Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We need more money, goddamn it. We’re breaking our backs in those delivery jobs and still end up without a penny left to spend on our own at the end. Why the hell is this city so fucking expensive?”

Namjoon dropped into his rickety chair with a heavy thud and dragged his hands down his face until his eyes stung.

“Wrong,” Jungkook corrected flatly, not bothering to look up as he flipped a page of the manga sprawled open in front of him. He was lying stomach-down on the bed, legs lazily kicking in the air. “You just blow it all on your ‘equipment’ for those dumb rap battles. And by equipment, I mean overpriced clothes and—”

“They’re necessary, JK,” Namjoon snapped, cutting him off before the rant could gather steam. His voice rose, sharp and defensive. “How many times do I have to explain this? You can’t build a rapper’s reputation without a signature look. Think of Eminem and his bleached hair. The clothes matter, they’re how I express myself!”

Jungkook finally glanced up, unimpressed, the corner of his lip twitching. “Whatever. Then stop bitching about being broke.” He turned the page again with deliberate slowness, eyebrows arched in silent challenge.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, forcing down his annoyance. Then he said quieter: “Speaking of clothes… there’s another battle tonight. I need to figure out an outfit. You helping me or what?”

He already knew the answer. Jungkook lived for fashion. His style screamed rebellion. He had his ears lined with piercings, a vertical and a side labret that caught everyone’s attention when he talked, an eyebrow piercing slightly hidden beneath his jetblack hair that had red strands and nails with chopped dark polish on them. A half-finished tattoo wound down his left arm, stark against his pale skin, the same tattoo that got him thrown out of his house at sixteen and his closet was bursting with thrifted chaos. A maximalist to the bone.

Namjoon still remembered the first night they met: Jungkook slumped on a street corner, eyes empty under the neon glow of a convenience store sign. His hood was pulled low and he looked more lost than dangerous. It was just a couple of days after he was thrown out.

And like the saint Namjoon was, he had asked Jungkook if he was lost or something. He didn’t expect the kid to admit that he was homeless, the sudden guilt hit him hard back then. 

Then, one thing led to another and now, many months later, they shared this cramped, peeling-paint room on the edge of the gutters. Just a few blocks away from where the skyscrapers of Seoul glittered like another universe and the filthy rich residents of Seoul lived.

“As if I’ve ever said no to that question,” Jungkook said at last, snapping his manga shut. In one smooth motion, he swung off the bed, his piercings glinting under the dim light of the room.

Namjoon’s lips curved into a small smile. He tossed his pen onto the battered notebook in front of him, the sound barely noticeable because of the music playing in the background from Namjoon‘s precious record player.

“Alright then,” Namjoon said, standing up from his chair that creaked from the sudden vanished weight. “What do you think? Leather jacket or the bomber maybe?”

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes flicking to the closet wedged against the far wall. The thing looked like it might collapse under the weight of all the clothes stuffed inside. “Neither,” he said, walking over and yanking the door open. A stack of shirts tumbled out instantly. He kicked them aside without a glance. “You wore the bomber last week, and the leather makes you look like you’re trying way too hard.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “Trying too hard? That’s the point. You think people will remember me when I just blend in?”

“They remember you when you don’t look like a tryhard,” Jungkook shot back, fishing out a distressed black knit sweater and a deep red shirt with visible frayed edges. He tossed it at Namjoon. “This. With the chains. Simple. Sharp. No bullshit.”

Namjoon caught it against his chest, feeling the rough fabric between his fingers. “You sound like my manager.”

Jungkook smirked, crouching down to sort through a pile of belts. “Better than sounding like your broke-ass conscience.” He found one, thick and studded with a heavy silver buckle, and held it up like a trophy. “This pulls it together.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, only broken by the muffled hum of traffic seeping through the cracked window. Namjoon studied Jungkook. 

The piercings catching the weak light, the sharp focus in his eyes, how he moved like he belonged anywhere but here. He wondered, not for the first time, what paths Jungkook might’ve taken if his parents hadn’t slammed the door in his face.

“You know,” Namjoon said carefully, almost testing the words, “you’d kill it out there too. Stage, spotlight, the whole thing. People would eat you up.”

Jungkook froze, his back still half-turned as he fiddled with a pile of rings on the nightstand. His shoulders tensed, and for a second, Namjoon thought he’d stepped too far.

Then Jungkook chuckled, low and dismissive. “Nah. I’m not the frontman type. I make sure you don’t look like a damn fool, that’s my favorite job.” He slipped a ring onto his finger, twisting it into place. “Besides… I don’t need strangers screaming my name to know who I am.”

Namjoon smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Cocky bastard.”

“Confident,” Jungkook corrected, tossing him the belt. “Now get dressed. You’ve got a battle to win.”

Namjoon pushed himself up from the chair, the weight of the night pressing down but also charging him with energy. He pulled the shirt over his head first, then the sweater. The fabric clung to his skin and he fastened the belt. Jungkook stepped back, eyes narrowing as he studied the fit like an artist judging his canvas.

“Not bad,” Jungkook said finally, voice softening just enough to make it sound almost like a compliment. “You might actually look like someone worth betting on tonight.”

Outside, the city was already coming alive. The throb of bass from a club down the block, laughter echoing in alleyways, tires screeching on wet asphalt. Somewhere out there, under flickering streetlights and the smell of smoke, a crowd was waiting.

Namjoon rolled his shoulders, ready. “Then let’s go make sure they remember my name.”

-

Seokjin tapped his fingers against the window sill in an absent rhythm, his cheek pressed into his palm until his wrist began to ache from the weight. The lights of Seoul glittered below him, sharp and cold, but all he felt was the slow gnaw of boredom eating him alive inside this far-too-expensive apartment in the heart of the city.

His parents were out of town for the night, leaving him with an empty penthouse and endless opportunities on how to spend his evening however he wanted.

The problem? Freedom meant nothing when you had no idea what to do with it.

He briefly thought of calling Taehyung before remembering that Tae was busy tonight. Of course he was. Seokjin let out a quiet sigh, his gaze drifting lazily across his room.

A PlayStation gathering dust. A massive flat screen that could make no movie less predictable. A billiard table, a ping-pong table… all just extravagant distractions, each one lifeless without someone else to share it with.

His eyes fell to the magazines stacked in neat towers on the coffee table. Vogue, GQ, Dazed, Bazaar. Their glossy covers caught the lamplight, and despite himself, he smiled.

Seokjin had a deep love for photography and modeling. That was where his heart lived. 

Sure, he had modeled once or twice but no, he loved to do the work behind the camera. Giving directions, choosing the angle, the composition and shaping the moment into something worth keeping. He loved coaxing expressions out of people, guiding them with gestures until the perfect frame clicked into place. It was his secret obsession, his only real passion.

No one really knew about his hobby though, his only hobby. Well, except Tae. He even modeled for him sometimes. The pictures were great, some of them had made it onto Taehyung‘s Instagram, 

The feedback in the comments was incredible. Almost everyone wanted to know who was behind the camera, but unfortunately, no one could know.

If his parents discovered their son wasting time on something as “pointless” as photography, it would be over.

He pushed himself away from the window and crossed the room, flipping open one of the magazines. His fingers stilled on a spread of an international model posed in front of a wall exploding with graffiti. It was bold, messy and alive. At least, that’s how it looked to Seokjin.

A spark lit in his chest. He closed the magazine with a soft snap, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. Crossing to the shelf, he reached for the safe where his most precious possession was kept. His camera. His secret.

Lately, he’d been chasing contrast. Subjects and scenes so far from his manicured life that they almost felt forbidden. He craved it. The rawness, the grit, the pulse of something real.

And tonight, he decided, he would find it. Somewhere in this city, there had to be a wall that screamed his name. He’d track it down, frame it in his lens, and for a moment, live in the life he ached for.

Seokjin slipped the camera strap over his shoulder, the familiar weight grounding him. His pulse quickened, not from fear but from the anticipation that always came with breaking out of the golden cage his parents had built around him. He grabbed the most casual looking hoodie he owned, it was black and oversized and pulled the hood low to hide his face. No chauffeur, no carefully planned outing, no glittering circles of wealth tonight. Just him, the city, and the lens.

The elevator ride down felt endless, each floor a reminder of how far he lived from the ground. From reality. When the doors finally slid open, he stepped into the cool air of Seoul’s night. 

The streets buzzed with energy. Neon signs were humming, the smell of street food was drifting in waves and the chatter of people moving around him fast and purposeful. It was a life he envied. Messy, unpolished and alive.

He wandered further from the bright main roads, letting his instinct guide him. The polished marble and glass of his neighborhood gave way to cracked concrete, dim alleys, and walls layered with posters, paint, and graffiti. His heart picked up the further he went from his apartment, an innocent smile gracing his lips

After what felt like hours of weaving through shadowed alleys and sidestepping drunk strangers who stumbled too close, there it was. Finally.

A stretch of wall, alive with color. Layers of names clashed against wild strokes of paint, symbols and shapes Seokjin didn’t fully understand but couldn’t look away from either. The chaos of it made his chest ache. It felt… freer than anything he’d known.

He raised his camera, his breath shallow. Click. The sound cut cleanly through the city’s hum. Click. Again. He shifted, crouching low, then arching back to catch the wall from new angles, chasing the way the light pooled across its rough surface. Each shutter was a heartbeat, each frame a new life. For the first time that day, he was alive.

But then, a silhouette slid into his frame. Seokjin froze, his finger hovering over the shutter. Through the viewfinder, he stared at the figure.

A boy. He had gelled, slightly spiked candy-pink hair that seemed to glow beneath the tunnel’s flickering lights. Yellow-tinted sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose despite the hour, catching the reflection of neon lights and graffiti. Chunky jewelry swung around his neck, hips and wrists, scattering fragments of light with every step.

But it wasn’t just the details. It was him. His presence was weirdly magnetic, sharp edges merging into something untouchable. His clothes were worn and street-beaten. Not curated or polished, yet on him, they didn’t look like poverty. They looked like art. Like the city had made him its canvas and claimed him as its creation.

