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Kalopsia

Summary:

If someone asked Jeonghan to sum up his life, he'd laugh bittery and describe it in one single word—a mess. A twisted, grinding mess of piling bills, soul-crushing job hours, dead-end classes and a father who leeched off every scrap of dignity from him.
He wasn't particularly proud of how he'd end up in the underground rings of hell, but at least it meant he could keep a roof over his head.
Seokmin was a fire incarnate—young, relentless and barreling towards the top with a cheeky grin and fists on fire. He was a rising star—a name both adored and loathed in the stinking cages. And he had an eye for Jeonghan. But so did Seungcheol—Seokmin's rival, hungry, sharp, and dangerous in every sense. Seungcheol was drawn to Jeonghan in a way that left bruises deeper than any fight.
For Jeonghan, these fights were survival—a bloody ticket out of debt and misery. For Seokmin, these fights were his passion—a future he'd burn for. For Seungcheol, these fights were a weapon—a way to dominate and claim.
When their paths collide, Jeonghan knew one of them was going to end up buried under the cages' unforgiving, blood-stained floors. He just prayed it wasn't him.

Chapter 1: 1.

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

We break bones the same way

we break hearts—without warning.

- MMA Commentary, 2007                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the beautiful, the bruised,

and the bastards who called it love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disclaimer

 Contains blood, violence, heartbreak, death, and men with too much jawline and not enough self-control. 

Viewer discretion advised.

If you came here for fluff, you made a wrong turn. 

Also, the author has no control over her characters. They unionized.

Read at your own risk—or don't, I'm not your mom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1.

Jeonghan's POV

The small table lamp sputtered, flickered, once, twice, and then—like everyone else in my life—completely gave up entirely, plunging the room into its usual sticky darkness. 

The ceiling fan groaned, like it was considering early retirement. It's speed faltered, blades stuttered as if even it had had enough of this apartment. 

They had cut the electricity. Yet again.

I let out a long, bitter sigh. Slammed the book close with a thud with the dramatic finality of someone trying to end a chapter in their life but only managing to dent the desk, and gave the fan a look. 

Not that it would care. It was most probably planning to escape into a nicer apartment. 

The fan slowly crawled to a stop, and the heat—the ugly, oppressive heat—crept in, crawling like it owned the place. 

It wasn't intolerable. Just soul-sucking. Like living under someone's armpit.

I pushed the chair out of the way with one foot, grimaced at how loud it creaked and walked out of the room.

Our apartment was a disaster zone. 

Too small, too cluttered and definitely not meant for two people who seemed to get on each other's nerves just by merely existing in the same square footage.

Not that my father was home too often—always out, always smoking, drinking, gambling or fucking girls half his age.

But whenever he did come home—usually when his pockets ran dry, or maybe when he finally remembered he had a son lurking in the shadows—he somehow managed to wreck everything he touched. 

Like a human hurricane with no clean-up crew.  

I stared at the cramped living room, already looking like I hadn't spent the whole day cleaning up.

The couch was buried under dirty clothes—jackets, trousers and worn out t-shirts which my father seemed to leave behind as if I was an ongoing laundry service. 

Cigarette butts scattered across the overflowing ash tray. 

The pile of envelopes I had painstakingly sorted in the morning was now an open mockery of my efforts, littered everywhere across the floor. 

The walls were stained with the nauseating damp, the kind that seemed to cling to you like second skin. 

And now with the lights gone, it felt like a shitty sauna designed by someone who clearly seemed to have a vendetta against humans.

I kicked an empty soda can out of my way as I walked across the room to pick the letters back. 

One of them must had to be about the unpaid electricity bill, I hadn't just bothered enough to check them in the morning.

I crouched, my knees cracking in protest like tiny pistons. I gathered the sticky envelopes one by one and flipped through them. 

One was from the landlady demanding rent or immediate evacuation. 

Other from the bank breathing down my neck about interest payments. 

Another a rejection letter from one of the last jobs I had dared to hope for.

Each envelope seemed to stare up at me with a leer. Smug and taunting, like tiny paper demons. 

As if my sixteen year old self wasn't haunting me enough when I had taken up this job. This job to sort through them, to postpone payments endlessly, beg around for extensions or some reliefs.

Half of these bills weren't even mine—but his, my father's. But of course, it was my responsibility to keep this sinking Titanic afloat while the captain gambled below the deck. 

All while juggling two jobs, classes, the little sanity I had left and a father who had long since retired from the "caring" part of his role.

The little money I managed to save—it all was drained in one way or other. We never seemed to have enough. My father never seemed to have enough.

I fumbled out another envelope from under the couch cushion, the one about the electricity bill. The one I vaguely remembered putting on the top, hoping the visual cue might summon some cash from thin air. 

It wasn't as if my father would suddenly develop a conscience and decide to pay it off. 

I didn't expect anything from him. Not after he had long ago stopped coming home two years ago.

The digits printed in the paper seemed to glare daggers at me. I switched on my phone, lazily flipping around to my banking app.

The numbers stared back, a cruel joke in digital form. I wasn't exactly surprised—just annoyed

The factory never seemed to pay me on time, no matter how many times I begged the manager with my most convincing "please don't fire me" face. 

The cleaning gig I had landed last week paid less than half of what they promised, which apparently counted as an act of mercy in this dystopian sitcom life.

I scoured around the apartment once again like a raccoon high on despair, even though I had scraped every corner in the morning. 

I shuffled through the jackets my father had left behind, hoping I'd find some stray coins or notes in there.

No luck in there.

I checked corners, dug into rice jars hoping I had shoved some bills in there, even pried open the loose tile at the end of the kitchen.

Except I found nothing. Just a single tarnished coin glinting in the grimy light spilling from the creaked window.

I groaned, tossed the penny across the room like an insult and then begrudgingly shuffled across to pick it up.

That was my life. Scrapping pennies. Scrapping by

Scrapping for air in this suffocating city apartment that seemed to be personally designed to remind me of how little I was. How little I had. How little I would always have.

I had no money and it wasn't even mid-May yet. The bills needed to be paid and the next semester in the university was about to drain out every cent I had saved.

And me? I was broke. Exhausted. Probably allergic to good life decisions.

Guess I didn't have any choice this time.

Or maybe I did have a choice.

Not the ideal most, but at least it would get me through this month.

I could do this. Not ideal, but a way out for now. 

A little detour through hell, sure, but at least it kept the lights from being permanently off.

It was about scraping through it, teeth gritted, tongue dry and still breathing. Still alive.

I stumbled to my feet from where I had been rotting on the floor and hobbled back into my room.

I flopped on the squeaky bed, dragging my bag with me.

I still had the card that guy had given me. The one Seungkwan had introduced me to as his "brother-from-another-mother." 

The one who owned the brightest smile in the city, and I assumed, an opportunity that could save me from drowning. 

Seokmin.

The kind of man who made you simultaneously want to fight him and follow him to the ends of the earth.

I tossed out the books, stray wrappers, and a few crumpled job advertisements.

The card, it had to be stuck somewhere in here. I didn't remember throwing it out. I shuffled through the things, eyes squinting under the meagre light that managed to escape in through the little windows.

I rifled through the mess, shaking books open until my fingers found the edge of the card stuck between The Concept of Law. A book I had not read since the semester started and was convinced would serve better as a coaster than an educational source.

I stared at the folded card, creased from neglect. Which was fair because I hadn't paid much mind to.

Or maybe I had given it too much thought, and locked it away before I actually made the call.

And right now, I honestly couldn't bring myself to care enough. 

Not about the book's self-righteous ramble on "lawless morality" or whatever nonsense. 

Not about how I was apparently one bad decision away from single-handedly toppling my entire moral fabric. 

Not about how this was probably the dumbest, dirtiest choice I could make.

Not even about how this was basically me walking straight into the same pit my father had dug for himself—just with better hair and slightly more self-awareness.

And for a moment—just a split second—I let myself imagine a world where calling him wouldn't be this terrifying. Where entering into those cages wouldn't feel like signing a contract with death itself.

But it didn't matter. I just had to not get too attached—because that always worked out so well for people like me.

That's why I told myself when I punched the digits into the screen. I hesitated once, but pushed it away and dialed.

The phone connected almost immediately, the pitched ring buzzing in rhythm to my heart.

The phone ringed, and ringed, and ringed, and I almost considered hanging up, thumb hovering over the red button, when the ringing stopped.

A familiar voice, laced with warmth broke through the static, "Hey, who is this?"

My mouth went dry, heart threatening to stall its work in protest. I debated hanging up. 

Was this a good idea? 

A stupid, terrible idea?

All of the above?

What if I sounded like an idiot? 

What if Seokmin laughed in that soft, obliviously warm way that made me question if my heart was actually a defective organ or just a very poorly made toy?

"Hey, Seokmin," I said, careful to keep my tone flat, even though my heart was doing a one-man drum solo. "This is Jeonghan."

A pause. Then a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. 

"Oh yeah, Jeonghan, hi." His voice was slightly breathless, soft in a way that made the air in my room suddenly breathable. "Surprised you called. How are you?"

"I am good," I uttered, trying hard not to sound too desperate, too pleased to hear his voice. "How about you?"

Was this really going to be worth it?

"I am doing great," Seokmin chimed, breath even now. "Just practicing around, what about you?"

"Practicing?" I echoed, already picturing him shirtless, sweat dripping, which was absolutely not the point of this call.

"Yeah, I have a fight tonight," Seokmin said, pride creeping into his tone. "Down at the Mujabi Fight Club."

"What a...weird name," I blurted before I could think twice.

Seokmin's laugh came in almost immediately, warm and soft on the edges. I could imagine him just right. 

Head thrown back, sweat clinging to his forehead, eyebrows shot up or maybe shoved down—depending on how ridiculous he found what I said.

Laughing that sweet, infectious laugh like he always did.

That laugh that almost made my heart skip a beat. Almost.

He giggled softly. "Weird? Maybe. But it's fine. It works."

"What's so funny about it?" I muttered, trying to sound unimpressed despite the weird warmth in my chest.

