Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His throat ran raw and dry, caked in the coarse dust that hung in the air. A single breath felt like a serrated blade sliding farther down his trachea, gradually slicing it open until he drowned on his own blood and saliva. 

The guard uniforms were beyond unconventional; rough magenta fabric that clung to his skin with sweat and further chafed his already tender flesh. There was no room to breathe; The layers made it feel like he was burning alive, every movement only seeming to pull the cloth tauter around his limbs.

As if it wasn’t already dark enough, the mesh of the mask veils his vision, his eyes straining to see so much as a hand in front of his face. They burn with exhaustion; the muscles of his eyelids stiff and weighted, a single blink threatening to drag him into darkness.  

The corporal pain couldn't hold a candle to everything else; the hatred that squirmed in his chest like it had a mind of his own, strangled his better judgement with thick and oily tentacles, clawed at his ambition with whetted nails. A monster he'd granted control, and now none of it needed to make sense because nothing else mattered. 

The patterns of hallways were starting to get repetitive, his intellect telling him he'd already made the same turn five times. The bright colors of the walls started to swirl with the darkness, voids of shaped arches and sets of stairs that lead to nothing but dead ends. 

He had to tell himself he wasn’t an idiot; it's just how this place was designed; a maze of dead ends and sickening colors with the sole purpose of driving its captors insane. He’d already lost his mind here once; he wasn’t going to let it happen again. 

Every throb of his headache, every sharp pain in his side from too little air, the sweat that bled from his pores and stung in his eyes; All of it would be worth it to destroy this place; leave behind a pile of ash, finally free the ghosts of screams that lived in its walls. 

No one would suffer again as he had, no one else would die at the biting hands of greed and despair. It’d be over with a single flick of a switch, a simple countdown then this whole hell would go up in flames.

He’d lived every waking moment side by side with echoes of voices; some dark and robotic; feigning authority and fairness, Incoherent cries for help, pleas for forgiveness and second chances that would never come. It had to end, and he would go with it, he wouldn’t live another moment with the knowledge of what he was, what he’d done. 

He would find these sponsors and kill them slowly; savor every choked breath and shriek until they finally understood how it felt to be helpless. Sick and twisted monsters that found entertainment in massacre, drained every ounce of humanity from the world one game at a time. 

They probably thought they were safe, sat up in their penthouse with money as a shield, life coming to them as simple as a wave of the hand. They knew nothing about the agony they influenced, the tortures of living with blood on their hands. Either that or they didn't care; these players were but simple hunting sport, fighting dogs and racehorses. 

The hallways bend into something more familiar; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen it all before and not just in his present spiral. It triggers flashes of memories; barrels of guns aimed at his back, gloved hands that dug into the brunt of his arms.

He was so close now, he could feel it. Months of searching and mapping islands, sailing through storms with waves that shredded metal; left alone with his thoughts to form a plan as simple as infiltrate and destroy.

It’s incredible what pain can do when stoked by anger; lead you to abandon the morals you once swore to, bend love and forgiveness into something grotesque that hauls you around like a puppet on strings. 

Faith and hope were just words, just ideas, and like everything else they had no meaning. The only design that meant anything, that made him feel anything, was revenge.

One last turn down a hallway that looked just like the rest, and there it was; The very elevator that had carried him to his demise; An offer and a choice in which he’d finally lost himself, given in to damnation and succumbed to his fear. 

It was selfish, it was evil. It made him just like them.

Using the elevator was risky but he didn’t care. Maybe part of him wanted them to know that he was there, that he was coming for them; whatever alarm went off, whatever plans they had for evacuation, It didn't matter as long as they felt afraid. 

It was wrong of him to think that way; drunk on what little power he had. But the idea of them running, scurrying off to their little helicopters all because of him; it felt fucking righteous. 

Their supposed authority, reduced to nothing by a simple threat. Cowering, all because one of their little betting chips had come back from the dead. 

Still, he hesitates. If they got away there'd be nothing he could do about it; another victory for these people who feigned superiority with stacks of cash, confirmation of his weakness against them. 

He had to be smarter than his urges, hold back until the time was right. Too long had he spent fighting to get here, he wasn’t going to mess it all up for some ego trip. 

His eyes fall to a small vent near the floor. It’s hard to see; painted over to match the surrounding walls, just small divots of what looks to be metal paneling standing out against the dark.

He unzips his guard uniform just enough to slip a hand into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open. He tugs off one of his leather gloves and kneels to the ground, starting to work at the screws.

At first, they refuse to bow, locked in place by dried paint and age. It doesn’t help that his palms are sweaty with nerves, the knife sliding around in his grasp no matter how much he seems to adjust the grip. 

After a long struggle, the blade finally catches and he manages a solid twist, the satisfying crack of splintering paint and metal ringing out into the silence. He rotates the screw until it tumbles loosely from its socket, clattering against the floor. 

The other three come easier, like a rhythm of turning bolts and flaking paint before the vent cover falls. He catches it to avoid making more noise than necessary, carefully propping it up against the wall and slipping his knife back into his pocket. 

He produces a small flashlight and clicks it on; it had been too perilous to use in the hallways, but now he’d need it no matter the risks. 

He flashes the beam into the opening, the vent stretching upwards, coated in a thin layer of soot which was sure to help with his current throat predicament. Nonetheless he crawls forward on his elbows, grasping the light between his teeth as he shifts through the tight space. 