Seokjin’s breath caught in his throat. He lowered the camera an inch, but couldn’t quite look away. It was like stumbling across a photograph so perfect you wanted it burned into your vision forever.

The boy stopped, turning slightly, as if he’d felt the weight of Seokjin’s stare. His lips quirked into something between amusement and challenge at the corner of his mouth.

“You lost, pretty boy?” His voice was smooth but carried an edge, the kind that dared you to answer wrong.

Seokjin’s fingers tightened on the camera, his knuckles turning white. He hadn’t expected to be noticed, let alone addressed.

“I… was just taking some pictures,” he said at last, forcing steadiness into his tone.

The boy stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The graffiti colors bled across his skin as he moved, making him look like he belonged to this place in a way Seokjin never could.

“Pictures, huh?” A small laugh escaped him, low and knowing. “People like you don’t come down here just for pictures.”

Seokjin’s heart thudded, but he forced himself not to retreat. For once, he didn’t want to.

„Leave it, Joon. We have places to be, remember.“ Jungkook said coolly, eyes fixed on his phone.

Seokjin only now noticed the boy walking just off to Joon‘s right.

He was almost just as exciting to look at. Metal was glinting from nearly every angle of his quite handsome face, his dark eyes peeking out from beneath messy black hair streaked with fading red highlights. 

The only disappointing thing was the absolute lack of color in comparison to the taller boy. He was devoid of color, swallowed by black from head to toe. Black hoodie, black boots, chipped black polish on his nails, eyeliner smudged around his eyes. If Joon was chaos in neon, this boy was night itself.

Seokjin’s throat went dry. They looked nothing alike, yet somehow, standing together, they mirrored one another. Two halves of a world Seokjin didn’t belong to but desperately wanted to photograph, to capture, to understand, to live in.

Namjoon’s smirk lingered for a beat longer before he finally clicked his tongue and turned away, shoulders rolling like he’d lost interest. “Whatever,” he muttered, his voice carrying in the tunnel. “Let’s go, JK. We’re gonna be late.“

Jungkook barely spared Seokjin a glance, shoving his phone into his pocket with one hand, the other pulling his hood lower over his face. “Told you, waste of time.” His tone was dismissive, as though Seokjin was no more than a passing blur on the street.

And just like that, they started walking away. Two silhouettes melting into the shadows of the tunnel and heading toward whatever world they belonged to.

Seokjin stood there frozen, the weight of his camera still warm in his hands, his pulse rattling in his throat and the walls forgotten. 

He should’ve left it there. He should’ve turned around, gone back to his sterile apartment with its too-clean walls and polished furniture.

But he didn’t.

Something in the way they moved… confident, unshaken, untouchable… pulled at him. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was like gravity. A force he couldn’t shake off. They looked like they lived the kind of life he’d only glimpsed in photographs and magazine spreads. Chaotic. Real. And free.

Before he realized it, his feet were carrying him forward. He slipped his camera strap tighter across his chest, hood shadowing his face, and trailed after them. Careful and distant, but close enough to keep them in sight.

Namjoon’s pink hair was impossible to lose, glowing like a beacon in the dark. Jungkook’s black figure kept pace beside him, silent but steady, like a shadow tethered to light.

Seokjin followed them through twisting alleys, past shuttered shops, into streets where neon signs buzzed faintly and the air thickened with bass from somewhere underground. He could hear fragments of laughter, snippets of shouted words, the city’s hidden rhythm pounding beneath the surface.

They stopped at a rusted metal door marked only by layers of spray paint. Namjoon pounded on it twice, then once more, a rhythm like a code. It swung open, spilling light and sound into the alley.

Seokjin’s heart hammered. He had no idea what he was walking into, only that he couldn’t turn back anymore.

He lingered in the shadows, chewing the inside of his cheek, the thud of the bass echoing in his bones. His breath came shallow and uncertain. Then, before he could second-guess himself further, he crept out of the space he had hidden in and reached for the door.

He took a deep breath while scanning his surroundings and when he spotted no one near him, he slammed his fist against the cold metal door the same way the other two men had.

Then, after a few seconds which felt like forever to Seokjin, the door opened. A rush of heat and noise swallowed him whole. After the door slammed shut behind him, he instantly felt sucked into another universe.

The air was thick. Humid with sweat, heavy with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap alcohol. Music pounded through the floor, a deep bass that vibrated in his chest and made his ribs feel like they were rattling. The space itself wasn’t large, but it was alive. Bodies pressed together, swaying, shouting and throwing hands in the air. The walls were coated in paint and layers of old posters, peeling at the edges, while a single row of flickering lights fought to cut through the haze.

Seokjin’s grip tightened on his camera, afraid to lose it. He hadn’t meant to bring it into something like this place. And now it hung heavy against his chest… but, it was the perfect excuse to be here. To take pictures.

Seokjin’s eyes darted across the room and then his throat tightened. Everyone in here belonged to this place. Every piece of them, the clothes, the posture, the way they moved. They were part of this pulse, this underground heartbeat of the city.

And Seokjin? He was an intruder.

Someone brushed past him hard, jostling his shoulder. Another laughed too loud nearby, the sound splitting in his ear. The bass was overwhelming, each beat pressing harder against his skin. He swallowed, forcing himself to stand his ground, eyes darting across the room with hectic.

Suddenly the neon lights went out. The sudden blackout swallowed the room in darkness, and Seokjin’s breath caught. For a split second, all he could hear was the pounding in his own chest, the restless shuffle of bodies and the bass cut short like the city itself had stopped breathing.

Then, the spotlight flared.

It cut through the haze, harsh and white, illuminating a small stage at the back of the club. A wave of noise erupted from the crowd: shouts, whistles, the stomp of feet demanding more.

Seokjin’s stomach twisted. His eyes strained against the glare, trying to make sense of what was happening.

The stage wasn’t large, nothing like the polished platforms he was used to seeing in glossy music shows on television. This one was little more than a raised floor, scuffed wood sticky from spilled drinks, wires snaking in the shadows. But the way the people screamed and surged forward, it felt sacred.

Then he saw them again.

Jungkook moved first, slipping onto the edge of the stage, posture casual but eyes sharp as he scanned the crowd like a silent sentinel. But it was the other boy, Joon, who truly commanded the room.

Namjoon stepped into the spotlight as if it belonged to him. 

His pink hair blazed under the light, his jewelry catching every angle of reflection like a mirror ball. He pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt and when his gaze swept over the crowd, the energy noticeably shifted. The shouting turned into chanting, the atmosphere into something electric.

Seokjin forgot to breathe.

This wasn’t the same boy he had followed through the alleys. This wasn’t just some reckless stranger with metal chunks on his skin. Under the light, with the crowd surging around him, Namjoon transformed. His stance, his presence… it was art. Alive, moving, and Seokjin’s fingers itched against the camera at his chest.

But for the first time in his life, he hesitated.

Did he dare?

Could he really pin this moment down in a frame? Or would it be like trying to trap lightning in glass, impossible, leaving him only with the memory and the burn?

Before he could decide, a voice boomed from the darkness, crackling through a microphone.

“Good evening, Seoul! Are you ready for tonight’s battle?”

The crowd erupted. A roar so violent it rattled the air. Seokjin stumbled back, clapping his hands over his ears, his chest vibrating with the sheer force of it.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” the voice shouted, hyped, feeding off the chaos. “Tonight’s contestants are well known. Let’s give it up for… Suga!”

The name tore through the room like a strike of lightning. A wave of whistles, stomps, and chants answered. Somewhere in the smoke, another figure stepped forward. He was shorter, his movements sharp and his presence was compact but burning, like a knife concealed in a pocket. His eyes gleamed as he lifted his mic, the crowd already chanting his name.

“And…” the announcer dragged the word out, milking it for tension, “our underground idol… RM!”

The club literally exploded. The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. Seokjin could’ve sworn his eardrums cracked right then and there, his ribs rattling as the crowd surged like a single organism, chanting RM’s name in one raw, unified voice.

Joon— no RM, stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a weight. The spotlight caught on his pink hair, on the chain at his neck, on the slow curl of a smirk that spread across his face. Then he turned, his head cockily thrown over his shoulder while flashing his teeth in a confident smirk and pointing down on himself with his thumbs. There were two words written on the back of his sweater in white, bold letters. 

RAP MONSTER

Seokjin forgot to breathe. He had never seen anyone command a room like that. Not a celebrity at an award show, not the polished idols on magazine covers. This was something else entirely. Unfiltered and untamed.

And then, without warning, the beat dropped.

The battle had begun.

RM stepped into it like the music had been waiting for him. His body moved with the rhythm. His shoulders loose, his jaw tight and the mic gripped firm in one hand. Then his voice cut through the bass, raw and commanding, threading syllables like blades through the air.

It wasn’t polished, wasn’t pretty. It was grit and gravel, sharp consonants voiced like sparks. Each word snapped in rhythm, rapid-fire, ricocheting off the walls. He rapped with his whole chest, with a kind of force that didn’t just land on ears. It hit people, rattled bones and shook lungs.

The crowd reacted instantly, hands flying up, heads bobbing, bodies moving with him. Every line was a punch, and with each one, they shouted back, feeding him their energy. But Namjoon didn’t need them… no, they needed him. 

Every glance, every gesture pulled them tighter into his orbit, until the whole room belonged to him alone.

His voice cracked the air open, his words spilling out like graffiti come alive, each verse layering over the beat the way paint layered over brick.

He flowed fast, then slowed, dragging out syllables like a knife across glass, letting the silence hang just long enough before he hit harder again. His presence was magnetic and dangerous, like he could bend the entire room to his rhythm…and the terrifying part was, he already had.

By the time he hit the end of his first verse, the crowd was a single voice, roaring his name.

“R! M! R! M!”

Seokjin’s chest ached. He wanted to capture it, frame it, keep it. But at the same time, some part of him whispered that no picture could hold this. That no photograph could ever do justice to the way Namjoon owned the room simply by existing inside of it.

