california dreamin'

this is familiar territory–hiding in plain sight. in the midst of a hundred bodies and twice as many eyes, it’s alarmingly easy to disappear. they’re nothing more than grains of sand on an infinite shore, mere specks of dust in the cosmos. but if even drops of water have the ability to both form and dismantle mountains, why should they be any different? 

despite their shared history, he and iseul seem to come from opposite ends of the universe. with his trademark polished shoes and a cigarette tucked between his fingers, the older of the two wears a deceptive nonchalance. and here kyungsoo is, nursing a sickeningly sweet concoction of peaches, white chocolate, and god knows what else with a straw wrapper twirled around his finger. (his hands can never seem to stop moving.) silently he shakes his head, brows furrowed and lips pursed, then continues, “he’s always wearing a face mask. but he’s got a scar up here–” he points to his left temple. “–and a tattoo of a squid on his arm. i remember that ‘cause it was so random.”

he listens --- runs through a list of people that could match the description in his head, filing through face after face; plenty of men had scars here, there and everywhere. iseul was no different. his knuckles were lumpy with bone healed in awkward places, his arms littered with paler scar tissue on his usually dark, tanned skin. but a tattoo of a squid was unique. it meant they had an X on a map of suspects ---;the only thing was they were missing  a   t r a i l . 

There are certain things that are too foul about Jongin to ever expose to the public. His private life is stained with sin, his way of thinking often questionable, and his friends sometimes prove to be shady company. Such example of the last sort was Iseul. Sure, he didn’t know the man too closely, never meddled with his business too deeply (he was aware of how deep those waters were, and how inadequate he was in swimming in them), but he enjoyed the man’s company nevertheless. Even with an aura cloaking the man in a metaphorical warning sign to not get too close, the idol cared little for danger.

In fact, he enjoyed it.

Despite sitting inside, he kept the little electric fan to his face, glass of lemonade neglected. He didn’t look particularly impressed with what the man said, though the pout on his lips and exaggerated look of disappointment was an act if anything. A chance to poke at the bear. “You would have known if you had attended.” Jongin argued in return. 

The thought of Iseul standing among thousands of (mostly) young, female fans was funny–so funny he almost cracked a smile. Almost. No matter how much the man would reject him to attend his concerts, be it for security or prideful reasons, Jongin still invited him whenever he held any concert within Korea. 

“I even had a whole backstage tour planned, you could have gotten the best seat ever. You would have been the most envied man in that building, but you just had to break my heart again. Such a cruel man you are, hyung.” 

his brow cocks across the table; doesn’t quite if the pretty faced kid was being serious with the jab, or it was another one of his jokes in the meantime. jongin must know very well who and   w h a t  iseul was capable of, what he represented ---- ; what be brought with him wherever he went. even as they sat relatively alone and unbothered before the cafe, iseul had his men lurking in the shadows; flanking his every move. he walked with a sizable bounty on his head. 

iseul taps the growing ash on the end of his cigarette into a crystal-styled ashtray, although the bowl held nothing of the weight real crystal had. he clicks his tongue once, clearing his throat softly. “are you looking for something to disrupt that comfortable life of yours? it wouldn’t do for a man of my caliber to be caught dead at a fluffy concert like yours...” he broods; humor? who knows. “if i remember correctly, you were taking a lot of heat for a failed relationship not too long ago, right?”

status: closed, private.

connection: established - brief acquaintances through previous years of crime. 

an empty plate sits before him, and the youth sitting across from him - how long had they been meeting for meals like this? perhaps for longer than iseul cared to remember for. he’d warned kyungsoo of the dangers with being seeing with him, but those warnings seemed to fall on deaf ears; they’re perched outside a cafe, iseul reclined in the metal chair with a leg crossed over the other, black - polished - shoes glinting in the squint of summer sun. a cigarette burns between his clutch of index and middle finger. 

status: closed, private.

connection: first time – unlikely hero.

                         It was rare for Iseul to be on his own, usually flanked by at least two of his men - but he’d slipped free of a dinner tonight, out the back when nobody was looking. Seconds after he’d walked beyond the threshold of his home, his phone had begun to hop with calls and messages - panic ensued, he was sure, but the man just turned the device off and left it in his pocket. A summer’s night was warm, and the sky was clear; it wasn’t too often he could afford such a luxury, a chance to be alone, be pensive in his thoughts. 