He reaches back and pulls down the hood of his guard uniform, unfastening the mask and slipping it off to help better define his vision. The vent seems to go on forever, no end visible by the glow of his flashlight. 

As he continues on, the claustrophobia starts to get to him; the inlet so small that he has to lie flat on his stomach, arms tucked to his chest as he barely manages to shimmy ahead. Progress was slow and every movement scrapes the cheap uniform material up against his sides, skin inflamed by heat and fabric. 

His headache starts to get worse, whether it’s the dust he kicks up with every slide forwards or the looming expanse that only seems to slim the farther he gets. What if he ended up trapped in here; unable to move, crying for help but no one would be able to hear him. Eventually his flashlight would run out of battery, shrouding him in darkness up until his last moments when he finally died of dehydration. 

He shakes the thoughts from his head, pushing back against the rising anxiety that pangs in his chest and taking a few deep breaths. There had to be another entrance somewhere, whether or not it was where he needed to be, was the question. 

He's going up, which is a good sign, except for the fact that as the vent grew steeper, he’s forced to press his hands into the walls to keep from falling. His arms start to shake from the effort of holding himself up; He wouldn't get hurt if he lost his grip, but he still didn't want to waste any more time by sliding back the way he’d come. 

Just as the ache starts to grow unbearable, he sees it, slivers of light a few meters ahead. He sighs in relief at the prospect, reaching the vent and shifting onto his side. 

He pulls his legs to his chest, turning around in the duct so his feet face the panel. He kicks the cover, the space around him shaking from the impact but it doesn't budge. He waits a moment, listening for any outside movement before he tries again, pounding a shoe against the slotted metal.

It bends under the collision but still doesn't come loose, forcing him to throw a third and final blow which knocks the vent cover square off its hinges. 

He crawls backwards out of the shaft, coming in contact with a cold and ornately tiled floor. It almost looked like a mosaic; shards of colored glass and stone arranged into patterns.

He stands up, looking around. He was in another hallway but this one felt very different, none of the solid colored and blocky decor, but instead something that looked rather extravagant. 

It felt like how he imagined a fancy hotel; tacky gold wallpaper and embellished chandeliers, black doors lining the walls with elaborate number plates. The whole place even smelled like money, lavish colognes and perfumes seeming to waft through the air casually like the scent of any simple candle. 

Once the sense of awe wore off realization struck; this was exactly where he needed to be. Nowhere other than the VIP lounge would be designed this way, eccentric just for show and favor.

He slips the guard mask back over his face, the drawn white square now visible from under the mesh. The pink hood follows suit along with his flashlight, stored away before he zips the uniform back into place. 

He brushes himself off, trying to ignore the rush of adrenaline that courses through his veins at the thought that they could be around any corner, sitting, waiting, completely unawares. He could simply stalk up behind them and slit their throats, maybe leave a few bullets in their skulls. 

He had to find them first, formulate an actual plan. Though it’d be nice to walk in guns blazing, he knew it probably wouldn't end well; the island was too heavily guarded. If he so much as made a threatening gesture towards one of the VIPs this whole place would be on him in a second. 

He lurks towards one of the rooms against the far wall and reaches for the doorknob. The plate on the outside is labeled 001, he figures he’d be stepping into some sort of chambers, maybe he could find information on who the VIP’s were; take them down not only from the outside but the inside as well. 

He wearily twists the handle, pushing the door open just a sliver to peek inside; Sure enough, he’s met with a regal bedspread, ornamented sheets and comforters that looked like they cost a fortune, simple furniture pieces that could easily put him out of a job. The room reeked with the tang of expensive cigars and leather; suitcases stacked in the corner that spilled over with branded finery. 

It made him sick.

He pushes through the door and gazes about the empty room, his eyes landing back on the suitcases. If he wanted personal information, where better to find it than their literal belongings. 

He rummages through the bags, searching for simple things like a passport or wallet; digging around in the pockets of suit jackets and trousers, hoping to find anything that could confirm an identity. 

After a few moments he starts to lose hope; of course it wouldn’t be that easy, these people knew exactly how much risk they were taking. Letting even a speck of dust out of place could ruin their death games, and they couldn't have that, now, could they? 

He wanders about the room, sliding open drawers and checking between crevices. There had to be something of use, something that connected to who these people were; even if it was just a shopping receipt or business card, maybe a plane ticket if they didn’t all fly by private means. 

He even goes as far as flipping back the bedcovers, slightly shocked to see the sheets stained with what looked to be… body paint?

He’s too wrapped up in his search to hear a subtle creak of the door behind him, finally pulled from his musing by a low growl, "What are one of you **** ***** in my ****”

He goes still, slowly turning to see a burly man in a lion mask standing in the doorway and blocking his exit. He hadn’t spoken or heard English in years but the deep and threatening tone dripping from this man’s lips was word enough. 

His mind spun with a response, piecing together what English he could remember into a hopefully coherent answer, “Cleaning… help…” 

The masked man speaks again, voice still gruff, “What?” 

He grapples with the right words, stumbling over syllables. There was something that Americans had called it when he went on a trip for work once, some sort of maid that would come by and clean while you were away… what was it…room…? “Room service.” 

The lion cocks his head, looking him up and down with an unseen expression, though the eyes of his mask shoot daggers. There's a tick of silence, the two trapped in standoff before the VIP bursts out laughing. 