It was lightning. And Seokjin was standing in the storm, wide open.

Then the beat flipped, it was sharper now, slicing through the smoke with a staccato snap. Suga stepped forward, his stance small but lethal, shoulders squared, chin tilted like he didn’t have to prove anything. Because his words would.

And then he unleashed them.

Where RM had been fire and thunder, Suga was ice and precision. His voice cut clean, low and steady, slipping between the beat instead of crashing over it. He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. His flow was slick, calculated, the kind that slipped under your skin before you realized it was there. Every line was perfection, every pause a smirk, daring the crowd to keep up.

People roared anyway, hands pumping, their cheers bouncing off the low ceiling. A group near the front screamed his name: Suga! Suga! Suga!, as he wove clever lines with the kind of calm confidence that felt untouchable.

Seokjin’s eyes darted between them, his pulse caught in the crossfire. It wasn’t just music, it was a duel. Each man claiming the space, twisting words into weapons, pulling the crowd into their orbit. And though Suga was brilliant, smooth, and sharp…

The room just belonged to RM.

By the time the beat cut and the mic dropped into silence, the crowd was vibrating with energy, torn between two gods. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the announcer threw up his hands.

“Alright, Seoul… you decide! Who takes it tonight?”

“Suga!” a section of the crowd shouted, stomping their feet, whistles cutting through the noise.

Then the announcer turned to the other side. “And for RM?”

The response was almost deafening. The walls shook with the sound. People screamed his name, fists in the air, the chant rolling like thunder.

“R! M! R! M! R! M!”

Seokjin covered his ears again, but the sound still drilled into him, vibrating in his chest until he thought it might crack him open.

The announcer grinned, pointing to the pink-haired boy on stage. “Your winner tonight—RM!”

Namjoon lifted his mic high, a victorious smirk tugging his lips, but instead of gloating, he turned to Suga. The two locked eyes for a split second, and then, with grins breaking across their faces, they clasped hands, pulling each other to bump their shoulders together. The crowd went wild again, this time with cheers of respect.

So they weren’t rivals but friends.

Seokjin blinked, stunned. He had expected anger or some kind of clash that would end with one walking away and the other humiliated. Instead, it was like watching two artists paint on the same wall, each stroke different but belonging together.

Then, the spotlight went out again and the hardcore club music reappeared along with the neon lights.

Seokjin was dizzy from what he just witnessed. Nowhere near could he have guessed that his night would have taken such a turn.

He slipped further into the crowd, his camera pressed tight against his chest, his head turning sharply at every flash of pink that caught his eye. He found him quickly enough. Namjoon was impossible to miss.

He and Jungkook had moved off the stage and now cut through the press of bodies with an ease that made Seokjin’s jaw drop. People leaned in to greet them, slapping Namjoon’s hand, shouting his name, trying to claim a sliver of his attention. Jungkook lingered close, half-listening, half-bored, his gaze flicking down to his phone between greetings.

They were seductive. Untouchable. And yet Seokjin followed anyway, threading himself through the shadows, never close enough to be noticed, but never far enough to lose sight of them.

He wanted to get closer. Just a step, maybe two, enough to hear the cadence of his voice without the buffer of bass and chatter. Enough to see if the intensity on stage lingered when the mic was gone.

He swallowed, nerves rattling his spine. One more step forward…

Then, a commotion broke out near the bar.

Shouts, the crash of glass, and suddenly the steam surged like a wave, shoving Seokjin sideways. Someone had picked a fight. Two men grappling, bottles smashing against the floor, liquid spilling sticky across the wood. Some people lunged into the mess and tried to pull the bodies apart, their voices raised in angry shouts.

Some laughed, others yelled, the energy turning volatile.

Seokjin stumbled, gripping his camera tight, nearly losing his footing as the crowd shoved him back and forth. By the time he righted himself, Namjoon’s pink hair had vanished into the blur of neon and smoke.

Panic flickered hot in his chest. He spun once, twice, searching desperately. But the aura he’d been following was gone.

Seokjin shoved his way out of the swell near the bar, his heart hammering and his eyes darting over the shifting crowd. Neon lights flickered, smoke curled thick in the air, faces blurred into one another. He turned and turned but,

Nothing.

He pushed deeper into the room, weaving through groups of strangers who laughed too loudly, argued too fiercely, bodies pressed together in ways he didn’t understand. He circled near the stage, ducked toward the back wall, scanned every corner with his camera strap digging into his shoulder like a punishment. Still nothing.

Namjoon was gone.

Seokjin’s throat tightened as he lingered by the edge of the dance floor, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He didn’t belong here. He had never belonged here. Every pair of eyes that flicked over him seemed to know it.

And the harder he searched, the clearer it became: he wasn’t going to find him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

The realization cut sharp. For a moment, it hollowed him out, leaving him standing still while the club spun madly around him. He wanted to hold onto the fire, to chase the force that had pulled him in like gravity. But all he had was thick smoke, slipping through his fingers.

Finally, with a breath that trembled in his chest, Seokjin turned back. He retraced his steps through the crowd, through the haze, back to the metal door. When it slammed shut behind him, the noise dulled into a muffled throb, and the cold night air of Seoul hit his face like a slap.

He walked the empty streets toward his apartment, camera heavy against him, mind reeling. He told himself it was pointless. That he’d been foolish to follow and naïve to think he could step into a world that simply wasn’t his.

But even as he crossed into the polished quiet of his building, the echoes of the night clung to him: the roar of the crowd, the clash of verses, and the image of a boy who had stood beneath the spotlight like he owned the earth.

And Seokjin knew, no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn’t be able to forget it.

-

Namjoon grabbed the sunglasses from his collar and placed it onto his nose again as the stage lights died and the music swallowed the club again. His skin was still buzzing, the roar of the crowd echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, smirking as he bumped shoulders with Jungkook while they slipped offstage.

Jungkook rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah, yeah. You didn’t completely embarrass yourself.” 

“Didn’t completely embarrass myself? ” Namjoon barked a laugh, running a hand through his sweat-damp pink hair. “Kook, admit it. I killed that shit.”

“Fine… you did,” Jungkook muttered, already fishing his phone out of his pocket, scrolling as they cut through the bodies pressing in around them. He didn’t need to say more. The way people slapped Namjoon’s back, shouted his name, and tried to tug him into conversations said it for him.

Namjoon was soaking it in, grinning, tossing nods and handshakes, until the sharp crack of glass splitting on the wooden floor cut through the bass.

The crowd shifted instantly, half of them craning to watch, the other half surging backward. Two guys were grappling near the bar, fists flying wild, curses ripping the air apart. Bottles smashed and liquid sprayed sticky across the floor.

Jungkook grabbed Namjoon’s sleeve, tugging hard. “We’re not staying for this.”

Namjoon glanced toward the chaos, jaw tightening, then gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Let’s go before security shuts the place down.”

They pushed through the restless tide of bodies, Jungkook leading, Namjoon following close behind. The music kept blaring, louder, like it could mask the sound of fists and shouting, but the tension in the air was sharp enough to cut skin.

By the time they reached the rusted metal door, Jungkook shoved it open with his shoulder, and the night air hit them like freedom. The door clanged shut behind them, muting the chaos into a low, distant roar.

Namjoon pulled in a breath, tilting his head back toward the stars barely visible over Seoul’s skyline. His grin came slow, satisfied. “Another win.”

Jungkook scoffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. “You’re addicted to the crowd, hyung. One day, it’s gonna eat you alive.”

Namjoon only smirked wider, the echo of the crowd still thrumming in his veins. “Maybe. But until then? It’s mine. Didn’t you hear them? They ate it up tonight.”

“They always eat it up,” Jungkook muttered, kicking at a stray bottle cap that skittered down the gutter. “But Joon, you should focus less on the noise and more on the cash. You spent the last of it on chains again, didn’t you?”

Namjoon sighed, not answering, which was as good as admitting it.

Jungkook clicked his tongue and pulled his hood tighter around his face in despair. “We need another delivery gig. Rent’s due soon.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Namjoon waved him off, though his jaw flexed. “Don’t kill the high just yet. Let me enjoy winning for a minute.”

Jungkook didn’t press further. They fell into step side by side, the silence between them not uncomfortable, just heavy with unsolved things.

Namjoon suddenly glanced over his shoulder at the club door, the muffled bass still thudding through it. Something tugged faintly at him, like he’d missed something back there, some detail just out of reach. But the feeling slipped away soon, swallowed by the chill of the night air.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, tilting his head toward the main street again. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

And together, they disappeared into the neon glow of Seoul, their laughter mixing with the hum of the city.

And by the time Seokjin was out of the club, Namjoon and Jungkook were long gone.

-

Seokjin didn’t sleep much that night.

The camera sat on the edge of his desk, lens cap still on, like it was mocking him. He had brought it all the way into that other world, but when it really mattered, he hadn’t raised it. He had nothing to show for the night but the burn in his chest and the echo of a name.

RM.

Rap Monster.

Joon

Every time Seokjin closed his eyes, he saw him: pink hair blazing under the spotlight, chains catching the light, verses spilling like fire. The way the crowd screamed his name, like he was something holy. The way he and Suga had clasped hands, laughter sharp and easy.

Seokjin pressed his palms into his eyes, groaning. He had spent his life drowning in comfort, in curated perfection and yet one night in that smoky, chaotic club had shaken him more than years of luxury ever had.

And he couldn’t let it go.

After endless tossing and turning he sat up. 3:16 am. He reached for his phone. Maybe he could find something that led him to the mysterious, picture perfect boy he stumbled across tonight. 

His heart picked up as he typed the name Rap Monster into the search bar. 

Nothing. No results. 

Seokjin stared at the screen, the empty search mocking him. It made no sense. Someone like that… how could the world not already have him captured in endless photographs?

Suddenly, a strange certainty overcame him, equal parts thrill and fear. 

If he was the first to stumble across someone so raw, so picture-perfect in his imperfection, then he would make sure the world got to see him.

