For a star like Martin Edwards, that was a tall order. Lead singer of his band, his face plastered across every magazine, his voice the anthem of a generation. He'd never publicly acknowledged a relationship, never shown interest in anyone. The endless fangirls bordering on stalkers made him paranoid—he'd rather be alone than risk letting a stranger in. He'd built his career on being untouchable, the kind of guy who left girls crying in their bedrooms, not the other way around.

Paris Fashion Week wasn't his scene at all. He'd almost skipped it, told his manager to shove the invitation somewhere unpleasant, but something pulled him there, a restless itch he couldn't explain, a feeling that he'd miss something important if he didn't go.

He came decked in black: scuffed combat boots, leather trousers that hugged his thighs, a faded CORTIS tour tee from two years ago. He looked bored, slouched in his front-row seat like he'd rather be anywhere else, fingers drumming against his knee as models glided by in designer gowns and sky-high heels. The music was too polished, the lights too bright, the whole affair too clean for his taste. He was about to get up and leave when you emerged.

You walked the runway like you owned it, wearing stunning floor-length gown in champagne silk that caught every light, a slit that went dangerously high, heels so sharp they could kill a man. You didn't smile, didn't wave, instead you moved like you were born for this, shoulders back, chin high, utterly untouchable.

His jaw went slack and his drumming fingers stilled. For the first time in years, Martin Edwards was speechless. His mind was hollow, entirely empty of any rational thought that would have been screaming at him to snap out of it before his reputation of being untouchable is completely destroyed. Instead there was one simple line repeating like a mantra.

He needed you. He needed you more than he'd ever needed anything.

You didn't look at him once. Your gaze swept over the front row like they were furniture, as though he was just another piece of decor, and that only made it worse.

At the end of the runway, you turned. For a split second, your eyes met his. You lifted one eyebrow by just a fraction—a flicker of curiosity, a silent question—before your expression smoothed back to perfect neutrality and you were gone, disappearing behind the velvet curtains.

He didn't even remember the rest of the show. He sat there like a statue, his mind replaying that single moment in an endless loop.

What he didn't know was that it had all been photographed. By morning, his slack-jawed, lovesick stare was splashed across every tabloid and newspaper in the country.

"ROCKSTAR RAVENOUS! Martin Edwards' Heart Snatched by Parisian Mystery Muse!" Screamed the front page of The Sun, complete with a grainy photo of his stunned face. "WHO IS THE SIREN IN HEELS?" Demanded the Daily Mail. Even the fashion magazines got in on it: Vogue ran a two-page spread speculating about the mysterious model who'd made the ‘Prince of Darkness’ lose his cool, complete with freeze-frames of that one eyebrow raise.

Martin sat in his hotel room the next evening staring at his own exposed face on every newsstand. The mask he'd worn for years—the untouchable, brooding rockstar—was gone. Everyone had seen him unravel in real time.

A slow grin spread across his face as he scanned the endless pages.

Good. Now you’d know exactly who was coming for you.

Two weeks later, you arrived back in New York following the event, doing everything in your power to try to forget the weird rockstar who stared at you like you'd personally ruined his life. You were in your penthouse apartment, a copy of Paper magazine with his lovesick face plastered across it on your marble coffee table. Your agent had been calling nonstop, thrilled about the publicity, already scheming about how to leverage it for your next campaign. 

Your phone suddenly began ringing and you almost ignored it entirely, tired of the constant need for people to speak to you, but something pushed you to pick up.

"Hello?"

A low voice, rough and amused, crackled through the receiver. "That was a hell of a walk. Almost made me forget my own name."

You instantly froze. You knew that voice—you’d heard it enough times on the radio, on MTV, blasting from cars in traffic. The voice of a generation, the voice of every teenage girl's bedroom wall.

"Martin Edwards," you said flatly, sinking onto your velvet chaise. "How the hell did you get my number?"

"You're a model," he replied, like that explainef everything. "I'm a rockstar. I have people."

"You have stalkers, you mean."

He laughed a genuine, surprised sound, not the polished chuckle he typically gives interviews. "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not a stalker, I'm just..." He paused and you bit your lip slightly, unsure on why the silence made you nervous. "Determined."

You should have hung up and slammed the phone down and called your doorman to make sure no one gets past the lobby. You knew exactly what this was: a rockstar with a new fixation, chasing the next shiny thing, bored of groupies and looking for a challenge.

"Listen, rockstar," you said, your voice dropping to something cold and sharp. "I don't do groupies, I don't do fans, and I definitely don't do men who think they can just call me up because they saw me on a runway."

Silence came from his end. Then, quietly: "I don't want a fan. I want you."

"You don't know me."

"Then let me."

You chewed your lip, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your apartment—the skyline glittered before you, the city that never sleeps hummed twenty floors below. You've dated musicians before and it's always a disaster: the cheating, the lies, the constant parade of women throwing themselves at them. Martin Edwards was the biggest of them all. A tabloid regular; a walking red flag in scuffed boots and leather.

Though there was a rawness in his voice that caught you off guard and made you pause.

"I'm busy," you answeref, though the slight smile you were attempting to suppress suggested differently.

"Friday. 8pm. I'll send a car."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say no."

You hung up before he could say anything else, but you made sure to write his number down on a scrap of paper incase he ever called again. Just in case.

Friday night arrived and you put on a silk black slip dress with barely there straps. The stretch of fabric falling just above your knee and you added strappy heels that made your legs look endless, folowed by a delicate necklace before you styled your hair loose and glossy.

You looked in the mirror and reminded yourself that you didn’t care what rockstar Martin Edwards thought of you, he was the same as every other male musician that latched onto women for a few weeks before getting bored.

You smoothed down the dress one last time, adjusting the thin straps on your shoulders before grabbing a small clutch, slipping your phone inside and taking a breath.

The town car waited outside your building, sleek and black, a driver holding the door open like this was completely normal. You slid into the leather backseat and watched the city blur past as he drove you downtown.

The jazz bar was hidden in the Village, tucked away behind an unmarked door you would have walked right past if the driver hadn't pointed it out. Inside, it was all exposed brick and dim amber light, a saxophone player in the corner crooning something slow and sad. The place was intimate, almost empty, a few couples scattered at tables alongside a bartender polishing glasses.

And there he was.

Martin Edwards sat in a corner booth, dressed down in a simple black sweater and dark jeans, his hair pushed back from his face. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in a restless rhythm, and when he saw you approach, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his drink.

"You came," he said, genuine surprise in his voice.

"You sent a car. It seemed rude to waste gas."

He grinned at your words. "I'll take it."

You slid into the booth across from him, crossing your legs, the slit of your dress falling open just slightly. 

"So," you said, leaning back. "What's your angle?"

"No angle."

"Bullshit."

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have an angle. I just saw you on that runway and couldn't stop thinking about you. That's it. That's the whole thing."

"You haven’t even asked for my name."

"I already know it's Y/N."

You tilted your head, studying him. He wasn't performing for you—not the way he performed on stage, not the way he performed in interviews. He was just here, nervous but trying.

"Okay," you said slowly. "One drink. If you bore me I'm gone."

"Deal."

You ended up staying until the bar closed. He didn't bore you. Instead he made you laugh whilst looking at you like you were the only person in the room, and when he walked you to your door at 3am, he didn't try to come in. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, memorising every detail of you with a slight smirk residing on his lips.

"Same time next week?" He asked, tilting his head just a fraction.

You should have said no and walked inside and forgotten this ever happened. Instead, you smiled. "Maybe."

Safe to say, Martin Edwards was a hard man to shake.

He had a way of appearing when you least expected him: a bouquet of peonies delivered to your apartment the morning after your first date, a handwritten note slipped under your door alongside it that revealed far more emotional depth than a rockstar of his realm should technically possess. He called you at odd hours from the road, his voice rough and tired, just to hear you say goodnight. He sent you playlists filled with unreleased songs he'd recorded himself that were burned onto discs, his voice cracking over stolen lyrics he'd rewritten just for you.

He was relentless, and worse, he was charming.

It started small with a dinner here and a walk there. He took you to dive bars and rooftop restaurants, to galleries and late-night diners. He never brought you to anything flashy, never paraded you around like a trophy. He kept you hidden, protected, his own private secret in a world that wanted to consume him.

You let him do it all because despite every instinct screaming at you to run, to protect yourself from the inevitable heartbreak of dating a rockstar, Martin Edwards made it impossible to resist.

He remembered everything—your coffee order, your favourite movie, the way you liked your eggs in the morning. He learned the exact pressure of his hand on your lower back that made you shiver when he guided you through crowds. He learned the exact rhythm of your breathing when you fell asleep on his chest.

He was careful with you in a way you hadn't expected.

And slowly, without even realising it, you fell.

Within two months of knowing you Martin was already inviting you backstage to his shows, keeping you hidden and protected from the intruding crowd. It was at one of these shows when he had pulled you behind a pillar, the rest of the world becoming nonexistent as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you tightly against him, his forehead dropping to uour shoulder.

You hesitated for a moment before reaching your hand up and letting your fingers sift through his strands, the sigh of relief he let out showing you were doing the right thing. 

The two of you remained in that position much longer than what was considered normal, though neither of you cared, too swept up in the moment.

Eventually you heard him say something, his words muffled against your jacket.

“What?” You asked softly, a small smile resting on your lips. He lifted his head up, his hair standing up in multiple directions from all your ruffling, and he very much did not look like the hardcore rockstar many of his fans saw him to be.

"I said," he murmured, his voice rough, "I think I'm in trouble."

You raised an eyebrow. "What kind of trouble?"

"The kind where I can't stop thinking about you." He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as you felt your cheeks redden just slightly at the gesture. "The kind where I don't want to be on stage unless I know you're watching. The kind where I wake up and the first thing I do is reach for you, even when you're not there."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, your gaze softening at his words. "Martin—"

"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two months. I know you probably think I'm just some rockstar who gets bored easily and moves on to the next thing." He let out a breath, his forehead dropping back to your shoulder. "But you're not the next thing, you're the only thing for me."

You stood there, frozen, his body pressed against yours, his words echoing in your head. Two months was nothing, barely enough time to know someone properly and let alone fall for them.

But you already knew him. You knew the way he took his coffee, that he hummed when he was concentrating, even how his eyes lit up when he talked about a new song he was writing. You knew the shadows under his eyes when he hadn't slept, that his fingers tapped against every surface like he was always composing something. You knew he looked at you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were already in too deep.

"Martin," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back to his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Look at me."

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and he looked nervous. Martin Edwards, the man who commanded thousands of screaming fans night after night, looked nervous.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said quietly. "You're not going to lose me."

His breath caught. "You mean that?"

"I mean it."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes for something: doubt, hesitation, a lie; he found none.

He slowly moved forward and his lips brushed against yours so softly you could barely feel them, and you realised in that moment he was afraid you'd pull away.

You did nothing of the sort and instead leaned into him, your fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer. His arms tightened around your waist, and you felt the tension drain from his body as he melted into you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps whilst his eyes remained closed.

"Y/N," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

"I'm here," you said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your heart ache. It was raw and open and completely unguarded.

"I've never—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I've never felt like this before. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," you admitted. "But we can figure it out together."

He smiled then, his grin reaching his eyes and making him look younger and lighter than how he appeared on the many magazines you absolutely did not keep hidden in your bedside table. "Together?"

"Together."

He kissed you again, softer this time—if that were even possible, as though he was sealing a promise. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you felt like the only person in the world.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "I'm going to be so annoying now, you know that, right? The whole band is going to hate me. I'm not going to shut up about you."

You laughed, shoving his chest lightly. "You're already annoying."

"True." He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your hair. "But now I'm annoying and in love."

You could only smile against his shoulder at that, closing your eyes and letting the feel of him engulf your entire being.

From then on, Martin was yours and you were his, as hard as it was when you were constantly on opposite sides of the world. The distance was brutal: weeks apart, time zones that made calls nearly impossible, schedules that never seemed to align, but Martin made it work. He called you every night, no matter where he was or what time it was. He sent you handwritten letters filled with lyrics he'd scribbled in the margins of hotel notepads. He showed up at your apartment unannounced, exhausted and rumpled, just to hold you for a few hours before catching another flight.

You did the same for him. You flew across oceans to watch him perform, sitting in the shadows of the crowd, hidden beneath caps and sunglasses, just to see him do what he loved. You called him when you couldn't sleep, when the loneliness of your hotel room became too much and everything made you think of him.

It wasn't easy—there were nights you cried, overwhelmed by the distance, the secrecy, and the weight of loving someone the world wasn't supposed to know about, and there were nights Martin called you, his voice rough and raw, confessing how much he missed you followed by how much he hated being so far away.

But you always found your way back to each other, and every time you did, it was like no time had passed at all.

The public eventually found out, and it was entirely inevitable, to be completely honest. You'd been as careful as two people in the public eye could be, but you weren't as invisible or untouchable as you had thought. Eventually the paparazzi, relentless and all-seeing, caught a glimpse of what you'd been trying so hard to protect.

It started with a photo: the two of you in a hotel lobby in London, his hand intertwined with yours, your head tilted back in laughter as he whispered something in your ear. It was grainy, taken from too far away, but it was unmistakably the two of you.

The next morning, the image was everywhere.

"ROCKSTAR'S SECRET LOVE AFFAIR EXPOSED!" was printed on every newspaper in the country. Your face was plastered across every newsstand, every television screen, every gossip column. Your agent's phone rang off the hook for hours on end; stranngers on the street recognised you, whispering behind their hands, pointing and staring like you were a spectacle.

You'd known this day would come, you’d prepared for it, even braced yourself for it, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer weight of it: the invasion, the scrutiny, the sudden loss of privacy that came with being publicly linked to Martin Edwards.

You sat atop his bed in a London hotel room, the many magazines spread out in front of you as you sifted through one, your fingers tracing the grainy image of the two of you in the lobby. Your own face stared back at you, frozen in a moment of laughter, his hand wrapped around yours. It felt strange, seeing yourself reduced to a headline and a piece of gossip for strangers to consume without a care in the world about you as an actual person.

You heard the bathroom door creak open behind you, the air shifting as Martin emerged with his pyjamas sitting loose on his frame and his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. He crossed the room in a few quiet steps, and before you could look up, his hands were on the magazine, gently pulling it from your grasp.

"Hey—" you started to protest, but he tossed it aside, not caring where it landed.

Then he climbed onto the bed, his weight settling over you as he lay on top of you, his body pressing yours into the mattress. He was warm and solid, still smelling like soap and steam, and you let out a breathless laugh as you tried to shove at his shoulders.

"Martin, you're too heavy," you complained, but you were giggling, your hands flattening against his chest. "Get off."

He didn't move. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "No," he murmured, the word muffled. "I'm staying here forever. This is my new home."

"Your new home is crushing me."

"Good, you're not going anywhere."

You laughed again, your fingers finding their way into his damp hair, threading through the damp strands. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm in love," he corrected, lifting his head just enough to look at you, his lips just grazing your chin. His eyes were soft and searching your own. "And I'm not letting a bunch of magazines ruin that."

Your smile faded slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. "Martin—"

"I know," he said quietly, cutting you off. "I know it's a lot. I know they're going to be everywhere now. I know they're going to try to tear us apart." He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I don't care about any of it, all I care about is you."

You stared at him, your heart swelling. "You really mean that?"

"I really mean it." He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I love you, Y/N, and I'm not going to let anyone take that away from us."

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, and he let out a soft sigh of relief against your skin. The magazines lay forgotten on the floor, their headlines screaming about secrets and scandals, but neither of you paid them any attention.

In that moment, there was only the two of you.

"You're still crushing me," you murmured after a moment, a smile tugging at your lips.

He laughed, rolling off you just enough to pull you into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist. "Better?"

"Better."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the tension in his body slowly ease. 

Eventually, the fans and press got used to seeing the two of you together.

It took time: months of grainy photos and speculative articles, of whispers and pointed fingers and strangers dissecting your every move. But slowly, inevitably, the novelty began to fade. You weren't a mystery anymore, you were just Martin Edwards' girlfriend, and he was just your boyfriend, and the two of you were simply... together.

The tabloids still covered you, of course, they always would, but the tone shifted. The invasive headlines gave way to something almost affectionate. The speculation about breakups and cheating scandals was replaced by stories about your red carpet appearances, your joint holidays, the way Martin looked at you during interviews.

"CORTIS Frontman and Model Girlfriend: The Coolest Couple in Rock?" —NME

"Martin Edwards and Y/N Y/L/N: How They Became Music's Most Stylish Pair" —Vogue

"Rockstar Romance: Why Martin and Y/N Are Relationship Goals" —Rolling Stone

You'd laugh every time you saw a new headline, shoving the magazine in Martin's face. "Did you see this? We're 'relationship goals.'"

He'd grin, pulling you into his lap. "They're not wrong."

You'd roll your eyes, but you'd be smiling. "You have such a big ego."

"You love it."

And you did. You really did.

The fans embraced you too. At first, there had been the inevitable backlash: jealous comments, cruel speculation, girls who swore you weren't good enough for him. But you weathered it, never engaging, never stooping to their level. You showed up to shows, stood quietly by his side, and let your actions speak for themselves.

Slowly, the fans came around. They saw the way Martin looked at you like you'd hung the moon, and how you supported him by showing up even when you didn't have to. They saw the small moments: him holding your hand backstage, you fixing his collar before he went on stage, the private smiles you exchanged across crowded rooms.

Soon, you weren't just Martin Edwards' girlfriend. You were the girl who'd tamed the rockstar. The one who could walk a runway in couture and still stand in the pit at one of his shows despite the rowdy crowd. The one who never looked fazed, never seemed rattled, never let the cameras get to her.

You'd become a style icon in your own right, your red carpet looks dissected and praised. You'd become a fixture at award shows, a staple of magazine covers, a name that stood on its own. And through it all, Martin was right beside you, his hand always finding yours, his eyes always seeking you out in a crowd.

The press called you the coolest couple, the most stylish pair, the relationship goals of a generation, but to you, it was simpler than that. You were just two people who'd found each other in the chaos, and had held on dearly when everything tried to pull you apart.