Seokmin's chuckle cut short right there. "Oops... sorry," he softened immediately, "so why'd you call? You have never so much as texted me. Am a little offended, you know."

"You don't have the right to be offended," I said, even though the little disappointment seemed to stab me somewhere it shouldn't have.

He paused, like he was letting that sink in, and then muttered, "Of course... just joking. So... what are you doing?"

"Nothing much, just thought I'd call you," I mumbled, trying to keep the tremor from my voice, fingers digging into the bed like a lifeline. 

A lie. Sort-of. Mostly a truth stretched to look casual.

"Ah... the cold hearted Yoon Jeonghan thought of me," he drawled, dramatic as ever. "The sun must have risen from the west. Birds are confused. Everything is wrong—"

"—Cut it short, Seokmin," a voice shouted in the background. 

"Give me a minute, Jesus," Seokmin shouted back away from the receiver.

And then back to me, a little low, "Jeonghan, I gotta go, team is going crazy."

"Wait," I gabbled, realizing I hadn't asked him the one thing I called for. "Can we... meet up?"

"Meet up?" He echoed immediately, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Yeah... meet up," I said with a nervous chuckle. "As in today."

"Sure, I'd love to," Seokmin's voice lit up, as if I'd handed him something he had been waiting for. "Why don't you come down to the rings. Seungkwan is coming too, he'll be surprised."

The underground rings. That was the point of calling him in the first place, wasn't it?

My ticket in. My way into the cages.

Not for him. Not for his smile.

"I'll... see you there then," I said, and I swear I made a sound that could be easily classified as a squeak.

"If you don't mind..." Seokmin cleared his throat, "why don't you come a bit earlier....?"

"Earlier?" 

"Yeah before the fight begins." His voice had done that thing again—soft but sparking. Like static before a storm. 

There was a tremor in it that shouldn't have belonged to someone who punched through walls for fun. 

And I had no idea what the hell to do with that.

What would that even mean? Why would he want to see me early? 

And why the hell did the idea make my heart stutter and tumble over itself like an idiot?

"What time?" I said, trying for a tone that said casual indifference despite the panicked mess I felt inside.

"Six o'clock?" Seokmin said, almost a soft whisper, like sunlight sneaking into a grimy room.

"Six, okay." 

I waited for his voice—bright, stupid, way-too-loud—the kind that usually filled a room whether you wanted it or not. Instead, there was just static, buzzing like loneliness with good PR. 

It was ridiculous how a few seconds of silence could feel so damn personal.

Ten seconds passed in silence. "Seokmin?"

A sharp inhale. The sound of metal clinking. "Oh sorry, I stumbled a bit. I'll see you later then."

"Yeah, later."

"I'll hang up now," Seokmin mumbled. "Bye, take care Jeonghan." 

"You too," I whispered, barely above the hum of the apartment.

The phone vibrated and clicked dead, leaving me alone in the silence. 

I'd gotten what I wanted, hadn't I?

An inlet into the underground rings. A way into the cages.

And maybe—just maybe—the sound of the soft boy's voice again.

The one that was already working its way under my skin.

-----

A loud bang announced Seungkwan's arrival even before I saw him—the plastic bucket catching its own dramatic death-flail as his feet betrayed him. 

The bucket toppled over like it had somewhere to be, sending down a brown tide across the floor I had just, very religiously, mopped.

"Boo Seungkwan!" I snapped, irritation fizzing up like carbonation in a bad soda can. 

He landed on his ass with a theatrical plonk, hair all wrong, sleeve dripping and a grin that he thought passed off as charm. 

Honestly, the audacity was impressive.

"You degenerate, I just mopped the floor," I barked, my voice sharper than the mop handle I was gripping. My patience had been flirting with a cardiac arrest all day.

"Oh my god," Seungkwan retorted with a hiss, face scrunching as he scrambled off the floor, "you don't even care I almost died!"

"You didn't die, you're not bleeding, and you're definitely not about to make me mop the floor twice!" I said, reaching for the bucket with a suppressed calm—the kind you only use when you're about two seconds away from tossing something to their head. 

"Yeah, well, its not like you've got anywhere better to be," he muttered under his breath, wringing the water out of his sleeve.

"I do have better things to do," I replied primly, because one must always commit to delusion with confidence.

"Like?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow as he bent to pick the mop. "Going back to your rotting apartment?"

"No, I have plans tonight," I narrowed my eyes.

He paused, hands moving to rest on his hips, eyes squinting as if I'd just claimed having a social life. "Plans? You? The same man who thinks silence and instant noodles count as a personality?"

I snatched the mop from him before he could use it as a weapon. "Maybe I just enjoy my own company."

Seungkwan snorted, walking towards the desks and flopped onto one of them. "Yeah right. You're not solitary, you're just emotionally unavailable."

"That's my personality trait," I muttered, rolling my eyes and tossing the mop over the wet mess in a very theatrical, very Jeonghan way. 

The mop swished, squeaked, and offered zero moral support

I crouched low to start cleaning this new disaster. The air smelled like detergent, sweat and the ghosts of bad decisions.

Seungkwan tilted his head, eyeing me with that knowing glint—the one that meant no good and only trouble. "So when were you planning to me that Seokmin invited you to the rings?"

The question landed softer than a punch but had the same effect. My hand paused mid-squeeze, the mop dripping like an accusation. 

"Are you here to work or start a gossip column?" I looked over my shoulder, half-crouched, elbows digging into my thighs so hard they might have taken a small chip.

"Don't deflect," he said immediately, brows furrowed, voice soft but insistent—like he already knew where this was headed. "Why would you want to go near those dirty cages?"

"Can't I just want to?" I said, my tone flat but my throat suddenly dry.

"Bullshit, Jeonghan," he said, crossing his legs and leaning forward, eyes sparkling with the smugness of someone about to ruin your day. "You don't 'just want to' do anything. Is this about Seokmin?"

"What do you mean?" I said, attempting for an annoyed tone, which was my preferred default setting. I picked the mop back, soaking and squeezing the little water left on the floor into the bucket.

"It's about him," Seungkwan said in that infuriatingly sing-song tone. "Not that I blame you. He's built like sin. A top choice, honestly."

I didn't laugh. For a second my fingers went slack on the bucket handle. Call it instinct, call it survival reflex—call it whatever you want—but Seokmin's name had a way of short-circuiting me.

It was better not to answer him. Safer not to answer him. 

Seokmin was off limits—in the same way fire is off-limits when you're already soaked in gasoline.

I forced in a breath that sounded like composure and cleared my throat. I wasn't going to be the melodramatic idiot who confessed everything to Seungkwan. 

He didn't deserve it and frankly, neither did I.

But it was Seungkwan we were talking about. He never seemed to know when to let it go.

"Speaking of which," he went on, voice smug as a man who'd found a coin on the street, "you are coming tonight right?"

"I think I am about to change my mind," I said, pushing off the floor with a theatrical huff.

"God you're exhausting," he said, pushing off the desk as if I'd personally attacked his life, hands on his hips like an overworked mother.

"Thank you," I offered, because sarcasm is apparently our bonded currency. I picked the bucket back up, muscles humming with the boredom of repetition. "Get back to work. We don't have all day."

"Yes, master," he said in his worst medieval peasant voice, hands flapping as he stomped dramatically out into the hallway.

The next two hours blurred into a loop of muscle memory and low-grade existential dread. 

Scrubbing blackboards until the chalk begged for mercy. Collecting crumpled homework that read like confessions. Dragging sticky wrappers from between chairs like archaeological digs. 

Kids treated the classroom like a creative canvas—artistic expressions rendered in glitter and mystery stains—and I had been drafted to undo the masterpieces. 

My body moved, but my mind drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere with less bleach and more meaning. 

The scrape of the mop, the squeak of the bucket, the faint hum of the fan above—it all blended into this tired rhythm that made it easy to think too much.

My pay was insultingly low, the work temporary, and my supervisor's promises thinner than the mop strings. But it was money—barely—and for now, that was enough.

By the time I shoved the last mop into the janitor's cabinet, Seungkwan was back—hair damp, cheeks flushed, smile bright like this was some kind of group therapy. He hummed as he placed his supplies down, looking irritatingly proud of himself.

He wore a pleasant smile, as if scrubbing crayons off desks was the most rewarding thing he could ever do. 

He had a decent job elsewhere, one that didn't involve cleaning up after twelve-year-olds with sugar addictions. Yet here he was. 

He said he liked the "humility" of it. I said he liked the drama. 

We were both right.

"So we're going, right?" he asked, elbowing me in the ribs like an overeager child.

"I think I'll pass," I said, unzipping the pale uniform jacket. "You make the experience sound miserable."

"Oh come on, don't be a prick," he said, the tone that usually followed a failed bribe. "Seokmin would be upset."

The idea of seeing Seokmin's smile drop was a tiny, unacceptable cruelty

Not because I had any right to care—because I didn't—but because I liked being needed the way travelers needed stopovers. 

Long enough to rest. Never long enough to stay.

"Will he be?" I asked, practice-flat, trying to sound unimpressed and failing because my stomach did a thing—flutters, like somebody was playing a nervous jazz solo on my intestines.

"You say that," Seungkwan huffed, eyes rolling so hard I thought they'd leave orbit. "Upset is an understatement. He'd eat me alive for not bringing you."

"Why would he be?" I pulled a T-shirt on, fabric clinging to shoulders that had seen better months. "It's not like we're friends."

"He'd be devastated. He likes you, you idiot."

"He likes everyone," I said quickly, pulling off the jacket and folding it a little too neatly. "He's nice. It's not that deep."

"Oh, please. You've seen the way he looks at you. That man's built for heartbreak and bad decisions."

"Which is exactly why I'm not one of them," I muttered, reaching for my t-shirt.

"Jeez, just come along. Would it hurt to have a little fun?" He tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it into a hamper. "You can't keep living like the world owes you pain."

The words lingered. They shouldn't have. But they did—hanging in the air between the clank of metal and the faint smell of bleach.

It wouldn't hurt to go. It wouldn't hurt to step inside that noise again.

But it wasn't about fun—not for me. It wasn't even about Seokmin. Not really.

