Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2012.04

Jimin lived a life of quiet desperation. It was easy, at first. Pretending things could remain the way they were, his existence a mere speck in the vast, complex universe. Everyone seemed to have a place, a purpose, a unit of association that gave their lives meaning. Except Jimin.

And he was fine with it, truly. He had accepted the bitter reality he’d been dealt with. Until he just stopped. He couldn’t bear to live in such a manner anymore. The acerbic smile he’d painted onto his expressionless mask was fading, and what remained was a mere shadow of something that resembled a mouth. A mouth colored rouge with smudged lipstick, like one who’d gotten carried away tasting their lover’s tongue.

A mouth colored rouge, like one that’s kissed the flesh of another’s knuckles.

Jimin’s lips weren’t often rouge. He had to hide his lovers and his trysts. They were men, after all.

The wake-up call had been merciless, like a serrated edge across the supple flesh of an unblemished lamb. A sacrifice.

In hindsight, Jimin has developed enough self-awareness to acknowledge his errors, careless ones that any naive little boy would make inadvertently. The child, so innocent, would cry in rivulets, streaks of tears and snot rolling down his face, apologizing for something he wasn’t cognizant was wrong.

He liked boys, and that wasn’t an issue - until it was.

He’d kept his crushes to himself, as anyone would. It wasn’t out of fear; it was out of privacy. Jimin was naturally quiet in a way that was frowned upon. Somewhat of a recluse, he preferred observing from afar. Learning about his peers’ mannerisms, their humor, their skinship.

Noting their insincerity, the way they’d smile one second and scoff the next, the way they’d lean into the other’s ear and whisper away the promises of secrecy they’d made moments prior.

Admiring their beauty and wholeness, and the way their individual faces somehow painted a rough sketch of the human condition and its complexities.

Jimin was enthralled and disturbed. He felt at ease avoiding such situations, but he longed for that fulfillment. The wholeness.

Perhaps that was why, in a moment of childlike gluttony, he decided to take part in that which he knew he could not have.

There was something wicked about the boy’s gaze. Jimin couldn’t place it, but he thought it was hot.

Tempting is the word he used to describe Jimin. The initial shock and disbelief were quickly replaced with virginal coyness. It was intoxicating, feeling wanted and taking a bite out of the fruit that he had kept at a distance for so long.

The companionship was lovely. Jimin couldn’t begin to describe the sheer happiness he felt when the boy would interlock their fingers and drag him into a private place just for them.

He’ll never forget the gasp that bubbled out of his chest when he was kissed for the first time. It wasn’t a sweet peck. Tongue had been pushed into his mouth with visceral intent. Overwhelmed by the heat burning his cheeks and the blood gushing south, Jimin’s hips kicked forward, right into the boy’s own tenting pants.

He smirked, an attractive lilt to his lips that made Jimin’s heart kick dangerously.

He’ll never forget the sound of his sweaty palms bracing against the bathroom wall as his lover took him from behind, a cacophony of rough grunts and wet slapping of flesh engraved into his skull like a bitter reminder.

He’ll never forget the sound of the hinges of the main door squeaking open, or the ruckus of harsh laughter contrasting the sweet, high moans forced out of his mouth at every thrust, or the almost inaudible click of a camera phone recording his defilement.

In a matter of seconds, the blade had slashed through his guts - a quick incision that wasn’t all too painful until the visual of blood pooling out of his stomach ingrained itself across his retinas, forever looping in his mind.

Forever a warning.

-

present

The subway doors screeched shut, the sound sharp and grating in Jimin’s ears. He stepped into the crowded train car, his breath hitching slightly as the press of bodies closed around him.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat and damp wool, and the faint squeal of the train wheels on the tracks echoed through the narrow space. Jimin gripped the metal pole nearest to the doors, his other hand clutching his messenger bag tightly to his chest like a shield.

The train jolted forward, and Jimin stumbled slightly, bumping into a woman beside him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

The woman didn’t respond, her attention fixed on her phone. Jimin turned away quickly, his gaze flickering toward the window across from him.

The dark tunnel outside turned the glass into a distorted mirror. His reflection stared back at him, pale and gaunt under the harsh fluorescent lights. He looked tired. Exhausted.

A sharp cough from a passenger two seats down made him flinch. His heart stuttered in his chest, his grip tightening around the pole.

It’s nothing. Just a cough.

But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. His gaze darted toward the passenger - a middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit, his face flat and flushed as he buried his mouth in his handkerchief.

Jimin’s stomach twisted, the sound of the cough echoing in his ears long after it stopped. He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to breathe.

A faint rustling noise caught his attention, barely audible over the hum of the train. It was deliberate, like the shift of fabric under leather. Jimin’s eyes snapped open, and he turned his head slightly. A man was staring at him from across the train car.

His heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. The man’s gaze was unrelenting, his lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Jimin froze, his chest tightening as the weight of the man’s stare pressed against him like a physical force.

The man tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into something almost amused. His eyes gleamed faintly under the harsh lights, and his smile widened just enough to show a flash of white teeth. Jimin’s pulse thundered in his ears as the train jolted to a stop.

The doors hissed open, and the crowd surged forward, brushing past Jimin in a wave of movement and noise. He stumbled slightly, his grip on the pole tightening as he tried to steady himself.

When he looked back, the man was gone.

-

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store buzzed overhead, casting a harsh white glow across the cramped aisles.

Jimin moved slowly through the store, his hands buried in his pockets. He wasn’t hungry, not really, but the thought of returning to his empty apartment made his stomach churn.

His fingers brushed against the edge of a plastic-wrapped sandwich, and he picked it up absently, barely glancing at the label. Turkey. It would do.

He reached for a bottle of water next, the cold condensation slick against his fingertips. The attendant at the counter, a young woman with bright pink acrylic nails and a bored expression, glanced up as he approached.

“Evening,” she said, her tone flat.

“Evening,” Jimin replied softly, placing the items on the counter.

The attendant scanned them quickly, her gum snapping between her teeth.

“You’re in here a lot, aren’t you?” she asked, glancing up at him as she handed him the bag.

Jimin blinked, startled. “What?”

“I see you around,” she said, shrugging. “Late at night. Kinda weird.”

Jimin’s mouth gaped, unsure of what to make of the remark. “Is there a problem?” he shrugged, his eyes narrowing defensively despite his brain telling him to avoid confrontation and get home as soon as possible.

She tilted her head, her lips thinning impassively as she studied him.

“Nope,” she said, dragging the word out lazily.

Jimin nodded quickly, grabbing the bag and turning toward the door without another word. As he stepped outside, the cold night air hit him like a slap. He inhaled deeply, his breath visible in faint puffs as he started walking toward home.

Crossing briskly across an upcoming alley, he couldn’t help but pause, a smell so foul pervading his olfactory senses that he had to physically stop to hold his breath.

Fingers pinched tightly over his nose - like a child would, he recognizes shamefully - he hovered around the edge of the alley, debating whether to investigate or not. It was dark and narrow, the faint glow of the streetlights barely penetrating the thick shadows.

The bag in his hand crinkled with each step, the sound sharp and unnerving in the silence.
He was finally able to put a name to the odor, sharp and metallic, undercut with the faint tang of something sour. Jimin’s stomach churned as he slowed his pace, his gaze flickering toward the dark shape slumped against the far wall.

He took another step forward, his heart pounding as the shape came into view.
It was a man.

His body was sprawled unnaturally, limbs bent at odd angles. The front of his shirt was soaked through with blood, the dark liquid pooling beneath him and trailing along the cracks in the pavement.

Jimin’s stomach twisted violently, and he stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. His fingers uncurled around the grocery bag, its contents falling pitifully as Jimin sprinted without looking back. The cool breeze of the night whipped across his sweat-slicked skin, causing goosebumps to erupt along his body. He ran and ran, uncaring of his destination. He just needed to get as far away as possible from the pungent smell of decayed flesh. The mere thought of the corpse was enough to make his feet falter beneath him. He tumbled across the pavement, curling into his stomach to both soften the impact and release the puke climbing its way up his esophagus.

He was so overwhelmed by the horror he had witnessed moments prior to have noticed the matte-gray sedan following him since exiting the convenience store.

-

It’s half past five on a meaningless Thursday when Jimin decides he wants to check back on the body he’d discovered. He hasn’t been able to sleep, the bags under his eyes looking darker and more hollowed out by the hour. He’s not used to leaving his crummy apartment so early in the afternoon, and the waning sunlight burns his retinas. He opts to stare at the pavement as he walks, grateful for the reprieve this allows as he avoids the uncomfortable stares of nearby pedestrians.

His gait slows to a near halt when the alley comes into his field of vision. There are rats scurrying around the garbage bins, and the putrid smell wafting from the gutters makes tears prickle in Jimin’s eyes, his hands instinctively coming up to cover his nose and mouth. He stares along the length of the alley, now aided by the light of day to notice it’s a dead end. There’s a brick wall perpendicularly connecting the convenience store to what looks to be an abandoned, closed-up retail department.

He examines every corner of the alley, flummoxed by the lack of the mangled cadaver he had seen just weeks prior. Worth noting is also the fact that the blood splatter has been completely removed, a poorly concealed bleach stain the only sign that something had happened in the first place. He stares in shock, taking slow, unsteady steps back.

Jimin’s retreat meets an obstacle, making him trip slightly before spinning around in fear, a noise he didn’t know was humanly possible building up in his throat as he tries to gather his bearings.

A gloved hand slaps across his mouth before it’s able to break the eerie silence of the vicinity. It seems the once busy avenue has become totally void of people, cars, or rats.

Jimin can only afford a meek whisper as the owner of the hand fills his field of vision entirely. He’s huge, standing about a foot taller than Jimin. He’s wearing an all-black ensemble, but there’s a plastic name tag pinned to the lapel adjacent to his left breast pocket.

Hello, my name is Jeongguk.

The writing is scrawled in a way that is befitting of the character in front of Jimin. His hair, pitch black sits messily across his forehead, some peaks coming to rest over his thick, angled eyebrows. He has a piercing over one of them.

Jimin gulps, tugging the big palm away from his mouth. His eyes must convey something peculiar to this Jeongguk, because a small smirk forms on his lips.

“This is private property, little one. Either you buy something, or you get out.”

His tone is rude, but the mirth coloring his face has yet to be wiped off. Jimin bites his tongue, aware that he’s at a disadvantage in this situation. He thinks of the dead body that vanished without a trace, and his blood curdles, forcing his feet to step back and around the imposing figure before him.

Jimin’s barely aware of what he’s doing as he enters the convenience store, just strolling mindlessly while his head tries to unravel the scene he’d just encountered. That man… was just gone. He hadn’t heard anything about him on the local news broadcast. Not a face, not a name, not a reason. He’d just disappeared.

Jimin swallows the saliva pooling under his tongue, brain all but numb, before he freezes once again.

The bells above the door chime, cutting through every one of Jimin’s thoughts. Even above the aisles, Jimin can see his broad frame. Jeongguk’s.

Quickly, he swivels, grabbing something quickly off an arbitrary aisle just to keep his hands and mind full of something, anything, other than that man… and Jeongguk.

He reaches the cashier box towards the back of the store, gasping when he sees Jeongguk is the one manning the store. He’s..?

His mouth works before his brain can properly acknowledge the words spilling out. “What happened to Becky?”

Jeongguk stares at him, shrugging as he takes Jimin’s items one by one and begins scanning them.

“Called in sick.” His eyes don’t stray from Jimin’s face.

Jimin runs his tongue across his bottom lip before biting into it, wondering if he should continue his line of questioning.

“I’ve… been coming here for a long time. She’s - she’s never been sick before.” Jimin glances at the payment screen, barely sparing it a forethought as he begins eyeing the counter. By the cash register, Jimin notices a bright pink nail with glue peeled off it. He freezes, only registering the man in front of him when he shoves Jimin’s items into a bag, the crinkling of various plastics loud and bothersome.

“Is there a problem, Jimin?” Jeongguk says, a bored expression contradicting the acid of his tone. “That'll be ₩30,500.”

Jimin shakes his head, avoiding Jeongguk’s gaze at all costs. He can’t even begin to process how strange this is, how terrifying this man’s sudden presence is, why he can’t shake off the feeling that something is very wrong.

-

Sometimes, Jimin wishes he had more of a backbone. Perhaps if he had take friendships more seriously in grade school, he would be better at navigating the turbulent waters of social interactions now, as an adult.

He’s on his way to work on the train, and there’s a beggar going around asking everyone for spare change, says he wants to buy some coffee.

Some people flat out ignore him, pretending not to hear his scratchy voice. Others pretend to rummage through their pockets and purses, feigning pity as the remorsefully tell him they have no cash. It’s a silly lie, but Jimin can understand. He doesn’t carry much cash on him, either. The only cash he takes home comes from the measly tips from his job.

He tells the beggar as much when he comes up to him, the sleeves around his hands all dirty with grime and more holes than fabric.

“Listen, I don’t have cash, but I’m a barista. How about I treat you to a cup once I get off on my stop?” Jimin notices how the people around him observe the interaction evasively, their eyes taking perfunctory glances every few seconds before turning their heads away.

The beggar stares at him, looking him up and down with downturned lips. He finally settles on his face, scratching his unkempt beard in silent contemplation.

“Alright, pretty. I would’ve liked money, but you’ll do.”

Jimin sighs, thankful that the man was agreeable, at least. The ride from then on is silent, save for a few questions the beggar seems to ask him every few minutes the air hangs too heavy around them.

“Why’re you so pretty, boy? How old are you?” He asks genuinely, like he’s never seen someone like Jimin before.

“Why does it matter?” Jimin grumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up when the passengers next to him openly stare at his face.

“Dunno. I s’pose it doesn’t.” He coughs into his elbow, and the conversation ends there.

The walk to the café is quick, both of them wanting to escape the biting, cool breeze that nips at every exposed piece of skin it finds. Jimin peers discretely at the man as he blows warm air into his cupped palms. Despite his haggard appearance, the beggar seems to be quite young. Jimin surmises he can’t be any older than 30. He asks him as much once they reach the café, the bells over the door jingling at their entrance.

“How old are you, sir?” Jimin mutters, making his way around the cashier counter and trading in his faux wool coat for a plain white apron and a black newsboy cap.

Thankfully, today is a slow day, most of the booths and tables relatively vacant. Jimin knows customers don’t take well to seeing homeless people entering the property, and he’s shamefully had to force one too many out due to complaints about their odor and unhygienic practices.

He spreads his arms across the establishment, signaling to the man to sit anywhere. Surprisingly, he stays by the table closest to Jimin, and he plants his palms under his chin like he’s contemplating the question seriously.

He settles on a cheeky, “Why does it matter?”, after a few seconds of silence, to which Jimin chuckles out a soft, “Touche.”

Moments later, one of the baristas Jimin usually shares a shift with exists the employee lounge room, her cap slightly askew over the messy bun she’s donning.

“Jimin, hey!” She stares briefly at the beggar sitting at the counter, unconsciously taking a step closer to her coworker as she whispers, “Is he paying?”

Jimin glances back at her out of the corner of his eye, a small smile forming as he witnesses her panicked expression.

“Hey, Mia. Yeah, he is.”

To that, the beggar looks towards the two, smiling charmingly. Jimin raises an eyebrow, noticing the guy’s teeth. They’re perfectly straight and pearly white. It’s an uncanny smile, considering the guy is broke, so much so that they look like veneers.

Mia purses her lips meekly, forcing out a polite nod before heading towards the few occupied tables to see if the clients need anything else.

“So, what would you like to drink, mister…” Jimin draws it out, hoping the man will get the hint.

“Kim. The name’s Kim Taehyung.”

Jimin’s eyes widen, the porcelain mug he’s currently drying down nearly slipping from his paralyzed fingers.

He’d remember that name anywhere. Jimin is suddenly transported back in time to high school, when he’d get picked on for every minute detail. For his white socks peaking out from under his too-short pant legs. For chewing too loudly during lunch. For dyeing his hair blonde during sophomore year. For dyeing it back to his natural obsidian color a few months later. For being caught with his pants around his ankles and a male classmate behind him.

And him. Kim Taehyung. One of his biggest perpetrators.

Jimin’s entire body freezes, his eyes fixing on the man’s face. No. It can’t be…

His eyebrows aren’t as thick and dark. His eyes aren’t as wide and all-consuming. His hair isn’t a dark mop of thick, black curls. His hands, that poke through the holes of his sweater, aren’t big and veiny. His skin isn’t golden and sun-kissed.

He doesn’t know what makes him blurt out what he says next, but he can’t even feel regretful about it.

“That’s a lie.” He swallows thickly, gaze never wavering from the beggar’s face.

The beggar laughs, a wholehearted cackle born from his belly, and he cradles his stomach.

He’s wiping his left eye of a tear that builds there, sparing Jimin a kind smile as he settles back down into his chair.

“And who are you to tell me who I am, mister…” The beggar draws, mimicking Jimin moments earlier, as he scans Jimin’s chest for his name tag. “Jimin.”

The name spills out of his mouth like it’s foreign on his tongue, and it confirms Jimin’s theory.

This man before him is not Kim Taehyung.

-

Jimin remembers high school all too well. He wishes he wouldn’t, wishes he could piece himself back together after years of psychological torment, but it’s hard to pick up fragments of broken glass without getting cut.

The figure of Taehyung coming back into his life after so many years is one he couldn’t have anticipated in the slightest, and it leaves him wrecked for nights on end. The fact that Jimin’s more than 90% sure the beggar isn’t Taehyung doesn’t afford him any reprieve. No, all it took was that cursed name to reopen all the wounds that he’d carefully bandaged since leaving that wretched place.

-

2010.12

Yonseop Preparatory Academy.

It wasn’t at the heart of Korea in Seoul, but Gangnam was close enough to mimic all its intricacies. The time-pinching traffic, the classy, uptown condos, the seedy, dubious liquor establishments, the naïve youth, the malicious.

Jimin wishes his parents would’ve been around long enough to tell him about these customs, to tell him how to behave in certain situations – when to react, when to provoke, when to yield.

In hindsight, he was glad he had managed to keep a low profile throughout freshman year. His parents had passed, and the incident had demarcated a point in his life where he’d essentially gone mute. There simply weren’t enough thoughts in his head to form sentences. Conversations. Friendships.

His foster parents were charitable. They treated him like a stray dog they’d picked up on the street, looking down on him with a humiliating kind of pity – the kind that makes you want to disappear. They’d given him the essentials: a roof over his head, warm meals, clothes that seemed to belong to a previous child of theirs. Jimin didn’t ever ask. He didn’t want to know either. Perhaps, it’s this nonchalance that had kept him from ever developing a relationship with his new parents. Maybe, it’s what has isolated him from anyone. Jimin never learned when to reach out or pull back. He’d never been taught.

Once he’d turned 16, he was free to live independently, and his foster parents posed no objections to this. The foster care home offered him a ₩400,000 loan to start anew, which was only enough to afford renting at a room in a 2-bedroom apartment. The tenant, an elderly woman whose salt and pepper hair reminded Jimin of his late mother’s, had only one requirement – that Jimin respond to the name Sungwoon.

Jimin shuddered, eyeing the woman warily. Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Jimin didn’t mean to appear as judgmental as he did, really. The woman scoffed.

“Do you want to rent with me or not? This is the cheapest place you’ll get this close to the city, dearie. Now, what’s your name again, sweetheart?”

He wasn’t quite capable of setting boundaries on his own, always leaned towards bending the knee.

He remembers the first time it happened at Yonseop.

It was his sophomore year. Living with Hyori had been suffocating, to put it mildly. Jimin quickly realized what a mistake it had been to capitulate to her unreasonable whims. Apparently, Sungwoon had dyed his hair a strawberry blonde before leaving for Japan. Jimin could sense the move had deeply upset the older woman, but he couldn’t really find it within himself to empathize.

He'd entered room 3A for his 9AM English class and was immediately met with silence. The teacher had yet to arrive, so he opted to look across the room for a seat partner that didn’t look particularly offensive. Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone was taking him in with a sort of poorly contained hostility that Jimin couldn’t understand for the life of him. They’d never seen him before. How could they already harbor negative emotions towards him?

Too afraid to even breathe, Jimin walked quietly towards the last desk in the right-hand corner of the room. Every clap of his heeled sole against the wooden paneling on the floor made his heart sink deeper into his core. He couldn’t quite place why he suddenly felt like his life was in perilous danger the longer he kept his back towards his classmates, so he jogged the last few steps of the way in abject mortification, taking his time to whip out his measly school materials.

A pencil, an eraser, and a ruled notebook.

Having nothing else to do with his hands, Jimin’s restless fingers itched to hold onto anything – whatever would keep his eyes from meeting those of the bloodhounds nearing him.

Unnerved, Jimin began fiddling with the soft tufts of hair curling over his eyebrows. Despite not having a choice in the matter, Jimin didn’t totally hate how it turned out.

He shortly reconsidered that notion when he noticed three figures surrounding his desk. When had they arrived?

“Your parents really let you leave the house like that?”

“What’s your name, sissy?”

“Who told you it was okay to be that ugly?”

Jimin’s brain rushed to process all the questions at once, his eyes widening at all the mean statements – they weren’t real inquiries, he assumed - hurled at him within the span of a few seconds. He’d never been talked to like that before. He opened his mouth to respond, lips parting with an empty answer. He didn’t really know what to say.

Staring at each of the individuals that had come to offend him without reason, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve the devilish gnashing of their teeth and the clenching of their fists, so enraged for no apparent motive.

The tallest and - offhandedly, Jimin thought – the most handsome of the three looked at Jimin not with animosity, but with a wicked smile on his face. It was a cruel expression, and it terrified Jimin. He felt his heart pounding against his chest, certain the movement would be visible even underneath two layers of clothing.

A breath of relief practically whooshed from the pits of his bowels out of his mouth when the teacher walked into the room seconds later. Jimin hadn’t even noticed when the room had filled out, or when the bell had rung.

All he could think about for days was that haunting smile.

-

Jimin lived with a constant fear in his gut that something horrible would happen to him at school. His face remained rigid with a grimace that revealed how utterly perturbed he felt. Hyori seemed to notice, and she exploited this fact for as long as Jimin could withstand it.

“Sungwoonie, dear, you look pale and sickly! Why don’t you stay home with halmeoni for today, hmm?”

She’d take Jimin’s hand and lead him towards her bedroom, setting the covers aside to let Jimin rest in her arms. She’d then spoon him for hours, stroking his blonde locks in an attempt to calm him down.

Jimin would lay awake the entire time, tears welling in his eyes as he dreaded having to live through another twisted fantasy with this mentally unstable woman. He just couldn’t bring himself to face those kids - that kid. Kim Taehyung.

-

“Yah, Park Jimin. Where were you this past week? I missed you and your ugly face.” Taehyung snickered, hooking his arm around Jimin’s neck. It made his head fit snuggly into the taller’s armpit. Jimin felt puke rise in his throat.

Jimin had managed to escape Hyori’s proposal to stay in and knit with her, the excuse being that his exams were around the corner, and he was feeling much better. It was almost comedic how quickly he was regretting his lie.

Having received no response, Taehyung sulked, grabbing a tuft of Jimin’s hair to pull his head up and out. Students stared at the exchange as they passed them in the hallway, resolutely fixing to look away as soon as they’d peered for a second too long.

“Yah, Jimin-ah. Where are your manners? Your parents ever teach you to look at people when they’re talking to you?” Taehyung’s pointed nose slightly rubbed against Jimin’s as he spit it out, Jimin nearly going cross-eyed as he stared at his furled lips. They were thin but bright pink, like he’d been chewing on them all morning.

Completely lost in thought, Jimin didn’t know why he decided to be truthful to him.

“I lost my parents two years ago.”

Taehyung pulled back infinitesimally, the fire in his eyes turning to ash for a fraction of a second.

And then it was back and nastier than ever.

“That explains a lot.” He laughs as he says it, like it’s entertaining to him, what he’s about to say. “Nobody love you enough to tell you you’re a waste of space?”

-

Jimin began seeing him everywhere. On his walk back home, Taehyung would suddenly materialize out of shadowy street corners and trip him as he walked, so he’d fall and scrape his knees. Taehyung would kick Jimin while he laid on the pavement, the smaller nursing his bruised tummy and arms, and then Taehyung would lower himself to the floor and scoop him up into his chest.

Jimin, too hurt and afraid to even open his mouth, would simply cry against him, too distraught to begin formulating questions he should rightfully be having.

He’s too stunned to speak when he finds himself in front of Hyori’s apartment, Taehyung knocking at the door with resolute conviction.

Jimin’s mouth is dry as if it’d been stuffed with cotton.

“H-how do you-“ Taehyung shuts him up by lunging his jaw forward and biting Jimin’s ear. Jimin cries out, his eyes squeezing shut in horror as he expects searing pain to register in his brain.

It doesn’t quite come.

Instead, the pair is met with Hyori’s impassive stare as she yells out an abrasive “What?!” before settling her gaze on Sungwoon and his schoolmate. Her eyes well with tears, and her arms stretch out to reach for her grandson.

“My Sungwoonie! What’s happened to him!” She holds his reddened cheeks within her palms. Jimin couldn’t be more humiliated.

“Sungwoonie? Who the fuck is that?” Taehyung bawks, staring at the woman with something akin to disgust and confusion plaguing his features. Hyori spares him a hard stare, her nostrils flaring in anger.

Her palms release Jimin’s face in favor of wrapping around Taehyung’s forearm in a bruising grip. “I think the real question is who the fuck are you, young man? And what happened to my Sungwoonie?!”

The tears spilling down Jimin’s cheeks have dried, and all emptiness has been replaced with a sudden intolerance that has slowly but surely accrued in his heart. He pushes himself out of Taehyung’s arms and shoves Hyori off to the side, barreling towards his room and bolting it shut.

He hears some more yelling and commotion downstairs, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when his eyes are suddenly being dragged shut, welcomed by an all-encompassing darkness.

-

Months had passed, and the harassment never stopped. Jimin didn’t have any legal guardians to step up for him or any friends that could potentially mitigate the incessant nagging specifically targeted at him.

He wondered if there was something about him that particularly bothered Taehyung. There weren’t many people at school with hair treatments done, so that automatically made him stick out like a sore thumb. He was also always alone. Maybe if someone were around him to keep him company, things would get better. Things would hurt less.

He’d begun getting used to it, the repetitive skit that Taehyung and his retinue performed every day throughout the school year. It had looped, and at one point, Jimin had become totally numb to it. In a way, it was somewhat comforting, knowing that even though he had no one in life, he’d always have Taehyung following him home and tripping him into burning asphalt. It felt like he was in control of this monotony.

Until one day, he wasn’t.

Someone had stepped into his routine and ruined the sanctity of its recurring patterns. The trite joke that had become familiar and safe had begun taking a more sinister turn.

Should he tell someone about this?

The notion clung to him like gum on a shoe sole throughout the entire day upon seeing the note in his designated cubby hole.

You deserve better, Park Jimin.

Jimin had half a mind to ask Taehyung if this was some sick prank he’d devised, but how would a note like this even humor the likes of him and his friends? They’d been nothing but cruel to him up to this point.

The notes became a recurrent part of Jimin’s mornings after the sender realized Jimin wasn’t divulging their secret to anyone.

You have a pretty smile.

Don’t listen to Taehyung. He’s just jealous of you.

Jimin doesn’t know what to think of these, collecting them on the last page of his notebook. They’re not harming or threatening him in any way, but he finds it strange that this person doesn’t just say these things directly to his face. Maybe they’re really shy? Or perhaps they think that by being seen around Jimin they’ll also be attacked?

Jimin huffs out a soft, “coward,” under his breath, folding up the seventh one he’s received thus far.

This new anomaly in his life even makes Taehyung’s presence seem more cumbersome than usual.

Jimin still flinches when he appears out of nowhere, always with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his uniform slacks, his bookbag slung lazily across one shoulder. The thick black curls he wears messily over his head look slightly more styled today, and Jimin had smelled the distinct scent of hair gel earlier when he’d been backed into a corner by Taehyung.

“What’s-“ Jimin licks his lips, wondering why he even said anything in the first place, “what’s the occasion?” He pointedly avoids his gaze, only turning his way when he feels a sudden force push against his right shoulder. He thought it was Taehyung until he heard the boy yell out an indignant, “Watch where you’re going, prick!”

Taehyung returns his attention back to the smaller, an exuberant expression unlike any Jimin had seen before spreading across his face.

“What were you sayin’, duckie?” He reaches his hand out very obviously, giving Jimin enough berth to jump back before Taehyung can swat Jimin’s ‘fat duck lips,’ as his aggressors liked to call them.

“Why do you look so nice today?” Jimin mutters, narrowing his eyes in a blasé manner and barely moving his lips to enunciate because he knows how it sounds; it sounds like a compliment.

Taehyung positively beams, that manic smile Jimin had grown to fear taking over his countenance.

“What do you mean, Jimin-ah? I’ve got a hot date with Yonseop’s least eligible bachelor tonight!” He shoves Jimin’s shoulder in faux playfulness, Jimin’s eyes glazing over with thinly veiled shame.

Taehyung stares at Jimin from the corner of his eye, debating whether today is a good day to push the boy’s buttons to the max. He remembered the last time Jimin looked particularly hurt by his jokes, Jimin had skipped school for over a week! He can’t have his favorite classmate gone for that long.

“Say, Jimin. I’m hurt you didn’t get dressed up for me. I’m thinking we should-“ Taehyung isn’t able to get to the punchline because suddenly, Jimin’s running at full throttle towards his complex, a red envelope taped to front entrance door.

It can’t be. How did they find his address?

Taehyung follows closely behind the smaller, peering over his shoulder as Jimin tears open the envelope and reads the letter.

Jimin, I wonder if perhaps someday you’d do me the honor of letting me into your life.

His eyes start stinging with unshed tears. The well up at his waterline, falling in a steady trickle onto the paper held between his hands.

I wish I could get rid of Taehyung, so you could be happier. I love it when you’re happy. You look the most handsome when you’re happy.

Behind him, Taehyung scoffs, reaching around Jimin’s waist to grab the paper from out of Jimin’s small fingers.

“Who is this freak, Jimin?” His tone is cold, biting. He’s never spoken to Jimin like this before, despite their less than cordial dynamic.

Jimin sputters, snot lining his nostrils until he’s physically unable to breathe in.

Taehyung spins him around and slams him into the door, his wide palm aiming straight for Jimin’s thin, pale throat.

Jimin’s eyes widen, red with terror and all the brine clogging his tear ducts. Spots are flickering across his retinas as his oxygen supply dwindles with every squeeze that obstructs the air flow through his trachea.

“How long have you known about this, Jimin?” Taehyung shakes him like a rag doll, and Jimin trembles like a newborn lamb, unable to comprehend what’s happening.

“ANSWER ME.” Taehyung screams.

Jimin crumples lifelessly, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the weight of his body collapses between Taehyung and the door.

Chapter Text

Jimin can’t describe how distraught he’s become since he’s met Taehyung. He shudders just thinking about the implications of that identity and the garish hollow it’s left in a recess of his soul. He looks at the beggar, pondering when it would be appropriate to point out he’s clearly overstayed his welcome.

The café is clearing out steadily, the constant trickle of customers dwindling the darker it gets outside. But the man doesn’t leave.

Jimin tacks on a weak smile as he bids Mia goodbye, preparing himself to close the shop. The beggar doesn’t seem to take the hint.

“U-um.” Jimin wrings his hands anxiously, hesitating to make eye contact with Taehyung. He needs to figure out this guy’s real name. “T-taehyung-ssi, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to le-leave now.”

Jimin had doubted whether it was a good idea to treat the man to more than he had asked for. It was originally coffee, but after listening to the man’s stomach rumble with what sounded like days worth of hunger, Jimin acquiesced to his plea for a chocolate croissant, as well.

Jimin sighed, knowing these costs would be incurred from his wage, but he knew his boss would be livid knowing he’d allowed someone unable to pay to even enter the store.

Taehyung is currently tracing his index finger along the plate to pick up the crumbs left from the pastry, carefully eyeing the digit as he brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean. Jimin grimaces, eyeing the action with defeated permissiveness. He supposes this is what happens when you fail to place limits in private interactions.

“Jimin, would’ya be a darling and offer me a place to stay tonight?” He huffs, his hands coming out in front of him in a placating manner. “I know, I know what it sounds like.” Jimin eyes him dubiously, a sudden suspicion bubbling in his gut.

“But I promise it’s just for tonight! Y’know the public transportation stops working after ten, sweet pea.”

Jimin turns squeamish with every new pet name the man drops, so noncommittal about being overtly informal. A little respect when addressing strangers would do him well.

The barista sighs, pinching his nose in frustration and tacit resignation. He already knows what he’s going to say.

“Fine. But only for tonight, and then you’re out! My landlord is already at my neck because I’m two days behind on rent!” Jimin whispers exasperatedly, reluctantly shaking Taehyung’s hand when the man stretches out his arm to demonstrate his acceptance of Jimin’s terms.

Jimin finished washing up the dishes on places them on the drying racks closest to the cupboards, raking his eyes quickly over the kitchen area for one final scan before taking off his cap and apron. Jimin pretends not to feel Taehyung’s incessant staring, but it’s impossible to keep the façade up when they literally make eye contact; at least Jimin has the decency to blush, but Taehyung merely scratches his unruly beard, his gaze not once faltering.

“What is it?” Jimin says behind a cough, locking up the café and placing the key in his satchel. To say this man’s presence has flustered Jimin’s unassuming yet peaceful Thursday afternoon is an understatement.

They’re walking shoulder to shoulder, the chill of night forcefully pushing both of them to speed up.

Taehyung shrugs, his neck tilting back to stare out at the sky. There’s not a star in sight.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” He inquires, and the tone of his voice is entirely too genuine. It forces Jimin’s head to snap up to look at him, confused by the man’s sincerity.

“I thought you assumed I’d be nice to you.” Jimin replies frankly, not missing the way the beggar’s shoulders slump in what Jimin can only suppose is dejectedness.

“It’s rare to find little gems like you.” He responds, bringing his head down to peer at the floor, his eyes following the hasty rhythm of his feet, clad in worn out construction worker boots he’d found on top of a garbage bin a few days ago.

Jimin scoffs, his brows furrowing at what the other is implying. “So, what? You think I’m some bleeding-heart altruist?”

Taehyung spares him a sideways glance, a lazy grin showing off those pearly white veneers. The latent unease in Jimin’s stomach returns with a torrential force, stopping him dead in his tracks as his mind spins to find an excuse to not let this man into his house.

“I dunno what you are, Jimin. Fuck if I care. I just know I wanna be more like you.”

Jimin and Taehyung stop before a railroad crossing, red lights blinking and bells tolling to warn everyone of an impending train.

Jimin stands stock still as the vehicle whooshes past them, the wind whipping Jimin’s black hair into his field of vision. He thinks back to what the beggar had said minutes before, about public transportation…

“Come on, Jimin. I’m cold as a motherfucker.” He grabs the smaller’s pale wrist, yanking him across the railroad tracks. “Which way are we going, darlin?”

Stupefied, Jimin comes up with the best lie he can come up with on the spot.

“I’m... actually really hungry, and I haven’t done groceries because I’m saving up for rent. Let’s stop by the convenience store?”

Jimin curses internally at how unconvincing he managed to sound. He hasn’t had much practice lying to avoid being around people; that’s just his neutral state of being.

Taehyung nods quietly, letting go of Jimin in favor of motioning for him to lead the way. Jimin accepts, silently dreading having the stranger behind him. The same guy who’s pretending to be someone he’s not. A shiver runs down from Jimin’s exposed neck all the way to his knees, making them jolt a bit while he’s walking.

It isn’t until Jimin sees the fluorescents bleeding across the sidewalk that he releases the breath he’d been unconsciously holding at the back of his throat, too petrified to swallow it or exhale tremulously.

More often than not, Jimin finds himself out of breath, his small frame never quite filling up to its maximum capacity. Now, walking with Taehyung, Jimin notices how shallowly he’s inhaling, each sharp intake just barely outpaced by his accelerated heartbeat. He steps, one, two, three more times forward, before opening the door of the convenience store.

The bells jingle above him. Taehyung’s presence is tangible, one warm palm pressing into the small of Jimin’s back. Everything feels familiar, but the discomfort in Jimin’s chest only grows. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them tightly as he fights to keep the paranoia gnawing at his consciousness from growing exponentially.

And suddenly, the heat behind him disappears. He thinks he heard Taehyung whisper a hurried, “Be back in a second,” but he can’t be sure. A nebulous haze has shrouded the corners of his vision. Everything feels slightly unreal.

Perhaps he’d been daydreaming. What are the odds of meeting someone named Taehyung who looks nothing like Taehyung? Jimin scoffs, if only to grant himself an instance of grace. There’s only so much entropy Jimin can successfully cope with at once.

His feet direct him further into the store, mind still reeling from the distorted reality it had created without Jimin’s consent.

He picks out a couple packs of microwavable ramen, not for some imaginary stranger, but for himself. He hadn’t been lying when he said he was behind on rent. Fiction tends to impersonate that which it aims to replace.

Jimin walks up to the counter, unsurprised to see Becky doing her job. Being a cashier. He smiles easily, reasoning that he’d probably imagined that strange encounter with Jeongguk. Maybe he’d even conjured up the image of the corpse, which would explain why he never saw the body on the news.

It’s all making perfect sense.

Jimin faces Becky, her skin looking ashy, almost translucent. The blue and green of her veins is obvious beneath the thin skin of her wrists. Her eyes seem hollow, and the grey bags under them are so dark they look more like sockets.

An inkling of trepidation makes Jimin’s lazy grin crack a little. He clears his throat, forcing any tremors out of his voice as he speaks to her.

“Becky, am I glad to see you today!” He laughs weakly, belatedly noticing how she’s not wearing her usual extravagant makeup that matches her nails. His eyes involuntarily drift down to her hands, gulping down thickly when he finds that her ring finger is missing a bright pink acrylic nail, the rest of them looking somewhat chipped along the edges.

Becky remains silent, her lips thinned into an awkward grimace.

Jimin can’t comprehend why he decides to ask her what he does next.

“You didn’t happen to be – uh – sick last week, right?” Her neck snaps up to stare into his eyes, the two sharing a moment of unspoken alarm.

Jimin leaves her a ₩10,000 note, too agitated to wait around for his change. He takes the bags into his fists, turning to bolt, but a pale wrist grasps his own disturbingly tight.

Her eyes are sheened over with dry tears. Jimin crumples, utterly horrified to witness someone he’d seen for over a year now teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“Jimin. Whatever you do – just – be careful around J-jeongguk.” The way she whispers it, like it’s some forbidden name, makes goosebumps raise all over Jimin’s flesh. He nods shakily, practically running out of the store. He doesn’t bother seeking Taehyung out. Good riddance, he thinks to himself, while his teeth chatter uncontrollably.

He’s not sure when he makes it home, what with him constantly peering over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any dark figures chasing him. He takes the stairs up to his apartment, lacking the courage to wait around the ground floor while the elevator rattles and jolts on its way down.

As soon as he closes the door behind him, Jimin locks it and hooks on the top bolt. Nothing has changed in his apartment, the furniture and arrangements all appearing to be in the exact same place they were prior to heading to work; that doesn’t stop him from scouring over every inch of his belongings.

There’s something disquieting about this experience. A nauseating sense of déjà vu mocks him, flooding him with memories of when he was younger and so naïve. When he’d started receiving letters at school, and later in his dingy apartment in Gangnam.

Jimin forces back a self-deprecating smile, brine stinging his eyes because how! – how could he have been so foolish? To think that by running away he’d get rid of the shadows that have haunted him since his gullible youth. To think that after so many years things would be fine. He would be fine.

Jimin’s not sure when he knocks out cold on the floor, beyond pummeled by the physical stress on his body from hours of work and the mental anguish of having to relive all his worst experiences within a blinking of time.

He completely forgets to eat dinner.

-

When Jimin comes to, it’s half past five a.m.

It’s not his famished state, or his growling belly, or the meticulous hardwiring of his brain that tells him he’s rested enough – no, it’s the incessant buzzing of his phone, still stuck in his breast pocket from the previous night.

Bleary-eyed and hair mussed from sleep, Jimin blindly swipes at his screen to make the tedious noise stop. He only perks up a bit when he hears a voice through the speaker of his phone.

It’s quite odd.

Jimin doesn’t have any contacts on his phone. Well, he has their numbers, they’re just not saved. But he only talks to a few people, and he’s memorized the sequence of digits. Mia, his landlord, Sungwoon. Those are the only people he’s ever exchanged text messages with.

Rising up on his elbows and leaning his weight against them, he finally wisps away the final dregs of lethargy to focus on the screen. He’s thankful he always keeps the brightness below the halfway point, eyes squinting to check the caller ID.

Unknown caller

He’s not sure how healthy it is to have heart palpitations this early in the morning – or in his life, he’s barely 24 for pete’s sake – so panics. Tiny hands fumbling to end the call, he struggles as his device is suddenly unable to recognize his sleep-swollen face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He curses, switching to the keypad in order to type in his PIN.

The phone practically jumps out of his hands when the voice speaks again.

Jimin, I won’t call you again. Just turn on the TV.

The line goes mute before the caller hangs up all by themselves. They were using a distortion feature, the richness and lack of inflection unlike any regular person he’s heard talk before.

Jimin remains frozen, unsure of what to do. This person knew his name and his personal number. There weren’t many people who would have access to this information.

He checks his phone logs, scrolling past the scam calls. He doesn’t speak enough to his landlord for the guy to be giving out his number gratuitously. He doesn’t bother checking Sungwoon’s, their last conversation recorded being over four years ago. There’s no way he’d know where Jimin’s currently living.

He hesitates before clicking on his chat with Mia. There are very few messages, the only time they speak really being to confirm their shifts and ask if the other can cover for them on sick days.

Shit.

Who could possibly know his private information? Where could they have sourced it from?

The questions linger in his mind, even as he begrudgingly turns on the TV. Jimin really didn’t plan on following commands from strangers anymore, but nagging curiosity got the best of him.

The caller didn’t specify the channel, so he flicks through them quickly, only sparing them cursory glances before deeming them irrelevant.

Jimin anxiously bites at his nails til they’re nasty-looking stubs, skipping all the dramas, adverts, pharmaceutical commercials, sports competitions, until it stares at him.

It’s glaringly obvious this is what the caller wanted him to stumble upon.

Channel 2 news station.

- broadcasting live from the scene of the crime, we have our Investigative Reporter, Kim Chaewon to update us on the facts.

Yes, folks, I’m here a few feet away from the alley behind Bibi’s Convenience Store on 4th street, where the victim was found. There’s not much information yet to share, but we know he’s a male – about 25 to 30 years old, 178 centimeters in height. Forensics have established a possible cause of death, but nothing can be confirmed until the full autopsy is done. There seem to be several knife wounds along the victim’s torso, and – just a moment –

Jimin is hyperventilating as he stares at his screen, the bright pixels reflecting the reporter’s face across his ghostly white skin.

