☁️

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Weak Hero Universe

Where Shadows Meet (Geum Seongje x Reader) COMPLETED

slow burn, character developement, strong MC

pt.1 Trigger

pt.2 Tension

pt.3 Turbulence

pt.4 Triumph

pt.5 Threshold

pt.6 Trespass

pt.7 Transition

pt.8 Timeline

pt.9 Trust

pt.10 Twist

pt.11 Tessellation

pt.12 Shadows

pt.13 Butterfly

pt.14 Next Time

pt.15 Call

pt.16 Final -> Stay or Leave

Specials

special (takes place in part 15)

Drafts

Love and Deepspace Universe

1. Drawn Together (Rafayel × Reader Oneshot, fluff)

2. The Final Page (Rafayel x Reader Oneshot, fluff)

3. He Missed The Sea (Rafayel x Reader Oneshot, fluff)

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

a post full of additions to end the journey of writing my first fanfic

Masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

This post will contain different aspects I had in mind for the story but never or not fully included. There are some additional scenes but also concepts I wanted for the world building and characterization.

Have fun!

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ deleted scenes

First of all, I want to have a small addition to the latest post. There are 2 scenes which I thought about including in path 2 but didn’t in the end.

:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 1st

a possible reaction of y/n after the kiss (honestly, I didn’t include it, because it was just too much in my opinion haha) still liking it tho!

As the kiss breaks you just look at each other in silence. Maybe there is also some disbelief, but mostly it’s being drawn together, tangled like two shadows merging into one in the dim light.

As you fully realize what just happened, tears stream down your cheeks unexpectedly. You haven’t cried like that for a while. Emotions overflowing, mixed with regret and missing the hint of aftershave.

Seongje tries to wipe away the tears with his thumb that rested on your cheek seconds ago.

“Oh princess.” He puts a pause between his lines, maybe he knows you need to shift your focus on him again. “I usually enjoy it if I am the reason someone sheds tears, but if it’s you, it’s really no fun at all.” His voice is softer than usually, as if he actually cares. But you can’t help but smile about his remark.

“So, I am not just someone, huh?”

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he watches you with that unreadable, intense gaze that always made you feel like an open book. He may read you but it’s also a quit confession that he just cares as much.

“You never were. You are mine, and if you don’t mind, I will never let that change again.”

:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 2nd

I kinda thought they couldn’t or didn’t want to separate after hehe so they somehow end up in Seongjes new apartment, which is weirdly similar to his old one. It’s up to your imagination what happens from there, but my mind went to the morning after scene.

The morning light filters through the slats of the shutters in thin, golden bars, warming patches of your skin. You are lying on Seongje's arm, leaned towards each other, faces only inches apart. As you open your eyes slowly, still in disbelief of the current scene, you muster this monumental sight. Geum Seongje, the man who usually lives in the restless hum of the night and often goes without sleep, is finally still. Without his glasses, the predatory sharpness of his face has softened into a deep, quiet exhaustion.

You watch the way his dark curls fall across his forehead, nestling against that tiny birthmark under his eye that the world rarely gets to see. You reach out, your fingertips carefully grazing a stray strand to brush it away. You can’t resist, once again, it feels like turning back in time. No, not exactly. Maybe it’s more like a reset with a different outcome, you hope. Your eyes still muster him, as you notice a small, faint scar near his temple you hadn't seen before. You wonder if it’s a new relic from his latest fight or a hidden mark from his past, but regardless, you realize you want to be exactly here, in this unusual warmth.

A quiet grumble from your stomach suddenly breaks the silence, a reminder of the reality outside the blankets. You start to shift, careful not to break the spell, intending to get up and find something to eat. But before you can move away, his arm hooks around you, pulling you back with a firm and demanding grip.

Seongje doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he rolls even closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his skin radiating a heat that makes the sunbeams feel cold.

“Not yet,” he grumbles, his voice a low, sleep-heavy rasp that vibrates through your skin. “Some more minutes, please.”

You can't help but smile at the unexpectedness of it all. Trading punches for cuddles? Definitely one of the better changes.

“Fine, sleepyhead,” you murmur softly, leaning back into his warmth and deciding that for now, the rest of the world—and your hunger—can wait.