I wanted in. Into the cages, into the underground rings, into something that didn't feel like standing still.

And maybe it wasn't a great idea. Maybe that was what scared me the most.

Not because I wanted to fight—but because I could.

Because I remembered how.

And I didn't know if this was a blessing or a curse.

I could still throw a punch sharp enough to sting, still dodge, still read movement like a language I'd sworn I'd forgotten. 

I'd learned that from my father before things went to hell—back when we still talked, when the bruises were lessons, not consequences. 

He'd taught me how to win. And I had. 

Until winning stopped feeling like survival and started feeling like guilt.

I had pulled out of this routine years ago when my sister ended up hurt. I had walked away from it all. From him. From everything that made me feel like him. 

Maybe because I thought it was my fault. Maybe because I couldn't stand watching my father become a man who traded his blood for money. 

Maybe because I was already becoming him.

And yet here I was, thinking about stepping back into that ring. 

Turning back into the ring wouldn't be a noble return, it would be a practical one. 

It would mean relearning parts of myself I'd tried to bury—punches, blocks, the language of pain—because it kept food in the fridge and silence off the phone.

So when I finally nodded at Seungkwan, it wasn't excitement that settled in my stomach. It was resignation.

"Fine," I said. "One night."

He grinned like I'd handed him a miracle. "That's the spirit. We'll grab food after. My treat."

"Generous," I muttered, which was how promises were legally made in our kind of life. With minimal enthusiasm and maximum resignation.

As we stepped into the corridor, the air smelled like bleach and faint ghosts of chalk, and something inside me stirred—not fear, not guilt. 

But the subtle throb of something old and unburied, stretching its limbs as if waking from a long, patient sleep.

A single fight, I promised myself. 

One messy, stupid, necessary fight to get me through this month. 

Nothing more. Nothing less.

....

 

Yoon Jeonghan

Yoon Jeonghan

 

Lee Seokmin

Lee Seokmin

 

Choi Seungcheol

Choi Seungcheol

 

....

 

 

Chapter 2: 2.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 2.

Jeonghan's POV

Seungkwan and I had settled on meeting at the station—a decision I immediately ended up regretting the moment I stepped out. 

The days were growing hotter, spring transitioning into summer. The ridiculous heat pressed against my skin, like the city itself was tormenting me for stepping out of my electricity-less apartment.

The station was just a few minutes' walk from my apartment, which was already suspiciously convenient. 

Convenience, I knew from experience, was almost always a trap. 

I had told him about meeting Seokmin at six, and true to form, Seungkwan had judged me first. 

Then proceeded to gush about how it was proof—conclusive proof—that Seokmin was in love with me. 

As if my mere presence in Seokmin's orbit was tangible proof of cosmic alignment. 

According to him, this clearly indicated Seokmin was down bad. 

Down. Bad. 

And apparently, that was a level of desperation that deserved a parade.

I had shoved him off with a string of curses long enough to make a monk blush.

Seokmin acting nice to me—it wasn't news. He was always nice. 

It was his default mode, the human embodiment of sunlight. Irritatingly unthreatening in the best way. 

The sort of person who made people want to inhale optimism like oxygen.

I, on the other hand, was more... charcoal sketch with the occasional glimmer of spark.

I stood near the curb just a few paces from the station entrance, arms crossed over my chest, trying not to look as irritated I felt. 

Though it wasn't working given the frantic rhythm my foot was tapping into the gravel.

It was 5:49. We were supposed to be there by six. Seungkwan—expectedly—was late.

The Mujabi Fight Club—still the dumbest name I'd ever heard—was at least on a fifteen minute walk from the station. 

Which, in Seungkwan Standard Time meant at least twenty five minutes. 

Because that boy couldn't walk straight for two minutes without shoving his face into the nearest glass displays or dramatically pointing at every scarf, jacket, and vaguely designer-shaped thing like it was divine. 

So yes, according to math, we'd be late.

Which meant, Seokmin would think I wasn't coming.

And for some reason, that thought stung more than it should have.

Which, yes, was absurd, because technically this was his world, and I was just a spectator.

He was just a guy.

A kind, stupidly nice, funny and smiley guy who happened to punch people for money. A sunshine with bruised knuckles. A contradiction in human form. 

I was about to pull out my phone to text on Seungkwan—definitely something nice like "i'm abandoning you <3"—when I spotted him it the crowd.

He was sauntering as usual. Like the pavement was his runway and the world owed him attention. 

And the worst part? It worked.

A cream shirt hanging loosely paired with cream shorts, he would've blended in with the crowd if it wasn't for the flair in his walk.

It was impossible not to notice the little bounce in his step. Like he believed being alive in this unforgiving heat was a personal achievement.

He adjusted his tiny bag over his shoulder as he stepped onto the curb.

"You're late," I said with a frown, eyeing him up and down. "We're meant to be there six."

"Stop being dramatic," he teased, immediately linking his arm with mine. "I know you are eager to meet your boyfriend—"

"He ain't my boyfriend," I cut in as we stepped off the curb, crossing to the other side.

"He would be soon," Seungkwan snickered.

"Never," I muttered, pulling my arm out of his, pretending I had only imagined the flutter in my chest.

He just tutted and latched onto my elbow even tighter until I gave up. 

"You're never escaping me, Yoon Jeonghan," he hissed, fondness threading through the venom.

And he was right. I wasn't escaping anyone soon.

Not him. Not heat. 

Not the Seokmin-shaped ache in my chest that seemed to unfurl every time he smiled too softly at me.

----

It was roughly a seventeen minute walk to the fight club away from the buzzing center of the city. The farther we went, the faster the city shed its glamour.

The glass buildings with bright billboards gave way to cracked walls with faded posters. The smell of perfume and take-out coffee turned into smoke and cheap beer.

The crowd thinned until it was mostly groups of men huddled on the sidewalks.  

Some were smoking, some were sniffing something off the back of their hands. Laughing too hard, talking too loud, staring as if the world owed them shit.

Every few steps, someone would look up—eyes glazed, or too sharp. Their gaze would follow us for a beat too long. 

I pretended not to notice, just shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my zipper.

I used to know this part of the city too well. 

Buildings leaning like old men with bad knees, their concrete skin cracked, worn by years of neglect. 

Narrow streets. Alleys that smelled like stray animals and secrets. The sound of glass bottles smashing on the concrete. 

A few years ago, I knew the map of this area like the lines of my palms. 

Now it was just a memory, shoved and locked somewhere dark. Convenience and comfort were long gone.

We reached the Mujabi Fight Club at 6:14 which was far better than the 6:30 I had expected.

The fight club was nothing grand. It looked like it had fought a war and lost—pathetic.

The Mujabi Fight Club was a massive, rust-streaked warehouse. Its walls were dented, its windows covered in grime thick enough to have its own ecosystem. 

The only sign of life was the people stumbling in and out of the entrances and the dull thump of bass leaking from inside.

Lee Jihoon—from what I heard and knew—was both the owner and the financier of chaos here. A man who probably viewed morality as a suggestion.

A bouncer stood at the entrance, his eyes hooded with boredom, like he had given up on everything but gravity. 

"This place has no character," Seungkwan said, eyes raking up the warehouse. 

"What were you expecting?" I huffed. "A chandelier?"

"I was hoping for walls that didn't look contagious." He shrugged, flicking his hair aside. "Seokmin has fought in better places than this."

"Shouldn't we call him first?" I asked.

"I don't think so, he should be inside," he said with a shrug, already digging into his little bag for cash. "He's a regular here."

Of course he was

Of course the brightest guy in the city was a regular at a place that smelled like bruises and broken promises. 

I sighed and fished out whatever little cash I had—leftovers from what I managed to get out of the factory manager this afternoon.

I didn't threaten him for it. Totally not. Just a civil conversation that involved holding him at the tip of a screwdriver.

I was probably losing that job soon, anyway. All it offered me was low pay, high stress, and zero dignity.

"Let's go in, I have this place figured out pretty well," Seungkwan said with a tilt of his head towards the dented door.

"Weren't you just commenting on how it lacks 'character'?" I huffed.

"Never said I came here for the character," he winked, already walking.

I rolled my eyes, falling into step beside him. "How much is the entrance?"

"I have it covered," he said, already picking his pace to reach the guy to pay.

I frowned and grabbed his elbow. A jab beneath my ribs warned me into silence. Fine.

The guy at the entrance took the money without a word. His eyes scanned us briefly—probably assessing whether we here to fight or die—and waves us in.

The air—thick with slick, aggressive heat paired with the stink of cheap booze and the faint tang of blood hit like a punch. 

My nose scrunched instinctively, while Seungkwan shivered with disgust.

"And you said you had it figured," I muttered, walking further into the warehouse.

"Relax," Seungkwan said, wrinkling his nose. "It's rustic. Like... vintage illegal."

"Sure," I said. "Let's call tetanus aesthetic now."

It was loud, like insanely loud. Music and shouting and the occasional crash blending into one long, chaotic buzz.

The floor was sticky underfoot. The space was lit up by fluorescent lights that flickered like they were being electrocuted.

People—men, women, adults, teenagers—paraded through the crowded place. Passed through every direction. 

Pushing across, spilling drinks, muttering curses, snorting something off the back of their hands and clearly one bad decision away from being carried out.

My eyes kept catching the most absurd details. 

Someone's shoelace dragging in a puddle. 

A blonde girl slapping a guy for touching her. 

A man licking the sweat off his own knuckles like it was gourmet.

The crowd thickened as we walked further up and at one point, I looked back to make sure I hadn't lost Seungkwan. 

Seungkwan was, of course, thriving. His gaze flicked, eyes darting to every strong jawline or muscular arm, grin widening every time someone looked back.

I sighed, tugged him ahead harder. "Eyes forward."

"I am just watching," he whined, feet shuffling behind me, "trust me."

"I trust you about as far as I can throw you," I muttered, walking ahead him.

We pushed closer to the main cage—a circular metal monster rising from the center of the warehouse. 

It was surrounded by people yelling like they had all placed their last paycheck on someone's broken nose.

When I finally caught a glimpse of the rings, there were a man and a woman already in there. Circling each other, dodging punches, delivering kicks.