The file hit the desk hard enough to make the half-empty mug beside your elbow rattle. You glanced at it before the folder, mostly because Kento had been threatening to throw that mug away for three weeks now and still hadn't found the heart to do it. "Your target is Sasai Arasaka," he said.

You flipped the folder open without looking at him. "Location?"

"Shibuya skyline."

"Time?"

"21:22."

You skimmed past the photographs first. Men like Sasai Arasaka always smiled the same in corporate headshots. Teeth visible. Eyes not quite joining in. The smug kind of corporation heads—the type who have a clean profile. The type loved by everyone. But one thing Kento taught you was that, “Cleaner the suit, dirtier the hands.” 

"Complications?"

"If there were any," Kento said, "I wouldn't be sending you."

You chuckled in response, watching him disappear to the balcony—to smoke probably. The balcony door slid open with a scrape, he leaned against the railing pulling out a packet of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his coat. 

The cigarette was already between his lips before he reached for the lighter. You couldn't remember a version of Kento without one. When you were little, you'd thought the smell of tobacco meant home—specifically Blackstones. 

You followed him into the balcony, resting your forearms against the railing as he fished for a lighter from his coat pocket. A cold breeze hit you, your hair moving with the wind as the lights from buildings illuminate the Shibuya night sky. A familiar cloud of smoke envelopes Kento. “How was your biology test?” he asks, flicking the ashes of his cigarette.

"Kento," came the muffled complaint from somewhere inside your folded arms. “Don’t ask me such stuff.” the words come out sluggish. 

He lifted the cigarette halfway up to his lips, “Someone has to make sure you graduate high school.” 

You watched him take another drag, wondering if he’ll ever quit. It fell silent for a while. Your thoughts settled down. The sounds of cars honking from a distance amplified. Looking down, seeing a group of teenagers staggering—clearly under the influence. “Got any friends? Apart from Riki and Iroha.” Kento broke you out of your trance. 

“Yeah, like one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Well,” You pushed back on the railing, “His name is Keonho. Ahn Keonho.” 

Keonto watched you walk back inside, “Boyfriend?” He says loud enough for you to hear inside. 

You let out a shy chuckle, “Nah, surprised you don’t remember him though…He’s stopped by a few times” Meeting Kento's eyes, with a smug smile on your face. “He even got you tea bags last time. Anyways, expect Sasai Arasaka to be gone by tomorrow.”

You grabbed your stuff and waved him a dramatic goodbye. In return, you got a nod. That was always how Kento was. Never one for goodbyes. Never one for hugs, either. He'd just nod, like that was enough.

Honestly? For you, it was.

He'd taught you how to tie your shoelaces when you were four. Sat through every parent-teacher conference with a notebook in hand, nodding along while teachers complained you talked too much. Packed your lunch on the mornings he remembered—which wasn't often, but often enough that you'd eventually started eating your vegetables without arguing.

He'd taught you how to ride a bike. How to tell when rain was coming just by looking at the clouds. How to throw a proper punch.

How to shoot.

Somewhere between losing your parents and turning fourteen, Kento had stopped being just your dad's best friend. He became your guardian. Then, quietly, your mentor. You'd always known he was involved in something...questionable. As a kid, it was easy enough to ignore. Adults disappeared for work all the time. Late-night phone calls happened. Locked rooms stayed locked.

You just never expected to become part of it yourself. The day you turned fourteen, Kento handed you your first gun. Neither of you ever brought up birthday cake after that.

Though, after enough time, it stopped feeling strange.

You set 3 alarms that night. One, an hour before school so you could wake up and call Keonho to let him know you're sick and won’t show up. One for the mission. And, another one for the mission just in case you missed the first one. 

Your first alarm went off. The blaring ringtone stirred you awake. You groaned, slapping the screen of your phone until the ringing finally stopped. “Gosh, shut up.” you murmured, stuffing your face into the pillow. Snobbishly, you unlocked your phone and called Keonho. 

The line rang 3 times before—“hello?” his voice was muffled. 

“Are you brushing your teeth?” 

You moved the phone away from your ear to see Keonho requesting you to switch to facetime. 

Shit. 

Your brain finally caught up, ‘Uhm…can’t do ft right now Keon.” 

You hear toothpaste hit the sink  accompanied by the rush of  running water. “Why not?” His voice was clearer this time.

“Because I’m sick and I look horrible.” 

A loud chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Yn, please. You always look horrible.” 

You scoff, “Whatever, tell Mr.Zhao I’ll be absent today.” 

“What happened to you so suddenly? You were fine yesterday.”

“I’m, you know…” You stopped, trying to find an excuse. Why did he have to question you so much?

He repeats your words, “You’re what...?”

“I’m, Uh–on my period.” You blurted out.

“Oh.” he said unfazed. “Should’ve just said that, take care alright?” 

“Yes, don't worry about me. Go to school and have fun without me.” Before he could say anything else, you ended the call.

You weren't particularly in the mood to explain why your "period" required a rifle aimed at the head of Arasaka Corporation's CEO. Back home, your school bag was probably still slumped beside your bedroom door. You couldn't tell Keonho you spontaneously took a flight thousands of miles away. 

You slid off the hotel bed, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders before crouching to reach beneath the frame. Your fingers curled around the handle of the black case, pulling it free with practiced ease. It rested on your lap for only a second before the latches clicked open.

Everything was exactly where you'd left it.

Suppressor.

Scope.

Ammunition, each round tucked neatly into its foam cutout.

Routines had always been comforting.

Kento used to say a sloppy room made for a sloppier assassin. You never knew if that was actual advice or just his excuse for making you clean your room.

The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself.

By the time you stepped out of your hotel, the morning rush had already swallowed the streets whole. Students hurried past in neatly pressed uniforms. Office workers clutched takeaway coffees. A little girl tugged impatiently at her mother's sleeve, pointing excitedly at a bakery window.

Life kept moving.

It always did. Yours just happened to take a detour through a rooftop before dinner. You spent the afternoon with Kento, figuring out escape routes just in case something went wrong. It was protocol. Nothing new. 

Kento circled three routes on the map. "If this one's blocked?"

"Use the fire escape."

"If that's blocked?"

"Jump."

Kento had gone over the floor plan enough times that you could've drawn it from memory. By the time you arrived at the venue, there wasn't much left to think about. Crystal glasses flashed beneath the chandeliers as waiters slipped between clusters of guests. Expensive wine flowed freely beside a buffet no one seemed interested in eating.

Kento always said rich people liked looking busy more than they liked eating.

No one paid you any attention. They were too busy laughing at conversations they couldn't wait to leave. You slipped unnoticed toward the service staircase tucked behind the main hall. Three flights up, the sound booth was exactly where Kento said it'd be.

It was smaller than you'd expected.

A rolling chair sat between racks of equipment, barely leaving enough room to move. A narrow viewing window overlooked the ballroom below.

Sasai Arasaka stood almost perfectly in its center.

You pressed your ear against the door. Someone was still inside. You checked your watch.

21:17

Right on time. One slow and deep breath. Then another before your fingers settled around the cold metal handle before you turned it. The operator looked up the moment the door opened. His eyes found your face first. Then the case. They lingered there a fraction too long before returning to you. People usually knew when something didn't belong.

They just didn't always know why.

You watched the exact moment curiosity turned into suspicion. You slowly made your way to him. Clearly pretending to be lost. You leaned against his set up, “This looks so cool! What does this button do?” 

He panicked, “No! That increases the volume!” he stammered, trying to move your hands away from the set up. The second his hand touched yours, you grabbed his sleeve, yanking him forward to throw him off balance, then drove you elbow right into his jaw. 

There was a dull thud that echoed in the small room as his head hit the table. Amazing.

You pushed his equipment away to make space for your own. The case clicked open, as you loaded the rifle and set it down on the table. You brought your face closer to scope, aligning it with Sasai Arasaka’s carotid artery. One shot and he drops. 

21:21. 

One slow breath in, and then out. Deliberately, your hands moved to the abandoned set up. You slowly turned the volume up to the max—to drown the sound of the sniper.  At exactly 21:21:58, your team would cut the electricity off. That was your cue to hit and run. 

21:21:56

The crosshair settled over Sasai Arasaka's neck. He was swirling his glass of wine as he laughed at something the woman in front of him said. 

21:21:57

One second too early, before your fingers could even reach the trigger.

Sasaki Arasaka collapsed. 

What? 

Before you could attempt to take a better look at the scene through the scope, the lights cut off. 

Shit.

Your hands moved before your brain did, you packed the rifle up and climbing down to reach the getaway car. The second you settled into the car, you were met with cheers by Riki and Iroha. 

Iroha smacked your arm, “Good work!” 

But you? You were dazed. “I didn’t do it.” you confessed. 

Kento, RIki and Iroha all turned to look at you. “What?” RIki stammered out. 

You shoved your face into your palms. “He collapsed before the lights went out. I–I don’t know if someone else shot him or..” You looked up, “Or if someone else did it before me.”

Riki stared at you for a beat. He started laughing. Loud enough to divert the attention from you to him. “You’re real funny, you know that?” he said, with his voice cracking. 

You stared at him before shaking your head. “I’m serious.”

Kento’s eyes were focused on the road, “You think someone else executed him before you?” 

“Yes.” 

You watched his gaze flicker to the rearview mirror, capturing your eyes for a split second. “Ok.”

That was the last thing Kento said to you that night. He dropped you off at the airport. Lifted your suitcase from the trunk. Handed it to you. Then got back in the car. No reminder to text him when you landed. No "be careful." Not even the nod. You watched the taillights disappear into traffic. 

The flight home was uncomfortable, you tried to sleep through most of it but Kento’s silence haunted you during every attempt. Every time your eyelids fluttered close, the image of Sasaki Arasaka collapsing before you pulled the trigger flashed your mind. Was he even dead? 

Walking through your own front door was worse.

Your backpack was still slumped beside the shoe rack. The Biology test papers scattered on the table. Everything was exactly where you'd left it. But, you weren't. You've never flunked a mission like this. Kento had taught you what to do if the target ran. If the police arrived early. If the weapon jammed. If you got shot.

 He'd never taught you what to do when someone else finished your job first. 

A groan escaped as you collapsed onto your bed. Your eyes were threatening to stay open. Just as you were about to lose that war, a familiar ringtone sabotaged you. You accepted the call, holding the phone up in an angle that made you look at least half-decent. “What.”

Keonho leaned in towards the camera, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look so…tired?” 

You threw your head into the mattress. “Bad day.” the pillow swallowing your voice. You lifted your head up slightly, just enough to see what he’s doing. He had that boyish smile on his face, his hands were busy undoing his tie. Wait, tie? You brought the phone closer to your face, the background didn’t look like Keonho’s room. ‘Keon, were you on a date?” you said with conviction. 

Keonho furrowed his eyebrows, putting his tie aside. “No?” he threw himself onto the hotel looking bed. “What makes you think so?” 

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t know? Maybe the fact that you’re dressed in a suit and you’re clearly not at your house. Hotel?” 

“Oh, yeah.” He said, turning to lay on his stomach. “One of my cousins got married today, that's why the clothes and well.” He waved his phone around, giving you a blurry tour of the hotel room. “New scenery.”

You nodded, resting your head against the pillow.

"You alive?"

"Barely."

The conversation drifted. Keonho rambled about the wedding. You answered every now and then. At some point, the sound of his voice became background noise. You didn't remember falling asleep. Apparently, he noticed before you did. 

The next thing you knew, your ringtone dragged you awake.

You shot awake, sweat droplets threatening to drip from your forehead. You frantically picked the phone up. Neither of you spoke. And then, “hello?” Keonho said, his words muffled. 

“What?” You moved the phone away from your ear to check the time. Your eyes went wide instantly, “Keonho! It’s 7:30! Why didn’t you call me earlier?” You scolded him whilst rushing to grab your uniform.

"Was eating." A fork clinked against ceramic. You could practically picture him stealing food off someone else's plate. "Anyway, I'll pick you up in ten?"

Your movements paused, “Keonho. We’re late.” 

A chuckle escaped Keonho's lips, “Right, so why rush?”

“Right. Okay.” You paused to think for a second. “Get me in fifteen 

"Thought so."

"Shut up."

"Never." He giggled before he hung up

The silence engulfed your room immediately. Kento wasn't back home. Still in Shibuya, probably. Since he wasn’t home, you knew something went wrong in Shibuya. You crawled onto your bed again, scrolling through your notifications. No new message by Kento. Your thumb lingered over his contact for a second before you closed your phone. 

You rushed through your routine, brushing your teeth too fast to meet the minimum two minute requirement Kento taught you. Probably even applied less than two fingers of sunscreen—which again Kento would disapprove of. You even chewed the food down too fast, which of course Kento would’ve scolded you for. 

The bell rang once. Then, twice. And then kept ringing. Keonho’s here. He always rang the bell annoyingly when Kento wasn’t around. This  was his way of announcing his presence. You shoved the last bite of toast into your mouth. Then walked to the door. Your hand came in contact with the cold door knob. You paused for a second and thought Kento would've killed me if I kept ringing like that.

You flung the door open, grabbing your bag that was abandoned on the ground. Keonho stood in front of you with a smile too bright for a morning like this. You glanced at him as you locked the door, “Why so happy?” 

His smile just got wider, “Why not?” 

You both started walking down the stairs. The walk to the bus stop wasn’t that long. Throughout the walk Keonho rambled on and on about the wedding again. You glanced at him once or twice. Whenever he got too excited he would speak with a smile that reached his eyes. His hands gripped his backpack whenever he got to the interesting details. “Oh! You know, Cookie almost chewed the bride's dress down.” 

"Please tell me someone got a video."

"My aunt did."

"Send it." You snickered as you stepped into the bus. You both looked around the bus, scanning for empty seats. “No seats?” you complained. Keonho looked over at you. He grabbed your arm swapping places with you. 

You tilted your head and blinked at him. “No seats but it’s better if you have something to support you from the back.” He said, as he leaned on to the pole beside him. 

The bus filled up slowly. The crowds moved as the bus went ahead. Two men behind you were arguing loudly enough that half the bus could probably hear them. Their conversation didn’t concern either you or Keonho for a while. Until the name Sasaki Araska escaped the lips of the gentleman sitting on the right. 

He tapped the newspaper aggressively, “Sasaki Arasaka was assassinated yesterday.” He scoffed, turning the newspaper to his peer, “Good!” He exclaimed. “Dirty men of his kind deserve such ends.” His tone full of conviction.

The man beside him didn’t say anything. He only murmured to himself—probably reading what he saw under the headline. “Look, it’s the same assassin.” He snatched the newspaper from his friends’ hand. The sound of paper crumbling echoed in your ears. “The neck had trauma, and the card.” He smacked the newspaper. “The ace of spades! It’s the same man!” 

The conversation—or argument between the men continued. But you didn’t pay much mind after that last sentence. ‘The same man’ yeah right. You almost let out a laugh. Of course my work gets credited to a man—even though I didn’t execute Arasaka. 

You looked at Keonho through your peripherals. He looked interested in the conversation between the older men.  You watched as he slowly made his way to them, politely tapping the man's shoulder asking him for the newspaper. 

He stood beside you, opening the paper. He leaned down, "Fourth kill this month?” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s insane.” You just tilted your head up to look at his face.  His eyebrows pulled together as his eyes skimmed the article. The smile he'd been wearing all morning faded into something quieter. Disbelief, maybe. His lips parted slightly, he was going to say something. Then, he brought his lips together again.

You looked straight ahead, “Do you think it was right?” 

“The murder?” 

“Assisnation,” you corrected him

‘Well, I guess?” 

Your gaze flickered from the newspaper to his face, “What?” 

He folded the newspaper up, handing it back to the old man behind him. As he crossed his arms, “Arasaka isn’t a good man, nor is his cooperation."

You raised an eyebrow, “Why are you so invested?” 

He chuckled, “Same dude assassinating 4 people? How is that not interesting to you?” 

Something about the way people assumed it to be a ‘he’ pissed you off. Saying anything would sound weird. So you just nodded along. 

The school day felt uncomfortable. Kento still hadn’t texted you. Keonho, on the other hand, noticed how clocked out you were the whole day. On the walk back to the bus stop, he suddenly stood in front of you. His cold hands gripped your shoulders as she started shaking you aggressively. 

You grabbed his wrists pushing him off instantly, “What’s wrong with you?” 

Keonho laughed as he gripped your wrist. "You look sad today." His hand slid down from your wrist, now interlocking his hands with yours. Before you could get away from his grip. He tugged you and started running. 

“Keonho!” you said with your voice shaky. 

"Come on."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

Five minutes later, you were standing outside the neighbourhood ice cream shop. You looked at him. "...Seriously?"

"What?"

"I thought it would be something important."

"I mean..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Is this not?."

You looked at him with an expression that read seriously? He ignored that and started ordering instantly. He paid before you could even reach for your wallet. "You know I have money."

"I know."

"...Then why?"

"Because I wanted to."

You stared at him for a second before taking the cone. "...Thanks." You licked the ice cream, walking out the store. The bus pulled up at the stop in front of you.

Keonho glanced at it before looking back at you. "...Let's walk."

"What?"

"I don't feel like going home yet."

You shrugged. "Sure."

The two of you hadn't made it halfway down the street before Keonho suddenly stopped.

"...Wait."

"What?"

His eyes dropped to the ice cream in your hand. "Oh no."

"What?"

"You're on your period."

You blinked. "...No?"

"You told me yesterday."

"...Oh." Right. "Yesterday was the last day. I'm okay now."

"Oh."

He nodded. "...Good, at least I won’t be the reason for your cramps." The walk continued. "My sister bullied me for my tie yesterday."

You looked over. "Was it crooked?"

"...Maybe."

"So she was right."

He sighed dramatically. "You never side with me."

“You’re just never right.”

Your apartment door came into view sooner than expected. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Mhm."

"Try looking less dead."

"No promises."

He waved before turning the corner as you pulled the keys out to unlock the door. As the door flung open, you saw Kento sitting in the middle of the living room. His cup full of tea and 2 files thrown onto the island. 

He looked up. "Sit."

You put your bag down as you wiggled your feet out of your shoes. Cautiously, you made your way to the seat in front of him. You sat down, resting your hands on your knees before changing your mind and clasping them together instead. You forced out a small laugh. "So... what's up?"