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What do you think about these scenes? As always, I am looking forward if you wanna comment to share your thoughts (but please don’t feel pressured or anything)

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ headcanon

Additionally to the 2nd scene I always had in mind, that Seongje had problems sleeping and had a hard time falling asleep in general. He seems to have had sleepless night sometimes, standing on his balcony smoking. Same as in the night where y/n was there with him and she saw him there.

Do you remember the photo he took of her in part 10? -> lil recap: “He turns the screen toward you, showing off a truly awful photo—your hair a mess, eyes half-shut—one of them tinged with a faint purple bruise—mouth slightly open, the flash washing you out.” “Guess your secret morning look is in my hands now. Don’t forget who’s got the evidence.”

He didn’t just do it to annoy her and have something to blackmail her with. He also admired how deeply she was sleeping, maybe he was envious as well. Seeing her like that was real. And being able to sleep after all that? Bro, he wished he could just do that. Sometimes he would look at that picture, smiling, feeling and accepting his emotions toward y/n in short moments of silent (once again sleepless) nights.

"Then, finally, his lips curl into that familiar, mocking grin. “Next time, smile for the camera, pretty face.”  

According to that, the nickname “pretty face” was not fully to mock, he also said it, because he meant it.

And with that I really enjoy the idea of the second “deleted scene” where he finally finds peace.

:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ "what if..."

let's include some possible things that could've been possible

:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ what if... that's the reason he quit smoking?

Oh and I just got this thought spontaneously. What if he haven’t looked at that picture for a while after the end of part 16, but suddenly does?

He is smoking somewhere scrolling through his phone. He accidentally finds that photo, maybe the only one he has of y/n, and something just clicks. He is hissing a “Shibal” and throws the cigarette to the ground. That’s when he officially stopped smoking. Hehe idk but since this post is full of ideas and random thoughts I will just add that as well.

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･what if... there wasn't noodles but beer?

We already went back to part 10 so why not taking another step back? I had an alternative idea for part 9 as well. I was brainstorming for possible things those two could do at his apartment. At some point I had the following idea which I quickly threw away since it didn’t fit the vibe I was aiming for and idk I don’t think y/n would’ve appreciated haha I just found this in my concept drafts not even in English haha so I tried my best to write a quick translation and put in some more context for this post

After the shower the air in his apartment is filled with with the familiar, sharp scent of Seongje’s smoke and the clinical tang of the first aid kit he’s already tossed onto the table instead of the spicy scent of ramen.  

Seongje is sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the couch. Two condensation-covered bottles of beer sit on the low table. He doesn't look up, just pats the floor besides him. "Sit," he mutters, his voice a low rumble. "I’ll show you how to get over a day like that.”

You drop down beside him. The floor is cold, but the oversized shirt he lent you, the one with the ridiculous tiger print, is warm and smells like him. You take a long, deep swallow of the beer. It’s bitter, but it grants you that familiar warmth you used to crave when you wanted to turn your brain off. Because you are already physically and emotionally drained, the alcohol hits your system like a freight train.

As the bottle empties, the walls you usually keep high start to crumble. You find yourself leaning closer to him, the distance between you narrowing until your shoulder is pressed firmly against his.

"You're a real piece of work, Seongje," you mumble, your voice trailing off as you reach out. Your fingers, still marked with the raw purple of the night's fight, brush against the fabric of his sleeve before moving upward to the back of his neck. You aren't thinking about the Union or your brother anymore; you just want to feel the heat of another person.

Seongje freezes. Usually, he’s the one pulling the strings, the one who relishes in control and making others squirm. He’s the kind of guy who would normally take a situation like this...a girl, a little too drunk, a little too close...and use it to his advantage without a second thought.

But as your hand lingers on his neck, his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle twitch. He’s overwhelmed. With anyone else, this would be a new  "trophy" to collect. But with you, it’s different.

"Hey," he says, his voice rougher than usual, lacking its typical mocking edge. He reaches up to grab your wrist, with a disturbingly tender touch. "You're wasted. Stop that."

"Make me," you challenge, your eyes unfocused but defiant. You shift your weight, practically draped against him now, your thumb grazing his reddened cheek.

He looks at you, and for a split second, the "unreadable, unfeeling psycho" mask slips. You can see the inner struggle in the way his dark eyes search yours—the raw, simmering desire to just risk it, to pull you in and forget the consequences, battling against a sudden, annoying sense of reason.

