death and floral perfume.
Sehun’s breathing then began to turn erratic. His thoughts scattered in every direction, too fast to make sense of, and each one led to the same dead end. There were cameras in the hall, in the elevators, probably even near the ballroom entrance. Some of the guests might’ve seen him dragging Sohee away.
Hell, Jeon Jungho had been standing nearby. If that man saw anything—if he even suspected—then Sehun was finished.
“F-Fuck,” Sehun muttered under his breath, running both hands through his hair before gripping the strands so tight he might as well pull them out of his scalp. “Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUCK!” He could feel his heartbeat all the way up to his temples. His palms were slick, his shirt clung to his back, and his throat felt dry enough to crack.
He wanted to move, to fix something, anything, but his body wouldn’t listen. The high he’d felt earlier—the thrill, the satisfaction of watching the life drain out of her—was gone now, replaced by a cold dread that sat heavy in his gut.
For a moment, Sehun wanted to laugh again, maybe scream, but all that came out was another sharp and uneven breath.
Then, he looked at her again, at what used to be Kang Sohee, and hated how fast the euphoria from finally—finally getting rid of her had faded. Now she was just a problem. A very troublesome problem.
Sehun needed to get rid of her—her body. He needed to clean up, maybe wipe down the floor, the doorknob, his clothes—everything. But fuck! He certainly couldn’t do it alone.
His mother would kill him if she ever found out about what he did. Literally, probably. There was no way Hwang Shin-hye could pull him out of this one.
He’d murdered the Jeon heir’s wife with his bare hands. There’d be no PR stunt, no legal loophole, no payoff big enough to bury that. Jeon Jungho would cut them off before the body even went cold, and Sohee’s father would make sure he stayed six feet under beside her.
“Shit,” Sehun hissed, reaching for his jacket, fumbling with the pockets until he found his phone. His hands shook so badly the device almost slipped through his fingers. His face was pale, lips trembling, skin damp with sweat that had started to cool uncomfortably against his collar.
He didn’t have much time—he could already imagine the footsteps, the knocks, the security calls.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Sehun scrolled through his contacts and pressed the call button.
<...>
“Pick up. Come on, pick up.”
Nothing.
He tried again, pressing the phone harder against his ear as if that would make any difference.
“God-fucking-dammit, Jang Minho, answer the fucking phone!” Sehun shouted, voice breaking somewhere between panic and rage. The ringing sound kept going, while his mind spun with a thousand worst-case scenarios.
They’ll kill him. Hell, that might not even be the worst. Either he’s locked up to rot, or they break him so badly he begs for death.
Sehun then got up and tried one more time, pacing now, breathing fast, eyes darting towards the door every few seconds.
.
.
.
Still, Jang Minho didn’t answer.
***
<You can play this as you read.>
Outside, behind the hotel, Minho came back to himself slowly, each breath feeling like a small, pissed-off victory against a skull that had been hammered mercilessly on repeat.
The first clear thing through the fog was the sight of Ahn Seunghoon, sprawled against the wall with his suit wrinkled and his mouth open. The bastard looked stupid enough that Minho would’ve laughed—or snapped a picture for blackmail later—if he hadn’t remembered why they were out here in the first place.
Kim Taehyung.
That name alone made Minho’s gut churn both in fury and disgust. Kim Taehyung should’ve been under his heel by now, but somehow, he wasn’t.
The realization sobered Minho fast.
“AGH, SHIT!” He groaned as he pushed himself off the ground, one hand bracing against the wall while the other cradled his throbbing head. Once his vision cleared enough, he scanned the hallway. Thankfully, (for Minho’s reputation) there was no one else around. no guards. no witnesses—it was just him and Seunghoon.
At first, it felt like a small mercy. But then the thought hit him again—Taehyung should’ve been here too. And he wasn’t. Which meant Minho had fucked up, badly.
Slowly, bits of memory started crawling back to him. He had that bastard cornered, just like before. He saw it, felt it—the same pathetic look in Taehyung’s eyes, the same tremor in his voice when he took the beating.
Minho had been making him pay, making sure Taehyung regretted ever showing his face to him again—until that woman barged in. Her and her line of goons dressed like bodyguards.
Then—suddenly, he was out cold.
Minho’s gaze then dropped to his thigh, where a small dart was still lodged. Right. One of those fuckers had shot him. He’d actually thought he was going to die, (who the fuck knows what kind of drug was in the damn thing) but apparently all he got was a sedative. Fantastic.
With a growl, Minho ripped the dart out and threw it hard against the floor, muttering another quiet curse under his breath. His leg burned and felt numb at the same time, but seriously, his pride hurt worse.
So, he turned to Seunghoon, still knocked out cold, and kicked him square in the ribs. It didn’t help, but it felt deserved.
“Useless idiot,” Minho hissed; his chest was heaving now, anger bubbling up from the same place he used to store all his self-righteous speeches.
But underneath it all, something else stirred—a thread of panic he refused to acknowledge.
Taehyung had gotten away, and Minho had no idea what kind of dirt the man had on him. Jeon Jeongguk was probably helping from the sidelines, pulling strings. And that woman—whoever she was—had the audacity to sedate him, the vice mayor.
Minho could practically hear the scandal already.
There, he dragged a hand down his face, smearing sweat and grit. For the first time in a long while, Minho had no idea what to do next. The thought made his stomach feel like it was being tied into tight knots. He was so mad he wanted to strangle someone—Taehyung, Jeongguk, maybe both—but right now, he couldn’t do a damn thing.