No - it can’t be. He’s imagining all of this.

- I’m back reporting live to you all, as just seconds ago, the forensics team was able to uncover an ID card on the victim’s body. The man has been identified as Kim Taehyung. I repeat, Kim Taehyung, born December 30th, 1995. Police and other investigative agencies ask that you please call the number on the screen if you have any information regarding this individual. I’ll keep-

Jimin turns over onto his stomach and retches the little bits of food left in his digestive tract. There’s a pounding in his head and a sharp ringing in his ears. He doesn’t want -can’t stand it, really – to open his eyes, small hands coming to press onto the sides of his head. He just needs it to stop. Everything is spinning.

He doesn’t know what is happening anymore. He doesn’t know what is real and what is the product of his tormented psyche.

Jimin remains curled on the floor, unaware of the eyes peering through his window from the building across the street from his.

-

2011.05

Taehyung knows Jimin won’t do anything about it. That’s just how he is. Always such a fucking doormat. Taehyung’s fist collides with the nearest wall, the paint chipping and giving way to wooden paneling that has splintered upon impact. Taehyung doesn’t bother nursing his bloodied knuckles. It doesn’t really hurt, anyway. Adrenaline’s coursing through his veins, muting any pain signals shooting from his hand, completely blocking out logical reasoning telling him to think this through a little more carefully, vision completely tunneling as he shoves everyone out of his way while speeding to his homeroom class.

He finds their teacher packing up his belongings leisurely, the heavy setting of his eyebrows obvious. He looks up when he hears the door open, and frowns deeply when the student clangs it shut.

“Taehyung, what is the meaning of th-“

Taehyung disrespectfully interrupts, rushing to announce what he’d just found out. “Mr. Lee. You must report to the classroom that there’s someone stalking one of our peers.”

The teacher stares at his pupil impassively, the glasses perched on his high nose bridge sliding as he stares down at the boy imperiously.

“What gives you the right to tell me what to do, runt?” He spits, his tone mocking and crude. “Your parents ever teach you some manners?” It’s the exact same iteration he’d told Jimin so many times when he was toying with him. Taehyung had never quite been on the receiving end of it. And he fucking hates it. More than that, his mind supplies him with images of Jimin’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Jimin. Defenseless, vulnerable, doormat Jimin. Taehyung’s hands itch where they lay curled at his sides. “Respect your elders, you petulant brat. I outta-“

One large, veiny hand darts out and grabs a hold of Mr. Lee’s collar. Taehyung lunges forward, pulling the man up with him until the teacher’s glasses fog up with every exhale that comes out of the boy’s aggravated mouth.

“I’d be careful to say another word, you lazy bastard. Don’t you know my parents’ donations to this academy are keeping you employed?” Taehyung eyes the sweat that runs down the man’s receding hairline, the blotchy red blooming over the skin of his neck that’s being squeezed taut under Taehyung’s ministrations. What a pathetic human, the boy thinks.

Mr. Lee starts squirming uncomfortably under Taehyung’s unwavering grip and gaze. There’s something deeply perturbing about the unrelenting glint in the teen’s eyes, something so sinister and forbidding despite his young age. The man begins wheezing out plaintively to be let go.

“I- I’ll do- do any-thing. I- beg yo-“

Taehyung rolls his eyes, scoffing in disbelief. He thought Jimin was pitiful until he’d seen this grown man sobbing like a baby at the hands of a boy less than half his age.

“Bring me the name of the person leaving red envelopes in Park Jimin’s cubby hole.” He barks out, not bothering to look back at the disheveled teacher before exiting the classroom.

A week later, Mr. Lee quietly tells Taehyung to stay behind with him for a quick chat, Taehyung waving off his pesky friends as his blood begins to run hot with anticipation. He doesn’t know what he’ll do yet, but he’s got a few ideas.

He’ll fucking kill them. The thought amuses him to no end, snorting as he makes his way past the students bustling to get to their second period lecture.

He won’t kill them. That’d be no fun – no. Maybe, he’ll blackmail them, or! Better yet, he’ll stalk them back, give them a taste of how much they’ve distressed poor Jiminie.

Taehyung finds himself before the teacher’s desk, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“So? Who is it?” He asks impatiently.

Mr. Lee slides him a slip of paper and leaves without granting the boy another second of his time.

Taehyung smiles mischievously, having successfully bitched his superior into doing his bidding with zero consequences.

His eyes furrow as he reads the note handed to him.

His name is Jeon Jeongguk.

-

2011.05

Jeongguk is sitting at his usual spot on the cafeteria bench ten meters away from Jimin. It’s the best seat from his vantage point; he can see Jimin’s face perfectly – every crinkling of his forehead when he’s confused, every purse of his lips when he’s upset, every slow and resigned flutter of his eyelids. These varied micro expressions that paint a portrait of unimaginable despair. Ever the parched soul, Jeongguk drinks up every second he’s able to witness.

Sometimes when it’s quiet enough, he’ll have the unfortunate pleasure of hearing all of Jimin’s forced conversations with Taehyung. Jeongguk suddenly squints, noticing a salient lack of the curly-haired boy near Jimin today.

Subtly, he scans across the room, biting down painfully hard on his tongue to suppress the shock of fear that travels down his spine when he finds Taehyung staring right at him, his large, penetrating brown irises nearly swallowing all of the white of his eyes.

Taehyung stalks towards him with a purpose, sitting down right across from Jeongguk with an unceremonious entitlement that makes his blood boil.

Jeongguk glares at Taehyung through the long black fringe falling over his eyebrows and brushing the tops of his eyelashes.

“Do you mind?” He asks rhetorically, talking through clenched teeth. The amount of vitriol emanating from the two boys is impressive considering they’ve never spoken to each other before.

Taehyung nods fervently, sitting up straighter and spreading his arms laterally to further obstruct Jeongguk’s view of Jimin. “Yeah, I fucking do, you freak.”

Jeongguk has the gall to smile at that, one corner of his lips twisting up derisively. The corndog he’s munching on gets ignored momentarily.

“I’m the freak?” He points a mustard stained thumb into his chest, doe eyes widening in mock stupefaction. Then he gasps, snapping his fingers like he’s vehemently agreeing. Taehyung finds the spectacle idiotic and childish, rolling his eyes to quell the growing rage that impatiently grows every second watching this moron play the fool.

“That’s so true! Because I’m the one beating up the kid I’m secretly obsessed with, right?” Jeongguk nods to himself, picking up the skewer he’d set down on his styrofoam plate and taking a big bite into his corndog.

Taehyung snaps, lunging out of his seat and stretching over the table to gauge Jeongguk’s eyes out with his bare hands. Jeongguk leans back within a fraction of a second, tumbling out and away from the table before Taehyung can get his hands on him.

A lapse of judgement has Jeongguk undermining Taehyung’s derangement, not expecting the boy to flip the table over and charge at him like a feral dog. The students around them start shouting, shocked by the sudden commotion and the sight of a wooden table crashing against the floor. Rather than inform school authorities, they whip out their phones, loudly cheering Taehyung on. Jeongguk smirks. He knows they’re egging him on out of fear, but he also recognizes it’s the fact that they probably don’t even know who Jeongguk is.

Taehyung rolls up his sleeves, a murderous intent reflecting over his countenance and practically wafting out of his pores in waves. Jeongguk rounds several other tables, buying time as he quickly tries to pick out Jimin’s face from the mass of uniforms surrounding them. He’s once again thankful for the platinum blonde that witch forced him to take on, spotting him immediately.

His heart practically bounces in his chest when he makes eye contact with Jimin, his eyes flittering from Jeongguk to Taehyung with mounting trepidation. It’s the first time Jimin’s ever looked his way.

Jeongguk is so distracted by that realization that he doesn’t notice Taehyung crawling on the floor and pouncing onto him once he’s at a close enough distance. They both roll around on the ground, Jeongguk having taken the brunt of the impact and hissing out as pain shoots up all over his body.

Taehyung winds back his right arm and socks him right across his nose, a satisfying crunching of bones audible upon collision. Taehyung smiles manically when blood starts spurting out of his nostrils in rivulets. He lifts his fists up again, only to bring it back down harder onto Jeongguk’s cheekbone this time. The entire left side of Jeongguk’s face is a blotchy red – Taehyung can’t wait to see him get all purple and blue with bruises.

He cups Jeongguk’s chin meanly with his busted hand, grinning from ear to ear when Jeongguk whinces in pain.

“You better keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll tell sweet, ol’ Jiminie all about his secret admirer.” Jeongguk’s eyes widen in panic, and Taehyung’s glad to know he’s won, practically feels the tension previously coiling within the body beneath him decompress into a pathetic lump.

“I bet he’d love to hear about what a fucking degenerate you are. Following him around everyone, watching him while he eats – hell, I bet you get off to it like the sickening, little pervert you are.”

Jeongguk’s nostrils flare, his entire face flaming a deep shade of red as he rushes to defend himself against this sick bastard’s allegations.

“You take that back, you piece of shit! I swear I’ll fucking KILL you-“

And then Taehyung slaps a hand over his mouth and leans forward, whispering into Jeongguk’s ear.

“Hey, I wouldn’t blame you, kid.” Taehyung pulls back, sitting on his haunches and running a hand through his curls; surely, they’ve gotten all messy during the altercation. He stands up, pressing his foot against the center of Jeongguk’s chest.

“Don’t forget what I told you, freak.”

Jeongguk’s world tilts as more blood gushes down his chin in hot streams; Taehyung grinds his shoe deeper into his ribcage. Jeongguk coughs, choking out maroon and turning his cheek to spit out a thick, red glob right at Taehyung’s leather oxford shoes.

Even through the blur of pain, he smiles – teeth and gums speckled crimson.

“Thom Browne, right? Good taste.”

Taehyung scowls at him, a mean glint sheening over his eyes, and Jeongguk senses more than he sees a sudden shift in the boy’s demeanor.

He’s livid, not about his shoes – he’s got fifteen more identical pairs at home – No. He’s fuming because a quick glance around the cafeteria tells him Jimin has fleed the barbaric scene, probably scared out of his wits. The poor thing.

Taehyung stares down at him once again, contempt laced in his voice as he sneers at him. “If you don’t want Jimin finding out you’re a disgusting piece of shit, find me after school. Rooftop.”

Jeongguk twitches in disdain, both hands reaching over to grab Taehyung’s ankle and pull his weight right under him. Taehyung staggers where’s he’s standing, knees wobbling as he tries to regain balance. It’s enough for Jeongguk to pick himself up and topple Taehyung over, brutishly hurling into his with his elbow driving up the boy’s stomach – once, twice, and a third time – until he’s satisfied with the blood that sullies the pristine, white fabric of Taehyung’s uniform shirt.

Swaying while he regains his footing, Jeongguk searches for Jimin’s frightened eyes in a daze. Confident the boy is no longer in the crowd, he leaves, weaving himself through the masses to avoid curious onlookers and school authorities.

Always one to swallow his groans and bite back complaints, Jeongguk stumbles into the nearest boys’ room and hobbles over to an empty stall, where he promptly blacks out.

-

Taehyung and Jeongguk meet up on the roof a few days later. They both look like hell, but their bodies have gradually recovered from the beating they took. The left side of Jeongguk’s face still looks swollen, the purples of his bruises only now fading into a sickly yellow. The corners of Taehyung’s lips quirk up once he hears footsteps crunching over the little rocks and pebbles littered over the roof.

Jeongguk approaches Taehyung with disinterest and disdain in equal measure, but the latter increases when he detects the smell of nicotine in the air. He frowns, nose twitching in disgust.

Taehyung smiles as he stares at him, reaching into his pocket for a pack of Malboros. It’s half empty, the edges of the box all worn out and crinkled.

“Want one?” He offers, stuffing his hand into the other pocket to find the lighter.

Jeongguk scoffs, throwing his head back while laughing weakly. He peers at Taehyung out of the corner of his eye, not even bothering to mask his hatred.

“Why are you acting like we’re friends? Just spit it out. What the hell do you want?”

The curly haired boy pouts, his index and middle fingers gently embracing the cigarette while he blows out a noxious cloud of smoke.

“Now, now, Jeongguk. You know that’s no way to talk to me.” The condescension in his voice is enough to put Jeongguk on edge, fists clenching around nothing at his sides.

“I talk to you however I fucking want.” Jeongguk sneers, lips curling to show a glint of his incisors.

Taehyung suddenly sighs, reaching into a pocket inside his uniform blazer and pulling out some folded-up papers.

“I wish we didn’t have to do things this way, Jeonggukie, but you’re just so stubborn!” Taehyung chides, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He starts unfolding the papers, looking over the edge of the documents to make sure Jeongguk’s looking at him. The furrow of his eyebrows pleases Taehyung. Immensely.

“Jeon Jeongguk. Born September 1st, 1995. Parents, Jeon Haerin and Jeon Jaehyun. Mother’s occupation, a schoolteacher at Il-Moon Elementary.” Taehyung looks up from the paper to coo at Jeongguk. “Aw, well isn’t that just sweet?”

Jeongguk’s mouth parts in shock, his eyes widening in fear.

“Father’s occupation, a mechanic. Hmm, sounds like your little family probably isn’t making much money. Quite sad.”

Jeongguk’s jaw clenches shut, sheer rage boiling from the trenches of his gut. “Yah, Kim Taehyung.”

Taehyung doesn’t listen, reading on like he’s checking the weekly newspaper.

“Address, 241-2 Nonhyeon-dong, Gangnam District-“ Jeongguk launches at him, reaching for his pocket and pulling out a retractable knife within seconds. He holds it up to Taehyung’s neck, staring straight into his eyes.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Taehyung?”

Taehyung smiles, licking his lips. “Your intimidation tactics won’t work on me, Jeonggukie. All the cards are in my hand. And I know you wont’ kill me. It’s just not in you, kid.”

Jeongguk’s guard drops for a second, taking in the weight of the assessment. He’s not wrong. Still, he can’t let Taehyung know that – he locks back in, tightening his grip on the knife and edging closer to Taehyung’s throat, the tip snagging a pinch of skin. A drop of blood buds out immediately, and Taehyung gasps, an amused glimmer radiating off of him. It makes Jeongguk feel sick.

“Jeongguk, even if you were to kill me, I’d ruin your family. Think a little more deeply about your actions, little one.” Taehyung scoffs, pushing Jeongguk away with a light shove against his shoulder. Jeongguk lets it happen, the admission setting deep into his bones, rendering him immobile.

“What the fuck do you want?” He repeats, but the fire’s all gone, the reality of the situation dousing him like a bucket of ice-cold water.

Taehyung grins, the crinkles of skin around his eyes making him look much older than his age. Jeongguk shudders at his manic expression.

“I need you to do me a favor.” He pauses, appraising the boy before him. So strong, and yet so cowardly. “I need you to kill that bitch that’s driving Jimin insane.”

Jeongguk can’t let the opportunity go now that it’s been handed to him on a silver platter. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He approaches Taehyung calmly, the grip on his knife more secure than it was before. “I’ll do it right now.”

Taehyung stares at him for a second before hunching over in laughter, his shoulders shaking in genuine glee. Jeongguk stares at him impassively, retracting the blade of the knife and rolling his eyes. Taehyung’s wiping tears leaking at the corners of his eyes, and Jeongguk clicks his tongue, blushing lightly at his stupid joke.

“Okay, spit it out. Who is it?”

The remnants of Taehyung’s smile fade within a second, like he’d suddenly put on a mask with a different expression. Jeongguk swallows down the unease coiling in his stomach.

“Oh, you know who. That demented hag Jimin lives with. She’s fucking crazy.”

Jeongguk blinks, once, twice, before shaking his head in confusion.

“Wait a second. What the fuck? Why would you want her dead?” Jeongguk asks, genuinely unable to wrap his head around Taehyung’s request. Jeongguk knows the lady is senile and has unpredictable fits of deluded ramblings, but she seems totally unaware of it. Yes, he’s seen Jimin looking utterly miserable when he leaves his apartment, but is that enough to want to kill a harmless, old lady?

Taehyung’s answer makes his blood run cold. “I just want her dead, okay? I have no other reason. She just needs to die.”

Jeongguk stares at him like he’s become even more abominable, like he’s not even human.

“What the fuck.” Jeongguk repeats, not even questioning him anymore. He knew Taehyung was a psychopath, but this is a new level of cruelty he’s never seen or heard of.

“You’re fucking sick in the head, dude. The lady’s like two energy drinks away from croaking. Why the hell can’t you just wait for nature to take its course?”

“Because I don’t fucking CARE, Jeongguk. Do you know what it means to not care?” He sighs, his patience wearing thin. The nonchalant air surrounding him vanishes in an instant, a sudden darkness cloaking his countenance.

“Why am I even explaining myself to you? You either kill her, or I ruin your family’s life and tell lovely Jimin YOU’VE BEEN STALKING HIM LIKE A FREAK!” He starts out speaking in a calm whisper, volume growing louder and louder until he’s screaming in Jeongguk’s face, the baritone quality of his voice causing goosebumps to rise all over his skin.

Jeongguk blinks, taking tentative steps away from Taehyung. A shadow obscures Taehyung’s eyes, making him appear even more deranged. Jeongguk is speechless, eyeing the boy with newfound loathing. He doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making right now, but Taehyung finds it amusing.

“Oh, come on! Don’t look at me like that.” He stares off into the distance, taking in the ashy, gray skyline surrounding them. Then, more softly, like he doesn’t want his words to carry in the wind. “I bet you’d do crazy things for him, too.”

Jeongguk swallows down the lump in his throat, unsure of what to think of Taehyung’s mercurial swings in behavior.

“You’re insane.” He whispers, just so Taehyung hears it from someone at least once in his life. The boy seems like he’s never been told no – not even once. Never been spanked for lying. Never been forced to apologize for hitting someone a little too hard during recess. Never been told to wash dishes. Never been reprimanded by an authority figure. Never been told in his face that he’s wrong. That what he’s doing is wrong.

Taehyung grins as if he’s received great praise. “Thank you,” he replies, smiling gently at the other before clearing his throat.

“So, what do you say, Jeongguk-ah?”

-

2011.10

It’s been a while since Jimin’s last received a note from his… admirer? He’s not sure what to call them, but maybe they don’t need a label, at all. It seems after months of intense scrutiny, his admirer has come to the conclusion that Jimin is just Jimin.

Insipid, uninspiring, Jimin.

For once, these monikers don’t bother him. Jimin smiles, giddy about his newfound peace. Taehyung seems to have laid off a bit, as well, which is intriguing – to say the least. Jimin hasn’t even seen the boy or his friends at school. Perhaps Jimin will end the school year riding a pleasant high.

On his way out of homeroom class, Mr. Lee becks him over with the flap of a hand. Jimin looks around him, blinking slowly before pointing at himself. Me? – he mouths, confusion overtaking his flat eyebrows.

Mr. Lee sports an expression of grave solemnity. The teenager gulps as he makes his way over, somewhat grateful the room is emptying out.

“Is something the matter, sir?” Jimin asks, his lips pursing into a small pout.

The teacher runs a shaking hand through his hair, and Jimin stares in mild disgust when the man rubs his hand, now slick with grease and sweat, over his dress trousers.

“Is everything okay, Jimin? There’s nothing going on in your personal life I should be made aware of?” He sounds out of breath, like a man aged beyond his years. Jimin is befuddled.

“Not at all, sir. Why would you think that?” He takes in Mr. Lee’s haggard appearance and the evident lack of sleep draining him of vitality as he sags into his rolling chair.

He sighs, but it doesn’t seem to liberate him from any of the burdens he bears within his mind.

“Okay, Jimin. That will be all. Take care of yourself.”

Jimin is ushered out of the classroom by Mr. Lee, and the teen wonders if it was out of consideration, given that he’d fail to kickstart his feet into motion by his own volition.

The blank slate of serenity that Jimin had enjoyed just moments ago had violently been tainted by the ugly color of apprehension. It splatters all over the canvas of his mind and trickles down into his forlorn heart.

The day wisps by in a blur, minutes evolving into hours without much preamble, leaving Jimin behind, trapped in his tormented ruminations.

The walk home is void of any unpredictable circumstances. It’s all so drab and cumbersome, Jimin practically dragging his feet across the pavement with every step.

He’s a block away from his complex.

In an instant, everything that Jimin wouldn’t even dare to imagine seems to happen all at once.

There’s a rubbery screeching of burnt tires against hot asphalt. There’s Hyori, crossing the street with a bag of groceries in each hand. She’s grumbling, ever the obnoxious consumer. She never looked both ways before crossing. Jimin had confronted her about this – had told her this generation lacked any regard or respect for authority or elders. There’s a busted-up car speeding through the neighborhood.

The driver is going at least 60 on a 20 street.

It’s a residential area. That’s not allowed.

The car hits Hyori’s body in a second. She doesn’t even scream. Yell. The sound of hunky metal colliding with her soft flesh is deafening enough. Jimin watches in horror as Hyori is flung over the roof of the car, landing in a heap of sagging skin a few feet behind the car’s skid marks. The driver speeds away, completely unconcerned about the life he just destroyed.

Jimin stares in shock. He can’t move – can’t breathe. His knees give out beneath him, falling to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been swiftly snipped in one fell swoop.

There’s pedestrians in the buildings surrounding the street who heard the crash and rushed outside in panic. Someone’s screaming their head off at the sight of Hyori’s unmoving body laying cold on the ground. A man close to Jimin calls 119, his voice rushed and almost unintelligible.

Jimin lays slumped, his feet tucked beneath his rear – while the world he’s come to know starts collapsing.

Chapter Text

present

Jimin gets out of bed to get ready for work. He supposes it’s a conditioned response, at this point - waking up before the alarm even sounds off. Trudging to the bathroom, he bends over the rusty sink to splash some lukewarm water onto his sleep-ridden face. The bags beneath his slanted eyes are a permanent feature, it seems. The nightmares tormenting his subconscious even when he closes his eyes don’t really offer much help, either.

He walks to the train station, satchel hanging loosely over his shoulder. Jimin’s brain has been programmed to no longer flinch when the train wheels screech to a halt a few meters before him. The ride is noncommittal. Or perhaps Jimin is too exhausted to notice anything happening around him.

Jimin’s been assigned opening shift today. He puts on a chill, lo-fi playlist through the café’s speakers and settles into the rhythm of the morning routine. There are a few regulars who show up, and Jimin greets them with a warm, practiced smile.

Mia clocks in a few hours later, a man holding the door open for her as she juggles her car keys, an insulated coffee cup, and her duffel bag on a single palm. She blushes, bowing repeatedly before ungraciously scurrying into the employee room.

Jimin winks at her as she flies by, her long brown hair bouncing behind her. The man who had helped Mia sits down by the counter near the cash register. Jimin’s blood stills in his veins, recalling that homeless man – Taehyung – had taken that same seat just a couple weeks ago. Before he’d – Jimin inhales shakily, unhelpfully fills his mind with more impossible questions. Where did he go before he disappeared? Why did he take Taehyung’s identity? Why were his teeth so perfect?

He shakes the thought away, already feeling his fingers clam up and his forehead beading with perspiration just trying to piece together whatever the hell was going on with that man.

An inkling of remorse blooms as he recalls the last thought he had regarding the man. Good riddance. Jimin frowns, suddenly consumed by an unimaginably persistent feeling of compunction towards this person he’d only known for a few hours – could he have done something differently? Maybe if he’d been kinder, maybe if he hadn’t lied –

Jimin’s mounting guilt suddenly drains as a loud cough dissipates that insidious train of thoughts. He turns, facing the man at the counter. Jet black hair frames a rounded face and cat-like eyes. He looks rather cute, Jimin thinks to himself, but the voice that slips out of the man’s pink lips is anything but.

Rather intimidatingly, the man drawls - the sound reminiscent of a purr – a minor complaint.

“Does anyone here actually work, or what?” He pointedly shoots a glance at Jimin’s hands, which are currently fiddling with a rag by the dishwasher. Jimin blushes to his roots, profusely apologizing – even though he’s sure the man has been sitting around idly without sparing the menu a perfunctory glance.

“What can I get you, sir?” Jimin tries straightening out the wrinkles of his apron, flustered beyond measure. He hopes he won’t get a negative review.

The man huffs, rolling his eyes in frustration, but – is that a hint of blush Jimin sees on his cheeks?

“A black coffee to go will do. No sugar or cream.” His lips barely even move as he mumbles out his order. Jimin imperceptibly leans forward to make sure he gets it right, dreading a possibly dissatisfied customer.

As soon as the man pays, swiping a black card – Jimin pretends his eyes don’t bulge out while turning to work on his order – he goes back to warming the seat closest to the counter.

What if he’s an undercover restaurant evaluator? Or a rich city guide rating local cafes and diners? Jimin is trembling as he pops the lid on the cup, making sure to add a thermal sleeve, and leaving a nice smiley face on the order sticker for good measure.

Jimin hands it over to the man with careful hands, smiling big, hopes the other doesn’t notice the corners of his mouth twitching.

The man gives a stiff wave, adding a small comment before leaving the establishment.

“Would you say hi to Mia for me, Jimin-ssi?”

Jimin stares blankly, a deer in the headlights. Mia walks out of the employee lounge moments later, his hair pulled up into a tight bun.

“Mia, do you know that guy?” He points to the strange man’s retreating figure, cloaked in a black trench coat.

“Who?” She asks, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of him through the window.

“The guy who opened the door for you. Kinda my height, black hair, droopy eyes?”

Mia snaps her fingers as she recognizes the description, turning to get the espresso machine started.

“Oh yeeaaah, him. But shouldn’t I be asking you that question, Jiminie? He came in a couple days ago asking for you, said you were an old friend from high school?” Mia opens up a bag of fresh coffee beans, pouring them into the burr grinder to make their signature house blend. Jimin is glad she’s too busy to look at him, or she’d find that his face is completely drained of color.

Jimin didn’t have any friends in high school. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that man before.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably, Mia turning back to stare at Jimin in mild panic. “Sorry, Jiminie. I should’ve asked you beforehand, but the guy asked for your number, and I gave it to him. He said he was your friend, I- I’m stupid –“

Jimin rushes to assuage her. “No, Mia – it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean any harm by it. I just… really don’t remember him, at all.” He finishes weakly, not wanting to expose himself as a friendless loser growing up.

Mia grins mischievously, leaning in to whisper at him conspiratorially. “Maybe it’s because he’s had a huge glow up. He’s freaking hot, Jimin!”

Jimin rolls his eyes playfully, Mia’s lighthearted banter and carefree personality successfully whisking his worries away – for now.

He focuses on getting through his shift, fulfilling every order diligently and remembering to smile kindly at every customer on their way out. It’s only when business has considerably dwindled that Jimin and Mia start engaging in meaningless small talk.

“Oh, Jimin! I totally forgot to tell you – would you mind closing up today? I’m sorry, I know it’s really short notice, but I’m going on a date with this guy – oh, my gosh, Jimin, he’s sex on legs, I’m telling you! – and anyway, he said he wouldn’t mind picking me up at work. Can you believe that? He’s such a gentleman! Ugh, why aren’t there more guys like him out there?!” She’s got a crazy blush running down her cheeks all the way to her neck, and Jimin laughs wholeheartedly at her frazzled explanation.

“Of course, Mia. No problem at all.” He replies easily, grinning cheek to cheek when she runs up to him and gives him a big hug, jumping excitedly as she does so.

She squeals, telling him all about how they met. He’s trying to take in as many details as he can, but his lovestruck coworker just keeps rambling on while he starts wiping down the tables.

“So, basically, he came into the café a couple weeks ago – gosh, you wouldn’t believe how fucking gorgeous he looked – and I’m pretty sure I was drooling as I took his order – “

Jimin laughs, chuckling loudly and interjecting here and there so Mia knows he’s listening.

“- And then I started seeing him come pretty much every day, although he’d always come at different times. I remembered his order, though, and he blushed like a sweetheart. Argh, how can a guy so fine be so adorable?!”

All the tables are clean now, and Jimin turns back with the dish cart, opting to wash all the used plates and utensils before putting the chairs up on the table. He’d never admit it, but he’s kind of curious to see Mia’s dreamboat date.

Mia nearly screams when he sees the guy’s car pull into the nearest parking space in front of the café. She runs into the lounge room to get her bag and touch up her makeup in the bathroom. Jimin smiles cheekily while he turns the faucet on, putting the water at its highest setting, so it starts dissolving any remaining crumbs and smears on the dishes.

The bells above the door jingle, and Jimin turns to greet who he presumes to be Mia’s date.

The plate he’s washing slips from his hands, all wet and slippery from the frothy soap bubbles.

Jimin eyes the piercings glinting over thick eyebrows. Dark hair curling over long eyelashes. His tall, daunting stature and equally intimidating build. He’s even bigger than Jimin remembers, his vision filling up with the sight of defined biceps and pecs that are nearly bursting out of the tight compression shirt he’s wearing.

It’s him. Jeongguk.

“You?” It sounds more accusatory than he’d intended it to be, but he stares in shock all the same. Jeongguk grins, something wicked in the slight curvature of his lips.

“Jimin, hi.” He breathes, eyeing the smaller up and down. Jimin is close to dropping another dish, this time a porcelain coffee mug, so he opts to dry his hands, his cheeks tinting a light pink at how informally Jeongguk addresses him. Like he’s familiar. Like they’ve known each other forever.

“Didn’t know you worked here.” He mutters, voice carrying honey-smooth, staring at Jimin like he’s the only thing in the room. Even when Mia stumbles out of the room - somehow looking less put together than she did before but always radiating that sweet charm that leaves their clients enamored and beaming – Jeongguk’s gaze doesn’t falter, not for a second. Jimin gulps, turning to glance at Mia nervously. She’s none the wiser, too busy ogling her date with unfiltered fancy.

Mia bids Jimin goodbye, nearly jumping when she feels Jeongguk’s palm rest on her shoulder. Jimin stares at the movement, trepidation slowly swelling when he notices Jeongguk’s knuckles are bruised and caked with dry blood.

Suddenly, he remembers that cursed night, the one that caused him to spiral like he hadn’t done so in years, flaring up all those precarious memories. He remembers his conversation with Becky and what she’d said. Be careful around Jeongguk.

Jimin’s heart falls, unknown fears suddenly sprouting like weeds in his conscience. He should’ve warned her. He should’ve been more alarmed, more cautious.

The bells above the door jingle when the pair leaves, a portent of something much more insidious lurking ahead. Jimin is, once again, bereft of any answers. Paranoia, his unwelcome friend, lingers by his side until his mind is finally silenced by the hush of slumber.

-

The forensic reports from autopsy had arrived earlier that afternoon. Chaewon had asked her connection at the police department to scan a copy for her. She flips through the pages for the nth time, completely aghast by what had been uncovered.

The ID found at the scene of the crime did not belong to the victim.

His name was Jung Beomhan. He was only twenty-five. Cause of death: asphyxiation. He’d choked on his own blood. There were over twelve stab wounds littered all over his chest, perforating most of his vital organs.

Chaewon runs a hand through her hair, presses the fleshy part of her palms into her eyes – she reaches for the file again, breathing in deeply through her small nose. She’s never been one to concern herself over the casualties she reported on. It was a routine part of her job: visit the crime scene, wait for official police statements, deliver them appropriately to the viewers who deserved to know the truth.

It was an ordinary procedure. She’d grown accustomed to it. But some things weren’t ordinary. It wasn’t normal when she’d receive calls from the victims’ families, crying, screaming, begging her to give them some closure. Concerned parents who wanted updates on the child molester captured near their toddler’s school, agitation evident even over the muffled phone speakers. Students ringing her to announce PSA’s on a former bully victim who’d killed his school counselor, had claimed she’d done nothing about the ongoing harassment.

Chaewon has become cynical, to a fault. Schools, elites, the government, the police – especially the police – she’d begun appraising them with a sharp eye. Years of being fed lies, doctored reports, censored witness statements, they’ve completely distorted her fill of integrity. Justice? It was something she couldn’t expect anymore. It just wasn’t the standard in this industry. Hadn’t been for a while. It made her sick. It made her not want to care.

Alas, just when it had become easier to apply that veneer of calculated disinterest, the humanity she’d encountered, interspersed within the sheer cruelty of it all, kept her tethered to reality.

She couldn’t be like them. Jung Beomhan, the same age as her beloved cousin, deserved better.

Chaewon picks up the reports, carding through the documents until she pulls out the one she’s looking for.

Kim Taehyung.

This is the only lead she’s got. The police strictly forbade her from further reporting on the case until they gave her the green light. She scoffed, knowing exactly what that implied. They’d probably archive the file, letting dust and termites eat away at the remnants of someone’s existence. The dishonesty and indolence were frankly repulsive, but she’ll be damned if she lets one more person get reduced to a file in a storage closet.

-

Chaewon has been spending the past two weeks getting home from the news station only to work a little more, surviving on instant ramen and lukewarm beer. She’s been running on fumes for twelve consecutive nights, and the spare room in her apartment that had been reserved for guests has been reworked into an improvised crazy room. It’s not like she gets many visitors, anyway, she reasons.

There’s a corkboard mounted on her wall filled with every lead and person she’s managed to find out about Kim Taehyung. Beomhan had left essentially no traces of his life, so there was really nothing she could uncover about him posthumously, unless she discovered his link to Taehyung first.

As luck would have it, Kim Taehyung had been reported missing for over two years now. It was his brother, Kim Seokjin, who had filed the claim after having called Taehyung hundreds of times throughout the course of 6 months, only to break into his house and find the place completely empty, like it’d been ransacked.

Unsurprisingly, the SMPA had kept this story under wraps since Seokjin had gone to them for help. It only became privy to the public when Chaewon herself had declared his name on live television at the scene of the crime, Taehyung’s family immediately raising awareness of the agency’s inexcusable negligence.

The Kims are prominent figures in Seoul’s elite class; Kim Soojung, Taehyung’s mother, is the Head of Marketing for Illumi, one of the biggest cosmetics companies in the beauty industry both domestically and internationally. His father, Kim Jeonghan, is one of the wealthiest chaebols in Korea, owning a large percentage of shares for several successful corporations across the country. The couple had gained immense celebrity after publicly donating to several non-profit organizations and hosting charity banquets to fund philanthropic endeavors throughout the world.

It all seemed a little too plastic. Chaewon didn’t buy the magnanimous façade for a second, but it was definitely quite odd that the SMPA didn’t prioritize Kim Taehyung’s disappearance given the family’s overwhelming influence.

As for Taehyung, there wasn’t much information the reporter could pull up on the guy, despite being an heir to a multi-million won enterprise.

After high school, it seemed like Taehyung vanished, the only record of his existence being his social media presence. He’d garnered over 50,000 followers on Instagram but had followed nobody himself. His first (and only) post was dated February 20, 2017. It received 36,512 likes. Only an absurd individual would think to reach out to every single person who had interacted with his account. It would take countless manpower and hours of labor, both of which Chaewon is severely lacking.

She sighs, reaching over the coffee table to grab her abandoned cup of microwaved ramen. It had already gone cold, but she slurps it down, nonetheless, desperately filling herself with anything other than the unnumerable questions flooding her mind.

Nothing was making sense. Why would a homeless Beomhan be carrying around crème de la crème Taehyung’s ID card? How long ago had he obtained it? When did Taehyung lose his ID card? Was it before or after he’d gone missing?

“Agh!” She screams, rubbing her hair over her head in a raged frenzy. There’s thousands of bits and pieces of information to comb through but so little to work from. And her one-man-army can only do so much, even though she’s been restricted to investigating privately at her own behest. It’s totally insane, but she can’t help wanting to uncover the truth by her own means for once. No red tape, no corrupt bureaucracy, no money under the table.

Beomhan had died with nothing to his name. Chaewon was determined to sneak through every crevice of the cracking pillars feebly upholding the travesty commonly known as the institution of justice.

The chair beneath Chaewon screeches in complaint as she pushes herself away from the table. Hands on her hips, she walks towards the bulletin board belligerently, a mean twist to her lips as she follows every picture and its respective connections. The red yarn she’d been using to map the thought-paths she’d taken from one clue to the next had begun fraying with how much she’d pulled, prodded, and tied it.

She glances at every piece of information she’d found on the internet – newspaper clippings, the autopsy reports, high-resolution pictures she’d found on the web. Until her eyes fall on one clue she hadn’t really looked into.

There was one particular post-it note that didn’t have red yarn intersecting over it.

Yonseop Preparatory Academy

Chaewon stares at it, wondering why she hadn’t delved deeper into it. Well – actually, she did. Her hands were figuratively tied from publicly investigating any of her leads. She couldn’t just waltz into the school harping on a former student.

Then, something clicked.

Yonseop. Yonseop. She knew she recognized that name somewhere. Her cousin Namjoon had studied there, too.

She screams in glee, jumping around the room and punching the air, feeling victorious despite not having reached any conclusive findings.

Chaewon pulls up her chat with Namjoon, smiling at his Pokemon icon and typing out her most saccharine message yet.

Chaewon [ 02:56 AM ] namuuuu, let’s meet up for coffee??? my treat!!!

-

2011.12

Snow falls softly onto the dirty streets of Gangnam. The thin layer of ice melts throughout the day, and yellowish trails of water run in rivulets across the pavement. It’s quite interesting how pristine and beautiful the white snow looks blanketed over a city of filth.

Winter has been generous, thus far. They haven’t had to cancel classes due to unexpected snowstorms or hail. The roads haven’t become undrivable. The sidewalks are still walkable. The chill of the air is bearable. And Jimin has gotten used to being alone again.

It’s almost as if the snow padding the earth has also come to cushion Jimin from the harsh reality of solitude. He’s lost one more person in his life.

Hyori wasn’t Jimin’s favorite person in the world. She wasn’t all that understanding of his wants and needs. She didn’t consider his feelings or opinions. But she was a person in his life. And that alone was more than what he has now.

He didn’t push himself to outwardly pretend to feel something he wasn’t feeling. At her funeral, he didn’t cry. She was a sweet person, it seems – there were quite a few people at the funeral. Jimin wonders why they never came to visit her when she was still around.

Was it her condition? The one that made her somewhat insufferable, but not unpleasant. He asks himself these questions as he spots a strawberry blonde head in the crowd. It’s Sungwoon, Jimin figures. He takes in the monochrome before him – black veils, black dress shoes, black suits, black coffin, black shades, black hair, black sky. All black, except for her grandson’s pretty, blonde hair.

Jimin resists the urge to fiddle with the wispy strands covering his forehead. He remembers how much Hyori would play with it, always crooning about how lovely her Sungwoonie was. He feels something hot and acidic rise up in his throat, has to swallow it down bitterly when he finds Sungwoon staring right back at him. There’s an odd set to his eyebrows, a strange quirk to his lips. He’s unsure if the serene expression he’s plastered on is one of quiet mourning or calculated temperance. Perhaps he’s only wearing a façade of fortitude. Perhaps he’s not as stricken with grief as he should be.

Jimin doesn’t know what to make of it when Sungwoon approaches him after the ceremony, gait light but purposeful.

“I presume you were her caretaker, yes?” He stares at the perfectly identical shade of peach in Jimin’s hair, not really expecting an answer.

Jimin replies to the rhetorical question all the same, a bit embarrassed for some unnamed reason. It’s not like he chose to be Sungwoon’s doppelganger.

His voice is scratchy as he whispers it. “Yes, I was.”

Sungwoon hums, appraising him from head to toe. “The resemblance is uncanny, I must admit.” There’s a hint of a smile playing at his lips, and Jimin is unsure if it’s proper given the circumstances. The black sky begins rumbling above them, seemingly making its opinion known. A drop of rain lands on Jimin’s cheek. It’s cold. Freezing even.

It starts pelting quite hard after those first few sprinkles, and Sungwoon moves to link his arm around Jimin’s.

“Come on, now. Can’t be getting all wet now, can we?” There’s something so jovial about his character, entirely misplaced for a funeral procession. Unease builds in Jimin’s stomach as he tries to match Sungwoon’s steps.

Once they make it to the apartment complex, the heavy sense of foreboding that has been bubbling in Jimin’s mind finally spills over. Sungwoon heads straight for Jimin’s – his – room, throwing all of Jimin’s belongings out into the living room.

Jimin stands with his mouth parted in shock, eyes wandering over the floor where his clothes and school materials form small heaps on the carpet Hyori vacuumed every week. Something dreadful rises from the pit of Jimin’s stomach at the memory of the elderly woman’s spirit – she was just here a few days ago, her presence still alive within the confines of their shared space. He stares at Sungwoon with fear and inklings of condemnation, brows furrowing low over his judging eyes. He, too, never bothered caring about his grandmother when she was alive and well – at least, somewhat.

Jimin dares to speak, if only to break the pregnant silence. “So, what - you’re going to live here now?”

Sungwoon snickers, stretching out his neck to peer at Jimin from the guest room doorway. “Why do you sound so upset about that, huh? I’m the last of her family left. It’s rightfully mine.”

Jimin can’t name the emotion that urges him to defend Hyori – he didn’t even care for her that much. Perhaps, it’s concealed self-preservation wearing a mask of ethical consideration. It’s the fight instinct surpassing his usual flight response to avoid confrontation. He just – can’t be on his own again, can’t start all over from zero.

“It was yours when she was alive, too.” He bites back, tempted to add a bit more vitriol but choosing to temper down.

He hears Sungwoon scoff, can imagine him tilting his head in disparagement, sees him walk out of the guest room – Jimin’s place of comfort for almost an entire year – and hears the way all of his personal effects are dropped carelessly over his shoes.

“Y’know –“ Sungwoon starts, his voice trailing off bitterly as his eyes rove over Jimin’s features, and no – Jimin doesn’t really want to know whatever he’s going to spit out, “-you actually pull off the blonde better than I do.” Jimin takes a furtive step back, noting the strange glint of mania that flashes through Sungwoon’s irises.

He gulps, tension palpable as it envelopes the two in a suffocating grip, coiled with unspoken animosity that isn’t predominantly mutual, by any means.

Sungwoon lunges forward to grasp Jimin’s waist, but he’s quickly able to dodge due to the subtle distance he’d created between them. Sungwoon lands on his knees, wincing and cursing out Jimin’s name like it’s personally offended him, but the other had managed to unbolt the door and flee before thinking about it too much.

He runs, not stopping for breath until his lungs physically ache and his chest constricts painfully with every heaving motion of his diaphragm.

Jimin’s mind spins as he turns in an endless circle, trying to figure out where he is. He scours every possible landmark in the area – street names, building entrances, vandalized public areas, the very sidewalk he’s standing on – and he can’t recognize a thing.

The lack of identification serves as a chilling epiphany. Of course there’s nothing for him to recognize here. It makes sense why there’s no gang graffiti, civic centers, or corner shops. He managed to run into a completely different zip code, the one that only harbors 200-floor buildings with indoor jacuzzies and unthinkable dog breeds.

He’s in Seocho district, home to the most affluent members of Gangnam's upper crust.