Him, the candy pink haired boy with an aesthetic that was raw and unpolished, disturbing in its messiness and almost off-putting. But to Seokjin, it was beauty in its purest form.

And in his mind’s eye, Seokjin framed him. Again and again. Each movement, worth immortalizing. Each syllable spoken, worth capturing. Each breath drawn,worth preserving. He wanted it all. Framed, kept, and to be admired forever.

Namjoon might not be his creation but he’d portray him like he was. Seokjin would pretend Namjoon was his, only existing to be framed by him. Like a painter solely painting his muse. He‘d catch Namjoon in a way that made everyone feel the way Seokjin had when he saw him for the first time tonight.

In that quiet hour of the night, with the city asleep, Seokjin decided: Namjoon was his absolute perfect motive. 

And he wasn’t going to let him vanish.

Then he opened messages and tapped on the name all up at the top.

Come over tomorrow

 I‘ve got something to tell you

He hit send and then set the phone down. Lying back against the pillows, he closed his eyes, hoping sleep would finally claim him.

And if it did, he prayed it would be filled with dreams of the boy who had already carved himself into Seokjin’s mind. The boy with spiked hair, tinted sunglasses, and a grin that dared everyone to look closer.

-

The doorbell rang late in the morning, sharp against the silence of Seokjin’s apartment. He dragged himself out of bed, his hair mussed and his eyes shadowed from the restless night. He pulled the door open.

Taehyung stood there, dressed as effortlessly elegant as ever, a lopsided grin on his face. “You look like hell,” he said, stepping past Seokjin without waiting for an invitation.

“Good morning to you too,” Seokjin muttered under a yawn, closing the door.

Taehyung kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa, draping one arm over the backrest. His gaze flicked to the camera sitting on the desk, still untouched from the night before. 

“So,” he said, drawing out the word. “What’s so important you had to drag me here first thing in the morning?”

Seokjin lingered by the window for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure how to explain it without sounding insane. How could he put into words the way his chest had burned or the way that boy had filled the entire room just by existing?

Finally, he turned, crossing to the sofa and sitting down beside his best friend. “I saw someone last night.”

Taehyung arched a brow. “Oh? That bad, huh? You sound like you’re about to confess a crime.”

“I’m serious.” Seokjin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight. “He was… different. Nothing like the people we know. Absolutely nothing like us.”

Taehyung tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “Different how?”

Seokjin’s mind replayed the image: tanned skin and colorful hair lazing under the spotlight and the crowd roaring his name. His voice dropped. “He was… like art. Not polished nor clean. Just… raw. Messy. But perfect in a way I can’t explain. He had this presence… it was magnetic. Like the whole room belonged to him.”

Taehyung studied him quietly for a moment, lips quirking into the faintest smile. “You’ve got that look in your eye,” he said softly. “Like when you find a picture you won’t stop obsessing over or can’t stop staring at.”

Seokjin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look on his face apparently said enough.

Taehyung’s faint smile didn’t last though. His expression sobered as he leaned back into the sofa, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Jin… you know that could become dangerous, right?”

Seokjin frowned. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, his tone calm but firm. “People like that.., the ones who live near such clubs, those alleys… they’re not just performing for fun. They’re surviving. You don’t know what they’re mixed up in. Gangs, debts, fights, drugs… you don’t want to get caught in the middle of that.”

Seokjin’s chest tightened, but not from fear, more like defiance. “I don’t care about that. You didn’t see him, Tae. He was… he was something else. Like… like he was born for the stage. It wasn’t just the music and all, it was…” He trailed off, words failing him.

Taehyung shook his head, sighing. “That’s exactly my point. Guys like that pull people in. They shine, they burn hot, and everyone around them gets singed sooner or later. You think you’re different, but you’re not. You’re just another moth to the flame.”

Seokjin bristled, biting back a retort. But deep down, he knew Tae wasn’t wrong. It was reckless. It was dangerous. And yet… the thought of walking away, of letting Namjoon vanish into the noise of the city again, just like that, felt impossible.

“I just want to photograph him,” Seokjin muttered, almost defensively. “That’s all.”

Taehyung gave him a look, half disbelief and half worry. “Jin, I know you. It’s not ‘just’ anything when you get that look in your eyes. You’re already in too deep, and you’ve only seen him once.”

Silence stretched between them, the hum of the city outside filling the gap.

Seokjin clenched his hands together. “I know but, Tae I have to find him again.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. He just sat back, watching his best friend with an unease that words couldn’t soften.

Then, he rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Seokjin tilted his head, wary. “So you won’t help me?”

Tae’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, he didn’t answer and just stared at Seokjin like he was trying to memorize him, weighing whether it was better to hold him back or stand by his side. Finally, he groaned and slumped deeper into the sofa.

“Of course I’ll help you. You’d go charging into that world on your own if I didn’t, and then I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

Relief bloomed in Seokjin’s chest, though he tried not to show it too obviously. “So you’ll come with me?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, pointing a finger at him, eyes sharp. “But listen carefully, hyung. I‘m not doing this because I think it’s a good idea. I’m doing this because you’re my best friend, and if you’re determined to chase this… this guy, then I’d rather be there to drag your ass out if things go south.”

Seokjin couldn’t help it, he smiled. “Thank you, Tae.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Taehyung’s voice was flat, but his eyes softened in the way they always did when it came to Seokjin. “First thing we need to do is figure out where to even find him. You said the club last night was underground, right? Hidden. Then there has to be a trail. Flyers, graffiti tags, something.”

Seokjin’s pulse quickened. For the first time since the sleepless night, he felt like the ache in his chest had somewhere to go. A direction. A purpose.

Namjoon wasn’t going to vanish. Not if Seokjin had anything to do with it.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight leaked weakly through the thin curtains of their cramped apartment, turning the dust in the air into golden flecks. The room smelled faintly of instant noodles and sweat. It always did, no matter how often they cracked the window open.

Namjoon was slumped at the small kitchen table with a pen in his hand, scrawling lines into a battered notebook that was already crammed with half-finished verses. His pink hair stuck up in every direction, a reminder that he’d fallen into bed without bothering to shower after the battle. His chains were piled in a heap next to his bed, dull in the daylight and stripped of the magic they had held under the club lights last night.

Jungkook finally shuffled out of the bed, shirtless and his hair a tangled mess. He cracked open the fridge, frowning at the emptiness inside. “We’ve got nothing. Again.”

“Check the cupboard,” Namjoon muttered without looking up.

Jungkook swung the cupboard door open. A few lonely instant ramen packs stared back at him. He grabbed one, tossing it on the counter with a sigh. “We’re goddamn broke.”

Namjoon hummed, still scribbling, while he hoped that the words on the page could distract him enough from the gnawing in his stomach.

Jungkook leaned against the counter with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. “Hyung. We can’t keep living like this. Rap battles don’t pay the bills. You know that.”

Namjoon finally looked up, dark circles heavy under his eyes. “We’ll figure it out.”

“That’s what you said last month,” Jungkook snapped, voice sharper than he intended. “And the month before. I’m tired of scraping by while you blow everything we make on jewelry and clothes and—”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he shut the notebook, drumming his fingers against the cover. His gaze drifted to the window, to the sunlit streets below where people in clean clothes hurried past, heading to jobs and lives he couldn’t imagine himself in.

“I can’t stop now, Kook,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Last night, did you see them? The way they screamed? That—” he tapped his chest, hard, “—that’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. If we just keep pushing, one day, it won’t just be clubs. One day, everyone will know my name. And then I‘ll make sure you get to live the most luxurious life possible.”

Jungkook stared at him for a long moment, torn between frustration and understanding. Finally, he ripped open the ramen pack, muttering, “Dreams don’t pay rent.”

Namjoon didn’t respond. He just reached for his pen again, head bent low over the notebook, chasing the next verse as if his whole life depended on it.

And in a way, it did.

-

The city was buzzing by the time Seokjin and Taehyung hit the streets. Morning rush had spilled into evening calm, leaving the sidewalks dotted with teenagers hanging out, shopkeepers pulling shutters shut, and people going home from work.

It was a world Seokjin usually glided through without thinking. Glass storefronts, polished shops, the smell of BBQ restaurants spilling onto the pavement. But today, his eyes weren’t just sliding above it all. Today, they were hunting for cracks.

Graffiti tags. Flyers. Clues. Anything that could point him back to him.

Taehyung walked at his side, hands stuffed into his oversized jacket pockets, his head turning slowly as his eyes scanned the walls. “So let me get this straight,” he said, his voice even. “We’re looking for a pink-haired guy who calls himself Rap Monster, but no one online has heard of him?”

Seokjin nodded, lips pressed thin. “Exactly.”

“Hyung,” Taehyung muttered, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Seokjin said, but he didn’t stop walking. His camera bounced against his chest with every step, a reminder of the promise he’d made himself: Joon won’t vanish. Not if I can help it.

They turned down a narrower street, where the walls were no longer mostly glass but cracked concrete layered with spray paint. Bold letters, sprawling names, cryptic symbols. Seokjin slowed, his fingers brushing the wall as if the paint itself might speak.

Taehyung squinted at a cluster of overlapping tags. “These don’t mean anything at all.“ 

“They mean something to someone,” Seokjin said, almost under his breath.

Suddenly, a group of teenagers turned around the corner of the street. They were clustered together and had their hoods pulled up, with cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Laughter spilled from them, sharp and careless, as they shoved each other playfully and moved down the street with a kind of purpose.

Seokjin’s heart lurched.

“There,” he whispered, pointing and his gaze fixed. “They’re going somewhere.”

Taehyung followed his gaze, brows drawn together. “And you think it’s where he went?”

“Look at them. I know they are.” Seokjin said, already adjusting his camera strap and ready to trail after them.

Taehyung groaned and pulled him by his arm. “Jin, what are you doing?“, he hissed.

„What does it look like? Following them, of course. We can’t lose track of the only trail we have.“ Jin whispered back with urgency.

Taehyung rolled his eyes but fell into step beside him as he noticed Seokjin had vanished from his side, already going after those kids. “If we get jumped, I’m blaming you.”, he added quickly.