It’s a corrupt sound, not a lick of genuine humor standing behind it; soulless and mocking. It strikes a fear in his chest that he didn’t know he could experience, a shiver trailing up his spine. 

He thinks about trying to run, maybe he could manage to slip past; duck by the lion’s side while he’s distracted. The VIP didn't exactly look supple but there was the risk of getting caught; He’d taken down big guys before, but this was a different story, not to mention how exhausted he was.

The lion goes quiet, like a flipped switch, stepping forward into the room, “We don’t do that here.”

It’s all words that are simple enough to understand, but he doesn't even need to hear them to know exactly how much trouble he's in.

He looks to the wider gap between the lion and the door, deciding its best to take his chances and bolting to the side. He dodges past the VIP and out the door, pivoting and sprinting down the hallway as fast as he can manage. 

It's only a matter of seconds before he hears heavy footsteps trailing up behind him, his pace picking up innately. His breath catches with every step, splitting pain shooting up his side and piercing his lungs, but he pushes back.

He couldn't drop just yet, no matter how bad it hurt he had to keep going. There was no choice but to see through to the end of this nightmare, fix his wrongs even if it ultimately meant nothing.

The top floors seemed to mimic those below; twisting hallways and rooms with no real end, like a fever dream of blinding golds and black, but this wasn't a dream, it was more real than anything. The slam of his soles against the patterned floor, legs carrying him from a fate that only meant death, every sensation radiating through him with stark intensity. 

He veers off to the right, another stretch of hallway opening out in front of him, opposed to the others, however, this one has an ending; Two large double doors with metal handles serving as the only entrance or exit in sight.

He had no idea where they would lead but what other option did he have; one wrong step and the lion would have him pinned. 

He wrenches the doors open, quickly slipping past before slamming them shut and spinning around. He finds himself in some sort of viewing lounge, his thoughts faltering at the sheer sight of the expanse.

He steps out onto a monochrome platform, a staircase leading down into the massive circular room; dark blue flooring, velvet chairs and couches in vibrant colors, a garden of anything from ferns to flowers sprawling over tables and railings. 

It’s not the view that makes him freeze, but instead the other VIP’s; sprawled out across furniture and clutching glasses of champagne, matching animal masks visible even with their backs facing him. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but the moment was short lived; the lion crashing through the double doors behind him and snatching at the fabric of his uniform.

He barely notices the grip before being hurled forward, pitching headfirst down the marble stairs. 

It all moves so fast, the crack of his skull against stone seeming to echo through the room, a few VIPs finally turning their heads. It doesn’t stop there, his body going limp from the impact, tumbling down the remaining stairs, accompanied by the raw snap of bones.

He finally falls still, sprawled across the floor with strewn limbs, every inch of his figure throbbing. He can’t make sense of anything; vision blurred by pain, the sounds of excited voices all distant whispers. 

He feels firm hands wrap around his frame, tossing him around like some broken doll, forcing him up on his knees and pulling his arms behind his back. The fear doesn’t set in until he feels something pull taught around his wrists, followed by ankles, his bear instincts pulsing to wriggle free. 

There’s a noise like laughter, his eyes finally adjusting as the ache withdraws; The VIPs circling him like he’s some sort of caged animal, “****** we ** **** the **** ***** his… *********** ********?”

“I **** we deal with him *********, this is the **** *** I’ve had *** ***”

He feels the hood of his uniform drawn down, his mask roughly unhitched. He can see everything clearer now; keen eyes jeering at him through gold sockets, the VIP’s movements practically giddy.

They were the predators and now he was nothing but caught prey.

Hands catch on his secondary hood, covering all but his eyes, the fabric torn from his head in one fell swoop. By this point it was over; these monsters would kill him, not just that, but likely torture him up until his final breath. All of his work, all of the blood it had cost to get here only for him to be ripped to shreds by a pack of hungry wolves.

He couldn’t let it end this way, he had to do something. If only he could get to his knife… maybe if he tried unzipping his suit…

It was with perfectly timed and crude intention that one of the women steps up and draws down the zipper of his uniform. What he could see of the disappointment on her face was almost comical, her hands pulling back the fabric only to find another layer of clothing.

“Is this ******* a ***?” The VIPs all step back, frightened by something he can’t make sense of. He looks down at the floor where they all seem to be staring, a small shape catching his eye; His police badge lay sprawled on the ground, having fallen from his jacket during the commotion, landing face up. 

They turn to one another, muttering under their breath and stirring about like a flock of anxious birds; “Who ***** a ****.” The lion growls, stalking towards him, seizing a bottle of vodka from one of the nearby tables, “It’s not like he’s ******* out of here *****.”

The lion drives a foot against his chest, toppling him to the floor where he falls against his side. Little did this asshole know, that only made it ten times easier for him to thumb at his pocket, his knife already starting to fall loose. 

“******* **** me **** him down.” The lion commands, kicking him onto his back. The shift finally knocks his knife free and he jolts to catch it, concealing it in a tight fist. He flicks it open, movements hidden between the floor and his torso as he starts sawing at the ropes around his wrists. 

Another VIP in a suit and stag mask cautiously wanders over and kneels to the ground, turning towards the lion as if awaiting orders, “**** his **** ****.” The lion instructs, the stag immediately moving under bid; seizing his head and forcing it back, his chin pointed towards the ceiling.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as the lion twists off the quark of the vodka bottle, face twisting into a grin. The VIP strides towards him and crouches down, snatching his collar up in a fist; “You look like you could use a drink.”