The crowd burst into a savage roar as the woman landed a kick across the man's jaw. 

Sweat—and maybe blood too—sprayed across into the air, and a woman near us shouted for more before chugging a large gulp from her drink.

"This place is crazy," I muttered as Seungkwan slowly whistled at the two fighters raging in the cage.

"I know," he amused. "Crazy in a hot way, you know what I mean?"

"You need to redefine your definition of hot."

"I already did," Seungkwan said, starry-eyed. "It includes blood."

I turned my gaze back to the cage, eyes narrowing at the man bouncing across the cage. 

"You need therapy," I huffed, turning back to him.

"Can't afford therapy," Seungkwan said with a wink, way too cheerful for someone standing in the middle of an illegal fight club, "so I stick to watching hot men open each other's skulls."

"Deranged," I muttered, already moving through the bodies to go look for Seokmin—the person I was actually meant to see.

"As if you're any different," Seungkwan said, shoving me as he skipped to catch up with me.

I chose to not reply to that. Some things were better left untouched.

"So where might your dream boy be?" Seungkwan quipped, voice a sing-song.

I just rolled my eyes and moved around to secure the empty space at the corner near a metal pillar. We could easily spot the cage from here, and it didn't take my eyes much effort to finally spot the blond haired guy.

Seokmin stood down near the edge of the cage, face a neutral expression. He was wrapping the white bandages across his knuckles, golden hair glinting under the white lights.

Seungkwan followed my gaze, and once his eyes landed on Seokmin he let out a sharp squeak. "There is he, you lover!"

I smacked the back of his head. "Shut up."

"Ow—" he yelped. "That was uncalled for. Romantic tension doesn't justify assault."

"I will make it count next time."

He just pouted, rubbing the back of his head. 

Before I could decide whether to go up and say hi or not, Seokmin was already moving towards the cage. 

Someone stepped out of the cage with a worn-out rag soaked in red after they had wiped the cage floor in between the two fights.

Seokmin stepped in the cage, shoulders loose, wrapped hands flexing around his sides, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

His opponent, a man with flashy tattoos, bigger, bulkier muscles hopped in from the other edge. He was too arrogant, too loud.

They bumped their fists, exchanged a few syllables, Seokmin muttering something with a lazy smirk. The other clearly seemed to despise it.

Seokmin cracked his neck once and surveyed the crowd from the edge. His eyes roamed and roamed until it landed just on the metal pilar we were standing close to.

His face lit up immediately, and I told myself it was for Seungkwan. 

But when I glanced to him, Seungkwan had already busied himself with another foreign looking guy to his right.

I turned back to Seokmin and he smiled and waved his hand. I almost missed his smile as he turned around.

Seokmin's fight started with a sharp bell echoing through the warehouse.

And before I could blink, they were already moving. The guy across Seokmin was brawnier but Seokmin was quicker.

He easily dodged the punches the other threw, bouncing and ducking. Seokmin slipped under and belted the first punch of the fight across the right of his ribs.

The crowd ate it up, shrieking for more and more.

From there, the fight escalated briskly. They moved around in swift ducks and exchanged punches and elbows that landed sharp and rapid.

The guy ducked lower and went for clinch around Seokmin's waist, clearly exploiting his weaker defense. He toppled Seokmin to the floor, and drove an elbow to his jaw.

The crowd, no matter, burst into a savage roar.

Seokmin grunted—loud enough that my chest tightened—but within seconds, he twisted, headbutted the guy, and rolled free.

Seokmin—no doubt—was good at what he did. Like not just "knows how to throw a punch" but trainedtechnical and terrifying good. 

He could easily move up these illegal fights onto something real, something solid even though these paid pretty well.

And I admired this of him. 

It wasn't the first time I'd seen him fight. I'd watched him fool around with his teammates before—throwing lazy jabs, laughing like it was all just cardio with extra bruises. 

But this? This was something else. 

I didn't know he could be this good. Like "maybe I should call a priest" good.

Outside the cage, Seokmin was all warmth and hazy softness—smiles that could melt steel, laughter that made you forget your own bad habits.

But the second he stepped inside those metal bars? He switched. Completely. Like someone had flipped a very violent light switch.

Inside the cage, he was a monster high on passion and adrenaline.

And I knew that for sure when he drove the guy's head into his knee with a sound that was the human equivalent of car crash.

"Seokmin is a lunatic," Seungkwan whistled lowly, eyes glinting with mischief.

"I bet he's crazy," I muttered, watching as the opponent guy stumbled back with blood trickling down his nose.

He tried to regain his balance, but poor guy, he had lost too much blood and taken too much damage.

He tried retreating, eyes blank for half a second but Seokmin didn't give him a chance.

He rammed a fist into the guy's jaw. The man staggered, crumpled under the pain and dropped down on the floor with a heavy thud.

The crowd held it's breath for half a heartbeat before going nuts, cheering, whistling, shouting Seokmin's name.

Seokmin was panting by now, chest rising and falling like he had just fought twelve rounds with fate itself. 

Blood trickled from his scraped knuckles to his wrists, glinting like it was proud to be a part of this mess.

His eye was swollen from where he was punched, the sharp lines of his face blurring in sweat, blood, and grime. And yet, that idiot was grinning.

Not his usual, wide "i brought you coffee" smile reserved for outside the cages. 

No, his grin was one that tasted like adrenaline and defiance. 

That smile was laced with sharpness and enough madness that made you wonder if he actually enjoyed being punched.

He looked filthy. Wrecked. Absolutely unhinged. 

And yet I couldn't look away. 

I couldn't help but shiver when his eyes found mine again. He raised a hand in a mock salute, and I hated how my stupid heart reacted to it.

I told myself it was just gratitude. He'd probably done it to everyone.

Except he hadn't looked away. Not until someone called his name.

When Seungkwan had first introduced me to Seokmin—dragging me halfway across the city insisting I had to meet his best friend since high school—I'd already decided I wouldn't like him. 

I had my judgments lined up, ready to go.

But I had been so wrong.

Tragically, embarrassingly wrong.

Because Seokmin, he wasn't just easy on the eyes. 

He was built like temptation had a gym membership. Muscles carved sharp under tan skin, that annoyingly perfect nose.

Those eyes that always glittered with trouble, and the blond hair half-tamed under a beanie. Like he didn't know how pretty he looked when he forgot to try.

But it wasn't just his toned arms peeking out from the shirt, or his sweatpants hanging low on his hips that made him who he was.

Seokmin, I had found after spending a few afternoons with him, made me laugh despite me. 

The shit that casually tumbled out of his mouth made me laugh in that easy, startled kind of way that caught me off guard.

I told myself a hundred times not to read into it. The jokes, the banter, the little asides—none of it meant anything. 

That was just Seokmin. Effortlessly charming, unreasonably kind, and dangerously good at making everyone feel a little bit special.

It wasn't personal. It couldn't be.

We weren't even close. We barely saw each other—only when my university schedule overlapped with the odd days he and Seungkwan weren't working at the mart. 

Just a few casual afternoons, a few shared jokes, a few glances I pretended not to notice.

The crowd was shifting now, moving away from the cage. I heard from Seungkwan that there would be no fights for the next half an hour.

Seokmin had long walked down. 

Beside the cage, bills were exchanged—some were cursing, whilst others grinned in triumph. Two women next to me snorted a thick line of white powder off each other's hands.

I sighed and pulled out my phone to check the time. It was already quarter past seven. The fight has lasted for forty five minutes roughly.

Seungkwan was still buzzing from the fight. 

"You have to admit," he said, stretching dramatically, "your man just murdered that guy and somehow made it sexy."

I rolled my eyes. "You need to stop calling him my man before I drop you in that cage next."

"You'd miss me."

"I'd sleep better."

He ignored me, scanning the crowd. "Anyway, where'd he go?"

I looked around. The cage was being cleaned again, blood smeared across the metal like abstract art. Seokmin was gone—probably getting patched up or cashing his winnings.

The crowd had shifted, some leaving, some coming in. People were leaning onto the walls, sitting on tin cans. Some were latched onto each other, kissing and sucking.

The place was a mess, drowning in the waves of dull bodies staggering here and there.

And that—in between the haze and noise—was when my eyes landed on him.

All the way across, leaning on a wall bracing, was a man that stood out the most. 

Red hair catching the light like fire. Lips curled in a lazy smirk around the cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

He was amused, like he knew something the rest of us didn't.

Something about him didn't fit here. Not like Seokmin did.

He didn't just look comfortable. He was confident—like this whole mess belonged beneath him.

"Shit, you're staring, Jeonghan," Seungkwan hissed. "Who the hell is that—"

"That is," a voice cut in, "Choi Seungcheol."

....

Notes:

so are you team blond sunshine(slightly crazy?) seokmin?
or are you team red haired (monster era vibes?) seungcheol?
and before you choose teams... i might warn you... they'd be both despicable at some point so yeah...

Chapter 3: 3.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 3.

Seokmin's POV

The moment the antiseptic touched my skin, it burned like a tiny sun had set a camp under my jaw. 

A sharp, relentless pain seared through the gash as if to remind me—yes, you're alive.

My brain immediately registered, Ouch. That hurts. Stop it. Someone stop it. Why am I even doing this to myself?

But the thing is, I couldn't even fully complain because—technically—I had survived.

Barely—yes—but that counted for something. Every smashed knuckle, every bruised rib, every beautiful reminder that I wasn't dead yet. Maybe that meant I mattered.

Or maybe it meant I was an idiot with a god complex. Same difference.

I was slumped onto the rusted iron bench, squinting at Wonwoo as he dabbed at the cut beneath my chin.

He was pressing way too hard, his fingers pale and tense over the cotton swap, eyebrows furrowed like I had just personally ruined his life. His glare alone could probably knock out a small child.

I recoiled with a hiss. "Are you trying to murder me with antiseptic?" I whined, pushing his hand away with all the drama I could muster. "Treat me gently. I am wounded. Fragile. A delicate flower, if you will."

"And whose fault is that?" he snapped, , as if he had been waiting all day for me to say something stupid. "Your defense was trash. Someone better would have cracked your skull open without a second thought.