"Aish," he hisses, abruptly pulling back and standing up. The sudden loss of his warmth leaves you shivering on the floor. He doesn't look at you as he grabs a blanket and tosses it over your head, effectively caging you in fabric.

"Sleep it off, princess," he mutters, heading toward the balcony to light a cigarette with shaking hands. "Before I forget why I'm being nice."

You’re left on the couch, the room spinning, listening to the rhythmic click-click of his lighter outside, wondering why the man everyone calls a monster was the only one who didn't take what you were so ready to give.

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What do you think about that? Would you’ve preferred that over the path I choose?

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･what if... Seongje teams up with Eunjang?

For a second, I actually thought about having Seongje join the Eunjang clique during the final showdown in the rain.

Imagine him entering the fray mid-fight. Not to help Baekjin, but to finally take out those Union guys he’s had "open business" with for months, but couldn't touch because of being in "the same team". It would have been his way of trying to earn back y/n's trust, even if only through violence.

(kinda ad the webtoon in mind here)

But I think Y/N's reaction would have been the most interesting part. She might have accepted his help to survive the night, but she would’ve still looked him in the eye through the rain and told him, "This doesn't change a thing."

I decided against it because staying in the shadows felt more consistent with the show’s storyline and the slow-burn tragedy I wanted for their relationship. But sometimes, I still imagine him unleashing that reckless psycho fighter energy for the 'right' side.

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･the brother... and Seongje?

I also never fully disclosed what exactly was up with her brother (it’s not like I didn’t have ideas, I just didn’t know how to include it naturally and not forced) perfect post to tell you now.

As you may have realized, there’s a connection between Y/N’s brother and the Union. He was part of it and knew Baekjin and, of course, our beloved Seongje.

Y/N’s family never had much money, so her brother wanted to help out, no matter the way. Thanks to his fighting skills, Baekjin noticed him, which eventually led to him joining the Union.

The “incident” mentioned earlier, who would’ve thought, was tied to Seongje. During some illegal job, Y/N’s brother and Seongje worked together. It was about money and power, and a meeting with a “client” escalated. Seongje went overboard and hurt someone badly, losing control in his lust for violence.

When the police were about to arrive, Y/N’s brother took the fall for Seongje, after helping him escape. It was the first time Seongje actually felt guilt… even if it was just for a moment.

He never knew that Y/N was his “partner’s” little sister. Maybe that’s part of why their connection cuts so deep, even if neither of them can explain it.

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:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･easter eggs

did you realize some of the webtoon easter eggs?

i put in original lines and fighting styles (from the english translation i read for the webtoon), Seongjes shirt was inspired by the one he's wearing there and also the name of y/n's friend at university was inpired by one of the webtoon characters.

I might have forgotten what else I dis since it's been a while but i still wanted to mention it here since i love those details.

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*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ time to end this post with a quote

“You lend me you lighter and I will set the world on fire”

This is from a song I listened to and this sentence kind of inspired me. I even thought about including it at some point but didn’t find the right context.

But it’s not the only inspirational phrase I got from songs (just the only one I remember clearly right now… oopsies)

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Thank you for reading this post hehe i hope you liked it as much as the full story. i really enjoyed collecting these ideas from my drafts, showing you the ones i liked most.

Would you be interested if i still post them as some random scenes without much context?

on repeat (honestly the whole album)

path two - Leave

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2

Summary: Leaving. A decision you weren't sure you could make. It's for your own peace you say. It's over. Time for a break. Leave everything behind that interrupts this peace. But how long will it last?

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (slowburn, about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, intense interpersonal conflict and tension, manipulation, betrayal, mentions of violence and blood, mentions of smoking and alcohol (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: about 3.300 words -> thank you for your patience ♡

listened to this song while writing the draft hehe kinda wanted to include it here as well

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The mechanical hum of the bus engine vibrates through the pavement, a low, impatient growl that marks the end of a long day. Your friends already took their seats in the last row, where their weary, battered figures disappear into the sterile, fluorescent light of the vehicle.

You are the last one, your foot hovering over the first step, being pulled back by the view of Seongje leaning at a streetlight, bringing a cigarette to his lips.

You look at him from afar observing the cold indifference in his eyes as he grinds the cigarette into the asphalt. The magnetic pull that’s coming from him is still strong, but with a determined exhale, you take the final step to the bus.