His hands are tied, and his options are shrinking by the second.
In a snap, all he could do was wait—wait for the damn universe to hand him his punishment.
But for what? As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jeongguk who started it—those fuckers thought it’d be funny to mess with him. Like hell Minho would just sit there and take a beating.
Dammit. None of this would’ve happened if Kim Taehyung had just stayed dead and Jeon Jeongguk had stayed in his lane.
“Fucking hell…” Minho was about to throw another tantrum when the sound hit him—sirens, distant but definitely drawing closer, slicing through the muffled hum of city traffic. Ambulances, maybe the police too. It was hard to tell, and honestly, he couldn’t care less.
However, the noise crawled through his skull, like another reminder that his world was about to cave in if dare be reckless one more time. How troublesome.
Minho then clenched his fists tightly and stared down the empty hallway. For a brief, stupid second, he thought about running. But where? And honestly, why would he?
Kim Taehyung? Jeon Jeongguk? Hah, fuck ‘em really, Minho thinks.
There, he swore, he’d never be the prey in this goddamn story.
***
<You can play this as you read.>
Sehun had no idea how he managed to leave that room without fainting on the way out. Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe his body was just running in pure panic. Either way, he was out now, and the sound of sirens wasn’t doing him any favors.
Police cars, ambulances, flashing lights—each one felt like an unwanted reminder that his life had just gone up in flames. He had no idea who called them, and honestly, he didn’t give a shit.
All Sehun could think about now was how fast he needed to disappear before anyone connected him to what was waiting upstairs.
Jang Minho wasn’t answering his calls. That never happened. The man might’ve been an asshole, but he was reliable when it came to damage control. Tonight though? Radio silence.
Sehun must’ve called him a dozen times—all went straight to voicemail. Fuck. He wanted to throw his phone into the nearest wall, maybe his whole body too, but then he remembered—his name, his card, his goddamn signature were all on the hotel’s booking form. The same hotel where Kang Sohee was currently lying dead, in his room, with his—Hwang Sehun’s fingerprints and everything else everywhere.
So yeah, a tantrum didn’t seem practical.
Instead, he slipped out through the chaos, blending in with the sea of hysterical guests. The old ladies were the worst—half of them crying into their partners’ shoulders, the other half yelling at the police as if their status could resurrect the dead.
Sehun kept his head down, jaw tight, eyes scanning the mess for any sign of Minho or even Seung-hoon, but there was nothing—just noise, panic, and the growing certainty that he was completely fucked beyond saving.
At some point, Sehun realized he was crying. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it wouldn’t be wise to draw attention anyway. But still, those damn pathetic tears burned his throat.
He bit down on his tongue to stop himself from making a sound. He was mad, scared, and somewhere in between, so far gone he could barely tell which was winning.
His world had shrunk in the span of a few hours, from penthouse luxury to hiding from cops in his own goddamn city. If people found out what he did—if the great families caught wind of it—it wouldn’t just be the end of him. They’d make damn sure it was slow.
He could already picture Sohee’s father hearing the news, Jeon Jungho’s face when he realized his stepson had strangled the Jeon heir’s wife.
Yeah, they’d kill him too. Maybe in the same way he killed her. Or maybe worse—oh, absolutely it would be worse. The thought alone made Sehun's stomach twist hard enough to make him stagger.
He needed help, desperately, and at this point, it didn’t matter who it came from. He would’ve signed his soul over to the devil if it meant getting out of this alive.
<...>
Sehun didn’t know where his feet were taking him, but he kept walking, avoiding every uniformed personnel, every familiar face, anyone who might look at him for too long.
Inside the event hall, things were getting louder—guests who had fainted earlier were waking up, screaming, some crying, others demanding attention like they all nearly died. Which, to be fair, might not have been an exaggeration.
Still, Sehun couldn’t care less. He had bigger problems.
He turned to a corner, and there it was—the back of the hotel. And for a brief second, he actually sighed in relief. Ahn Seung-hoon was sprawled on the ground, still unconscious with his back against the wall, and a few feet away stood Jang Minho.
The vice mayor's back was turned, phone pressed to his ear.
Oh, fucking finally.
Without thinking, Sehun bolted forward, nearly tripping over himself as he grabbed Minho’s arm. “J-Jang, you have to help—” He didn’t get to finish what he was about to say when Minho flinched, nearly dropping his phone, eyes wide, before they cut towards Sehun in irritation.
Sehun furrowed his eyebrows, confused, blinking up at Minho as if he was trying to read the alpha’s expression. But then something shifted.
Suddenly, Minho’s face drained of color, every trace of annoyance replaced by disbelief. He was listening — really listening — to whoever was on the other end of the call, the lines on his face tightening into a scowl. For a moment, it looked like he was staring straight through Sehun.
Huh?
“W-What the fuck did you just say?” Minho sputtered, voice cracking under the strain, his pulse hammering so hard it felt like it was echoing in his skull.
Whatever he had just heard froze him on the spot.
***
<You can play this as you read.>
A few blocks away from the chaos, the hotel room holding three distressed alphas had gone stale from all the waiting.
The TV was playing the same muted news loop, like a mocking reminder of how little the world cared about whatever crisis they were spiraling through.