Jimin feels terribly out of place in the cheap funeral attire he thrifted at a donation store a few blocks from his - the old apartment. The black slacks he'd found for ₩10,000 are a bit tight, but they were a steal he, quite literally, couldn't afford to pass up. Jimin didn't know how to properly wear a tie, he'd never been invited to an event that would warrant him knowing, so he'd tied it a bit uncomfortably, a knot sitting rigidly at his collar.

Jimin feels a bit silly now, having nothing to his name but a lame costume and - he rummages through three pockets, realized belatedly the back right one had a hole the size of his thumb, and is thankful he at least carried his wallet with him - ten, fifty, a hundred... ₩122,000. It would be enough for a night at an obscure hotel by the disreputable parts of Gangnam, but he doubts he'll have the same fortune in Seocho.

He blinks up in self-loathing at the skyscrapers disappearing into the low-set afternoon clouds, still gray and hefty with the promise of rain. Jimin doesn't have the slightest idea of what to do now, wandering with unsure, tired steps as his thighs and calves tense in protest with every press of his feet to the smooth, white pavement below him. His attention is quickly transfixed by the shimmery quality of the concrete, like it had been mixed with glass to make it shine under the streetlights.

He feels guilty desecrating the street with his nameless sneakers, so consumed by his anxiety-riddled thoughts he doesn't notice the two pedestrians he walks into.

Jimin stumbles back, an apology ready on his tongue, until he attaches a soul to one of the nameless figures; his heart sinks deep into his chest.

"Well, isn't this funny? What's Park Jimin doing around my house?" Taehyung smiles, not even acknowledging Jimin's presence in favor of staring at his friend with feigned intrigue. Jimin’s never seen the other guy before, but he’s quite handsome. Jimin, yet again, feels shamefully inadequate.

“Y-your house?” Jimin mutters, peering through his peripherals and only taking in huge condominiums.

His friend laughs caustically, eyeing Jimin up and down with an intent Jimin can’t quite place. It makes his tummy turn in fiery knots.

“Yes, Jimin. His dad owns this building. But Tae’s party is in the penthouse suite.”

It’s then Jimin notices them carrying brown paper bags with contents that clink with every shifting of their arms. Oh.

Taehyung smiles, and it’s the kind Jimin’s never been on the receiving end of. He seems genuinely happy. It’s an emotion Jimin thinks should belong on Taehyung’s face more often.

“It’s my 18th birthday.” He says proudly, pulling out a bottle of alcohol that looks expensive. Jimin gulps nervously, plastering on an easy expression. He hopes it reaches his eyes.

“Congrats, Taehyung. I-“ Jimin cuts himself off, questioning where this conversation is going. He doesn’t have much else to say, and he can’t really pretend to like the guy, platitudes aside.

Taehyung and his friend share a loaded glance, exchanging looks of mirth that Jimin can’t decipher for the life of him.

“Say, Mingyu, why don’t we invite him to the party? Wouldn’t you like to come to my party, Jimin-ah?” Taehyung drawls, a patronizing tone to his invitation, like he doesn’t expect Jimin to refuse such an exclusive offer. Like he won’t let him refuse.

Jimin hugs his arms to his chest, not wanting to be anywhere near his tormentor but also not in a position to reject an act of hospitality, if whatever this is can even be categorized as such. Eventually, Jimin finds himself nodding, a blush painting his cheeks when Taehyung high fives Mingyu, like it’s the best gift he’s received today.

Jimin doesn’t remember much of the journey towards the penthouse; it was really difficult to pay attention to anything when Taehyung and Mingyu started unbuttoning their shirts on the ride up the elevator. The pressure started decreasing the higher the altitude, and Jimin’s ears felt like they were about to pop. His eyes urgently fixated on anything other than the two boys undressing. His hands would’ve undoubtedly gone to cover them if it weren’t for their current responsibility of covering Jimin’s ringing ears.

Taehyung laughs, taking in Jimin’s agitated state. He cuts the distance between the two of them, fingers deftly undoing Jimin’s top buttons until the shirt hangs on one shoulder. Jimin doesn’t breathe, staring unblinkingly at Taehyung’s hands where they linger near his collarbones. What was that?

Mingyu opens the door to Taehyung’s apartment, the mind-numbing silence suddenly overtaken by overwhelming reverberations of deep bass beneath the marbled floor of Taehyung’s suite. The living room is flooded with purple fluorescents, neon lights flashing across lavender-tinted skin. Taehyung grabs Jimin’s wrists and tugs him into the center of the room, and everything he says is immediately drowned out by the pounding electronic music that blares through speakers that seem to be installed within the walls of the suite.

Jimin gawks, perplexed by the sheer luxury Taehyung’s family has afforded their son for his birthday. Jimin can’t even remember the last time he celebrated his.

Mingyu reappears – Jimin hadn’t even seen him leave – with three little glasses filled to the brim with what Jimin can only assume were the drinks they had brought up. The two boys link elbows and tip back their heads in unison as the shot disappears down their throats. Taehyung groans, releasing a gritty aahh when he swallows it all in one gulp. Jimin’s hands tremble where they hold the small glass, regretting every decision he’s made in the past 24 hours.

“I- I’ve never-“ Jimin starts clumsily, only to be interrupted by the birthday boy. He signals for Mingyu to do something with his hands, all while taking the shot from Jimin’s. Mingyu comes behind Jimin, his chest pressing warmly – too warmly – to Jimin’s back, while locking his dainty wrists in a firm grip.

Jimin begins squirming in fear, eyes widening in horror as two of Taehyung’s fingers pry open his lips, while the hand with the glass touches his chin. The cool sensation paired with the heat of the drink pouring down his throat leaves Jimin’s senses completely overstimulated, mind spinning as the foul smell of alcohol permeates through his nostrils and into his sinuses. His entire head rings, alarmed by the intoxicating, potent substance entering his body.

He doesn’t register how he’s thrashing against Mingyu’s restraints until Taehyung cups his face with his two big, veiny hands. They’re so hot – his hands, Jimin thinks. Not the two guys currently smothering him with unwanted attention. Definitely not them.

Taehyung laughs, a sincere belly laugh, eyes wet and shining as they stare into Jimin’s. His breath reeks of alcohol, and it’s really disgusting, but all Jimin can focus on are his perfect teeth and his pink lips so close to his own.

Fuck. This can’t be real. Jimin quickly tips himself over to purge his stomach of the nasty drink he’d just consumed. He hasn’t eaten anything else since the previous night, so there’s not much to empty. Gosh, he’s so embarrassed, face burning red as he picks himself up from the floor. He thinks about how it’s Taehyung’s birthday, and he’s been invited to it – free of charge – and he’s been nothing but a bumbling mess.

Mingyu coos at him, kneeled on the floor, but there’s something a lot darker in Taehyung’s eyes. They rake over the smooth skin of Jimin’s shoulder, now totally exposed from all the tugging and jolting on Jimin’s slim body. His perusing halts frighteningly over the hastily tied knot over Jimin’s throat, how the black contrasts so beautifully against his pale neck.

Jimin stands up on weak knees, terribly humiliated by his poor attire and even poorer etiquette. Shit, Taehyung is probably going to ruin his life right then and there for being such a slob.

Mingyu grabs the back of Jimin’s neck forcefully, tipping another bitter drink down Jimin’s throat. Thankfully, most of it dribbles past his lips, down his chin, tracing a sheer path down his neck before disappearing beneath his shirt. Taehyung stares and stares. Jimin is horrified.

His brain swims in his skull, thoughts floating uselessly in his psyche as he scrambles to please, gosh, he’s supposed to please Taehyung. He’s supposed to bend the knee. That’s what he’s always done to avoid problems. His mind is too scrambled to supply him with the uncomfortable truth that nothing he’s done has ever really helped him avoid problems.

The problems always find him, one way or another. Instead, he winds down a path of half-truths. Everywhere he goes, he brings upon death. Everyone he encounters seems to hate his guts. Every time he tries to do something right, it always ends up working against him. Every step he goes forward, he ends up going two steps back.

Jimin stares at Taehyung, his eyes brimming with tears as another shot gets poured past his mouth. He tugs at Taehyung’s shirt, pink puffy lips wobbling when sobs rack through his chest.

“I didn’t e-even” he sniffles, wiping the fat tears leaking out of his eyes with the back of his hand, “get you… a pr-esent.”

A vein near Taehyung’s temple pulses. His throat is suddenly too dry. Mingyu is about to pour another shot of vodka into the glass, but Taehyung whines at him impassively. It’s almost a petulant sound, one inordinately out of character for Taehyung, and his friend stares at him in shock.

Jimin doesn’t know what’s going on until he’s whisked away into a room that’s dark as night. Here, the lights don’t paint the room a rich violet, the music is muffled, only mild reverberations managing to ripple into the otherwise quiet space.

The curly-haired boy tugs Jimin further into the room, the blonde following listlessly, without much thought. His bottom bounces against a fluffy surface, and Jimin had never believed it to be possible to sit on a cloud! He’s so amazed-

Taehyung’s suddenly breathing into his neck, black curls brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear.

“You wanna give me a present?” He asks, the texture of his voice raspy and taut, like he can’t breathe. Jimin feels like he can’t either, throat constricting around his reply.

“Y-yeah. It’s only fair, r-right?” Jimin’s eyelids are heavy over his eyes, and he blinks slowly, as if it were all but a hazy dream. Or a nightmare.

Taehyung nods, once, twice, like he’s convincing himself, swipes his tongue over his lips as he stares at Jimin’s. They’ve always been so rosy and fat.

He leans in, pulling the collar of Jimin’s shirt in tandem. The smaller falls forward with a gasp, his lips crashing into Taehyung’s. It’s all Taehyung needs to open his mouth and swallow Jimin’s whole, lips widening to fit all its plushness. His tongue runs all over Jimin’s lips, and he groans, savoring how soft and delectable they feel. He pushes the wet muscle deeper inside, feeling how Jimin tenses under his hands. He’s so pliant, so malleable. Jimin doesn’t even move, frozen as Taehyung takes, and takes, and takes.

Jimin’s thoughts don’t feel like his own, and he struggles to believe the reality he’s currently experiencing. He doesn’t trust his sentience enough, not after all the drinks he’d guzzled down. Why would Taehyung be kissing him?

“Fuck, Jimin.” It sounds… like Taehyung, but he’s never heard his voice sound so wrecked with want. His hands slink down to Jimin’s shoulders, pushing down the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly the skin of his chest is assaulted by the stinging cold air hanging around their foggy bubble of intimacy.

Jimin shudders, not entirely proud of the fact that he’s fantasizing about someone from school, much less Taehyung.

Taehyung’s eyes are lidded shut, eyebrows furrowed in ghastly pleasure, teeth biting and sucking on Jimin’s lips like he can’t get enough, and Jimin is… his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and the alcohol swimming in his veins fills him with a heady concoction of dread and arousal, and it terrifies him, how out of control he feels.

He pushes against the body tugging his closer, practically whines in frustration when a fat tongue licks across his dewy cheeks. Jimin shoves Taehyung back onto the cloud they’re seated on, scooches his bottom on top of the taller boy’s front – now he’s immobilized by his weight! – and he plops down onto him with a dull smack of skin against skin, breathing deeply into Taehyung’s clavicle before losing all consciousness.

-

present

Chaewon sits near a booth by the farthest corner of the coffee house. She compulsively checks her phone every ten seconds, even though no new notifications have buzzed in. This is the closest she’s been to making any kind of progress on the case, and there’s nothing that could stop her from bouncing her knee under the table, or drumming her fingertips on the rim of her cup, or biting on her nails.

Light breaks through the room every time the doors open, ensconcing Chaewon in a short-lived rush of excitement, only to sigh in disappointment to find someone who isn’t Namjoon walking into the establishment.

It’s been seven minutes! Where is he? She drops her head into her hands, pouting as she starts to lose her exuberant expression in a battle of attrition against plummeting expectations.

Then she hears a snicker to her left. Her head shoots up, gaze darting around until it lands on a big, tan frame dressed in earth tones. Namjoon’s smiling cheekily, observing her reactions while biting down a belly laugh.

Chaewon groans, charging towards him like a woman scorned.

“You fucking rascal. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?!” Chaewon shrieks, and Namjoon bows apologetically to the customers whose stares range from mild concern to unbridled judgement. Chaewon pays them no mind, promptly dragging her cousin to the booth where her coffee’s gone lukewarm. She makes sure to tell him as much.

Namjoon rubs the back of his head sheepishly, a dimpled grin stretching his plump lips. “Traffic.” He offers unconvincingly. Namjoon settles into the seat directly opposite of Chaewon’s, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves.

“Soooo,” Chaewon says, leaning forward with gleaming eyes, “how have you beeeeen?”

Namjoon lets out an airy laugh, eyebrows raising curiously. “Oh, please, Chaewon. Spare me the niceties. You only text me when you need a favor.” He sips on the coffee she’d bought him, humming as the sweet scent of hazelnut filters through the little holes of the insulated cup.

Chaewon has the awareness to blush, her cheeks bunching up around a wry smile. She plays with the loose strands of hair framing her face, knows she can’t really deny it. Her work has consumed most of her free time, but she does try her best to stay in contact with the family.

“Namu, you know how my job is. I pretty much have to sit around waiting for something to report to drop into my lap. And it’s Gangnam, for pete’s sake. That’s, like, every thirty minutes!” She exclaims exasperatedly, sipping on her room temperature Americano. She grimaces, face souring in distaste.

Her cousin leans back on the cushioned seat rest, grinning to himself as he stares down at his lap. “So?” He blinks up at her, shrugging. “What is it, cuz?”

There’s something different about the way he conducts himself, and Chaewon’s quick to notice it. She could blame her keen investigative skills, but it’s probably more attributable to the fact that Nam is family; they’ve known each other forever.

“You went to Yonseop Academy, right?”

Namjoon raises a brow, nodding nonchalantly as he takes another sip of his hazelnut coffee. He makes a point to thank her for remembering his favorite. Chaewon waves it off, swirling the remaining coffee in her cup, somewhat mindlessly. Distractedly.

She’s doing it on purpose, of course. She wants Namjoon to get eaten up with intrigue; it’ll make their meeting seem less like an interrogation and more like a conversation. This is witness grilling 101.

“What about it?” He asks, taking the bait.

“Did you ever know a Kim Taehyung?” She asks, fussing with one of the sleeves of her cardigan before looking into Namjoon’s eyes.

He stills, the pause lasting a fraction of a second, before chuckling, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth.

“Probably. Pretty sure I knew five of them. It’s a common name.”

Chaewon’s eyes narrow, picking up on the way his gaze went past her shoulder before centering back on her.

“I’m sure it is, Joon. But this one’s dead.” She purposely omits any of her findings on Beomhan.

Namjoon’s midway through bringing the coffee cup to his lips as she says it, stilling as realization sets in. Something heavy overtakes his features, weighing down over the corners of his eyes. Chaewon frowns, unsure of what to make of it.

“What a shame.” Then, his hand resumes the path towards his mouth, tipping his head back to gulp down some more hazelnut whipped cream.

“Maybe there were several, but they couldn’t have all looked like this.” Chaewon reaches into her cardigan’s breast pocket, placing the picture of Taehyung’s ID card right in front of him.

Namjoon scoots closer to the table, picking up the picture and inspecting it with squinting eyes. Chaewon chews on the styrofoam flap of her cup.

“Hmmm. He does look familiar. I think I remember him being in the chess club.” He responds noncommittally, scooting back and sliding the picture back to her.

Chaewon blinks, her mouth more than likely gaping a little.

“Nam, I- I don’t know what to say. This is someone you could’ve known. Someone your age.” She laughs lightheartedly, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m practically begging you for some information. Don’t you care at all?” The question leaves a bitter tang on her tongue as she says it.

Namjoon’s face hardens imperceptibly. Chaewon sees it.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Chae. How can I feel any empathy for a guy I barely know or remember?” His voice sounds a little sharper, cutting the edge of exasperation and indifference.

“Come on,” Chaewon presses, rubbing her temples in frustration, “this is important to me.”

Namjoon picks at a napkin at the center of the table, folding it into neat halves. Then quarters. Then eighths. Chaewon’s stare flicks between his fingers and his face, confused by his nonchalant demeanor.

Her cousin hums, his eyes rolling around like he’s thinking of what to say. A pause stretches between them, one that lingers in the air with words unspoken.

“I remember this Taehyung, the one you showed me, his family was quite wealthy.” Chaewon nods encouragingly, despite the fact that she already knows this information. It’s as though she’s trying to convince herself that Namjoon is being sincere. That he’s not hiding something from her.

Namjoon pauses, like he’s rolling around what he’s going to say next on his tongue. “He liked using that fact to his advantage.” He stares at her, watching as the cogs inside her head start processing that answer.

She settles for a slow nod, taking the answer for what it is. It would seem obvious – a rich kid being aware of his family’s influence – but it could hint towards a deeper understanding of Taehyung’s attitudes and personality.

“Okay, Namu. Thank you so much for your time.” She hates how clinical it sounds, can’t stand how Namjoon has already gotten out of his seat before she’s finished the sentence, like she’s not worth any more of his time.

Namjoon smiles at her, but it’s scathing, his words even more so. “Next time you wanna use me as journalistic fodder, just tell me beforehand, yeah? No more silly pretenses.”

Chaewon sighs, pinching her nose. “Namjoon, wait. Look – I’m sorry, okay? You know it’s my job to find the truth.”

Namjoon turns back to stare at her, his jaw clenched tight. “Don’t you think you’re a little too curious for your own good?”

The question settles heavily in the air between them.

He coughs dryly, walking towards the doors of the café without sparing Chaewon another glance.

Chapter Text

2011.11

Sleep no longer comes gently to Jeongguk. Each day ends with recurring nightmares of that scene, of that poor woman’s defenseless body slamming into the hood of his dad’s car.

He felt sick asking his father to borrow it, the nausea only intensifying when he handed over the keys so easily, smiling at his son reassuringly, jokingly adding – “I’ll charge you the repair if you wreck it.”

Ironically enough, Hyori was so frail that the impact had barely caused a dent. The real toll had been removing the specks of blood from the white paint. It had splattered everywhere, but Jeongguk couldn’t even bring himself to fixate on that fact too much – not when he’d thrown up at least twice after having safely parked near the outskirts of the city.

He’s sure no one in the area would’ve seen him, and he’d wrapped several layers of duct tape over the license plate to ensure anyone who did would send law enforcement on a wild goose chase searching for a white pickup truck.

It’s hard to sleep in the comfort of his bed. The pliant cushion of the mattress feels too comforting, his cotton blankets too warm, fluffy pillows too soft. He feels he deserves something a little harder, something a little colder, so he settles on the floor, curled in fetal position as he cradles his head in his arms.

Jeongguk tries to reason within himself – he’s the only person he can talk to about this, after all – that it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean to do it. He would’ve never killed someone so vulnerable and defenseless. He couldn’t even kill Taehyung, that fucking creature, someone who actually deserves to rot in indescribable anguish.

He gasps, his chest racking with sobs that he can’t release out of fear his parents will hear him. Jeongguk goes to sleep with snot clogging his nostrils and tears drenching the front of his shirt.

The mornings don’t grant him any consolation, either. His father rubs the top of his head affectionately, and his mother follows closely behind, planting a sweet kiss on his temple. He doesn’t mean to flinch, but he can’t help it. Not when he knows he’s not worthy of any kindness or love. Not after what he’s done.

Mr. Jeon clicks on the TV, turning on the news and fiddling with the antenna after the screen blurs with static. Jeongguk pales every time the daily headlines come up, skin turning ghostly white when he reads the one rolling on the bottom of the screen. Pedestrian fatality. Elderly woman. No suspects identified. Likely hit and run.

It feels a bit disgusting, like a sick joke he’s in on. They’d covered the story so impersonally. Didn’t even include her face or her name. She had become another statistic, an anonymous tragedy. And Jeongguk loathes the fact that he alone will have to shoulder this burden for the rest of his life. He has a corpse on his hands, and a red film coats his memories.

At school, Jeongguk stops seeking Jimin out. He stops writing him notes. He can’t feign to be a normal person when he’s taken someone’s life – and worse, someone Jimin knew personally. Jeongguk’s nerves are fraying at the mere thought that he’ll come across Taehyung’s manic smile, and he’ll crumple to the ground in self-pity. He fears every day that Taehyung will rescind his olive branch of coercion and make good on his word to ruin his family’s life. To ruin his chance at ever seeming like a normal person to Jimin.

Jeongguk smiles to himself self-deprecatingly, tears already lining his red-rimmed eyes. As if that were ever a possibility.

-

present

Mia is pleasant. She grins kindly at any random passersby on the street. She always remembers Jeongguk’s coffee order. She brings him glazed pastries on their dates.

But Mia isn’t Jimin.

And that fact becomes increasingly difficult to ignore every time Jeongguk comes to pick her up from the café, neck stretching out for a peak of Jimin’s silky black hair, a whiff of his naturally peachy scent, anything.

It becomes impossible to hide how he recoils whenever Mia tries to kiss him – she’s quite audacious considering her guileless persona, having leaned forward into his space one too many times when she thought Jeongguk wasn’t paying attention.

He always waves it off, Jeongguk's neck burning as he stares at her expressions of longing – he promises he only has the best intentions and doesn’t want to rush their courting stage.

Jeongguk only feels mildly guilty about deceiving her: using her as a pretense to get closer to his one true desire. Yeah, he’s not contrite in the slightest, actually. Not when he thinks about how long he’s wanted Jimin, what he’s done to make him his.

He may have wiretapped Mia’s phone on their first date just to hear her conversations with Jimin, but it’s not an egregious invasion of privacy because he cuts off the feed once Jimin is gone, completely apathetic towards the girl’s personal matters.

Jeongguk thinks it’s really adorable how supportive Jimin is for his coworker. She’s honestly quite annoying and extremely infatuated with Jeongguk, a fact that would make him uncomfortable if it weren’t for him feeling the same way about Jimin.

Jeongguk is nothing if not self-aware. Ever since his first kill, he’s had to come to terms with the concept that he is the only person accountable for his thoughts. He’s the one who had tormented his teenage mind for years over circumstances he couldn’t control.

His actions, on the other hand – that’s a different story. Jeongguk firmly believes that if other people’s actions can serve as a catalyst for good, then by all means they can serve as a catalyst for evil.

Jeongguk is obsessed with Jimin, to an unthinkable degree, but it’s not really his fault. It’s not his fault Jimin is breathtaking, quite literally the only one capable of making him endure every terrifying night with the hope of enjoying even the faintest sliver of Jimin’s existence the next day, be it vicariously or not.

He plans to savor that mesmerizing vitality directly from the source, a ready excuse on his tongue for when he gets to talk to him.

Jeongguk wonders if perhaps he is being too obvious; he hasn’t really been discrete in the way he looks at him. However, Jeongguk has been told he exudes a kind of effortless charm that seems playful, almost innocent, but also tantalizing. Brooding.

It is a part of his development he’d only tapped into after turning 18, certain… events unfolding in his life that made him mature exponentially within the span of a few months. It was then he became fully aware of how pathetic he’d been all his life, letting himself get trampled on by his circumstances and those around him who flaunted their power – whether it was earned through sweat and tears, or through blood alone, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the process of self-actualization, meeting one’s full potential, uncovering every dark recess in the psyche and exposing it to the harsh friction of time and its insurmountable inertia.

Jeongguk decided he wouldn’t merely be dragged along by the current – none of that. He would carve out the labyrinth of his future, meticulously planning and preparing for the inconvenient troughs, the cumbersome dead ends. Sometimes, he would have to remove those dead ends with violence, the kind that is necessary to proudly announce that one has conquered a new crest of life.

It had started with his body. There is a level of assault the human body must endure to withstand the weathering that comes with growth and, consequently, pain. Jeongguk vowed to never lose in a fight with anyone that dared to become an obstacle. His lanky, pubescent husk would gradually shed, leaving room for a sinewy armor of musculature that showed through every precise movement of his body. Later came his appearance. There was a certain boyish aspect of his face that he couldn’t eradicate, even after years of exhaustive physical contouring. His eyes would always be round and big, like a doe. Maybe, a few piercings would add an edge. His lips were always pink and pouty, with a pert cupid’s bow for good measure. Some piercings littered there might do the trick.

He'd come home for Chuseok to visit his parents after years of radio silence, and the atmosphere when he’d been greeted at the door couldn’t have been more satisfying. There was a sort of frigid tension in the air, like his father couldn’t recognize him. Gosh, did that make everything worth it. His mother kissed him sweetly on the cheek, Jeongguk glowing with pride at the fact that she had to tip-toe to reach his face.

He'd become unrecognizable even to his parents. Jeongguk smiled to himself as he left the following day, vowing to remain steadfast in his brutal but rewarding process of metamorphosis.

Next came the tattoos. It had probably been the most violent physical change he’d experienced, not because of the sheer pain and blood, but because he would have to grow accustomed to the black etched into his skin forever. It was morbidly poetic; after dealing with his rotten conscience for years, an internal mark of disgrace that no one, not even his shadow, could penetrate, he had finally allowed himself to be cracked open, letting the darkness spill through the fissures of his very being, manifested as a stigma for everyone to see in the light of day.

There was a sense of power in the fear he could instill in a person simply for existing, all tall, dark tattoos, imposing build. For once, there was a way for him to exude that which had been simmering in his tainted mind.

Jimin has grown exceedingly suspicious of him, for reasons Jeongguk can’t begin to fathom. He has been playing the role of the “golden retriever boyfriend” – as Mia called him – exceptionally well, has heard Jimin voice this exact sentiment when they chat between breaks. But there’s a noticeable shift in his entire being when Jeongguk enters the café, like he’s on edge.

Jeongguk would never mistake his persistence in self-improvement for undisciplined emotion. He won’t feel abashed about his transformation, even if it may cause Jimin to stare at him like a shadow has consumed Jeongguk’s soul.

“Jeongguk, h-hi.” Jimin whispers, playing with a stubborn strand of hair by his ear that won’t behave. He stumbles a little as he makes his way to the register, and Jeongguk sees the way his baggy jeans are rolled up over his sneakers. Cute.

“M-mia’s not here today.” Jimin stares at the barbell piercing through Jeongguk’s eyebrow, licking his lips that look dry and cracked. Jeongguk’s hands twitch where they’re stuffed, deep in his front pockets.

Jeongguk hums, pretending to be confused. “Are you sure, Jimin-ah? I could’ve sworn she worked on Friday afternoons.”

Jimin gapes at him a little, his eyes furrowing in alarm. “I really- find that hard to believe.” He cuts himself off, like he’s suddenly embarrassed by his brazen accusation.

Jeongguk laughs, his head tipping back, and it sounds silly and childish. When he recenters his focus on Jimin, he finds a somewhat disbelieving expression of endearment on his face. Jeongguk is a bit embarrassed – there’s still some things he hasn’t been able to change. He coughs, stills his features, and suddenly there’s a smirk curling his lips.

“Why is that?” He asks, coming to cock his hip against the counter and fold his arms over his chest. Jimin bawks, his eyes roaming Jeongguk’s torso in a frenzy before settling on his face. There’s a blush coloring his cheeks. Jeongguk stares.

Jimin giggles nervously, hating the way his anxiety is making his tummy tingle. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious. You come here all the time to pick her up. You know her schedule.”

Jeongguk hums, gauging Jimin’s reactions. The smaller seems to curl into himself with every second their conversation extends itself. Jeongguk wonders if perhaps he appears menacing to Jimin. After all, he’d warn a sleeveless tank that exposed all the ink littering his skin, choppy bangs slightly wet from his shower earlier.

“What if I came to see you?” He says, totally deadpan, eyes going wide the way he knows makes Mia melt into a lovestruck puddle.

Jimin blanches, his breath hitching audibly. Jeongguk smiles, watches him squirm.

“W-hat are you even saying?” Jimin replies weakly, keeping his hands busy as he avoids Jeongguk’s gaze. “Isn’t Mia your girlfriend?” He mutters, and Jeongguk thinks he might detect some venom in his voice.

Jeongguk decides this is a good time to wreak havoc.

“Sometimes she scares me a bit. Y’know, I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter, hips repositioning behind him. Jimin gulps, thankful the café is relatively empty.

“On our first date, Mia kinda –“ he licks his lips, scratches the light stubble on his chin, as if debating whether to go on – “she kinda threw herself on me.” Jimin quirks an eyebrow, seemingly not buying it.

Jeongguk presses on, staring down at his palms. “She tried to fuck me, Jimin. On the first night.” Jimin looks around the room, making sure no one heard the obscenity thrown around so crassly.

Jimin blushes, holding a small finger over his plump lips, eyes widening as he silently urges Jeongguk to be more decorous. Jeongguk waves his hands in apology, reaching out one arm to tuck the hair sticking out cutely over Jimin’s forehead behind his ear.

That effectively strips Jimin of all his previous boldness, the smaller gasping with a coyness rivaling that of a virgin. Jeongguk almost coos, but he knows better. Jimin is definitely not a virgin. The unexpected train of thought sours Jeongguk’s mood, a sudden hue of gray coloring over the dark cast of his eyebrows.

“Anyway,” he continues, pulling his hand back reluctantly, “she apologized, said she’s been dealing with daddy issues since she was a kid, and it’s made her somewhat of a sex fiend-“ Jimin gawks, taking offense on Mia’s behalf because Jeongguk is so brazenly sharing something she’d told him in confidence.

“Jeongguk-“ Jimin interrupts, but Jeongguk talks over him, enthralled by the pout on Jimin’s face. “So, yeah. We’re not actually dating, but she’s kind of insane, soooo-“

“Jeongguk!” Jimin says, raising his voice enough to draw confused stares from two girls sitting by the farthest window towards the street. Jimin bows profusely, apologizing for his outburst, but not before sparing Jeongguk a charged side-eye.

Jeongguk can only grin, all too pleased with himself for being able to push Jimin’s buttons.

Then, Jimin turns to face him, his eyebrows furrowing into a rigid line over his gorgeous eyes. “If you don’t like her, maybe you should just end things with her. Why string her along?” He spits out coldly, hostility quickly taking the reigns of their interaction. Jeongguk is baffled. He’d wanted Jimin to come to that conclusion, but this particular reaction leaves a sour aftertaste in his mouth. Why is he being so antagonistic all of a sudden?

Jeongguk pushes off the counter, quickly taking the defensive position. Jimin rounds the cash register, hands resting firmly on his hips as he walks towards the entrance of the café. On his way there, one of the rolled-up legs of his baggy jeans unfolds, causing him to trip on his next step.

Jeongguk is quick to react, stepping in front of him and catching the weight of his body. Jimin stumbles into him, their chests colliding with the impact. Jeongguk can feel every stutter of Jimin’s heartbeat, feels him gasp when Jeongguk places a firm, steadying hand at the small of Jimin’s back, the touch scalding where his palm touches a sliver of uncovered skin dangerously close to the hem of his pants.

Jeongguk thinks he’s going mildly insane as he feels the dip of Jimin’s back before it flares into perky mounds that are somehow apparent beneath what should be the most unflattering mom jeans ever. Fuck.

Jimin squawks indignantly, huffing as he pushes his palms - so small, Jeongguk notes - against Jeongguk’s pecs. This small action seems to send Jimin into a tizzy because he’s suddenly hauling Jeongguk over to the exit, his hand wrapped loosely around the other’s wider wrist.

“Leave.” He mutters, tapping his foot against the wooden floorboards impatiently. Gosh, Jeongguk finds him ridiculously cute.

Jeongguk bows sheepishly, saluting with two fingers before turning on his heels and heading towards his car.

Not all hope is lost, he thinks to himself, delirious with tightly coiled want just from the brief moments of contact with Jimin.

Even after so many years, the truth of the matter is immutable.

Jeongguk would do anything for Jimin.

-

2012.02

Jeongguk hasn’t seen Jimin at school in several months. He hasn’t been seeking him out or anything, too consumed by self-hatred to have an interest in anyone or anything – but Jimin has always been an exception. It’s not difficult to come to terms with. Jeongguk cares too much. It’s a double-edged sword he’ll be forced to bear for an undetermined amount of time.

Still, his absence is tangible, even if they’d never spoken; Jeongguk feels pathetic admitting to himself how much he’s missed him, but he’s even more miserable about the lengths he’ll go to just to hear word from him.

It’s how he finds himself cornering Taehyung one afternoon when the students flood the streets on their way home.

Taehyung laughs a bit, falling into that careless attitude he puts on so easily.

“Easy, now, Jeongguk-ah. Wouldn’t want someone getting the wrong idea, ay?”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, already regretting the lovesick desperation that made him seek Taehyung out of all people.

“Shut up, would you?” Glancing at Taehyung out of the corner of his eye as he opens the staircase door. Taehyung obliges, a look of intrigue coloring his features. Wordlessly, they climb up the stairs, unlocking the flimsy hatch meant to keep unauthorized personnel off the rooftop.

Taehyung yawns as the bleeding orange sun begins to set beneath the skyline, scratching his tummy as his mouth hangs open.

“Soooo,” he starts, voice bellowing as he finishes. He smacks his lips a couple times for good measure. “Why are we here, Jeonggukie? Gee, last time we were up on this roof, you were just a sweet, little boy. Now you’re a hardened killer! How fast they grow up!” Taehyung moans, like an upset mother watching her son leave for college, wiping away fake tears.

Jeongguk’s mouth flattens into an impassive scowl, his fingers curling into his palms, as if grasping an imaginary weapon. Taehyung discards the silly act, appraising Jeongguk from head to toe. Even though he hasn’t changed physically, there is a shroud of darkness veiling his eyes. It’s quite curious. Before, Jeongguk was an open book, his face so ingenuous that the very fabric of his being seemed to be woven of translucent silk, leaving little to the imagination. Exposing every thought that traipsed into his mind.

Taehyung couldn’t really get a read on him anymore. It was particularly unsettling.

Jeongguk smiles, totally unkind. “You’re right, Taehyung. Unlike before, I’m fully capable of killing you.”

Taehyung cracks a little, amused by Jeongguk’s bravado. Ah, he’s not quite there yet.

“Let’s suppose I believed you. What exactly are you proposing I do for you?”

Jeongguk opts to stare down at his shoes, slightly embarrassed by what he’s about to say. He all but mutters it, really.

“Do you-“ he licks his lips, rubbing a hand behind his neck in his best attempt to appear nonchalant, “know anything about Jimin?”

A sly grin spreads across Taehyung’s lips, his face the definition of mischief. Jeongguk instantly decides he despises this look on Taehyung’s stupid face. Hates that he wears it in the context of Jimin - like he knows something Jeongguk doesn’t.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you, lover boy?” Taehyung quips, and the mirth practically radiates from him. Jeongguk hates him so much.

“Don’t change the subject. Do you know something or not?” Jeongguk spits, trying to rein in his plummeting patience.

Taehyung sighs dreamily, positively enjoys making Jeongguk’s blood boil, watching his body tense with rage.

“I know how he tastes.” He admits brazenly, gauging Jeongguk’s reaction carefully. The other’s eye twitches, like something rotten is brewing in his skull. His countenance settles into one of murky incredulity, perhaps because acknowledging the veracity of Taehyung’s statement might make him do something irrational. Irreversible.

“Don’t talk about him like that, you sick fuck.”

Taaehyung shrugs, a little dulled because Jeongguk didn’t take the bait.

“He’s gone off the grid. Got kicked out of Hyori’s place.”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen in alarm before squinting in confusion. “What?”

“The old hag’s grandson took the property under his name.” Taehyung looks out towards the horizon, pulling out a cigarette from his front breast pocket. “My best guess is he’s just out there, surviving. Y’know how he is.” Amber flickers around the Taehyung’s profile as he lights the end of the cigarette, inhaling a cloud of smoke through his mouth.

Jeongguk glares at Taehyung’s hand, how it trembles every time the viscous curl of gray exits his lips, how the ash falls on his Louis Vitton dress shoes. He’s deplorable in every sense of the word. Jeongguk scowls, clicking his tongue against his teeth in disappointment.

What a waste of time, he mumbles in self-reproach, leaving Taehyung to wallow in his pathetic reprieve of dependency.

Jeongguk doesn’t understand why he walks away feeling just as miserable.

-

The walk to Hyori’s apartment complex is practically engraved into Jeongguk’s frontal cortex, his steps hasty and unpredictable. He’s certain he’s bumped shoulders with at least five people, but he doesn’t pay their squabbles of complaint any mind.

There’s a retractable knife in his back pocket, and its weight isn’t overlooked by the teen. Once he reaches the building, Jeongguk scans the tenant list, already knowing what name to look for. Jimin had grown sick of it, downcast eyes appearing hollower as the days became shorter with the seasons.

Jeongguk knocks on the door, an untitled resolution outlining his impending course of action. He had completely forgotten to consider the inevitable dialogue that would naturally come about, staring blankly when Sungwoon swings the door open.

Jeongguk shivers as he takes in the male’s blonde hair and short stature. The eerie similarities make his skin prickle with an unnamed disquietude, and he somehow perceives Sungwoon to be the tacky imposter.

Sungwoon’s tolerance for extended bouts of silence seems to wane with every passing second, the abrasive quality of his voice grating Jeongguk’s ears.

“Do you need something, or what?” He drawls, leaning against the frame of the doorway. Jeongguk’s fingers twitch at his sides, not really knowing what to say. He’d come with intent, but not with a motive.

He thinks about how thoughtlessly he’d killed Hyori. He was given two choices, and Jeongguk is sure he’d picked the wrong one – which doesn’t explain why he’s reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, falling into the same pit of mindlessness.

“You kicked him out.” Jeongguk whispers, a chilling sense of insistence making his phrases clipped and curt. Sungwoon stares at him strangely, affronted by the stranger’s accusations. But Jeongguk knows him. He can’t hide behind a seal of anonymity.

“Do I know you?” Sungwoon asks, alarmed, arms sliding off the wooden frame to pat his pants, evidently searching for his phone.

“What did Jimin ever do to you?”

Jeongguk wonders how death became an instrument of change in his eyes, when his empty threat to Taehyung became a promise, why he doesn’t feel a lick of remorse as he pulls the knife out of his jeans, flicks it open, and plunges it into Sungwoon’s gut.

Sungwoon doesn’t even react, blinking slowly as he comes to terms with the fact that he’s been stabbed. It’s a small knife, only a few inches long, and the puncture might have even failed to perforate any vital organs. Jeongguk watches as Sungwoon places his hands around the handle of the knife, raising his head mechanically to blink up at Jeongguk.

“W-who… are you?” Sungwoon gasps out, mouth opening wide in a silent cry when Jeongguk wraps his hands around Sungwoon’s on the weapon, pulling it out gently, only to shove it back deeper at an adjacent spot.

Blood begins to soak through the gray material of Sungwoon’s shirt where the first wound is now open and exposed.

Jeongguk stares at the crimson, feeling an odd mix of fulfillment and agony as he watches it pool over the expanse of the other’s belly.

He draws it out once more, and it seems to awaken some primordial sense of survival in Sungwoon, pulling him out of his mellow stupor. His lips tremble as they part in anguish, an expression of utter terror stretching his features in an ugly way.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING-??” Sungwoon screams, managing to take one step back before Jeongguk decides to stick the knife right through his jugular.

Sungwoon’s body spasms, blood spurting out through multiple openings at once. His mouth is tinged red, shirt a rusty iron color from all the blood that has seeped into it. There’s scarlet spewing out in intermittent squirts from his neck as Jeongguk carries his body and kicks the door shut behind him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jeongguk wasn’t in charge of clean-up duty when he’d killed Hyori. Fuck. He knows nothing about disposing of a body, but he understands enough about blood to prioritize sealing Sungwoon’s lifeless form in a garbage bag. Jeongguk folds him up as best as he can, careful not to spill any blood on the furniture or the floor. He stuffs him into four black bags for good measure, making sure to close off any possible holes where air might filter through.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jeongguk mutters, hands tangling into his hair, the gravity of the situation suddenly suffocating him. How is he going to take this human-shaped trash bag to the garbage disposal chute? What will happen when they discover the body and find Jeongguk’s prints all over it under a UV light?

Fuck. Jeongguk barges through every door, looking for the storage closet or bathroom, where one might keep cleaning products. The bleach is behind the toilet, and he rushes back to the living room.

Pouring it straight into the bag seems ridiculous, especially after going to such lengths to ensure the smell of rotting flesh wouldn’t diffuse before it gets picked up by the city waste management crew.

Shit. He’s not really able to rationalize anything at the moment, more focused on getting out of the apartment as soon as possible, which is probably why he decides to open up a slit through the layers of plastic and pour a generous amount of bleach through it. That should dissolve any remnants of Jeongguk’s contact with Sungwoon’s body – at least, he hopes so.

After meticulously scouring every inch of the floor panels, Jeongguk doesn’t find any blood splatters or evidence of an altercation. He exhales deeply, releasing all the air and tension that had been making every subtle shift of his body feel as though he was on the brink of collapsing.

He slinks down the wall that stands perpendicular to a small window, looking out towards the eastern face of the city. It’s becoming that hour when the night has yet to take form, the sky turning an ambiguous shade of purple. Jeongguk stares at the still, black lump sitting a few meters away from him.

If he doesn’t think about it too deeply, he can pretend it’s just a regular bag of disposables - never mind the fact that he’s waiting for the earth to completely succumb to the abyss of night to get rid of it.

His mind is rattling despite being totally idle. He feels a bit queasy, uncertain of why this second death feels more convicting than the first. Jeongguk almost feels… estranged from his humanity. When had he switched it off? When had he lost it?

Upon drowning in the darkness that swallows up the lifeless room, Jeongguk belatedly realizes it’s time to get rid of Sungwoon’s corpse. He hauls the bag over his shoulder, knees buckling before adequately distributing the added weight on his back.

As he’s stepping out of the door, Jeongguk hears a phone buzzing. He stops in his tracks, absolutely certain it’s not his. He turns his head back, shooting a cursory glance along the perimeter of the unit. It’s then that he sees it – glowing and vibrating against the small coffee table by the TV. Sungwoon’s phone. He stalks back quickly, depositing it into his front pocket, and then he’s off.

Succumbing to the darkness etched into his soul.

Chapter Text

2012.01

Jimin doesn’t remember much of last night. His head is buzzing, the black holes in his memory feel like they’re actually gaping through his skull. Countless pieces of events that had unfolded litter his mind as if they were scraps of recycled trash. His eyes ache as they take in his surroundings, clouded over in specks of color, like a TV screen filled with static.

He sees a mess of curly hair by the pillow next to his head, and he physically recoils at how jarring the image is. Why is he in Taehyung’s bed?

The sudden shifting of the blanket still draping Taehyung’s bare shoulders causes him to whine in frustration, pulling the comforter back over his exposed skin, voice still groggy with sleep as he acknowledges Jimin’s presence.

“Sleep a little more, duckie.” He pats the empty space separating the two boys, a dopey smile on his face. Jimin feels sick to his stomach, bile creeping up his throat when he tastes the acid reflux coating the back of his tongue. Whatever he drank last night was disgustingly noxious, not to mention most likely responsible for the complete lack of agency he’d experienced and the startling inability to remember most of what had happened, if any of it at all.