                             Gravel crunched underfoot as he walked the empty city streets, a cigarette hanging free of the corner of his mouth -- a little stream of smoke trailing off into the night’s air, but even this relaxed posture wouldn’t fool an observant eye. Dressed head-to-toe in black, his knuckles were tattooed with fading ink and the scars on his cheeks were enough to tell even the foolish of men to stay away; Iseul, in his own way, had found the life of crime to be a lonely one. People ran, and perhaps, he worked best that way----

                                                                                       ---- thought were interrupted by a shout.

                            Iseul’s head turned, and beneath the grimy glow of a streetlight - he saw hooded youngsters crowding another male with wide eyes. Flecks of silver reflected back to his eyes told at least two of them were brandishing knives; a late-night mugging. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or maybe his boredom was even worse than he thought, but Iseul changes course. He walks towards the little huddle, tossing away his cigarette end but the step of his shoe on the loose gravel announced his arrival.

status: closed, private.

connection: first time -- possible information. 

                       Some days were harder than others, but mostly - it all felt numb. It all ran like perfect clockwork, the polished gears of the inside of a pocket watch looked rusty compared to the formation of men in black suits scouring the sidewalk and settling into their positions. Iseul had no qualms about intelligence gathering but sometimes, he’d rather sit away and watch the beach roll on by. He’d spent years in this industry and by no means had clean hands, but even a mobster found a speck of regret when holding the barrel of a gun to someone’s innocent head. Their next target was a quaint little florist, of chinese birth his sources had confirmed - apparently he’d hear it when she talked.

                         He climbs from the back of a sleek vehicle with darkened windows, a silver cigarette-casing unclipped and the lid popped open, retrieving one of the white pieces inside. A flick of a zip-lock lighter and smoldering tobacco soon strings a steady stream of grey smoke into the air. Polished shoes clip neat along the pavement, and one of his men opens the door as Iseul approaches.

connection;  f / m / nb  non-criminal, long-time friend aware of iseul’s position and work. regular social meet-ups

he wore black almost exclusively. a black suit to be precise, he never saw any reason to change it. he had no occasion to wear colour, no parties or events to visit; work was 24/7 - and black made it easier to hide the blood, easier to hide the gun he kept strapped to the side of his chest. iseul leans back in his seat, a half-drunk cup of coffee resting on a creamy-coloured saucer before him. sure--- he realised how most people looked at him when he ventured out into the wider public. the tattoos on his knuckles were a dead giveaway of his path in life, if the scars and polished shoes didn’t give enough of a hint ----! 

“you’ve been well in the meantime, right?” there were few he kept in contact with; iseul had taken his father’s business as a young men when his family were murdered - had no time to socialize like a normal young adult, it had been straight into seedy deals and wearing a constant bounty over his head. 

connection; female muse - longtime sexual partner, possible emotional connection depending.

the city is dark beyond the window, a seemingly still ocean of sparkling lights that blink back at them; neon lights, street lights, the softer amber glow of apartment windows where people lived their lives. he’d had a long life -- one of violence, endless  v i o l e n c e  and when he watched the world surge around him, iseul sometimes envied those who could go to sleep without their hand on a gun beneath their pillow. the curtain were pulled open, her preference; she wanted to see the stars -- and iseul had long since grown accustomed to her strange ways of being.

             perhaps not even strange, but iseul wouldn’t know. they led entirely different lives.

her body lay on the bed behind his back; the springs creaking beneath his shifting weight, sitting up to light his cigarette, inhaling deep on grey smoke; tobacco tasting near sweet on his tongue. their clothes were scattered across the hotel floor, and it was perhaps one of the few vices iseul allowed himself to maintain. they only met a few times a month, and in truth, only when he gave a call to her. he’d often asked her why she bothered to show up -- never did he get an answer. 

           fingertips trace the bandages wrapped over his ribs; the blood seeping through and bleeding the white cotton and cloudy rust colour, he’d need to change them soon. tanned skin scarred and thick with callouses, brilliant tattoos covering his back - a ferocious dragon, arms littered with more symbols of meaning. another gash in his side was simply rubble to his toes.

                                                           Stopped into a church                                                            I passed along the way

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