Jun-yeol was out on the balcony now, scrolling through his phone like he was trying to look busy—or maybe trying a little too hard not to look like he was plotting something behind their backs. Jeongguk honestly wanted to snatch the damn thing out of his hands and throw it off the building.
He’d been burned before, after all. The old man had a habit of scheming, and Jeongguk had had enough of people playing puppet master with his life.
Then again, Jeongguk knew him too well. Jun-yeol might’ve had a lot of demons, but he wasn’t a liar. The man had practically raised him—cared for him, scolded him, taught him how to survive—and because of that, Jeongguk could read him down to every twitch of his jaw.
And as much as the Enigma wanted to deny it, Jun-yeol didn’t look like he was lying when he said he’d help. So Jeongguk decided to let go of his suspicions—for now.
He turned away, downing another glass of whiskey that burned all the way down his throat. Then, his gaze drifted to Soo-hyuk, who was hunched over the desk with his laptop, looking far too focused for comfort.
Under normal circumstances, Jeongguk wouldn’t care what the man was up to—duh, why would he? However, right now, with Taehyung gone and his whole life hanging by a thread, everything was his business.
There, Jeongguk sighed, trying to calm the pulse pounding behind his eyes before he pushed himself up and walked over the busy alpha. “What are you doing?” Jeongguk asked, voice calm but cold nonetheless.
Soo-hyuk didn’t bother looking up, his fingers kept moving over the keyboard, his expression unreadable.
Tch.
Annoyed, Jeongguk leaned in slightly, hovering behind Soo-hyuk just enough for him to catch what was on the screen. That’s when he saw it—the email window open, and a long list of recipients that looked suspiciously like the country’s biggest media outlets. Attached were three video files.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jeongguk grumbled, eyes narrowing as he gripped Soo-hyuk’s shoulder hard enough to make the alpha wince in response.
Without a word, Soo-hyuk clicked on one of the videos and hit play. The audio wasn’t great, but the faces were clear enough. Jeongguk recognized them instantly—Jang Minho, his father, Ahn Seung-hoon, and two other gray-haired bastards who probably owned half the major businesses in the city.
The video was from the fundraiser earlier, secretly recorded from what looked like a small camera. In the clip, Minho was grinning, looking smug and unbothered as he leaned in towards the table.
‘Oh, c’mon, the shipments are clean. The new batch came through the port last week. Seoul’s already covered; we’ll move into Busan next,’ Minho was saying, his tone casual, like he was discussing a stock investment.
‘And the police?’ One of the older men asked.
‘Paid. All of them,’ Minho replied, smirking. ‘As long as the mayor keeps his mouth shut and the courts keep getting their donations, no one’s touching us.’
Minho’s father—Councilman Jang—chuckled at that, swirling the wine in his glass.
‘That’s good. Still, don’t get too greedy, alright? Expansion means new enemies.’
‘Please,’ Minho snorted. ‘Those fuckers pay better.’
Laughter then followed from the men drunk on power. And it went on as they discussed more deals, more projects, budgets and future profits.
It was disgusting.
When the video ended, Soo-hyuk leaned back in his chair, finally looking up at Jeongguk. “You were saying?”
“Hah,” Jeongguk scoffed. He wasn’t shocked; after all, he had already dug up this filth months ago. But hearing it said so plainly—seeing those ugly, arrogant faces brag about their rot like it was some business milestone—still made his skin crawl.
“Why now?” Jeongguk asked finally, his voice sharper than he intended. Then he looked back at the frozen frame on the screen—Minho mid-laugh, a picture of corruption at ease—and tried to swallow down the frustration building inside him.
The thing is, Jeongguk had wanted to do this for so long—to bring those fuckers down on his own terms, for Taehyung’s sake, of course.
But he held himself back, knowing how much Taehyung wanted to end it himself—believing revenge would taste sweeter that way. And now, the line has been crossed. Someone else had done it before he could, and behind Taehyung’s back too.
Somehow, it all felt wrong.
For a moment there, Soo-hyuk remained silent, eyes fixed on the screen, the reflection of the paused video flashing faintly against his lenses, before he finally leaned back and blinked up at Jeongguk.
“Tae told me what he wanted to do if I ever managed to gather enough proof tonight,” Soo-hyuk said. “He already had the information. What he needed were the receipts—solid, irrefutable evidence. So, I went and got them for him.” He went on as he turned slightly in his chair, facing his laptop again.
“I hadn’t planned on doing this tonight. Honestly, I would’ve preferred he’d been here to decide for himself, but given how things turned out, waiting felt like a waste of time. Every hour we wait could make things worse for him. So while you’re busy finding Taehyung, I figured it’d be better to make sure the people who hurt him start losing the ground they’re standing on.”
Jeongguk then clenched his teeth at that, and simply stared Soo-hyuk down. Then, he let out a humorless laugh, sharp and short, like it had cut his throat on its way out. It wasn’t amusement that was in it—but disbelief, resentment, all wrapped in that familiar, poisonous thing he felt every time someone else claimed to understand Taehyung.
“Oh yeah?” Jeongguk drawled as he took a slow step forward, voice dripping with mock politeness that didn’t match the tension in his jaw. “Aren’t you being way too invested in something that has nothing to do with you?” he asked, arching an accusatory eyebrow at Soo-hyuk. “That’s Taehyung’s business—and mine. Why do you keep pushing yourself into things you shouldn’t be touching?”