"But—"

"Shut up before I throw you back into the cage!" He hissed, tossing the cotton swab away in a dramatic arc and snatched the bandage instead.

I blinked at him, half terrified, half impressed by his sheer commitment to murder-by-care. 

Sometimes I wondered if he was part human and part vindictive octopus.

Better to shut up.

Really better never to open my mouth again.

Wonwoo's scary-when-pissed quotient had reached lethal levels.

Also, yes, my defense was absolute garbage. I could admit it.

Someone stronger, faster, smarter, maybe slightly psychotic, could have turned me into a human piñata.

He slapped the bandage over the wound with precision that screamed "i'll tolerate you only because I have no other choice."

I wanted to apologize but before I could as much open my mouth, the shrill war cry of Seungkwan cut through like a fire alarm, "Lee Seokmin!"

And there he was a few feet away from where I sat. That boy practically floated through the sparse crowd, all creamy menace and energy that should be borderline illegal.

Behind him Jeonghan followed, drifting along like smoke—all black clothes and unfairly ethereal angles. The warehouse lights bounced off his features as if presenting him for some magazine cover.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

He looked...wrongly perfect in the warehouse. Out of place. And that was the biggest problem.

Yoon Jeonghan was the prettiest boy I had managed to lay my eyes on.

He was tall, yet much leaner than me, with the right muscles in the right places.

His brown eyes—like melted cocoa stirred beside a hearth—somehow saw straight through the ridiculous parts of me I wanted nobody to notice.

His mouth, straight and dour, never smiled, yet my chest made that stupid little hop every time I caught it twitch, like a cruel joke by the universe.

"You're staring," Wonwoo huffed, pinching my arm like a vengeful tick.

I yelped and squeezed my eyes shut, only to peek again a moment later. 

The two were approaching—Seungkwan cracking a grin and bouncing like an over-caffeinated squirrel while Jeonghan wore his default unamused expression.

"Look who showed up," Seungkwan said, voice cracking with leftover adrenaline. "The Yoon Jeonghan finally crawled out of his shithole!"

Jeonghan swatted his arm, unimpressed and deadpanned, "You never shut up, do you?"

Seungkwan grinned wider. "Only when I'm dead, babe."

Wonwoo mumbled something like "I wish," and I had to bite back a laugh.

He blew a kiss, half-mocking, half-triumphant, and turned back to me. "Seokmin, you annihilated that guy. Fuck. Totally annihilated."

"I know," I said, chuckling, and then—because I'm an idiot—my eyes flicked back to Jeonghan. "What do you think?"

His shoulders shrugged, hands shoved into his zipper like my opinion was barely air. "Though I am no expert... your defense is weak."

"See? He thinks so too," Wonwoo piped in, ever the subtle instigator.

"He doesn't even know anything," I sulked, lips tugging into an involuntary pout.

"Aww were you trying to impress him," Seungkwan cooed, voice pitched somewhere between glee and certified menace.

"Who said anything about impressing anyone?" I grumbled, which was the universal translation for I am definitely trying to impress him, please stop talking.

Jeonghan looked like he wanted to strangle Seungkwan. "You stop now, Seungkwan, or I will actually punch you."

"Oh, please," Seungkwan smirked. "You were basically dying to see him fight. Don't even pretend."

"I only came because you wouldn't stop begging," Jeonghan said dryly, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

"But you said you wanted to meet me," I cut in—half confused, half stupidly disappointed, even though I knew damn well I had no business feeling that way.

Seungkwan tutted, hands on his hip. "You're hopeless, Jeonghan."

Jeonghan muttered, "It's not a big deal."

"Oh, it is a huge deal," Seungkwan squeaked. "He came willingly. He was even fixing his hair before we left!"

"Shut up," Jeonghan snapped, tone icy but not nearly as effective as he hoped, because Seungkwan burst into maniacal laughter.

Wonwoo sighed beside me. "Why are you friends with him again?"

"Emotional variety," Seungkwan chirped. "You all need me for spice."

Jeonghan turned his eyes heavenward, muttering something about divine punishment, and Seungkwan opened his mouth to say something.

"Kwan," I interrupted quickly before Jeonghan could actually throttle Seungkwan, "let's grab something to eat. Dinner's on me."

Seungkwan blinked, paused, and then his fake squeals turned into genuine delight. Score

I wanted to steal Jeonghan away for a second, maybe even provoke a real smile out of him. 

I wasn't friends with him—not properly. But God, I wanted to be. 

Just once, I wanted to see him laugh, even at something small, even at me.

Wonwoo tossed me my jacket with that all-too-knowing smirk of his—the kind that made you want to both roll your eyes and file a complaint.

"Come on, join us," I said, zipping it up and adjusting my collar. 

"I'll pass. I've got plans," he replied with a lazy, dismissing wave.

I just nodded, gave his shoulder a quick pat—somewhere between affection and goodbye to my dignity—and turned back to Seungkwan, who was currently shoving his phone right up in Jeonghan's unimpressed face.

We moved through the crowd, me in the middle like some kind of safety barrier, Jeonghan on my left, Seungkwan bouncing like an energy drink on legs on my right.

I was brushing elbows with Jeonghan now and then and each accidental touch seemed to make my stomach do something unspeakably stupid.

We threaded our way through the crowd, elbows brushing, the scent of sweat, dried blood, and cheap alcohol mingling in the air.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked, trying not to notice how my hand grazed Jeonghan's.

"I haven't had something fried in forever," Seungkwan lit up. His energy was wild and ridiculous, like a cartoon character whose sole purpose was to devour lifeand calories—with gusto.

"And you?" I asked Jeonghan, carefully casual, despite the flutter in my chest.

His eyes flickered once, twice before he turned his head towards me, gaze locking somewhere near my jaw. "Anything works for me."

His eyes swirled in the fluorescent lights, molten honey pooled in his gaze. Sparkling with something like a challenge and something entirely different. 

Something I didn't want to think about too intensively.

There was a brief, awkward moment—me staring too long, him not refusing to look me in the eyes, not knowing what else to say, eyes lingering longer than polite.

Seungkwan tutted like a particularly unproud mother. "I am hungry, please. You can eye-fuck each other later?"

Jeonghan snapped his head ahead immediately, muttering something about Seungkwan being deranged. 

Except I didn't—couldn't—peel my eyes off, gaze lingering far longer than for someone who didn't care.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forced my gaze ahead, only to spot the red mop of hair across the room.

Seungcheol—that motherfucker—stood in between the thin crowd.

Green eyes slicing through the chaos, a cup dangling in his hand, smirk in place like he knew exactly the chaos he caused.

The curl of his lips carried the kind of arrogance that made my knuckles clench automatically, even though I hadn't wanted this fight yet—or any fight.

His eyes were fixed on us. On me. On Seungkwan. On Jeonghan.

Seungcheol's gaze flicked from me to Jeonghan, and I felt that momentary fire of something hot, something scalding. 

The kind that made my stomach twist and my fists want to fly. 

He wasn't looking at me, not really, but something in how his eyes measured Jeonghan had my blood boiling.

We moved across the floor, I tightened my grip on Seungkwan's arm, pulling myself together enough to keep walking.

He jabbered endlessly about the subpar drinks, about how he'd scored the number of a cute Chinese guy he claimed was "practically perfect," but I heard none of it.

Every word, every brush of elbows, every chaotic rant from Seungkwan was nothing compared to that blazing headache of a human being.

Jeonghan leaned closer, voice soft over the chaotic hum of the warehouse. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you..."

I tried to answer, tried to focus on something safe, normal. "Let's get out of here first," I said, soft, almost a whisper, hand finding his in a squeeze.

He nodded. For a moment, the tips of his ears flushed pink in the warehouse light—or maybe that was just my brain finally losing it.

I needed air. Needed to escape before I completely combusted.

We pushed through the lingering crowd, careful to dodge elbows and carts, and then—inevitably—I brushed against someone. 

More like collided with them because momentum wasn't my friend. 

Usually, this would have been my cue to apologize first, to tilt my head sheepishly, to mumble I'm sorry before the other person could even blink.

But when the familiar green eyes cut in through, I felt something in me click. Maybe like a trigger go off.

"Watch where you are going, punk," Seungcheol drawled, voice low and mouth twisted into an amused leer that never quiet reached his eyes.

Something inside me snapped. The polite, funny, "I don't care" Seokmin evaporated instantly.

"Look at you," he said with a laugh under his breath, "parading around like you own the place."

The hatred was immediate, hot, tangible—a physical thing pressing against my chest, my gut twisting in a blend of loathing and adrenaline. 

I wanted to walk away, to preserve my image as the soft, sunshine guy, the one who didn't care about confrontation. 

But my brain betrayed me. I squared up, shoulders forward, instincts sharper than my sense of self-preservation.

"Why, you can't keep you eyes off me?" I sneered, half-dramatic, half-serious. "Never seen anyone beating the fuck out of one of your dogs?"

Seungkwan stiffened beside me, hand curling into mine like he wanted to pull me back. I squeezed his fingers once, reassuringly and pushed forward.

Seungcheol's twitch was subtle but satisfying, a slight flare of annoyance beneath the amusement. Checkmate.

"Why?" I mocked with a tilt of my head, a laugh escaping despite the bruised, battered mess I was. "Did I hit a nerve, fucker?"

He huffed, as if amused. His gaze slithered, eyeing me up and down. He stepped forward, every line of his arms coiled like he might swing.

If he had swung, I would've been ready. Maybe.

"That was a rookie, barely worth mentioning." he said with a grin, hands curling into a fist. "Better pray you don't end up in the cage with me. That bratty mouth of yours—wouldn't last a minute, Lee."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through my messy hair, heart hammering in a chaotic rhythm. "Why don't we decide it tonight? Who lasts?"

His grin twisted into something sharper, feral—like a lion catching sight of an easy meal—and for a second, I honestly thought he might lunge.

But before he could actually act on it, Jeonghan moved. Smooth. Effortless. Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

His hand found my arm—cold fingers curling in, grounding me and warning me all at once.