Jimin vehemently declines, already up and scouring the floor for his shoes. He hears some shuffling on the mattress, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, opting to crouch down on all fours to look under the bed. He sighs in relief when he sees that they’ve only been kicked a few feet away, stretching out his arms as much as possible and wiggling his fingers as he blindly reaches for his sneakers.

When he’s finally managed to grip the laces, he straightens out, pulling the shoes as he goes up. Jimin gasps as he looks up at Taehyung, the boy staring down at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. Jimin shifts awkwardly on his knees, the soft carpet by the bedside doing little to cushion the pressure of his weight.

Jimin doesn’t know what he expects Taehyung to do, but he’d never expect him to do this.

Taehyung places his big palm on Jimin’s blonde locks, patting his head encouragingly, as if he were a pet.

“You look so good like that, Jimin-ah.” He groans, his voice a raspy purr. Jimin goes ramrod straight, as if he’d been violently struck by someone from behind. His mind is spinning, an overwhelming sense of dread seizing every one of his cells.

“W-what.” Jimin manages to say, not having the presence of mind to enunciate it as a question.

Taehyung’s cheshire grin is particularly disorienting to see so soon after waking up; Jimin’s heart is bouncing in his chest, as if urging him to react – to do something. His legs, however, feel numb beneath his bottom, the tingling sensation of restricted blood circulation causing him to slump a bit. He’s terrified, shuddering when Taehyung brings his hand down to rub at Jimin’s puffy cheek, thumb stretching out to pull against his plump bottom lip.

Taehyung releases a throaty sound. Jimin doesn’t know what to do. His eyes, wide like saucers, nearly bulge out of his head when the door to the room swings open, inviting through it a group of hairy legs in gym shorts.

Shockingly, Taehyung doesn’t react much, but the visceral fear Jimin experiences is enough to send out a rush of adrenaline through every muscle in his body. He stands clumsily, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Taehyung. The curly-haired boy merely scowls, his face hardening into an annoyed expression.

His friends chuckle half-heartedly at his evident frustration, whistling when they look past Taehyung’s shoulder and spot Jimin’s ruffled hair.

One of them speaks up, his voice smooth but loud. Jimin winces, recognizing it from last night. Mingyu.

“Well, well, well. Why didn’t you tell us about the after party, Tae?” His friends snicker behind him, and some of them wink at Jimin salaciously, making all kinds of vulgar gestures with their hands and mouths.

Jimin pales, rushing to deny their grossly inappropriate assumptions.

“N-no! Nothing like that happened!” His hands wave in front of his face, cheeks burning a bright pink as the boys seem wholly unconvinced. Taehyung only smirks, shrugging like what he’s about to say is totally inconsequential. He slings an arm around Mingyu’s neck, rubs his shoulder teasingly.

“You fuckin’ wish you got to use that mouth. If you think it looks good, you haven’t had it wrapped around your cock yet.”

Jimin’s head whips over to stare at Taehyung, shuddering at the rambunctious laughter that follows the other’s crude comment. Why would he lie about something like this?

Unless-

Jimin desperately wishes he could fill the blank spaces that float around his head, almost like they’re taunting him. Jimin has never done something like that in his life! He wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasuring someone with his mouth.

“I didn’t-“ Jimin is becoming increasingly frustrated, hot tears stinging his eyes, “why would I do that to you of all people? I fucking hate you!”

The laughter suddenly transforms into a bellowing ooooooo, Taehyung’s friends provoking him with playful shoves and loud hoots of amusement.

Taehyung’s jaw clenches, his teeth visibly grinding against each other as the muscles beneath his cheekbones flex with tension. He snaps when Mingyu says something along the lines of Jimin being adorable when he’s fussy.

“Get the fuck out.” He mutters, eerily calm. His friends don’t seem to take the hint, but Jimin has been privy to Taehyung’s psychotic mood swings, and he makes to slip past the other guys.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Taehyung spits, hand reaching out lightning fast to grasp Jimin’s wrist. He turns to his idiotic company, a withering glare piercing each of them individually. “I thought I told you to get the fuck out. What are you morons still doing here? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE.” He yells, and Jimin is sure that if his forearms were made of wood, they’d splinter under the force of Taehyung’s grip tightening. He can already imagine the bruises forming.

Taehyung wastes no time crowding Jimin into the nearest flat surface as soon as they’re alone, an inordinate amount of rage visible in his eyes. Jimin forgets to breathe, feels the press of Taehyung’s body against his, smells the rancid stench of alcohol still plaguing his mouth.

“I can fucking ruin your life, Jimin-ah. Do you know that?” There’s that manic smile again, his eyes dragging across Jimin’s face as one hand grips his jaw, squishing his cheeks and lips cruelly, watching as Jimin squirms, his discomfort almost tangible.

Jimin can barely even move his mouth, lips posed at an odd angle. His voice is muffled as he complains. “Who the fuck lies about getting their dick sucked by another guy?”

He’s sure his face is a splotchy red, so consumed by resentment and humiliation that he can’t contain himself.

Taehyung’s eyes gleam with something malicious. “I do.”

Jimin bawks, his eyebrows furrowing in complete befuddlement.

“W-why?!”

Taehyung lets go of his face then, leaning back a little and pushing Jimin onto the bed. He topples over easily, though he’s quick to gain control of his body again, distancing himself and taking a defensive position.

“Because I always get what I want, Jimin.” He says it resolutely, like it’s merely a fact of life. His eyes peruse down the length of Jimin’s body, tonguing his bottom lip as he does so.

Jimin can’t breathe, the air he’d just inhaled remaining trapped in his lungs. “I don’t-“

Taehyung interrupts him, uncaring of Jimin’s opinions. They don’t matter, really - not when Taehyung’s already decided what he desires from Jimin. He smiles to himself, imagining how exciting things could get once he has his way.

“You’ll be staying with me from now on.” Taehyung plays with a stray curl hanging by his ear, his bedhead making the situation all the more daunting. Taehyung is just a regular kid, like anyone their age – he lives with his parents, goes to school every day, hangs out with his friends on the weekends – and yet, there’s something frighteningly abnormal about him. His expressions, his disregard for courtesy, his lack of acknowledgement towards others, his greed. Jimin surmises there’s not a single thing on this earth that Taehyung can’t obtain simply by pointing a thin, elegant finger at it. Jimin’s blood curdles with a sour blend of loathing, envy, and self-pity.

“Like hell I will. You can’t tell me what to do, Taehyung. Are you insane?” Jimin tries keeping his voice level, terrified at what the other might be capable of if he loses his composure.

Taehyung lifts his hands up in surrender, a cloud of an unknown emotion hazing over his features. Jimin understands the meaning of utter horror in that moment – because now he really doesn’t know what Taehyung might devise to get what he wants. Jimin bolts, running past Taehyung and not bothering to contain his surprise when he lets him get away without any interference. Jimin truly fears for his life now.

Alone in his bedroom, Taehyung stares at the dip in his comforter where Jimin had just laid. He smiles then, the kind that stretches the corners of his lips so much he fears the skin might crack.

“I wish we didn’t have to do things this way, Jimin-ah.”

-

2012.03

For the first time in months, Jimin returns to school. He’d managed to find a measly job at a retail store a few blocks away from the center of the city, and his sob story was moving enough to convince the manager to pay him every week instead of every two.

With a leaky roof over his head and earnings to cover his basic necessities, Jimin finally thinks he could finish high school and get his diploma. That’s all he wants out of Yonseop. After being rejected from so many jobs for not having any complete education, he realizes its imperative that he at least graduate in order to get somewhere in life.

It’s with this thought and a heavy conscience that he steps into Yonseop. His shoes creak silently as he finds his way towards his homeroom class. He’d always felt like he was walking over broken glass in these hallways, dreading the next possible encounter with Taehyung or sitting at his desk only to find creepy notes.

Jimin stills himself, urging his pounding heart to rest a bit, if even for a second. He knocks on the door, hearing Professor Lee mutter an unenthused come in, before he pushes it open. The door squeaks at its hinges, making Jimin wince in apology.

Mr. Lee looks like he’s seen a ghost as he takes the student in. Jimin frowns – sure, he’d dyed his hair black again to avoid drawing negative attention, but he can’t be that unrecognizable.

“Good morning, Mr. Lee. I know I was absent for a while, but I can explain myself.” Jimin wrings his hands together, glancing up nervously when he receives no response.

His teacher is pale, sweat beading at his temples. He visibly jolts when he makes eye contact with Jimin. His voice is but a meek rasp when he speaks.

“What is it, Jimin? Are you – are you doing well?”

Jimin gulps, the interaction not at all going how he thought it would.

“Actually,” Jimin licks his lips that have gone dry with how stiff the air suddenly feels, “I wanted to talk about something that’s been happening to me.”

Mr. Lee doesn’t utter a word, but for some reason it seems like he already has a faint idea of what Jimin’s going to say. His hands grip around the edge of his desk, leaving the sweaty stain of his fingerprints.

“One of my classmates, Kim Taehyung, he’s been bothering me a lot. And-“

A black figure is seen through the foggy windowpane at the door, rattling the doorknob obnoxiously – like it’s trying to draw attention. Jimin stares at it from the corner of his eye before deeming it a non-issue, and he turns back to Mr. Lee.

There’s a certain tension concentrating at the center of his face, and there are wrinkles dimpling his sagging skin. Now, he looks less petrified and more… stoic, like he benefits more from being detached than from sinking further into that miserable state of distress.

“How?” He asks impassively. “How is he bothering you, Jimin?”

“He’s been hitting me-“

Mr. Lee interjects caustically. “I don’t see any bruises.”

Jimin’s mouth gapes, affronted. “He’s- followed me home.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

Jimin bawks, staring at the sweat stains by his teacher’s collar and armpits, the rings of coffee sullying the many papers on his desk.

“I-“ Mr. Lee doesn’t let him finish.

“Jimin, I can’t do anything about your complaints unless you bring me some evidence.” He says, coldly. Uncaring.

It’s a bit jarring, like a slap in the face. The sting is disorienting at first, until the body feels a bit numb, jaded from the impact – protecting itself from the ache of pain to come later.

-

Jimin nods once, twice, his gaze a reflection of the hopelessness he feels. He bows wordlessly, exiting the classroom.

-

Taehyung is no stranger to human emotions; he never paid much attention to those around him, having zero interest in their anguish, joy, or sympathy. He had been told since he was a child that he had a special gift for reading people, and this proved itself to be useful. It was how he was able to leave a permanent mark on Jimin - someone whose emotions dominated his mind, body, and soul. Someone whose emotions betrayed him so easily.

Taehyung loved the way fear ignited Jimin’s whole being at the sight of him, how his eyes burned with not only terror but a deeply rooted hatred, a distinctive flare that made Taehyung certain he was accomplishing his objective. Jimin would never forget him. The unfathomable hunger with which Taehyung had pushed his tongue into Jimin’s throat, the moment he had locked their lips together, it would follow the smaller boy forever- regardless of how much he remembered or if he convinced himself it was a figment of the twisted shadows of his subconscious. Taehyung had tasted him, and Jimin had consumed his poison.

-

Jimin is on his way home one day when a sleek, red car zooms past him. He doesn’t think much of it until that same car passes by him again a couple minutes later. Had the driver gotten lost?

The car stops right by Jimin, rolling down the windows, and honking (quite loudly) to get his attention. Jimin scoffs, somewhat wary as he approaches the vehicle. He’s surprised to see Mingyu in the driver’s seat.

“Need a ride, Jimin-ah?” He yells, running a hand through his slicked, black hair and looking at himself through all three mirrors. Jimin blinks, totally vexed.

“Since when are you an uber?” He asks sarcastically, knowing not to take anything Taehyung and his friends say seriously.

Mingyu laughs, and it’s quite stilted and fake. Curiously, he keeps on insisting. “Come on! I felt bad seeing you walking all alone. It’s still winter, and it gets dark out early.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, completely skeptical of the nice guy charade. “Oh, please. I just saw you drive right past me a minute ago. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Mingyu steps out of his car then, rounding the hood and stopping right in front of Jimin. He leans against the passenger door, red reflecting onto his clothes. “And miss out on that view from behind?” He smirks, a little cheeky, and Jimin’s mouth gapes like a fish.

“Did you just-“ he’s sure his cheeks are tinted a splotchy red, “Did you just flirt with me?”

Mingyu has the gall to look totally unphased, pushing himself off the car and holding open the door for Jimin. He blames the fact that he accepts Mingyu’s invitation on his apparent shock.

Jimin starts seeing him every day, but unlike the dread Taehyung’s presence engendered as soon as Jimin sensed him in his general vicinity, Mingyu assumes the character of a charming and bumbling guy with too much time on his hands. Jimin is frightened by how unassuming he seems, by how easily he lets him in.

Mingyu drives him home every day, which embarrassed him at first considering the shitty efficiency was an eyesore in the middle of one of the seediest parts of town. Mingyu doesn’t say a word, though – never does – waving him goodbye with the promise of seeing each other the following day. Jimin doesn’t know what to call this arrangement. They aren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, but Jimin has a hard time figuring out what Mingyu could possibly want from him.

Soon enough, it gradually becomes more apparent. At first, he’s subtle. Brief, featherlight touches to the small of Jimin’s back while he holds the door open for him. Short, heated glances at his lips whenever Jimin smiles at a goofy joke he’s said. A carefree hand accidentally grasping Jimin’s thigh instead of the gear shift. And then one particular night, when Jimin was unbuckling his seat belt, thanking Mingyu kindly for dropping him off – gratuitously, Jimin always reminds him admonishingly – Mingyu leans over the console, planting a soft kiss on Jimin’s cheek.

Jimin gasps, cupping a hand to his cheek like he’s scared the press of lips has been seared to his skin. His whole face is burning hot.

“Gyu!” Jimin suddenly wonders just how fast they’d progressed to calling each other silly nicknames. “W-what was that for!?”

Mingyu stares at him sweetly, his eyes turning into endearing crescents. Jimin is gobsmacked. No one has ever treated him like this, looked at him like this.

It’s all entirely too overwhelming, his mind now imbued with scenarios and questions that could illuminate Jimin as to what the hell is going on. He practically flees, running to the safety of his 300-square foot efficiency.

The next time they see each other, Jimin is operating at an entirely different frequency than his friend (?). His fingers are constantly fiddling with his hair, his knee jackhammers into the bottom of his desk, and his eyes can’t stop flitting around to every corner of his immediate surroundings except the handsome boy in front of him.

“Jimin,” he whispers, placatingly, like a mother soothing her child, “why are you so jittery?” He leans right into Jimin’s personal space, as if he’s totally confident Jimin won’t do anything about it. He shamefully recognizes within himself that Mingyu isn’t wrong.

“A little kiss got you this worked up, baby?” He croons, one hand cupping Jimin’s jawline, while the other smooths down the curves of the smaller’s body beneath his baggy clothes. Not once does he hesitate or ask Jimin if what he’s doing is okay, like he knows Jimin loves it naturally, instrinsically. Jimin is still hung up on that word. Baby?

Mingyu’s face suddenly twists as his mouth clasps onto Jimin’s, his nose slotting clumsily next to Jimin’s button nose. The smaller gasps, his eyes widening as he stares fixedly at the point between Mingyu’s thick eyebrows that is currently occupying his entire field of vision. The kiss completely lacks finesse, and it makes sense – it is Jimin’s first, after all.

He’s not sure why, then, he feels the phantom sensation of another’s tongue when Mingyu’s starts rubbing greedily against the inner meat of Jimin’s cheeks. Jimin doesn’t do much with his mouth, merely leaving it open for dirty noises of pleasure to slip out from time to time. Mingyu seems entirely consumed by his own self-interests, hands fidgeting recklessly with Jimin’s belt buckle.

The tingles he feels where Mingyu’s hands have brushed against his skin are unlike any other sensation he’s experienced in his life, the realization so tantalizing but equally alarming that he has to push Mingyu’s face away from his.

He doesn’t miss the way Mingyu’s eyes briefly tinge with unconcealed annoyance before glazing over with practiced desperation.

“Mingyu, we need to talk. What’s going on with… all of this?” Jimin swallows around the lump of saliva pooling beneath his tongue, still tingling from the other’s incessant prodding and sucking.

Mingyu shrugs, in that lackadaisical manner that drives Jimin mad with frustration. “I like being with you, Jimin-ah. You’re fun when Taehyung’s not around.”

The compliment seems somewhat backhanded, but Jimin can’t fight the heat that rises to his cheeks at Mingyu admitting that he enjoys Jimin’s company, can’t resist the shiver that travels down his spine when the other rests his hand on Jimin’s thigh, caressing the flesh over his washed-out denim jeans.

“Don’t you like being with me, Jimin?” Mingyu asks, his voice dipping a bit coyly, blinking up at him with a small smirk. Jimin flushes but nods, all the same, incapable of containing his gasp when Mingyu leans forward, a victorious expression on his face, and kisses Jimin silly.

Senior year comes to a whirling end, the days passing by in a blur of heated make-out sessions under the bleachers and discreet glances across lunch tables. The week before finals, Mingyu sends Jimin a cryptic text message that has the smaller boy rolling in bed the whole night, feet wriggling in anxious excitement.

Mingyu [ 12:27 AM ] heyy baby, got a surprise for u
Mingyu [ 12:28 AM ] i better see ur pretty ass at school tmrw, yeah?

It’s safe to say Jimin shows up feeling more dressed up than ever – as much as his uniform allows it. He chose the slacks that hug his legs more flatteringly, blushing a bit when he twists at an angle in front of his mirror and sees how perky his rear looks with them on. He irons his dress shirt until it’s perfectly crisp without a wrinkle in sight. Jimin stares at himself in the bathroom, debating whether to apply some makeup. Mingyu’s always complimented Jimin even when he doesn’t wear any, tracing a finger over some light blemishes over his cheeks. Jimin rummages through his dresser, picking through the few drugstore makeup products he’s purchased – somewhat impulsively – after watching countless tutorials in bed when he should’ve been sleeping.

He’d seen how pretty the girls looked lining their lips with light pencil shades and rubbing them together with sticky gloss. He was intrigued by how cute, doe-eyed influencers were able to make their gaze appear sultry and tantalizing by rimming their eyelids with kohl and rubbing it messily, achieving an effortless, sexy look.

Jimin bit his lip, chewing it up into a bright pink as he’d finally caved and decided to apply some of that dark smudging to his eyes and some sheer gloss to his lips. A few presses of concealer into his acne scars were enough to complete the look, and he’d gasped quietly as he stared at himself in the mirror.

Surely, Mingyu would think he looked pretty.

Jimin got to school a bit late, blushing when he’d entered his homeroom class, and everyone stared at him. He bowed, ninety degrees, excusing himself as he silently weaved between the aisles until he reached his own towards the back of the classroom. Some people muttered amongst themselves, taking surreptitious glances over their shoulders. More than anything, Jimin felt the scorching heat of Taehyung’s gaze as he scanned him from head to toe, cloaking his interest under the guise of mock appraisal. But Jimin knew now. He’d seen how Mingyu stared at him, hunger palpable, like a physical force. He was able to interpret Taehyung’s current emotion towards him now – not just nameless hatred, but rotten desire.

Lunch rolled around, with no signs of Mingyu. Jimin felt a bit silly now, taking his food tray with him towards his quiet little spot by the farthest table, pretending not to notice how his peers looked at him sharply; some with interest, some with contempt.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, and Jimin hated how eagerly he’d whipped it out, desperate from Mingyu’s radio silence.

Mingyu [ 12:13 PM ] hi baby, miss me?

Jimin’s fingers practically dance across the keyboard.

Jimin [ 12:13 PM ] yeah
Jimin [ 12:13 PM ] where r u??

Jimin would berate himself for using two question marks, probably sounding like a clingy girlfriend, but he’s too busy fidgeting in his seat, biting down on his nails as the fluttering of his heart won’t quit.

Mingyu [ 12:15 PM ] haha, cute
Mingyu [ 12:15 PM ] come meet me in the boy’s locker room

Jimin all but abandons his lunch tray, wincing in embarrassment when the chair beneath him screeches from the force he uses to push back on it. He rushes out of the cafeteria before he’s able to take in the prying glances of those around him.

Jimin jogs down the hallways, reaching the locker room in record time – he doesn’t remember a time when he’s been so eager to enter it, disliking communal spaces with a passion. He pushes the door open, calling out Mingyu’s name when he finds it completely empty.

Suddenly, his vision turns black, a soft cloth falling over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

“H-hey! What the fuck?!” Jimin sputters indignantly, hands coming to pull off the blindfold as he addresses the unknown figure behind him.

He’s overcome by anger, frustrated by his impotence against his assailant, until he hears a faint snicker right by his ear. Jimin immediately relaxes, but he’s still a bit peeved. There’s also a latent feeling of drowsiness suddenly overtaking his senses, but he doesn’t find that to be too concerning. He’s just giddy knowing Mingyu didn’t stand him up.

“Were you scared, baby?” Mingyu whispers in his ear huskily, tying the cloth around Jimin’s head to allow his hands to roam Jimin’s waist. The smaller boy gasps, blood gushing rapidly to his head. He feels a bit dizzy, the sensation only amplified by his lack of sight. Still, Jimin nods, his neck jerking awkwardly at the brisk motion. He was scared.

Mingyu rubs his palms all over Jimin’s front, his fingertips brushing across his nipples. Jimin moans weakly, immediately slapping both hands over his mouth in humiliation. Mingyu laughs, clearly pleased by Jimin’s reaction.

“It’s ok, Jimin-ah. Just trust me, yeah? I’ll make you feel so good.” The words ring throughout Jimin’s skull, as if he’d heard them from the remainders of an echo that had carried over a long distance. It doesn’t really make sense because Mingyu is right next to him. Jimin feels a bit nauseous.

The weight of his words doesn’t really settle in until Jimin is dragged into what he assumes is a bathroom stall, the air suddenly feeling a lot stuffier, as if enclosed in a compact space. Jimin hears the sound of a zipper being tugged, the metal prong of a belt being loosened. He feels a belt buckle slap lightly against the small of his back, but he doesn’t jolt at the impact. Jimin has always been somewhat sensitive, reacting viscerally to even the most subtle stimuli to an exaggerated degree.

In an instant, Jimin feels Mingyu’s hands circling his waist, tugging at the button of his jeans and prying it open. Jimin’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he voices his shock.

“W-what-“ the saliva collecting in his mouth threatens to spill past his teeth, “what are you doing, Gyu?”

His tight slacks are pulled down to his knees, Mingyu’s thumbs hooking into the elastic of his underwear before they pool around the bunched-up fabric of his jeans.

Jimin feels cold, nether regions exposed to the cool air of the insulated room. Hands pull at his shirt, rucking it up his torso until it’s tucked under his armpits.

Mingyu curses behind him, palms greedily running over the length of Jimin’s naked body.

“Fuck. Look at you.” Mingyu whispers, practically a reverent gasp of appreciation. He hums as he places both his hands to bracket the narrow width of Jimin’s back, tracing down slowly before pulling them apart to cup the fullness of Jimin’s ass. Mingyu hisses, grabbing handfuls of his cheeks and jiggling the fat that spills between his fingers.

“Fuckin’ hell, Jimin. Why have you been hiding all this from me, hmm?” He hums, bringing his right palm to smack against Jimin’s round cheek. Jimin whines, ashamed by his indecency and the obscene way in which Mingyu regards him.

“I wasn’t h-hiding anything! I-“ his wobbly voice breaks into a cry when Mingyu spanks him again, rubbing the spot that’s slowly turning pink.

“Why are you pretending to be a prude when you look like that?” Mingyu spits, his left hand traipsing up his back and resting on the dip of his waist, splaying possessively.

“Shit. I get why Taehyung’s fuckin’ obsessed with you now. Hell, I would be, too, with a pretty little thing like you.”

Jimin’s mouth feels like it’s been filled with cotton. Mingyu’s words barely register, only mustering up a wheezing groan when he feels the other’s cock press against his backside.

“Fuuuck.” Mingyu moans, sounding totally affected by the sight of his dick sandwiched between Jimin’s ass cheeks. He rolls his hips experimentally, groaning out loud at how good it feels.

Jimin has succumbed to the syrupy sensation coating his brain, his limbs relaxing against the stall door when his legs can no longer support the weight of his body and the one pressed behind him. He feels a bit numb, only yowling in discomfort when Mingyu sticks a spit-slicked finger up his ass, wiggling it around without much efficacy or dexterity. The meaty part of his palm smacks against Jimin’s taint, the sound of bouncing skin crude and embarrassing.

Mingyu doesn’t seem to agree, his hard cock at full mast as it twitches pathetically on Jimin’s cheeks. He suddenly exhales shakily, like he’s already exhausted from stretching Jimin out with a single digit for a few minutes.

“I think that’s enough. Your fat ass can take it, right?” Mingyu asks, rhetorically, knowing not to expect an answer. Jimin’s too far gone now.

Jimin receives no prior warning to the sudden intrusion, the mushroom head of Mingyu’s cock kissing his hole before breaching the tight ring of muscle. The taller boy gasps, mouth stretching over Jimin’s shoulder, teeth biting down in overstimulation.

“Fu-ucking hell. Fuck.” He spits, the heat and tightness around his length feeling absolutely maddening. He thrusts his pelvis a little more, fitting a few more inches deeper into Jimin’s hole.

Jimin’s mouth parts in a silent scream, tears dripping freely down his face at the sheer stretch. It’s excruciating, feeling as though his walls are being torn apart from the inside. Mingyu draws his hips back for a few seconds, the relief lasting a mere blink of an eye before he shoves his cock back in, this time setting a sloppy rhythm as he rocks back and forth. Jimin feels the imprint of Mingyu’s hands on his hips, feels the heat on his back briefly disappear; Jimin can only assume he’s leaning back to enjoy the view. He doesn’t know Mingyu is actually typing out a message on his phone, his sweaty fingers swiping messily over the screen.

At some point, the knot at the back of his head loosens enough for the blindfold to come off, Jimin's eyes suddenly accommodating to the light flooding his retinas.

Moments later, the stall Jimin was holding onto for leverage gets pulled forward, his body being dragged along with it until Mingyu’s forearm wraps tightly around his front.

Jimin might be intoxicated by something incredibly potent, but he’d recognize Kim Taehyung’s face anywhere, in any state of consciousness.

His eyebrows are furrowed as he takes in the scene before him, his friends behind him laughing as they hold up their phones to record Jimin’s defilement.

Mingyu snickers a bit, too, biting down on Jimin’s ear and licking over the wound sloppily.

Taehyung’s eyes harden as he stares at Jimin’s naked body, zeroing in on his cock, which drools precum from the pink tip. The slapping of Mingyu’s pelvis against Jimin’s plush bottom creates a disturbingly loud cacophony, his rhythm speeding up as the other approaches his orgasm. With every clap of wet skin, a vein in Taehyung’s temples pulses violently, and his teeth grind together so forcibly, it almost seems like he’s unconsciously wearing them down.

Mingyu comes with a loud moan, his head thrown back in pleasure as he empties out his load inside of Jimin. The smaller can only gasp, his cheeks pink and moist from all the brine soaking them. He’s unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, Mingyu releasing him in favor of zipping up his pants and redoing his belt.

“Stop fucking recording already, you moron.” Mingyu spits, smacking the back of one of his friends’ head playfully.

They exit the locker room loudly, slapping Mingyu’s chest while hollering nonsensical praises.

“Atta boy, Gyu!”

“That little twink was practically drooling.”

“Fuck, that was kinda hot.”

Once the remaining echos of their voices die down, Taehyung approaches Jimin’s body, slumped against the floor. Jimin can barely react, weakly lifting his arms to cover what little modesty is left to be preserved.

The curly-haired boy sighs, a hand reaching out to push a wet fringe of hair off Jimin’s sweaty forehead.

“You don’t know how angry I am, Jimin. You know I didn’t want it to be this way.”

Jimin doesn’t respond, his gaze starting to drift far off, eyes blinking slowly – tired.

“If you don’t want that video spreading, you’ll come live with me. That’s pretty fair, right?” Taehyung reasons, nodding to himself like it makes perfect sense.

He doesn’t wait for Jimin to give him an answer. It’s already been decided for him.

Chapter Text

Chaewon receives a package at her doorstep.

It doesn’t have a return address or a sender name. The package is small, inordinately so, fitting within the palm of Chaewon’s hand. She hesitates before bringing it into her house, placing it in her bathroom and locking the door.

Despite her moderately known platform, Chaewon has never received any physical threats or attacks on her life. There are open forums and chats flooded with chronically-online netizens who have nothing better to do than criticize public figures anonymously, but Chaewon doesn’t pay them any mind; they have no impact on her career, after all.

Still, the investigation into Beomhan – and consequently, Taehyung – has made her a lot more circumspect. She’s careful regarding what she’s able to disclose about her private hobby, keeps frequent tabs on all her leads, doesn’t invite people to her house.

She’d even rejected Namjoon’s request to meet up, apparently wanting to reconcile after the awkward fallout of their previous exchange. Chaewon only felt a little contrite brushing off the much-needed discussion, claiming her work was bleeding into her personal life – it wouldn’t be a productive conversation. She soothes herself with the fact that it isn’t really a lie.

After watching a few videos on how to defuse a bomb and shielding herself with three layers of denim jackets, snorkeling goggles, and her dishwashing gloves, curiosity conquers Chaewon’s reasoning faculties. She uses a kitchen knife to slice off the duct tape lining the edges of the box, taking a deep, calming breath, and pulling the flaps open.

She steels herself, prepared to see an oddly shaped mass of clay with a copper wire sticking out of it but surprisingly pleased to find a black USB and a small post it note wrapped around it.

Yonseop Academy, 2012. Don’t shoot the messenger.

“O-kayyy.” Chaewon says, slightly flummoxed by the underwhelming reveal, tapping her sock-clad foot against the fuzzy carpet in her bathroom. She takes the USB, mindlessly plugging it into her laptop, before belatedly realizing it could contain a virus and pulling it out of her device. She drops it on the floor as if it were a hot potato, staring at it like it’s personally attacked her.

Chaewon begins her arduous process of figuring something out, which entails her pacing back and forth in her room until a brilliant idea spontaneously materializes in her mind.

The analog clock by her dresser ticks and ticks and ticks. It seems to be mocking her, mistaking her inaction for incompetence. Chaewon scowls with every second that passes, time making a show out of her compulsory ambulation.

And then, at last, the thought flashes through her mind.

Surely, the police have tools that can debug devices and whatnot. Maybe they can check if it’s bugged, at all. She pulls up her contact at the police, typing out the message with high hopes and even higher expectations. What could possibly be on this USB?

Chaewon [ 07:22 AM ] hoba, u busy? i need help with smth

Chaewon grins to herself she sees the message gets read a minute later. Hoseok has always been one of the most reliable people she knows. She smiles as the typing bubble pulses at the bottom of the screen.

Hoseok [ 07:25 AM ] aish, u always need smth from me…
Hoseok [ 07:25 AM ] don’t u know i can lose my job over this TT

Chaewon giggles, shimmying in her spot. Hoseok can never say no to her.

Chaewon [ 07:26 AM ] hoba, how long would it take u to debug a usb drive??

Hoseok starts typing, then pauses. The bubble reappears again, disappearing for a few seconds, before the message finally sends.

Hoseok [ 07:28 AM ] do i even wanna know why u need a usb debugged??
Hoseok [ 07:28 AM ] ugh
Hoseok [ 07:31 AM ] give me 3 days

Chaewon yelps in joy, thanking Hoseok a million times over and promising to treat him to a lovely dinner sometime in the near future. She receives a placid yeah yeah in response.

-

Three days have passed, and Chaewon is finally able to safely plug the USB into her work laptop. She opens up the tab, finding a singular mp4 video that’s 557 GB. Geez. Better be worth it, Chaewon thinks to herself.

Clicking on the video, her breath catches in her throat as she takes in the grainy quality of the footage – it looks like something she shouldn’t be watching, something forbidden.

There’s someone who looks to be a teacher sitting at his desk in front of an empty classroom, his hands hidden behind the bulk of his frame. There’s a video playing on his desktop screen, the contents of the video only coming into view once the focus is recentered from the older man to what he’s watching.

It’s clearly pornography, two figures seen engaging in sexual activities. What’s really damning is the fact that they seem extremely young – like students. Chaewon feels her stomach churn with disgust, closing the file once she notices why the teacher’s hands are hidden from her view.

She gets to work, finding the list of current and previous faculty members at Yonseop Academy. It’s easy to narrow down the list of suspects from there, eliminating the females and anyone who was employed after 2012. Next, she clicks over anyone who fits the profile of the teacher in the video. There really only seems to be one, most of the other male professors being elderly, bald, or too thin to be the man in the video.

His name is Donghyun Lee. He’s been working at the academy for over 15 years. Chaewon is struck with a sudden bout of nausea, imagining the creep being surrounded by children for this long unchecked. Chaewon calls her producers right away, pitching the story and assuring them the intel came from a reliable source, but they can’t be named under whistleblower protections.

The initial report airs on the six o’clock news on Channel 2 that evening, Chaewon professionally delivering the information despite the coil of revulsion settling tightly in her gut.

- Good evening. This is Kim Chaewon bringing you the latest news. Earlier today, authorities detained 52-year-old Donghyun Lee, a teacher at Yonseop Preparatory Academy, who is now under investigation for possession of illegal material involving minors and neglecting harassment complaints from students under his instruction-

-

Jeongguk is already waiting at the café when Jimin clocks in for his shift. The smaller stops in his tracks, dreading another possible confrontation, until Mia pops out of the storage closet, lugging big jugs of milk in each hand. Jimin ignores Jeongguk’s cheeky wink in favor of rounding the counter and pushing the swinging door open to help Mia out.

“Thank you, Jimin. Ugh, you’re such a sweetheart.” She beams at him, and Jimin can only flush in mortification, pointedly avoiding Jeongguk’s gaze.

Jimin practically flees to the employee lounge, the apron going over his head with the grace of a newborn fawn. Gosh, Jeongguk really has a way of messing with him.

He steps out, asking Mia if there’s anything that she needs Jimin to cover.

“Yes, actually.” She looks a bit sheepish when she opens her mouth, a shy grin lightening her expression. “Jeongguk wanted to watch TV, but I don’t know where our manager hid the controller. Any clue where it might be?”

Jimin can’t be blamed for his haughty reply. “Can’t he watch TV at home?”

Mia blinks, shocked by Jimin’s bratty attitude towards her boyfriend. Jeongguk only laughs, resting a hand under his chin while leaning on the counter. He answers Jimin’s retort, even though the question wasn’t directed at him.

“That’s no way to treat a customer, now, is it, Jimin-ah?” Across from him, Mia agrees, nodding off like a bobblehead.

Jimin scoffs, laughs to himself a bit, because he knows where the TV remote is, but he doesn’t want Jeongguk to stay here any longer. It feels like he’s ridiculing Mia, in a way. Still, he’d feel more like a dick if he didn’t go along with his coworker’s pleas – she doesn’t know Jeongguk is a bit… strange, after all.

Jimin reaches under the cash register, groping around the edge until he feels the remote. He peels off the tape that’s wrapped around it and stuck to the wooden table. Mia gasps, clapping in glee. Jimin rolls his eyes, handing it over to his coworker.

“Baby, any channel in particular you’d like to watch?”

Something twitches on Jeongguk’s face, like he’s forcing his muscles not to move. Jimin eyes him warily. The tattooed man hums, ponders for a second too soon, and then settles on a blasé – “how about the news?”

Mia smiles, clicking on the monitor and flicking through different channels until Jeongguk calmly directs her to channel 2. She giggles, muttering an inaudible thank you, baby under her breath.

Jimin hears it; he squirms a bit uncomfortably, crossing towards the customer area and asking the clients if their orders are to their liking.

It’s then Jeongguk steals the controller from Mia’s grasp, raising the volume a bit.

- According to preliminary statements from the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency, Donghyun Lee is being investigated for public indecency while possessing an illicit video of his former students. Parents and students are being notified of the investigation as we speak via an internal memorandum from the school’s administration. Classes that were taught by Lee have been temporarily suspended, and trauma counselors have been dispatched to the site. A spokesperson from the Ministry of Education has stated that a full-scale review of hiring protocols and background checks will be conducted across all public and private institutions –

A few things happen simultaneously at that moment.

Jimin is grabbing the empty water glasses from a table that has yet to be attended, but his whole body freezes in shock, the cups slipping from his grasp and shattering upon impact.

Mia, at the cash register, has visibly paled, her jaw dropped in shock. Jeongguk is on her in an instant, his hands wrapping around her shaking palms once he notices how washed-out her skin suddenly appears.

“Mia, baby, what is it?” He asks calmly, rubbing his thumbs over the skin of her knuckles.

“J-jeongguk.” It’s all she manages to blurt out, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. Her hands won’t stop trembling, even trapped within Jeongguk’s ensconcing warmth.

“Jimin, can you get Mia some-” Jeongguk calls out, whipping his head back to find the smaller man in a similar predicament.

He seems to be in shock, as well, his body functioning as if on autopilot. That’s probably why he’s picking up the broken glass on the floor with his bare hands, tears falling in rivulets and dotting the floor. The clients stare at him, utterly perturbed by the hysterical behavior, opting to pack up their belongings and leave a few won notes to cover the bill.

“Fuck.” Jeongguk yells, his hands slipping from Mia’s as he rushes to pick up Jimin off the ground.

“Hey, hey. Jimin. Calm down for me, yeah? Deep breaths for me. In and out. In and out. Just like that.” Jeongguk shushes Jimin’s feeble wheezing, taking him into his arms and rubbing his back in soft, soothing circles.

“What is it, love? What happened?” He mutters into Jimin’s hair, his body rocking back and forth to pacify Jimin’s shivering frame.

“M-mr. Lee. H-he.” Jimin breaks down into a fit of sobs, clutching his chest as if the anguish he’s feeling were physically hurting him. Jeongguk’s heart aches.

“That video was m-mine, Jeongguk. H-how-?” Jimin curls further into himself, like he wants to disappear, doesn’t want Jeongguk to see him.

“I know, sweetheart.” He whispers, softly, knows Jimin won’t hear it. It hurts all the same.

Behind them, Mia’s head snaps up, suddenly possessed.

“It was you?” She mutters to herself, quietly enough that the pair can’t hear her. Mia reaches towards the cupboard, rummaging around for the sharpest knife she can find. She talks towards Jimin with purpose, the blood that had drained from her face suddenly coursing through her veins, blinded by unaltered rage.

“You’re the little slut who ruined my dad’s life?!” Mia screams, pouncing towards Jimin with the knife gripped firmly in her two hands. Jeongguk reacts first, pushing Jimin out of the way and turning on his haunches to face the attack. He doesn’t have much time to think, the weapon already pointed millimeters away from his face.

He does the only thing that will benefit both Jimin and himself if the police were to get involved.

Jeongguk stretches his left palm into the air, the knife’s serrated edge seamlessly piercing Jeongguk’s hand. It’s enough to put some resistance against Mia, who has released her grip on the handle in favor of staring at her hands, mouth agape as blood drips from Jeongguk’s palm onto hers.

Jeongguk pushes her away with his uninjured hand, wincing in pain with every minor flex of his tendons around the wound. Mia’s bottom lip wobbles uncontrollably, fat tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

“J-jeongguk, I… I really didn’t mean to.” She offers, pathetically, taking two steps towards Jeongguk before he reacts, making her quake on the spot.

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM US.” He shouts, and it’s terrifying. The cutlery abandoned on the nearby tables shake. His usually round eyes have hardened into deadly slits, strong arms wrapped protectively around Jimin’s shoulders.

Despite his panic, Jimin reaches into his pocket, clicking the emergency beeper he keeps on him in the case of an attempted robbery.

Mia is muttering nonsense into her hands, her hair a disheveled nest on her head. She looks revolting, and Jeongguk wants nothing more than to watch her organs spill across the floor for even daring to lay a finger on Jimin.

(Un)fortunately for him, police sirens are heard nearing the establishment moments later, the red and blue lights bleeding through the window curtains.

The officers kick down the door, assessing the situation before calling in the paramedics to nurse Jeongguk’s injuries. Two bulky officers read Mia her rights, cuffing her hands behind her back as she thrashes, babbling out obscenities incomprehensibly.

The medics try prying Jimin off Jeongguk’s body, but he clings even tighter, his hands gripping the fabric of Jeongguk’s shirt in taut bunches.

“Sir, we need to treat your friend’s wounds.” The woman says, observing the pair with downturned eyes.

“No, no, no, no-“ Jimin cries, and Jeongguk is there for him immediately, cradling him in his arms. He stands up, carrying Jimin bridal style, hissing through his teeth but neutralizing his facial expressions when the woman starts protesting in alarm. He waves her off with the firm shake of his head, trudging towards the ambulance car, where the medical team is waiting, on standby.

“Treat him first.” Jeongguk utters, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for arguments.

-

Chaewon feels vindicated walking through Yonseop’s hallways, no longer having to peer over her shoulder in fear that her superiors will berate her for snooping where she’s not permitted to.

The corridors are eerily quiet, free of the usual stampeding children running amok. The door to Mr. Lee’s classroom has been covered in yellow caution tape, only authorized personnel and investigators assigned to the case being able to enter.

She’s not surprised in the slightest, however, to find a figure huddled around the teacher’s desk, a flashlight caught between his teeth as he rummages through his personal effects that were left behind.

Chaewon leans against the door frame, waving politely at the hooded man. His eyes – sharp like a feline’s - are visible over the bridge of the mask.

“I take it you’re the messenger?” She asks conversationally, fixing her arms over her chest. The man chuckles caustically, not stopping in his unknown search.

“I have nothing to say to you.” His voice is muffled, but the raspiness of it isn’t lost. Chaewon’s spine tingles. She steps forward, her heels clicking with every foot of flooring crossed. She stands in front of the desk, leaning forward as curiosity gets the best of her.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” The man’s shoulders shake with muted laughter, briefly ceasing his hunt to gaze at the reporter.

“Persistent, huh?” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. Chaewon beams.

“I try my best.” She states proudly, looking across the teacher’s desk and suddenly, images of the video she’d received flash through her mind. Her smile falters, a frown etching onto her lips. The figure seems to refocus on the task at hand, his eyebrows furrowing, forehead wrinkling in concentration.

“Pretty fucking sick, right?” The reporter comments offhandedly, squeezing her eyes shut as she remembers the footage, how depraved a teacher would have to be to purposefully surround himself with vulnerable children out of his own disgusting proclivity.

The man scoffs, shaking his head in disdain. “He was even more revolting in person. Always sweating like a pig, never taking his students seriously. I’m glad he’s paying for it all now.”

Chaewon latches onto the man’s first statement. “Are you a former student of his?”

The figure stills for a second, most likely debating whether to share more information than necessary. Then, deeming it irrelevant, he nods, parsing through some documents in one of the desk’s drawers.