Despite the venom in Jeongguk's tone, Soo-hyuk didn’t flinch. If anything, there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he had just heard a child trying too hard to sound like an adult.
At that thought, Soo-hyuk couldn't help but chuckle under his breath, briefly glancing up at Jeongguk before shifting his gaze back to the laptop screen, his fingers already moving across the keyboard to send another batch of emails.
<...>
“I know you don’t like me,” Soo-hyuk said eventually, his voice calm, almost too calm for Jeongguk’s liking. “And I know it’s probably for all the wrong reasons. But you don’t have to worry. I only see Taehyung as a friend—a brother at most.”
“Right. Because people go around risking their names, their jobs and leaking government-level scandals for their ‘friends,’ huh?” Jeongguk scoffed, his tone was sharp, clearly not caring whether he sounded immature or what. “Forgive me for being unconvinced.”
Still, Soo-hyuk didn’t bite back and simply sighed in response, pushing his chair slightly away from the desk, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.
“Fine. Maybe once,” Soo-hyuk said. “I thought about him differently. It’s hard not to, really. I’m sure you know—Taehyung, he’s tall, pretty, and I don't know… I guess, there’s just something about him that draws people in.” He paused, rubbing his thumb against his palm, like trying to clean off something that wouldn’t go away. “But that was before I learned what my father did. Before I realized that someone like me doesn’t get to look at him with anything except guilt.”
“Hah,” Jeongguk’s lips curved into a smirk, more amused than sympathetic. Oh, how noble of Soo-hyuk. How tragic, really.
The man looked like he was trying to carry some grand moral burden, as if guilt could ever compare to what Jeongguk felt for Taehyung. Twas laughable really.
Of course he understood what Soo-hyuk meant—about there being something about Taehyung that draws people in. He’d known that long before anyone else did.
Taehyung was just built that way—bright despite his demons, resilient, beautiful in a way that made people either want to ruin him or fall to their knees in front of him.
But Jeongguk was different. He wasn’t like them. He’d bled for Taehyung, lived through him, and somewhere along the way decided he was the only one capable of handling all of Taehyung—his grace, his temper, his madness.
Soo-hyuk’s so-called devotion? It was flimsy at best. The moment things got ugly, he’d chosen guilt over Taehyung. Pathetic. Jeongguk didn’t need to say it out loud; the thought alone was enough to make his smirk widen.
Guilt, shame, regret—what a useless collection of feelings. Jeongguk had tossed those out a long time ago. He moved with one purpose, lived for it, let it shape him into something Taehyung could never quite escape from.
Obsession wasn’t even the right word anymore—no, it ran deeper than that.
Jeongguk wanted Taehyung in every sense—breath, thought, pulse—until there was nothing left untouched, unclaimed by him. Whether Taehyung hated him for it or not barely mattered. What mattered was having him. Entirely. Unforgivably. Without return. Yes, scars and all.
But then, when Soo-hyuk met Jeongguk's eyes, there was something steady there—unshaken, and annoyingly resolute—and somehow, that tiny spark of sincerity made Jeongguk’s confidence dip for half a second. The bastard actually meant it. He really intended to help Taehyung this time.
That realization brought out something petty in the Enigma. Soo-hyuk had already gone behind Taehyung’s back and dumped the evidence of Jang Minho’s filth into the media’s lap.
Now, if headlines were going to start rolling, Jeongguk wasn’t about to let anyone else take the credit.
As if he’d ever let anyone else play the hero in Taehyung's revenge story. He’s got to have a hand in this.
So, with a quiet sigh, Jeongguk slipped his phone from his jacket, pulled up Soo-hyuk’s email, and began attaching files—folders full of everything he’d dug up over the past year.
Bank transfers, hidden accounts, recorded bribes, the whole rotten ecosystem propping up Jang Minho and Ahn Seung-hoon. He’d had all of it long before this mess escalated, but he’d kept it to himself, waiting for Taehyung to ask for his help—to need him. The thought alone used to thrill him.
But Taehyung isn’t here now. And Soo-hyuk had already acted on his own, so Jeongguk figured he might as well hand in his contribution.
<...>
The sharp ping from the computer then broke the silence. Soo-hyuk turned to the screen, his eyes widening as the files started flooding in.
“You…” Soo-hyuk sputtered, his voice coming out a bit incredulous. “You had all this? And you didn’t tell him?”
“Had he asked me for it? No—he didn’t. And unlike you, I knew how to wait for my cue before making a move. Then again, as you said—he’s not here…” Jeongguk said, rolling his eyes at Soo-hyuk. “So just add those since you’re already at it,” He went on, as if they were just going over grocery receipts and turned around, pouring himself another shot of whiskey. “.. as if I’d let you hog all the credit.”
Ah, Jeongguk really couldn’t wait to see Taehyung again—to have him look at him the way he used to, with that mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration, like Jeongguk had done something no one else could.
He wanted to hear it—those quiet words of praise Taehyung rarely gave, the ones that always got under his skin and stayed there for days.
God, he missed that. The approval, the warmth, the way Taehyung’s voice dipped when he said his name, like Jeongguk was the only one who’d ever mattered. It was pathetic, maybe, but he didn’t care. Taehyung made him crave it—and he would always come back for more without shame.
“You’re unbelievable,” Soo-hyuk grumbled, slightly shaking his head with a scowl on his face as he turned and got to work again.
<...>
Jun-yeol had been pacing the balcony for the past ten minutes, phone in hand, eyes flicking to the screen every time it lit up.