They followed them at a cautious distance, weaving through alleys until the teens stopped in front of a familiar sight. A rusted metal door, plastered with stickers and layered in spray paint. The same kind of door Seokjin had slipped through just a day ago. His pulse quickened.

“This is it,” he whispered.

Taehyung crossed his arms, staring at the door like it might bite. “Yeah, and this is also a terrible idea. We don’t belong here, Jin. We’ll stick out like… like roses in a garbage dump.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. “I’m going in anyways.”

Taehyung muttered a curse under his breath, glaring at the door for another long moment. 

Then, with a resigned sigh, he yanked his hood up. “Fine. But if anyone asks, this was your idea.”

Inside, the club was quieter than Seokjin remembered, even though it was the weekend. It apparently just wasn’t battle night. The neon lights buzzed lazier, and only a good handful of people lounged near the walls or the bar. Music hummed from speakers, just enough to fill the space.

They made their way to the bar. A man with tattoos running up his arms leaned against the counter, wiping down glasses. His eyes flicked over them unimpressed. “What can I get you two?”

Seokjin swallowed, nerves pricking his skin. “Uhm actually… I wanted to ask about yesterday. The… battle? What happened there?”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed, studying him for a beat too long. Then he huffed, setting the glass aside. “The club owner has a thing for music and he regularly hosts rap battles. Yesterday was just a regular Friday night. Happens every week.”

Every Friday night.

Seokjin’s heart stuttered and his heat began rising in his chest. “And the guy who won last night… the pink haired one?”

The bartender’s mouth quirked. “Ah. Him.” He leaned on the counter, lowering his voice just slightly. “Shows up almost every Friday. Tattered clothes, cocky smile. Pretty hard to miss.”

Seokjin’s breath caught. Almost every Friday night.

Taehyung shifted beside him, glancing at Seokjin with a look that said don’t you dare. But Seokjin didn’t care. His mind raced with questions. Then, his lips parted, ready to push for more.

Did RM always come here with the other guy or alone? Did he usually win? Did people know his real name? Where did he go after the battles?

He leaned forward on the counter, desperate to pry out every scrap of detail, but before the words could leave his mouth, Taehyung’s hand clamped firmly around his wrist.

“Enough,” Taehyung muttered under his breath. His grip was steady, brooking no argument.

Seokjin shot him a look, caught between frustration and pleading. “Just a few more questions—”

“No,” Taehyung cut in, already pulling him away from the bar stool. “We got what we came for. Fridays. That’s all we need.”

The bartender watched them with mild curiosity and then shrugged, turning back to polishing his glasses. 

The conversation was over, whether Seokjin liked it or not.

They slipped back out through the heavy metal door into the dim light outside, the thud of the bass fading behind them until only the ordinary hum of the city remained. The sharp contrast almost made Seokjin dizzy.

He adjusted the strap of his camera, words tumbling in his chest, unsaid. “I could’ve—”

“You could’ve what?” Taehyung barked, turning on him the moment they were clear of the alley. His eyes were sharp. More serious than Seokjin had seen them in a long time.

“You think asking strangers about some underground rapper isn’t dangerous? You think nobody notices the way you stand out in there? Don’t belong there?”

Seokjin flinched, but Taehyung didn’t let up.

“I’m worried about you, hyung. This… obsession, or whatever it is… it’s not good. You don’t even know this guy, and already you’re chasing him into parts of the city you don’t belong to. How far are you willing to go? Huh?”

The question hung heavy in the air.

Seokjin looked down, fingers tightening around the camera strap. He couldn’t answer. Not honestly. Because in his chest, the truth was clear: as far as it takes.

Taehyung let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, Jin. I’ll help you out as long as this isn’t dangerous. But promise me one thing, don’t lose yourself in this and do something reckless. You’ve got a good life, Jin. Don’t throw it away for someone who might not even remember your face.”

Seokjin’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. He only lifted his gaze to the skyline, the sunlight glaring against the high-rises. In his chest, the ache burned hotter than ever.

“My life might look good to you, Tae, but I couldn’t think of anything more boring. To me, it’s empty. And I don’t really have anything but photography and the hope of a free and real life. Not the one my parents created for me. And he is the literal definition of the life I want so bad. So please, Tae, let me see him again, photograph him and at least get glimpses of my dreams. Please.“

Taehyung’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at Seokjin for a long, heavy moment, his gaze searching his friend’s face for some trace of hesitation, some sign that this was just a passing whim. But there was nothing. Only that same burning look in Seokjin’s eyes, the one Taehyung had only seen before when Jin found a photograph he physically couldn’t stop staring at.

A groan tore out of him, defeated. He dragged a hand down his face, then through his hair, as though he could physically scrub the situation away. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered. His voice was low, reluctant, but the edge of empathy and understanding was there too, threaded beneath the annoyance.

Finally, he sighed, shoulders sagging. “Fine. I’ll help you. But listen to me. If this goes sideways even once, if I so much as feel like we’re in danger, we’re done. Promise me you won’t push it.”

Seokjin nodded quickly, almost too quickly, relief flooding his features like sunlight breaking through cloud. “I promise.”

But Taehyung didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on him, dark and worried, as if he already knew the truth.

Because inside, Seokjin knew he had lied. He wouldn’t stop. Not until he had captured Namjoon in his lens the way he ached for.

Therefore, Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

-

The days crawled.

Seokjin tried to lose himself in his usual routines. School, family dinners, the quiet hum of his apartment… but nothing held his focus. The camera stayed within reach at all times now, but every time he raised it to photograph something else, he felt nothing. The glossy magazines on his coffee table, once a source of inspiration, now looked lifeless.

Every frame he imagined, every angle he considered, bled back to him.

The boy with pink hair. 

At breakfast, his mother spoke about another charity gala with her usual cheerful but distant voice and Seokjin found himself tuning her out. Instead he was picturing how the spotlight had turned smoke into gold around Namjoon’s shoulders.

At night, when the apartment was quiet, Seokjin scrolled aimlessly through his phone, typing the same name into search bars again and again. Rap Monster. RM. Joon. 

Still nothing. Each empty result made him more certain he had stumbled onto something rare. Something not yet touched by the surface world he lived in.

On Wednesday, Taehyung came over, throwing himself across Seokjin’s sofa. “You’re restless,” he observed while watching him pace the room with his camera swinging from his neck.

“I just… can’t stop thinking about it,” Seokjin admitted, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like I was blind before. Like everything I thought was beautiful was just… shallow compared to that.”

Tae frowned. “Jin, don’t make him into a god. He’s just a guy.”

But Seokjin shook his head. Not just a guy.

Thursday night was the worst. He lay awake staring at the ceiling and his chest was tight with anticipation. His thoughts looped endlessly: What if he didn’t show? What if it had only been a one-time thing? What if Seokjin never saw him again? The thoughts clawed at him, almost unbearable.

He pressed the camera to his chest, whispering to himself like a vow: “Friday. He’ll be there. He has to be.”

And when the sun finally rose the next morning, Seokjin’s heart was already racing.

Friday had finally come.

-

Friday mornings always felt the heaviest for Namjoon.

He woke late with his head pounding from too little sleep and scribbled notes from the night before scattered across the floor around his mattress. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, blinking against the gray light leaking through the thin curtains.

Jungkook was already up, perched at the tiny kitchen counter with another bowl of instant ramen steaming in front of him. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead fresh from the shower. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“You forgot to pay the gas bill.”

Namjoon groaned, flopping back against the mattress. “Shit.”

Jungkook stabbed at the noodles with his chopsticks. “So that’s no hot water for a week. Again.”

Namjoon sat up again, dragging a notebook closer and flipping through its pages. “I’m sorry Kookie. But after tonight, maybe it won’t matter at all.”

Jungkook glanced at him, unimpressed. “You say that every week.”

“This week’s different.” Namjoon’s voice was low but certain. “I’ve got new verses. Stronger. Tighter. I can feel it. Tonight, I’m not just winning a battle. I’m leaving a mark.”

Jungkook sighed but didn’t argue. He’d seen this look in Namjoon’s eyes too many times. The fire, the certainty that one night, one verse, one roar from the crowd would change everything. And maybe it would.

By late afternoon, the apartment was a frenzy of preparation. Namjoon stood in front of the cracked mirror. His pink hair was styled into a voluminous slick-back, with some strands just perfectly out of place.

He adjusted his chunky, silver chain necklace until it sat just right across his chest. Above his oversized white tank top, which showed the sides of his lean torso, he slipped his leather jacket that had his name written on the back with a thick marker.

RAP MONSTER

And then, to add the final touch, he placed lavender tinted glasses onto his nose, tilted his head and watched his reflection transform from an exhausted twenty-four year old into RM. 

Behind him, Jungkook stepped into his favorite pair of heavy black boots and smudged his eyeliner around his eyes, just the way he knew made everyone want to take a double take. Then, he set his face in that same calm expression he always wore in public.

“You ready?” he asked.

Namjoon smirked, the weight of his lyrics in his pocket and his heart already synced to the phantom beat of the night. “Always.”

They left the apartment together, the sun sinking behind the buildings, neon lights sparking awake in the streets ahead.

Friday night was waiting for them.

And in another part of Seoul, Seokjin was waiting too.

-

By the time dusk bled into night, Seokjin and Taehyung were standing once again in the narrow alley, the rusted metal door looming ahead like a portal.

Seokjin’s camera strap was snug across his chest, his fingers tapping against the lens cap with restless energy. Every nerve in his body buzzed with anticipation, the city’s neon glow painting colors on his skin.

Taehyung pulled his hood low, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His lips were pressed into a tight line as he eyed the group of people already lingering outside. 

“Last chance to turn back,” he muttered.

Seokjin shook his head firmly. “We’re going in.”

Taehyung groaned but followed as Seokjin stepped forward, slamming his fist against the door in the same rhythm he’d memorized from before. 