It’s a bit of a stretch, but the man might be around Namjoon’s age. His build and voice would point towards that conclusion. Nothing wrong with taking a shot in the dark.

“Did you know a Kim Taehyung, by any chance?” Chaewon keeps her tone light. Clipped. Keeps her eyes fixed on the intruder for any minute shifts in his demeanor or body language. The man doesn’t say a word, but the lack of a clear denial seems like a silent admission.

Chaewon licks her lips, an idea ready to leap off her tongue before her mind is able to process it.

“Do you think there’s any relation between Mr. Lee and Taehyung? It’s a bit strange, no? Two people who were associated to this school dying within the span of a few months.”

The masked man says nothing, stuffing some items into the bookbag slung over his shoulder and zipping it up. Chaewon might never see him again – she panics.

“Are you some kind of vigilante? Look-“ she wonders how much she should reveal about her private investigation, but a quirked eyebrow from the intruder tells her it’s a solid gamble. Something about him seems trustworthy. “- I’m not affiliated with the police. Even now, I’m here off the clock. I’m shadowing as a, um, private investigator, of sorts.”

“Who hired you?” The man asks, sharp as a tack.

Chaewon scratches her nape, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Well, I’m… actually doing this for myself.” She stares into the man’s eyes, hoping her sincerity whittles down the last of his reservations. “The man who I reported to be dead a few months ago – it wasn’t Kim Taehyung. I actually think he’s alive.”

When the man doesn’t respond, Chaewon is quick to rescind her statements, probably sounding like a deranged conspiracy theorist. “I know – I know! Sounds crazy, right? But-“

“I’ll work with you.” He says, then. Chaewon sighs in relief, liking the guy already. He’s a man of few words but reliable in action. She’ll be damned to let the opportunity slip.

The intruder is walking towards the cracked window by the opposing side of the room. Chaewon sputters, flagging him down.

“H-hey! How will we be in contact, messenger?”

He simply waves her off, disappearing into the ashy gray skyline.

-

present – a few months ago

Seokjin bites on his fat lower lip. Checks his watch once more for the time. It’s only been 43 seconds since he’s last glanced at it. Fuck. He should be back by now.

Seokjin is waiting on a bridge by the outskirts of Gangnam, his puffy North Face jacket stretched tightly over his thin, elegant frame.

Namjoon emerges from under the bridge seconds later, a smug grin tugging at his lips. Seokjin eyes him warily.

“You’re such a pussy, Jin.” He chides, shoving Seokjin with a lighthearted punch that stings more than Namjoon probably intended it to. Seokjin keeps this to himself – he’s always been a bit weaker, more fragile.

Seokjin schools his features, fixing Namjoon a withering glare. “So? Did it work out?”

Namjoon yawns, the vapor of his breath materializing in the cool air. “Course it did. It was a simple job. Just needed to find a bum that fit Taehyung’s general description: tall, around 20-30 years old, average face.”

Seokjin nods, convincing himself that there’s no reason to fret. It really was a quick chore Taehyung had requested from them. They’d been assigned to do much worse before. Still, the older can’t help but wallow in his qualms, asking Namjoon more questions than necessary.

“Was he agreeable? Do you think he’ll do his part well?”

Namjoon scoffs, staring at Seokjin like he’s grown a second head. “Are you kidding me? We just handed him ₩100 million. That’s probably more than his entire bloodline has made in fucking forever. He’d be a fool not to take it.”

Seokjin shuffles quietly as the chilly breeze of early January has picked up, whipping his black locks over his eyes. Namjoon rubs his buzzcut, a sign of stress.

“Jeez, what’s got your panties in a twist?” He mutters, rounding the hood of their black van and unlocking the doors. Seokjin grimaces, pulling on the door latch and hopping into the passenger seat. Namjoon never lets him drive.

“I’m just worried, Joon. After this, Tae will no longer just be missing. He’s gonna be dead.”

The heaviness of Seokjin’s voice isn’t lost on his friend, and for once, he meets his eyes, a big, rough palm slapping down onto his shoulder.

“I know he’s your younger brother, and you’re worried about him, but you know better than anyone he’s alive and well! He’s just laying low for a while.” Namjoon reassures, not unkindly, but lacking warmth. Seokjin shrugs off his hand and the poor attempt at being comforting. He rolls his eyes, angling his body towards the window.

The other sighs, staring at the hand that’s been rejected. He slams it, hard, onto the gear shift, the sound of skin smacking against leather resounding throughout the otherwise empty vehicle. He doesn’t miss how Seokjin jolts in his seat, his eyes seen widening through the reflection across the window.

“If you need any more proof that the bum is on board, the first thing he’d told me he was gonna do with the money was fix his teeth. The poor bastard looked like he hadn’t seen a dentist in years – teeth all fucking nasty and yellow.” Namjoon reverses out of their parking spot, checking all the mirrors despite knowing there isn’t a soul that would be around this late around the margins of the city.

He pulls the gear down to drive, speeding away into the dark abyss of night.

Seokjin breaks the tense silence with a muted inquiry.

“What was his name?”

Namjoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, fixing his gaze on the road ahead.

“Was?” He utters, but his mouth feels dry, like it’s been stuffed with chalk.

“You know he’s going to die. My father won’t tolerate loose threads.” Seokjin states with finality.

Namjoon’s face glows red when the vehicle comes to a halt at a stop light. The streets are totally vacant, not a car or person in sight. On any other day, Namjoon would run it; the fines never go through, anyway. The SMPA is but an obedient dog, wagging its tail as it waits for instructions from the Kims.

Namjoon would’ve been a fool to not have taken advantage of his friendship with Seokjin back when they were seniors in high school. They’d only shared a few classes, but Seokjin seemed to follow Namjoon around everywhere, hanging on to his every word. He could tell Seokjin was in love with him, but he’d never acknowledge it. Or reciprocate.

He had a name to make for himself.

Namjoon was born out of wedlock, the bastardly result of his father, Kim Jaesung, and his anonymous mistress’ affair. His mother, Dahyun, wasn’t in the least bit surprised. She’d held her head high throughout the divorce, so much so that the press and audiences at home overwhelmingly criticized his father, while singing Dahyun’s praises.

Jaesung’s enterprise, a domestic firm for medical technology R&D, had been rocked by the divorce, with multiple shareholders selling their stocks and its share price reaching an all-time low. While his father brewed in his pathetic misery, watching his empire crumble before his feet, Namjoon took the brunt of his frustrations, sitting idly and bruised as Jaesung became an alcohol-dependent deadbeat. Shackled by his addiction, Namjoon could only silently rage until he’d matured enough to promise himself he’d bring his family’s name out of ruin and public disgrace.

And so, when Seokjin had stared up at Namjoon with his glossy eyes and petal-pink lips, he knew he’d have easy access to partake in one of Korea’s largest conglomerates. It was truly a no-brainer.

“His name is Beomhan. Jung Beomhan.” Namjoon says, staring at Seokjin through his peripherals. He’s undeniably beautiful. His face was a little less sharp when they were younger, for there was still some aging left to be weathered until he’d finally settle into his features. Even now, it isn’t so much his appearance that’s still rounded by softness, but his heart.

Kim Jeonghan had always told Namjoon that his eldest son lacked an edge. He’d say it bitterly, like it displeased him greatly. It’s why he’d been elated to let his friend into their home, hoping Namjoon would help shape him up into a serious man.

He had no idea Seokjin was devastatingly enamoured by his friend and now partner in crime.

“Joon,” Seokjin whispers, turning to peer at the man, “do you ever think it’ll stop?”

Namjoon tenses, features reflecting green as the streetlight urges them to go. He finds it hard to take his foot off the brake.

“What the hell are you talking about, Jin?” It comes out harsher than expected, Seokjin merely swallowing around the shaky breath he’s taken.

“Do you enjoy this? Killing people? Ruining lives?”

Namjoon cracks, his foot that had been uselessly hovering over the accelerator finally pressing down. The engine purrs as he runs the green light and the three reds that come after it, only taking his foot off the gas when it’s time to turn on the next intersection.

Seokjin holds on to his seatbelt, forearms posed against the arm rests on either side of his body. He looks over at Namjoon as if he were unrecognizable.

“Do I enjoy it? Who fucking cares?” The van swings on the turn, the left-hand wheels nearly lifting off the road. He pulls into the Kim’s mansion, one of many residencies they own. The guard at the entrance, standing in position with a semi-automatic rifle at his flank, signals for Namjoon to roll down the window.

He does as told, waving at the guard once the bald, bulky man recognizes him. The guard doesn’t bother acknowledging Seokjin.

Upon entering the mansion, Seokjin climbs up the spiraled stairs at the center of the living room, passing by his mother without as much as a glance in her direction. Soojung stops on a marbled step, her heels clicking against the polished surface as her slim legs pose parallel to each other.

“Namjoon, my dear. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Namjoon bristles, flushing a bit. It’s not often he’d addressed so informally. The Kims must be in high spirits. Jeonghan comes down the stairs soon after, smiling as he wraps an arm around his wife’s waist. Namjoon pretends not to notice how she flinches, her smile wavering around the edges.

“Good to see you, son. Has Taehyung reached out to you?” Jeonghan inquires smoothly, walking down the stairs with Soojung’s arm linked to his elbow. Their interactions always seem so stiff. Mechanical.

Namjoon rubs his palm over his buzz cut, feeling compelled to maintain eye-contact despite how unnerving it is every time. “Yes, sir. Seokjin and I –“ he doesn’t miss the way his father huffs out of laugh, “were able to fulfill his request.”

“That’s excellent, Namjoon.” Jeonghan’s shoulders shake under his fluffy, cotton robe. His eyes shine as he takes the younger man in, but it’s not light that flashes through his orbs – it’s something akin to envy. Namjoon’s mind reels at his brief moment of vulnerability. What could this man possibly covet from someone like him, a bastard?”

“I wish my own blood wouldn’t cause me so much trouble. How blessed I’d be to have a son like you.” Jeonghan sounds solemn. Soojung tenses imperceptibly at his side.

Namjoon is speechless.

His own father had never even acknowledged him as his son, cursing the day he’d been born. Namjoon cursed it, as well, wondering why his mere existence seemed to trouble the person who was supposed to cherish him most.

-

2012.05

Seokjin is going to confess to Namjoon.

He’d put on his crispiest dress shirt and his favorite baggy blue jeans. Spritzes on some Bleu de Chanel, carefully applying it to the inner part of his wrists and the lymph nodes around his neck. A thin, elegant gold necklace graces his collarbones.

It’s never difficult to find Namjoon. When he’s not working for their father, he’s with Taehyung – quite frankly, it makes him run a little warm, the jealousy blinding him with irrational thoughts. Why is he around Taehyung, who is two years his junior, so much? Shouldn’t he enjoy my company more?

As predicted, Namjoon and Taehyung are huddled in the garage, two 911 Porsches bracketing them. They seem to be talking about something grave, judging by the sweat beading down the older’s temples. His forehead is wrinkled with stress, eyes wide and alarmed.

Taehyung notices his brother first, his nose twitching before he turns to locate the source of the scent he’d perceived.

“Ah, hyung. Good morning.” Seokjin winces. Even as the younger sibling, Taehyung has always been cold, bristling whenever Seokjin would show any affection. He’d shrug off his embrace and shift away from his brother’s tender touches. It hurt, at first. Now, it aches – especially because he doesn’t act this way in front of Namjoon. If anything, he regards the older as more of a relative than he does Seokjin, his own flesh and blood.

Taehyung pats Namjoon’s shoulder, the other wordlessly making a promise with only a firm look in his eyes. He’s the most reliable person Seokjin’s ever met. His heart thrums as he takes furtive steps towards him, not wanting to interrupt their discussion.

Taehyung brushes past Seokjin’s shoulder on his way out, not bothering to waste his breath on a meaningless apology.

Namjoon doesn’t quite meet Seokjin’s eyes when he stands before him.

“Joonie, I-“ It seems the nickname was not the right way to go, judging by the full-body shudder that just wracked Namjoon’s frame.

“Don’t call me that ever again.”

Oh. The edges of Seokjin’s heart crack a little, his resolve waning with every disinterested expression that flashes across Namjoon’s face.

Seokjin goes for a second attempt, albeit with half the confidence he’d mustered the first time around. “Namjoon, I was wondering if you’d ever…” His eyes visibly sour, lips thinning into a disgruntled line. Seokjin switches gears, a sign in his head blinking damage control as he fends off the tears threatening to embarrass him. “…like to get some coffee with me?”

Seokjin can’t decipher the myriad of emotions washing over Namjoon’s mind, but he settles into a look of blunt ridicule.

What comes out of Namjoon’s mouth makes Seokjin question if it had all been a grand delusion, a fever dream.

“I have a dead body to get rid of. Do you think I have time for playdates?” His timbre is rich and smoky, like cinder rising and falling from a furnace.

Seokjin finds he doesn’t mind getting burned, desperate for warmth, in whatever form it may come.

“Let me come with you! I-“ Seokjin feels pathetic. He’s sure Namjoon thinks the same, too. “I’m sure my father would appreciate me taking interest in the family business.”

Namjoon scoffs, skeptical. The sheen of Seokjin’s eyes and his lips, bitten raw, reek of misery. Agony.

Namjoon rolls his eyes, unlocking the car. Seokjin stares at him, mouth parted in shock. He’s hurt.

Namjoon huffs. His patience is wearing thin. “Are you getting in, or what?”

Chapter Text

present

Jimin’s vision is blurred as he opens his eyes. The apartment before him is disturbingly clean. It’s minimalistic in a way that projects a lack of want rather than a lavish aesthetic – it smells like soap, baby powder, and something else that permeates his nasal cavities and sits there, lingering uncomfortably.

Taking in the amount of ivory furnished with black accents on the walls, the couch, the living room table, Jimin finally understands what the scent is.

Bleach.

Jimin settles on the mattress, suddenly aware of the fact that there’s a bed in the living room.

Jeongguk appears, a mirage, freshly showered, with tendrils of hot vapor still clinging to his body. Jimin stares off to the side, resolute, despite the pink blooming over his face.

Jeongguk’s only wearing underwear. Jimin feels a bit dizzy.

His hands lay limp at his sides, toying with the loose threads sticking out of the gray comforter beneath him. Jimin’s fingers twitch every few seconds, as if unsure what to do without the panic that’s usually curled over his shoulder to guide him. To haunt him.

He told Jeongguk about the tape – something he’d never told anyone after running away from that little piece of hell in Gangnam.

Shockingly, the tattooed man didn’t stare at him with revulsion. No – he’d hugged Jimin tighter. The smaller feels a bit too exposed, a bit too raw. A bit sterilized, like the freakishly impeccable room he’s in.

Jeongguk stands in front of Jimin, opting to sit a respectable distance away from the other. Every bounce of his showered locks sprinkles droplets of cool water onto Jimin’s warm skin. Goosebumps pebble all over his body.

“Hey.” Jeongguk says, a smile tugging on his lips.

Jimin blinks, blushing, because he knows how the entire situation looks. Compromising. With what little he knows about Jeongguk, he’d probably done it on purpose to fluster him more.

“Finally got me in bed with you, huh?” Jimin remarks, a bit cheekily, biting down a grin when Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck with his hand. His bandaged hand.

It pops the little lighthearted bubble that had been tenuously expanding, Jimin scooting over to check the injury.

“The doctor said it should be fine. It was a clean incision – didn’t fracture any bones or tendons, so I just need some stitches and plenty of rest.”

Jimin gapes at him, observing how calmly Jeongguk just explained the aftermath of an incredibly traumatic incident.

“Jeongguk – you. You risked your life for me. I- I can’t even believe how it all happened.” Jimin gently rests the hand, palm up, on Jeongguk’s huge thigh, trying not to focus on the lack of clothing covering the thickly corded muscle. Pretending he doesn’t see the way Jeongguk’s entire leg flinches.

He recovers smoothly, clearing his throat and leaning back on the hand that’s intact. Jimin’s eyes absent-mindedly traced down the path of the trickles of water cascading down Jeongguk’s round pecs, his skin that seems to perk up from the cool air of the apartment, or maybe the mindless attention –

“I hate to say it, but I told you so.” Jeongguk chimes, obviously referring to Mia, cackling when Jimin rolls his eyes, makes a show of throwing the covers off his body and getting up to leave.

He manages to take two small steps before his wrist is enclosed by one of Jeongguk’s big, inked hands, easily dragging him back into bed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He sounds too sure of himself.

Jimin malfunctions, unable to process the scalding heat of Jeongguk’s skin against his. He chooses to redirect the focus of the conversation back onto Jeongguk’s previous statement.

Jimin gulps, toying with the sleeves of a shirt that swallows him completely. “Yeah, you’re right.” Jeongguk’s eyes glimmer, wet with want. Jimin pivots quickly, panicked “ – about Mia, I mean! Mia – she… just lost it.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows furrow, like he’s debating something. It’s an expression of consternation Jimin recognizes on Jeongguk’s face, one he’d seen when he’d encountered him at the café before. Jimin flushes at the memory, remembering how shamelessly the other was flirting with him.

And then he speaks, his voice coarse in a calculated way. Jimin feels like tummy unravelling strangely, hates how he hangs on to every word that leaves Jeongguk’s pierced lips.

“Mia had actually told me she hated you a lot.” It’s a lie. Jimin swallows it up anyway, staring into his lap. Jeongguk takes it a step further.

“She said you were too pretty.” Jeongguk licks around the word, knows there are a thousand more fitting adjectives to describe Jimin’s surreal beauty, but he settles for one that sounds plausible. One that doesn’t sound too much like a confession.

“She sometimes got jealous thinking I went to the café to visit you more than I’d go to see her.” Jimin’s head snaps up, the statement ringing true.

Jimin feels a bit awkward. “Was she wrong, though?”

Jeongguk stares into Jimin’s eyes – the answer is pretty obvious. Still, he shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something else, something more concrete, but the front door bursts open.

A slew of curses follows, what look to be grocery bags dangling through the entrance. Jimin gasps, wondering why Jeongguk didn’t mention anything about having company over.

Jeongguk looks particularly stressed, running to the door, but the figure has already kicked his way in, his shoes getting slipped off in a haste.

“Yah, Jeongguk-ah – maybe if you’d stop jerking off so much you’d be a good dongsaeng and open the door for your hyung.”

Jeongguk goes red; Jimin’s eyes climb up his back, noticing the way his nape is burning.

“H-hyung – shut the fuck up! I have a guest-“ Jeongguk scrambles to say, helping Yoongi with the bags hanging tenuously around eight out of ten fingers.

“Good, let them know what a shit roommate you are.”

That voice. Jimin instantly recognizes it, but he can’t seem to put a face to it.

Then the man takes off his mask, throws off his reading glasses onto the table, and finally greets the person in the living room.

Jimin remembers him, the memory of the strange customer still fresh in his mind. The one who’d told him to say hi to Mia. The one who’d asked Mia for his number, claiming to be Jimin’s friend from high school.

Jimin rises out of the bed, an accusation ready on his tongue. The man’s face flickers with latent recognition, shooting Jeongguk a nasty smirk. Jeongguk waves his hands in front of his chest exaggeratedly, eyes bulging desperately.

“You dog.” The man snickers, patting Jeongguk’s back. “Really? Ran out of patience so quickly?”

Jimin bawks in front of their loaded conversation, feeling rudely left out of the loop.

“Excuse me, who are you? Why did you ask Mia for my phone number?” Jimin stares at the man with cat eyes and thin pouty lips, chagrin mounting in his tone.

The man quirks a brow at Jeongguk, who gapes, trying to find a way out of a situation he’d never prepared for and that is quickly getting out of hand. His eyes find Jimin’s, seeing a glint of betrayal flash when his gaze meets Jeongguk’s.

“Yoongi, I need you to give us some space.” The smaller man – Yoongi – scoffs, waving his hand lazily while walking away from the scene. The quiet padding of his feet fills the uncomfortable silence simmering between the pair.

“Jimin, I’m sorry about him. He’s –“ Jeongguk scratches his head, and Jimin's eyes just barely flicker towards his bicep.

“He’s my best friend, and he’s really annoying. Gosh, I hate to kick you out so soon,” and Jimin can tell he’s sincere, can see how pained Jeongguk is to make Jimin leave, the way his neck leans outward to stand closer to Jimin’s height. Jimin is not blushing, “but I’m afraid he’ll say more embarrassing things in your presence, and I can’t have that.” Jeongguk’s eyes glimmer, the orbs sparkling as though they contain stars. Jimin is speechless.

Then, “I am really so sorry, Jimin. But – would you mind sharing your number with me? I… would like to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Jimin is truly bewildered, zeroing in on the nervous way Jeongguk bites at his lower lip. It’s a little distracting.

He forces himself to sound bratty, can’t show how off-kilter he feels from a single interaction with Jeongguk.

“W-what. Why don’t you ask your friend? He has my number, doesn’t he?” Jimin internally curses at how lame he sounds.

Jeongguk seems just as affected, but for reasons Jimin can’t decipher. He trips over his words. “A-ahh! Yoongi-hyung? He actually, um, saw you at work one day and thought you were cute.”

Jimin feels his skin prickle, cheeks burning. It feels different hearing so many compliments about his appearance coming from Jeongguk’s mouth. Jimin wonders if he views him the same way.

“F-fine.” He quickly punches in his number into Jeongguk’s phone, fingers floating - as if he's forgotten his own number under the taller’s intense scrutiny. Jimin leaves before Jeongguk can get another word in.

-

Chaewon receives another package in the mail. It’s been over two weeks since she last saw the messenger. Fifteen days since the hooded figure had slipped through that window.

Chaewon had started thinking that he’d simply disappeared, becoming one with his phantom identity. Perhaps his interest in her had been short-lived, replaced by a more promising prospect of a mutually advantageous arrangement.

But the sight of a second package - no return address, no sender – resting against her door when she comes back from work sends her heart into a strange, disjointed rhythm. The anticipation paired with her spiking adrenaline make her pick up the package with both hands, far less cautious than before. It’s light, just like the first, so Chaewon is expecting another piece of damning evidence or a disturbing tip-off.

Heart thudding incessantly, her fingers trace alone the edges of the box – hovering, hesitating. A thousand questions buzz around in her head like static, propelling her to reach for the scissors on her work desk and rip the package open.

It’s completely empty, save for a small post-it note sticking to the base of the box. There’s not much scribbled on it. Just an address, scrawled in black chiseled sharpie.

Namsan Library, West Wing, Room 304

Just below it, a time: 5:30 A.M

It seems it’s been offered to her like a challenge more than anything. There isn’t even a date. Chaewon checks her watch. It’s 12:14 A.M. She’s tired from work; normally, she’d fall straight into bed, skipping a much-needed shower and meal. But today, the itch under her skin is burning a little too close to the surface. And she’s aching to scratch it.

Chaewon stays awake, taking pictures of her crazy board in case the messenger wants to trace her work so far. There are several files she has yet to scour, and she’d be more than happy to ask the messenger to assist her in the search.

A sour, rotten cynicism bleeds into her head as she buckles her seatbelt. There’s an uncomfortable pulsing in her chest as the consecutive streetlights blink red at her, a seemingly coincidental omen of caution. Her fingers dance along the steering wheel. She considers it – she really does: turning back. Pretending she’d never met that mysterious figure. There is an alarmingly disproportionate amount of information that each party knows about each other. The messenger knows her identity, her address, her profession, her theories. Chaewon knows nothing about the man she’s so impulsively going to meet.

It's unnerving. But it only makes her step on the gas that much harder when the light turns green, eager to fly past the signs imperiously yelling at her to stop. And Chaewon has always despised being told what to do.

Exhaling shakily, Chaewon steps into the library, greeting the front desk staff kindly. They smile at her, probably assuming she’s a university student hoping to cram early for exams. She’s dressed in an all-black ensemble, a black hoodie and sweatpants thrown on without much thought.

So reckless. Who in their right mind meets with a stranger – one who knows your personal address – at half past five in the morning?

She soothes herself with the fact that it’s a public meet-up. If something suspicious were to go down, there’s plenty of witnesses, cameras, and exits that Chaewon has been discreetly clocking since she’d arrived.

Room 304 appears in her line of sight when she rounds the corner coming out of the elevator. The door is slightly ajar, filling her simultaneously with relief and crippling trepidation.

She pushes it open gently, eyes scanning the shadows first before she steps inside. There are two figures in the room. Her grip tightens on the doorknob, hesitating. But only briefly.

The space is narrow, tightly packed with rows of carts filled with dust-covered books and worn-out catalogs. On the corner of the room parallel to the door, there’s a stack of neglected chairs with stuffing hanging out of loose, de-threaded corners. Standing to her right, in the corner diametrically opposed to her, is the hooded figure she’d seen at Yonseop and another that’s masked - two heads taller than the messenger - a presence that's imposing despite his position in the background. Merely a shadow.

A veiny hand reaches into the air, pushing back on the fabric hanging over his head. The hoodie comes off. He smiles as he takes Chaewon in, cat eyes crinkling at the corners.

Chaewon’s mouth parts, more than a little flummoxed.

The short man steps closer to the reporter, meeting her halfway before stretching out his thin, pale hand towards her.

“Thought I’d lose some of the anonymity as a sign of good faith. You look like you’re about to shit a brick.” The man quips, waiting for Chaewon to acknowledge him. She pinches her wrist, centering herself as she takes the man’s hand and gives it a firm shake.

“I appreciate the gesture.” She says, tepidly, inconspicuously peering over the man’s shoulder to look at the other who has yet to take the same measure.

“Chaewon.”

“Yoongi.”

Only clipped formalities are necessary. The veil has been uncovered. Chaewon feels her body untense, shoulders relaxing as she finally becomes acquainted with her surroundings, taking in the poor lighting fixtures along the walls rather than on the ceiling. They flicker, the glass of the bulbs chipped or completely removed on some of the lamps.

The man leaning against the wall spurs into action, effortlessly pulling three chairs out from the pile balancing haphazardly by the corner and carrying them to the table towards the back of the room.

Chaewon, wanting to ease some of the stuffiness – both from the awkward meet and the dank air of the room – breaks the pregnant silence.

“Cozy place.” It’s a blasé remark, but it draws huffs of amusement out of both men. She smiles within herself, satisfied with taking the initiative.

It’s Yoongi who speaks next. “Before we begin, I’d like to get a feel for where you’re thinking of taking your…” he licks his lips, “hypothesis. Are you going to report your findings, or is this strictly a personal project?”

Chaewon opens her mouth to respond, but immediately pauses when she sees the taller man flexing his palms across the table. They’re tattooed, the ink undoubtedly trailing further beneath his sweater sleeves.

She makes sure to articulate her purpose clearly. “I was strictly forbidden from working on Taehyung’s case. Any work that gets done here stays between us. I-“ she wonders if she should disclose this much, “-think there’s something incredibly fishy going on with Taehyung’s family and the SMPA.”

Yoongi and the tattooed man share a weighted look, the unspoken words carrying even in the tense pause of quiet. The man that has yet to relinquish his mask of secrecy finally speaks, his voice surprisingly pleasant to the ears, carrying smoothly despite the hint of deep satoori mingling into his speech.

“Could you elaborate?”

Chaewon nods, reaching into her satchel and pulling out the pictures she’d taken of her findings so far.

She points a manicured nail at several photos spread across the table, their glossy finish reflecting the fluorescents blinking around the room.

“Taehyung was reported missing several years ago by his older brother – Kim Seokjin. He’d reported there were signs of a burglary or some kind of altercation at Taehyung’s residence, which would be sufficient grounds for the police to investigate his disappearance.”

Yoongi sits wordlessly, not bothering to hide his unwavering focus on the reporter, barely sparing the prints a glance.

Chaewon continues, not pausing for a beat. She directs their attention towards the pictures of Taehyung’s parents. “Why is it that two moguls, who have the power to move mountains for their child, only berate the police with a slap on the wrist for doing a lousy job regarding Taehyung’s disappearance?”

Silence.

“Why would the SMPA not treat the case with more urgency?”

The hooded man decides to take off his mask, revealing a pierced lip and jaded eyed. He answers the question for her.

“It’s all for show, of course. Taehyung is alive.”

Chaewon stares at Yoongi, faltering a bit. He nods reassuringly, tossing his head towards his colleague.

“Y-yes. That was the same conclusion I had reached. I tried investigating Yonseop, but the police gave me explicit instructions to not dig my nose there.”

The tattooed man laughs derisively, shaking his head as he stares at nothing in particular.

“How funny.” He spits, resting an elbow on the table and laying his head on his standing forearm. He reaches out the other hand, palms splayed up and trusting.

Yoongi eyes Chaewon's wrinkled forehead, smoothly narrating for his friend. “Meet his former classmate, Jeon Jeongguk.”

Chaewon bawks. The information takes a few seconds to trickle into her mind, the realization only percolating once she takes his hand and shakes it, completely discombobulated.

“You-“ she halts mid-sentence, the revelation only now settling in, “-knew him?”

Jeongguk sighs, running a wary hand through his thick, black locks. “Unfortunately.”

Chaewon suddenly turns towards Yoongi, her body shifting along with her focus. “And you? You knew him, too?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Not directly. I’m Jeongguk’s senior by two years. I had heard of Taehyung in passing, but I’d only really learned about him after befriending Jeongguk.”

Hm. Chaewon is constantly thrown in for a loop with every new detail that’s dropped. She suddenly pulls out her worn out leads notebook, clicking the ballpoint pen in her hoodie’s pocket and jotting the factoids down.

“What was he like?” Chaewon asks, tapping her pen on her bottom lip. The only thing she knows about his character is that he liked presuming his wealth and influence. Judging by the sudden darkness clouding over Jeongguk’s countenance, Chaewon knows there’s so much more about him to pick apart.

Jeongguk clicks his tongue, folding his arms across his chest. He’s defensive. Chaewon writes it down absent-mindedly.

“He was a psychopath.” He comments, totally deadpan. The emptiness in his eyes makes Chaewon’s blood run cold, her grip around the pen loosening momentarily. Jeongguk stares at her notebook, and then corrects himself. “Is. He is a psychopath.” He wants Chaewon to know it, too, watching as she doodles over the verb, changes it to its present tense.

“He’s deranged.” Jeongguk continues, paying close attention to the weight he puts upon every word, how stagnant each pause is. “He’s conceited. Pretentious. Disgusting. Violent -“ Chaewon’s pen bleeds as she presses the ballpoint down too hard on the paper, the ink blotting and smudging hideously across the college-ruled lines. She wants to tell Jeongguk to slow down, to offer some more details, looks towards Yoongi for some support – she only finds his head hanging down, a grimace evident by the tight clenching of skin along his jawline. Jeongguk doesn’t stop. “-sadistic, cunning, reckless.”

He waits for Chaewon to catch up, his final sentence dangling from the tip of his tongue. She glances up, the pen held tightly in her palm. It still trembles as she holds it over the paper.

“Probably the worst person to ever exist.”

Chaewon’s mouth parts and closes repeatedly. As a reporter and a television personality, she always has an unlimited vocabulary ready in her mind to comment on any case or topic of conversation. She prides herself on knowing what to say. Every time. Without fail.

Witnessing the two men before her appear so vulnerable, so depleted, just from mentioning Taehyung’s personality – it strips her bare. No phrases or niceties seem sufficient. Seem appropriate. They all fall short, perhaps because she’s unable to define the feeling of apprehension that has taken hold of her own mind, all kinds of evil and sick deeds plaguing her thoughts.

Yoongi tsks, glancing at his watch. He pushes back on his chair, the sudden noise causing Jeongguk’s head to snap up reflexively. Yoongi lays a palm on his shoulder. Chaewon is sure the expression on his face is one he doesn’t wear frequently. It doesn’t sit quite right on him, the pull of his jowls deepening as his lips purse into a tight frown. His eyes are set rigidly, cold but wet with restrained tears.

“The custodians will be here any minute.” Yoongi cuts in, coughing to get rid of the grainy texture of his voice. “We should go.”

Jeongguk makes to stand, as well, the slump of his shoulder grave and noticeable. Chaewon’s mind is brimming with one too many possible scenarios that could’ve left both of these hardened men with serious mental turmoil. All of them make her heart pound erratically in her chest.

“I need to know your story. I have to get to the bottom of this. Taehyung can’t go unpunished for what he’s done!” Her voice cracks among the silence. Yoongi and Jeongguk turn towards the door, their backs conveying an echo of an answer.

Impotence renders Chaewon immobile, the uncertainty and frustration leaking out of her pores like perspiration. She moves to follow them out of the room, rushing ahead to stop them in their tracks.

“I need to contact you. How the fuck are you going to leave me hanging after this?”

Yoongi sneers, shoving Jeongguk behind him despite their obvious difference in size. He’s extremely protective of the younger. Chaewon wonders just how intertwined their lives have become. Was it due to circumstance, or do they share a deeper bond?

“You said this was a private investigation. That you weren’t allowed to report on Taehyung. What the fuck do you suppose we do?” Suddenly, he lowers his voice, the grit returning with an even harder edge. “What we’re doing – fuck – what we’re planning on doing, it isn’t exactly legal.”

Chaewon panics, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. Her mounting curiosity easily winning her over, convincing her that the red lights flashing behind her eyelids aren’t warnings – they’re just obstacles that’ll turn into opportunities with a little patience. According to what she’s gathered, the people they’re up against – Taehyung - are resourceful, dangerous, and capable of doing anything to have their way.

Jeongguk glares at her over Yoongi’s shoulder, his barbell piercing glinting under the twitching fluorescents of the library.

“This isn’t just about Taehyung.” She finally blurts, eyes wide as her gaze flits between then two men. “This is about you! I… I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it sounds really, really fucked up. Don’t you want justice!?”

Yoongi stares at her, the unshed tears at the corners of his eyes welling. Jeongguk lays a palm on his shoulder, mirroring the older’s exact gesture from just moments ago, and it seems to crack something within Yoongi. His body sags forward, his face crumpling as rivulets begin to flow freely down his face.

“H-hyung.” Jeongguk cries, his voice trembling with emotion. Chaewon stands quietly off to the side, head turned away from the intimate expression of vulnerability and affection between the two men. She feels unworthy of witnessing it, awkwardly shuffling in her spot.

Lost in thought, Chaewon doesn’t notice when Jeongguk wordlessly hands her an orange manila envelope, before the two men shuffle away, as if their presence were merely a shadow that had eclipsed with the ambiguity of twilight.

She exits the library, cautiously, each footstep muffled by the green carpet covering the expanse of the lobby. A few janitors shuffle by in the distance, minding their business.

The manila folder feels heavy in her hands, the package thick and filled with what seem to be reams of documents, judging by the envelope’s silhouette. There are possibly hundreds of questions these documents will reveal, but her mouth is dry – she swallows to moisten her throat. She’s overwhelmed.

She wonders if it was a good idea to have all these uncertainties answered. She glances toward the window, where dawn is finally breaking - a sliver of light finally piercing the darkness of dusk.

-

Maybe Mia was right about Jeongguk on one front. Maybe he is a golden retriever boyfriend.

She’d say they were obnoxiously cute and attentive, overtly clingy but harmless overall. Never in his life would Jeongguk use any of those adjectives to describe himself. Until he started double, triple, and quadruple texting Jimin. He misses him so much – it doesn’t really make sense. He’d spent so many years of his life hopelessly pining over him, and now that he’s got him so close, Jeongguk can’t fucking stop thinking about him.

Now he knows what he looks like sleeping, what he looks like waking up all swollen from sleep, how his bedhead looks-

Gosh, Jeongguk is losing his mind.

He takes advantage of this new development in their relationship by texting Jimin exactly half an hour after he leaves Jeongguk’s apartment.

Jeongguk [ 11:46 AM ] hi jimin
Jeongguk [ 11:48 AM ] its jeongguk
Jeongguk [ 11:55 AM ] did u get home ok?

Jeongguk bites at his nails, the beds of his nails, his cuticles, fuck - maybe getting Jimin’s number was the worst idea ever. Now he’ll have to count on Jimin to give him details of his life instead of him actively pursuing him by… his own means.

Yoongi walks out of his room after sensing the quiet of the apartment. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face.

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, throwing multiple decorative pillows at him from across the living room.

“Don’t fucking start. I mean it.” Jeongguk says, with a bite that doesn’t seem to faze Yoongi in the slightest. He laughs quietly as he pads towards the kitchen, opting to silently put away the groceries.

“You know-“ Yoongi starts, only lifting his eyes to glance at Jeongguk from his position in front of the open fridge door. Jeongguk goes red, alreading dreading his hyung’s comment.

“No, no, no – I don’t know, nor do I want to.”

Yoongi barrels on, anyway. A smile clear on his face by the way his ears pull back slightly.

“He is really cute. I get it now.”

Jeongguk feels his vision blur, embarrassment and rage blinding him in equal measure. He practically jumps off the couch, shooting towards Yoongi with practiced speed and precision.

“Don’t even fucking look at him, Yoongi. He’s mine.” He towers over his hyung, standing at an impressive height, chest puffing out in front of his to posture. Yoongi finds it all terribly endearing.

“You didn’t seem to care that I was looking at him when you sent me out to stalk him – for several months, mind you.”

Jeongguk splutters indignantly, trailing Yoongi like a petulant puppy as he moves across the apartment and starts boiling some water to start on a soup base.

“Ramen?” He asks, conversationally. Jeongguk momentarily pauses his obsessive tirade to nod several times.

“It’s not the same, though. When you were stalking him, he was just a subject. Now, you’ve seen him face-to-face, gosh, he’s so fucking gorgeous, hyung.”

Yoongi’s expression mildly sours, backing away substantially from his dongsaeng. “Oh - ew - don’t get all lovestruck horny around me. Don’t you dare think I don’t know what you get up to when the lights go dark.”

Jeongguk blushes to his ears, crossing his arms over his chest, pouting all defensively.

“I’m a man, hyung. I have needs, too.”

Yoongi shoots him a disbelieving look.

“And you’ve had these needs of yours since you were a sophomore in highschool?”

Jeongguk bawks, not used to Yoongi questioning his infatuation so much.

“H-hey! If it’s so crazy to you, then why are you enabling my behavior, huh? You know I’m fucking obsessed with him. Gosh, what I wouldn’t give for him to be mine, right now.”

Yoongi stares at him, pensive, an odd combination of love and concern pulling at both extremes of his conscience.

“Jeongguk.” Yoongi seems solemn now. Jeongguk looks up, meeting his eyes. “I do it because I know what you’re capable of.”

Jeongguk doesn’t have anything to respond to that. Yoongi doesn’t add anything, either.

-

When Jeongguk finally receives a notification from Jimin, it’s a quarter to nine.

The streetlights have finally turned on. The city’s yawning, stretching its limbs beneath an onyx sky after a weary, exhausting day. There’s a kind of hushed sobriety that blankets everything—the numbing stillness of a world that wants to lose itself into the void of night. A world that aches for the comfort of dissociation.

It’s not quite the same for Jeongguk. There’s only one thing Jeongguk wants and aches for in this world. He’s waiting for him outside the café, eagerness and paranoia getting the best of him.

Jeongguk watches with bated breath as Jimin slips his phone out of his pocket, a wry smile tugging at his plump lips. Jeongguk’s heart beats out of his chest at the sight.

Jimin [ 08:44 PM ] hi jeongguk, thank you for your concern. yes, i got home safely. i just got out of work.

Jeongguk feels an indescribable tenderness melt his core, a maelstrom of restless thoughts polluting the warm feelings only Jimin is able to extricate out of his horribly selfish, troubled mind.

Jeongguk responds immediately. He needs to see Jimin’s reactions up close.

Jeongguk [ 08:44 PM ] hi jimin
Jeongguk [ 08:44 PM ] i figured u were at work
Jeongguk [ 08:44 PM ] im rly glad to hear that

Then, a little boldy, he decides to type out his next message, hoping to get a rise out of Jimin.

Jeongguk [ 08:45 PM ] want a ride?

Wouldn’t he die for a ride from Jimin. His pants feel tighter at his pelvis, unbecoming images of Jimin on top of him making him break out into sweat.

Jimin falters a bit, his feet tripping a little over themselves as he reads the messages. Jeongguk feels hot all over.

Jimin’s chat bubble pulses rhythmically on the screen. Jeongguk watches him type from across the street, so endeared. Even when he types, he’s so graceful. He’s one message with perfect grammar and punctuation to Jeongguk’s four messages in a row with all kinds of abbreviations and poor spelling.

Jimin [ 08:47 PM ] oh, that’s very kind of you, but i’ll have to decline. i’ve really been craving some fresh air after everything that’s happened, y’know?

Jeongguk’s fists clench around the steering wheel. It’s fine. He’ll just follow Jimin home from an appropriate distance to make sure he gets home safely. There are so many creeps hanging around late at night, waiting for any unsuspecting person to walk into their greedy claws.

Jeongguk [ 08:47 PM ] yh that’s valid
Jeongguk [ 08:47 PM ] well text me when u get home ok??
Jeongguk [ 08:47 PM ] don’t worry abt the time, ill be waiting

Jeongguk’s head snaps up once he sends it, desperate to see what kind of face Jimin makes.

He’s somewhat surprised when Jimin’s nose and cheeks scrunch up, an expression Jeongguk’s seen before on Yoongi when he says something particularly cringe-worthy.

Oh.

Does Jimin find him cringey?

Jeongguk can do nonchalant. It’s practically his default setting. But it’s so hard to be that way around Jimin because he just loves him so much. It’s unnatural for him to want to play off his feelings for him when all he’s been doing for years is penning down his most animalistic desires for Jimin in the pulsing crimson tint of his blood.

Jimin gets on the train, and Jeongguk ensures he’ll be at his apartment by the time Jimin is hopping off of it.

Jimin [ 08:56 PM ] why do you care so much about me anyway, jeongguk? we don’t know each other that well…

Jeongguk clicks away at his phone, uncaring off the cars honking behind him when the light turns green, foot still pressing down on the brake.

Jeongguk [ 08:56 PM ] its hard not to care abt someone like u

He hears some people yelling out of their windows and begrudgingly starts driving. He purposefully drives below the speed limit, smirking when they pass him, middle fingers and a slew of expletives following suit.

Jeongguk is sure his heart is going faster than his car when he sends another message just as Jimin starts typing in the chat.

Jeongguk [ 08:58 PM ] ur so pretty

The bubbles stop floating on Jimin’s side of the screen. Jeongguk is exhilarated – he’s managed to make Jimin speechless. He can imagine his dewy cheeks turning pink, flustered beyond measure. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Restless. Hungry.

Jeongguk sees him when he makes his way into his apartment complex, the rusty gate at the entrance creaking loudly at the hinges when he pushes it open with the back of his hand. Jimin has yet to respond to the message, probably more focused on getting into the warm safety net of his humble abode.

The taller is twitching in the driver’s seat, legs bouncing with an inordinate amount of vigor. Jeongguk feels intoxicated by his infatuation, the stirrings of heat and yearning pushing him to the brink of doing something really crazy.

It animates him to push himself out of his car, practically sprinting across the street, unbothered to look both ways before doing so. He’s jolting with passion, the ardor in his heart circulating throughout his entire body, revitalizing him in a way he’s never experienced before.