Jeon Jungho was calling him again. Of course. The man’s persistence was impressive, if you ignored how infuriating it was. The calls came in one after another, his phone buzzing on repeat, but Jun-yeol rejected each one without hesitation. He couldn’t face Jungho right now—not after everything he’d done.
The thing is, Jun-yeol had slipped out of the Jeon residence as soon as Jungho left for work this morning, heart hammering, already knowing where he was going.
He didn’t even bother coming up with a real excuse for the staff; he just said he had errands to run and left. By the time he reached Areum’s place, he was already rehearsing what to say—how to reason with a woman who’d long stopped listening to reason.
He’d told her to stop—begged, even. Told her that whatever revenge she was planning, whatever elaborate punishment she thought Jeongguk and Taehyung deserved, it had gone too far. That the sins of the past belonged to him, her and Jungho, not to the children who’d spent their entire lives paying for them.
Areum hadn’t taken it well. If anything, she laughed, called Jun-yeol pathetic, and accused him of getting weak and soft. When that didn’t shut him up, she threw him out—literally threw him out, door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle his teeth.
She told him she didn’t need him anymore, that he’d outlived his usefulness, and that if she ever saw his face again, she’d make sure it’d be the last time anyone did.
Classic Areum—once she’d set her mind on something, she’d chase it until there was nothing left to destroy.
Jun-yeol left her place heartbroken, guilty, and so afraid he couldn’t even sit still. He had no plan—because seriously, what plan could possibly stop Song Areum? The woman was cunning, ruthless, and the years she’d spent burning in fury and regret had only made her even more cruel.
Still, Jun-yeol’s conscience refused to let him rest. He had a feeling—an awful, creeping instinct—that tonight was the night she’d finally make a move.
So, when Jungho came home and told him to prepare for the fundraiser, Jun-yeol feigned a headache and said he’d rather stay behind. Thankfully, Jungho had bought it—and as soon as the man left, Jun-yeol grabbed his coat and followed.
He parked near the back of the hotel, unsure what exactly he was waiting for, but somehow still sure that he shouldn’t go home.
Jun-yeol sat there for hours, watching people in expensive suits and dresses stroll in and out of the event hall, all smiles and champagne and shallow laughter.
Then he saw Taehyung. The man looked furious, storming out of the hotel with Jang Minho and Ahn Seung-hoon following him closely behind. There, Jun-yeol’s stomach dropped. He knew about Taehyung's ugly history with the vice mayor after all. So, he got out of his car and followed, careful to keep his distance.
When he found them behind the hotel, Taehyung was already on his knees, Minho’s fists coming down again and again while Seung-hoon tried to stop him.
Jun-yeol didn’t think then; he just moved, ready to step in, but before he could reach the trouble, Areum appeared with her men. Within seconds, Minho and Seung-hoon were out cold, their smug expressions gone—and Taehyung was unconscious, limp in one of the guards’ arms.
Jun-yeol froze. He knew better than to intervene when she had a dozen armed men at her back. So he did the only thing he could—he pulled out his phone and tried to call Jeongguk.
However, Jeongguk didn't answer. That’s when the panic hit Jun-yeol in full force, his chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe. He fell to his knees behind a dumpster, gasping for air, feeling the guilt claw at him like it wanted to rip through his ribs.
Then came the noise—the chaos spilling from the event hall. Shouts, glass shattering, the sound of a crowd realizing something had gone terribly wrong. And before Jun-yeol could even process what was happening, Jeongguk came running to the back entrance, and quickly found the then unresponsive Jang Minho.
The look in the man’s eyes made Jun-yeol’s blood run cold. He’d seen Jeongguk angry before, but this was different. He looked unrecognizable—furious, wild, ready to kill.
For a second, Jun-yeol actually forgot how to breathe, his body refusing to move, seeing then that the boy he’d helped raise was suddenly a stranger.
Thankfully, after a few seconds, his instincts honed from years of serving dominant alphas kicked in, and he rushed forward, catching Jeongguk’s wrist just before he could snap Minho’s neck.
It was a mess, but somehow, despite the strange scent that overwhelmed him the moment he stepped closer to the Enigma, Jun-yeol managed to drag Jeongguk back and pull him away from a decision that would’ve caused them more trouble.
After that, Jun-yeol passed out.
Next thing he knew, they were with Taehyung’s friend, Lee Soo-hyuk.
And hours later, the three of them were still confined here in this room that smelled of cigarettes, whiskey and tension.
Jun-yeol’s phone then buzzed again, vibrating against his palm. Jeon Jungho. Jeon Jungho. Jeon Jungo. He hit reject. Then he did it again—and again.
He couldn’t answer. Not yet. Or perhaps, not ever.
<...>
Tired of watching Jun-yeol pace around like a lost duck, Jeongguk got up and walked to the balcony, sighing in annoyance at the view of the city stretching wide and sleepless down below.
The older man was still restless, head bowed, phone clutched tight in his hand like he couldn’t decide whether to throw it off or answer the damn thing.
There, Jeongguk leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed lazily to the side, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. “You keep getting calls,” Jeongguk said, cocking his head to the side. “Aren’t ya’ gonna answer?”
“H-huh?” Jun-yeol startled slightly at that, like he hadn’t realized Jeongguk was there until the latter announced his presence. He turned, eyes flicking towards his phone again before dropping his gaze to the floor. “It’s, uh…” Jun-yeol swallowed hard, still unable to look at Jeongguk. “It’s your father.”