Kento reached for the files and slid them across the table. "Read."

You frowned, flipping the first one open. The headline caught your eye before anything else.

SASAKI ARASAKA EXECUTED.

Your eyes skimmed the first page. Time of death. Cause of death. Evidence recovered from the scene. The Ace of Spades. You looked up immediately. "I didn't do it."

"Don't lie to me."

Your grip on the file tightened. "I'm not."

"The police found your card beside the body." His voice remained level. "The shot hit the carotid artery. Same precision. Same game plan. Same signature you've left behind every other time."

You pushed yourself to your feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I said I didn't do it." You walked closer to Kento. "I didn't do it."

He held your gaze for a moment before looking back down at the report. "The police disagree." He tapped a paragraph near the bottom of the page, waiting for you to find it yourself. You looked down reluctantly. One Ace of Spades recovered at the scene. Single gunshot wound to the neck. Entry consistent with previous cases. Your grip tightened around the file. "You think I left that card there?"

"You always do."

"Kento."

"You asked me what was wrong." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm telling you."

You shook your head, pushing the report back across the table. "I was in the sound booth. I had him in my scope. Before I could pull the trigger..." Your voice caught for the first time since you'd walked in. "He dropped."

Kento didn't look surprised. If anything, he looked like he'd been waiting for you to say it out loud. "And yet," he said quietly, sliding the second file towards you, "the bullet entered from almost the same angle you would've taken. Same distance. Same level of precision. Whoever pulled that trigger knew exactly how you work."

You frowned as you opened the second report. There were photographs of the ballroom, diagrams of the building, measurements scribbled into the margins, even the exact card that was left on the site was attached. One page had a map of the surrounding rooftops with a single window circled in red. 

It wasn't the sound booth.

Your eyes flicked back to Kento.

"Opposite building."

He nodded once. "The investigators think the shooter was there."

You stared at the page for another second before the thought finally settled in. "...Someone copied me."

"Someone studied you," Kento corrected. "Copying you would've been easy. Knowing which card to leave, where to place the shot, how long to wait..." He let the sentence trail off. "That takes observation."

The room felt strangely quiet after that. You'd spent years making sure no one ever knew enough about you to predict your next move. The idea that someone had been watching long enough to imitate you so perfectly made your stomach turn. "Who?" you asked.

Kento's expression didn't change. "That's what worries me.”

"I said I didn't do it."

The words lingered between you. Kento didn't answer immediately. He reached for the second file instead, sliding it across the table with two fingers. You looked at him before opening it. Rooftop photographs. Hand-drawn measurements. A map of the surrounding blocks with several windows circled in red. One line had been drawn from the opposite building straight through the ballroom. It stopped exactly where Sasaki Arasaka had been standing.

"You looked."

"I always look."

You turned another page. There was nothing to identify the shooter. No shell casing. No prints. No fibres. Whoever had been there had left with everything they'd arrived with. "They knew where I'd be."

"They did."

You looked back up. "So you believe me."

"I believe someone wanted me to think you pulled the trigger."

The distinction settled uncomfortably in your chest.

Kento took the report back before closing it. "Arasaka is dead. I don't care about that." His voice stayed even, the same tone he'd used to remind you to lock the front door or finish your homework. Somehow, it made the conversation worse. "What concerns me is that someone knew your position, your method and your signature well enough to recreate them."

"They left my card."

"They left your name."

Silence settled over the room. You'd spent years making sure the Ace of Spades meant one thing. One person. One shooter. Overnight, that certainty had disappeared. "So what happens now?"

Kento leaned back in his chair, studying you for a moment. "You continue." You frowned. "If they copied you once, they'll either disappear..." He paused. "...or they'll do it again."

"You think they'll come back."

"I don't build plans around hope." He stood, collecting both files before slipping them beneath his arm. "You have another assignment tomorrow."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "You're still sending me?" 

"If I stop moving because someone is watching, I've already lost." He walked past you before stopping near the couch. "This time," he said, without turning around, "don't just watch the target."

The room fell quiet again.

"Watch the surroundings."

Kento didn't look at you again until he'd reached the couch. The reports found their way into a drawer you weren't allowed to open, disappearing as though the conversation had never happened. Only then did he return carrying another file, considerably thinner than the last. He placed it on the coffee table between the two of you before taking his seat again. "Takumi Ichinose."

You reached for it. A face attached to the name and a rough estimate of his age. Twenty-six. Beneath that sat a short paragraph that somehow managed to say almost nothing at all. Suspected narcotics distributor. Frequently seen around Hongdae. No permanent residence. No known associates. No fixed routine. The last line simply read: Approach with discretion.

You frowned. "That's... it?"

"That's it."

"There isn't even an address."

"He doesn't have one."

"A routine?"

"He changes it."

"Known contacts?"

Kento shook his head once. You closed the file again, resting it against your knee. "How am I supposed to find him?"

"You'll figure it out."

You almost laughed. "No, seriously."

"I am."

The room fell quiet. You waited for him to elaborate, to pull another photograph from somewhere or mention a warehouse, a café, anything. Instead he folded his arms across his chest, waiting. It took you a second to realise he wasn't testing your patience.

He was testing you.

"You've been relying on plans," he said eventually. "People stop thinking when they know exactly what's supposed to happen." His eyes met yours briefly before drifting back towards the file. "Takumi deals out of the alleys near Hongdae. Start there."

"And if he isn't?"

"Keep looking."

You stared at him. "...That's the briefing?"

"That's the briefing."

He stood before you could ask another question. "Tomorrow night. Same time."

Then he walked away.

The apartment settled into silence once more.

You looked back down at the photograph. Takumi wasn't smiling. Most people didn't in surveillance photos. His face had been taken from somewhere across the street, grainy enough to blur the edges of his features without hiding them completely. If you passed him on the sidewalk, you'd probably recognise him—thanks to his long hair. Assuming he  hadn’t cut it.

The next arrived quicker than you would've liked. Your mind was still caught somewhere between Arasaka and the thin file lying forgotten on your desk. Takumi Ichinose. Hongdae. Figure it out. Kento's words had followed you to sleep and somehow managed to wake up before your alarm did.

By the time first period rolled around, you were already seated in your usual spot. The classroom was filled up with the kind of noise that only existed before a teacher arrived. Chairs scraped against the floor. Someone argued over homework in the back. A paper airplane missed its target by an embarrassing amount. None of it managed to pull you out of your thoughts.

"You've been staring at the same page for five minutes."

You blinked, turning your head just enough to find Keonho looking at you instead of the worksheet in front of him. "I've been reading."

"No." He tilted his head. "You've been pretending to read."

You glanced back down at the textbook. He was right. You hadn't taken in a single word. "It's nothing."

He rested his chin against his palm, studying you for another second before letting out a quiet hum. "You fought with Kento."

Your pencil paused. "...Maybe."

He nodded as though you'd just confirmed a theory he'd already believed. "Geez."

"What?"

"Your 'I stepped up' father really hates you."

A little chuckle escaped before you could stop it. "He doesn't hate me."

"He has a funny way of showing love then."

You nudged his arm with your elbow. "Shut up."

"There she is." His grin widened. "I knew you weren't dead."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself before looking back at the page.

It didn't last.

Your eyes drifted around the classroom almost instinctively. Riki was asleep two rows ahead, his hood pulled over his face despite repeated warnings from every teacher he'd ever had. Iroha sat by the window, tapping the end of her pen against her notebook while talking to the girl beside her. Nothing looked unusual.

That didn't stop you from watching.

Every movement felt deliberate now. Every conversation made you wonder if there was something hidden beneath it. Kento hadn't accused anyone, but he hadn't ruled anyone out either. Neither had you. Your gaze lingered on Riki for a moment longer before shifting to Iroha.

Nothing.

No strange looks.

No coded conversations.

Nothing that should've made you suspicious.

Then your eyes landed on Keonho.

He was doodling sharks in the margin of his Physics notes.

Last night you'd wasted nearly an hour pulling apart his routine, convinced you owed everyone the same amount of suspicion. School swallowed most of his day. Swimming swallowed almost everything that remained. Eight hours of sleep—assuming he actually listened to his mother for once. Whatever time was left—approximately four hours, disappeared into homework, food and calling you as he complains about homework while eating food.

Mr. Giggle Shits barely had enough time to procrastinate.

An assassin?

Yeah, right.

But, something didn’t sit right with you. Something about how he always knew. His body suddenly turned towards you. You looked away before he caught you staring.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked anyway.

"...Your shark has four eyes."

He looked down. "...Huh." He even leaned in closer to the paper, as if that would fix the eyes. "I think it looks better this way." 

Your eyes drifted back to Riki. He was still asleep. Or at least pretending to be. His hood had slipped over his eyes sometime during first period, one arm dangling lazily off the side of his chair while the teacher continued explaining equations he clearly wasn't listening to. Typical Riki. You'd seen him like this more times than you could count. Which almost made it worse. You knew what he looked like asleep. You knew what he looked like after missions. You knew the difference.

You just weren't sure you knew him.

Your gaze shifted to Iroha instead. She'd finally stopped talking, her notebook now filled with random lines rather than actual notes. Every now and then she'd glance towards the clock before sighing dramatically, earning herself a quiet laugh from the people around her.

Nothing.

Neither of them had given you a reason to doubt them. Neither of them had given you a reason not to.

That was the problem.

Kento hadn't accused anyone. He'd only laid the facts in front of you. Someone knew your method. Someone knew your timing. Someone had known where to look.

That wasn't a coincidence. Information had to come from somewhere—a source. Logically, this source has to either be a D1 stalker, or, simply, someone who knows you too well. 

Your pencil tapped absentmindedly against the desk.

Riki and Iroha had been there long enough to learn your habits, even if neither of them had ever watched you work. They knew how Kento trained people. They knew enough to guess what kind of shot you'd take. If someone inside the organisation had spoken a little too freely...

Your stomach tightened at the sheer thought of someone being a mole. Suspicion wasn't proof. It was only suspicion. Still…If you had to start somewhere, it'd be with the people closest to you. Which left Riki and Iroha. Keonho didn't even make the list. The thought almost made you smile. There simply wasn't room for a second life. Yet, keeping him off of your radar felt unfair.

And Kento?

The idea was ridiculous.

If Kento wanted you dead, he'd have taught you wrong from the beginning. Instead, he'd spent years making sure nobody else could. So Kento, ruled out. Your only real chance at figuring out who it may be was today. If they could copy you once, they could do it again. There was every chance no one would show up tonight. Whoever they were, they weren't stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. Still, hope wasn't much of a strategy. You'd keep your eyes open anyway. 

Whether they appeared or not was out of your hands. Keeping your eyes open wasn't.

The rest of the school day slipped by quickly. Every now and then Keonho would lean over to whisper something completely unrelated to the lesson, usually earning himself a glare from the teacher and an eye roll from you. On any other day, you would've laughed louder than you did. Today, your attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Riki disappeared during lunch.

Not unusual.

He'd always claimed the cafeteria food was "an insult to his stomach," choosing instead to wander somewhere around campus until the bell rang again. Normally, you never questioned it. Today, you found yourself watching the clock.

Twenty-three minutes.

He returned carrying a carton of milk and half a sandwich he'd probably stolen from someone willing to share.

Nothing suspicious.

Iroha wasn't any different. She spent most of lunch by the courtyard fountain, complaining about an upcoming Chemistry quiz to anyone unfortunate enough to listen. She complained with remarkable consistency. If she was hiding something, she deserved an award.

By the time the final bell rang, you hadn't learned anything new. If anything, you'd only succeeded in making yourself paranoid. You packed your bag slowly, waiting for the classroom to empty before standing. Keonho lingered beside your desk, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. "You heading straight home?"

"Mhm."

He adjusted the strap on his backpack before taking a few steps backwards into the hallway. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yup."

You watched until he was swallowed by the sea of uniforms before turning in the opposite direction.

The train ride to Hongdae was so crowded that nobody paid attention to just one more person stepping off at the station. Bright signs flickered overhead as the night settled across the streets. Restaurants filled the streets with laughter. 

Before leaving the station, you ducked into the subway lockers. Your school bag disappeared behind a metal door. The uniform followed shortly after, replaced by black sweats and an oversized hoodie you'd bought months ago for exactly this reason. Plain, no logo, no pattern—No nothing. Your shoes came next. Two sizes too large, awkward enough to change the shape of your stride without slowing you down too much.

There wasn't a single thing left that belonged to the girl who'd walked into school that morning. Your nails were bare. The necklace Kento insisted you stop wearing years ago stayed at home. Hair disappeared beneath your hood before the mask covered everything else. Even the sunglasses stayed on despite the fading light.

The main streets were too loud. Too visible. Takumi wouldn't deal there. People like him preferred places where witnesses minded their own business. So, if someone chased you, getting back to the locker would mean sprinting back an unknown distance before you could change back. If they were fast enough to keep up, you would’ve escaped, but better safe than sorry. Which meant the subway wasn't Plan A.

Your eyes wandered across the street instead. Clothing stores scattered. All had mannequins standing outside in outfits close enough to your size.

Worst case?

Steal the mannequin's drip.

You walked till the music faded behind you as the streets narrowed and as the aroma of food was replaced with that of cigarette smoke. 

You spotted delivery scooters squeezing through gaps that looked too narrow to fit them. You slowed without thinking, letting your eyes drift over the alley instead of through it. Two fire escapes. A convenience store whose security camera conveniently missed half the lane. Too many blind spots and luckily, a few clothing stores with a generous display of mannequins.

Stopping outside the convenience store, pretending to scroll through your phone while using the reflection in the window to watch the alley opposite. Two teenagers stumbled out first, laughing over something on one of their screens. 

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

The city had its own rhythm. You only had to find the people moving against it. 

A man stepped into the alley, hood pulled low despite the warm evening. Another followed a minute later, looking over each shoulder before disappearing after him.

 Your phone slipped back into your pocket. 

Finally. 

Something worth following. 

You tailed the man through every turn he took. You let another ten or so steps settle between you before following.Every corner brought the same routine. He'd stop just out of sight, glance over each shoulder, scan the street, then continue. You figured it’s best to delay your turns.  One hand never left the edge of his hood, fingers tightening every few steps as though he expected it to slip. Whatever he was hiding beneath it mattered enough that he refused to let the hood move.

Long hair. Restless hands. Constantly checking behind him.

Takumi Ichinose. It would take a fool not to figure him out.

The last corner gave you exactly what you needed. The brief moment he disappeared from view. Your hand slipped beneath your jacket. The pistol felt familiar against your palm as you loaded a round into the chamber without breaking stride. 

You took the last turn with the pistol hidden in your pocket. Takumi stood with another man whose back faced you, a small packet exchanging hands for cash. You walked straight towards them. Neither of them paid you any attention until your footsteps slowed. One step past them. Two.

Then you stopped.

Takumi frowned. "What?"

You turned around slowly. Your hand disappeared into your pocket. Slowly, you pulled something out of them. Not a pistol. But the ace. 

His face changed immediately, because he knew. Not who you were.

But, just...what was about to happen.

He took half a step backwards. His hands clenched into fists. He was about to charge at you, but before he could. 

Bang. 

He fell to the ground. The sound of his body thudding against the ground echoed. But none of that mattered. Not right now. You grabbed the other man’s wrists, flipping him around. Your free hand grips his head before smashing it straight into the brick wall knocking him out. 

You didn't have time to waste. Not when the copy stood directly opposite you. He wore the same outfit as you—black sweatshirt, black sweats. Almost identical. Only one mistake. No hood. A cap instead.

Male. 

Taller. 

You grabbed your pistol instinctively, aiming it right at his chest from the other corner. He looked at it for barely a second before both hands lifted into the air, almost amused by the situation. 

Surrender. 

Sure. 

Without looking away, his left hand drifted towards his pocket. You tightened your grip around the pistol, ready to pull the trigger if his hand came back out with anything remotely resembling a weapon. Instead, he pinched a single playing card between two fingers and slowly turned it over. The Ace of Spades. Yours. Not a copy. Yours, the same pattern on its back. Kento got those decks made for you specifically. You pushed off first.

He did too.

Just...not away from you.

Straight at you.

Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct forcing you backwards as he sped up towards you. He was chasing you. "...What?"

No time.

Your feet were already moving.

You cut left without thinking, disappearing into the first alley you saw. His footsteps answered almost immediately. Still behind you. Gosh was he fast, but good. Let him follow. Another corner. Another sharp turn, and there it was. The clothing store, exactly where you'd remembered it. Your hand shot out without slowing, ripping the clothes straight off the mannequin before disappearing around the next corner. You swapped clothes quickly. The black outfit disappeared into the nearest trash bin. 

Three or four seconds later, you walked out. Your breathing settled almost immediately as you stepped onto the pavement beside a family waiting to cross the street, head lowered just enough to blend in. 

Five seconds later, you watched the copy burst around the corner you'd just left, still sprinting, eyes searching every face except yours. He ran straight past.

You almost laughed.

The slam of your apartment door was loud. Exhaustion had taken over your body, but you had to call Kento. The phone was already up to your ear by the time you opened the fridge. 

“You got him?” 

You grinned. “No, but yes?” 

“Details.” 

"Male. Around one-eighty. Which kinda clears Iroha." You hit the fridge close with your hips. "And he wasn't as tall as Riki either."

“Nothing else?” He said, irked on the other end. 

“Takumi is gone.” You poured the juice into a glass. “Oh, right. He had the exact same deck of cards. The same ones you got made for me.” A giggle escapes. “Are you stealing my kills, Ken?” 

He sighed, “Don’t joke around. Have you narrowed it down at all?” 

"I mean..." You lifted the glass before stopping halfway. "He's around one-eighty. Lean build. Dark hair." You frowned. "Curled. Slightly." 

Kento was quiet for a moment before he sighed. "The cards aren't the problem. Everyone in the company carries them. They're disposable." You frowned. "Besides," he continued, "the police have collected enough from previous scenes. Anyone could've stolen one from evidence if they were desperate enough. Stop focusing on the card."

"...Right."

"Focus on what you know."