He knows what floor Jimin lives on, but a strict vow of abstinence has anchored him, keeping his desires at bay – he wouldn’t come into Jimin’s private space unless he’s been definitively invited, with Jimin smiling as he holds out his arms in a warm welcome. It’s always been the inception of his most self-indulgent, borderline gluttonous fantasies.

Jeongguk’s phone pings as he climbs up the stairs. Jimin lives on the seventh floor.

Jimin [ 09:07 PM ] sounds like you’re obsessed with me lol

Ha.

Jimin finds it funny.

Jeongguk feels a little insane.

The tendrils of self-control caging him struggle to restrain him. Jeongguk thrashes against them, his mind and vision tunneling on one single thought as he finds himself standing in front of Jimin’s apartment door, his fist hovering in the air, merely a few inches away from knocking at the splintering wood that separates him from the object of his tireless efforts.

His ever-growing anguish.

His overabundant love.

Chapter Text

2012.05

Taehyung feels a wave of serenity wash over him as he watches the rise and fall of Jimin’s chest where he lays. Right beside him. On his bed. Where he belongs. Chin propped on the palm of his hand, eyelids fluttering softly, as if in a dream sequence, Taehyung lets the seconds melt into minutes, gladly welcomes the hours that follow, wouldn’t mind if time itself ceased to exist – he’d happily spend the rest of his life gazing at Jimin’s perfectly cherubic expression of unconscious bliss.

Although he looks ravishing when he’s angry, his skin burning in all kinds of hues of pink and red, Taehyung thinks he’s most beautiful with his lips parted and his forehead smoothed out of any wrinkles of frustration.

There’s an itch beneath Taehyung’s skin. It’s tolerable. He’ll weather it, if it means getting in Jimin’s good graces. He’s already ruminated over countless scenarios and Jimin’s reactions in each one. The ones where Jimin remembers everything, the ones where he remembers nothing. The ones where he blames himself and the ones where he’s burning with the need to hurt Mingyu for his wrongdoings. There’s a small probability, close to 2%, that Jimin recalls Taehyung’s words, an even smaller percentage – perhaps 0.5% - that he’s able to decipher the meaning behind them.

Jimin has always been a bit dull in that department. Taehyung wondered how he never figured out the true nature of Taehyung’s infatuation, how profoundly Jimin has marked him, how inexorable it is for Taehyung’s desires to be fulfilled.

Jimin’s nose twitches a little, fingers uncurling from his little fists. He’s awake.

Taehyung doesn’t blink as Jimin opens his eyes, the lids swollen with sleep. He squints as he takes in his surroundings, slowly but surely recognizing some of the furniture in Taehyung’s room. The curly-haired boy keeps his gaze steady, analyzing every emotion that flashes across Jimin’s face. He turns, then, acknowledging the dip in the mattress, his head almost refusing to cooperate once he realizes who’s in bed with him.

Unconsciously, Jimin tugs the blanket higher up on his body, going so far as to cover up his neck. He wraps the fabric tighter on his figure, making sure not an inch of him is left exposed. He doesn’t meet Taehyung’s eyes.

It makes Taehyung upset, but only a little. He quickly corrects that, using his index finger to tip Jimin’s chin upwards, forcing him to stare. Jimin swallows, that fire that Taehyung’s so used to steadily igniting Jimin’s entire being.

“What?” Taehyung taunts, jutting out his neck in challenge.

Jimin scoffs, shoving Taehyung’s hand away. “What do you mean, what? Your asshole of a friend just- he just-“

Jimin struggles to get the words out. The word. Hm. So he remembers that much.

Taehyung feigns solemnity, eyes darting off to the side in an act of earnest disappointment.

“I didn’t even know you guys were dating. He never told us anything.” He lies, of course. Jimin seems to believe him.

“We weren’t even dating, fuck.” He brings his hands up to his head, rubbing his already disheveled hair even further. Taehyung feels a bit of pity towards him. “Gosh, how could I have been so stupid?”

Words of comfort have never been Taehyung’s forte. He’s seldom ever had to pat anyone on the back, rather prefers being the one responsible for people needing such trivial remedies in the first place. It’s a bit sick, but he can’t do much about it at these heights.

“No need to fret about your decisions or misdeeds, Jimin. I’ve already dealt with him.”

It seems they’ve unanimously chosen not to say Mingyu’s name. Taehyung likes it that way. The sooner he can rid Jimin of any and all traces of that fool, the easier it’ll be for Taehyung to replace his ghost and take his rightful place as the only one worthy of defiling someone as ripe and delectable as Jimin.

It truly was a shame Mingyu had taken matters into his own hands, perhaps thinking it’d be entertaining to circumvent Taehyung’s wishes and playing with his food.

Taehyung had made it abundantly clear from the beginning: Mingyu was to make Jimin fall head over heels for him, enough to create a scandalous reputation for Jimin – that he was inclined towards men and promiscuity, which would suffice to be used as blackmail against him.

It was foolproof, really. But then again, Taehyung has found that he’s the only person that can be trusted around Jimin. He’s the only one who knows how to push the right buttons without taking it too far – at least, according to his boundaries.

Jimin is here with him now; that must mean he’s doing something right.

Jimin frowns as he takes in the statement, lips pursing out in thought. Taehyung’s blood pulses at the memory of them pressed against his. He curls his fists around the comforter, holds his breath for a few seconds. He needs to calm down.

“What do you mean you dealt with him? Is he expelled?” Jimin’s eyes gleam with good-intentioned curiosity. Taehyung finds him ridiculously cute.

He settles for a vague, “it means you’ll never have to worry about him,” shrugging when Jimin’s gaze doesn’t look any less appeased by that answer.

He seems embarrassed suddenly, looking down at his blanket-covered body. “What about the video?”

Taehyung paused. Yet another factor that went awry in his plan due to Mingyu’s ineptitude. Originally, Taehyung wanted to be the sole proprietor of Jimin’s blackmail material; if Jimin defied him, the content would be spread across multiple group chats in Yonseop’s homeroom forums. However, since Mingyu texted all of his friends to meet him in the bathroom, there were at least three videos taken – 2 of which were already circulating.

Taehyung would be a fool not to watch it; it was supposed to be for him to begin with. It was… really fucking hot. Exquisite, even. Taehyung had lost count of how many times he’d jerked off to it, and the fact that Mingyu’s face had been conveniently blurred meant Taehyung could easily imagine himself being the one pounding Jimin from behind. Him and Mingyu had similar builds, after all. He’ll admit, he felt a bit like a pervert enjoying himself vicariously through his former friend who he had violently strangled, but he had to act fast. He knew if he delayed for even a second, Jeongguk would eventually find out what happened and arrive to the scene, lusting for blood.

Taehyung’s a bit remorseful in that regard: he’d managed to turn Jeongguk into a homicidal maniac. Sungwoon had been an anomaly. Taehyung hadn’t thought for a minute that Jeongguk would kill him – gratuitously, no less.

He’d sent Namjoon to keep an eye on him, slightly paranoid of his own wandering creation that was quickly becoming autonomous. Should Jeongguk ever come after Taehyung seeking vengeance, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle him. The thought riddles him with worries.

Taehyung addresses the concern in Jimin’s furrowed eyebrows, a hand coming up to smoothen out the creases mechanically. Oddly enough, Jimin doesn’t protest.

Taehyung lies easily. “It’s in my possession. I wouldn’t want anyone to see it.”

Jimin stares at him warily, quirking his eyebrows yet again. Taehyung sighs, all his previous efforts gone to waste. He supposes someone like Jimin simply can’t stop worrying.

“Why are you helping me? Is it because you… want me?” Jimin hesitates around the question, perhaps because he fears what may happen if he pokes the bear too much.

Taehyung grins, a little cunning. “Ah, I think you’re getting it now, duckie.” His fingertips trace over Jimin’s temple, down his cheek, coming to linger over his lips. He eyes the perky pink flesh with unconcealed hunger, his cock twitching under the covers. Jimin sees the outline of his bulge from the corner of his eye, and he gulps around a dry mouth.

Taehyung is amused, smiling wickedly.

“You see, Jimin, it’s not often that I help people without expecting something in return.” Taehyung lifts up from his resting position, pushing the covers off his body and revealing his tanned torso, only a gold chain dangling from his thick neck. There are small patches of marred, leathery skin littering the expanse of his clavicles - they vaguely look like cigarette burns. Jimin stares, tremors of fear and anticipation making him tighten the blanket around his body. Taehyung thinks he’s the most virginal person he’s ever met. It excites him deeply.

Even as he watched Jimin get railed, there was a level of naivety in the way his eyebrows furrowed, like he couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him. His tears weren’t a product of realization, of knowing he was being taken advantage of – no, they were merely associated with the pain he felt from being broken into. Mingyu didn’t prep him enough.

“I think reciprocity is the foundation of any relationship. Wouldn’t you agree?” Jimin’s mouth parts in shock when Taehyung’s naked body comes into view, white Calvin Klein boxers the only thing covering him from being totally indecent; even those are doing a poor job at hiding his manhood, the length jutting out obscenely.

“I’m doing you a big favor, Jimin.” Taehyung inconspicuously taps the record audio button on his notes app as he sets his phone aside, face down, as if to assure Jimin there’s no funny business – it’s purely transactional.

“It’s only fair that you’d help me, too.” There’s a finality to his tone that Jimin can’t wrap his head around. Taehyung starts pulling at the covers Jimin had so vehemently tugged over himself, quickly disarming him of his only protection.

He’s not nude under the blanket, but the lack of any physical barriers between them feels like a violation, already. Taehyung’s blood sizzles with every second that transpires without a word of rebuttal of Jimin. He’s elated that Jimin has finally learned his place and accepted his fate.

Jimin whines a bit when Taehyung shucks his shirt off, keeping the fabric hanging obstructively over Jimin’s head as he leans down and takes a pert, brown nipple into his mouth.

Jimin gasps, clawing the article off him with an urgency that makes Taehyung laugh a bit, his puffs of breath landing directly against the skin of Jimin’s pec.

“Why are – mm - you doing t-this?” Jimin asks, cheeks flushed as a bucket of understanding washes over him coldly. He can’t really escape this situation, and he doesn’t want his video going around. The dread of that happening greatly outweighs the anxiety he feels at having to bed Taehyung, even if he’s been tormenting him forever.

He can’t deny Taehyung is crazy handsome, in a way that feels particularly twisted because he’s one of the vilest people Jimin has ever known.

How can a face like that belong to someone so cruel?

Taehyung watches surreptitiously as Jimin’s face contorts with expressions of disgust and aborted pleasure, as if he doesn’t want to allow himself to enjoy this. It only makes Taehyung’s arousal grow even further, sucking extra hard on his nipple while using his other hand to pull down Jimin’s short and underwear in one fell swoop.

Jimin cries out, embarrassed, desperately trying to tug his briefs back on, eyes going wide when his own body betrays him. His cock, flushed at the tip, is already half-mast, making it difficult for him to pull his boxers on with one hand.

Taehyung chuckles huskily, nipping at Jimin’s earlobe. It’s so soft, the peach fuzz rubbing against Taehyung’s cheek – he feels mad with the need to bend him over and fuck him one, two, a hundred times, filling him up with enough load that it leaks from him.

“Fuck.” Taehyung groans, licking up and down Jimin’s neck, as he works all of his clothing off, flinging the articles in random directions across his room. “Don’t act like you don’t want it, sweetheart.” His palm skirts down Jimin’s chest, hot like melted wax dripping from a candle, searing Jimin everywhere it travels, until he reaches his pink tip.

He digs his thumb nail into the slit, huffing out a laugh when Jimin’s body jerks violently, a bead of precum leaking from the tip.

“You like it so much, don’t you?”

Jimin doesn’t respond, his mouth pressed tight into a thin line. Oh. He doesn’t want to make any noises. Taehyung nearly coos. How cute.

“Now, now, Jimin. I never said you could be quiet.” The tongue that had been laving at his neck comes to force itself between Jimin’s sealed lips, pushing for entry to no avail.

Why is he being so difficult? Taehyung thinks to himself, slightly annoyed. His dick is hard and weeping, still confined to the restrictive material of his cotton boxers. He has half a mind to pull his cock out and shove it into his ass raw – surely, that’ll give him something to scream about.

Patience running thin and cock only getting thicker, Taehyung decides to skip some of the foreplay he’d fantasized about for so long. He’d wanted Jimin to sit on his face for a while, but the smaller is being such a prude. Fuck.

Taehyung truly might have a few screws loose because he’s never been harder in his life.

He switches the soft pads of his fingers for blunt nails, raking them down Jimin’s supple flesh until they reach Jimin’s taint. He gasps, and it’s enough for Taehyung’s tongue to slither in, his jaw mechanically forcing Jimin’s to open, wider.

Taehyung explores the wet cavern of Jimin’s mouth, feeling so at home as his lips rub hungrily against Jimin’s, all fat and slick with spit.

Taehyung’s long fingers probe at Jimin’s hole, not surprised in the least to find that Jimin isn’t shaved. It wasn’t quite visible in the video but given that his pubic hair was only trimmed at the base of his cock, he figured Jimin wasn’t into much self-care.

Taehyung’s boxers are starting to have a wet patch where his tip is pressing into the fabric obscenely. Fuck, it’s really not normal that every random detail about Jimin manages to make him hornier, his thoughts only becoming more and more depraved by the second.

Somewhat boldly, Taehyung pushes a digit into Jimin’s hole, squeezing his eyes wantonly at how tight it feels already. Shit, he can barely push it in any deeper.

It physically pains him to extricate his tongue out of Jimin’s mouth, but he needs to talk, choosing to shove his fingers between Jimin’s lips to prevent him from shutting them again.

“Don’t you love it, Jimin?” He spits on his fingers, shoving in his middle finger alongside the index. He wriggles them, but there’s not much to work with. Taehyung is a bit frustrated, biting again at Jimin’s earlobe.

“I need you to fucking relax.” The idle hand snakes down towards Jimin’s member, the little thing twitching pathetically when Taehyung curls his palm around it. It fits perfectly in his hand, with two fingers to spare, which he uses to rub over the head. Almost immediately, Taehyung feels Jimin’s hole unclench, his fingers pushing in that much deeper while a third curls up, hoping to sneak in.

Jimin moans around Taehyung’s fingers, his eyes filling with tears of reluctant pleasure as his head snaps backward, jaw protruding beautifully into the air. He looks so pretty, all ruined by just a few fingers prodding here and there.

His thighs shake with every thrust of Taehyung’s digits entering him, and he hears more than sees the smack of his knuckles against the fat of Jimin’s ass.

Fuck, he needs to see that for himself.

He pats Jimin’s flank, urging him with a patronizing up, up as he positions him to his liking on the bed. Jimin ends up with his knees spread out, his torso sloping downward as his head rests against a pillow near the backboard.

Taehyung doesn’t have to worry about his childish antics anymore, his mouth perpetually opened in an expression of wanton overstimulation, pitiful little moans slipping out every time Taehyung’s fingertips brush against the bundle of nerves nestled deep inside Jimin’s core.

He deems him ready enough when Jimin starts writhing against the mattress, pathetically rutting his cock on the comforter for some added friction. Taehyung smiles, mean.

“Aw, look at you.” Taehyung finally unsheathes himself, tucking the elastic hem of his boxers below his balls. His dick bobs, tip red with blood with the anticipation of finally feeling the wet heat of Jimin’s ass wrapped around him.

“Humping the bed like a dog.” Taehyung grabs one of his ass cheeks, squeezing it until the nails leave imprints on the supple flesh. “You’re just a little slut, aren’t you?” He sneers, spanking him a few times until the skin turns a bright pink. He’s degrading him, but Jimin doesn’t falter in his ministrations, frotting – quite literally – like a bitch in heat.

Taehyung groans, enamored by the sight. He wishes he had installed a camera somewhere, wishes he could watch this play over and over again, his own homemade porn.

His dick hurts so bad, so he jerks himself off a bit, spitting on his girth and rubbing his palm in a disjointed rhythm. Staving off his orgasm is a challenge – shit, he feels like he’s about to come all over Jimin’s ass, and the thought alone nearly pushes him over the edge – but he gets his hand off his cock, using both palms to spread Jimin’s cheeks.

Even though his hands are quite big, they struggle to cover the round expanse of Jimin’s ass, the fat spilling over. The sight is maddening. Taehyung shoves his cock in his hole with little finesse, just eager to come inside of his Jimin.

Jimin finally pauses his humping, eyes going wide at the sensation of being stretched beyond his limits. His own hands reach behind him to pull his cheeks apart, as if that will somehow make him accommodate better. Fuck, he’s so insanely attractive. Taehyung knows he won’t last long.

His thrusts are erratic, animalistic, a kind of visceral, barbaric need to finish inside Jimin’s hot walls making him lose all composure and coherence.

Babbling like a maniac, Taehyung can’t even think as his eyes remain glued to the place where Jimin and his body connect and become one. Watching his cock drive in and out from between Jimin’s ass, cheeks jiggling with the force of every thrust of his pelvis, Taehyung is only mildly cognizant of when he reaches a hand down towards Jimin’s cock, only to find it flaccid, a pool of ivory semen just below his navel sullying his bed sheets.

The mere thought that Jimin came from getting fucked by him, the guy Jimin supposedly hates more than anyone, is enough to make him come with a shout, all kinds of expletives and nonsense spilling out of his mouth.

“You’re so fucking g-good to me. Fuuck.. You’re fucking mine.

Taehyung stays inside of Jimin, flopping down and draping his limbs over Jimin’s sweat-slicked body. Jimin is completely out of it, drool dripping out of his mouth and onto the pillowcase he’s resting against.

-

When Jimin comes to, Taehyung is nowhere to be found.

His whole body winces in pain with every minor movement, especially his lower body, which had been arched and smacked around before being totally crushed by Taehyung’s weight for several hours.

Jimin feels a bit sick, his mouth dry with a bitter taste lingering at the corners of his lips. He touches his intimate areas, startled to find them wiped clean. Taehyung must’ve cleaned him up before leaving.

A beautifully ornate analog clock on the opposite side of Taehyung’s room reads 5:31 AM. Hm. Jimin supposes he could go to class. He should go to class. He’s lost track of time over the past few days, but surely, he hasn’t missed any of his final exams. That would be the final nail in the coffin – not only had he lost his house, virginity, and possibly his job for being absent without advising his manager beforehand, but he might also lose his chance at graduating.

Jimin grimaces, dragging his feet across the floor; lifting his knees makes his bottom ache with every step. He brushes his teeth, making sure to wipe away the remnants of whatever nasty flavor profile is clinging to his gums. His face has seen better days, eyes bleary and lips bitten raw, but it’ll have to do. He can’t afford to miss out on his diploma, can’t afford spending another year at Yonseop.

Arriving to school proved to be a more difficult challenge than he’d imagined, not quite knowing where the nearest bus stop was. Then he’d remembered he was in Seocho district, and there was no need for public transportation in an area like this.

Nobody seemed to get around on foot in this neighborhood, and he ignores the stares of pity and disgust he receives as he paces aimlessly, uncertain of where his feet are taking him.

The more he thinks about the disparity between his and Taehyung’s social dynamics, the worse the pain in his bottom feels. Every disparaging look of misplaced concern, every rude rolling up of windows driving by, it’s as though Taehyung is the one behind them – mocking him, ridiculing him.

He can’t believe he let Taehyung fuck him. It settles in his gut like a rotten meal. The fact that the curly-haired boy had called it a transaction doesn’t sit right with him, at all. While Taehyung received his half of the deal right then and there, Jimin has yet to find out if Taehyung will keep his word. He wouldn’t be surprised if the other makes up some pathetic excuse to screw him over and further ruin his life.

Shit, now that Jimin thinks about it, Taehyung had insisted that he live with him. Would he get upset over Jimin going to school on his own?

That would be insane – right?

He somehow manages to find his way towards Yonseop, its navy-blue walls and brick red columns coming into view as he rounds the next block.

Jimin walks into the main hallway, the doors behind him closing loudly, the latch clicking into place. There are only a few students scurrying around their lockers, whispers and giggles fluttering throughout the narrow corridor. One particular guy that Jimin vaguely recognizes nods his head towards him pointedly, leaning over to mutter something into his friend’s ear.

Goosebumps erupt over Jimin’s skin when the friend’s eyes widen perceptibly, even from a distance, his gaze drifting up and down Jimin’s figure invasively.

Jimin stuffs his lunch - the juiciest pears he's ever seen, sitting in a lonely bunch atop the Kim's dining table - and belongings hastily into his locker, clicking the shackle back around the handle and diligently focusing on getting to room 3A.

There’s a hush of forced silence that propagates in an uncoordinated fashion as Jimin steps through the doorway, bowing slightly in apology for his tardiness. Mr. Lee stares at him placidly, a strange stammer in his speech despite the stoic frown on his lips.

“Good morning, Jimin – um - how nice of you to join us.”

Class runs quite smoothly, though the bated tension that hangs around the room feels palpable, seemingly to everyone. Taehyung is nowhere to be seen, which helps to soothe some of the anxiety bubbling in Jimin’s chest. He can’t help but think that everybody knows about his secret, that somehow everyone’s watched the video.

It’s illogical. Taehyung assured him he was the only one who had seen it. It would make sense, after all. Surely, another male student with significant influence wouldn’t want to be implicated in something so scandalous.

Still, there’s something in the way Mr. Lee purposefully avoids Jimin’s participation when he raises his hand to answer a question. Something wrong in the stolen glances a few classmates keep throwing over their shoulders.

Jimin’s fingers tighten around his pencil, sweat trickling down his hairline as he begs for time to pass a bit quicker. The air is stuffy, and it seems the conditioning system has failed today. Everyone around him seems to have a blush coloring their cheekbones, and many boys pick at their white dress shirts, fanning themselves as the sweat glues their clothing to their torsos.

When Mr. Lee calls for an impromptu break, claiming the summer heat is getting even to him, it sounds forced. He chugs down some water, his hands visibly trembling as he sets his bottle down. The metal clangs against his desk, causing multiple students to raise their heads in alarm. The teacher excuses himself, pressing a handkerchief to his face as he steps out of the classroom.

Without an authority figure in the room to keep the students in check, the terse silence that had ensconced Jimin since he’d arrived snaps within a second, rambunctious noises and conversations filling up every gap of quiet that previously existed.

In a way, Jimin feels more at ease, certain that out of so many topics to talk about, most of the chatter will be about mundane subjects: sports, the latest posts on social media, a new kpop girl group single. So many things to discuss, and Jimin is content with not being involved for once.

Mr. Lee comes back shortly after, somehow appearing more flushed than he did before heading out to freshen up. The students settle down, scurrying back into their desks. Some are still shutting off their phones, the muted sounds of trending audios dwindling to a halt.

The sudden silence makes it that much more obvious when one particular phone has yet to be turned down.

Fuckin’ hell, Jimin. Why have you been hiding all this from me, hmm?

Jimin freezes, his limbs stilling abnormally. It feels like he’s locked into place, even as his classmates turn to stare at him, wide-eyed despite their knowing expressions.

A slapping sounds rings across the room, and Mr. Lee flushes a bright shade of red. He stutters as he tries to rein in his students’ attention, handkerchief clutched tightly in his palm.

“N-now, now. Let’s,” he coughs, clearing his throat, “settle down, already.”

Slowly, the students start turning around, shuffling in their seats uncomfortably. There’s a hissed comment here and there, but none of them register through Jimin’s ears.

Jimin is paralyzed by an amalgamation of several strains of darkness that blur his sight and deafen his hearing. He might be shaking, but he can’t tell – there is fury blinding him, spots dotting his vision as he takes in the weight of betrayal.

Taehyung lied to him. He deceived him, using him to gratify his perverse desires while keeping Jimin in the dark about just how many people have seen him at his most vulnerable state. He’s livid, this particular sensation of ridicule unlike anything he’s put up with from Taehyung before.

There’s also a sense of despair that casts over him like a shadow, muting out the ambient sounds surrounding him, as if his ears were clogged with water. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to calmly show his face in Yonseop again. The implications are grave. His dreams of graduating, of obtaining his diploma - did they finally become just that? Dreams?

Mr. Lee’s reactions suddenly make sense. It seems the video has even made its rounds among the administrative level. The fact that it’s being totally pushed to the margins, a mere inconvenience, tells Jimin everything he needs to know.

Everyone has seen him getting violated, and no one is doing anything about it. No one cares. He’s merely being spectated, singled out, fingers pointed at him as if he were an animal on display. A freak of nature.

It stings. His face burns as if he’d been slapped across the face. His knees buckle every time his bottom shifts across the hard plastic of his chair, hissing through his teeth to prevent himself from groaning out loud.

Everything hurts, an open wound exposed for everyone to prod at. Blood drips out of the flesh, unable to cauterize with their incessant picking and probing. He wonders how long the wound will ache for.

Wonders how long it will take for the wound to scar.

How long it will take to heal.

-

Taehyung is a dead man.

Jeongguk swears by it.

He’d been latching onto whispers, rumors of a leaked tape – someone from their homeroom. Jeongguk was never one to feed into gossip, for it wasn’t of any particular interest to him.

Until he’d heard a moan that sounded too sweet, a voice too familiar.

Jeongguk couldn’t bring himself to confirm if it was Jimin or not by watching the tape, felt that it’d be too much like violation, a higher degree of damage than what had already been done. Checking their homeroom communications page, which was usually dry without much movement, his eyes widened as he saw the forum filled to the brim for the first time, comments pouring in every few seconds.

They were all so depraved – it made Jeongguk sick to his stomach.

According to the chat, the person in the video with Jimin remained anonymous, but Jeongguk was more than sure Taehyung was behind it. Only someone as repulsive and resourceful as him could pull off something so debauched and cowardly.

He decides then and there he’s going to kill Taehyung with his bare hands, the lust for his blood so potent his vision gets a little fuzzy around the edges.

On an ordinary evening when Taehyung casually goes up to the rooftop for a smoke, Jeongguk ambushes him, bursting through the access door, chest heaving.

Taehyung is leaning lazily against the railing, and Jeongguk despises that he barely gets a twitch out of him. He’s so noncommittal, even after everything he’s done. Jeongguk wants to watch as the life drains out of his eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought-“ Jeongguk laughs to himself, feels a bit stupid for doing so, “-I thought for a second you actually loved him in that fucked up way of yours.”

Taehyung finally turns over, back facing towards the orange sky. The horizon rests perfectly parallel to his shoulders. He looks so smug.

“What in the hell came over you today, eh?” He chides, taking a drag out of his cigarette. Then, he mutters, a little more seriously. “You know that’s no way to talk to me, Jeongguk-ah.”

Jeongguk huffs, his voice trembling with rage. “I know you’re the scum of the earth, but to do something like that to Jimin, of all people–“ Jeongguk pauses to take a breath, his fist close to snapping the blade tucked in his pocket. “You’ve really crossed the line this time, you fucking bastard.”

Taehyung smirks, lifting a thick eyebrow in contention. “What I did to Jimin? Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jeongguk’s veins are bulging across his neck. He’s so close to making Taehyung burn in hell, knowing well he’ll go down with him. The thought pacifies one of the many moral qualms Jeongguk has considered regarding the purity of his soul. Was it worth sullying his own identity just to play into Taehyung’s psychotic games?

Watching him pick at his cuticles, uncaring of the consequences of his actions towards someone as innocent and vulnerable as Jimin, it seems all his inhibitions have been resolved.

He’d gladly go to hell if it meant being able to watch Taehyung writhe and scream in agony for all eternity.

“I know what you did to him, you sick piece of shit. You recorded him. You let it spread around. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?"

Taehyung grins, lips breaking out into a disarming smile. Jeongguk takes a step forward, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white like bone.

“Oh, I know what I did to him. I think he enjoyed it a lot.”

Jeongguk sees red, lunging at him with the ferocity of a savage beast being freed from captivity. Taehyung parries, though he seems to be struggling, toying with something on his phone as he dodges Jeongguk’s mindless jabs.

Suddenly, he hears voices. Sheets rustling. Skin against skin.

Don’t you love it, Jimin? It’s followed by a wet sound, like liquid splatting down onto a flat surface.

There’s some whining, more sheets rustling, and then Taehyung laughs, his voice rough, clearly affected. Jeongguk doesn’t even want to imagine what would make him sound like that.

Aw, look at you. Jeongguk’s heart threatens to fall out of his chest, the grip around the knife close to splitting his own skin.

Humping the bed like a dog. Jeongguk’s breath stammers, feeling as though there isn’t enough oxygen circulating throughout his body. Perhaps he’s being suffocated, and he’d never noticed.

You’re just a little slut, aren’t you? Taehyung sounds so pleased with himself. It shifts something within him, like a huge chunk of his being has just been ripped out of his body and stepped on by thousands of mocking footfalls. The shards are then pulverized when he hears Jimin moaning, clearly enjoying himself.

It burns. It fucking burns. He’s never felt anything like it. It’s like his heart has self-destructed, incapable of bearing the weight of having all its love poured out into a gaping vessel. Tears stream freely down his face, all his previous fire and fury doused by a bucket of immutable reality. He claws at his shirt, nails digging as far as they can until they catch the skin of his chest. He just wants to rip his heart out of his rib cage – maybe then the pain would stop. Maybe then he’d replace it with one that hasn’t devoted his everything for a pretty boy with a gorgeous smile and eyes that turn into crescents when he’s happy.

It hurts so deeply, hearing Jimin’s voice tremble under the touch of someone so abominable, someone so inhuman. He aches, sobbing in pain every time his chest caves in to breathe, although it burns to even do that much. Every inhale feels like he’s pushing his limits, like maybe it’d be less agonizing to not breathe at all.

Taehyung’s feet crunch against the gravel, approaching him calmly as Jeongguk stares out into the horizon, gaze blank. His eyes are empty, body merely a husk of what it had been merely seconds ago. It feels as though his very blood has been drained from him; his fingers reach out to grip around the railing, a poor attempt to ground himself as he’s suddenly disoriented, like the ground has been pulled from under his feet.

Taehyung leans into him, curly hair brushing against the pale skin of Jeongguk’s neck.

“You wouldn’t imagine how fucking amazing it feels to fuck your cock into him.”

Jeongguk barely reacts, his eyes clinging to the words as if they had somehow incarnated right before him, the scene playing out behind his eyelids in slow motion. He trembles, hands curling tighter around the oxidized metal enclosing the roof.

“Shut up.” His voice is barely a whisper.

Taehyung smiles, drinking up the blood that has spilled out of Jeongguk’s very being.

“Just kissing him – wow. Ten out of ten would recommend.” He pauses, staring at Jeongguk head on, anxious to witness every minor crack in his mind, to watch the way his soul crumples before him.

Jeongguk’s eyes well up with tears again, the thought of Jimin’s lips pressing against lips that aren’t his own imbuing him with an added layer of hopelessness. It’s a despair he’s never experienced before. He just needs to stop listening to Taehyung’s voice – wishes he could simply filter it out, like white noise.

“Please. Stop.”

A shadow suddenly darkens Taehyung’s features, a grim expression painting his face into a horrific portrait of all things grotesque and foul. He whispers right into Jeongguk’s ear. He’s almost certain he felt Taehyung’s tongue lave over the shell, planting more of his sickening venom directly into Jeongguk’s skin.

“You wanna stop feeling it, right? Feeling like your whole world’s been stolen from you. Feeling like time has stopped ticking, living in a nightmare that won’t end. Bet it hurts to fucking breathe, doesn’t it?”

Jeongguk can’t respond, swallowing thickly around the acid coating his throat. The sky fades into a deep purple, the few streaks of orange left quickly being consumed by the abyss.

“Why don’t you just jump, Jeongguk-ah?” Taehyung shoves at his shoulders, cackling loudly when Jeongguk’s body locks in fear, but he doesn’t move away from the railing. Not even an inch.

“You’ve already killed people, Jeongguk. Isn’t it your turn to pay the price?” Taehyung’s voice is a husky rasp, the wisps of each syllable slithering into the recesses of his brain that haven’t been clogged by the torrent of painful thoughts about his wasted love.

Then, he grips Jeongguk’s shoulders, no warmth radiating from his touch. It’s like he’s not even there, merely a phantom coming round to collect his soul, the only acceptable collateral for the mortal debt he’s racked up.

“Just kill yourself, Jeongguk.”

Wind brushes past the sensitive skin of Jeongguk’s neck. It hugs him in a cold embrace, comforting him with pitiful solitude. The pressure on his shoulders is gone, and Taehyung’s presence has vanished with it. His words, however, still manage to penetrate the hidden compartments of reason left within his mind, corrupting the pillars of his vitality.

Jeongguk grips the railing, gaining momentum as he distances himself briefly – not out of reconsideration, but out of impulse. His feet push against the ground, bracing as he lands on the narrow, concrete edge of the roof. He stares down at the city: the bustling civilians rushing to get home, the frustrated cars swerving across lanes, the pigeons that coo and waddle around dumbly. He watches himself falling, his body landing in a wet splat across the gray pavement, his organs exploding upon impact, splattering the ground with his scarlet flesh. He observes, as if he’s outside of his own body, a separate psyche on a different plane of existence.

He shudders, both dimensions of reality splitting at once as he takes one step off the ledge.

“HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”

Two arms wrap around his midsection, pulling him back into a body that feels frail and lighter than his own.

Jeongguk hits his head on the gravel below him, wincing when the man’s bony knees dig into his back.

His soul and body crash into each other violently, the two overlapping thunderously within Jeongguk’s chest as he gasps desperately, coughing as the air caught in his lungs suddenly kickstarts his heart into beating. The spirit that had been instantaneously sucked out of him gets poured back in, overflows within him.

Jeongguk’s knees buckle as he stands, turning erratically to stare at the person who had come to his aid, the breath of life that had resuscitated him.

A mean scowl and furrowed cat eyes greet him, the other tsking as he lays on the ground, gasping like he’d ran a marathon.

“For fuck’s sake, help me up, damnit!”

-

Jeongguk learns his savior’s name. Yoongi.

They walk in silence towards a convenience store just a few blocks away from Yonseop, school uniforms creased with exhaustion. Yoongi says he’ll treat him to some ramyeon.

Jeongguk gazes at him, doe eyes forgetting to blink, as Yoongi slurps noisily at the red noodles dangling from his mouth. His cheeks are stuffed when he addresses him.

“Yah, are you just going to stare at me or what?” Yoongi points his chopsticks at him, eyebrows pulling tightly across his forehead. “I don’t have a lot of money, y’know? Be grateful I got you this much. Aish.”

Jeongguk startles, bowing his head in gratitude before pulling the red plastic lid off the steaming cup.

Yoongi glances at him from the rim of his bowl as he’s sipping the leftover noodle water.

“Hey, kid.” Jeongguk hums in acknowledgement, cheeks hollowing to welcome more noodles into his fiery red mouth. “What’s your deal with the Kim’s son?”

Jeongguk drops his chopsticks, gulping around the mouthful obstructing his throat. He struggles a bit, clearly caught off guard, and Yoongi wordlessly hands him a water bottle.

Jeongguk shakes his head vehemently, forehead dripping sweat as he blows his runny nose into his t-shirt. Yoongi grimaces slightly, bringing his own bottle to his lips for a small sip.

“If you won’t tell me your story, I’ll tell you mine.” Jeongguk stares, mouth parted in shock. Yoongi takes it as confirmation.

His voice is a little rough around the edges. “My mom used to work for the Kim’s. Housekeeper.” He pulls at the corners of a napkin balled up in his empty ramen cup. “13 years she worked there. They treated her well – even let her filthy son play with theirs.”

Jeongguk watches him pick apart at the napkin, strands of tissue unraveling messily over Yoongi’s side of the table.

“13 years of trust.” Yoongi scoffs, smiling crassly. “Until my mom stumbled upon Mr. Kim fucking someone that wasn’t Mrs. Kim.”

Jeongguk’s lips part, jaw dropping in astonishment. Yoongi trudges on, the words scraping against his tongue bitterly.

“He accused her of stealing something of his, bribed one of the officers at the precinct to make her do time. That fucking bastard – theft without a prior criminal record means community service or a few months in jail.”

Jeongguk’s breath catches, waiting nervously as Yoongi finally gives up playing around with the napkin, crumbling up the scraps into his fist.

“He got her five years. Five fucking years for something she didn’t do.” Yoongi breathes in deeply, exhaling shakily as he rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Ah, fuck. It makes me sick. Why does my mom have to pay the price for that motherfucker?”

Jeongguk stills, his fingers tensing around the chopsticks.

Paying the price. Taehyung, that disgusting piece of shit, had told him the same thing.

A dark mass germinates within Jeongguk’s mind, like a weed born out of the corruption of something good, something pure.

Paying? Why should innocent people have to pay for the evil deeds of others? Why should Jeongguk have to shoulder the bodies of those he’s killed because of Taehyung? Why did Yoongi’s mother have to suffer the consequences of Mr. Kim’s actions?

How does someone like Taehyung get everything he’s ever wanted without even having to ask for it?

Jeongguk looks Yoongi straight in the eyes. There’s something insidious catching fire there, the embers slowly spreading, the smoke billowing out and coating everything it grazes with black soot. When Yoongi meets his gaze head on, Jeongguk knows he feels it too – the rage that’s been simmering. It’s too weak to fan but humble enough to feed without either of them getting caught in the flames. They shouldn’t have to get burned for it.

Jeongguk’s voice is surprisingly steady when he speaks.

“I want to see Taehyung beg for his life.” Yoongi’s eyes narrow, a flash of understanding softening them, just barely.

“I want to make him beg for his life and then take it away from him.”

Chapter Text

present

The contents of the manila folder Chaewon had been given were daunting.

Chaewon couldn’t even wait to begin snooping until she got home, climbing into her car and placing heat shields over all her windows.

Upon reaching her apartment, she pretty much pulls off every push pin and red cord that had previously littered her crazy board, everything that had painted Taehyung to be an unfortunate victim.

Chaewon shudders, knowing better now.

Undoing the folder’s clasp, she empties out the contents onto her desk – documents, testimonials, pictures, chat screenshots, all of which had been gathered over the course of several years by Yoongi and Jeongguk. It’s incredibly detailed, and Chaewon can’t imagine how painstaking it must’ve been to put all of it together.

There are dozens of photographs, all grainy, grayscale, and time-stamped with scribbles on the white borders – dates, locations, faces Chaewon doesn’t recognize. Some are clearly surveillance shots, making Chaewon wonder just how often Yoongi broke into Yonseop in search of protected material. There’s another picture, and Taehyung’s face is perfectly visible. It’s uncanny how photogenic the guy is, how he manages to play into a façade of class and luxury while being capable of unfathomable deeds. He’s seated at a café, across from a figure whose back is to the camera. There’s something hastily scrawled next to the faceless person, but the writing is barely legible.

seokjin???

There’s one of him standing on what appears to be a rooftop, his hair a mess of wind-swept curls, cigarette smoke hanging around him in slinky wisps.

But it’s the photos marked  2018 @ bibi’s that make her stomach churn.

They’re shots of a murder scene, and Chaewon’s sure she’s never reported on them. She would remember if there were two murders at the same place, an incredibly random location at that. There’s something odd about the photos. The coloring is desaturated, making the maroon splatters on the ground stand out that much more against the sickly gray background. One image shows a trail of smeared handprints disappearing into the darkness of the alley. The most poignant detail, though, is one that is missing from the scene.

There’s no body. The victim of this gory spectacle is nowhere to be seen.

In all honesty, out of all the clippings and documents in the folder, this seems like the most tangential. Is it weird that this murder took place in the exact same spot where Beomhan, Taehyung’s doppelganger, was found? Undoubtedly. But the pictures seem so extraneous, almost like they’ve been dropped in for added effect. There’s nothing about these that points towards any involvement or correlation to Taehyung, unless the duo wants her to go down that route.

For now, she chooses to set those aside and focus on the remaining documents in the folder.  One particular file, stored within a glossy film, reads like a transcript from a therapy session. There are tear marks along the pages, as if ripped straight from a notebook. The tone of the writing is clinical but concerning, all the same.

03/06/2011

Dresses neatly, well-mannered, somewhat passive aggressive

Doesn’t talk about himself

Makes direct eye-contact at all times unless a question is directed at him

06/14/2011

Sessions were intended to be biweekly, but patient is reluctant to participate

Treatment was mentioned, patient vehemently refused to cooperate

More hostile, sentences are clipped and provide little to work with

03/26/2012

Referred to psychiatrist’s notes for more comprehensive diagnosis

Quote: volatile, emotionally unstable, undiagnosed antisocial tendencies

Parents report of unpredictable behaviors and disregard for authority

Chaewon feels goosebumps rise along her skin, the chill of her aircon suddenly more unwelcome than it is soothing.

She flips through more documents, reading through forum captures that are alluding to something that hasn’t been explicitly detailed within the folder.

kc__eviee : no way,,, it’s quite sick

gang_gang013 : it’s a bit gross, but i like it anyway?

amu_na! : what should i do??? i keep coming back to it…

jkldns : shameful but i came kkkkk

007_bangya : im hypnotized by their bodies,, is park jimin really our age??

limwooyi : goosebumps…

If Chaewon had to take a gamble, she’d say they’re talking about a sex tape, possibly the one that had been found in Mr. Lee’s possession. There’s nothing especially intriguing about the screenshots provided, other than the fact that someone had mentioned the presumable name of one of the participants in the video. Park Jimin.

The name hadn’t surfaced in any of Chaewon’s previous investigations, which leads her to believe it has potential. There has to be a reason why Yoongi would’ve wanted to involve Mr. Lee in the proceedings of Taehyung’s case in the first place. Right? Nothing seems to be a coincidence with Yonseop or with the Kim’s.

It’s quite obvious the therapist notes were about Taehyung, judging by the similarities between Jeongguk and the author’s descriptions of the guy. The fact that these sessions were sanctioned by his parents implies that his psychopathic tendencies – as Jeongguk had put it – had become more alarming and frequent throughout the years. Perhaps even they couldn’t control his erratic temperament anymore, considered it would be safer to treat their son’s deranged behavior privately, tucked away from the world, before something worse happened publicly.

Chaewon rubs her palms up and down her forearms in a pathetic imitation of self-comfort. Sleep will be an impossible challenge tonight, not after having dived head-first into this fucked up case.

Somehow, her crazy board looks even more disorganized than it did before. Where there was previously some semblance of methodology in the mayhem before, all of the pieces keeping an appropriate distance between themselves, there is now pure chaos, no beauty behind it whatsoever.

The pictures overlap jarringly, creating a collage of utter mania – blood splatters clipped next to Taehyung’s perfectly symmetrical face, blood-smeared handprints juxtaposed against the bleached tone of his therapist. It all blends into an ugly picture of humanity, the kind Chaewon has become used to seeing, and it makes her ill with muted indignation. She clips Beomhan’s picture at the center of the board, reminding herself this is about him and what he represents.