Jeongguk raised an eyebrow then, feeling that odd amusement cutting through the faint disgust curling in his chest. “Oh, yeah? Then why won’t you pick up? You know the man can’t function without his favorite whore.”
Jun-yeol couldn’t help but flinch. “Young master…” he mumbled, shoulders tightening like the word had cut through skin. He looked small, ashamed—like he wanted to disappear right there on the spot. His fingers trembled around the phone before he set it down on the balcony ledge, still avoiding Jeongguk’s eyes entirely.
For a second, Jeongguk almost felt bad. Then again, he’d run out of people he could take his frustration and anger out on without consequence, and Jun-yeol just happened to be here, breathing, looking pathetic and so easy to bully. He was about to open his mouth, ready to twist the knife a little deeper—but then… he heard another buzzing sound.
This time, it wasn't from Jun-yeol’s phone, but Jeongguk's.
With his eyebrows furrowed, Jeongguk then slipped a hand into his jacket and checked the screen, finding a new message from Woo-shik.
Earlier, Jun-yeol had given them a list of Areum’s properties across the city, hoping they’d get lucky, and Jeongguk had quickly sent Woo-shik to check them one by one.
Of course, the idiot complained as usual—as if he didn’t get paid enough to do exactly that. But after Jeongguk had dangled an amount with more zeros than Woo-shik could count, the whining stopped. Money, after all, had always worked better than any command.
Now, after nearly three hours, Woo-shik had finally replied, informing Jeongguk that one of his mothe—Areum’s properties, an old clinic building on the outskirts of Seoul, looked more lively than the rest—cars parked out front, with armed men on guard.
Jeongguk’s jaw tightened as he read the message, feeling a slow burn of satisfaction rising under his skin. There, the corners of his mouth twitched up into sneer. Without a word, he handed his phone to Jun-yeol.
Jun-yeol’s already pale complexion then turned more ashen as the message sank in. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard, took a deep breath and finally met Jeongguk’s stern gaze. “They’re probably there,” he said.
Jeongguk didn’t respond this time and just kept his gaze fixed on the city below, his mind already moving faster than his pulse.
“W-wait…” Jun-yeol stuttered as he started pacing once more. “We can’t just go there, Young master. She’ll be well guarded—she always is. If we go in blind, we’ll probably just get ourselves killed. Maybe we should—call the police? I mean—no, wait—what if she has connections? Someone could tip her off, and then she’ll be gone before we even get close—”
The old man was rambling now, words spilling out in anxious bursts, looking like he was about to chew his own nails off.
Jeongguk let him talk and panic. Then, when the noise became irritating, he finally decided to cut in. “We’re leaving.”
“W-where to?” Jun-yeol asked as he stopped pacing.
“Well, where else?” Jeongguk straightened, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “To get back-up, of course.”
“Huh?” Soo-hyuk questioned, now hovering behind Jeongguk. His expression was drawn tight, showing impatience and worry both. “Back-up? From who? The police?”
“No. From the devil himself,” Jeongguk muttered as he turned towards Soo-hyuk this time, looking somewhat bored, which the other two alpha's found odd considering the mess they have to deal with. “Jeon Jungho.”
***
<You can play this as you read.>
Here’s the thing, Taehyung had been through his share of bizarre situations, but somehow this—this took the prize.
Less than an hour after he’d stirred trouble earlier, Areum and his men had walked in his cell again , pulled him up and dragged him into another room that looked like something out of a low-budget sci-fi movie trying too hard to be unsettling.
Everything was too clean here, too bright and too sanitized, to the point it looped back around to being disgusting. Every surface gleamed like it was trying to convince him how sterile it was, which, honestly, made him feel worse.
It smelled of antiseptic and old rot disguised under bleach, and the longer Taehyung stared at the ceiling, the more his stomach churned. He’d been cuffed to a bed that looked sturdy enough to belong in a private hospital, but somehow still managed to feel cheap under his skin.
Across from him, Song Areum moved with clinical efficiency, latex gloves snapping as she adjusted the tray of tools beside her.
She’d already taken more samples from him than any normal person should have—blood, swabs, nail clippings—and now she was disinfecting his arm again, humming faintly to herself like a bored technician on autopilot.
Taehyung watched her through half-lidded eyes, trying to ignore the line of armed men standing by the side of the bed he was in. They weren’t subtle about the way their hands rested near their guns, all ready to prove how loyal they were if he so much as twitched wrong.
So, yeah—Taehyung wasn’t giving up. He was just waiting. He knew when to pull back and when to strike, and right now, the odds were stacked too neatly against him.
He’d let the crazy woman do what she wanted for now, watch, learn, wait for her to at least put her guard down at least a bit. Besides, pain didn’t scare him. It never had. As long as she stayed away from his stomach, Taehyung could handle whatever lunacy she planned to pull.
Still, her earlier words lingered, looping through his head until Taehyung couldn’t pretend they didn’t bother him anymore.
My grandson, she’d said, with her tone sounding sweet enough to curdle blood. Taehyung laughed at first, assuming it was another empty jab meant to throw him off, but the more he thought about it, the less sense it made.
Why?
“Hey,” Taehyung said finally, voice low and steady as he eyed Areum lifting a circular tool that definitely looked sharp enough to slice skin. She didn’t respond with words, but she glanced up at him through her lashes before focusing back on her work.