"Let's go, Seokmin," he said, low and warning, tugging me back. "He's not worth it."

My eyes narrowed at Seungcheol and even though I wanted to smash his head right there and then, I wasn't an idiot.

The underground was lawless yes, but fights outside cages weren't tolerated.

Fights here could land you in trouble with the wrong people—or worse, make the whole night a disaster.

So, I complied when Jeonghan's grip tightened—because of course I did. 

What else was I supposed to do when his fingers fit so perfectly around my arm, grounding and commanding all at once? 

While Seungkwan muttered—fingers curling into my other hand—outrage about how someone was just hell-bent on ruining our evening.

Which—valid. That man breathed and lived drama.

"Look at you, playing the obedient little boyfriend—" Seungcheol barked a laugh, the sound scraping my nerves raw, "—or should I say, a dog?"

I froze, teeth grinding, a dozen comebacks clawing at the back of my throat. But Jeonghan's hand tightened, and I swear it was like my brain short-circuited. 

All that heat, that sharp little spark of rage was gone, replaced by the very stupid awareness that his thumb had brushed my sleeve again.

He didn't look at me. Of course he didn't. 

He just tugged me forward like I was some stray he'd decided to drag out of trouble.

His gaze stayed fixed ahead, the faint neon spill from the warehouse door catching the edges of his face—stoic, beautiful, untouchable

The kind of calm you could mistake for cruelty if you didn't know how soft he could be beneath it.

I wanted to be angry about that too—about how easily he could pull me along—but instead I followed. 

Because apparently, that's who I was now—the guy who melted at a well-placed touch.

We stepped out into the city night, the air hot and sticky, neon lights buzzing above us like witnesses. 

Jeonghan kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, not sparing me a glance even as his hand lingered on my elbow, his grip looser now but still there—like a habit he hadn't realized he hadn't let go of.

It wasn't until we turned the corner that he finally withdrew, and the loss hit faster than I'd like to admit. The air felt colder, the noise louder. 

I wanted to roll my shoulders and shake it off, act like it didn't matter but my skin still hummed where he'd touched me.

I told myself it was just adrenaline. Or annoyance. Or anything but what it actually felt like.

Because God forbid I admit that one look, one touch, one stupid hand on my arm was enough to make me forget that Seungcheol even existed.

The night air hit like relief and punishment all at once. Seungkwan yawned, stretching like a cat that had just woken from a nap. "I am tired," he said, lazily. "You can treat us to lunch tomorrow."

Jeonghan nodded, stepping farther away from me. "I'll walk you to the station, Kwan."

"Wait—you said you wanted to talk," I interjected, trying not to sound like a desperate fool.

Seungkwan's ear perked up. "Should I leave? Am I interrupting?" he said, even though he had zero intention of letting go of gossip.

"No, it's nothing major," he replied, voice neutral but with a twitch I caught out of the corner of my eye. "We can talk tomorrow."

"You sure?" I asked.

He just nodded and extended his hand towards Seungkwan. "Let's go, Kwannie."

Seungkwan, ever the dramatic, latched onto Jeonghan's hand. Fingers intertwined like a promise, like a territorial marking, like I own this friendship now.

Seungkwan waved me goodbye, promising to extort a hearty meal out of tomorrow. Jeonghan just nodded in dismissal.

The two turned and walked off, hand in hand. I heard the faint sound of Jeonghan's chuckle—soft, brief, and real—when they slipped round the corner and found myself wishing it was me.

Wishing it was me making him laugh. 

Wishing it was me walking hand in hand with him.

Wishing I was his friend. Or maybe something more—who knows.

But there I was—Seokmin, limping slightly, patched up, exhausted, a tangle of bruises and chaotic feelings.

The walk home was slow. Every step throbbed in rhythm with my wounds, my muscles complaining, my heart acting like it had just run a marathon it wasn't ready for.

I muttered jokes to myself as I limped, wobbling slightly with every step, trying to convince myself I was fine.

That it was just another night. Just adrenaline. Just exhaustion. Just a minor warzone in the underground, nothing to do with my feelings, nothing at all.

But I knew better. It wasn't the bruises, the pain, or even Seungcheol—it was Jeonghan. 

The quiet, impossible, unfairly pretty, honey-eyed Jeonghan who had infiltrated my brain and planted a chaos seed that wouldn't die.

I hobbled up my stairs, muttering to myself about fried food, adrenaline, and why I had let my stomach butterflies dictate life decisions.

A half-smile tugged my lips as I dropped on my bed despite the ache. Because life was absurd, cruel, bruising—and somehow, brighter than it had any right to be.

And that was exactly Jeonghan's fault.

....

 

 

Notes:

so what are you opinions of them till now? seokmin and seungcheol loathe each other and jeonghan is already playing seokmin's savior... 

and who do you think is seungkwan's perfect guy 😀 (though its more than obvious)

-jess...

Chapter 4: 4.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4.

Jeonghan's POV

The envelope hit the table like a punctuation mark—the exclamation point at the end of a sentence that, frankly, didn't deserve one. A clean, cruel thud to the miserable sentence that was my job.

"That's all we owe you," the manager said, her teeth clenched so tight I wondered if she could actually grind them to dust right then and there.

Which was funny, because I could've sworn I was owed a little human decency too.

Maybe even a thank you card. Or a cupcake. Something small and insulting.

But apparently, that wasn't part of the benefits package.

I picked up the envelope anyway. It was lighter than I wanted it to be—paper-thin dignity and a few crumpled bills masquerading as compensation.

I counted through the bills—crisp, dry, not nearly enough—just to make her squirm. Then tilted my head in mock expectation, the way a cat does when it knows it's about to ruin someone's morning.

"What about the last fifteen days?" I said, pocketing the envelope like I was storing away the evidence of a crime.

"What about it?" she snapped, fatigue bleeding through her irritation. Her eyeliner was smudged, hair frizzed from humidity—she looked like the kind of woman who'd once had dreams and then met payroll spreadsheets.

"You didn't pay me for that," I shrugged, slouching into the chair, all casual apathy and leftover audacity.

Her eyes widened for a beat, disbelief coating her expression before it settled into anger.

"I believe," she said in a tone that made my spine itch, "we settled that yesterday when you extorted money from me... while holding me at the tip of a screwdriver, Mr. Yoon."

"Ah." I nodded like that made perfect sense. "Sure."

I pushed myself out of the chair, and gave her my most polite, half-dead smile. "Have a good day."

"You too," she nodded stiffly, though the look on her face screamed she wanted to launch the paperweight beside her hand directly at my forehead.

Not her fault. I was excellent at being punchable.

The factory's main door creaked open with a metallic groan as I stepped outside, the sudden brightness stabbing through my eyes.

The city air felt thick—hot asphalt, oil, sweat, and regret mixing into one unholy perfume.

The streets bustled as always—delivery bikes, shouting vendors, stray dogs chasing invisible enemies. It was a chaos with a pulse.

I walked aimlessly for a bit, the envelope a warm weight in my pocket, the kind of weight that wasn't comforting but necessary.

I'd have to look for another job now. Something that paid well but didn't demand my soul—or actual work, preferably.

Though I doubted such miracles existed outside capitalist propaganda.

The bills could survive this week. Maybe next, if I starved. But then there was tuition—always lurking, always looming like a tax on hope.

I mentally tallied the damage as I walked—rent, groceries, utilities.

My father.

God, my father.

I made sure to pay the electricity bill first. If not, the power would go out, and he'd have another excuse to break things.

The thought made my hand tighten around the envelope as I reached the apartment. 

The lock was old and resentful, the kind that needed coaxing. It clicked open with a noise that sounded like complaint.

The moment I stepped inside, the air changed.

The smell hit me first—stale cigarette smoke laced with something sour underneath. It crawled down my throat, sat heavy on my tongue.

Speak of the motherfucking devil.

The living room was unlit, swallowed by shadows only broken by a beam of light slipping out from the half-closed door at the far end.

My father sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between two fingers.

His black hair, now streaked with age, was an unbrushed mess, eyes bloodshot and sunk deep into his skull. The wrinkles looked deeper today. The weight of his failures had finally found a face.

He looked miserable.

He also looked like me.

Same nose, same jaw, same stupid frown carved into the corners of our mouths. Same hands with old scars knotted across the knuckles.

The only difference was the exhaustion. His had aged into something permanent, while mine was still pretending to be temporary.

His gaze flicked up, bleary and sharp all at once. He didn't say a word.

Just stared like I was another problem he'd been waiting to solve with violence or silence—whichever came first.

I stood in the doorway, the distance between us thick with years of things unsaid.

My chest tightened, the way it always did, like my body still hadn't learned that nothing good ever came out of facing him.

Maybe he'd lost another bet. Maybe he was out of alcohol again. Maybe he'd picked a fight and lost. I didn't care enough to find out.

"Back early," he muttered, voice like gravel.

"Got fired."

He snorted. "Shocking."

There was a flicker in my chest—anger, pity, both. I ignored it. "Try not to burn the place down," I said, because sarcasm was cheaper than therapy.

He didn't reply. Didn't even look at me. Just stared at the cigarette like it had answers. I took that as my cue to leave.

There was a time I did care. When I used to bandage his busted knuckles, slip him my lunch money, wait for him to maybe, just maybe, say thanks, son.

But that was a long time ago.

Somewhere between then and now, I'd learned the easiest way to love him was not to try.

So, I turned around, walked back to my room like he was nothing but background noise.

My room—if you could call it that—was a glorified storage closet with a mattress.

Two walls, a wardrobe, and a floor that creaked like it had secrets. The mattress had seen better days, but so had I, so we made peace with it.

Every surface was cluttered—law textbooks, old manuals, a cracked mirror, pens that no longer worked but stayed out of loyalty.

I swapped my grease-stained shirt for a cleaner one and crouched to lift the loose wooden plank beneath my bed.

The little metal box underneath greeted me like an old friend—cheap, dented, and still more reliable than any human I knew.

I took out the envelope, peeled away a few bills—enough for food—and tucked the rest inside with my pitiful savings. Coins, folded notes, and the illusion of control.