A pause. Then the lock clicked, and the heavy door creaked open.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the familiar rush hit Seokjin like a wave. Thick smoke replaced the air inside, the bass thrumming faintly through the floor as the crowd already began to gather. Tonight, the energy was different, louder, as if the walls themselves knew something big was about to happen.

Taehyung stuck close to him, mumbling, “We’re not staying long.”

But Seokjin’s eyes were already sweeping the space, hungrily taking in the haze of neon, the shifting shadows and the stage at the far end where the spotlight waited to be ignited.

They made their way to the bar, the same bartender from before watching them approach with the same unimpressed stare.

“Back again?” he drawled, setting down the glass he’d been polishing.

Seokjin swallowed hard, leaning forward. “We came for the battle. Friday nights you had said, right?”

The bartender’s mouth curved but not quite into a smile. “That’s right. Every Friday. You sure this is your scene, pretty boy?”

Before Seokjin could answer, Taehyung jumped in. “We’re just here to watch. That’s it.” His tone was firm, protective.

The bartender chuckled under his breath but turned away, pouring a drink for someone else. “Then watch. But don’t get in the way.”

Seokjin felt his pulse hammer harder. Tonight was real. Tonight, he’d see him again.

RM.

Suddenly, the bass swelled, vibrating through the floor, when the heavy door creaked again.

Seokjin’s heart skipped a beat and his grip tightening around the camera as two familiar silhouettes stepped inside.

Them. The boy with the black hair streaked by red highlights and the one with the candy pink.

Even in the crush of bodies, Namjoon stood out instantly. His colorful hair caught the neon glow like fire, his chain clinking with each unhurried step and the tinted glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as if he owned the room already. 

Jungkook trailed at his side, his black hoodie drawn up and silver flashing from his piercings whenever the lights hit him. They moved with ease, slipping into the crowd like the club itself bent to make room for them.

The atmosphere shifted. Conversations stuttered, laughter turned louder and the crowd pulled tighter as if pulled by an invisible thread. Whispers floated through the haze: RM’s here.

Seokjin’s heart hammered so loud he was sure Taehyung could hear it.

“There he is,” Seokjin breathed, unable to look anywhere else.

“Yeah, I see him,” Taehyung muttered, his tone cautious as his eyes flicked toward Namjoon. “And he looks exactly like the kind of guy you should stay away from.”

But while Seokjin’s gaze stayed locked on the pink-haired boy commanding the room, Taehyung’s attention shifted. His eyes lingered on the one beside him. The quieter shadow wrapped in black. Jungkook.

He moved differently, not demanding attention the way Namjoon did. Still, the silver glint of piercings, the dark smudge of eyeliner, the way he carried himself with that effortless, dangerous calm… it pulled at Taehyung’s attention in a way he hadn’t quite expected.

Taehyung cleared his throat, tugging at Seokjin’s sleeve. “Seriously, hyung, that Rap Monster guy? He’s not for you. You go chasing him and you’ll get swept under.” His voice was sharp with worry. But his gaze, just for a moment, lingered on Jungkook as he adjusted his hood and slipped deeper into the crowd.

Seokjin didn’t notice. He couldn’t. His eyes were glued to Namjoon, his chest tight with the weight of wanting to capture him, to frame him.

Two obsessions were born in that same instant. One loud, one silent.

Namjoon’s gaze swept the club as he adjusted his glasses, his lips quirking into a half-smile at the wave of greetings thrown his way. For a second, just a second, Seokjin thought those eyes brushed past him, sharp and glinting under the tinted glass.

His breath caught.

Then Namjoon looked away, already moving deeper into the crowd, Jungkook a silent shadow at his side.

Seokjin lifted his camera halfway, hand trembling.

“Don’t, not yet.” Taehyung hissed, tugging his sleeve down. “You’ll get us caught.”

But Seokjin’s fingers itched. For the first time in what felt like forever to him, the distance between them wasn’t infinite. Namjoon was here. Real.

Seokjin’s pulse thrummed in sync with the bass as Namjoon and Jungkook wove deeper into the crowd. Every instinct told him to stay where he was, to keep a safe distance, but his body betrayed him. One step forward, then another, until Taehyung’s sharp whisper cut against his ear once more.

“Jin, don’t. Don’t do this.”

But Seokjin couldn’t stop. The space between them was shrinking, only a dozen bodies separating him from the boy who had consumed every thought since that night.

Namjoon moved like the crowd parted for him, casual but commanding, laughing at something Jungkook murmured. His chain glinted under the neon, sunglasses sliding low as he scanned the room with lazy confidence.

Seokjin slid between groups, ducked past shoulders while his camera pressed tight against his chest. Each step brought him closer, close enough to catch the sharp line of Namjoon’s jaw, the curl of his smirk, the way his presence shifted the air around him.

For a breath, it almost felt possible… like he could reach out, tap his shoulder, and the pink-haired boy would turn, see, and know him.

Then the speakers screeched.

A feedback whine sliced the air, followed by a booming voice through the mic:

“Seoul! You know what night it is!”

The crowd cheered, surging forward as the stage lights blazed to life, sweeping the space in a flood of white. Seokjin stumbled while being shoved sideways in the crush of bodies pressing toward the front.

By the time he steadied himself, Namjoon was gone again, swallowed by the tide moving toward the stage.

Seokjin craned his neck to search, desperately, but all he could see was the glare of the spotlight warming up, flickering like the first sparks of a storm.

The next battle was about to begin.

The crowd’s chanting swelled and drowned out Seokjin’s pounding heart. He fought to keep his balance as bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the heat rising thick with sweat and smoke. His camera strap dug into his neck, the lens trapped uselessly against his chest.

He turned his head in every direction, searching for pink hair and then, the spotlight ignited.

It cut through the haze like a paper, flooding the stage in sharp white. And there he was.

Namjoon.

Pink hair blazing brighter than the neon, glasses pushed up to his forehead now, a cocky grin tugging his mouth. The crowd screamed his name: RM! RM!, as if the entire room belonged to him and him alone. He held the mic loosely in one hand, his other arm lifted in a casual wave that somehow commanded more than any polished performance Seokjin had ever seen.

Seokjin’s breath caught, the rest of the room falling away. His hands hovered over his camera, trembling, but he didn’t raise it. Not yet. It felt almost sacrilegious to trap the moment in a frame before he could simply watch it burn into him.

Beside him, Taehyung leaned in, voice pitched low but tense. “There he is. Happy now?”

But Seokjin couldn’t answer. His chest ached with the force of it. The lights, the noise, the boy on stage who had no idea he’d become someone else’s obsession.

He thought he’d been prepared for this. But he hadn’t been.

Namjoon hadn’t just stepped into the light. He was the light.

And Seokjin knew, with a terrible certainty, that nothing in his life would ever compare.

The announcer’s voice ripped him from his thoughts, “Good Evening Seoul! You ready for some action? Tonight’s rappers are…“

The spotlight snapped to a boy about Seokjin’s height, platinum hair tipped with dark blue ends glinting under the beam. His grin was wide and self-assured, pink lips curved upward as he lifted his mic with a victor’s ease. A backward cap sat snug on his head, bold red letters spelling HOPE.

“…J-Hope!“ the announcer finished, his voice swallowed by the eruption of cheers. Whistles, shouts and high-pitched screams tore through the audience, shaking the walls with pure energy.

Seokjin stared at him. There was something disarming about J-Hope. Bright. Warm. Almost too nice for this world of sweat, smoke, and survival. He caught himself wondering, just for a fleeting second, how someone like him had ended up here, standing in this battleground of words and rhythm.

But the thought was gone as quickly as it came because the spotlight shifted.

“And your well-known, all-time favorite, Rap Monster!“, came the voice through the mic but Seokjin barely recognized it anyway.

Namjoon stepped forward, and once again, the air changed.

His grin was lazy but confident, his chain catching the light as if they had been crafted only for him. He flipped his mic, gaze sweeping across the room with an authority that made everybody lean in.

Seokjin’s breath stuttered. His vision blurred at the edges and his balance faltered until Taehyung’s hands clamped firmly around his arms.

“Jin, you alright?” Taehyung’s voice was tight with worry, trying to ground him.

But Seokjin couldn’t answer. The words were lodged in his throat like stones. He managed a stiff nod, eyes locked on Namjoon as though looking away would shatter him completely.

Taehyung tugged at him, urgent, trying to pull him out of the crush of people. “We should get out of here—”

Then the speakers erupted.

The bass dropped like thunder, sharp and unforgiving, rattling the floor beneath their feet. The crowd surged forward, a wave of fists, voices, and bodies all moving as one.

The battle had begun. J-Hope started first.

His verse rolled smoothly, sharp words spilling out quick and clever and every syllable danced right on top of the beat. The crowd fed on his energy and shouted his name, their hands bouncing in the air. He moved across the stage with ease, a wide grin on his face, while feeding off the spotlight as if it had always belonged to him.

Seokjin tried to keep his eyes on him, but they slid back to Namjoon every time. The way he stood there still and grounded, waiting, was just magnetic. Like he was letting the noise wash over him only to claim it all back when his turn came. Seokjin’s chest tightened and his breath was shallow. He wanted to photograph him, that power coiled under the surface.

Beside him, Taehyung watched too, his jaw slack with reluctant awe. He leaned closer to Seokjin, muttering, “Okay… I know why you wanted to come here again.“ 

Seokjin didn’t respond, his eyes were fixed on Namjoon.

Then it was his turn.

The crowd’s cheers dimmed for half a breath before Namjoon stepped forward and unleashed. His verse came low and rough-edged, building fast into a torrent that rolled over the beat and crushed everything in its path. 

Each line landed heavy, each pause deliberate, like he was dragging the whole room along with him. The chants of RM! RM! surged like thunder, drowning out even the bass.

Seokjin’s knees wobbled. He clutched the camera to his chest like it might steady him, but his body was trembling with the weight of what he was seeing. Namjoon wasn’t rapping, he was burning. And Seokjin couldn’t look away.

Taehyung stole a glance at his friend’s face, the way Jin’s eyes shone almost feverishly. He sighed, resigned. “Okay… I get it now. Why you can’t shut up about this guy.” he murmured under his breath.