Jimin’s name is referenced vaguely in some documents. Chaewon flips through every page faster, her teeth biting down onto the neon yellow marker she’s using to highlight his name. Fingers floating across the files, skimming past every word for more, she wants to fill in all the gaps in the story. There has to be some connection between Jimin and Taehyung.

He comes up over five times in total. It’s enough to be relevant. Suspicious.

She hops on her socials, looking his name up. It’s quite ordinary, she acknowledges belatedly, scrolling past hundreds of accounts with some variation of Park Jimin in the handle. Worth noting is also the fact that she doesn’t know what he looks like.

Her eyes flit over the manila folder that had been discarded, covered by a mountain of papers, reaching over bodily to pull it out from under them. Tacked onto the bottom of the envelope is a post-it note with Yoongi’s contact information. She shoots him a text, chewing down on her nails as she overthinks what she’s typing.

Chaewon [ 06:56 AM ] hey, its chae

Chaewon [ 06:56 AM ] just been looking over everything and i keep seeing a park jimin referenced? do u have a picture of him or any kind of info to find out more?

Chaewon belatedly realizes Yoongi might not answer. She huffs out a burst of hot air across her bangs, frowning as she contemplates just how spoiled Hoseok has made her, capitulating to her every whim.

Yoongi reads the message, much to Chaewon’s surprise, but there are no chat bubbles waving above her keyboard.

Around five hours later, when Chaewon is just clocking in for her lunch break at the studio, she finds two messages in her inbox. Glancing along her peripherals, she dims the brightness of her phone and pulls down the notification bar from the top of the screen.

Namjoon [ 10:35 AM ] chae, why are u ignoring me?

Yoongi [ 11:58 PM ] attachment🔗he works at serendipity café on 37^th st, but we’re trying to stay away from taehyung’s friends to avoid raising suspicion

Chaewon doesn’t think twice before swiping left on her cousin’s message, tapping on Yoongi’s chat immediately.

Chaewon [ 12:00 PM ] ok thx

She purposefully ignores the last part of Yoongi’s text. He won’t have to know she’ll be doing her own research.

Chaewon glances at her watch, biting her lip until she’s sure her teeth leave indents on the flesh. She’s really considering it – taking advantage of the hour-long break to drive all the way to the café. It’s totally out of left field, even for her, and she’s not sure if the producers will excuse it. However, luck seems to be on her side because her coordi comes rushing after her, arms flailing helplessly as she inspects something on Chaewon’s outfit. The reporter bawks, staring down at her clothes in confusion, until she notices a fat glob of ketchup has dripped from her sandwich onto the pristine white fabric of her shirt.

Chaewon smiles sheepishly, barely able to eke out an apology when the stylist is already rushing towards the dressing room, scrambling to find an extra shirt. Chaewon grins victoriously, yelling out a quick, “I’ll just pick something up from home – be right back!” before she bolts, putting in the name of the café into her car’s navigator.

As she waits for her engine to warm up a bit, revving it tepidly, she downloads the attachment Yoongi clipped her.

It seems like a cutout from a yearbook, the same framing and uniform seen on the clippings of Jeongguk and Taehyung that were included in the folder Chaewon had been entrusted.

She’s a bit stunned. Even though it’s an old yearbook photo, with all its stoic facial expressions and harsh studio lighting, Park Jimin is undeniably handsome. Chaewon is frankly tired of coming about his name as if it were merely a whispered secret, tucked between the folds of a confidential file. Her pulse surges as her car purrs to life, driving off to Serendipity Café. She can’t wait to meet Jimin in the flesh.

She mutes her GPS in favor of taking all the backroads with little traffic or streetlights, arriving in a whopping twelve minutes. Parking proves to be somewhat of a hassle, the minutes ticking by while she drives around the block over three times in search of an empty spot – but she’s nothing if not determined. She checks her wristwatch, digits drumming over the steering wheel anxiously. It’s already 12:24. Shit.

Eyeing the employee designated spot, Chaewon grumbles, throwing all caution to the wind and parking her sleek sedan head-in with crossed fingers, hoping she won’t get fined, or worse, find her car being towed away.

The bell signals her arrival as she enters the cafe, gaze immediately landing on the ordering counter. There’s a tuft of black hair peeking out above the register; Chaewon holds on tightly to the breath lodged in her throat, not even daring to exhale until she sees him with her own eyes.

A sweet voice calls out from behind the counter. Chaewon’s mind involuntarily flips through the files she’d been given. The tape. A knot forms in her stomach. “Just a moment, and I’ll be right with you!”

Jimin pops up from behind the counter, looking flushed and out of breath, handfuls of chocolate chips spilling past his fingers. He pours them into what looks to be a trash bin a few feet away, pouting as he does so.

“I’m so sorry for the wait; there was a minor mishap in the kitchen – what can I get you, ma’am?”

Chaewon blinks, stupefied. Her mouth refuses to cooperate with her. Jimin is unimaginably gorgeous. His cherubic features from his youth are still present, but they’ve become more chiseled. Polished. A thin sheen of perspiration coats his face, somehow making him seem more ethereal, an incandescent being unexpectedly appearing in the ugly, concrete jungle of Itaewon.

“I…” She doesn’t even know where to begin or how to articulate why exactly she’s here. Jimin smiles at her, patient, and Chaewon feels the stirrings of guilt tugging at her conscience. “I’ll have a, er, a cappuccino.”

Jimin hums, tacking on a kind “good choice!” that only serves to make Chaewon feel even shittier. What was she thinking – coming to Jimin’s workplace on a random Tuesday to ask about someone from his past who allegedly seems to have bullied and harassed multiple people, including (possibly) Jimin himself? What was she supposed to say? "Hey, so I know about your sex tape. Mind telling me where a certain Kim Taehyung ties into all of that?”

A dish crashes to the ground just in front of her, the sound of shattering porcelain cutting through her internal dialogue. Jimin stares at her, ghostly pale, his pupils shaking within his eyes. Chaewon’s eyebrows furrow, her face contorting into one of confusion until-

"W-what?” Jimin’s voice is meeker than a whisper.

Oh.

Fuck. Had she said that out loud?!

Chaewon’s entire face burns with humiliation, but she can’t help but feel flooded by an overwhelming sense of remorse, seeing how the mere mention of such a sensitive topic has drained all the blissful aloofness on his delicate features, stripping him down to a vulnerable, frightened state.

“I-“ Chaewon sputters, hearing as patrons sitting by the windows of the café glance towards the counter and whisper amongst themselves in alarm. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. I-“ She winces, squeezing her eyes shut in self-reproach, knowing a trite apology isn’t exactly appropriate in this situation.

Cowardly, she decides to flee, feeling too inculpated by the sheer hollow of Jimin’s stare. She doesn’t really think before leaving her business card on the counter, only realizing the implications of that subtle dick move after making her way back to the studio. She promptly bangs her forehead against the steering wheel a couple times, yelling in frustration, before hopping out of her car and sneaking onto the set, where her coordi waits to chew her out for coming back so late, only to find her wearing the same ketchup-stained blouse.

-

2012.06

An elderly woman, presumably one of the Kim’s house maids, greets Jimin warmly at the entrance of the family estate. Her eyes curve sadly, a wrinkle stretching along the corners of her lips. Jimin can’t even force himself to meet her gaze, bowing - deferential to a fault – and keeping his neck downturned as he steps into the mansion, slides his loafers off softly, puts them on the shoe rack by the door.

“Dear, would you like some snacks for yourself and Taehyung-ssi?” She asks, sweetly, gesturing towards a platter stocked with fruits and bite-sized treats that embarrassingly make Jimin salivate. He licks his lips, staring at the woman for a fraction of a second before glancing back down towards his sock-clad feet. Two of his toes poke out of a hole on his left foot. He curls them inward, cringing at how out of place he feels.

The woman carefully continues, insisting that Jimin enjoy the food she’s prepared. “Taehyung-ssi told me he would have a friend over and to have some refreshments and finger food ready.” She’s so kind. Jimin feels hot tears of rage and frustration bead around his lower lash line.

He’d hate to decline the sweet woman’s efforts, so he bows again, another perfectly perpendicular folding of his torso, and takes the platter into his hands. She beams, and the gray strands of hair framing her face gently sway across her cheeks. Jimin thinks of Hyori for a brief moment, erasing the sudden image just as quickly as it had materialized in his mind.

The house maid directs Jimin towards the east wing of the house, second floor, third door on the right at the end of the hallway. The amount of directions given bounce around in Jimin’s head, and he’s overwhelmed by the obnoxiously grandiose layout of the Kim’s property. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to claim that all of Jimin’s former places of residence could fit in the living room of Taehyung’s house. His exposed toes flex upward, frightened to even graze the floor and risk sullying it with his dirty feet.

Jimin repeats the house maid’s words like a mantra, passing by beautifully ornate corridors that could very well belong to an art gallery. Stunning pieces of art and lavish furniture decorate the house and give it a personality that pairs perfectly with the impression Taehyung has made upon him and others around him. Their wealth speaks for itself. They’re simply on a different echelon of society, dwelling on a higher plane of existence. There are plenty of framed photographs of who Jimin can only assume is Taehyung’s father throughout varying stages of his life, from his auspicious childhood to his inevitable triumphs in his later years; there aren’t any family portraits or pictures of any relatives. He hasn’t seen any pictures of Taehyung’s mom, either.

Jimin hesitates before knocking on Taehyung’s door, the mahogany so polished he can see his haggard appearance reflected across it. It feels like he’s being mocked, like his grievances are ludicrous and misplaced. Like his emotions don’t deserve an audience.

His hand trembles as it curls into a fist, his knuckles just about to press into the wood before the door suddenly swings open, revealing Taehyung’s gleeful face and dazzling smile. The fury Jimin feels bubbling within him is palpable.

He shoves the platter into Taehyung’s chest, where it clatters to the ground unceremoniously. Taehyung didn’t even make the effort to catch it – as though his hands weren’t meant for menial tasks like carrying plates around. Jimin gapes as he looks at the food strewn across the floor, heat burgeoning across his face as he thinks of the house maid’s efforts carelessly going to waste, the rumbling of his stomach that screams in malnourishment.

Jimin’s voice cracks pathetically as he fixes Taehyung the most accusatory expression he can muster whilst his face crumples in defeat.

“G-gosh, I fucking hate you!” Jimin yells, pulling at his hair as he paces around the room.

Taehyung stares at Jimin, always so passive, crossing his arms across his chest condescendingly, like a father who can’t be bothered to entertain his petulant child’s tantrums.

“You should eat, Jimin. You seem a little hangry.” He offers, a small smirk pulling at his lips. It has the desired effect on Jimin, who practically lunges at him from across the room, his small hands curled into wagging fists.

Just as his right arm is about to hook Taehyung square across the jaw, the curly-haired boy crouches down to the floor. Jimin heaves, staring down at him like he’s done something utterly incomprehensible. And truly, Jimin can only gasp when he observes what Taehyung is doing.

Taehyung is picking up the food that had fallen onto the floor, lips puckering to blow off any lint on the pieces before placing them back on the ceramic tray.

“Boram doesn’t deserve this, Jimin-ah.” There’s an edge of disappointment that laces his words, shooting Jimin the sharpest of glares out of the corner of his eye before going back to reach for some grapes that have crossed quite a distance along the floor.

Jimin can only swallow dryly, feeling inordinately guilty as he watches Taehyung pick up the food off the floor by himself. Should he help out? Taehyung is right. The elderly woman, Boram, was only doing her best. Shame consumes Jimin from the inside out, and he subconsciously finds his knees folding beneath him to help Taehyung fill the platter back to the brim.

The taller scoffs, a mean glint of teeth peeking between his curled lips as he laughs at Jimin derisively. Jimin hates him so much. He hates himself, too, perhaps more. He’s so fucking soft - weak.

Once the platter is placed safely towards the center of the bed, Jimin stares at Taehyung. The other leers, his jaw jutting high and pronounced, always looking down on him. The inklings of rage that had been subdued momentarily flare up, washing over him until he’s completely consumed by them.

“You fucking lied to me.” He spits, lips downturned into a nasty scowl.

Taehyung appears to be amused, adopting his previous attitude of nonchalance, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. “Do tell – what exactly are you talking about, duckie?”

Jimin’s nostrils flare. “Oh, please. Don’t act dense.” He points an accusing finger into Taehyung’s chest. “You told me if I helped you get off you wouldn’t spread the fucking video.”

Taehyung smiles, plastering on a confused expression onto his face. “Huh. Is that what I said?” He rubs his hand over his chin, feigning deep contemplation. Jimin screams, grabbing the collar of Taehyung’s shirt and pulling him forward.

“Why, why, why! I don’t fucking get it! Why are you doing this to me? I just wanted m-my diploma, a-and now I can’t even show my face at school anymore!” Tears begin to spill down his cheeks, a shudder creeping past the confines of his lungs and escaping through his lips. Taehyung glances down at them.

“Why is this happening to me?” Jimin sobs, and it’s like his soul shatters to pieces within him. His stomach growls through his belly, and it seems to spur Taehyung into action. He grabs Jimin’s forearm roughly, pulling him towards the bed. Jimin curls into himself, panicking as his mind sinks into his baser fight or flight instincts.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, steadying Jimin with a disbelieving glare.

“Jeez. Do you think I’m a monster? I’m not gonna rape you.” Jimin tenses, deathly still when Taehyung carelessly spits the word out. He scoffs when Jimin’s guts continue to clamor in hunger. “Good grief. Aren’t you pathetic.”

He reaches over the mattress, plucking a ripe strawberry off the top of the snack pile. He holds it between two digits, staring at Jimin’s mouth with lidded eyes as he brings it to his lips.

“Say ah for me, doll.”

Jimin blinks at him incredulously, his chin wrinkling in disdain as he frowns. Taehyung presses the fruit onto his lips, uncaring of the juices that run down his hand and drip onto the bed.

Jimin shakes his head, resolute. Taehyung huffs, smiling, but it’s mean – more like a sneer than anything. Jimin hopes it makes his blood boil, hopes Taehyung can feel even a fraction of the rage that’s brewing beneath Jimin’s skin.

“Fucking hell. You love testing me, don’t you?” The hand that isn’t holding the fruit slinks towards his crotch, palming at the outline of his cock through his slacks. Jimin’s blood curdles, eyes widening in fear. That pulls a genuine laugh out of Taehyung, that manic expression on his face growing unabashedly.

“Either I stuff your mouth with food or with cock. You decide, pretty.” His voice is rough around the edges, tone scratching like sandpaper. Jimin’s mouth drops open almost instantaneously, eyes still trained warily on the horrifying bulge that Taehyung paws at, like it has a mind of its own, nurtured with malicious intent.

Taehyung smiles, pushing the strawberry past Jimin’s lips and tapping his chin to mechanically force him to chew. “Atta boy. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Fresh tears drip down, creating new paths along Jimin’s skin past where the others have dried. The fire in his gut isn’t quenched, despite his biological needs being satiated.

“I’m gonna k-kill you one day. I fucking swear I’ll do it!” Jimin cries, lips wobbling against Taehyung’s red-slicked fingers.

The other only grins, staring at him amusedly. “Whatever you say, baby.”

-

Seokjin rests his head against the window, staring at Namjoon from his peripherals to avoid making direct eye-contact. Ever since their last conversation, things have been delicate between them. Namjoon’s always been short-tempered, but lately, he can’t even be bothered to hide it.

“Shit, what’s taking him so long?” Namjoon mutters, his finger brushing against the trigger of his pistol, where the weapon lays across his spread thighs.

Seokjin gulps, opting to look forward. “Beats me. I don’t know why he keeps coming back to this school. There’s nothing but dead bodies piling up, and the closer we linger, the more suspicious we become.” He spots a cop car parked along the sidewalk, redirecting traffic to allow the children to cross the street safely.

Taehyung jogs out of the front entrance seconds later, a manila folder clutched under his armpit while his other arm smooths out the creases of his uniform. Namjoon squints, catching red speckles dotting his gray t-shirt. He pales, cursing under his breath.

“This fucking moron, I swear-” Namjoon kicks the glovebox, yelling in frustration. The car jostles from the force of his anger, and Seokjin stares at him warily, gaze flitting towards the police, who is beginning to eye the van curiously.

Taehyung hops in, shutting the door behind him as he sighs, head posed back against the headrest.

“All good, fellas.” He slaps the back of the driver seat, the leather giving under his wide palms. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Namjoon turns to glare at him while Seokjin pulls out of the parking spot, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

“All good? What the fuck do you mean, all good?!” Namjoon yells, his frustration only mounting when Taehyung shrugs noncommittally, his eyes widening innocently.

“Why is your shirt stained with blood, Taehyung?” Namjoon accuses, and Seokjin stares at his brother through the rearview mirror in reluctant horror.

Taehyung raises his hands, his entire demeanor the picture of naivety. “What are you talking about, Joon?” He blinks down towards his torso, picking at the fabric of his shirt to pull it off his chest. “Oh, you mean this?” He smiles, a shit-eating grin stretching his lips wide. Namjoon wishes he could slap it off him.

“I just had to get something for a friend. My teacher was being a dick – didn’t want to help.”

Namjoon huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “What was so important that you had to beat up your fucking teacher, Taehyung? Are you out of your mind?!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, handing over the folder he’d thrown across the back-row seats. Taehyung catches Seokjin’s disapproving stare through the mirror and scoffs, turning his neck to stare out the window.

Namjoon blinks down blankly at the file in his hands. “Certificate of completion for Park Jimin? What the fuck is this, Tae?”

Seokjin blanches, involuntarily pressing down harder on the gas pedal. “Taehyung, is that the friend of yours Boram was telling me about? The one that’s staying over?”

Namjoon bawks, staring at the two guys incredulously. “Did no one think to fill me in? What the hell? Do your parents know about this?” He whispers towards the end, as if there were hidden ears inside the vehicle.

Taehyung laughs, clutching his belly. Namjoon and Seokjin share a loaded glance. “Since when do my parents care about anything that happens in my life? As long as I don’t get them in trouble, they don’t give a shit.”

Softly, tip-toeing around eggshells, Seokjin dares to ask what Namjoon is thinking but refusing to voice. “Did you… kidnap him?”

The younger of the trio glances back and forth between his hyungs, eyes wide and disbelieveing. He seems stunned, maybe even a little hurt. The silence in the car is stifling.

“Are you fucking serious?” Taehyung cackles, albeit humorlessly. His eyebrows furrow deeply, genuinely distraught. “What- do you guys seriously think I can’t have a friend who wants to spend time with me out of his own volition?” The question feels oddly like an admission, and Taehyung finds himself struggling to reach for more words, the characters suddenly slipping away from his tongue.

The rest of the way home is deathly quiet, the three males wrapped in an airtight bubble of heavy, unspoken truths and even darker, uncomfortable secrets, ones they’ve vowed to take to their graves.

-

Kim Jeonghan greets them at the entrance of their mansion, a tumbler of whiskey clutched in his right hand.

“My boys!” He exclaims, opening his arms wide laterally, a gesture of pride and safety. Seokjin and Taehyung sigh, knowing that whenever their father is in a particularly good mood it doesn’t bode well for them. Namjoon stands before him, a tepid smile on his lips. The three bow simultaneously, waiting to hear the click of Jeonghan’s heeled shoes against the marbled floor before they straighten out.

Jeonghan walks toward the indoor bar adjacent to the kitchen, ringing a bell on the countertop before gesturing for the three young men to join him. A butler appears shortly after, donning a black rag over his left shoulder. He bows, head tilted downward as he waits to be addressed.

Jeonghan taps his glass three times, and the boys stare in awe as the elderly man procures a decanter full of golden liquid, the drink sloshing within the vessel. The butler grabs three glasses and serves some of the liquid in equal measure, sliding them towards each the young men.

Taehyung doesn’t wait to be instructed, grabbing the glass and bringing it to his greedy lips. The liquid burns as it slides down his throat, so smooth, rich, intoxicating.

Jeonghan smiles at his youngest son, cupping his cheek in his palm.

“Bourbon?” Taehyung asks, though his throat is on fire, feels like it’s sizzling - as if he’d downed a shot of acid.

His father nods approvingly, his eyebrows raising, impressed. “As expected of my son.”

Namjoon and Seokjin quickly follow through, tipping back the glasses and welcoming the whiskey down their throats. Seokjin sloshes it a bit in his mouth, unable to acclimate to the numbing, heady aroma of sweet vanilla that is so cloying his nostrils feel impregnated by it.

Jeonghan rubs his palm up and down Taehyung’s nape, swallowing the last dregs of whiskey at the base of his glass and sighing, seemingly refreshed.

“Alright, boys. I have a task for you.” He looks at each one dead in the eyes, although not all of them meet his gaze. Jeonghan sighs deprecatingly, roughly swiping his palms across his face. He slams down his glass onto the wooden countertop, the bartender flinching as he retrieves all the tumblers.

“Don’t screw this up.” He seethes, slapping Taehyung’s shoulder before slipping off the stool and disappearing into his study.

-

The task is quite simple.

It always is, in theory. Jeonghan wants a C-suite executive taken out. Apparently, there’s a bidding for the upcoming IPO of a promising start-up that’s already assumed a significant portion of the market share for the semiconductor industry, and Choi Minhyuk, the CFO of a renowed biotech firm, wants majority ownership. The specifics don’t really matter to any of them. They’re just here to get the job done. 

Seokjin occupies the driver’s seat, once again, parked outside a gated villa in Seongbuk-dong. The cobblestone driveway glistens from the light drizzle earlier that evening, the red lights of the security cameras installed along the front gate reflecting across the dewy floor.

Taehyung tapped mindlessly across his tablet. He smirks, satisfied, when the red beams go dark. “Cameras will be down for the next 13 minutes. That’s our window.”

Namjoon pulls his gloves on, the latex snapping against his tanned skin. His voice is low and tight. “Let’s move.”

Seokjin hesitates, drumming his fingers along the dashboard, heels bouncing anxiously by the pedals.

Namjoon stares at him beyond the brim of his mask. He pats the hood of the car, gesturing with his fingers for Seokjin to be on the look-out. Seokjin nods, palms sweaty. He’s always been relegated to getaway driver. It’s insulting – but comforting, at the same time. He breathes out a heavy sigh of relief, binoculars clutched tightly in his hands while he glances, occasionally, at the monitor Taehyung had set up in the backseat.

Inside, it goes swimmingly, like clockwork.

Taehyung moves like a phantom, scaling the side wall, disarming the second-floor alarm in 42 seconds. He hums while he works, some mindless pop tune that rotates across every radio station, inescapable. Namjoon wants to tell him to shut the hell up, but he’s in no position to complain; Taehyung is efficient, all annoying idiosyncrasies set aside.

The house was dark. Taehyung had done his homework. He knew every point of access, every blind spot the security cameras couldn’t cover, where the rottweiler slept. It made Namjoon’s job so much easier.

Choi Minhyuk is in his study. He seems to be reviewing some contracts, thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, a bottle of red wine on the desk, and white noise playing low from the surround sound system installed within his walls.

Namjoon stands behind him for 12.34 seconds, clicking the timer on his watch off, before the man even notices.

By then, it’s too late.

Namjoon jabs a needle in his thick neck. It’s a clean incision, not even a drop of blood spilled as he pulls out the syringe. The paralytic works within 2 minutes. Choi blinks, trying to scream as he clutches his rapidly purpling nape, but only a gurgle manages to breach his lips. Namjoon tilts his head, admiring the silence.

—

They work in the basement. There are yards of clear tarps lining the walls and floor. A full surgical table stands beneath the fluorescent lights. The air reeks of antiseptic and iron.

Sleeves rolled up to his biceps, Taehyung slips on medical-grade gloves, wiggling his fingers into the elastic material. Namjoon eyes him warily, a frown tugging the lower half of his face down, an expression of blatant distaste.

Taehyung barely acknowledges him. “There’s a beauty behind my madness.” He shrugs his shoulders, haughty. “I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

They began the extraction.

Liver. Kidneys. Pancreas. Eyes. The heart goes last. They’re all perfectly preserved.

Namjoon logs serial numbers on each organ transport container. They’re placed in vacuum sealed transport bags. Placed in industrial-grade coolers, ice covering the bottom half of each one. Their operation, however clandestine, was legit. The funding had initially been funneled from Taehyung and Seokjin’s personal allowances, but black-market merchants quickly sniffed out their competition and decided they wanted a piece of their pie.

From the van, Seokjin stares at the dashboard clock. He logs the time on his watch. There’s 33 seconds left before Seokjin is alerted that something in their plan has more than likely gone to shit.

He thinks of every possible outcome. Their target suddenly waking up mid-extraction, screaming as he struggles beneath Taehyung and Namjoon’s restrictive arms. House staff that was not accounted for crossing paths with them as they’re leaving the property, blood-soaked gloves discarded into a black duffel bag, along with the heavy packages holding human flesh.

Seokjin shuts his eyes, squeezing them closed. He’ll never forget the first time he'd seen his baby brother sawing through a corpse, his work sloppy and unnecessarily grotesque.

Seokjin’s watch beeps. His eyes shoot open, focusing on the front gate, that remains locked. His pulse buzzes beneath his skin.

They emerge seconds later, like nothing happened.

Taehyung peels off his mask, tossing it somewhere into the last row of the van. His shirt is spotless, hair slightly mussed but still handsomely styled. Namjoon carries three coolers, stacked one on top of the other, with both hands. His face is slick with sweat, jaw tight.

Seokjin starts the car, pulling the gear shift down to drive.

The ride is totally silent.

It always is after an assignment.

-

present

Chaewon doesn’t get a text from Jimin that night.

Or the next morning.

Or the one after that.

She checks her phone obsessively. Overthinks their brief exchange (though “exchange" is generous, considering she’d just fled the scene like a lunatic and left her number behind like a sleazy recruiter). There’s nothing.

She deserves the silence. But it still leaves a tedious itch under her skin.

By Thursday evening, Chaewon is spiraling. She’s combed through everything again: her notes, the folder, even the timestamped frames from the hard drive Yoongi had initially sent her. She hadn’t been able to watch the whole thing - not with her stomach curling into knots and her conscience blaring like a siren.

She debates calling Yoongi, her thumb hovering over his contact, but ultimately texts him instead.

Chaewon [ 6:27 PM ] i went to serendipity and talked to jimin

The bubbles pop up immediately this time. Chaewon quirks an eyebrow. Either he’s not busy or he’s finally discarded the façade.

Yoongi [ 6:27 PM ] i thought i said we weren’t going to poke the witnesses??

Yoongi [ 6:28 PM ] what happened to laying low??

Chaewon runs her fingertips over the rim of her wine glass as she examines Yoongi’s messages. His tone is clear: he’s irritated. But why? Sure, Chaewon had taken matters into her own hands, but what did he expect – for her to just sit around on her ass while people who could help them catch Taehyung just live their lives, completely unperturbed by the past?

Chaewon [ 6:29 PM ] he freaked out over one comment i made. he really doesn’t seem like the type to go around blabbering about his life to anyone

There’s a full minute of silence. Yoongi’s chat bubble doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t seem to know what to say.

Yoongi [ 6:31 PM ] chaewon, listen to me.

Yoongi [ 6:31 PM ] do NOT approach any more witnesses without consulting with me or jeongguk first

Chaewon growls, swirling the remnants of wine at the bottom of the glass until they slosh over the rim, staining her finger beds.

She just doesn’t understand why. Why is he so butthurt about her wanting to get in touch with a victim. She’s obviously the most reputable person to do it, given her credentials. What are Yoongi and his oversized guard dog supposed to do?

Chaewon [ 6:35 PM ] alright…

Her phone buzzes with several other notifications, but she doesn’t bother checking them. Chaewon rubs her temples, her breath heavy and long as it escapes her lips. So much for teamwork.

-

She wakes up to a message from an unknown number. The area code is local. Her heart swells with hope, fingers tapping frenetically over her screen to unlock her messaging app.

Unknown [ 8:41 AM ] you’re the reporter, right? the one from channel 2

Chaewon’s chest seizes. She stares at the blank profile and imagines Jimin’s hurt eyes blinking across from her.

Another notification lights up her screen.

Unknown [ 8:42 AM ] how did you find me? i moved out of gangnam after leaving yonseop…

Chaewon inhales sharply, certain now that this person is Jimin. She types cautiously, reading over her draft and deleting it. She needs to find the right words. If she scares him off, it’ll be much harder to get him to cooperate. Her overzealous attitude has never failed to bring her trouble – but it’s also always gotten her results. Answers.

Chaewon [ 8:45 AM ] im working with some of your former peers, they’ve helped me track down some of the people who were close to taehyung

Jimin’s text bubbles undulates, a strong current seemingly forming on his end of the conversation. Fuck. Did she say too much? Chaewon’s fingers tighten around her phone.

Jimin drops several consecutive messages.

Jimin [ 8:47 AM ] my peers? that has to be a lie. im not in contact with anyone from the academy

Jimin [ 8:47 AM ] believe me when i tell you i left everything and everyone behind when i moved away

Jimin [ 8:48 AM ] i need names if im going to trust you with my information

Jimin [ 8:48 AM ] this is a very sensitive topic, but i don’t think you’re aware of just how deep it runs

Chaewon’s blood surges as it courses through her veins. This is exactly what she’s been waiting for. Screw Yoongi and Jeongguk. How could they be so obtuse and refuse to tap into such invaluable information directly from a primary source? It honestly seems a bit neglectful, in Chaewon’s eyes. Their lack of transparency and integrity has always been concerning, but not enough to raise some red flags. Maybe it should.

Chaewon [ 8:50 AM ] im working directly with yoongi and jeongguk

Chaewon [ 8:50 AM ] they studied with you at the academy, correct?

Jimin’s reply comes back about thirty seconds too late. Chaewon is already panicking, thinking back to Yoongi’s evasiveness, his admission that their investigation wasn’t legal, the visceral rage and agony that poured out from both of them that time at the library. It had been such a fragile moment. So unstable.

Jimin [ 8:51 AM ] that’s not possible. i just met them a few months ago

Chaewon’s blood curdles. Her mind totally blanks. Has everything been a lie?

Chapter Text

present

Jimin has started receiving anonymous letters at his doorstep. Again.

He’d found the first one on the welcome mat outside his door the day after Jeongguk had texted him.

Was it a coincidence? Most probably. How would Jeongguk know where he lived?

But there’s something nagging at Jimin’s conscience, something that rings through his eardrums until he feels nauseous. He doesn’t know what to make of Jeongguk. He’s charming, frighteningly so, in a way that totally disarms you without much notice. Jeongguk has managed to wedge himself into Jimin’s life, sneaking into cracks in his mind even he didn’t know existed.

The problem with Jeongguk was that there was so much Jimin didn’t know about him. He thinks about Mia, and her psychotic mind-break a few months ago. He thinks about Becky, warning Jimin about Jeongguk. But, what about him, really? Is he dangerous? The tattoos, the brooding demeanor, the mysterious aura surrounding him – does it point to anything conclusive? Perhaps she’s just a disgruntled ex-lover with a penchant for tarnishing her partners’ reputations out of spite.

Regardless of Jimin’s conjectures, Jeongguk hasn’t stopped texting him, checking on him every day, without fail. Jimin can’t help but feel slightly flattered by the attention. He really is so handsome, and Jimin is so, so easy.

Nonetheless, he remembers the last time he had blindly fallen head over heels for someone, and what an absolute trainwreck that turned out to be in Jimin’s life, so he decides to keep his guard up and his interest at bay.

A ping lights up his phone just then. Jimin sighs, his cheeks already flushing in anticipation.

Of course, it’s him.

Jeongguk [ 08:24 AM ] morning sweetheart

Jeongguk [ 08:24 AM ] let me know how ur doing today ok?

Jeongguk [ 08:24 AM ] m always here for u, pretty

Jimin shuts off his notifications for good as he clocks into his shift.

-

Jeongguk hops into Yoongi’s matte gray sedan, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he expects to be berated for the nth time this week. Yoongi doesn’t even look at him, gaze fixed onto the street in front of him.

The air in the car feels thick with dust and silence. It could use a wash, Jeongguk thinks to himself, absent-mindedly.

He clears his throat, rubbing his crimson-soaked hands on the black denim of his jeans. It doesn’t stain, but he knows Yoongi’s leather seats will reek of blood for weeks, at best.

“You’re getting sloppy.” Yoongi chides, humorlessly. His grip on the steering wheel is iron-tight. Jeongguk scoffs, but he knows it’s true. He didn’t even put on gloves today.

“Hyung, you should’ve seen him. I could practically smell the stench off that creep from a mile away. Jimin looked super uncomfortable, I swear.” Yoongi spares him a disbelieving glance. Jeongguk doubles down. “I’ve seen him more than once – it’s like he’s fucking obsessed with him or something.”

Yoongi frowns this time, openly judging him. They’ve reached their shared apartment, and Yoongi’s pulling into the farthest parking spot towards the back corner of the lot. His knuckles are white as he shifts the gear to park, the two falling into an uncomfortable silence.

“What’s up with you lately, eh? You’ve killed three people in the past two weeks. This isn’t like you, Jeongguk.” The younger meets Yoongi’s eyes, and he’s revolted to find sympathy in them. Pity.

Jeongguk unlocks the car, leather rustling as he steps out as quickly as possible and slams the door shut. He hears Yoongi sigh, the sound penetrating the deepest chasms of Jeongguk’s conscience. He can’t bear it when Yoongi is disappointed in him.

The older manages to reach him, a thin pale hand wrapping around Jeongguk’s meatier, tattoed wrist, but Jeongguk shrugs him off, vision tunneling as he thinks about what he saw that day in Jimin’s complex.

It just can’t be.

“Jeongguk!” Yoongi yells, his deep voice reverberating across the thin corridor leading to the elevators.

He grabs Jeongguk’s shoulder, gaze piercing into his friend’s stoic ones. It disconcerts him to no end.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He gives Jeongguk’s body a firm shake, jostling him the way Jeongguk hates. His face follows Jeongguk’s staring resolutely to the side. Yoongi’s patience is wearing then. He gives Jeongguk another shove. “Answer me! What’s going on?”

Jeongguk’s eyes harden, his shoulders caving in ever so slightly. Yoongi’s mouth parts, face smoothing out now that Jeongguk’s given him something.

“I think he’s back.” His voice is barely a whisper, his mouth opening only to sigh. Yoongi pales, grips Jeongguk’s forearms again, stares into his eyes.

“What do you mean? How-“ Yoongi licks his lips – they’ve lost all moisture in the span of a few seconds. “How do you know?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s him! Fuck – someone left something on Jimin’s doorstep the day I went to his apartment.” Jeongguk finally meets Yoongi’s gaze, his eyes looking awfully pained.

Yoongi says nothing, mind reeling from the prospect of Taehyung being back in the picture. He’d gone off the grid for so many years, the radio silence both relieving and concerning.

“So-“ Yoongi’s throat feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, “that’s why you’ve been killing all these nameless creeps? You’re paranoid?”

Jeongguk exhales, the breath shaky and wet with tremulous emotion. “Fuck, I dunno, hyung. I’m on edge.” Yoongi stares at his hands, gripped tight on the unruly strands of hair atop his head. They’re trembling. “Everytime I think of him, I just get reminded of how low I’ve gone. How easy it is to take a life with my bare hands.”

Yoongi’s head snaps up, a rebuttal ready on his tongue. Jeongguk smiles, dull and sad. “Don’t even bother, hyung. I don’t regret anything I’ve done. Not anymore. I know I’m responsible for my sins, but so is he.”

Jeongguk’s veins pulse beneath the skin of his wrists, making his tattoos rise and fall – as though animated and breathing. Yoongi stares off into a random hole sinking into the cardboard wall lining the hallway. He’d watched as Jeongguk’s skin had slowly transformed, once soft and unblemished, to the entrancing swirls of pain and darkness that have been permanently etched onto him.

When Jeongguk meets his gaze, his eyes are bloodshot, the remnants of hot tears that have been blinked away still linger, clumping his eyelashes. “He’s ruined everything. It’s time. Don’t you get it, Yoongi? It’s time to kill that son of a bitch, once and for all.”

Yoongi swallows around the saliva slicking the inside of his mouth. He nods, albeit much less resolutely. Jeongguk won’t push him to tell him what he’s thinking. He already knows. The second thoughts are practically written across Yoongi’s forehead.

Jeongguk reaches forward, fists curling over the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt and yanking him forward until their foreheads collide.

“Don’t fucking back out on me, hyung. Not now. We’re so close. I won’t let him slip away this time.”

The perspiration dripping down Yoongi’s temples mingles with the damp skin of Jeongguk’s forehead. The scent of desperation is thick, its texture sticky and gross. Yoongi is a bit distraught by how high Jeongguk seems to be on it, his expression almost manic. Unrecognizable. 

-

present – a few weeks later

Jimin stares down at his barely lit phone screen, blinking slowly, rhythmically, as if that will erase the text messages he’s just read, now engrained behind his retinas.

Chaewon [ 8:50 AM ] im working directly with yoongi and jeongguk

Chaewon [ 8:50 AM ] they studied with you at the academy, correct?

He doesn’t even know what to say. Jimin doesn’t think he can respond to that question himself. He types slowly, the words strangely doing little to assuage the thunderous battering of his heart into his rib cage. The denial feels somewhat comforting.

Jimin [ 8:51 AM ] that’s not possible. i just met them a few months ago

And that’s the truth. Isn’t it? He’d never seen any of them in high school. He’d remember a presence like Yoongi’s. He could never forget a face like Jeongguk’s, those dark eyes more consuming than black holes. Could Yoongi have been telling the truth back then, when Mia told him about their exchange? Had Yoongi really known him back then? Did Jimin truly just dissociate so viscerally and inexorably from his past that he’d erased even the harmless, beautiful memories?

His screen lights up with another message. He’s almost afraid to open it, hands loosely gripping the edges of his phone as he swipes his fingers across, clicking on the notification.

Chaewon [ 8:53 AM ] im sorry, jimin, but there’s overwhelming evidence that they themselves have provided to me that prove they are telling the truth

Jimin bites his nails, canines digging into the pink flesh of his thumb. Another ping.

Chaewon [ 8:53 AM ] i don’t see why they would lie about that to me

Chaewon [ 8:54 AM ] why do you think they would lie to you though?

It’s a great question – one Jimin doesn’t want to know the answer to, frankly.

-

Jimin decides to text Jeongguk after locking up the store. He waits outside of Serendipity café, clutch bag hugged tightly to his chest as he stares across both ends of the street. Traffic is slow, the sounds of cars driving by almost muted by the light drizzle carried throughout the city by wispy, gray clouds.

Jimin [ 9:46 PM ] hi jeongguk, is your offer for a ride still available?

Jimin pockets his phone just as quickly as he presses send, his hands shaking slightly where they’re pressed against the faux leather of his bag. It’s starting to peel, the material shedding across his t-shirt. Jimin almost jumps in his spot when the phone rings, vibrating in his back pocket.

Jimin swipes on the answer button; he already knows who it is. The line crackles slightly before Jeongguk’s warm, muffled voice spreads across Jimin’s ears. It almost feels like he’s whispering right into them.

Sweetheart, I’m so happy you called.

Jimin shivers a bit, the flimsy fabric of his shirt doing little to protect him from the light breeze that licks the droplets of rain tickling his skin. Jimin can barely muster out a word, his lips trembling as he parts them to speak. Across the street, a car’s headlights flash on, beams illuminating the mostly dim avenue.

Jeongguk, h-hi. I really… wanted to talk to you. It’s important.

Jeongguk hums, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. Even without seeing him, Jimin can tell he’s smiling.

Yeah? Well, you won’t have to wait for long, Jimin. I happened to be in the area when I got your message.

Tingles zip throughout Jimin’s body, and he knows the weather isn’t the only culprit this time. Goosebumps rise along his arms, spreading along the expanse of his exposed nape. Unconsciously, Jimin starts glancing around, carefully examining his surroundings – as if Jeongguk will suddenly materialize out of the shadows.

R-really?

Jeongguk chuckles, all throaty and smooth. Jimin’s thighs clench together in apprehension.

Why do you sound surprised? I told you I’m always here for you. Didn’t I?

Jimin inhales sharply, gaze piercing the street in hopes of spotting Jeongguk’s car. If he could just prove that his suspicions are true, he’d escape as fast as he can – it’s what Jimin has always done. What he’s best at. Never finding answers, just running away before the truth can hurt him even more than the lies, the deceit.

 Jimin forgets to respond in his paranoic frenzy. Jeongguk only hums in the background, acknowledging the silence, but doing nothing about it. He sighs, and Jimin can hear the sound of the gear being jostled into place.

Jimin-ah. You can stop looking around now. I’m here.

Jimin freezes, eyes darting towards the sleek obsidian Mercedez parked out on the road just a few feet away from the sidewalk. Tinted windows roll down, revealing Jeongguk’s smiling face, hair slicked back, eyes twinkling with mischief. Jimin’s heart lurches in his chest, and he briefly forgets why he even decided to confront Jeongguk face-to-face.

Once Jimin starts hasting towards the car, bag clutched tightly between his armpit and fists, Jeongguk steps out of the driver’s seat and rounds the hood, opening the passenger door for Jimin. The sensation of dejavu slaps him sharply, like an angry hand coming down onto innocent flesh, making Jimin lose his balance as his torso follows his legs into the seat. Jeongguk is there, hand coming to grip his forearm until he’s securely tucked into the car – almost like he’s afraid Jimin will leave without his supervision. If he notices Jimin’s visceral flinch at the contact, he doesn’t mention it, opting to buckle into his side of the vehicle.

The ride is silent, incriminatingly so. It’s completely absent of questions, the ones that someone typically asks when giving someone a ride. What’s your address? Do I turn left here? What’s the fastest shortcut?

Jimin’s skin has been drained of all color. He stares off at Jeongguk from his peripherals, nearly jumping out of his seat when he finds Jeongguk’s gaze is already on him. They’ve stopped at a red light, the scarlet painting Jeongguk’s sharp features a dangerous hue. His eyes drop down to Jimin’s lips, a second too long, and Jimin feels forced to look away, gulping down a shaky breath when the light turns green.

He only dares to break the tenuous quiet within the vehicle when Jeongguk starts drumming his thumbs along the snake-print of his steering wheel, clearly on edge. Jimin feels faint, the air not quite reaching his lungs. It’s hard to breathe around Jeongguk.

“You’ve been here before, h-haven’t you?” Jimin phrases it as a question, but it’s a blatant accusation. Jeongguk stiffens in his seat, his arms locking tight where they’re stretched towards the wheel. The lack of a reply is enough to satisfy Jimin’s inquiry. He stares off onto the blackened city, the streetlights doing little to combat the darkness entrenching it whole.

They arrive at Jimin’s apartment complex, Jeongguk shifting the gear to neutral before turning to face the smaller. He’s waiting, jaw clenched tight, knuckles bleached bone white.

Jimin clears his throat, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Thank you – for the ride.”

Jeongguk looks pained, his eyes curving in a silent plea. Jimin’s pulse is visible through his skin, the artery by his neck practically vibrating.