You glanced towards the window, replaying the encounter for what felt like the hundredth time. "Male," you said slowly. "Around one-eighty. Lean. Fast." You paused. "Really observant."

"Observant?"

"He noticed everything. Every turn I made. He didn't chase blindly."

Kento hummed. "Anything else?"

You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see you. "Nothing useful."

"Then don't invent evidence."

The words stung because they sounded exactly like something he'd drilled into you as a child. Observation first. Assumptions later. "Get some sleep," Kento said. "We'll reassess tomorrow."

The next morning passed slower than usual. The cafeteria buzzed louder than usual, students squeezing past one another with trays balanced in one hand and phones in the other. You barely paid any attention, absentmindedly pushing your food around the plate while your eyes wandered across the room out of habit more than curiosity. 

Then someone unfamiliar walked in.

Your eyes found him before you realised they had. Taller than most people around him—roughly one-eighty, maybe a little under—with dark hair that brushed his forehead and the nape of his neck. Long enough to curl slightly where it met his collar. Slightly styled, naturally messy and textured by the curls. He wasn't particularly broad either. Lean shoulders. Long limbs. The kind of build that came from movement rather than muscle. 

He didn't hesitate when walked in. New students usually did. They lingered by the entrance and looked around as they tried to figure out where they belonged.

He simply walked in.

You caught yourself staring. "You planning on burning a hole through him?"

Keonho's voice pulled your attention away.

"What?"

He followed your line of sight before grinning. "That's Eom Seonghyeon."

You looked back. "So that's the transfer."

"Mhm." Keonho shrugged, tearing open a packet of ketchup. "His lockers next to mine.."

"You know him?"

"Not really." He paused before laughing to himself. "Think he smiled at me once. Pretty sure it was an accident."

Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. You looked back towards Seonghyeon. He'd already disappeared into the crowd. 

Later that day, you saw him grab a pencil rolling off of a table. Without even looking at it. He had reflexes. Moreover, he was observant. He’d caught you looking at him once or twice. He simply glanced at you and smiled. While you were on your way to the washroom with Iroha, you spotted him playing darts in class. He had surprisingly good aim too.

On the way home, you waited outside the lockers while Keonho grabbed his spare uniform. Metal doors clanged shut up and down the corridor as students packed their bags. Seonghyeon’s locker sat directly beside his.

Keonho pulled his uniform from the shelf, stuffing it into his backpack before glancing sideways. "You've got, like...nothing in there?" he laughed, leaning ever so slightly towards Seonghyeon’s open locker. "What are you even looki—"

Bang.

The locker door slammed shut. Seonghyeon’s hand still rested against the metal as though he'd only realised how hard he'd closed it after the fact. His smile arrived a second too late. "Ah... sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Bit of a habit."

Keonho blinked. "...Habit?"

"People used to steal my stuff." Seonghyeon laughed once, light enough to brush it off. "Guess I'm still weird about it."

"Damn." Keonho winced. "Fair enough."

The conversation moved on almost instantly.

You looked at the locker once more before turning away. It could've meant nothing. A habit was just a habit, unless he was hiding something inside. 

When Keonho and Seonghyeon finally finished their conversation, you and him walked out of the school. Keonho was rambling on about how their swim coach set up weekend training. But all you could pay attention to was the fact that Seonghyeon opened his locker again. He seemed to be stuffing his bag with something. Something he hid with the sleeve of his jacket. 

You kept looking over your shoulder. “You’ve been staring at him all day, y’know?” Keonho said as he shoved his hands into his pockets. 

You tilted your head scanning his face for a second, “No.” 

“...You like him?” Keonho’s hands never left his pockets. His steps were small—trying to match your pace. His thumbs tapping the fabric alternately. 

You stopped walking. “What’s it to you?” 

He stood a few steps ahead of you. “If you do, let me know.” He turned around. “I’ll set you up.” 

A laugh escaped you, “You don’t sound too happy about that sentence.” 

His hand rubbed his neck, as he continued to walk. You follow him from behind. “You don’t even know the guy.” he huffed out a laugh, “You’ve been observing him all day, you’ve had your guard up the entire week actually.” 

You ran a little to walk alongside him. “What are you on about?” 

‘Are you like...good?” Before you could answer, “It’s just that, I don’t know. You’ve been oddly distant. I don’t see you talk to Iroha or Riki much anymore. Whenever I ask what you’ve been up to, I get half assed answers.” He let out a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Is something wrong? Did I do something? Did they do something? Did you guys have a fall out? You know you can talk to me right? I–I can help. I swear I’m relia—”

He was cut off by the sounds of your giggles. A hand covered your mouth as you looked at the ground. Muffled giggles echoing in his ears. He rolled his eyes, “I’m trying to be nice.”

That’s all it took for you to erupt in laughter. 

“Keonho!” you said between your laughs, “You’re so cute like this.” 

Heat crept up to his ears immediately. “Don’t laugh.” 

“I can’t help it!” You continued to laugh, hands making way to your eyes. “Oh god, I’m literally about to cry.”

It had been a while since he'd seen you laugh like this. The kind that made your eyes water and your shoulders shake. The kind that left your words stumbling over one another because you couldn't catch your breath. The corners of his mouth lifted without him noticing.

There you are.

"...What?" You caught him staring.

He blinked once before looking away. "Nothing."

He grabbed your index finger, tugging it slightly so you started walking. “So what’s up with you? Seonghyeon?” 

You roll your eyes, “I don’t like Seonghyeon.” 

“Right…and I have pink hair.” 

You slapped his shoulder playfully, “Stop that! He’s just…interesting? I don't know”

He sighed, “I’m glad you’re laughing at least.” 

A smile crept on your face. “Thanks Keon.” 

He glanced at you from the side, “Why?” 

“For looking after me” 

His grip tightened on his bag, “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what friends do.” Silence settled between both of you for a while. Keonho clears his throat, “You didn’t tell me why you’ve been guarded up.”

Your gaze dropped to the pavement. How were you supposed to answer that?

I've been chasing a man who's been copying my assassinations. Kento thinks someone has been watching me. I don't know who to trust anymore.

The words sounded ridiculous even inside your own head.

You wanted to tell him. More than anything, you wanted to stop lying every time he asked if you were okay. But the moment the truth left your mouth, there'd be no taking it back. Keonho wouldn't just know about you. He'd become a part of it. Kento had spent years making sure that never happened.

You couldn't do that to him.

So, instead. “I can’t tell you…not yet.” 

He scoffed. “You’re acting like you kill people. Come on,” He elbowed your arm lightly, “What’s up with you?” 

You smiled, “I’ll tell you later okay?” 

His lips formed a thin line, “Alright. Just know I’ll always help you.” His eyes widened for a second, he suddenly clapped. "I forgot to ask, you free tomorrow? It’s a Saturday. Why don’t we hang out?” he turned his head to you, “Cookie misses you.”

“Cookie! My bab–” Your phone vibrated. You glanced down at your phone. It’s Kento. “Uh, hold on.” 

“Hi Ken, I’m with Keon.” you informed him. 

“Look to your left. My car's right there.” His voice stayed as flat as ever.

You looked up at Keonho, “Sorry I really have to go. Kento’s cars right there.” 

Keonho followed your gaze. The driver's side window rolled down just enough for Kento to become visible. Neither of them said anything. Keonho lifted a hand in greeting. Kento only gave him a slight nod. You winced. "...Yeah."

Keonho glanced at you, one eyebrow slowly lifting. All you could offer was an awkward smile and a helpless shrug. "Sorry," you mouthed before jogging towards the car.

The passenger door shut. Kento didn't look at you. "You're late."

"We didn’t have plans?"

"New mission."

And, suddenly you were in Tokyo. Beside you, Kento was fixing a mask on Riki’s face. He turned to you, handing you over yours. "Put your mask on."

The mask settled against your face with a soft pull of the ribbon.

"Don't lose him," Kento muttered, straightening the edge of Riki’s collar one last time. "One shot and run."

The ballroom swallowed you whole.

Crystal chandeliers hung low scattering warm yellow light across polished marble floors, turning every champagne glass into another reflection. Politicians. CEOs. Investors. Men whose names appeared on magazine covers. Security stood guarding the entrance, blending into the crowd almost as well as the guests themselves. Too many exits being watched. Too many witnesses. No rooftops. No balconies, not even a convenient window overlooking the room.

The mission wasn’t a flexible one. Your gaze swept across the room until it landed on the centre of the crowd. Suoh Yuzuru. Late fifties. Chairman of the Suoh Corporation. Publicly praised for expanding pharmaceutical research across East Asia. Privately, according to Kento's file, laundering profits through shell companies while distributing illegal narcotics under the cover of medical exports. Untouchable on paper.

“Cleaner the suit, dirtier the hands.” 

Tonight changed that. You had barely taken another step before someone intercepted your path.

A man. Tall, blond and wore a really strong cologne. You let out a wince the second he stood in front of you. A silver mask with lace around the edges covered the bridge of his nose and the upper half of his face, though it did little to hide the sharp jawline beneath it.

Suoh Tamaki, Yuzuru’s son. 

You recognised him immediately from the case file.

He smiled politely, champagne balanced between elegant fingers as he dipped his head ever so slightly. "I don't believe we've—"

A hand caught your wrist.

Before Tamaki could finish, Riki swept you cleanly out of the conversation, steering you deeper into the crowd without breaking stride. "Sorry," he called over his shoulder with an apologetic smile that looked entirely genuine. "She’s not worth your time."

"...I heard that."

"Good."

Only once the Suohs disappeared behind another cluster of guests did he finally let go. "You were standing there too long."

"I was gathering information."

"You were about to become information."

You rolled your eyes. 

"The building's crawling with police," he continued quietly, scanning the room without moving his head. "Every exit except the staff corridors has officers stationed nearby."

Your eyes followed his.

He was right.

The first twenty minutes passed exactly how Kento expected them to. Simply observation, nothing serious. You and Riki saw everyone who entered.

You drifted through the ballroom with champagne you had no intention of drinking from, stopping every so often beside different conversations long enough to become another forgettable face in the crowd. Somewhere behind you, someone had already had too much to drink.

Yuzuru Suoh never stayed in one place for longer than five minutes.

An hour disappeared before you realised you'd barely moved beyond the eastern side of the ballroom. Riki stayed close enough that you never had to look for him. Every so often your eyes met across the room, exchanging nothing more than the smallest nod before pretending not to know each other again.

Then, finally—He checked his watch. Without so much as glancing your way, he adjusted his cufflinks twice.

The signal.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass before you casually set it onto the nearest tray carried by a passing waiter.

Riki disappeared into the crowd.

Thirty minutes.

That was how long he'd need to reach the control room, deal with the lights, the speakers, and get himself into position to escape.

Which left you alone.

Not even two minutes later, the orchestra shifted. The slower melody rolled across the ballroom instantly drawing couples towards the centre of the marble floor as conversations naturally gave way to dancing.

"...May I?" The voice came from your left.

You turned.

A man stood before you, dressed in a tailored beige suit. A black masquerade mask concealed his entire face, though it did not  hide the deep chocolate hair that fell neatly across his forehead. One gloved hand extended towards you, patient, unwavering.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to dance but because you couldn't remember seeing him enter the ballroom. "...Of course," you replied, placing your hand in his.

His grip was warm. "...Thank you."

He led you to the centre of the ballroom. You wouldn't have danced with him unless something felt oddly familiar about him. His voice came out deeper than expected. His right arm snaked around your waist as the left gently lifted your arms to his shoulders. Both his arms firmly rested on your waist. “Done this before?” 

You looked up at him through the mask, the feathers blocking your vision slightly. “No actually, first time.” 

He let out a chuckle, “Follow my lead, yeah?” 

Before you had a chance to overthink, he stepped forward. He moved like someone you knew—everything about him felt so suspicious. Even though his steps were composed, something about his eyes. You’d seen those eyes before. 

“You’re pretty good for your first.” he remarked. 

Your shy smile reached your eyes, “Well, thank you.”

“So, what brings you here?” 

You glanced up at him. “I’m a friend of Tamaki Suoh.” slowly, you pulled him closer. Your head resting against his chest. “What about you? What brings you here?”

“Business.” 

You pulled your head back, “Business?”

He snickers, “It’s a masquerade ball, animosity is the first rule.” he looked over at Yuzuru, “Applies to everyone but him.”

You followed his gaze. He’s keeping an eye on Suoh. He wasn’t looking at the other dancers, the live orchestra or at you. He was looking at Suoh. It felt weirdly amusing. The feeling had been there from the moment he'd asked for your hand. He was smooth with—calculated. The chances of him having kept an eye on you too existed. Evidence mattered more than instinct. So you looked for it.

One hundred and eighty centimeters, give or take.

Lean enough that the suit sat neatly across his shoulders. Comfortable watching without appearing to watch. Every move he made, every time his grip on your waist tightened he slid you both closer to Suoh. 

Coincidence explained one thing.

Not five. Your eyes drifted to his hair. Dark brown with bangs. Slightly styled and textured. You’d seen this before. Seen it on Seonghyeon. The name arrived without permission and you didn;t reject it. 

Why would you?

It explained the locker. It explained the uneasiness you'd been carrying around him today. It explained why someone who looked so ordinary had continued to occupy your thoughts long after you'd left school. 

The lights in the ballroom flickered once. 

A signal. Riki’s going to fuck the system up in 10 seconds. 

"...You seem distracted."

"I am."

"Business?"

"My feet."

He nodded. You had 10 seconds. 10 seconds to figure out how you can get away from this man. If the lights cut off and his arms were still around you, he’d hear the gunshot loud enough to narrow it down to you. 

5 seconds.

“If you’d excuse me, I have to fix my heel.” Your hands slid down to his chest, pushing him away gently. He just gave you a slight smile, arms letting go of your waist. “Sure.” 

You made your way to the seats, leaning on it as you bent down slightly. 

3 seconds.

Your hand gripped the gun, it was already loaded. You took a deep breath before the light cut off. 

You fired.

Another shot cracked through the ballroom almost instantly after yours.

A body struck polished marble with a sickening thud, and the ballroom erupted. Glass shattered somewhere to your left. Guests shoved past one another blindly, chairs scraped violently across the floor, someone crashed into your shoulder hard enough to nearly knock you over as you threw the ace over Suoh’s body. 

Good.

Panic hid everything.

You took your heels off as you walked and disappeared into the crowd, forcing your way towards the emergency exit. You had about a minute, maybe less before the backup generators restored enough light for security cameras to become useful again.

You hit the stairwell, the sound of your bare feet hitting the cold stairs. The sound of screaming was muffling as you made your way to the ground floor. 

“Theres going to be a storage room on the eastern wing. Enter and change your clothes.” Kento’s voice played in your head. “Use the lighter to burn them and go through the window. The car will be waiting down.” 

You rushed towards the eastern wing, your heartbeat refusing to slow despite the distance you'd already put between yourself and the ballroom. 

The sound of the  storage room door slamming shut behind you filled the dark room as you rushed in, to find the zipper of your dress. The heavy gown slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your feet as you stepped out of it. Beneath it, the clothes you'd hidden underneath all evening sat untouched. They were easier to run in.

You reached into your pocket, unscrewing the small bottle of gasoline before pouring it generously over the abandoned dress. The sharp smell filled the cramped room almost instantly. Your thumb rested against the lighter.

One flick.

The doorknob turned.

Every muscle in your body froze.

The door creaked open. Someone stepped inside. Then they locked it again. 

You didn't breathe.

Neither did they.

Silence settled over the room so completely that the sound of fabric shifting became deafening. Whoever had entered wasn't searching around blindly. They knew this room existed. They knew exactly why someone would come here. You listened carefully.

A jacket landed somewhere on the floor. They were changing too. Your grip tightened around the gun. The emergency lights overhead struggled back to life, flickering once... twice... before finally casting the room in a weak amber glow.

You saw him first.

Beige trousers.

The black mask not covering his face anymore. His fingers halfway through loosening his tie before his movements stopped altogether. He'd noticed the second presence in the room.

Slowly...he turned. You didn't wait, your  gun came crashing across the side of his face before he'd fully faced you.

"What the fuck—"

The blow sent him stumbling sideways into a shelf, boxes crashing to the floor around him.

"Fucking copycat."

He laughed. "What a surprise."

You lunged again. 

This time he caught your wrist before the pistol could connect, twisting it sharply until the weapon slipped from your fingers and clattered across the floor. You swore under your breath, driving your knee into his stomach. He folded just enough for your free hand to pull his hair. 

"I knew something was off about you."

His hand shot forward, grabbing your wrist as he threw you against the wall. He leaned down to your ear. "You think I didn't notice? The way you kept looking over your shoulder at me?"

You scoffed, wrenching yourself free. "Yeah? Says the guy who's been copying me."

He let out another laugh, wiping the blood from the corner of his lip with the back of his hand. "Don't you get it?" His smile didn't falter. "It's business, Y/N."

Your jaw clenched. "You think I'm business?" The words came out somewhere between disbelief and anger. "God... I knew something was wrong with you."

"Did you?"

"I did."

You stepped forward again before he had the chance to finish speaking, driving your boot hard into his chest. His back slammed into the storage-room door with a heavy thud. "You're too observant."

Another kick.

"Too caring."

The soaked dress still lay between the two of you.

Without taking your eyes off him, you tossed the lighter. The gasoline caught immediately. Orange flames surged across the fabric, spreading into a wall of fire that forced him backwards.

“Goodnight, Keonho.”

By the time Keonho shoved himself away from the growing flames and kicked the burning dress aside, you were gone.

He clicked his tongue. "...Seriously?"

The eastern wing was gone.

Fire climbed the walls faster than he'd anticipated, swallowing the storage room in thick black smoke. Keonho clicked his tongue under his breath, snatching his discarded coat from the floor before turning on his heel. Eastern exit wasn't happening anymore.

By the time he reached the corridor, alarms had finally begun screaming through the building. Guests flooded every hallway in blind panic, security rushing in the opposite direction. Perfect. Nobody looked twice at one more man running for his life.

The nearest window overlooked the gardens.

Good enough.

You practically threw yourself into the passenger seat.