It was infuriating, but still Taehyung played it off as if he wasn't fazed at all. He could see the faint smile under the woman’s mask, which honestly made him want to rip it off and shove it down her throat. Too bad for him, his hands were tied. Besides, he still needed more information.
“You said my kid would be your grandchild,” Taehyung tried again, ignoring the sting as she pressed another alcohol-soaked gauze against his wounded arm, “.. but I’m pretty damn sure you’re not my mom.”
That earned him a soft, condescending laugh. “Of course I’m not your mother,” she said, voice smooth and annoyingly calm. “I only ever had one child. And unless you somehow managed to get yourself pregnant alone, we both know what that means.”
Taehyung then blinked, staring up at her sharply. Her words hung there, sour and heavy between them, until something in his mind clicked into place. The shape of her eyes, the sharp line of her jaw—it was all too familiar in a way that made his blood run cold.
There, Taehyung clenched his jaw, forcing down the ugly realization rising in his chest. He could’ve laughed if he weren’t so busy trying to keep his sanity. “So,” he muttered, biting out the words despite already knowing the answer, “..who’s this precious child of yours?”
Areum’s smirk widened as she adjusted the tool in her hand, the metal glinting under the light. “Oh, you know him,” she said, eyes flashing red. “My one and only son—Jeonggukkie, of course.”
The sound of that name from her mouth made something in Taehyung’s chest recoil. Then pain followed—sharp and biting—as she pressed the circular blade deep into his arm, making him hiss through his teeth, trying not to give her the satisfaction of a real reaction.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Taehyung gritted out, crimson eyes narrowing on her face, matching Areum’s sharp gaze. “What does any of your bullshit have to do with me?”
Instead of answering, Areum took her time pulling the tool out, wiping it clean like she was polishing a trophy she just won.
<...>
“You’re not the only one chasing revenge here, Taehyung-ssi,” she said finally, her voice deceptively gentle. “And before you ask—I do feel a little sorry for you. Truly. I heard what happened to you. It’s tragic. But Y'see, my purpose happens to be a bit more… ambitious than yours. So, I’m afraid pity won’t help you much here.”
Taehyung let out another bitter laugh at that. “Ambitious,” he echoed. “Right. And what—does your big plan involve carving up knocked-up alphas for fun?”
“Maybe?” Areum hummed as she turned away briefly to set the tool and the freshly harvested skin sample from Taehyung onto a tray. “Anyway, you’ll understand soon enough. Or not—who knows? Now if you're still curious, let’s just say—that son of mine… he’s different. Special, even. And I happened to need just a tiiiiny bit of him to achieve my goals, and lucky for me—I could get that from you.”
“You keep yapping about purpose, goals, and revenge,” Taehyung said, his tone sharpening, “.. but if your son’s the one who’s special, then why the hell am I the one strapped to this bed? If you’ve got business with Jeongguk, go deal with him. Leave me the hell out of it.”
Lies. Taehyung knew he would rip this woman’s neck off if she so much as dared to touch Jeongguk. Then again, he didn’t owe her the truth.
“Well…” Areum then chuckled as she reached for another vial. “I would if I could. But do you think it’s that easy to get your hands on Jeon Jungho’s son?” She went on, tilting the vial to the light, watching the contents catch the glow before setting it down again.
“After the divorce, my dear ex-husband made sure his heir remained untouchable. The man wouldn’t even let me breathe the same air as that boy. I suppose it was his way of spiting me—hide the child like a fucking trophy he didn’t want me to touch.” Her mouth curved slightly then, like she was remembering something sour. “He’s always been petty like that. It was cute… until it wasn't.”
“Hah…” Taehyung watched her, jaw tightening, then said flatly, “So he kept you out. Figures.”
Areum laughed again, softer this time, but cold nonetheless. “Kept me out? Please. I left. That man, Jeon Jungho, was a mess—stupid and proud. But… I wanted him anyway. Oh, I must’ve been even more foolish than he was.” She paused, looking almost wistful.
“You know what’s worse? That child of ours... he was just like his father. His eyes, his face. He’s also way too sensitive, too desperate for affection. Always clinging, always crying, always looking at me like I owed him something. I knew he was young, but still, how fucking dumb could a kid be? I mean, I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t get it... It wasn’t his eyes I wanted on me, yet that brat kept looking anyway. And I couldn’t stand it. I suppose that’s when I realized I’d made the same mistake twice—first marrying Jungho, then giving birth to his reflection.”
Huh?
Taehyung honestly couldn't believe what he just heard.
Was she really talking about her own son?
She said all that in that light, casual, offhand way that made Taehyung want to punch something—her face, preferably.
Still, Areum wasn’t done getting on his nerves.
“They’re disgustingly similar, really. Just like his father, my own son—married a woman for appearances, all while worshipping another man behind her back. God, they really are cut from the same pattern, don’t you think? Disgusting.”
Disgusting?
Who?
Jeongguk?
What does this bitch even know about Jeongguk—his, Taehyung’s, Jeon Jeongguk?
For a second, Taehyung just stared at Areum. Then his mind began to fill with old, uninvited memories—those nights when Jeongguk would follow him home after school, looking all stupid and excited, like he was relieved to be somewhere that didn’t feel hostile.