Still, Taehyung’s gaze drifted away, pulled subtly toward the shadow standing near the stage. Jungkook. Black clothes, piercings catching the neon lights and his arms crossed with quiet intensity. He wasn’t performing, but he didn’t need to. His presence was steady, grounding, a contrast to Namjoon’s fire.

Taehyung’s pulse skipped before he forced his attention back to the stage, clearing his throat. “I’ll… help you out with this, Jin,” he said, voice tight, pretending it was only loyalty speaking.

Seokjin nodded absently, too consumed to notice the shift in his best friend’s eyes.

On stage, the beat switched again, dragging them all deeper into the battle.

This time J-Hope’s flow was sharper and more aggressive, his grin edged with challenge. He leaned into the crowd, riding their cheers as he fired off quick bursts, each line snapping like sparks. The audience ate it up, chanted his name and their energy bounced back at him in waves.

Seokjin watched, impressed in spite of himself. J-Hope was good. Really good. But he still looked too bright, too warm and too unscarred for this place. Like the world hadn’t worn him down the way it had Namjoon.

And then it was Namjoon’s turn again.

He stepped forward slowly, letting the crowd quiet just enough before he struck. His verse poured out deep and commanding, a voice that cut straight through the haze of smoke and sweat. He didn’t grin, didn’t posture, he owned. Each line landed heavy, building into something undeniable. Something that set the floor vibrating beneath their feet.

The crowd erupted after he had finished.

“R! M! R! M!”

Seokjin’s throat tightened as he clutched his camera, frozen between the urge to raise it and the fear that no photograph could ever hold this. His body swayed with the noise, dizzy, like he might collapse from the sheer weight of the moment.

Taehyung steadied him again, both hands tight around his arms.

His own chest was tight too, not from Namjoon though, but from the boy standing off to the side of the stage. He hadn’t moved much, hadn’t said a word, but Taehyung’s eyes kept darting back to him. To the way he watched Namjoon, close and loyal, like a shadow forged in steel. Taehyung’s stomach knotted, and he quickly looked away before Seokjin noticed.

The final beat crashed. Both rappers stepped back, heads high, mics lowered. The room buzzed with anticipation, the crowd restless, waiting for the verdict.

The announcer lifted his mic, grinning wide. “Seoul, you know how it works. You decide! Make some noise for J-Hope!”

The room thundered with cheers, stomps, and whistles. J-Hope grinned, bowing slightly, soaking it in.

“And now, for your underground idol, Rap Monster!”

The sound that followed was ear-splitting. The walls shook, the air split with the force of their chant. 

Seokjin’s ears rang and his chest pounded as though the chant had crawled inside his ribcage. He wanted to scream with them, but his voice wouldn’t come. He could only watch, trembling, as Namjoon raised his mic high, lips curling into that cocky, devastating grin.

The announcer didn’t need to say it, but he did anyway: “Your winner tonight: Rap Monster!”

The crowd went wild in a frenzy of celebration. J-Hope laughed, dapping Namjoon up with a firm clap of hands and a shoulder bump. Again, respect, not rivalry.

Namjoon’s chains gleamed under the neon as he leaned in to say something to his friend, both of them laughing easily as if the battle hadn’t just set the room on fire.

Seokjin’s hands trembled as the crowd screamed around him. Namjoon and J-Hope clasped hands, pulled each other into a shoulder bump, grins wide and effortless, lit perfectly in the fading spotlight.

It was too much. Too perfect. His chest ached with it.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Seokjin finally lifted his camera. His finger hovered, shaking, before pressing down.

Click.

The sound was swallowed by the noise of the crowd, but not the sudden burst of white that cut through the dark like a knife.

The flash went off.

Seokjin froze in horror.

For a split second, the entire room seemed to freeze. The cheering dulled into a sharp hush, like a vinyl record screeching off the turntable. Heads turned and eyes narrowed while searching for what caused the burst of light. The spotlight was still fixed on the stage, therefore the flash could have come from nowhere but the crowd.

Namjoon turned, his grin fading slightly as his eyes found him.

For one devastating heartbeat, Seokjin and Namjoon locked eyes.

Seokjin’s breath caught. It felt like the world was stripped bare, as if the noise, the bodies, and the smoke… all of it had vanished, leaving only the weight of that gaze. Namjoon’s eyes gleamed under the lights, sharp and unreadable.

Then the crowd started to murmur. A few pointed. Some laughed.

Taehyung’s stomach dropped. “Shit,” he hissed, grabbing Seokjin by the wrist. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Seokjin stumbled as Taehyung dragged him through the press of bodies, his camera clutched to his chest, still stunned and replaying that single moment when Namjoon had looked right at him.

Namjoon watched them go, his mic dangling loosely in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of a battle already finished. He didn’t move to stop them. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, gaze tracking Seokjin and Taehyung until the crowd swallowed them whole and the heavy metal door clanged shut behind him.

The murmur in the club rose again, noise filling the void. But Namjoon’s eyes lingered on that door.

He had seen him. And now he began to wonder.

“Hey, Jungkook. Did you see who that was?” Namjoon asked as he stepped off the stage, reaching for the towel Jungkook held out.

Jungkook frowned, glancing toward the door. “No. Didn’t recognize their faces from any—” He paused, hesitation flickering across his features.

Namjoon cocked a brow, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “I’m listening.”

“The boy with the camera,” Jungkook said slowly. “Could he be the one we saw last week? The one you almost picked a fight with?”

Namjoon froze for a beat, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh. The kid at the graffiti wall. The one with the baby face.” A smirk tugged his lips. “Yeah. Could’ve been him.”

Jungkook tilted his head, thinking. “But who was the other guy? He looked familiar. I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t place it. Could they be… famous maybe?”

“That’d explain the hoodies at least,” Namjoon muttered, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair. “I mean, who the hell walks into a place like this with their faces half-hidden? And a fucking camera?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Whoever they are, they clearly don’t belong here.”

He started weaving his way through the crowd, people clapping him on the back, shouting his name and grabbing for his hand. Namjoon took it all in stride, half his mind still fixed on that flash of white light and the stranger who’d aimed it at him like a bullet.

He glanced back at Jungkook, his smirk sharpening. “Let’s find out what their deal is, yeah?”

Jungkook sighed, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, but followed. “If you think it’s worth it.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver. “Oh, it’s worth it.”

-

The night air hit Seokjin like a slap, sharp and cold after the heat and haze of the club. His chest was still tight and his pulse erratic while the camera hung heavy against him like it had turned into a crime.

Taehyung shoved him further down the alley before letting go of his wrist. He spun on him, eyes blazing.

“Are you out of your mind?” he lashed out, his voice cutting through the hum of the city. “With a flash, Jin? In a place like that? With people like that? Do you know how bad that could’ve gone?”

Seokjin opened his mouth, but nothing came. His throat was dry, his words tangled and useless.

Taehyung pressed a hand to his forehead, pacing a step away before turning back. “Let’s hope they didn’t recognize you because otherwise you’ve just painted a target on your back. They all saw you. He saw you. You wanted attention? Because you’ve got it now.”

Seokjin swallowed, guilt and exhilaration warring in his chest. “I… I didn’t mean to. I forgot to turn the flash of.”

“That’s not good enough!” Taehyung whined. “We don’t belong here, Jin. You’re dragging both of us into something—”

The heavy metal door groaned open behind them.

Both of them froze, Seokjin’s breath catching in his chest as the sounds of the club spilled briefly into the alley.

Namjoon stepped out first, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair now. He scanned the alley lazily, but his eyes narrowed when they landed on Seokjin. Jungkook followed, a beanie on his head and his hands shoved into his pockets again, while his gaze flicked from Namjoon to the two boys standing frozen a few steps away.

The door slammed shut behind them, muting the noise again. The air grew taut and heavy.

Seokjin’s camera strap dug into his neck as he clutched it to his chest, unable to move.

Taehyung shifted subtly in front of him, jaw tight, protective even through his concern.

Namjoon’s smirk was deliberate as he tilted his head just slightly. “Well, well,” he drawled, voice smooth but daring. “Looks like the pretty boy with the camera didn’t run too far.”

Seokjin had trouble finding the right words. How would he justify himself? Explain that Namjoon was like art to him, so perfect he needed it framed in every possible angle to even do him something close to justice?

Namjoon raised his brows, eyeing Seokjin as he waited for an answer patiently and sticking his hand out to Jungkook behind him who was just pulling out his cigarettes.

“Well?“ he pressed, “Why were you pointing that thing at me?” He gestured at the camera with a flick of his chin. “You some kind of journalist? Cop? Or just a rich kid who thinks the underground is a zoo exhibit?” He asked, annoyed, while making Jungkook light his cigarette.

The horrific smell grounded Seokjin. He blinked hard once, the cigarette smoke heavy between them.

Suddenly, Taehyung stepped in with a firm voice, trying to shield him. “We don’t want trouble. We were just about to leave.”

Namjoon ignored him. His eyes never leaving Seokjin, as he pinned him in place like a bug under glass. “You flash a camera in my face, then run. That’s not nothing. So… which is it? You here to watch, or you here to cause trouble?”

Seokjin’s chest tightened. He wanted to explain. Wanted to say he wasn’t there to just watch, he was preserving. That Namjoon wasn’t just someone he’d photographed but someone he wanted to immortalize, someone too perfect to let vanish and be unrecognized.

Namjoon took another step closer, so near now that Seokjin could see the sweat still glistening along his collarbone, the faint curl of his smirk tugging at his lips. “C’mon, pretty boy. You’ve got one chance. Tell me why.”

The alley suddenly felt smaller, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

Seokjin’s heart hammered so violently he thought it might burst through his chest. He gripped his camera tighter, forcing out a shaky whisper.

“Because you’re… like art.”

For a moment, Namjoon just stared at him. Then his lips parted, and a sharp laugh escaped along a wave of smoke.