Is a relief or rather regret? You can’t tell, but you also don’t care. Not now.

You sit down beside your friends that are too exhausted to say a word. As the bus stes off, you lean your head against the cold glass, watching his silhouette recede into the darkness.

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At home, you stumble through the front door, the silence of the apartment feeling like a heavy, suffocating blanket. You move like a ghost, avoiding your father and the difficult conversation you know is waiting in the kitchen. You slip into the bathroom and let the scalding water of the shower wash away the dirt, blood, and the scent of smoke that seems to have settled into your very pores.

Suddenly, the weight of everything—the betrayal, the fight, and Seongje—hits you all at once. The tears come without warning, a frantic, uncontrollable flow that you try desperately to suppress. Get a grip, you think. It’s over. Next chapter.

You make your way to your room, ignoring the picture in the mirror you see incidentally by passing.

You look like hell, you think, but you force your mask back into place.

You don't turn on the lights. The pale moonlight spills through the window, illuminating your school jacket draped over the desk chair—a silver-blue relic of a battle that just ended. You sense the still and cool athmosphere of your surroundings, pushing you to crawl under your covers and finally switch off your mind. Physical exhaustion is a merciless master, it drags you into a dreamless sleep before your head even hits the pillow.

But hey, the next morning arrives with a cruel clarity, no surprise. Clearly. Every movement is a chore, the adrenaline has long evaporated, leaving behind a map of deepening bruises. You stand before the mirror and slowly pull up your shirt to inspect your side. Your fingers trace the marks — stinging reminders of the bowling alley and the chaos of yesterdays fight.

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The weeks that follow turn into a monotonous loop

school friends eating hanging out home sleep

You’ve chosen the peace you promised your father, yourself, but it’s a fragile stability. Its greys and blues deepen the dull feeling of the predictable textures that show as the grit of the basketball court under your sneakers, the lukewarm steam of plastic ramen cups, and the scratch of a pen as Sieun pushed you through endless practice exams.

Every few days, the monochrome safety of your routine gets slashed by a hint of orange waiting behind corners, trying to stay in the shadows. You mention it, you mention him. It wasn't just a sight, it was a physical shift in the air not easy to ignore.

He was a ghost variable in your carefully calculated life, a recurring glitch in your "normalcy" that reminded you with every fleeting appearance: the Union might be silent, but the cut he left would never truly stop bleeding.

Baku, on the other hand, becomes a plaster that can stop the bleed from time to time. He draws closer, finally confessing his feelings, offering you the kind of "safe" love you think you want. But you can't truly return it. Seongje is still too present in the quiet corners of your mind.

You hate it, but getting rid of the internal chemistry of your heart is wishful thinking. You stay close to Baku, allowing him to hold you, but his touch is comparatively dull. It’s safe and grounding, a "Knight in shining armor" embrace, but it never ignites that frantic, electric tingling under your skin that you haven't felt since that someone's fingers grazed yours.

Graduation is close, it will get better, it has to.

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First semester at university. New start. Once again.

Thanks to Sieun and Juntae your graduation wasn’t a total disaster. You even got accepted and honestly… you deserve it after everything. Literally.

Now you are here with a girl you met the other day. She reminds you of Sieun. 

Totally.

Weirdly.

Quiet, analytical, but well connected. Dislikes most people, yet works every room. Why? No clue. But with people she actually likes? Yujin’s the cutest.

It’s Friday evening. Newbie party. Cliché.

You don’t even want to be there. Do you? Not entirely sure… Doesn’t matter anyway.

Many people. Unknown. Loud. Close. Too close.

Not your scene. But your new made friend insisted. As if someone like her would need you as their emotional support. Fine.

“Hey, y/n!” Her hand grabs your arm, yanking you from your thoughts. You snap back to reality, facing her blank expression – no idea what she said before.

“You need to show your ID.”

You nod, giving an uncertain smile.

Flickering lights shimmer through the constantly opening door, cutting the dark outside. You fumble with your purse, security’s piercing gaze on you. Oh, and Yujin’s too.

You’re too drained to be pressured, but between Yujin’s analytical gaze and the guard’s suspicion, it feels like being pulled back into a world where every look is a challenge to be solved.