Some sort of cocky expression, he’d heard it before and it was simple enough to make sense of; someone appearing ‘in need’ of alcohol was a jab at physical aspects. This though, was a blatant threat. 

He knows exactly what's coming, groups of loan sharks having pulled the same tactic on him tens of times; It burned like hell and felt like you were drowning, but was manageable. The best strategy was swallowing as much as you could and praying none of it entered your lungs. 

The lion nods, the stag wrenching open his mouth. He makes little effort to fight back; staying tense would only make it hurt worse. 

He sees a tilt of the vodka through his lashes, taking a sharp breath and trying to center his attention. He focuses on cutting himself loose, ignoring the impulsive gag that ripples through him at the neck of a bottle shoved down his throat, the sharp scalding sensation as viscous liquid gushes past his windpipe.

The lion pours meticulously, waiting until it seems he might break off and risk a breath before flooding him with more. The muscles of his jaw ache from staying forced apart, his chest screaming for air but he doesn't give in.

Eventually, the lion gets impatient and pulls the bottle away, watching him with a furrowed brow for any hint of a gasp or cough. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give any signs of struggle, completely deadpan until he feels the stag’s grip loosen. 

The next few moments are a blur as he finally cuts free, tearing an arm out from under him and driving his knife into the stag's side. The lanky man jolts back, crying out in pain, a few of the other VIP’s stumbling away, some turning and calling out for help. 

He wastes no time hashing through the bonds around his ankles and jumping to his feet, spinning towards the lion. He draws his revolver, pointing it at the man’s head, “And you- look like you could use a bullet between the eyes.”

He flicks off the safety, prowling forwards. The lion puts his hands up, walking back in match with his pace, “W-wait we can **** ***** this-” The man pleads, but he presses on, not stopping until he has the lion cornered.

“I’ll give you ******* you ****-” The lion whips around, looking back and forth between the walls in panic, “Do you **** money?”

Money. That's really the only thing these people thought mattered. Not the world of struggle that existed underneath them, the countless lives they had ruined, families they’d torn apart at the seams.    

A refreshed anger moves him to pull the trigger, a shot ringing out into space, bouncing off the walls and ceiling like he’d fired a thousand rounds at once. 

After all this time, he’d actually done it. Even if it was just one of them, just one less evil that existed on this earth, at least it meant something, at least it fixed something.

It’s not until he notices the man in front of him still standing, eyes shadowed yet full of life, that confusion sets in. His gaze flicks to the gun in his hands, finger still hovering a short distance from the trigger. Had he imagined it? Some sort of hallucination under pressure? Maybe this really was too good to be true.

There's a soft thump behind his back and he whips around to find the stag VIP, face down on the floor, a bullet wound, already brimming with blood, square in his neck. 

He hadn’t thought to check behind him, too caught up in the moment to notice the frail and limping VIP creep up behind his back, a half-shattered glass bottle clutched to the stag’s chest. But it was over now, finished off with a single bullet, a trail of which he connects to the back of the room. 

A pink guard, a real one this time, stands center of the double doors, SMG still aimed high but not at him; the weapon was pointed straight at the rest of the cowering VIP’s, passing him over completely. 

It’s within a matter of seconds that the room is crowded with soldiers, closing in on the investors and barking orders. Their initial disregard of his presence is short lived, a pair of triangle masked men marching up to him, guns trained at his chest; "Lower your weapon."

Finally Korean- 

His eyes flick around the room, fifteen or so armed guards swarming the space, a few simply standing at attention, blocking exits or waiting for a sign to fire. 

6 revolver rounds, and a pocket switchblade...

Maybe some battles aren't worth fighting.  

Chapter Text

The bar was really nothing special; just a hole in the wall type place with sticky tables and the lingering smells of sour beer and cigarettes. It was cheap enough and the drinks definitely spoke to that fact, but after long grueling work days no one really cared whether or not their shots tasted quite right.

Despite its unremarkable landscape it had a decent customer base; regulars who’d show up and shoot their shot with a pretty girl, groups of friends, the occasional solitary character looking to escape. Like any other night the bar was buzzing with life; speakers droning pop music overtop the clinking of glasses and excited murmuring about anything from work gossip to politics.

Usually Gi Hun would’ve humored his friends and let loose, but tonight felt different. He couldn’t really pay attention to conversations, his mind drifting off mid sentence. Even the drinks tasted worse than usual; something about them was dejected, matching his mood in the worst way.

“Why the long face?” Jung Bae pesters, nudging him in the side, “Missing your boyfriend that much?”

Gi Hun scowls at his friend, tipping back a shot, “We’ve been broken up for two months, when are you going to stop with this ‘boyfriend’ bullshit.”

“When you stop acting like the world's ending whenever he doesn't show up.”

Gi Hun sighs, the sharp taste of alcohol coating his tongue; He was a little woozy, his mind spinning with far too many bottles of soju. He wasn’t to the point of passing out, but wasted enough that a quick glance up at the dull bar lights would trigger a wave of soreness behind his eyes.

Mi Nyeo snickers, shooting Jung Bae a look, “Aw, Jung Bae leave the poor man alone, he’s mourning the loss of Sang Woo’s magic dick~”

“Says you.” Gi Hun snaps, “As if you didn’t spend all of high school fawning over his highbrow ass.”