I checked the time. Twenty minutes before I had to leave for class. Twenty minutes to either nap or spiral.

The bed creaked as I collapsed backward, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, letting my mind drift for a few long, hollow minutes.

My mind drifted to last night—the stink of sweat and alcohol, the sharp lights, the metallic echo of cheers and groans from the underground fights.

The brush of Seokmin's hand. The slope of his nose. The way his laughter cracked through the noise like a safety line.

The warmth he carried even when his knuckles were bruised raw.

I'd told myself it didn't matter. But the memory lingered like heat.

And then there was Seungcheol.

That flash of red hair. That smirk that looked carved, not born. The way his voice curved around words like he was flirting with danger just to taste it.

Tattoos spilling down his arms, disappearing beneath a tank top that was doing the world no favors.

That man was a walking red flag wrapped in muscle and menace.

The kind of man you didn't look at twice unless you had a death wish—or worse, a type.

Seungcheol was both mythology and warning.

He didn't just have a reputation; he was one. The name people whispered when they wanted to sound brave.

The guy whose smile meant someone else was about to bleed.

And yet, Seokmin—sweet, stupid, self-destructive Seokmin—had crossed him.

Seokmin had this energy—bright, stupidly earnest, like a fire that didn't know it could burn the whole damn room.

He'd been climbing fast, fighting smarter, gaining eyes on him that he didn't need. And Seungcheol noticed.

People either worshiped Seungcheol or avoided him. There was no in-between. He wasn't someone you met; he was someone who happened to you.

And part of me knew Seokmin was about to get burned.

Or maybe—God help him—he'd burn Seungcheol instead.

----

When I finally stepped out of my room, my father was gone. The air felt lighter instantly. The faint click of the door had been his only goodbye.

I waited, counted ten heartbeats, and then left too.

The late morning heat wrapped around me as I walked down the street, the city already alive and miserable.

Vendors shouting, engines growling, a kid crying over melted ice cream—every sound scraped against my skull.

The city was too alive for how dead I felt.

The walk to the station was muscle memory by now. The same cracks on the pavement, the same billboard peeling at the edges, the same old woman selling lottery tickets she didn't believe in.

By the time I reached the platform, sweat had glued my shirt to my back. The crowd was the usual sea of strangers pretending not to exist—office workers scrolling, students yawning, couples arguing softly.

The train was late. It always was.

I stood near the edge, eyes on the yellow line, mind wandering. The station looked sterile, almost aggressively normal.

People in crisp corporate suits moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine, as if their lives were pre-programmed. Like they'd all read the same manual on how to exist.

Graduate, get a job, get married by twenty-seven, have two kids, buy a toaster, die peacefully.

Me? I didn't grow up like that.

I grew up in chaos. In fists and bruises. Around fights.

Fights with the punks around the corner. Fights in the basements of stinky warehouses.

Fights for blood. Fights for food. Fights to survive.

My father used to drag me along, said it would "make me a man." Said the world wouldn't be gentle, so I shouldn't be either.

"You think the world's gonna kiss your cheek and hand you a scholarship?" he'd sneer. "No, Jeonghan. A man learns to break things."

And I did. I learned. I obeyed. I survived.

I trained until my lungs burned. My knuckles learned the taste of blood before I learned algebra.

Then my mother left. Before she walked out, she told me I wasn't meant for this. Said I was smart. Said I was better.

I had ignored her advice, thinking a woman who left me behind didn't care enough to understand what "good" could mean.

Until my sister got hurt.

Then I pulled back. I enrolled in school. I sat through exams that tested nothing but my patience.

I signed up for law because it was something she could be proud of. Pretending I was built for gentleness.

Two years in, and I hadn't thrown a proper punch—not to destroy, not to hurt, not in any meaningful way.

But the past didn't vanish. It lingered, a quiet rot in my chest that stirred whenever I saw someone throw a punch, or whenever I walked through streets where the shadows remembered me.

The train finally rolled into the station with a reluctant screech, doors hissing open like embarrassed sighs. The crowd shuffled in and out, bumping shoulders, muttering apologies, and I found my usual spot near the windows.

I tucked myself between a teenager blasting obnoxiously loud rock and a middle-aged man whose eyes carried more exhaustion than sleep could ever fix.

The ride was familiar, smooth, mostly uneventful. A few bumps, a couple of elbows, the mundane rhythm of a routine life I didn't belong to.

The next station arrived. The doors hissed again, and half the crowd spilled out like water from a cracked bucket. The rest flowed in, faces identical in monotony, a tidal wave of predictable lives moving in perfect synchronization.

It was the same as always—boring, manageable—until I turned my head.

And there he was.

Across the car, standing like the world had tilted to make room for him.

Red hair falling over his forehead, lips quirked in that slow, dangerous smirk.

Seungcheol.

He was dressed too casually to be casual—white shirt rolled at the sleeves. Collar loose enough to show the edge of a tattoo and a dark pendant dangling at his throat like it had witnessed too much.

His hands were buried in his pockets, but his posture screamed control.

And he was looking right at me.

I froze, or maybe I didn't. Maybe it just felt like time did.

His eyes were green—not the soft kind, but sharp, glassy, with the same energy as a lighter flicking to life.

There was a challenge there. Or a joke. Maybe both.

His gaze burned with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he could kill you—and make it look like an accident.

The underground called him a legend. I called him bad news.

He was the kind of man you wanted to stay a thousand miles away from but couldn't stop staring at anyway. The kind that made fear look like foreplay.

Trouble—I had learnt—never announced itself. It just smiled.

And for a split second, I forgot how to breathe.

Because I knew. I knew.

Seungcheol didn't show up anywhere without a reason. Especially not in my orbit.

Still, I didn't look away. Couldn't. My pride wouldn't let me.

Maybe it was defiance. It was definitely stupidity.

He raised one eyebrow, that damn smirk deepening just enough to make it personal.

The train slowed, and then eventually screeched to a reluctant stop.

I shifted in the crowded car, tucking myself tighter against the shoulder of a teenager blasting obnoxious rock, trying to disappear in the hum of moving bodies.

The doors hissed open with a sigh, and the crowd surged. I moved with it, shuffling, ducking, sliding between legs and elbows.

My heart was pounding too hard—not from exertion, but from the awareness that he was here in between the crowd.

I broke through, weaving between commuters, trying to tuck my shoulders in, head down, pretending the world couldn't see me. I stumbled out of the station, t-shirt sticking to my back, breathing too hard.

The sunlight hit me in the eyes, blinding, relentless, the heat crawling under my skin.

I tried to tell myself that this was nothing but a dirty coincidence. That it was normal. Just another day.

I rounded a corner, pressed my back against the cool tiles of a column just beside the station and let the crowd pass flow past.

A few beats passed, and I finally thought I had lost him. I let myself breathe.

I ducked away from the pillar, relief surging through me.

And then my chest seized.

Because there he was. Standing a few feet away from the column.

Green eyes catching the sunlight like they'd been waiting for me—waiting for me step out.

Red hair brushed back sharply to reveal an undercut glinting in the light.

His smirk was gone now—replaced by an amused, softer tug.

I tried to step away hoping I could lose myself in the crowd but he didn't give me the chance.

He moved. Not quickly, not aggressively.

Just a few steps, calm, measured, slow, threading through the scattered mess of people who didn't even stop to notice.

I clenched my fists, telling myself I wasn't afraid. What could he possibly do here, in a station packed with strangers' eyes?

Every step drew him closer, and somehow, in seconds that felt both too long and too short, he was standing in front of me.

"Yoon Jeonghan," he said, voice smooth, low, almost lazy, yet heavy with a weight I couldn't place. "Finally, I get the pleasure to meet you."

....

Chapter 5: 5.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 5.

Jeonghan's POV

The sun was melting everything—my sense of direction, my deodorant, and apparently, my will to live as well.

The heat was brutal—sharp enough to cut through my patience, my shirt and probably my ability to function.

I could've kept walking. Should've

Just moved along with the crowd like a sane, functioning adult who didn't notice six feet of trouble wrapped in tattoos and arrogance standing a few meters away.

But I didn't. Because apparently, I have the self-preservation skills of a moth staring lovingly into a bonfire.

People yelled, rushed, bumped into each other—but in all that chaos, he stood still. Like gravity bent around him. 

Motionless, lazy, but with a tension in his posture that could bend the neck of anyone foolish enough to look him in the eye too long. 

Hands in pockets, inked skin gleaming under the glare, the kind of face that belonged in headlines after something illegal happened—or at least in nightmares.

Close enough that I could see the curl of the tattoo winding up his neck—a serpent's tail, dark against sunburnt skin.

He looked at me like I was supposed to recognize him.

And I did. I wish I didn't.

"Yoon Jeonghan," he said, voice low and smooth, carrying the kind of lazy authority that made you either run or stay rooted like an idiot. "Finally, I get the pleasure to meet you."

I froze. I didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't blink, although maybe I should have. Maybe if I did, I could blink him out of existence. Didn't work.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Long enough for the city noise to fade around us. Until it felt like I could hear my own pulse tapping against my ribs. 

He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even seem human for a second. Just smiled like the world bored him and I was the only thing vaguely interesting left.

"Who are you?" I asked finally, though I knew damn well who he was. What I didn't know was what he wanted.

He chuckled—low, dark, unamused. The kind of laugh that knew exactly how many beats it would take for a man to bleed, and found the counting fun. 

"You wound me, pretty boy," he murmured. "Did your little boyfriend not tell you?"

"Boyfriend?" I repeated, voice flat but venom curling low at the back of my throat. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His grin only widened. His eyes dragged over my face—slow, invasive, cataloguing every inch like he was making a list of what he could destroy first. 

"Lee Seokmin," he said, tilting his head. "Though I don't think he deserves someone as... beautiful as you."

Beautiful. I wanted to laugh, but the sound got caught somewhere between my lungs and the heat. 

My eyes widened—too much, I could tell—and he noticed. His green eyes darkened with amusement, like watching a moth tangle itself in a candlelight.

He stepped closer, hands out of pockets idle by his side like he owned the world, a smirk that didn't quiet reach the corners of his eyes.