‘You have a bed, a blanket, four pillows—I can live with two, thank you; I don't see why I can't stay here, Tae. If anything, your room looks cozier than mine—plus you're here, which makes it a hundred times better than where I used to sleep.’
‘There's a stranger in the place where I stay... H-he…’
‘This place seems a lot warmer than what I'm used to anyways, so yeah...That's fine— I'll be fine,’
‘I've always slept in a spacious room with just the right temperature, 18.3°C; I've been lying comfortably in a bed that can probably fit five people; I also have that little remote that controls the lights, so I can turn it on or off without getting up, soundproof walls, black out curtains, scented candles... but isn't it funny? I have all that, but I would trade it off anytime just to be here on this floor—in your room—with you.’
Back then—ten years ago—a part of Taehyung thought Jeongguk was just spouting bullshit, same as always. But it turned out he wasn’t. He’d actually meant every word.
That boy had really thought Taehyung’s cramped, poor excuse for a house was heaven. He said it was warm.
Taehyung hadn’t understood it then, but he did now.
‘Love? Pfft... Whatever that shit means.’
Jeongguk might’ve been raised in a bigger, better house, but he’d never had a place to call home. He was never loved.
Then he remembered Jeongguk’s back—the scars, all those pale, uneven lines that told a story of years spent under someone else’s rage. It made something in Taehyung twist, deep and ugly. He didn’t have a word for it—didn’t even want one—but it sat in his chest like a damn curse he was itching to break.
How dare they?
For a second, Taehyung closed his eyes, trying to hold back the rage building inside him. Unfortunately, it did nothing. When he looked back at Areum, every trace of restraint was gone. “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, crimson eyes darkening to pitch-black as the air thickened with the scent of his bloodlust.
The guards moved instantly, guns raised, safeties clicking off in unison. Taehyung didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. The threat was out there now, sharp and alive, and if they wanted to shoot him for it, fine. He’d die thinking of the same thing he was thinking now—how someone like Jeongguk had survived with parents this vile.
Areum didn’t flinch either. Instead, she smiled, amused, like she was watching a child throw a tantrum. “Protective now? How adorable,” she said, stepping back as she lifted the tray of samples.
“You can uncuff him after I leave. Make sure he’s kept warm.” Areum muttered as he looked at one of the guards, then back at Taehyung. “Don’t bother trying to escape.” She paused at the door. “You’ll fail anyway,” she added, before walking out of the room.
“Hah… You said his eyes reminded you of his father? He got his eyes from you, dumb bitch,” Taehyung muttered, laughing bitterly at himself.
***
<You can play this as you read.>
Now in Jeongguk’s office, Soo-hyuk and Jun-yeol stood by the door, watching as Jeongguk rummaged through his desk drawer, pulling out a USB, then a stack of files, flipping through a few pages before tossing them together in a messy pile.
The sound of paper hitting wood echoed across the room, sharp enough to make Jun-yeol wince. Soo-hyuk, on the other hand, was visibly restless—his foot tapping, fingers twitching against his arm.
<...>
“Hey, I thought we were in a hurry. Why the hell are we here again?” Soo-hyuk snapped, impatience bleeding through his tone.
Jeongguk surely took his time before glancing up, his jaw tight as he slammed the drawer shut and placed the USB as well the files he needed on the desk. Then, he reached back into another drawer one last time.
And when he pulled his hand out, both Jun-yeol and Soo-hyuk seemed to forget how to breathe.
“If I’m gonna make a deal with the devil,” Jeongguk said, eyes locked on Jun-yeol this time, “I better come prepared, don’t you think?” he smirked, setting a loaded gun on top of the files.
***
“AAAHHH! SHIT!”
Minho was out driving now, speeding up like he meant to outrun hell itself. His hand strangled the wheel, twitching—itching for a cigarette, though he’d already chewed through three in the past ten minutes.
His car tore through the road, engine screaming, and for once, he didn’t care if a cop pulled him over—half the city’s law enforcement was probably already laughing at his name plastered all over the news anyway.
Drugs. Money laundering. Backdoor deals. His family, his company, even that idiot Seung-hoon—all of them had been dragged through the mud. And Minho didn’t need to think twice about who was behind it—Jeon Jeongguk. That smug little bastard. And that half-dead son of a bitch, Kim Taehyung.
Fuck it. Minho’s jaw was beginning to hurt from clenching too much, but his anger kept boiling up, thick and sour.
His phone kept ringing, from yet another call from Sehun. The bitch was crying all over him earlier, whining for help over some mess he’d made.
Minho brushed him off and walked straight out. Let him rot. Seriously, it was about time that spineless fool learned to deal with his own shit anyway.
Now, all that mattered to him was finding those bastards. He’d already stopped by Jeongguk’s house, but there was nothing there. Strangely, the place looked like it had been abandoned weeks ago.
And that only made Minho angrier. Screaming like a madman, he turned the car around and drove to the next place the blasted Jeon could be, and Taehyung too, most likely—Jeongguk’s office.
Streetlights kept flashing over the hood as Minho sped down the road, each one painting his reflection on the windshield for a split second before it vanished again. His own face looked wrong—cold, stretched thin, mean. Maybe he’d finally lost it. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
If they wanted war—fine. He’d give them one.
There, Minho slammed the pedal again, as his hand pawed the glove compartment for his gun. “Just you wait, you fuckers. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me,” He snarled, eyes wild as he accelerated, laughing like a man already too far gone.
—