“Mm- he’s hot but he doesn't make enough money for my taste.” Mi Nyeo smirks, “I need a man who can support my… lifestyle~”

Gi Hun didn’t know why Jung Bae had insisted on inviting her, probably to lull the absence of Sang Woo. His friend knew he found Mi Nyeo insufferable; always rattling off nonstop about some new guy she’d fucked or stolen money from.

She was like a bitchy vampire, sucking the life and funds out of anyone who dared fall for her terrible seduction tactics.

“Hey- psst, Gi Hun-” Jung Bae hisses, elbowing him. He flinches, grabbing at his torso, “Ow-! What?” He remarks, shooting Jung Bae a glare, the man grinning, “You see that guy over there?” He says under his breath, nodding in the direction of a stranger, “The one alone in the corner.”

Gi Hun grumbles, turning his head in the direction of his friend's gesture. His stomach curls in on itself; the two hits to the side really weren’t helping with his rising nausea.

His gaze falls to a corner of the establishment, settling on a dark figure; a man, sitting alone at a far off table and clutching a glass of whiskey. Gi Hun raises a brow; the man wearing a full on formal getup; A suit and tie, surprisingly well tailored to his figure, his clothes neatly ironed and adept. The strangest part of it all was the color; every single one of his garments, from head to toe, a deep silky black.

“Psh- did he just come from a funeral or something?” Gi Hun scoffs, tossing back yet another shot and turning to his friend, “He’s dressed way too fancy for a place like this.”

“Who are we talking about?” Mi Nyeo butts in, “Who’s dressed fancy?”

“No one.” Gi Hun snaps, “It’s none of your business.”

Jung Bae frowns at him, “Gi Hun be nice-” He says, shoving his friend lightly, "No need to keep secrets, we're all friends here.” “And besides, I was gonna say, doesn't he look like Mi Neyo’s type?”

Gi Hun’s eyes flick back to the stranger; Short, relatively muscular build, brunette. Jung Bae was right, he looked just like all the other assholes Mi Neyo had tried to get with, probably acted like them too.

“What! Where?” Mi Neyo gasps, glancing around the room, her eyes falling to the stranger, “Ooo~ he looks like he makes quite the paycheck…” She hums, slipping off her chair and standing up, “Time to put this pretty face to work.”

“Please dont…” Gi Hun groans, dropping his head into his hands, Mi Neyo spinning back towards him with a scowl, “Well have you got any better ideas then? Not like anyone's going to fall for your looks.” She mocks, giving him a onceover, “You look homeless.”

“I actually think that's a great plan!” Jung Bae remarks, sporting a goofy grin, “Gi Hun could wingman you, start getting some experience back out in the field!”

“What!?” Mi Neyo and Gi Hun blurt in unison, looking back and forth between each other, “Jung Bae, I think you should maybe lay off the drinks for a while.” Gi Hun says, pulling a bottle of soju from his friends grasp, “It’s starting to fuck with your head.”

“No, I'm serious!” Jung Bae insists, turning to Gi Hun “Go talk to him, just casually! You really need to start moving on and this is a good place to start.” “Besides, your whole lovesick outlook is really beginning to ruin the mood.”

Mi Neyo crosses her arms, “This is stupid, I’m doing it myself.” She says, spinning around again, “NO! No-” Gi Hun stops her, standing up suddenly, “Dont- I- I’ll take care of it…” He mumbles, hanging his head.

The last thing he needed tonight was Mi Neyo embarrassing them in front of the entire bar. He recalled once she’d stood up on a table and started singing, Gi Hun wishing he could just curl up into a ball and disappear.

“That's my boy!” Jung Bae says, clapping him on the back, “Go woo him with that good old Gi Hun charm!”

Gi Hun grumbles, trudging off towards a corner of the bar. What “charm” did he supposedly have? Getting someone to pity him? ‘Hey I’m a drunk divorced dad! Wanna come meet my friend who I secretly hate? She just wants to use you for money and I’m enabling it, but that's fineeee right?!’

He rakes his gaze over the stranger in the corner as he walks closer. He had to admit he was mildly curious; why the hell was someone with such a clear level of status hanging out in a middle of nowhere bar.

Probably some asinine reason like an ego boost; engaging with the slums because it made him feel better about himself.

The stranger lifts his gaze as Gi Hun ambles closer, watching him blankly, “Uh- H-hey!” Gi Hun says, grabbing at the back of his neck, fighting to look anywhere but the man in front of him, “Um- m-my friend- she… wanted to meet you…”

The stranger doesn’t respond for a moment, looking Gi Hun up and down cooly, “Why couldn’t she ask me herself?” He inquires, his low and velvety voice hitting Gi Hun like a truck.

He feels himself tense, “I-I Uh- she uhm- was… nervous?”

The man lets out a brisk sigh, vaguely similar to that of a concealed chuckle, “And you aren't?" He smirks, looking Gi Hun in the eye, nearly knocking him back.

He could tell from a distance that the stranger had a dark stare, but nothing could have prepared him for coming face to face with it; Eyes like deep pools of chocolate brown that pried him open, reached into his chest and strangled his remaining confidence.

“I- I…” Gi Hun stutters, wringing his hands. He would've tried to run away but he was locked in place by the man’s gaze, it had a grip on him that didn’t make sense, “Why don’t you have a seat.” The stranger says gesturing to an empty chair, “You can tell me a bit more about this… friend of yours.”