"Do really not know me—" he said, bending slightly at his waist, face directly in front of mine, "—or are we playing pretend now?"

"What do you want from me?" I hissed, taking a step back.

He straightened, green eyes meeting mine. "Getting straight to the point," he muttered with a mock smile. "You are ruining out bonding session, sweetheart."

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. 

I wasn't violent—usually—but him? 

Him, in the sun, in the middle of the chaos, made my blood feel like it had just learned to breathe again for the first time in years.

"Get to the point," I repeated, sharper this time, my teeth gritted.

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Instead, he leaned in—close enough that his breath touched the side of my neck.

"Never thought I'd see you again," he whispered, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, breath hot against the sweat-slick skin.

My entire body reacted before my brain caught up. I jerked back, heart thudding painfully, shoulder colliding with his.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snapped, face heating up under his gaze.

Sin, danger, all wrapped in a casual stare that made the world around him dull and gray.

"Everything," he said with a shrug. "It doesn't matter. What matters is how far are you going to run until it all catches up back, Jeonghan-ah?"

"Stop talking in riddles," I said with a grit in my mouth.

"I'm not," he replied, voice almost soft now. "You know exactly what I mean. You don't just disappear from our world and expect no consequences."

"It was two years ago," I shot back. "And it has nothing to do with you."

He chuckled. The sound carried over the crowd, over the traffic, and somehow it bent the chaos around us into something still, watching, waiting. "The cages, the fights—it has everything to do with me."

"What do you want now? Money? Blood? Revenge for a punch thrown god knows when?"

The sunlight hit his eyes just right, turning the green into something sharp, feral. "Now we're talking business," he said lazily. "Come down to the Mujabi Club. Fight for the team."

For a second, I just stared at him. Then I laughed, hard, barked almost. The sound was ugly, breathless, but honest. 

Fight for him? For his team? I would rather jump off a cliff. Literally. Preferably into molten lava for added drama.

"You think I'd fight for you? You've completely lost your mind." I spat. "I don't do that anymore. Not for you, not for anyone like you." 

His stare deepened, the sunlight catching something lethal in his eyes. "You will, if you don't want to end up like your father."

"You don't know shit about him," I snapped.

"I know more than you'd like me to," he muttered, slipping his hands back into his pockets, posture casual again—as if he hadn't just ripped open an old wound. "Take the offer while you have the choice, Jeonghan."

He stepped back, deliberate, each measured movement like a predator deciding the hunt wasn't over yet. 

A slow tilt of his head—part dismissal, part dare—and then he turned, sauntering into the crowd with the kind of ease that made chaos feel choreographed.

He didn't vanish. He couldn't

Red hair blazing like a sun on fire, muscles stretching the fabric of his shirt in a way that made even the city's chaos pause, if only for a heartbeat.

I stayed frozen, eyes locked until the corner swallowed him whole. Didn't look away. Couldn't.

He was trouble—the kind of man who left wreckage behind like a calling card, and knew that you were curious enough, foolish enough, to linger in the aftermath. 

To trace the ruin, inhale the faint ghost of his scent, and wonder why you couldn't tear your gaze away.

And it wasn't the fact that he knew me that rattled me. Not really. 

With him, none of it was unexpected. Not with the underground cages bending to his will. 

Not with the calculated violence in his fists. 

Not with the way people seemed to orbit around his chaos.

He was both the sharpest weapon and the softest danger Jihoon had ever tried to tame—with money, with power, or maybe just with a whisper.

The worst part wasn't the knowing. It was the timing.

The worst part was the question gnawing at my gut—what game was he planning this time?

----

By the third lecture, my head was throbbing in sync with the flickering projector.

Professor Park Jinyoung was droning about the right to a standard of living adequate for health and well-being, which was rich, considering I'd just skipped breakfast because I couldn't afford both coffee and bus fare.

He was talking about access to food, clothing, shelter—all the utopian fantasies no one in my part of the city ever actually got.

Still, I scribbled it down. Because that's what you do when life's a joke—you keep playing along, hoping maybe one day the punchline will be kind.

The fluorescent lights hummed above me. The air con was basically performing decorative duties. The guy behind me was chewing gum with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he thought the world owed him something.

And me—well, I was losing my mind.

My thoughts were bouncing off each other like they were playing dodgeball in my skull—Seokmin, my father, another hopeless job application, back to Seokmin.

And—oh, why not—Seungcheol. The ghost of him lurking in some corner of my consciousness like he had a personal subscription to my misery. 

Every problem seemed to be lining up like obedient little soldiers just to mock me.

And there was Seungcheol. The ghost of him lurking just at the corner.

The words of the professor seemed to tumble off the part of my brain that was supposed to be learning.

I couldn't focus. I sighed and let my gaze drift across the hall. Everyone looked normal. Studious. Whole.

No one looked like they were barely keeping it together.

None of them worked two jobs just to stay afloat.

None of them had fists that used to know how to break bone.

University was supposed to be my way out. A clean slate.

Instead, it felt like a very expensive illusion.

I was good at studying—too good, maybe. I could cram twelve hours of coursework into six, glide through exams like I'd been born for it. 

But every A on my report card came at the cost of another sleepless night, another shift hauling crates or scraping gum off desks.

University wasn't helping—not for the next six semesters at least. It was draining me slowly, brutally.

And maybe—just maybe—that's why Seungcheol's offer hadn't completely repulsed me.

Because buried under all that stubbornness and exhaustion was a desperate, treacherous thought—maybe this is my way out.

It would be easier to slip in through him. I could probably climb my way back up again.

The fights paid well. Obscenely well.

And if I played it smart, I could make enough to never go back to this miserable routine.

I could still choose MMA as a career. Slot into a lightweight—get into those legal, international fights. Maybe get out of this rotting city.

It was a nice dream to cling to.

Maybe one day. Maybe.

I exhaled sharply, capped my pen, and shoved my notebook into my bag. When the projector flicked off, I was already halfway down the aisle.

"Jeonghan," Professor Park called out just as I reached the front. "A moment, please."

I followed him into his office—a small, neat space that smelled faintly of coffee and disappointment. He gestured for me to sit, and I obeyed, clutching my bag like a shield.

He pulled out a stack of papers, shuffled through them and drew out what seemed like the copy of my submission on the last term report.

He set it down between us, and gestured for me to see. I picked the papers, rough under my calloused fingers.

perfect score. A hundred out of hundred.

My chest did a stumble. I set the paper down, bit the inside of my cheek before looking Mr. Park back in the eye.

"You did excellent this time," he started, leaning back into his chair. "You pointed out angles many miss, and are the only one who scored out of out."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. Some childish, humiliating part of me waited for more.

Something like, you're doing great, kid. Or I'm proud of you.

But of course, life wasn't sentimental.

Instead, I just nodded, ears heating up. "Thank you. I tried to give my best."

"I can tell," he said, picking the copy back and replacing it back with the rest. His eyes softened for a moment as he turned to me back. "I looked into your record. You are one of my strongest students."

I just nodded, shoulders stiff.

"Once you graduate," he continued, "you can easily land a job with one of the top firms. You have thought about it, haven't you?"

"I guess," I gave a tiny shrug, eyes darting to his hands, now moving again to pull out another file.

"We will be recommending you name for the yearly scholarship," he said, not unkindly, just stoic. "If you maintain you current grades, its yours."

For a second I forgot to answer. Just stared at the file with my name sitting on the top under the recommendations.

A scholarship.

Maybe that meant I wouldn't have to scrounge for another job. Maybe that meant I wouldn't have to break my back hoarding crates twice my weight. Maybe that meant I wouldn't have to scrape gum off the school desks. 

Maybe that meant I didn't have to go back into the fight club.

Maybe that meant I could finally breathe.

I swallowed, and nodded, voice scraping around the words. "I will keep that in mind."

Mr. Park nodded, and smiled. "Please do, you have earned it."

----

The moment I stepped out, the afternoon sun punched me straight in the face. I squinted, ducked my head, and kept walking toward the curb that led away from the university.

The city, for all its noise and heatstroke-inducing charm, never missed a beat. The horns blared, people yelled into their phones, and somehow, through the chaos, I felt a small flicker of lightness in my chest.

One I hadn't felt in a longlong time.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad. Maybe somewhere in the distant future, there'd be a version of me who didn't have to break his back just to survive.

My phone pinged. An email. From the school management.

I unlocked it, read the subject line—and immediately wanted to hurl the device into oncoming traffic.

Termination of Temporary Employment Contract.

A laugh scraped its way out of my throat—dry, humorless, pathetic. The world had this hilarious timing, slapping me right when I dared to think I could breathe.

I knew this would happen eventually. Temporary meant temporary. The management loved replacing people with cheaper, more desperate versions of me.

Still. The timing? Absolutely psychotic.

I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. A couple of strangers stared at me like I'd just escaped from a psych ward.

"Life can't get any worse, can it?" I muttered.

Apparently, the universe took that as a challenge.

Because my phone rang.

The landlady.

I really, really wanted to punch someone.

I answered, already rehearsing my best polite, broke-boy charm—but didn't even get the chance.

"Are you going to pay the rent or evacuate?" she screeched, every word vibrating with rage and exhaustion.

I sighed and nodded like an idiot, even though she couldn't see me. "Just give me today. You'll have the money by tomorrow."

"You better. Otherwise, I'm calling the cops," she snapped and hung up.

I stared at the black screen. My throat burned.

Around me, the city kept moving—honking, bustling, living—while I stood stranded on the pavement, one sad man and his unpaid rent.

And then, as if summoned by the devil himself, Seungcheol's face slithered into my mind.

The underground fights. Mujabi.

It was money. Fast, filthy money.

I stared down at the cracked pavement. At my faded shoes. At the pavement again.

Fuck it.

I turned around, clutching my bag tighter.

This wasn't dumb, I told myself as I started walking toward Mujabi.

It was just easy money.

....

 

 

Notes:

some jeongcheol moments lmao...

which dynamic do you love the most?

soft, hazy boyfriends seokhan? or enemies to lovers seungcheol? ;)

kudos and comments are appreciated <3

-jess..