The door hadn't even shut properly before Kento pulled away from the curb, the tyres screeching against the road as he merged into the traffic surrounding the venue. Silence lingered for all while. Riki broke it first. "...Got him?"

You shook your head. "Yeah." You took a deep breath."...and I got something better."

Kento spared you a glance before returning his eyes to the road. "What?"

You swallowed. "I know who the copy is."

The passenger door slammed shut.

Martin shifted the car into drive before the echoes had even finished bouncing around the underground parking lot.

"Done?" he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Keonho adjusted the sleeve of his coat, breathing finally beginning to steady. "...Yeah."

Across from him, Juhoon looked up from where he'd been checking his pistol. Martin glanced between the two. "So?"

Keonho leaned back against the seat. "I know who the original is."

"It's Yn."

"It's Keonho."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

Kento's grip tightened around the steering wheel.

Juhoon’s smile disappeared.

For the first time since the ‘copy’ game started, there was finally a face and name to the ace. Kento slammed the breaks. “You’re telling me, that the copy is your best friend?" He looked at you. Really looked at you before taking a deep breath. “How did you not figure it out?” 

“Kento I–” 

He cut you off before you could explain yourself. “I don’t care.” He threw his head back. 

“I want Ahn Keonho eliminated by Sunday.” 

“I want Yn eliminated by Sunday.”

Juhoon’s voice was louder than necessary. He looked over at Keonho, his hands slowly forcing Keonho to look up at him. “I don’t care if she’s your best friend. It’s time she’s gone.”

The Airbnb greeted you with silence. It almost made you scoff. After tonight, silence felt uncomfortable, all your thoughts rushed in. You slipped your shoes off absentmindedly, locking the door behind you before letting your shoulders sag for what felt like the first time all evening. Kento's words refused to leave your head. Mentally prepare yourself. As though there was any amount of preparation capable of making you pull the trigger on your best friend. 

You barely managed two steps into the apartment before instinct took over. The crack of a gunshot split the room apart, the bullet shaving past your temple before burying itself somewhere behind you. Your body reacted before your mind did, throwing itself sideways as you hit the floor with a curse already leaving your lips. "Fucking cunt!"

Another shot rang out almost immediately, splintering the edge of the kitchen island as you scrambled behind it. Marble shards scattered across your sleeves while you yanked your pistol free, pressing your back against the island and forcing yourself to breathe. There wasn't even enough time to be angry anymore. Just tired.

"Could you give me a fucking break for once?" you shouted, checking the magazine out of habit before snapping it back into place.

A quiet chuckle answered from somewhere beyond the living room. "You've had enough breaks."

Keonho.

Of course it was him.

You leaned just far enough to catch the edge of dark hair sticking above the sofa opposite you before squeezing the trigger. The bullet punched clean through the cushion instead, stuffing exploding into the air as he disappeared behind cover again. He wasn't exposing more than he needed to. Never had. Even now, with the entire apartment between the two of you, he was fighting the same way he always swam. Every movement was practiced, each risk was calculated. 

Which was exactly why you stopped thinking about shooting him altogether, for now.

You reached underneath the kitchen island instead.

Cold metal met your fingertips.

Kento's emergency stash.

You almost laughed. 

The false panel came away easily, revealing the automatic rifle hidden beneath it. You slammed a fresh magazine home, racked the bolt and stood just enough to unleash a burst across the length of the couch. The apartment filled with deafening gunfire as wood splintered and fabric burst open, forcing Keonho to abandon the cover almost instantly. He rolled across the floor before disappearing behind the armchair, but you didn't give him the chance to settle. Another burst. Then another. Every step you took forced him backwards, the rifle doing exactly what Kento had intended it to do years ago—control space instead of accuracy. Keonho couldn't return fire without exposing himself, and for the first time that night, you had the advantage. You made way to one side of the couch while Keonho hid behind the other end. Polar opposite.

Until he really looked at the couch.

You frowned. "...Don't."

He grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

Instead of charging at you, he planted both hands against his side of the couch and shoved with everything he had. Hardwood screeched beneath its legs as the entire thing lurched across the apartment. You barely had enough time to realise what he was doing before it slammed into the wall behind you, crushing you between it and the couch . The automatic jammed awkwardly against your side, leaving barely enough room to lift it.

"So strong," he laughed through uneven breaths, "for someone with a job like yours, Y/N."

"Oh, shut up."

You forced your shoulder through the narrow gap, twisting sideways until the couch trapped nothing but your jacket. The moment you slipped free, you swung the rifle back up and held the trigger down. Bullets chased him across the room, punching holes through walls, shattering picture frames and forcing him to throw himself clear of the spray. Most missed. One didn't. The final round tore clean through his right thigh.  "Fuck."

His leg buckled beneath him. 

Your rifle clicked.

Empty.

There wasn't time to reload.

You threw it aside and launched yourself at him instead.

The impact sent both of you crashing onto the wooden floor. Your fists found him before he could recover, one punch, then another, your knuckles colliding with his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. He tried to shove you off, but you hooked your legs around his waist, pinning him beneath you with the same stubbornness that had gotten you through every fight Kento had ever thrown your way. His hands grabbed desperately at your wrists while yours wrapped around the automatic again, tightening your grip around it as you slammed the narrow portion against the side of his head. 

Once.

A sharp grunt.

Twice.

His grip weakened.

You raised it again.

...And stopped.

Your breathing was ragged. His blood had already begun staining the collar of his shirt. One more strike. One squeeze of the trigger. Kento's order would be complete.

He's your best friend.

The thought arrived like a knife driven straight between your ribs. Your breaths were uneven. That single moment of hesitation cost you it all.

Keonho's hand buried itself in your hair before you could react. He yanked violently, tearing you off his lap as your back slammed against the kitchen counter. Pain exploded across your scalp, but he didn't stop there. He spun you around and drove your forehead into the cold marble with enough force for your vision to flash white. 

Your movements stopped.

Not because you couldn't move, but because you wouldn't.

The pistol hovered above his head, your hand trembling around the grip as blood dripped steadily from the trauma along his forehead. One more hit. One more bullet. Kento's order would've been complete. Instead, you just stared. At the bruises already darkening across his cheek. At the blood soaking through his shirt where your bullets had grazed him. At the same stupid face that had sat across from you at lunch only hours ago asking whether Cookie missed you. The thought lodged itself so violently in your chest that your fingers loosened before your brain had the chance to argue otherwise.

Keonho didn't miss it.

His eyes flickered towards your hand before they met yours again, and in that microscopic pause—the kind Kento always said got assassins killed—he moved. One violent shove sent you stumbling backwards into the edge of the kitchen island again, your lower back colliding painfully with the marble as the pistol slipped from your grip and clattered across the floor. By the time you forced your vision to focus again, he'd already pushed himself upright, one hand pressed tightly against the hole in his thigh while the other steadied himself against the dining chair he'd nearly knocked over. Blood followed every limping step he took towards the balcony, leaving dark smears across the wooden flooring.

You didn't chase him.

You couldn't.

Your body refused to listen.

It was only when the balcony door slammed open that your instincts returned, delayed by several agonising seconds. You staggered after him, fingertips brushing the frame just as he swung one leg over the railing. The neighbouring balcony couldn't have been more than a metre away. Any sane person would've looked for another way down.

Keonho never had much interest in being sane.

He jumped.

His injured leg buckled the second he landed, forcing him to catch himself against the railing before hauling his body over the fence separating the apartments. Metal rattled violently beneath his weight. Then another jump. Another clang. Another rooftop swallowed him whole until the sounds became distant enough to convince you he was gone.

Only then did you realise your breathing hurt. "...Fuck." The word barely made it past your lips.

The apartment looked like a warzone. Bullet holes littered the walls. Feathers from the couch floated lazily through the air, settling amongst shattered glass and overturned chairs. The automatic rifle still lay discarded near the island where it'd run empty, while tiny droplets of blood stretched from the kitchen all the way to the balcony doors before disappearing into the night. Yours mixed with his so seamlessly that you couldn't tell which belonged to who anymore.

You cleaned because it was easier than thinking.

The first aid kit sat beneath the bathroom sink exactly where Riki always insisted it'd stay. Antiseptic burned across the split in your forehead. Purple bruises had already begun blooming around your wrists where Keonho had grabbed you, while angry red marks disappeared beneath the collar of your shirt. You barely noticed them. Every time you closed your eyes, all you saw was your hand refusing to come down.

You could've killed him.

He could've killed you.

Neither of you did.

The thought followed you into bed.

Two hours later, rough hands seized your shoulders.

Your body jolted violently, fingers instinctively reaching beneath the pillow before your brain recognised the voice frantically calling your name. "Yn!"

Your eyes snapped open.

Iroha was hovering over you, both hands still gripping your shoulders hard enough to hurt, tears balanced dangerously along her lower lashes. "Oh my God," she breathed, shaking you again before pulling you into a crushing hug. "I thought you were dead."

You blinked at the ceiling for a second, still trying to remember where you were. "...No." Your voice sounded distant. "Keonho broke in."

The words hung between the three of you.

Riki hadn't moved from the doorway.

His gaze travelled slowly across the apartment behind you before settling on the bruises climbing your neck, the fresh bandage wrapped around your forehead and the dried blood staining the sleeve of your shirt. "...You killed him?"

You stared back. For a long moment, you genuinely considered lying. "No."

Your answer came out quieter than intended. "He ran."

Riki was silent. "...Can you kill him?"

You looked up. "...Yeah." The word left your mouth easily. 

Riki nodded once. He believed you, but you didn't.

The next morning arrived with an almost insulting sense of normalcy. Riki and Iroha had left just after sunrise, the apartment suddenly far too quiet without either of them arguing over breakfast. Kento hadn't called again. Maybe because there wasn't anything left to say. 

Eliminate Ahn Keonho by Sunday. 

The order still sat heavily in the back of your mind, refusing to leave no matter how many times you replayed yesterday's fight. You'd had him. You knew you had. The knife never mattered. The gun never mattered. What mattered was the fact that, somewhere between raising your hand and pulling the trigger, he'd stopped being the copy and become Keonho again. Your best friend. The idiot who'd stolen your fries since middle school. The idiot who'd somehow become the one person you now had permission to kill.

You ordered pizza for dinner because thinking on an empty stomach felt impossible. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang, and you almost laughed at how ordinary it sounded. Good. Something normal. You unlocked the door without bothering to look through the peephole, already fishing your wallet out of your pocket, only for the door to burst inward hard enough to send you stumbling backwards. A hand caught your shoulder before shoving you clean across the hallway.

Your back collided with the wall with a painful crack while the pizza delivery boy yelped somewhere outside, the box flying out of his hands and skidding across the floor. "...You've got to be kidding me."

The door slammed shut.

Keonho locked it.

"You ordered without me?" he asked, genuinely offended.

"Oh, fuck off."

His foot met your stomach before the sentence had fully left your mouth. The impact folded you in half, forcing every bit of air from your lungs as you hit the hardwood with an undignified grunt. Before you could recover, he was already over you, one knee digging into your hip to keep you pinned while he reached over, picked up the abandoned pizza box and frowned at it for a second as though weighing his options. 

"...Don't."

"What?"

"You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

The box came down across your face with a loud thwack. "What the fuck, Keonho?"

"It was within reach."

"That's your reasoning?"

"I adapt to my environment."

"You weaponised a pepperoni pizza."

"I weaponised the box." He raised it again. Your nails dug into his wrists before it landed. Hard. Keonho hissed immediately, his face twisting into the exact expression you'd spent years trying not to laugh at. "Ow—"

"Oh, you still hate that?" you asked sweetly, digging your nails in another fraction just to prove a point.

"I've always hated that."

"Good."

His grip loosened for exactly the amount of time you needed. You yanked both wrists towards yourself, forcing him off balance before driving your forehead straight into his. The crack echoed embarrassingly loudly throughout the apartment. Keonho lurched backwards with both hands flying to his face while you shoved him clean off your lap and scrambled to your feet before he had the chance to recover.

The kitchen was closer, always the kitchen. Your fingers wrapped around the first knife they found while Keonho rounded the opposite side of the island rubbing the bridge of his nose with an expression that suggested you might've actually rearranged it. For a second neither of you moved. You simply watched each other from opposite ends of the marble countertop, slowly circling it with the sort of caution. He broke the silence first. "...I'm surprised you're the Ace."

You blinked. "...Why?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, matching your pace around the island. "You don't really fit it."

Your eyebrows shot up."I'm sorry?"

"You heard me."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "No, no, hold on." You pointed the knife vaguely in his direction. "You're telling me you started copying me because you were jealous?"

His mouth fell open. "I wasn't—"

"You wanted the title."

"I did not—"

"You got all moody because someone else was cooler."

He barked out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "I almost had you in Hongdae."

"Right." You smiled. "Almost."

"I almost killed you."

"And yet..." You gestured dramatically at the apartment. "...Here we are."

Neither of you stopped circling. "I'm still going to get you," he said eventually.

"What makes you think that?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Because you're attached." The smile slowly disappeared from your face. "You could've killed me yesterday. You didn't." Another slow step. "I'm your best friend, Yn." His voice softened just enough to be dangerous. "You barely let anyone in. You really think you're capable of killing the only friend you've got?"

Something snapped inside your chest. "Oh, fuck you." Instead of continuing around the island, you planted one foot on the cupboard beneath you and climbed straight onto the marble countertop.

Keonho stared. "That's an illegal move!"

"There are rules now?"

"You can't climb over the counter!"

"Watch me."

"You fight like an iPad kid."

"I fight to win."

"You fight like someone who never had siblings!"

You launched yourself. He barely had enough time to catch you before both of you crashed onto the floor in a tangled mess of limbs and profanity. The knife stayed clutched tightly in your hand as he caught your wrist, trying desperately to force the blade away from himself while you leaned your entire body weight into it.

"You never had cousins?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

You laughed once. "Keonho." Your eyes met his. "I don't even have parents."

His strength faltered. Just enough for you to get the upperhand. "...What?"

"You heard me." The knife slipped sideways under the sudden shift in pressure, scraping across his wrist before dragging down the fabric of his shirt. Cotton split beneath the blade. A thin red line bloomed across his stomach almost instantly. "...Shit."

"You don't know anything about me."

With one final shove you forced his arm aside and brought the knife to his throat.

Everything stopped. His breathing and yours. He looked up at you, then at the knife. "...Well," he sighed, almost amused. "...Shit." A tiny smile appeared despite the blood running down his side. "You win."

Your grip tightened. You were holding the knife so hard your knuckles went white. Your hands went cold. The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood between you both.

His gaze followed the knife. You grabbed the front of his shirt instead. Your head buried itself in the crook of his neck. “Fuck you.” Your fingers slowly grabbed the knife again. You pulled back from him. The edge kissed his skin, just enough for a thin line of red to appear. One more push. That was all it'd take.. “Bye, Keonho.” 

With that, blood splattered onto the floor. You hugged him again. Your eyes opened to watch as his blood pooled the floor. The brown wood now incarnadine. You let him go, your gaze now landing on his face.

His eyes followed the blood for a second before returning to you. He stared for what felt like forever, then let out the smallest sigh and rolled his eyes. "...Well," he murmured, almost thoughtfully, "you tried."

Your head snapped up so quickly your hair fell into your face. "I did not try." Offence in every syllable. "I was literally about to kill you."

"Were you?"

"I was."

"Hm."

You smacked the centre of his chest hard enough for the sound to echo through the apartment. "Don't 'hm' me."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "You didn't do it."

"You didn't even fight back!"

"I know."

"No, seriously." You hit him again, more annoyed now than angry. "You just... laid there! I had a knife to your throat!"

"I know."

"You could've moved."

"I could've."

"You could've thrown me off."

"I probably could've."

"So why didn't you?"

The smile disappeared from his face so quietly you almost missed it. His eyes stayed on yours, all traces of amusement draining away until there was nothing left except an exhaustion that seemed far older than the last two days. "...Because I can't."

The words settled heavily between you. Your grip loosened. "...What?"

"I can't kill you."

Silence swallowed the apartment again. Somewhere outside, a car horn blared before disappearing into the distance, but neither of you looked away. "Why?"

He looked at you for a long moment, his jaw tightening once, twice, as though the answer had lived there for years and had only now decided it was tired of being hidden. "Because I love you."

For the first time since this entire ridiculous game had begun, you had absolutely nothing to say.

Your eyes searched his face as if expecting him to laugh, to tell you it was another stupid joke, another distraction before he shoved you off and reached for his gun. He never did. He simply looked back at you with that same infuriating honesty he'd always had whenever he stopped pretending to be okay.

"...You're an idiot," you whispered eventually.

"I know."

Your fingers found the front of his collar before your brain had the chance to object. They tightened sharply, dragging him upwards until barely an inch remained between your faces. He inhaled to say something—probably another joke, probably something insufferable—but the words never came. You closed the distance instead.

Your lips clashed against his. Your hands held his face tight enough to make sure he didn't leave you. His arms snaked around your waist. The weight of his hands was familiar. He pulled away, nuzzling his face into your neck. “You really suck at ballroom dancing.”

You smack his arm, the one you injured. “Shut up! It was my first time.” 

He threw his head back laughing. “If you didn’t have the balls to kill me, why injure my arm?” 

“My hand slipped.”

“Right.”

“I was about to kill you, I swear.”

He raised his eyebrows nodding slowly. “Right.”

Neither of you moved for a while.

The apartment looked as though a hurricane had passed through it. The couch sat crooked against the wall where Keonho had shoved it yesterday, stuffing leaked from one of the cushions, broken glass glittered beneath the balcony door and blood still stained parts of the hardwood despite your half-hearted attempt at cleaning it. Somewhere near the entrance, the pizza box lay upside down, crushed almost beyond recognition.

Keonho followed your gaze. "...Think it's still edible?"

You looked at him. Then at the box. Then back at him. "You hit me with it."

He pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, immediately regretting it as the cut across his stomach pulled painfully. You watched him wince before silently walking towards the hallway, picking the battered pizza box off the floor. Miraculously, most of the slices had survived. The pepperoni had migrated almost entirely onto one slice while another had somehow folded perfectly in half. "...Five second rule?" you asked.

Keonho peered over your shoulder. "I'd say we're still within three."