Gi Hun gulps; this guy really was just another pretentious asshole, why the hell did he ever agree to this? He sits down wearily, never granted a break from the man’s sharp stare; eyes still following him as he settles against the stool.

“Your friend. Why does she want to meet me?” The stranger asks, taking a slow sip of whiskey. The ice clinks against his glass like a word of caution, Gi Hun shuddering, “She uh- said you're her… her type…” Gi Hun manages, squirming under the continued gaze, “Said you were…uh.. cute-”

“Is that so?”

What the fuck is with these vague ass questions?! Just agree to talk to her so I can get this the hell over with- “Y-yeah…” Gi Hun stammers, his leg bouncing underneath the table.

The man clasps his hands together and leans forwards, voice breathy, “What’s your name?” He asks, finally peeling his stare from Gi Hun, eyes flicking down to his shaking leg.

“S-Seong Gi Hun-” He chokes, pulse spiking for no discernible reason,“Well then, Mr. Seong,” The stranger says, tilting his head, “What do you think of this friend? Should I indulge her request?”

Gi Hun starts fidgeting with the collar of his shirt; Maybe it was just the alcohol but he was starting to feel very warm,“I- I mean… She’s- nice… I guess…”

“That doesn't sound very convincing.”

The man leans back, Gi Hun finally getting a second to breathe. The stranger's gaze returns to his face, running over the curves of his jawline, “But fine.” The man states, “If you think I can trust her, then I will.”

What fault do I have for your own damn decision? “Oh- uhm- o-okay…” Gi Hun hesitates, moving to stand up, “Where do you think you're going?” The man intervenes, swirling a finger over the brim of his whiskey glass; “You have someone to introduce.”

“I- I-have to go get her…”

“Just call her over.” The stranger says, flicking his wrist.

“I- okay…” Gi Hun sighs, turning back towards his friends; Mi Neyo scowls in his direction, having likely watched the whole thing play out like a hawk. He rubs his brow, beckoning her over to which she immediately shoots up.

She scurries towards the table, shoving past Gi Hun and sitting down, sporting her best fake smile, “Hey there stranger~” She trills, biting her lip.

Gi Hun swallows,“Uh- this is my friend uhm-” “So what’s a guy like you doing here all alone~?” Mi Neyo sings over him, pursing her lips into a mocking frown.

The man’s expression lay flat, eyes passing over her face with apathy, “I wanted a drink, why else.”

Mi Neyo huffs, a strand of hair laying over her face flipping up before silently smacking back against her forehead; “Oh come on- everyone's got a story.” She sighs, lashes fluttering, “Especially someone like you~” She reaches out, subtly grabbing at the man's hand only for it to be swiftly drawn away.

“And what am I ‘like’ exactly?” The stranger asks, though the second she starts talking he tunes her out, gaze flicking back to Gi Hun; He stands there awkwardly, eyes floating around the room.

He looked a little unsteady, face flushed from one to many shots, his pupils slightly dilated under the light. Anyone else would have considered him messy looking; his clothes a wreck, hair frizzed from the bar’s humidity, but for some reason, he felt impossible to look away from.

“So anyways you just seem like the kind of guy who’d have something to hide.”

The man whips his head back towards Mi Neyo as she finishes, realizing he’d been staring, “Ah.” He retorts, tapping his foot once she starts up again, “Have you ever been high? like- on drugs- I remember there was this one time that I got like, really stoned….”

He drums his fingers against the table, Mi Neyo’s nagging rant seeming to drag on forever. He occasionally would force a tight lipped smile or nod whenever she’d pause, but his attention was always elsewhere, “But like I ended up fucking like five guys that night so, it wasn’t all bad.”

He sighs in relief when she finally goes quiet, risking a quick glance at Gi Hun who had at some point wandered away. He sits at the bar, chatting up one of the tenders with a wide smile and a glint in his eyes that spoke innocence.

“How well do you know him?” The man asks, pointing Mi Neyo to Gi Hun, “What-? Oh- that moron.” She scoffs, “I don’t know him very well, never cared to, but I swear it’s like he never leaves me alone.”

“So you're around him frequently then?”

Mi Neyo rolls her eyes, “Unfortunately… I probably get dumber the more time I spend with him” She mutters, getting no response; The man peering across the ways at Gi Hun again, his mind reeling.

“Why- you recognise him?” She asks, snapping him back to the present, “Oh- No. No I don’t.” He says, foot tapping faster underneath the table. He grips his near empty whiskey glass in a shaky fist, twirling it in his grasp; The glass would occasionally catch the light, glowing around the edges just like-

A loud crash rings out beside them, both of them turning towards the sound; Jung Bae sprawled out on the floor, a smashed bottle of Soju still in his grasp, eyelids fluttering drunkenly. Gi Hun bolts forward, hauling his friend to his feet and brushing him off, “shit- Jung Bae I told you you’d had too much.”

“HeYy… gI HuN- hoW’vE you bEen mAN…” Jung Bae slurs, pitching forwards. Gi Hun catches him, slinging him over his shoulder with much struggle, “That’s it. I’m taking you home.” He says, plodding towards the door.

“WhAt… NoOoOo…” Jung Bae whines, as Gi Hun drags him along, “wE jUsT gOt HeRe…”

“What the hell are you- talking about? We’ve been- here- for hours!” Gi Hun says through heavy pants, stoping a moment to catch his breath; “Fuck- your heavy-“

He starts moving again, dizziness smacking him across the face the second he takes a step. One more shift and feet slip out from under him, a startled yelp escaping him as he stumbles forward, bracing for the oncoming ground.