“Come up with me?” He says, sounding reluctant with uncertainty.

Jeongguk huffs, suddenly bringing his veiny hands to fist at the fabric of his distressed jeans. The way he clenches his own flesh makes Jimin’s tummy tingle.

“Why? What are you trying to achieve, Jimin?” There’s a sense of finality in his voice, the traces of desperation clinging to his throat.

“There are things I need to understand, Jeongguk.” After a tense few seconds, Jimin steps out of the car, making his way up to his apartment. He doesn’t wait up for Jeongguk. He doesn’t need to.

Jeongguk follows wordlessly, an air of defeat burdening his shoulders. He can’t even look at Jimin in the eye, anymore.

Jimin’s keys jingle against the plywood of his doorframe, the lock clicking open with a warm hush. He holds the door open, letting Jeongguk in – but the other doesn’t move an inch. There’s an angry red flush to his face, visible even though his head is bowed in palpable humiliation.

Jimin is startled by the brittle quality of his tone, such a stark contrast to the voice he’d heard over the phone just moments prior, so jovial and childlike, in a way.

“How long have you known?” Jeongguk whispers, afraid of what the weight of his words could mean for Jimin.

Jimin blinks, looking down at his socked feet against his carpeted floor. He stares at Jeongguk’s tall, chunky platform boots, standing stock-still right outside of his home.

“Come in first, Jeongguk.” Jimin insists, the ending syllables dragging out in a frustrated whine. Jeongguk barely moves, taking two steps forward – enough to satisfy Jimin’s request without encroaching too shamelessly. Jimin’s hands shake as they close the door behind him.

Jeongguk is the first to speak once the lock clicks into place. “How long have you known, Jimin?”

Jimin is surprised by the acidity of his tone. He’s even more shocked to find Jeongguk’s eyes glaring down into his. He feels a sudden need to defend himself.

“I don’t know anything, Jeongguk! What the hell are you talking about?!”

Jeongguk huffs, running his tattooed fingers through his hair. The gel is useless against his incessant prodding, wavy black hair framing his face messily. “You knew this whole time I’ve been following you?” He asks, and the way Jimin’s face drops is enough to tell him everything he needs to know.

“Fuck. FUCK!” Jeongguk yells, pacing around Jimin’s living room. He leans his head against one of the walls near the kitchen, and Jimin takes advantage of his distracted state to grab a cutting knife out of his pantry.

Jimin circles back, makes sure to leave ample space between himself and Jeongguk.

“C-chaewon told me you were at Yonseop. Why – why did you pretend that you didn’t know me?” Jimin eyes his reaction carefully, noting the way Jeongguk immediately flinches in panic, his limbs clenching instinctively at his sides. Locks of hair fall into his face when he finally looks up at Jimin.

“I was… embarrassed. I couldn’t believe you didn’t recognize me, even though I instantly knew it was you – even after so many years.” Jeongguk swallows thickly, his eyes searching Jimin’s imploringly, unyieldingly. There’s too much that goes unspoken, so painfully clear just from the uncomely creases marring his handsome face.

“And that made you follow me?” Jimin shouts, pointing a finger into Jeongguk’s chest, a condemnation.

Jeongguk’s lips curl into a scowl, eyes burning with uncontained shame and rage.

“I DID IT FOR YOU.” He roars, pushing off the wall and towering over Jimin, his shoulders heaving with every ragged breath that pushes out of the confines of his chest. Jimin stares, confusion etched into the wrinkles on his forehead.

Jeongguk trudges forward, his chest bumping against Jimin’s. The smaller makes no move to back away, tilting his head up to meet Jeongguk’s aggressive posturing.

“I did everything for you.” Jeongguk declares, albeit with much less intensity, his eyes skirting around Jimin’s face. “I saw that someone was following you home that day when I first offered you a ride. I saw them leave something at your door.” Jeongguk clenches his eyes shut, the veins in his temples bulging as he clenches his jaw, tensed like a rope ready to snap. Jeongguk is lying through his teeth, but Jimin doesn’t need to know that.

“I- I followed you to make sure you were okay.” Jeongguk sighs, leaning his neck forward until his forehead rests against Jimin’s. He sighs, eyelids fluttering shut, as if the sensation of their skin touching cools down the flames that had been burning down every last vestige of his composure and self-restraint. Jimin freezes, unable to comprehend what’s happening, why the torrential storm that had threatened to bring his reality apart has suddenly pacified into a soft thrum.

Jeongguk’s breath is warm against Jimin’s face when he speaks. One of his hands skirts down Jimin’s arm, following the blue veins that run across his soft, milk and honey skin. His hand wraps around Jimin’s, the one clutching the knife with a trembling grip.

“Aren’t you going to use it?”

Jimin gasps, staring into Jeongguk’s eyes, genuine fright reflecting in his irises. Jeongguk guides his hand up, lightly pressing the weapon to his throat. The blade rests on the delicate skin of Jeongguk’s neck. His adam’s apple bobs, vision tunneling solely on Jimin’s lips, parting but only managing to grasp onto morsels of oxygen. He’s gone ghostly pale.

Emboldened by Jimin’s inability to react, much less to take a defensive stance – or even push him away – Jeongguk leans forward, connecting his lips with Jimin’s. The smaller, in his petrified state, hasn’t moved an inch. His hand, still holding the knife against Jeongguk’s throat, becomes sullied by a thin stream of blood as Jeongguk’s flesh gives under the blade piercing into it.

Their lips merely graze each other, no hunger or desire tugging at their baser instincts to ravish one another. They simply stand together, pink petal lips exchanging the same warm breath. Jimin’s eyes, still wide open – in stupefaction or terror, even he doesn’t know – stare past Jeongguk’s round nose, and he’s speechless. His heart skips a few beats in his chest; he feels a bit woozy.

Jeongguk’s eyes are clenched shut, a frown contorting his features in a way Jimin can’t understand. There’s bliss, and yearning, and restraint – all portrayed so beautifully in the vulnerable, lax manner in which he melts against Jimin. Crimson still runs in a steady trickle across Jimin’s knife, beginning to drench Jimin’s hand in featherlight brushstrokes.

The knife clatters to the floor, Jimin’s grip loosening around the weapon in favor of grasping loosely around Jeongguk’s neck. His pulse is so completely stable, seemingly unmoored by the wound he’s currently bleeding from. Jeongguk seems to press forward a little more insistently, encouraged by Jimin’s lack of refusal.

His lips push Jimin’s apart, tongue sliding into Jimin’s mouth tentatively, like he’s waiting for permission. It’s a foreign experience for Jimin, being with someone who doesn’t selfishly take without asking. There’s no greed or malice in Jeongguk’s face – it’s so bewildering, the sheer openness Jeongguk is exhibiting. Jimin doesn’t think he’ll be able to look away from him.

Jimin makes the first move, sucking Jeongguk’s tongue and tracing his around the meat on the inside of his cheeks. Jeongguk moans, a wanton noise that tugs at something guttural and hot that’s been buried deep down in his loins for years. Jimin’s fingers dance around his neck, feeling Jeongguk’s pulse accelerate frenetically, and Jimin smells the stench of iron percolating into the skin of his palm, watches it seep into Jeongguk’s clothes, feels it invade his sinuses and flood his nerves, like a hit of dopamine.

Jimin suddenly pulls back, pupils dilated, vision hazy. He gasps, taking in Jeongguk’s throat, now coated in a sheen of maroon that continues to drip from the thin, horizontal slice.

“Shit. Let me – get the first aid kit.” Jimin whispers, almost like he’s afraid to interrupt the intimate silence that had tenuously held them together. Jeongguk is quiet, watching as Jimin pulls away, their hands interlinked as he parts, until the tips of their fingers are no longer in contact, and he turns, pacing somewhat frantically towards his bathroom.

Jimin insists on tending Jeongguk’s wound, dragging Jeongguk towards the sofa (though there’s no need – Jeongguk offers no resistance). He sits Jeongguk down first, propping himself close enough to be able to work comfortably within arm’s reach of the kit. Their jean-clad thighs touch as Jimin leans forward, a cotton swab doused in anti-septic held tightly between his small fingers.

“I’m so – sorry. This is going to hurt.” Jimin winces, looking meek and apologetic off to the side. Jeongguk says nothing, simply humming as he stares intently at Jimin’s lips. The other blushes, clearing his throat as he presses the swab into the incision. Jeongguk’s jaw doesn’t even tick. Jimin wipes away at the blood stains covering his neck.

“How are you not even flinching?” Jimin asks, if only to save face. He feels odd being so closely observed by Jeongguk. His lips are still tingling.

“My tats. I think I’m desensitized to surface level grazes.” Jimin hums, running his fingers along Jeongguk’s inked arm as he turns to pick out some antibiotic ointment from the kit. Jeongguk viscerally shivers, everything from his neck to his wrists prickling with goosebumps. Jimin eyes the reaction, stifling a laugh behind his palm.

“I’m not so sure about that.” Jimin remarks, a slight grin pulling at his plump lips. Jeongguk looks off to the side, cursing under his breath.

Jimin squirts some ointment onto a q-tip, steadying his hand as he rubs the cotton over the skin. The injury is slightly raised and pink around the edges, but the blood flow has ceased.

Jeongguk clears his throat, centering his focus back on Jimin.

“Was it okay?” He mumbles, gaze flickering between Jimin’s eyes. Jimin snorts, peeling off the sterilized packaging from a large bandage.

“I don’t think I’d be patching you up if I hated it.”

Jeongguk sighs, brows creasing imperceptibly. He licks his lips, eyes perusing across Jimin’s features as if trying to transpose the image permanently into his brain. “Do you think that maybe-“

Jimin’s phone pings suddenly, followed by a loud ringing. The device buzzes, vibrating against the glass top of the dinner table. Jimin excuses himself sheepishly, a rushed “hold that thought” spilling past his lips as he walks towards the kitchen, sock-clad feet barely making any noise against the carpeted floor.

He sends Jeongguk a flimsy smile before clicking open his messaging app. His chat with Chaewon has a green bubble with 4 unread texts. Jimin looks over his shoulder furtively, unsurprised to find Jeongguk staring at him intently, yet he startles nonetheless.

Chaewon [ 10:13 PM ] hey, ive just received a letter at my doorstep

Chaewon [ 10:13 PM ] i asked yoongi if it was from him but he said no

Chaewon [ 10:14 PM ] does this look familiar to you?

Chaewon [ 10:15 PM ] attachment🔗

Jimin clicks on the file, zooming in on its contents.

What do you think you’ll gain from doing this? A title? Recognition? Justice? I don’t think you’re aware of what you’re digging into, but I suggest you end your investigation now before it’s too late. I’ll forgive you this time.

Jimin texts back immediately, his hands shaking as he taps across the screen.

Jimin [ 10:16 PM ] ive received several too

Jeongguk, sensing Jimin’s sudden shift in demeanor, stands up and comes to tower behind him, his palms hovering awkwardly over Jimin’s shoulder before he ultimately decides against it.

“What is it?” Jeongguk asks, huffing and visibly agitated. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries to peek at Jimin’s phone.

“It’s Chaewon…” Jimin admits, somewhat enigmatically, and Jeongguk finds himself more intrigued by Jimin’s response than by the message itself.

Jimin feels like he can breathe easier, knowing for certain that it isn’t Jeongguk leaving behind the notes. There’s no way he could possibly be in two places at once. Unless Yoongi is lying and acting as Jeongguk’s extension. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would they recruit Chaewon, only to later throw her off the case?

Jimin decides to trust his instincts and confide in Jeongguk. He hands Jeongguk his phone, and the other looks slightly taken aback by the action, taking the device into his hands cautiously. He reads over the letter one, two, three times, his eyes scanning over the page from top to bottom as the creases along his forehead grow deeper and thicker.

“Let me see the ones you’ve been getting.”

Jimin hesitates, taking a second too long to accept the request, and it’s enough for Jeongguk to stalk forward, crowding Jimin into the side of the table. His eyes are dark, holding within them a severity Jimin has never seen. It terrifies him.

“I won’t repeat myself.” He mutters, meeting Jimin’s gaze head on. The smaller inhales sharply, pressing his palms against Jeongguk’s chest and pushing with all his strength. Jeongguk doesn’t budge.

“Okay - okay! Fine.” Jimin acquiesces, albeit reluctantly, making a show of his mouth thinning into a straight line, eyebrows furrowed.

When Jimin brings out a bag full of red envelopes, Jeongguk’s heart begins thumping erratically in his chest. He snatches the bag from Jimin’s possession, ignoring his protests as he starts reading the letters, one by one, his mind racing as his eyes flit across torn notebook pages, calligraphy messy and rushed, slightly smudged ink blotting some of the characters.

He feels faint, hands trembling as he scours every word, picking up on little details only someone like Jeongguk would know. The immature format, the clumsy presentation, the overzealous praises. There are even some phrases copied verbatim from Jeongguk’s old letters. He’d recognize his heart and feelings anywhere, even in the hands of another. He’s never experienced the same flourishing of emotions that he feels more Jimin in anyone else. His thoughts, even back in his hormonally-imbalanced pubescent brain, remain the same. They’ve merely evolved becoming more structured, more chemical, and perhaps - most concerning of all - less reversible.

Jeongguk’s vision turns red.

There’s only one person in the world besides Yoongi who knows about Jeongguk’s letters to Jimin in high school.

A maelstrom of loathing and rage takes over the tendrils of Jeongguk’s will. The urge to kill has never felt more palpable, like his palms have been endowed with the prerogative to take life as deemed necessary.

Jeongguk spares Jimin a glance out of the corner of his eye, watching as he shakes on the spot, his arms wrapping around himself protectively. Belatedly, Jeongguk wonders if Jimin is scared of him, if perhaps showing this side of himself will drive Jimin further away. This uncontrollable virus, the one that’s festered in his conscience for so many years – his thirst for vengeance – has it finally swallowed his desperate need to make Jimin belong to him? Observing the sickly sheen on sweat on Jimin’s pretty face, Jeongguk can’t bring himself to feel disappointed. He’s been growing to become this, to remove the blotch in both his and Jimin’s past once and for all. He gathers his belongings, stepping into his boots and lacing them up with a disproportionate amount of force.

Jeongguk scowls, upset that he’d lost control so easily, but incapable of reining it back in.

“I should go.” He states, voice dropped to a barely audible decibel.

With Jimin’s fear-stricken face burned into his retinas, Jeongguk vows to find Taehyung and bestow upon him an unimaginable, torturous round of suffering. This time, there won’t be any mercy.

Taehyung is as good as dead.

Chapter Text

present

Chaewon rereads the letter again, her mind hazy as she takes another sip of lukewarm beer – it’s her sixth bottle tonight. There’s something that’s rubbing her the wrong way about this letter, aside from the fact that it’s a promise of violence in written form delivered straight to her front door. Could it be the strange packaging? It’s a bright red envelope enclosing a college-ruled lined paper that looks as though it was torn freshly off a notebook, the edges jagged, messy. So unmistakenly different from the Taehyung she’s brought to life from all the evidence gathered against him. Someone as sophisticated and compulsively calculated as Taehyung wouldn’t deliver such sloppy work, much less by hand. It’s undeniable that there’s a message he’s trying to send out; perhaps, it’s not even meant for Chaewon, at all.

She stiffens, her gaze sweeping across her tiny, but comfortable apartment. Her home, her safe haven. Somehow, there’s a hollow that forms in her gut at the thought of this space being compromised. Her cute, little succulents that she forgets to water despite them not requiring much. The soft rug under her coffee table that sometimes functions as a makeshift bed on nights when she’s too tired to wash up before sleeping. Her guest room, now emptied of its human essence, which has become her passion project’s housing site. The idea of losing it all in a breathless gasp fills her with an incomprehensible emptiness, one she’s never even remotely experienced. She’d always thought of herself to be a minimalist, not caring much for the material or transient. Now, glancing at her worn out sofa, the single cracked linoleum tile on her flooring, it all seems to represent so much more, signs of life and humanity tucked into her corner of the world. Solely hers.

And someone outside of her trusted circle knows about it. Someone dangerous.

Her fingers twitch toward her phone. She opens her notes app, clicking over the bulleting format. A list borne solely out of panic appears across the screen, her fingers tapping away as she mumbles incoherently.

• make a copy of all files
• encrypt & send to backup drive
• print out hard copies - store with yoongi hoseok

Her thumb hovers; then, she types slower this time:

• leave a testament

The words stare back at her, making every pounding of her heart resound much deeper, leaving an impression on her flesh.

Chaewon pulls open her desk drawer, rifling past pens, receipts, old condom packets, until her fingers grasp the cold edge of her USB. She plugs it in with shaking hands.

She begins uploading everything. The recordings. The photos. The transcript from the psychiatric sessions. The surveillance images from Yonseop. The progress bar crawls forward, trudging in small increments with the contents’ weight bearing down on it.

Meanwhile, she opens a blank document. The blinking cursor seems to mock her, waiting for her to put her frantic, paranoid thoughts down onto the page. Challenging her to see if she’s bold enough to speak this version of the future into reality.

If anything happens to me, this is the cause. I entrust to you everything I know about the death of Kim Beomhan and its likely connection to Kim Taehyung.

Chaewon hesitates. Is it right to drag someone else into her messy affairs? What if she is putting their lives in danger, as well? She thinks about Hoseok, who is constantly putting his badge on the line to help Chaewon with her private ventures. Would it be ethical to jeopardize her dear friend because she couldn’t take no for an answer? Does that make her any different from the likes of Kim Taehyung?

The thought alone forces her to save the file, feeling morally obligated to be better than him. She had made a promise to herself not to allow Beomhan to become another forgotten folder archived in the precinct’s records closet, to not let people like Kim Taehyung move around through life without ever knowing the concept of consequences or accountability.

She prints everything out, leaving specific instructions written out onto the top of the documents. Her coffee is still lukewarm. She checks her watch; it’s only 11:37. She has enough time to drop this by the station and see to it that Hoseok receives it.

At the SMPA’s office, Chaewon is greeted kindly, but there’s something tight about the warmth of their smiles, like it only stretches for so long before it starts cracking at the corners. She can’t help but wonder, always paranoid, if the Kims have already been informed of Taehyung’s reappearance – if they’ve contacted the police and told them to keep it quiet. It would explain why they reacted so tautly to Chaewon’s presence, what with her being notoriously nosey.

At the front desk, Chaewon asks for Hoseok, setting down her briefcase and a piping hot cup of coffee onto the counter. The man at the reception booth, seemingly in his late thirties, eyes both the drink and Chaewon with impish curiosity. Eager to get into his good graces, Chaewon leans forward, curling an index finger towards herself in feigned intrigue. The man turns his head to look both ways, wary of snooping coworkers, before inching towards the reporter.

“Next time, I’ll make sure to bring a cup for the handsome receptionist.” She whispers coyly, winking as she pulls away and finds the man grinning profusely, a cocksure smile tugging at his lips as he reaches for the line that connects him to Hoseok’s desk.

“He should be there, ma’am. You’re free to go ahead.” Chaewon bows graciously, giggling into her hand when the receptionist slides her his number, scribbled messily on the back of one of the department’s business cards.

The façade quickly slips from her face as soon as she spots Hoseok’s slim figure, swaying to an inaudible beat while waiting for some papers to come out of his desk printer.

Chaewon exhales shakily, plastering on a smile, tapping his shoulder calmly. Hoseok turns abruptly, a confused pout on his lips, pulling his earbuds out of his ears. He practically beams when he sees Chaewon, leaning in to hug her side warmly before pulling at the chair tucked beneath the table and gesturing for her to sit. Chaewon declines reluctantly, can’t even look into his eyes when she admits she won’t be staying too long to chat.

“Hmm.” Hoseok mumbles, staring up and down Chaewon’s frame in silent contemplation as he taps on his chin. He points to the cup of coffee in Chaewon’s hand.

“That for me?” He grins, giggling even further when the reporter rushes to shove it onto his desk.

“Sorry, I just have a lot on my mind.” Chaewon replies, finally being able to meet Hoseok’s gaze after saying something truthful. The cop hums, eyeing the briefcase laying against one of the legs of the chair.

“Does it have anything to do with that?” He asks, jerking his head towards the briefcase. Chaewon sighs, nodding slowly as she bends over to pick it up.

She suddenly looks gravely ill, a white cast shading her skin sickly pale. “Hoseok, I need you to follow the instructions that I’ve left you here.” He nods, barely looking at her in favor of playing with the locks on the hinges. Chaewon places her hand on his wandering fingers, forcing him to focus back on her.

“Please, don’t let this out of your sight.” She glances quickly across the precinct through her peripherals, ensuring there aren’t any stragglers eavesdropping. “And don’t open it when there’s people around.”

Hoseok quirks an eyebrow, noticing the obvious shift in her demeanor. “Hey, is there something I should know about? You’re kinda scaring me, Chae.”

She picks up her belongings, clutching her shoulder bag under her bicep. “Everything you need to know is there. Just –“ Chaewon frowns, the movement tugging at her bottom lip in a way that makes it seem as though she’s about to sob. “- just be careful. Please.”

Chaewon turns on her heels and departs without another word, blinking away the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She pretends not to hear Hoseok shouting at her in the background, ignores the pointed stares from his coworkers, and completely avoids the flirty receptionist who tries to flag her down on her way out.

-

Seokjin receives a message from Taehyung.

He feels his pulse beating through his skull as he reads it over and over again, fingers clenching around his phone.

Taehyung [ 6:43 PM ] i need you to do something for me. check dad’s study for classified documents.

Seokjin leaves the message on read, his mind reeling as his feet subconsciously start directing him towards their father’s office. There’s a warmth that creeps slowly into his heart at the thought that his brother confided in him – for once, it felt like he’d earned a piece of Taehyung’s trust.

Jeonghan’s study. It had been their playground when they were kids before his father locked them out for good. Seokjin was too naïve to understand it back then, but it was probably around the time his father had started veering into murkier waters.

Seokjin reaches the dark, mahogany doors, breathing in deeply as he punches in the PIN on the electronic padlock. 1-2-1-2. Both he and Taehyung had been born in December. Jeonghan had never changed it, even after so many-

The padlock flickers red, a bold ERROR warning flashing across the screen before the PIN pad resets. Seokjin’s temples thrum, his head spinning as he re-enters the PIN, pressing on each digit one by one. Just before he presses ENTER, a honey golden hand curls around his wrist.

Namjoon’s scent registers before he appears in Seokjin’s peripherals. His aftershave lotion is strong, and Seokjin instinctually takes a step back, already feeling heady from his presence alone.

His buzzcut has grown out a bit, an unnecessary thought that lingers in the back of Seokjin’s mind as he watches the other take his place in front of the padlock, the fabric of his leather jacket stretching taut over his broad back as he leans forward to punch in a code.

“How would you-“ Seokjin starts, glancing over his shoulder in disbelief until the padlock glows green, the ACCESS GRANTED burning into Seokjin’s retinas as he stares at the back of Namjoon’s head.

“Jeonghan changed the code a while ago.” Namjoon comments flatly, pushing open the doors of the study. He turns to look back at Seokjin, the other stuck looking down at the padlock as though it has gravely betrayed him. “What are we looking for?” Namjoon asks, rounding Jeonghan’s desk with latex gloves pulled tight around his hands. Seokjin hadn’t even noticed when he’d put them on.

“We?” Seokjin inquires, eyebrows furrowed.

Namjoon doesn’t even bother looking at him. “You got Taehyung’s message, didn’t you?”

Seokjin huffs out a quiet laugh under his breath, amused that he’d been foolish enough to think anyone in his family took him seriously. It stung, but Namjoon tossed him a pair of gloves, and his mind immediately recentered on the task at hand.

“He keeps most of his confidential documents in plain sight, just disguised well.” Seokjin mutters, remembering how his father had suddenly remodeled the study once solely to include furnishings that served no purpose other than to hide valuables. He looks behind random accessories that littered Jeonghan’s study – potted plants, coat hangers, abstract murals, decorations that didn’t exactly fit the aesthetic of a white-collar criminal with no time to spare.

Namjoon searches through the white leopard print couch that spread across the room horizontally, digging through every crevice. The coffee table that stands directly parallel to it holds an ashtray and two drink coasters. Namjoon accidentally almost tips it over in his haste, but Seokjin is quick to balance it, forearms barring the two items from toppling over.

Seokjin suddenly pauses, sniffing the room quietly. He taps Namjoon’s shoulder.

“Do you smell anything?” He asks, looking around the room curiously.

Namjoon stops what he’s doing as he’s crouched on the floor, checking under the sofa. His nostrils flare as he takes a long sniff, shaking his head before turning back to the floor.

“Exactly.” Seokjin comments, staring at the ashtray. “Doesn’t smell like nicotine.”

He grabs the metal container, examining it from different angles. It’s totally empty, and there are no signs of the silver darkening from being rubbed down. “Doesn’t smell like cleaner, either.” Seokjin notes, running his thumb along the ashtray and feeling along a thin seam. He twists it around, smiling triumphantly when the top part starts unscrewing off.

There’s a hard drive inside.

“Found something.” Seokjin says, pulling out his tablet from his front jacket pocket to plug in the drive. Namjoon straightens out from where he’s still leaning on the floor, shooting Seokjin a quick thumbs up as he comes to peer over his shoulder. Seokjin’s smooth black fringe falls over his eyes as he rushes to hide the blush of elation that colors his cheeks.

He clicks on the drive’s pop-up, scrolling through its contents. It’s filled with over a thousand documents, all smaller than 100,000 kilobytes.

Namjoon frowns, scratching the back of his head. “Shit, where’s Taehyung when you need him?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, dragging the cursor towards the search bar. “We don’t need him.” He mutters under his breath, typing in the word confidential.

Namjoon scoffs as the computer loads up the content, scanning through thousands of files. “It can’t be that easy-“

Soon enough, the computer has filtered through the documents, leaving only a dozen files that match his search criteria.

Seokjin points at the file sizes. They’re all well over 30 megabytes.

“He probably just loaded the drive with a bunch of clutter to hide whatever’s important.”

Namjoon huffs, and it’s the first time Seokjin’s seen him look so impressed.

He double-clicks on one of the files, waiting for it’s contents to appear on the screen. What stares back at them surprises them equally.

It’s a look-up on a young woman. She doesn’t look a day over 25, and the short bio listed next to her profile picture confirms their theory.

“Born 1974; blood type, O positive; marital status, single,” Seokjin glances over his shoulder to find Namjoon’s gaze, his forehead creasing in puzzlement. “What is this for?”

Namjoon takes the tablet into his hands, clumsily clicking over every single file that had been pulled up. They pop open over different corners of the screen before being obscured by the next. Still, the headshots that poke over the edges of each file remain consistent throughout every file.

“Who are these women?” Namjoon asks, reading through the briefings at the front of the page.

One of them flashes along the top left corner of the tablet, and it catches Seokjin’s eye.

“Wait! I recognize her.” Seokjin scans the file, the words dying in his throat before he’s able to say anything else.

Jeon Haerin. Born 1975; Blood type, AB positive; Marital status, married.

“Who is she?” Namjoon prods, scrolling down to skim through the rest of the file’s contents.

Seokjin gulps, swallowing around a bitter taste that suddenly pools in his mouth. “She was my nanny. When I was really young.”

Namjoon frowns. “Well, I guess it makes sense to run extensive background checks on a stranger you’re letting into your home.” He rubs his chin, eyes looking up at the roof, like he’s unconvinced.

Seokjin doesn’t buy it, either. “Why keep these hidden, though? There’s nothing suspicious about screening a potential hire to take care of your kids in your home.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen when he scrolls down to the final page of the report.

“What the fuck.” He mutters around a gasp.

Seokjin tilts the screen towards himself, reading the contents. What he finds makes his heart drop, hands paralyzing around the tablet.

Combined Paternity Index: 830,244,467

Probability of Paternity: 99.999998%

The alleged father is not excluded as the biological father of the tested child.

-

1995.03

Seokjin loves seeing eomma smile. She is the prettiest when she smiles! He loves seeing appa smile, too. Seokjin wants to look just like him when he grows up.

He also loves seeing Haerin smile. Haerin comes in five times a week to take of Seokjin when eomma is busy getting her hair done, and appa is working. Haerin is so nice – pretty, too!

He once heard eomma say Haerin is too pretty and young to be working such a menial job, but Seokjin didn’t understand what that meant. He’d seen the girl smile sadly, her cheeks turning bright red. He’d seen his father glance at her out of the corner of his eye, a little more serious.

Seokjin taps the back of Haerin’s hand just as she’s about to leave.

“Haerin, I like you so much! Even if your job is me-meanal!” Seokjin grins, eyes scrunching under his round cheeks. Haerin gives him a watery smile, crouching on her knees to give him a big hug.

Sometimes, Seokjin sees appa give Haerin a big hug, his hands wrapping tightly around her waist. He’s seen appa do that to eomma, and he’s glad that adults give each other big hugs, too!

One day, Seokjin feels a bit tired, rubbing his eyes with balled up fists. His eomma was already sleeping – she’s always a bit tired lately. Seokjin notices the dark bags under her eyes, but he still thinks she’s the most beautiful ever!

He wanders quietly around the halls of their mansion, his sock-clad feet pacing around aimlessly. He’s starting to feel a bit sad, tears stinging in his eyes because he can’t find Haerin or appa. He’d come home from his work trip today, but he hadn’t stepped outside of his study since he’d arrived from the airport.

He hears a noise suddenly – something that sounds like laughter – coming from the bathroom. Seokjin frowns. He’s never heard anyone laughing in the bathroom, except when eomma runs him a bath, filling the tub with bubbles until Seokjin is floating in a mountain of them.

Seokjin peaks through the slit of the door – Haerin had taught him once that bathrooms are a private place and that he shouldn’t open the doors without permission. He sighs, a bit relieved, that whoever is inside had forgotten to close it.

His eyes widen a bit as he focuses on the two people sitting in the tub. There aren’t any bubbles in the water, but they’re still giggling a lot. He sees his father’s sturdy back and Haerin sitting in front of him, her arms wrapped around his neck. His father’s hands are grabbing the two circles on her chest, and Seokjin finds himself confused. He’s never seen his father do that to his mother. The only time he ever saw eomma’s two circles was when she would feed him as a baby. But he’s 4 now! Eomma doesn’t feed him like that anymore. His brain is searching for answers, trying to understand what he’s seeing. Is Haerin feeding appa?

Weeks later, eomma sits down with Seokjin, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. She says he’s going to have a little brother. Seokjin lights up, thinking this is the perfect time to ask his eomma about who will feed his brother.

“Will Haerin feed him, or will you feed him, eomma?” His big eyes stare up at his mother in question. Eomma gasps, frowning as her eyebrows furrow.

“What are you talking about, dear?” She asks, but her hands are suddenly pressing down harder on his shoulders. Seokjin blinks, feeling a bit scared. Did he say something wrong?

“I saw Haerin feeding appa with her two circles,” he points at his mother’s chest, “so is she going to feed my brother, too?”

Eomma’s eyes are now red and watery. She looks like she’s about to cry, but the way her hands turn white where they’re holding his shoulders, Seokjin can tell she’s angry.

“E-eomma?” He says weakly, sad that he’s upset her. He really didn’t mean to!

A few days later, when Seokjin watches Haerin leave the house, tears running down her face and her body looking fuller, he sees eomma hit appa across the face. He doesn’t say a word, stepping back into the house while eomma waits for Haerin to disappear.

Seokjin doesn’t see her ever again.

Months later, after Seokjin’s birthday, eomma finally introduces him to his little brother – Taehyung, the name his father had chosen for him.

Seokjin doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen eomma smile. He doesn’t remember the last time appa smiled, either. They don’t give each other big hugs anymore. He hears them screaming a lot, locked behind the wooden doors of his father’s study. Seokjin peers at his little Taehyungie, his wide eyes and the soft tufts of hair on his head. He’s so cute. He thinks he’d rather make silly faces at his brother than listen to his parents yell.

Shockingly, both eomma and appa seem to want nothing to do with him. They hire another nanny, Suran – a stocky lady in her 40s with two big circles that squeeze the breath out of Seokjin’s little lungs every time she hugs him.

A few weeks later, she leaves the house, too. Seokjin doesn’t understand what happened. When he’s seven, he loses count of the nannies he’s had. He can count up to 100 now, but he figures it can’t be that many.

Taehyung is two, and eomma doesn’t feed him. She doesn’t cook for Seokjin, either; instead, she leaves all domestic and maternal duties to their nanny – the one that’ll only be staying for a week or so before a fresh face replaces her.

Appa is never home now; his work trips, which used to only span a few days, lately stretch anywhere from three weeks to three months; he doesn’t offer any explanations. He misses Seokjin’s birthday and, subsequently, Taehyung’s. His mother doesn’t bother celebrating either.

By the time Seokjin is ten, he starts calling his parents by their names. They don’t deserve any special titles.

-

present

There’s a look in Namjoon’s eyes that Seokjin can’t decipher. There’s something about him that always seems off. It’s what attracted him to Namjoon in the first place.

Seokjin takes pictures of the documents, sending them over to Taehyung before pocketing his phone. Namjoon is busy putting the study back together, erasing all traces of their search.

Their work here is done, and Namjoon’s already on his way out. Seokjin stands in the study, shooting a brief glance at Namjoon’s back before he disappears past the corner.

-

Chaewon takes a seat by one of the stools furthest from the entrance. It’s still midday, and the light peeking through the hinges of the bar doors are blinding enough to warrant the beginning stages of a minor headache - paired with the soju she’s nursing, the paranoia that leeches off of her usual confidence, and the cryptic message she’d received from her cousin, her brain feels as though it’s about to explode.

Just as Chaewon picks up her phone to check her notifications, a shadow comes to stand before her, obscuring any edges of light that had been drilling into her eyes.

Chaewon hums thoughtfully, acknowledging the tall figure before her. “Color me surprised. You made it on time for once.”

Namjoon quirks a lip, and one of his dimples makes an appearance before his lips flatten noncommittally.

Chaewon signals towards the bartender to double up on the soju glasses, to which Namjoon silently thanks her for.

“So, what was so urgent you insisted we meet for happy hour?” She ponders, arm resting on the countertop as she lays her cheek down on her knuckles. The bartender brings them a bottle of soju and an extra shot glass, and Namjoon readily unscrews the bottle, the glasses clinking as he pours himself a shot with little finesse.

Chaewon stares at him, eyebrows raised. Namjoon is never this messy.

He downs the bitter liquid in one gulp, tipping his head back impressively. Chaewon can only manage a weak cough, trying to get Namjoon to focus on what they agreed to meet for.

“Joon.” She quips, looking at him pointedly.

Namjoon seems lost in thought, swirling the last dregs of soju in his glass mindlessly.

“Tastes sweet.” He mutters, finally looking at her from his peripherals.

Chaewon sighs; she figured meeting with Namjoon would prove to be pointless. The last time they’d met up to chat, Namjoon basically told her not to do her job, and Chaewon had started questioning whether she knew her cousin at all.

“Chae.” He says suddenly, breaking the terse silence that had spread between them. “About that case…”

Chaewon nods encouragingly, scooting up in her seat. Namjoon runs his hands over his face, sighing exasperatedly. “I know more about Taehyung than I let on.”

She stills, looks at him incredulously. “What are you talking about? Did you really know him at the academy?”

Her cousin pours himself another shot of soju, downing the glass in less than a fraction of a minute. There’s a flush coloring his cheekbones, and a line of soju drips out of the corner of his mouth. So messy. Chaewon blinks, perturbed by his strange comportment.

“I actually know him really well.” He blabs, the words spilling out of his mouth as though totally unfiltered. Chaewon wonders if he had something to drink before meeting with her. She debates whether to leave the bottle in his possession or take another shot herself.

“We’re colleagues.” Namjoon shares, putting air quotes around the word like it’s a code for something else. Instinctively, Chaewon reaches for the notepad in her shoulder bag, eager to write every new revelation down, but she remembers how coldly Namjoon had responded to her putting on her detective hat last time they talked.

She decides she’ll leave the soju to Namjoon’s discretion – she wants to stay as sharp as possible, and she really needs Namjoon to fall apart.

“We, uh, work under his father.” The flicker of hesitation says volumes. She also notices he says under and not for Kim Jeonghan. Chaewon is wholly intrigued.

“What do you do for him?” Chaewon asks, paper thin. She pretends to take a sip of her shot glass, even though it’s been empty for the past five minutes.

Namjoon laughs – loudly, recklessly – the sound bubbling from his chest without a care in the world. The bartender wiping down the counter glances at him from his peripherals. Chaewon bites her lip, hoping Namjoon doesn’t cause a scene.

“What don’t we do for him?” He quips, smacking his teeth patronizingly. He reaches for the soju again, his hand failing to hook around the neck of the bottle on the first attempt. Chaewon scans the bar, hoping no one is close enough to witness her cousin’s disorderly behavior.

“He’s not a bad man, really.” There’s a wicked curl at the corner of his mouth. The disdain is palpable. “But his kids, fuck, they’re just rotten.” Namjoon’s takes a small sip of the soju this time, staring down at the cup. He’s contemplating something, eyebrows furrowed deeply. “All three of them – so fucking rotten.”

Chaewon’s head spins. Three kids? She’s absolutely certain when she was investigating into their family that Seokjin was the eldest, and Taehyung was the youngest.

“Three?” She presses, hoping not to sound too insistent. She’ll try to tug on the rotten angle a little later down the line. The bottle of soju isn’t even halfway empty yet.

Namjoon snickers, running a hand through his bleached buzzcut. “How did Taehyung even find out about that? I swear, that little motherfucker…”

Chaewon stares blankly. “What exactly did you want to tell me? I… don’t understand what you’re getting at.” The bartender shoots a quizzical glance their way.

Namjoon runs his fingers over the rim of his glass. Counter-clockwise. Then clockwise.

“Jeon Jeongguk. Look into him.” There’s a bitter expression on his face.

Chaewon stills, her body paralyzing as the words sink in. She feels her heart battering in her chest, lungs decompressing slowly. Namjoon peers at her over the neck of the bottle, foregoing the intermediate steps and drinking straight from it.

He takes a swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seems like you know him already.” Namjoon’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he leans back, slipping it out. There’s a notification from an unregistered contact. The buzz doubling his vision and making his ears ring intensified for a split second before it dulls to an irritating thrum.

Unregistered [ 4:34 PM ] fraternizing with the enemy, Namjoon?

Unregistered [ 4:35 PM ] what would Jeonghan say if he knew about this?

Namjoon shots up from the stool, the wood falling to the ground with a loud clatter. Several clients turn to look towards the scene in shock, and Chaewon rushes to grab Namjoon’s wrist.

“Hey,” she whispers, leaning into him. She doesn’t miss how Namjoon flinches viscerally, his head whipping left and right for invisible eyes, “What’s going on?”

Namjoon slams a few bills on the counter and storms out of the bar, leaving Chaewon feeling more bewildered than ever.

She bows towards the owner profusely, her brain battering against her skull and the alcohol she’d just ingested climbing up her esophagus. Stumbling out of the bar, the air feels strangely sticky against her skin.

She calls out for her cousin, her voice coming out scratchy as it lilts weakly in the air.

“Namjoon!” She yells, legs wobbling on the gum-tacked sidewalk. None of what Namjoon had said really made sense, and the puzzle she’d started fitting together in her mind feels like it’s coming apart.

She pulls up Hoseok’s chat, desperate to tell him her new findings. There’s a shiver wracking up her spine. She feels hot puffs of breath spreading over her nape, looks over her shoulder and finds nobody. Fuck. Had someone put something in their drinks? It would explain why Namjoon was so jittery.

She rubs her temple with the heel of her palm. The paranoia that has been culminating since she’d received that letter has sharpened into something jagged. She swears she can feel eyes on her from every direction, gazes pointed and bordering on violent - the end of the street, the reflective windows, the dark alleys where the sunlight doesn’t reach.

She clutches her bag tighter and starts walking, briefly glancing down at her phone once in a while to schedule a text message for Hoseok. The streets are not as busy as she’d expected at this hour, the sounds of traffic thinning into one low, throbbing hum. Briefly, she wonders if she should call the police directly. Something’s not right.

That moment of hesitation costs her.

A hand clamps down over her mouth.

Chaewon screams, the sound muffled by the glove covering the bottom half of her face. Her body collides with a tall figure as she struggles to set herself free from his iron-tight hold. The figure drags her back before she can comprehend what’s happening. She tries to turn and jab at the man’s abdomen, but he snatches her wrist, twisting it at an unnatural angle until she cries in pain, tears pooling around her eyes.

“Quiet,” he breathes, voice low, steady, indifferent.

Chaewon glances at her attacker’s arms, now exposed due to the sleeves of his sweater rucking up during the altercation. There are cigarette burn scars littering the expanse of his elbows, disappearing beneath the fabric around his biceps.

Her eyes widen, turning in the man’s grasp as much as possible to identify the perpetrator. The hood falls back just enough for her to see his face. The bottom half of his face is covered by a black mask, but the uneven set of his eyes, thick eyebrows, and the mole right on his lower eyelid are enough to put a name to the face. She’d memorized every contour, would recognize him anywhere in a heartbeat.

Kim Taehyung.

Her pulse surges like a jackhammer, but her body betrays her – shaking, utterly petrified.

He drags down an alley where the sunlight thins and disappears. The stench of rotting garbage and musty rainwater clogs the air. Chaewon thrashes once, twice, nails raking across his forearm as her bag slips from her shoulder and hitting the damp ground with a dull thud.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch. The muscles around his eyes contort insidiously, turning into an expression too macabre to be human.

“I warned Namjoon, and he fled like a rat.” Taehyung scoffs, his thighs clenching around Chaewon’s.

At the sound of her cousin’s name, Chaewon stills for half a second - just enough for Taehyung to slam her into the wall, her head cracking against the bricks. The world tilts violently, and her knees buckle.

Taehyung leans in close, his breath ghosting over her ear. “He was always trying to one up me,” he laughs, horribly quiet, “always trying to take my father away from me.”

His hand curls around her throat, thumb pressing just under her jawline. “What kind of friend does that!?” He says, mouth thinning into a frustrated sneer. Chaewon’s eyes fill with horror. She feels urine dripping down the legs of her jeans.

“It’s a good thing I never liked that motherfucker, anyway.” He grins, manically, as he tightens his grip around her throat, enjoying the frantic pulse of her artery against his palm.

“I never liked ANY OF THEM.” He yells, the veins in his neck bulging beneath his skin. The anger has started to bleed into his demeanor. Gone is the apathetic trouble child. Chaewon stares at him, terrorized by the red tinge that surrounds his dilated pupils, the erratic, illogical patterns of speech.

She claws at his arm, a last-ditch attempt as her vision starts dimming around the edges. The alley spins, narrowing into a single pinprick of light above her.

For the first time since she started this case, she feels certainty - not of the truth, but of the end.

And then Taehyung squeezes. Her skin blooms purple.

Chaewon’s body falls with a thud, a lifeless heap beside slovenly, piss stained walls and abandoned, rotten furniture.