The two of you settled beside each other on what remained of the couch, each holding a slice that had clearly seen better days. Silence settled naturally between you, broken only by the occasional complaint whenever one of you accidentally stretched a sore muscle reaching for another slice.

Halfway through the pizza, Keonho glanced sideways. "...So."

"So?"

"Are we...dating now?"

You nearly choked. "What?"

"I don't know the protocol."

"There isn't a protocol."

"There should be." He giggled, "I feel like it'll happen again...the kiss"

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt. "I kissed you once."

"Mhm."

"Don't make it your whole personality."

"So, you’re my girlfriend now.”

“Not until you take me out properly.”

He scoffed, vaguely pointing around him. “Was all this not enough?”

You erupted into laughters, Keonho’s giggles followed yours.  Eventually the conversation faded into comfortable silence. The television remained off. Neither of you had the energy to clean. Keonho stretched out first, claiming the least damaged side of the couch with an exhausted sigh before lazily patting the empty space beside him.

"You know," he mumbled, eyes already closed, "if someone walks in right now."

"They'll probably shoot us."

"Mhm."

"That sounds like tomorrow's problem."

You wanted to argue. Instead, you curled up beside him. His arm found its way around your shoulders almost absentmindedly, as though it had always belonged there. Your head rested against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm beneath it. It was strange how comforting a heartbeat could become after spending two days trying to stop it. 

A shrill alarm tore through the apartment. You frowned before burying your face further into Keonho's hoodie. Keonho sat upright so quickly you almost slid off the couch. "Dude."

"Hm..."

His voice had changed. Not sleepy anymore. "...Come here."

Your eyes finally opened. He was already standing by the window, one hand pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer outside. The smile that had lingered on his face moments ago had disappeared entirely. "What?"

Four black SUVs lined the street below. Five officers stepped out first, rifles already raised towards the building. Behind them, Kento and Juhoon.

Keonho frowned. "What the fuck?" You looked at him. "Why's Kento with Juhoon?" He looked equally confused. "Juhoon's my mentor." Your eyebrows shot up. "Kento's mine."

You grabbed Keonho’s wrist, leading him upstairs to your room. "Wasn't Kento your brother? I know I called him a 'stepped up father' but—"

You cut him off and smacked the back of his head. "He's forty-two."

"So?"

"He's too old to play that part."

A loud crash interrupted whatever comeback he had planned. Glass exploded somewhere downstairs. "They skipped knocking," Keonho muttered.

"I respect the confidence."

"They're inside."

You were already moving. The hidden compartment beneath the wardrobe slid open with a sharp click, revealing spare ammunition, two sniper rifles and enough magazines to start a small war. Keonho blinked. "You own snipers?"

"Do you know how to use one?"

He looked offended. "I hit Arasaka with one before you."

You tossed him one. He caught it effortlessly before checking the chamber with surprising familiarity. You loaded your own. Two rounds. Another crash echoed from downstairs. Multipe footsteps got louder as they ascended the stairs. "They're coming up."

"No," you corrected quietly.

"We're going down."

A grin slowly spread across Keonho's face. "Two against seven?"

You clicked the safety off. "I've had worse weekends."

Together, you stepped into the hallway. The first officer rounded the staircase. Two gunshots cracked through the apartment almost simultaneously. He dropped before either of you reached the third step. The second officer barely had enough time to look up before Keonho's shot caught him square in the shoulder, throwing him backwards into another man. Chaos erupted instantly. Bullets tore through the banister as you vaulted over it entirely, landing halfway down the stairs before rolling behind the kitchen island.

"Still illegal?" Keonho called.

You leaned around the marble counter long enough to fire three rapid shots. "Counter rules don't apply during active combat."

"I knew it!"

Keonho slid across the floor on his knees behind the overturned dining table while you circled the kitchen island from the opposite direction, the same stupid manoeuvre you'd both laughed about yesterday now somehow becoming actual strategy. "You planned this."

"I absolutely did."

"Liar."

"You'll never prove it."

The last officer rounded the island directly into the gun-line of the rifle. Gun smoke lingered heavily through the apartment.

Only four people remained standing.

Kento stepped over the fallen officers as though they barely existed. Juhoon followed beside him, lowering his pistol with a tired sigh. Neither looked surprised, neither looked angry.

Kento's eyes travelled from you to Keonho.

"So." Juhoon folded his arms. "You two are together now?"

Keonho glanced sideways at you before looking back. "Together enough to stop trying to kill each other."

"Company orders," Juhoon replied simply.

"As were ours," you answered.

Kento's gaze settled on you. "You failed yours."

"No." You shook your head. "I ignored it."

"I told you years ago," Kento said quietly, "never get attached."

"And yet." Your eyes flicked towards Juhoon. "You seem awfully comfortable standing beside the enemy." Neither of them answered. You snickered. "You wanted me to kill the first person who's ever actually felt like home."

Kento's jaw tightened."I gave you purpose."

"You gave me targets."

"I gave you family."

"You gave me work."

Your voice cracked despite yourself. "I've spent my entire life being told not to need people because they'd become weaknesses." You gestured towards Keonho without looking away from Kento. "Then I finally found someone worth keeping and your solution was...kill him." Nobody spoke. Not even Juhoon. "...Look at yourselves." Your eyes moved between both older men. "You're standing together." The words landed. "You've spent years convincing us the organisations could never coexist. But now, both of you move together to eliminate us.”

Keonho stepped forwards. Not in front of you, beside you.

"I know how to end this.” 

All eyes were on him now. “How?”Juhoon asked.

“We kill the people who order you both.” He said with a slight shrug. "The organisations aren't the problem," Keonho continued. "The people giving the orders are."

You stared at him. Then, without warning, you burst into laughter. It escaped before you had any chance of stopping it. You bent over, one hand gripping your stomach, the other pointing uselessly towards him as another laugh forced its way out. Keonho blinked. "...What's funny?" "Oh my god." You looked up at him, still laughing. "Eliminate the threat?" Another laugh escaped you. "Fuck..." You wiped your eyes. "...You're actually smart."

"I know."

"No, seriously." You straightened again, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "That's brilliant."

Kento already knew where this conversation was heading. "No."

You blinked. "No?"

"No."

Juhoon nodded once. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Because replacing two CEOs isn't how organisations work."

You looked at Keonho. He looked back. Then both of you looked at your mentors. "Isn't it?" Neither answered. You tilted your head. "Once they're gone..." you said slowly, "...who becomes next in line?"

Another silence.

Your smile widened. "Oh."

You looked at Kento. Then Juhoon. "Oh my god." Realisation dawned across your face so quickly you almost laughed again. "You two."

Keonho nodded. "You've spent years cleaning up after people who never left their offices. You're already making every important decision anyway."

"We're not becoming CEOs."

"You literally already do the job."

You sighed dramatically before looking at Keonho. "...Well."

"Well." You both looked back at the mentors. "Guess you'll have to kill us." Neither of them reacted. You spread your arms. "Go on."

Nobody moved.

Keonho smiled faintly. "I figured."

You stepped forward, your voice losing every trace of humour. "You taught us to finish the mission." You looked directly at Kento. "I'm asking you to trust me for once." He closed his eyes. For the first time since you'd known him, he looked tired. He exhaled slowly before turning towards Juhoon. "One chance."

Juhoon met his eyes. "If this fails..."

"We all die."

"No." Kento looked towards you and Keonho. "If this fails, you two die first."

You didn't hesitate. "Deal."

Three nights later, the city skyline stretched endlessly beneath the tinted windows of an idling sedan. Rain had begun sometime after midnight. Kento sat behind the steering wheel, one hand resting against the earpiece tucked beneath it. Beside him, Juhoon monitored a screen filled with security feeds, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard as encrypted files disappeared one by one.

"You two in position?"

A quiet click answered. "Ready," you whispered.

Across the corridor, Keonho's voice came a second later. "Ready."

"Remember," Juhoon said calmly, "this ends tonight."

You looked at Keonho across the hallway.

He looked back.

A small nod.

Nothing more needed saying.

The doors opened. Everything after that blurred together into raised voices, alarms, hurried footsteps and people suddenly realising the world they'd built wasn't as untouchable as they'd convinced themselves it was. By the time the building settled once more, the offices at the very top stood empty.

Back inside the car, Juhoon finally leaned back in his seat, removing the earpiece with a long breath. "...I'm in."

Kento glanced sideways. "The board?"

"Already accepted the emergency succession vote." A few keys clicked. He looked over at Kento. "...Congratulations." Kento scoffed. "I've never hated congratulations more."

"And yet."

Juhoon closed the laptop. "We're CEOs."

The boardroom looked nothing like what you and Keonho had imagined. In front of you, stood 2 men in suits. Clearly the CEO’s. Beside them stood 4 guards, two for each you assumed. You glanced at Keonho, “This looks like it’s going to be easy.” 

You both ran across the board room. You grabbed one man and strangled him. He gripped your forearm swinging you against the table. Before he could land a throw on you, you shot him. “One down!” you shouted. 

Keonho looked at you kicking the body of another guard, “Copied as usual.” 

Both CEO’s clearly panicking, tried to run to the door. “I got them!” 

Keonho nodded, shooting the other two unarmed guards down easily. He walked and stood beside you before the final blow. He eyed both the men up and down. You straightened your jacket, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear before looking over at Keonho. "This was supposed to be difficult?"

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with a quiet snort. "You're disappointed."

"A little."

The two CEOs had backed themselves against the conference table, glancing wildly between the two exits as though one might suddenly appear behind them. Keonho looked them up and down before sighing. "You two are the ones giving orders?"

Neither answered.

You frowned, genuine disbelief creeping onto your face. "You don't exactly look like you've ever had to risk your own lives."

One finally managed to speak. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

"Unfortunately," you replied. "That's exactly why we're here."

Before you could whine further, Keonho shot them both down.

You looked at him, mouth slightly agape in disbelief. "Could've let me shoot one."

A quiet snicker escaped him as he slid the gun back beneath his coat. "Yeah, right."

"I barely got to do anything." 

He started towards you before you could come up with another argument. One step, then another, until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the conference table. There was nowhere left to retreat to. His palms settled against the glass on either side of you, caging you in. You could've slipped past him if you really wanted to. You just simply didn't.

His eyes searched yours for a second before the corners of his mouth curved upwards. "Guess we work together now."

A smile found you just as easily. "Mhm."

"Easy fix."

"It is."

Keonho's gaze flickered briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. "Can I?"

You laughed quietly. "You've already asked."

"I know."

"So stop asking."

"I like hearing yes."

"You are unbelievably annoying."

"I've been told."

"So have I."

"Guess we're a good match then."

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you completely. "Just kiss me already."

His laugh was soft—warmer than you'd ever heard it—and he closed the remaining distance between you. This kiss wasn't stolen in the middle of an argument or interrupted by someone trying to hit the other over the head. It was slow, gentle. His hand found your waist instinctively while yours slipped on his shoulders, intertwining your fingers between his dark brown, styled and textured hair. He smiled against your lips halfway through it, and you couldn't help smiling back.

"We can still hear you." Juhoon's voice crackled through both of your earpieces.

Keonho didn't even bother opening his eyes. "We don't care." You laughed against his lips as he kissed you again, earning what sounded like Kento sighing into his microphone.

"I've made a mistake," Kento muttered.

"A massive one," Juhoon agreed.

Eventually Keonho pulled away, though only far enough for your foreheads to rest together. His thumb brushed absentmindedly across the back of your hand before he looked at you with that same unbearably warm smile you'd caught yourself staring at more times than you'd ever admit.

"Proper date," he murmured. "Tonight. Seven o'clock." You raised an eyebrow. "Girlfriend."

"I don't think you can top this date," you replied, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Boyfriend."

He stared at you for a second. Then he smiled.  Not the teasing smile he'd mastered over years of knowing exactly how to get on your nerves. This one reached his eyes so effortlessly it almost caught you off guard, the warm and radiant smile he had on always.

"...Fuck," he said with a quiet laugh. "I could get used to this."

"So could I."

Somewhere in your ear, Kento groaned. "I give them three days before HR files a complaint."

"There is no HR anymore," Juhoon replied dryly.

"Exactly my concern."

"where's james?" you ask keonho, eyes still wandering the whole room—not finding his existence.

"he went to buy a cake for hyeon. you can wait here, i'm gonna grab some candles." keonho leads you to sit on a couch in the living room and rushes back to the kitchen.

the party is simple. they only invite someone who's really close to seonghyeon since the boy's very shy around others and they don't want to make him uncomfortable on his birthday. a few balloons sit randomly on each corner of the room. there's a banner on the wall that says "happy birthday, seonghyeon" with his photo on it.

not so long after that, you hear the clicking sound on the front door and see james holding paper bags in his left hand and a box of cake in the right. "cake's coming!" james yells. you approach him immediately and try to help him.

"babe!" james' eyes lighten and he smiles so brightly at your presence. "i thought you wouldn't come! i was so sad today." he kisses the corner of your lips before the two of you bring all the stuff to the living room.

"i decided to come since keonho wouldn't stop texting me while i am at work." james stops for a while, hoping he had misheard what you said. "my phone keeps buzzing all day, you know."

"why would keonho text you?" james squints his eyes in suspicion.

"he texted about preparing hyeon's birthday. he thinks i'm going to like this party." you answer absentmindedly while putting the cake on the table.

james shrugs off his shoulders, thinking it was no big deal. he doesn't need to be jealous. it's just keonho, right?

"here are the candles." keonho comes with a few candles in his hand. "hyung! you're home." he grins. james answers him with a quick smile before putting pink whipped cream on seonghyeon's cake.

"i wanna do it too!" you exclaim and ask james for the whipped cream. he lends you the whipped cream and settles behind you on the couch, absentmindedly pulling you back until you're comfortably sitting between his legs.

keonho sits right next to james' left foot—making him unintentionally sits right next to you. "do you think seonghyeon would like this party?" he asks you.

"definitely! why wouldn't he?" you shoot him a little smile and continue to put whipped cream on seonghyeon's cake.

"i know, right?" keonho nods. the three of you remain silent for a while before keonho interrupts again. "do you think hyeon would prefer green candles or blue ones?"

"i think green would suit his vibes more."

"that's exactly what i thought! that's why i brought mostly the green ones." he smiles brightly at you, and you answer with a nod.

5 minutes later, keonho asks you again. "would i look good in blonde hair? just like martin hyung."

"ask martin." james mumbles.

"you would! oh my god, it would be exciting don't you think, james?" you look at james—signaling him to agree with you.

"i don't know no james." james stares at you. who's james? where are baby, babe, honey and all the sweet nicknames going?

"okay, babe. it would be exciting, right?" you emphasize the word babe and squeeze james' thigh—forcing him to nod at your question.

"oh, i'm not hearing this." keonho closes his ears with both hands, causing you to laugh at his reaction.

15 minutes later, seonghyeon, martin, and juhoon come through the front door from the studio. everything went as planned and seonghyeon was so happy.

"you're coming! thank you so much!" seonghyeon gives you a brief hug and accepts your gift. "a ps5 for me? thank you! hyung is so lucky to have you." seonghyeon giggles and james just rolls his eyes.

the night is getting late. james drinks a cup of soda on the couch. martin plays an acoustic guitar and rumbles random melodies. seonghyeon and keonho play with the ps5 you just gave him. and you play chess with juhoon. "hey, that's cheating!" your voice heard— making james looks directly at your way.

"no, it's not." juhoon answered calmly. "you're not gonna win if you keep playing that old tactic, you know?"

"you know what? i always won back then using this 'old tactic'."

"that's why i called it old."

the two of you laugh and james' definitely not having it. he clears his throat and proceeds to stand. "i'm gonna get some rest. once again, happy birthday hyeon." he taps seonghyeon's shoulder before walking to his bedroom.

your eyes dart towards him until his figure disappears behind the door. you excuse yourself to the boys and quickly follow james. you knock on his door, "can i come in?"

after he said yes, you come in and see he is curling in his white blanket—his back faces you. you close the door and hug him from the back. "hi handsome." you smile and kiss his exposed cheek. "you look so handsome today." your compliment makes his cheek blushed but he tries so hard not to smile.

he clears his throat. "thanks. you don't look bad either."

you mumble and play with his dark brown hair. "what happened, baby?"

"nothing."

"it seems like a thing." you answer him back calmly— still playing with his strands. he remains silent.

"are you jealous?" you bite your lips, trying not to laugh at this very serious situation.

james' eyes widened and he immediately turns around to face you. "what? me? jealous? no. absolutely not. why would i?"

you smile at his reaction and kiss his cheek. "you're looking extremely handsome today. what's with the glasses? i love it." you ignore his answer and touch his glasses.

"it's called fashion."

"i know, and you're looking too good with it." you pout.

"...okay, yeah. i'm jealous. but just a little. are you satisfied?"

to james, seeing you acting all pouty and clingy around him makes his stomach full of butterflies, just like how he met you for the first time. he loves you THAT much.

"i knew it!" you celebrate after his confession. "you could've just told me!" you cling your arms around his waist and rest your chin on his chest—looking up directly to meet his eyes.

"i don't wanna ruin hyeon's birthday." he looks to the other side—or basically anywhere as long as he doesn't have to meet your puppy eyes, because he would genuinely become a jelly right now.

"aww," you pinch his cheek. "you know you're the only person i love for these past 2 years. out of everyone in that room, i've been looking for you since i stepped in this dorm today."

"you're literally the sexiest man alive and i'm not planning to let you go that easily." you smirk at him.

"stop, it's getting cringe."

"but you love it when i compliment you, though."

"you're right," he smiles and wraps your body in his embrace. "i love whatever you do."

you stay at your position for a while. "if you have to choose, would you pick me or the boys?" he suddenly asks.

"you." you look up at him, finding he's already staring at you. "really?" his eyes brighten.

"no."

"BABE." james looks at you in disbelief.

"of course i choose you, you silly." you kiss his lips briefly. before he could kiss you back, you were already breaking the kiss. so he decided to chase after your lips, making it the sweetest kiss you had after a long day.