It always had to be in a room full of people, the weight of humiliation twisting in his chest. He was always an embarrassment, about to crash into the floor, crushed by his intoxicated friend. Maybe he’d die from the collision; never have to deal with seeing the look of distaste on peoples faces when he stood back up.

But the ground never came, as if time had frozen in place to save him. It took him a second to register, eventually opening his eyes, hovering a few feet from the floor, something like a faded cologne stinging in the air.

He feels a firm sensation wrapping his waist; a broad arm pulling him back to standing. The grip was dizzying, warm and gentle in a way that spooled heat in his chest.

“Are you alright?” A smooth voice asks, Gi Hun shaking off the feeling and turning towards the sound. The stranger from earlier stands next to him; concern frozen across his face as he rakes his eyes over Gi Hun’s wobbly bearing, hands still hovering near the taller man’s waist.

Something sharp and angry stabs in Gi Hun’s chest at the recognition; of course he just had to be saved by some pompous rich assfuck because that was even worse than falling. “I’m fine.” Gi Hun grumbles under his breath, shoving the man’s hands away.

He trudges forwards again, gaze fixed on the floor until he feels a sudden weight lift from his shoulders.

He looks to his right; The stranger, having walked around to the other side of Jung Bae and hoisted the man up over his own shoulder. Gi Hun glares at him but doesn’t complain, the weight on his side was more measured now, bearable.

He pushes open the bar entrance and lumbers outside, a cool breeze stinging his skin, rippling up underneath the hem of his shirt like claws. He shudders but the air feels refreshing when matched against the heat of his face.

The stranger closes the door behind them, reaching up and pressing a stable hand into Jung Bae’s chest, “Careful he might throw up on you.” Gi Hun scorns, “Wouldn’t wanna ruin your showy little outfit.”

The man ignores him, helping Jung Bae forward, “How far away are you parked?” He asks, gazing out across the street, “Why. Are you already tired?” Gi Hun mutters, “Rich pricks like you, never worked a fucking day in their lives.”

“You know, I don’t have to be helping you.” The stranger says, face unchanging, “You're right. You don't." Gi Hun spits, “What is this? Your idea of charity?”

The man scowls at him, going quiet as they walk; silently allowing himself to be led to Gi Hun’s car while the evening wind circles them.

The three make their way up to a silver suv, Gi Hun heaving the back door open and fighting to jam Jung Bae inside. The stranger notices Gi Hun’s struggle and rushes over to help, lifting Jung Bae from the ground and laying him over the backseat.

They both pull back, out of breath, Gi Hun stepping forward and slamming the car door. He moves away, turning his back to the stranger, “You can leave now.” He utters, “Have fun getting off to your community service and my bitchy friend.”

“Quite the friend she is, letting you take this on by yourself.” The man says, crossing his arms, “How often does this happen?”

“Like you give a shit.” Gi Hun snaps, waving him off, “Go away. I don’t need your damn pity.” He marches around to the driver's side and rips the door open, “Goodnight.” He says sharply, shooting the man a final glare before slipping inside.

He glances back at Jung Bae with a frown, his friend passed out against the headrest, drooling slightly. He rolls his eyes, turning back to face the windshield and starting the car.

He moves to pull away but stops; a subtle knock sounding next to him. Can this asshole go the fuck away- “What do you want.” Gi Hun snaps, rolling down his window, “Gonna give me money or something now?”

“I just wanted to say I admire your loyalty.” The man outside asserts, leaning over and looking Gi Hun in the eye; “You're a good friend Mr. Seong.”

Gi Hun scoffs “Yeah. Right.” He feels his face flush, jerking his head away. He leans into the shadow provided by his car, praying the man doesn't notice.

“Goodnight.” The stranger bids, turning away, words practically jumping out of Gi Hun’s throat, regrettably needy; “Wait- I- I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

The man looks back at him, his expression slightly surprised though smug.

“I’m In Ho, Hwang In Ho.”

With that he leaves, passing Gi Hun a subtle smirk before pivoting and walking off into the night.

~

Gi Hun shrinks back in his seat, pounding a fist against his forehead, “Idiot, idiot, idiot.” He grumbles, Jung Bae stirring in the backseat. Gi Hun sits up, turning towards his friend to insure he hadn’t woken him up, “Jung Bae-” He hisses, getting no response.

He sighs staring out his car windshield and up at the sky; The glass was blemished slightly but he could still make out a few stars, perhaps even the occasional constellation. His mind wanders, stress fading out into the silence of the view, his eyelids growing heavy.

He shakes his head, forcing his eyes open, come on Gi Hun- stay awake- He shifts his car into gear, pulling out onto the street; moving slowly so as not to disturb his friend.

The drive was starkly quiet, though that was expected given the late hour. Gi Hun was thankful for the weekend; staying out until 2am would not have helped his work ethic, nor his already crippling boss-employee relationship.

The hushed road noise was calming, though it only made staying conscious more of a challenge; without the occasional glare of streetlights aggravating his headache, falling asleep would have been inevitable. He was just barely still coming around by the time he pulled up to Jung Bae’s address.