“Art?” he repeated, dragging the word out like it was a joke. He tilted his head, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough to let his eyes glint in the alley’s dim light. “That’s what you call it? Me sweating my ass off in a smoke pit with drunks and broken mics. That’s your art?”

Seokjin’s cheeks burned. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Namjoon smirked, stepping even closer, close enough that Seokjin caught the metallic tang of sweat and smoke clinging to him, alongside something that smelled addictive. “Cute. Real cute. Bet you’ve seen enough real art in your life, but you still come down here with your shiny camera and decide to crown me your masterpiece.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if amused. “You’re either crazy, or you’re dumber than you look.”

Behind him, Jungkook chuckled under his breath, though his eyes flicked curiously between the two of them. Taehyung shifted and clenched his fists, ready to pull Seokjin away if Namjoon pushed harder.

But Namjoon didn’t. He lingered there, eyes locked on Seokjin, his grin sharp but overall unreadable. Beneath the mockery, something else flickered. Something unsettled, unspoken. Curiosity.

Because for all the sarcasm in his tone, Seokjin’s trembling voice lingered in his head.

Art.

It was ridiculous. But the way the boy had said it… like he believed it… had sunk its claws in all the same.

Namjoon finally leaned back, laughing again, as he tapped ash from his cigarette. “Go home, pretty boy. This isn’t your world.”

But his gaze lingered a beat too long before he turned away.

“What‘s your name?“ 

The words echoed too loud in the narrow alley, cutting through the hum of the city beyond. Taehyung tensed beside Seokjin, eyes widening, as if he couldn’t believe he had actually said it.

Namjoon froze mid-step. Slowly, he pivoted back, his expression unreadable.

“My name?” he echoed, amusement dripping from the words. He gestured loosely at the club door behind him. “You were in there, weren’t you? Whole crowd was screaming it for you. Or did your fancy camera block your ears?”

Heat crawled up Seokjin’s neck, but he held Namjoon’s gaze, refusing to look away. “I mean your… real name.”

For the first time, Namjoon’s smirk faltered just slightly. Then it returned, sharper. He stepped close again, bending low enough that Seokjin felt his breath brush his cheek when he spoke.

“Namjoon,” he murmured. “But if you’re gonna keep chasing me around with that lens of yours… you can call me the one responsible for your broken nose.”

With that, he straightened and turned on his heel. Jungkook followed without a word, though his curious glance lingered on Taehyung as they passed, still wondering where he knew him from.

The alley swallowed them up, leaving Seokjin breathless and his camera pressed tight to his chest.

Namjoon had given him his name.

And Seokjin knew this wasn’t the end.

They didn’t speak again until they’d made it halfway across the city, the neon glow fading behind them. Seokjin’s breaths were still shallow and his hands locked stubbornly around his camera like it might disappear if he let go.

Taehyung finally broke the silence. “Hyung,” he said quietly, his voice carrying none of the bite it had earlier. “You scared the hell out of me back there.”

Seokjin glanced at him, startled by the softness in his tone.

Tae sighed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “You can’t just… blurt things like that. Or flash cameras in people’s faces. These guys aren’t idols at some fan meet. They live rough. They don’t forgive mistakes.” He paused, his gaze tilting toward Seokjin with quiet seriousness. “One wrong move, and you could get hurt.”

Seokjin’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, so he opened his mouth, but the words tangled. Was he dangerous? Maybe. Unreachable? Maybe. But the way Namjoon had leaned in, the way he’d said his own name… how could he explain what that did to him?

Taehyung softened further, bumping his shoulder lightly against Seokjin’s. “Look, I get it now. I saw how you looked at him. And, honestly? I kind of understand why. He’s… hard to ignore.” A wry smile tugged his lips before it faded into something more protective. “But promise me you’ll be careful. Please, Jin. You’re my best friend. I can’t watch you walk blind into something that could chew you up.”

Seokjin looked down at his shoes, the weight of his camera pressing heavy against his chest. “I just… I can’t stop.” His voice came small, barely audible. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted to capture. Everything all at once.”

Taehyung’s expression softened even more, his frustration melting into worry and reluctant acceptance. “Then let me be there when you do. At least if you’re going to be reckless, I’ll make sure you don’t do it alone.”

Seokjin glanced at him and managed a small smile.

Taehyung returned it faintly, though his stomach still knotted with unease.

-

The streets had thinned by the time Namjoon and Jungkook made it back to their cramped apartment. The hum of the city dulled to the occasional honk, the whir of scooters and the shuffle of late-night drunks.

Jungkook kicked the door shut behind them, peeling his hoodie off and tossing it onto the sagging couch. He shot Namjoon a look as he rummaged through the cupboard for ramen. “So. Gonna tell me what that was about?”

Namjoon dropped into the chair at the tiny kitchen table, his chain clinking faintly as he leaned back. “What?” he said, too casual.

“The ‘pretty‘ boy,” Jungkook pressed, filling the pot with water. “You cornered him like you’d been waiting for it. Don’t tell me you weren’t curious.”

Namjoon smirked, running a hand through his hair. “Of course I was curious. He flashed me in front of an entire club. Doesn’t exactly scream subtle.”

Jungkook set the pot on the stove, arms crossing over his chest as he studied him. “But you didn’t scare him off. You mocked him, yeah, but you didn’t push as far as usual. Why?”

Namjoon was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting toward the cracked window where the city lights flickered faint. He thought of the boy’s trembling voice, the word that had slipped out like it had cost him something.

Art.

He snorted, shaking his head. “Because he’s crazy. Calling me art like I’m some statue in a museum. That’s not how this world works.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin sharp but a little too forced. “Rich kids like him? They break too easy. Probably never seen blood outside a movie.”

But Jungkook wasn’t convinced. He caught the flicker in Namjoon’s eyes, the way they’d narrowed, not just in mockery but in something else. Interest.

“You’re not gonna let it go, are you?” Jungkook said flatly, dropping the ramen noodles into the pot.

Namjoon didn’t answer. He just leaned back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, smirk still tugging at his lips.

The ramen hissed as steam curled up from the pot, filling the tiny kitchen with the scent of salt and spice. Jungkook leaned lazily against the counter, chopsticks in hand, his eyes still on Namjoon.

“But that other guy,” he said slowly. “The one with him. I swear I know his face.”

Namjoon tilted his head, curious. “From where?”

Jungkook frowned, tapping his chopsticks against the pot in thought. “I don’t know. Not the underground. Too… polished. Maybe from school, or one of those upper district things.”

Namjoon let out a dry laugh. “Figures. They didn’t belong down there. Hoodies or not, they stuck out like neon in the dark.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “But you think you’ve seen him before? That could be useful.”

Jungkook shifted uncomfortably, like the thought nagged at him more than he wanted to admit. “Yeah. I’ll figure it out. But whoever they are, they’re not just some random kids looking for kicks.”

Namjoon hummed, tapping his fingers against the table in rhythm with some beat only he could hear. “All the more reason to find out what they’re after.” His grin returned, sharp and deliberate. “Nobody points a camera at me and walks away without a story.”

Jungkook slid the steaming bowls across the table, dropping into the chair across from him. “You’re making it sound like a game.”

Namjoon smirked around a mouthful of noodles. “Everything’s a game, Kook. Just depends on who’s brave enough to keep playing.”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but his mind drifted back to Taehyung’s face, that nagging sense of familiarity scratching harder now. He knew him from somewhere. He just had to remember where.

Jungkook couldn’t sleep that night.

He tossed and turned on the thin mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling while the city hummed faintly outside. That face wouldn’t leave him alone. Sharp jawline, sharp eyes and those charming moles, all half-hidden under a hood. Too familiar.

He sat up with a frustrated groan, rubbing his temples. And then it hit him.

A commercial.

He fumbled for his phone, squinting against the glow of the screen as he typed the thought into a search bar. Within seconds, the video played: a glossy, high-production ad for luxury watches. And there he was: Taehyung. V. Smiling at the camera, draped in designer clothes, his wrist flashing with expensive metal.

Jungkook’s breath caught. “Holy shit.”

Without hesitation, he shuffled out of his bed and shoved at Namjoon’s shoulder, who was peacefully sleeping on the tiny kitchen chair. “Hyung. Wake up. You need to see this.”

Namjoon grumbled, rolling his head to the other side, but Jungkook shoved his phone into his face. “Look.”

Namjoon blinked blearily, then sat up straighter. “That’s the guy from earlier.”

“Yeah. He‘s a model,” Jungkook said, excitement buzzing now. “Not just some random. He’s legit.”

Namjoon leaned closer, watching the ad replay, a slow smirk forming. “So pretty boy’s not just chasing us for fun. He’s also connected.”

Jungkook was already digging further. “Wait, he’s got an Instagram.” He tapped through posts until he froze on one that made his stomach drop. He turned the phone toward Namjoon.

It was Taehyung, grinning beside Seokjin, who stood next to him in a terribly expensive looking suit. The caption was playful, and the tag unmissable: @jin.

Namjoon’s eyes widened as Jungkook clicked through photos, articles and mentions.

His pretty boy was no one less than Kim Seokjin, son of the family behind the Kim Group, one of the biggest corporate empires in Seoul. He meant wealth, power and influence. Everywhere.

Namjoon sat back, towel slipping off his shoulder, his mind racing.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, a low laugh escaping. “Looks like our baby-faced camera boy isn’t just anybody.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Namjoon’s grin widened, sharp and hungry. “If he’s that popular, that connected… then maybe he’s exactly what we need. He wants to point a lens at me?” He leaned forward, voice mischievous. “Let him. Let him show me to the world. We’ve been scraping by for scraps, but with someone like him behind us? We could make this more than just smoke-filled basements.”

Jungkook tilted his head, skeptical but intrigued. “You mean… use him?”

Namjoon’s smirk sharpened. “I mean survive. Blow up. Finally get what we’re owed. And if pretty boy wants to play artist?” He spread his hands. “We’ll let him.”

The room fell quiet again, save for the hum of the city. But between them, a plan had already begun to take root. 

Seokjin could be of great use to Namjoon.