"hyung, did you see my—" juhoon's voice was heard with the sound of the door opening. "i didn't see anything!" juhoon left right after he saw the two of you.

james lets out a loud sigh and you laugh. "we need to lock the door next time."

being on the school's yearbook team came with a lot of perks. one being, if you have a hallway crush—you can snap a picture of them with no question. the other bonus of that being, the picture is as clear as day. “hey can I get a picture of you?” you’d say, flashing your badge with a soft smile. the downside? having to interview sports teams. the tigers soccer team had been on a winning streak all season, with that being the case—you and two other members were the one assigned with interviewing 3 players. unfortunately, you were assigned to eom seonghyeon, anton lee, and sophomore player louis lim. It was unfortunate really, you had no problem with anton and louis. seonghyeon was your problem.

the sun was beaming down, it smelled like feet, and the bleachers were hurting your butt; you have NEVER wanted to go home more. “could you end practice faster so I can get home before the sun goes down?” you check your imaginary watch, your entire face was screwed up staring at the boy in front of you whose face was just as scrunched up. he turned his head to you slowly, “don't be crass, be patient.” he groaned at you, rolling his eyes. “I’m trying but I’m getting bit up by mosquitoes and it's 1000 degrees out,” you argue, you thought for a minute at his choice of words. “crass? Do you even know what that means?” your head turned to the side. Your tone suggested you thought he was stupid.

“would you rather I call you an ass? be patient.” he bites back. running back to the field without waiting for a response from you.

he was the last and most important interview you had to get—and the hardest. you didn't understand why his sister or best friend, keonho, couldn't do it, they were also on yearbook, but they insisted you did it. so here you are now, sitting under the sun, watching sweaty boys run around with a clunky camera and notepad sitting next to you. you pulled your phone out, it was already 3:47, last period was about to end and you still hadn't gotten your interview. a deep, bored sigh came from your lips. your eyes locked on Seonghyeon as he was running drills repeatedly and spoke to a teammate from time to time.

“hey.” a voice comes from behind you, you recognized the voice from anywhere. “hi nicholas.” you turned your head to the side to see him in your peripheral. he gave you a quick side hug while he moved to sit next to you, getting comfortable on the hard bleachers. “why are you out here?” he furrowed his eyebrows, he hadn't seen the camera next to you. you thought he did so you just pointed out to the field, “sean, I’m waiting for him.” your eyebrow twitched at the thought of sitting out here for even longer just to wait for seonghyeon.

the crease in nicholas’s eyebrows deepened in confusion, “but why–” you cut him off by lifting your camera, his mouth formed into the shape of an ‘O’ while nodding. he checked his actual watch, “class is over. you gonna keep sitting and waiting?”

“yep.” you sighed.

“good luck with that.” he patted your shoulder, a matching sigh comes from his lips. you listened to his footsteps bang against the aluminum become further away until they stopped.

you saw seonghyeon walking towards you, his eyes watching nicholas’s disappearing figure. he was now in a white tank top, sweatpants, and a pair of nike vomeros. he threw his backpack over the railing with a sigh. “you ready?” seonghyeon leaned over the railing, his eyes were panned where Nicholas was sitting. “it’s 4:08.” you quipped, grabbing your things and walking away, expecting him to follow you. “i’m not doing this with you today.” He finally jumped over, catching up to you.

“It’s after school hours, you told me we would be able to do it during your athletic block.” you replied, your voice sharp and annoyed. “dude, i’m sorry, you saw for yourself that coach wasn't letting us go.” he complains, running a hand through his hair. you rolled your eyes, you couldn't be there any longer, you felt like you were gonna explode.

“can we just go somewhere else to do it?” he starts again, breaking the short silence. your head snapped to his, the irritation was visible on your face.

“no.”

“why not? we can get it over with and never deal with it again,” his voice was slightly hoarse from the amount of exercise from his earlier practice, he cleared his throat before continuing. “unless you wanna drag it on and continue seeing me.” he states in a matter of fact tone, making your eyes roll again. a loud groan breaks past your lips as you throw your head back in defeat.

“don't make me regret this.” you mutter, speed walking to your car. you didn't catch it, but his lips twitched up slightly.

after the short instance of back and forth, the two of you ended up in an empty mcdonald's facing each other with matching grimaces. ”let’s get this over with, i’m meeting martin later.” you form your lips into a thin line, watching his face go through about 5 different emotions. “for what?” he chewed on his bottom lip awaiting your response, you picked up this habit from him months ago. “that's not really your business, is it?” your tone was short and clipped, “can we start now?” you pull out your notepad and recording device.

the silence that followed after that click was deafening. “name, position, and grade.” you mumbled, jotting down your name and date on the pad. “you know all of this.” he scoffs, leaning back in the uncomfortable red chair, placing an arm across the other one. “name, position, and grade.” you repeat yourself, raising an eyebrow. he stares at you for a second, sighing. “eom seonghyeon, attacking midfielder, and i’m in the 11th grade.” he answered flatly, sinking further into the plastic mcdonald’s booth. one arm was draped over the backrest while the other toyed with a loose straw wrapper he’d found on the table.

you scribbled the information onto your notepad despite already knowing every answer by heart. the sound of your pen scratching against paper filled the silence for a moment. “favorite part of this season?” you kept your eyes trained on the page, refusing to look up at him. if you did, you’d probably get annoyed all over again.

“winning.” seonghyeon replied immediately. he didn’t even pretend to think about it, his answer coming out with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. your pen paused, slowly, you lifted your head. “you gonna elaborate on that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. the disbelief was obvious in your voice.

“no.” he shook his head once before reaching for his drink. the corner of his mouth twitched as he took a sip, like he was enjoying making your job harder. a long sigh escaped your nose. “wonderful. really insightful stuff.” you muttered, writing his answer down anyway.

“thank you.” seonghyeon nodded solemnly. the fake sincerity on his face lasted all of three seconds before it cracked. “favorite teammate?” you asked quickly, determined to keep the interview moving before he could say something else irritating.

“jay.” seonghyeon answered.

“that’s a lie.” you immediately shot back. your eyes narrowed into slits as you leaned back against the booth.

“okay.” he adjusted his answer without missing a beat. “juhoon.” a dry laugh escaped you. “that’s also a lie.” you informed him, clicking your pen repeatedly. “i’ve watched enough practices to know you spend ninety percent of your time attached to jake.”

at the mention of his teammate, seonghyeon rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “you sound obsessed.” he observed, dropping his gaze back to you. “it’s literally my job to observe people.” you argued, gesturing toward the camera sitting beside you. “no.” seonghyeon shook his head. his expression softened into something dangerously close to amused. “you just like arguing with me.” your mouth immediately opened. then closed. then opened again. “i don’t like arguing with you.” you said firmly, crossing your arms over your chest. “okay.” he replied. the single word hung between you.

outside the window, students crossed the parking lot in small groups, heading home for the day. the golden afternoon sunlight poured through the glass, catching against the edge of seonghyeon’s hair. you looked away first, mostly because you hated noticing things like that. “next question.” you cleared your throat, flipping to the next page in your notebook. “what goals do you have for the rest of the season?”

“to win state.” seonghyeon answered. this time there was no sarcasm. his posture straightened slightly, and for the first time all interview his expression turned serious. you nodded as you wrote.

“and after high school?”

“to play college soccer.” he rubbed a hand along the back of his neck before looking out the window briefly. “hopefully somewhere far away.” the tip of your pen froze against the paper. you weren’t sure why those last four words bothered you. hopefully somewhere far away. for a second, neither of you spoke. the silence wasn’t awkward. it was worse, it was familiar. you looked away first.

for some reason, that felt like losing.

“next question.” you cleared your throat. “who’s had the biggest impact on your soccer career?” his eyes didn’t leave yours. you wished they would. “probably you.” your pen slipped across the paper.

“what?” you murmured, finally lifting your head from your notebook. your eyebrows pulled together as you searched his face for any hint that he was joking. “what?” he echoed immediately, sounding genuinely confused by your reaction. his posture straightened slightly in the booth, and the amusement that had been lingering in his expression disappeared.

“don’t do that.” you looked back down at your notes, though your eyes weren’t actually reading any of the words. the tip of your pen hovered over the page, frozen in place. “do what?” seonghyeon asked, leaning forward onto his forearms. his gaze stayed fixed on you, unwilling to let you hide behind your notebook.

“answer seriously.” you replied, your voice coming out sharper than intended. you clicked your pen once before setting it down on the table with a small thud. “i am answering seriously.” he frowned as he said it, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. there wasn’t a trace of teasing in his voice this time. the booth suddenly felt ten times smaller. the loud beeping of the fryers behind the counter and the quiet hum of the air conditioner faded into the background. the only thing you could focus on was the way he was looking at you.

seonghyeon dropped his gaze first. his eyes settled on his hands resting against the tabletop, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a crumpled napkin. “when nobody else came to games, you did.” his voice came out quieter than before. the confidence he’d carried throughout the interview was gone, replaced with something far more vulnerable. he swallowed hard before continuing.

“when i’d get benched sophomore year, you stayed after practice with me.” he let out a humorless laugh under his breath, shaking his head once at the memory. “you sat there for almost two hours while I complained about coach bryant.” your grip tightened around your pen. the plastic creaked faintly beneath your fingers as you stared at the scribbled notes on the page. you hated how vividly you remembered that day.

“we broke up months ago.” you reminded him quietly. the words felt heavier than they should have as they left your mouth. you finally looked up again, meeting his eyes across the table. “i know.” seonghyeon nodded once. his jaw flexed as he looked away toward the window beside your booth. “then why are you bringing this up?” you asked, frustration bleeding into your voice. your arms crossed over your chest as if that could somehow protect you from the conversation. his jaw clenched. a muscle ticked in his cheek as he stared out at the nearly empty parking lot.

“because you’re acting like we’re strangers.” he finally admitted. the words came out low and rough. his eyes drifted back to yours, and for the first time all afternoon there wasn’t any irritation in them. for a moment, neither of you spoke. the silence stretched across the table, settling between the untouched fries and scattered interview notes.

“i’ve asked all my questions,” you start packing your things up, avoiding eye contact with him. “i’ll email you my rough draft soon.” you turn your back, speed walking to your car, attempting to do 8 count breaths. ‘what the fuck’ was repeated in your thoughts so many times, they could probably kill a nun.

you knew he wasn’t leaving his seat for another 10 minutes, you watched him nibble his bottom lip and run a hand through his hair. seonghyeon always had a bad case of overthinking, hence why he still hasn't moved from his seat. you hadn't made any move to turn on your car yet either. the parking lot was nearly empty now. most of the students had already gone home, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the orange glow of the parking lot lights. your hands rested against the steering wheel, still and motionless. you glanced toward the mcdonald’s window. seonghyeon was still sitting in the same booth.

same expression and the same annoying habit of chewing on his bottom lip whenever he got stuck in his own head. aquiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, nothing about him had changed. almost as if sensing it, his head lifted.

your eyes met through the glass. you immediately looked away. “shit.” you muttered under your breath, letting your forehead fall against the steering wheel. the cool leather did nothing to calm the sudden rush of nerves creeping up your spine. two seconds later, your phone buzzed, once. you already knew who it was.

seonghyeon: why are you still here?

your eyes rolled.

you: why are YOU still here?

the typing bubble appeared.

disappeared.

appeared again.

disappeared again.

seonghyeon: i asked first

you: i’m waiting for traffic

seonghyeon: there are like six cars

you: exactly

seonghyeon: are you actually meeting martin?

your thumb froze above the screen.

you stared at the message for several seconds before forcing yourself to type.

you: yes

the reply came almost immediately.

too immediately.

seonghyeon: oh

just “oh.” nothing else, your stomach twisted. for some reason, that one word annoyed you more than anything he’d said all afternoon. you unlocked your car door. before you could talk yourself out of it, you shoved the door open and stepped out into the evening air.

across the parking lot, seonghyeon was already standing outside the restaurant. his hands were shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. the bright mcdonald’s sign illuminated half his face while the rest remained hidden in shadow, like he’d been hoping you’d come back. “you’re annoying.” you called out as you approached him. your car keys swung from your fingers while you narrowed your eyes at him. the insult lacked any real bite.

a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. the first genuine smile you’d seen from him all day. “you came back.” seonghyeon pointed out quietly. his gaze followed you as you stopped a few feet away from him. there was something annoyingly satisfied in his expression.

“don’t sound so excited.” you crossed your arms over your chest. despite your attempt at looking unimpressed, your eyes refused to leave his face.

“don’t sound so disappointed.” seonghyeon shot back. he shifted his weight onto one foot, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since the interview started. you rolled your eyes. he smiled wider. and somehow that irritated you even more.

“what do you want, seonghyeon?” you finally asked. your voice came out softer than intended. the fight you’d been carrying around all afternoon felt exhausting now. his smile faltered, just slightly.

the movement was so small most people would’ve missed it, you didn’t—because you’d spent nearly a year memorizing every version of his face. “i don’t know.” he admitted after a moment. his gaze dropped to the pavement between you. one hand emerged from his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “i just didn’t want you to leave like that.”

“why are you doing this to me?” you say through gritted teeth, more tired than irritated. the break up between you two was short and mutual, nothing more. now he just wanted to come back? you examined his face, his eyes were darting everywhere except for you and half of his bottom lip was tucked in between his teeth, he looked like he was falling apart. his shoulders dropped at your words.“i’m not—y/n,” he started, only to stop himself. he dragged a hand down his face and exhaled sharply through his nose. “i’m not trying to do anything to you.” you let out a disbelieving laugh, it sounded almost like a scoff.

“really?” you asked, throwing your hands up. “because from where i’m standing, it feels like you’re opening a bunch of doors that we already closed.” he flinched at your words—actually flinched. his mouth opened but nothing came out, “i just…” his voice faltered. he looked down at the pavement between your feet. “i hate this.”

“hate what?” you frowned. “this.” he gestured between the two of you. “you're talking to me like i’m some guy you interviewed for the yearbook. you're looking at me like you don’t know me anymore.”

the parking lot suddenly felt too quiet. “you broke up with me too, seonghyeon,” you reminded him softly. “i know.” he nodded immediately. “i know i did.”

his voice cracked on the last word.

“but i didn’t think…” he swallowed hard. “i didn’t think we’d become strangers,” his face twisted with frustration, his eyebrows pulling together as he dragged both hands through his hair. “then we’re arguing every time we speak.” he let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head once. “i hate it.” you blinked at him. for a moment, all you could do was stare.

because he looked miserable—not angry, not annoyed, just…miserable. “we argue because you keep saying things like this.” you replied quietly, your fingers tightening around your keys. “what am i supposed to do with this, seonghyeon?”

he looked at you helplessly. “i seriously don’t know.” he admitted after a long pause. his shoulders slumped, all the fight draining out of him. one hand came up to rub at his forehead as he let out a shaky breath. “i just know i miss talking to you.”

your breath caught in your throat. he looked almost embarrassed by his own words. his eyes stayed fixed on the pavement, like admitting it out loud had physically pained him. “you miss arguing with me?” you asked weakly, blinking at him. your eyebrows rose slightly, disbelief coloring your voice.

a laugh escaped him, it was small and tired. “apparently.” he replied, finally looking up at you. the corner of his mouth twitched upward, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. you hated it, you hated that you wanted to laugh too.

the two of you stood there for a moment, staring at each other underneath the parking lot lights. a car drove by somewhere in the distance, its headlights briefly illuminating the side of his face.

“i miss you too.” you finally admitted. the confession came out quieter than you intended. your fingers tightened around your car keys. his head lifted immediately. “deadass?” he asked, genuine surprise washing over his features. his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t prepared himself for that answer.

“stop acting shocked.” you muttered, averting your eyes for a second. “you make it really hard not to be.” he replied, a small huff of laughter leaving him. he shifted his weight onto one foot, his expression softening.

you rolled your eyes. a smile enveloped his face, there it was again, his stupid smile. you looked away first. “i don’t know if i want to jump back into… whatever that was.” you admitted quietly. your gaze settled on a crack in the pavement between the two of you. “we broke up for a reason.”

his smile faltered. “i know.” he nodded once, the movement almost imperceptible. “and i don’t want us to try again and end up hating each other.” you continued, finally looking back up at him. your voice softened near the end of the sentence.

“i know.” he repeated. his eyes didn’t leave yours. silence settled between you. the evening air had cooled considerably since you’d left the restaurant. somewhere behind you, someone laughed from inside mcdonald’s.

“could we…” he started before stopping. he looked away for a second, chewing on his bottom lip. your eyebrows knit together. he looked nervous, which was almost funny, because this was seonghyeon. the same boy who could argue with teachers and referees without a shred of hesitation. “could we maybe just…” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost awkward. “not be strangers?”

you stared at him. then at the giant glowing mcdonald’s sign above his head, then back at him. a laugh escaped you before you could stop it, he frowned.

“what?” he asked, blinking at you. you shook your head. “nothing.” another laugh slipped out. you lifted a hand to your mouth for a second. “we’re having this huge, life-changing conversation in front of a mcdonald’s.” he stared at you, his expression unreadable. then slowly looked up. the bright yellow arches glowed above him.

he looked back down. and laughed, it was an actual laugh and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d actually heard it. “come here.” you said suddenly, turning toward your car. his eyebrows shot upward. “where?” he asked, watching you in confusion. “my car.” you jingled your keys before glancing back at him. “i feel ridiculous standing here.” a grin spread across his face.

and despite yourself—you smiled back. the moment the doors shut, it became quiet again. too quiet. you looked at him. neither of you said anything. “so…” he started, resting one arm on the center console. his fingers tapped against it nervously. “so…” you repeated, turning slightly in your seat to face him. he laughed softly under his breath.

“i really did miss this.” he said quietly. his eyes searched your face, almost as if he were making sure you were actually there.

your smile faltered, because you did too, kinda. you looked at him for a long moment. then at his eyes. you glanced at his mouth quickly, picking your eyes back up to meet his. his gaze dropped briefly. when it came back up, it was careful, hesitant. like he was waiting.

“this is probably a bad idea.” you murmured. your voice had dropped almost to a whisper. “probably.” he agreed, though he didn’t move away. neither of you moved.

“really bad.” you added.