He lugs his friend from the backseat, his body aching as he carries the man up to his front door, ringing the bell. Jung Bae might as well have been dead; no noise or movement could shake him anymore, his breathing so quiet that Gi Hun had to stop and check.

Jung Bae’s wife wanders up to the door, her own face striped with exhaustion as she pulls it open, “Thank you Gi Hun.” She expresses, helping him bring her husband inside, “You really should just leave him there next time, maybe it’d teach him a lesson.”

Jung Bae had recently secured a new job, one that paid more than Gi Hun could ever dream of; desk work like filing papers or writing documents and he only needed a handful of hours to make what Gi Hun did in a week.

He and his wife had moved; a larger house in a suburban neighborhood not too far from Gi Hun’s apartment, but distanced in a way that felt private. Three floors, modern architecture and extensive interior, even the candles Mrs. Park burns were out of Gi Hun’s price range.

They drag Jung Bae into the living room, propping him up against the couch; “I still appreciate it though.” Mrs. Park sighs, “He’d probably have ended up dead on the street by now if it weren’t for you.”

Gi Hun nods, smiling lightly, “Anytime Mrs. Park.”

She pats him on the shoulder, looking him over, “You should go home and get some sleep.” the woman sighs, “You're barely standing as is, do you need me to drive you back?”

“Oh no, of course not.” Gi Hun insists. He forces a smile to combat her concern, knowing full well he’d be better off taking the offer; Though she didn’t look too sturdy herself.

“I’ll be alright, have a nice rest of your evening.” He gives her a little wave as he heads out, shutting the door softly behind him.

He slips a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with shaky hands, a delicate wind passing and nipping at his fingers. A single hit is enough to numb his pain, mind wrapped in a fuzzy haze as he wanders back to his car.

Maybe he could just forget tonight ever happened, smoke enough that by the time he woke up in the morning it’d all be gone; The stupid way he’d gotten flustered by a man he didn't even know, the weird feeling that rose from somewhere deep at the hold around his waist.

None of it mattered anyway, they'd probably never see each other again.

He’d likely gone back to the bar and rejected Mi Nyeo, forgot about Gi Hun not but a few minutes later; just another indignant drunkard who he’d felt obligated to help, check it off on his list of good deeds.

At most, maybe someday in the future they'd pass one another on the street, barely acknowledge each other's presence. Maybe they’d just feel it, know something was off; a silent reminder of their past interaction.

Gi Hun curses at himself, leeching the thoughts from his mind as he drives home. He was just drunk, just lonely… too tired to think.
~

He enters his apartment, dropping a stack of mail against the counter with a light smack.

His place was obscenely messy, he hadn’t really gotten much time to clean or had the need to. Piles of clothes spotted his bedroom floor accompanied by occasional stacks of instant ramen cups that he hadn’t bothered to throw away. Half empty soju bottles huddled on surfaces, the stale liquid darkening with age.

His attempts at decorating; bookshelves and throw pillows, all scattered across the floor and coated in a layer of dust. It smelled like cigarette ash and mold, and though Gi Hun was ashamed, he could never bring himself to fix it.

He’s greeted by a distant meow, his cat wandering over and staring up at him with wide eyes, “Hi buddy… how are you…” He trills, kneeling down and scritching underneath its chin, “You hungry?”

His only companion through times of struggle; a gentle black Persian with fluffy fur and warm yellow eyes. He was stray that Gi Hun had plucked off the streets during a particularly lonely evening and they hadn’t parted since.

The cat responds with a quiet mewl, hopping up on the counter and nuzzling up against his arm; “I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckles, pulling a bag of catfood from one of the cabinets and pouring a bowl.

“Here you go...” He says, setting the food down on the floor, giving his cat one final pat before standing back up. He moves to tidy the counter, slipping the bag back into its designated cabinet but not before noticing how light it feels.

He sifts through the mail against the counter; a handful of bills, a flimsy magazine, some sort of vacation advertisement. Underneath it all is a white envelope, bigger than the rest, the paper more stiff and official.

He flips it over and tears it open, retrieving a folded document from inside. He spreads the fold, stomach dropping as his eyes flick over the subject;

‘Eviction Notice’

He slams a fist against the counter, his cat jumping in surprise before scurrying off, “No- wait Mouse-!” He starts, spinning to chase the kitten only to quickly give up, falling back against the counter; “Shit…” He mutters, running a hand back through his hair.

His eyes burn with fatigue and angry tears, jaw clenched to bite them back, your an adult, fucking suck it up- He reaches back behind him, retrieving the letter from the table and reading over it again, though none of the words seem to stick.

…terminating tenancy…..failure to provide…overdue payments………sceduled removal…..30 days….

30 damn days to pay back four months of rent. Where the hell was he supposed to get that much money? His job paid nothing, he was already behind on loan payments, and his ex wife would never dare lend him a single cent.

Nausea rose up the back of his throat, the swelling of stomach acid burning in his lungs. It was about then that the daze of nicotine began to wear off, his whole body throbbing from the events of the evening.

He stumbles off to his bedroom, collapsing against his bed. The mattress was stiff and awkward, and his blankets were cheap, the stitching feeling rugged against his skin, though tonight neither of those things mattered.

He has no struggles falling asleep, rest slamming into him the second he lays down, his eyelids turning to lead. Sometimes he’d read before bed, aimlessly scroll through social media to fold into a sense of false reality.

Anything to pretend this shitty life he lived wasn’t real.