“definitely.” he replied.

silence. you could how your heart was about to beat of your chest, if you got any closer to him you would probably hear his heartbeat too. on reflex, you leaned forward. his eyes widened slightly, but he still met you halfway.

the kiss was familiar, too familiar. he made the quietest sound of surprise before one hand came up and settled against your cheek. his thumb brushed across your skin.

and for a few seconds, nothing else existed. not the breakup, not the interview, not the months spent avoiding each other. when you finally pulled away, both of you remained close enough that your noses almost brushed.

you blinked twice, not believing if that was real or not. “okay.” you said finally, sounding slightly breathless. “okay.” he echoed, equally dazed.

“that did not help.”

a laugh escaped him. you laughed too. “so…” he started again, his thumb still resting lightly against your cheek. “not strangers?” you looked at him. really looked at him, his messy hair, the nervous way he was looking at you, and the fact that he still held his breath whenever he wanted an answer from you.

a small smile tugged at your lips. “not strangers.” you agreed softly.

the breath he let out sounded almost relieved. “and maybe…” he began carefully, lowering his hand. “really, really slow?” you considered him for a moment. then nodded once. “really slow.”

“one more kiss, i know you have to go see martin.” he held up one finger, his voice softer now, almost careful. there was a shy look on his face that didn’t match the usual confidence he carried on the field.

you gave him a deadpanned look, leaning back slightly in your seat. “you’re insane.” you muttered, though there was no real bite to it. his lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “one kiss.” he repeated, quieter this time.

you stared at him for a second longer than you should have. the air in the car felt different now—smaller, heavier, like the silence itself was waiting.

you exhaled through your nose. “i hate you.” you said flatly, already leaning in anyway. he let out a soft, almost relieved laugh under his breath. “no, you don’t.”

that was all he got out before you closed the space between you. the kiss wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t hesitant either.

it was familiar in a way that made your chest ache. his hand came up to your jaw almost immediately, warm fingers settling there like it was instinct. he tilted his head slightly, deepening it just enough that your thoughts stalled for a second—like your brain forgot what it was doing.

you could feel him exhale through his nose, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding his breath the entire day without realizing it. your hand rested lightly against his nape, not pulling him closer, but not letting him go either.

it lasted longer than “one more kiss” should’ve, long enough that it felt unfair. when you finally pulled away, it was slow. your eyes opened first, and for a second, neither of you moved.

his forehead hovered near yours. his thumb brushed your cheek once, absent, like he wasn’t ready to fully let go yet. you swallowed.

“okay,” you murmured, breath uneven. his eyes flickered down to your mouth, then back up. “okay.” he echoed again. you leaned back slightly, breaking it for real this time.

the air rushed back in like nothing had happened. you reached for your seatbelt like your hands suddenly remembered how to function.

“i have to go.” you said, mostly to yourself. “yeah.” he nodded, but didn’t move right away. then he finally pulled back. his hand slipped away from your jaw slowly, reluctantly, like he was thinking about not stopping. you thought that was it, you were wrong.

before you could even process it, he leaned in again—quick this time—and pressed a short kiss to the side of your jaw. just beneath it.

it was so soft, it felt almost gentle and it caught you completely off guard. your breath hitched at the feeling. “seonghyeon—” you started, turning your head slightly. he was already pulling away, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

The apartment was steeped in a rare, unhurried tranquility. Not silence, true silence had never existed in James’s presence. He was far too animated for that, forever filling empty spaces with stories, ridiculous observations, and endless streams of commentary that somehow never grew tiresome.

this was something softer. Something infinitely more intimate. The sort of quiet that descended after a demanding day had finally loosened its grip. The sort that settled comfortably between two people who no longer felt obligated to entertain one another because their mere presence was enough.

Outside, the city continued its restless rhythm, but within the confines of the apartment, time appeared to slow.

Golden sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting elongated ribbons of amber across the hardwood floors. The living room glowed beneath the warmth of the setting sun, every surface bathed in shades of honey and gold. Somewhere in the background, the television droned on mindlessly, its voices blending into nothing more than ambient noise.

Neither of you paid it any attention. Your focus had long since drifted elsewhere. Specifically, to the man sprawled across your lap, and, more importantly, his hair.

His newly dyed blond hair. You were beginning to suspect that your fascination had evolved into a full-fledged obsession.

For nearly an hour, your fingers had remained tangled within the silken strands, repeatedly threading through them as though you were attempting to commit their texture to memory. Every pass revealed another variation of color beneath the evening light.

Some sections gleamed like molten gold. Others resembled pale champagne. Occasionally, when he shifted beneath the sunlight, the strands shimmered with almost platinum undertones.

It was unfair, completely and utterly unfair.

James had always been attractive. That much had never been up for debate. Yet somehow this new hair color transformed him into something devastatingly beautiful.

The contrast was breathtaking. The pale blond framed his features with startling precision, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones while simultaneously softening the overall look. His dark eyelashes appeared even longer against the lighter shade. His eyes seemed brighter, more expressive, every glance carrying an intensity that left your pulse stuttering unexpectedly. It should have been illegal.

Across your lap, James looked entirely content.

One arm rested lazily over his stomach while the other dangled uselessly off the couch. His head was comfortably nestled against your thigh, using you as a pillow without a trace of shame.

Not that you minded. If anything, you secretly adored moments like this.

The version of James that the public rarely saw. Not the charismatic idol, not the performer who commanded stages and captivated arenas.

Just James. Sleepy, comfortable, safe. His eyes remained half-lidded with exhaustion, yet he continued speaking, determined to finish whatever story had captured his attention.

“…I still remember going up to the office jokingly if there is a chance i could dye my hair blonde,” he mumbled, voice roughened by fatigue, “the visual team told me blonde wouldn’t suit me.”

Your fingers swept through his q bangs again. A habit you could no longer control. A distracted hum escaped your lips.

James’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily beneath your touch. “So I informed them they were incorrect.”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward. “Hm?”

“I was very persuasive.” His tone carried the utmost confidence.

You looked down at him with obvious skepticism. “Very persuasive?”

“Extremely persuasive.” The smugness in his voice was immediate.

You laughed softly. “How exactly did you persuade them?”

One eye cracked open. A grin spread lazily across his face, the kind that always preceded trouble. “I annoyed them until they gave up, it was going on for three weeks.”

The laugh that burst from you was immediate. “Three weeks!?”

James frowned. “They were being stubborn as fuck.”

“It’s that serious?”

His expression transformed into exaggerated offense. “I’ll have you know that it was a carefully constructed argument.”

“You harassed them for three weeks.”

“It was a carefully constructed three weeks.”

Your laughter grew louder, and instantly, his smile widened. That happened every time, without fail.

No matter how exhausted he was, no matter how terrible his mood had been beforehand, your laughter seemed to illuminate something inside him. Like a flower turning toward sunlight, like a reflex he couldn’t suppress.

The realization made warmth bloom beneath your ribs. You glanced down at him again.

A mistake, because James chose that exact moment to look up. 

The setting sun caught in his blond hair, igniting the strands like spun gold. His features softened beneath the warm glow. The sharp planes of his face became almost ethereal.

Beautiful.

There truly wasn’t another word for it.

Beautiful.

His eyelashes cast delicate shadows against his cheeks. His lips curved lazily as he watched you. His eyes, dark and impossibly expressive, reflected the fading sunlight in a way that made them appear almost liquid.

For a moment, you forgot what he had been saying entirely. Forgot the television, forgot the apartment, forgot everything

Alll you could see was him, and God—He was breathtaking. Not in the polished, magazine-cover way that millions of fans admired. Not in the carefully styled, professionally photographed way people discussed online.

This was different. This was the kind of beauty that emerged during quiet evenings and lazy conversations. The kind found in sleepy smiles and messy bangs. The kind revealed only to those fortunate enough to witness it. The kind that made your chest ache with an overwhelming surge of affection.

James blinked slowly, then smiled. A small smile, entirely unaware of the effect he had on you, or perhaps completely aware. With James, it was honestly impossible to tell.

A dramatic sigh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound wasn’t particularly loud, yet James noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Somehow, after all this time together, he had developed an almost supernatural awareness when it came to you. A shift in your posture, a subtle change in expression, the faintest alteration in your tone—nothing ever escaped him.

His eyes fluttered open slightly. Concern immediately surfaced across his features. “What’s wrong?”

You absentmindedly twirled a strand of blond hair around your finger. “Nothing.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “You tired?”

“I’m not, don’t worry about me.”

“You sighed like a Victorian woman standing beside a rain-covered window while contemplating a forbidden romance.”

A laugh nearly escaped you. You managed to suppress it… Barely. Instead, you rolled your eyes toward the ceiling. “That’s oddly specific.”

James slowly pushed himself up on one elbow, his expression growing increasingly suspicious. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“I can stare at my boyfriend.”

“Not like that.” A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“Like what?” You studied him for another second.

The soft blond strands fell effortlessly across his forehead. The fading sunlight illuminated them from behind, creating a halo of gold around his head.

Honestly? He looked ridiculous—Ridiculously beautiful.

You exhaled slowly. “You just look really good.”

James blinked. “Oh.”

There was a brief pause. “Like…” You narrowed your eyes. “Like really hot.”

The transformation was immediate. His entire face brightened, the sleepiness vanished. A grin spread across his lips, slow and devastatingly pleased. “Keep talking.”

You immediately reached forward and poked his cheek. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No.”

His grin only widened. “Sweetheart.”

Your resolve weakened instantly.

Dangerous. That was the only word capable of describing James when he used that voice. Low, warm, affectionate. The kind of voice that felt like being wrapped in your favorite blanket, the voice specifically engineered to dismantle your dignity.

His eyes sparkled mischievously. He knew exactly what effect he had, the menace. “Look at you” he cooed.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not that innocent.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he sounded entirely confident, because he was entirely correct.

You returned your attention to his hair before he could become any more insufferable. The strands slipped effortlessly between your fingers. Silky, featherlight, far softer than you had anticipated.

Every time you touched it, you became increasingly convinced that blonde had been the best decision he had ever made.

Well… Maybe second best. The first had been dating you, obviously.

Without realizing it, you began absentmindedly playing with the ends again. Twisting a small section around your finger, letting it unravel. Repeating the motionagain, and again.

The sunlight transformed individual strands into ribbons of gold. You were fascinated, completely captivated. Eventually, a quiet chuckle broke the silence.

“You really like it, huh?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I love it.”

James gasped dramatically, his hand flew to his chest. “More than me?”

You immediately looked horrified. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

His jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

You burst into laughter.

James stared at you in mock betrayal before finally reaching for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours effortlessly. The way every physical interaction between the two of you had become.

“Good answer,” he murmured. Despite his teasing, his thumb brushed across your knuckles with unmistakable fondness. The gesture sent warmth flooding through your chest.

For a while, neither of you felt compelled to fill the room with conversation. The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward nor empty.

The apartment seemed enveloped in a tranquil stillness. The television continued playing in the background, though neither of you registered a 

single word.

Nothing beyond this moment seemed particularly important. Not schedules, not responsibilities, not tomorrow. Just this, just him.

Without warning, James shifted. The movement was subtle, he simply gravitated closer, as though some invisible force continuously drew him toward you.

His cheek found its place against your stomach, nestling there comfortably. One arm slid around your waist.

The action carried such natural familiarity that it made your chest ache. There had once been a time when physical affection felt deliberate. When reaching for each other required thought. When holding hands still caused nervous butterflies.

Now it was effortless, an ingrained habit, a language all its own. James sought you the same way flowers sought sunlight. Without hesitation, conscious intent.

Simply because it felt right. Your fingers immediately slipped back into his hair. No thought preceded the gesture, no decision was necessary.

It happened automatically. A reflex cultivated through countless evenings spent exactly like this. Your fingertips threaded through the silky blond strands, gently combing them back from his forehead.

The texture remained almost absurdly soft. The color still fascinated you. Each golden strand gleamed beneath the fading sunlight like spun silk. 

The moment your nails lightly scratched against his scalp, James visibly relaxed. A quiet sigh escaped him, his shoulders loosened. The tension he’d been carrying throughout the day gradually melted away beneath your touch.

“That’s nice.” His voice emerged low and drowsy. Softened by exhaustion, the words were nearly slurred together.

Your lips curved upward. “Is it?”

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah...” The response came immediately, as though there had never been another possible answer.

You laughed quietly. The sound was swallowed by the warm atmosphere surrounding you both.

God, he was tired.

You could hear it.

His energy had slowly diminished throughout the evening, leaving behind a version of James few people were fortunate enough to witness.

The exhaustion stripped away every carefully maintained layer. What remained was simply him. The James the world rarely saw.

The public knew the dazzling idol who effortlessly commanded attention whenever he stepped onto a stage.

They knew the confident performer whose charisma seemed limitless beneath flashing lights and roaring crowds, the polished celebrity who appeared in interviews, magazine covers, and promotional videos. But they didn’t know this James.

They didn’t know the one who became impossibly clingy whenever he was sleepy. The one who searched for your hand beneath restaurant tables without even realizing he was doing it, who refused to sleep until he heard your voice after particularly difficult days, who stole your hoodies, sweaters, blankets, and occasionally entire pillows before insisting they had somehow become his property.

The one who sent you three-minute voice notes at absurd hours of the night because a random thought had entered his head and apparently couldn’t wait until morning, the one currently sprawled across your lap.

The realization washed over you with startling force. You had fallen in love with him countless times before. In crowded airports, in late-night phone calls, in quiet mornings, in fleeting glances.

Yet somehow, your heart continued discovering new reasons, as though loving him was an endless process rather than a destination.

The affection swelling within your chest felt almost overwhelming, warm enough to ache, gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

Your thumb brushed across his forehead. The pad of your thumb skimmed his skin before sweeping a few loose strands away from his face.

Immediately, James leaned into the touch without hesitation, like a cat seeking warmth from a familiar hand.

The sight nearly destroyed you. There was something indescribably precious about being loved so openly.

You looked down at him. The soft blond hair scattered across your lap. The relaxed features no longer sharpened by cameras or stage makeup, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the contentment written into every line of his expression.

His eyelashes rested against his cheeks. His lips remained slightly parted. His entire body seemed to radiate comfort, and suddenly, the realization struck again.

God.

You loved him, not because he was talented, or because he was admired, not even because he was beautiful, though he undeniably was.

You loved him because he was James, because he laughed too loudly, or he talked too much when he was excited, especially when he trusted you with every version of himself.

The thought settled warmly inside your chest, and as your fingers continued gliding through his blond hair, you found yourself smiling.

Several minutes drifted by in comfortable serenity before James finally stirred. One eye slowly cracked open.

The movement was sluggish, weighed down by lingering exhaustion, yet the instant his gaze landed on you, a familiar look of amusement surfaced.

“There you are.”

You blinked. “There who is?”

“The person who’s been staring at me for the last ten minutes.”

A smile immediately threatened to betray you. “Maybe.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Maybe?”

“I was just zoning out.”

James huffed a laugh through his nose. “You absolutely were staring though.”

“Was i? I can’t even remember.”

His expression became increasingly incredulous. “Don’t play dumb now, doll.”

You offered your most innocent smile, the one that never fooled him. James stared at you for several seconds. Then, without warning, he reached upward and pinched your cheek.

You immediately swatted his hand away. “Ow.”

“You deserved that.”

“For what!?”

“You were being suspicious.”

Your jaw dropped. “Suspicious for admiring my boyfriend?”

“See?”

“See what?”

“You were staring.”

You groaned. “Just talking to talk.”

James laughed, the sound reverberated softly throughout the room. The kind of laugh that seemed capable of dissolving stress simply by existing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly, because the truth was embarrassingly simple.

James noticed the subtle alteration in your expression almost instantly. 

At this point, you were thoroughly convinced that your boyfriend possessed some sort of unfair advantage when it came to reading you. After years of memorizing your habits, studying your mannerisms, and paying attention to details most people overlooked, he could decipher your emotions with alarming accuracy.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he studied you from where he rested against your lap. “You know you’re pretty, right?”

Your heart completely betrayed you. The words struck with embarrassing effectiveness. Warmth flooded your face instantly.

Then he leaned closer, not enough to invade your space. Just enough for you to notice every detail. The faint mole near his cheek, the curve of his smile, the pale blond strands falling carelessly across his forehead, the warmth hidden within his dark eyes, the affection that lived there so openly.

Your breath caught immediately.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch was featherlight, tender, affectionate. “So cute.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like I’m a puppy.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean...” His smile deepened. “You’re very cute puppy.”

Before you could retaliate, he leaned forward. A soft kiss landed against your cheek.

You blinked. Then another landed beside the first, then another, and another.

Each one accompanied by increasing levels of satisfaction, like he was accomplishing a very important mission.

The ridiculousness of the situation eventually became too much. A laugh escaped you. Soon you were laughing so hard your shoulders shook.

“James.”

“Hm?” He didn’t stop. Another kiss, then another.

Your laughter only grew. “What exactly are you doing?”

James finally pulled back. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, the expression was so sincere that you almost laughed again. “Showing affection.”

“Really? Cause ever since you dyed your hair blonde, you gotten more clingy.”

“I’d say the same about you.”

The confidence was infuriating, the smile accompanying it was even worse. Warm sunlight illuminated his blond hair, transforming the pale strands into molten gold. Combined with the ridiculous grin currently stretching across his face, the effect was devastating.

You hated how attractive he looked, you hated it even more because he knew it.

Then, without another word, he rested his forehead against yours. Immediately, the distance separating you vanished.

Suddenly, your entire world narrowed to the person sitting directly in front of you. The warmth radiating from his skin, the faint scent of shampoo lingering in his blond hair, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the comforting pressure of his hand resting securely against your waist.

Everything felt impossibly close, neither of you spoke, there was no need. The silence felt intimate rather than empty. Comfortable rather than awkward, a sanctuary constructed from countless shared moments. The kind of peace people spent entire lifetimes searching for.

You simply sat there, gazing at one another while evening sunlight painted everything gold. His eyes drifted over your features as though committing them to memory.

The tenderness in his expression nearly undid you, and then, as if drawn forward by instinct alone, James smiled.

Your fingers automatically slid through his blond hair once more, then, completely unashamed, he settled more comfortably against you.