As you finally step inside Yujin drags you directly to the bar. No words just thoughts as if you could read them.

“Need a drink that bad?” you say jokingly, but not as convincing. As you sit down, you can feel how bad your posture is, probably looking like some shrimp.

“Seems like you need one.” She signals the bartender to prepare something for you, before she continues. ”Calm down, no need to be that stiff. It’s a party. Relax.”

You really can’t hide your discomfort, huh? You give her a smile, shaking you head before taking a sip of whatever she ordered.

Not bad. Burning, but also with a hint of sweetness. It grants you a warmth that helps to get at least a bit more comfortable. Transforming a shrimp to an actual human again or at least someone who can finally withstand the suffocating weight of this room.

Yujin, meanwhile, greets someone passing the bar. No clue who, but it turns into easy chatter – friends, apparently.

You take the chance to scan the surroundings. A habit. Still not able to get rid of it. Exits, variables, everything you could need for a "Plan B". Before you can get more into detail, a swift motion of Yujin brings you directly to the dancefloor.

For the first time in years, you actually let go. The music is a distraction and thanks to Yujin everything else falls into background. Sometimes you can feel the bass vibrating in your chest, and for a few blissful minutes, you forget your "calculations". Just you. Just Yujin. Not chasing shadows. Actually being happy, a feeling you usually cannot enjoy fully. Usually.

But then there are times like this, where the music stops and a biting cold hits your face. Yujin needs a smoke. Fresh air. Back to reality as you follow.

It’s a sharp contrast to the suffocating, neon heat of the club. You lean your back against the rough brick wall and close your eyes, letting the silence of the alley settle over you. Yujin is busy typing away on her phone, her face illuminated by the blue light. For a second you wonder who she’s talking to, but you don’t want to ask.

"Hey," Yujin breaks the silence, looking up with a grin. "My boyfriend is at a bar nearby with some friends. He asked if we want to come over.”

You offer a tired smile and tell her it’s fine, that you can just head home. You had some fun, a alcohol and a free mind. Good enough. But Yujin isn't having it. She grabs your hand, giving you a sweet, demanding look—the kind of expression that screams “please, please, please”with a persistence that you can’t say no to.

"Come on, y/n. You look too good to end the night now. I want to introduce you properly."

And with that, you let her warm palm lead you away, accepting to stay with her instead of leaving. Ironic.

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The two of you set off, arm in arm. You’re both a bit buzzed, your steps slightly uneven as you navigate the sidewalk. When you enter the bar, the atmosphere is heavier, more mature, less heated. Yujin scans the room and spots a table in the back.

As you approach, your heart skips a beat. You see the back of a man’s head—a silhouette that feels disturbingly familiar. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself. Just the alcohol playing tricks on a tired mind.

Yujin doesn't hesitate. She sits down directly next to her boyfriend, draping her legs over his with a casual intimacy. "My boyfriend," she says, gesturing to him before her hand falls toward you. "And this is my awesome new friend, y/n."

At the sound of your name, the silhouette beside you freezes. Slowly, he turns his head. When your eyes finally lock with his, the air leaves your lungs in a silent rush.

Seongje.

You hadn't expected to see him again—especially not here, not in the middle of letting go for once, forgetting, starting anew.

Your shock is written all over your face, raw and impossible to hide. You try to play it off greeting everyone at the table. But Yujin immediately asks if you’re okay, noting your sudden paleness. You’re too dizzy, too overwhelmed. That can’t be real. Where is the camera? Must be a joke.

Before you can get your mind straight you stammer out an excuse about needing the restroom on instinct. Getting out of there, it's necessary, some time to breathe and get a plan, though every instinct is screaming at you to run out the front door. But you are stopped by the eyes following your every step. You can’t just leave, not without an excuse Yujin will buy.

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Inside the restroom, the harsh fluorescent light hums with a clinical, unforgiving buzz. You grip the edges of the porcelain sink until your knuckles, already scarred from a past you tried to bury, turn a ghostly white. You splash ice-cold water onto your face—once, twice—hoping the freezing sting can finally extinguish the phantom heat of his gaze that still burns against your skin.

Looking up, you are face-to-face with a version of you whose pale lips under a twitching eye could star at a ghost ride. Definitely able to pull the “I-don’t-feel-too-good-right-now-and-just-wanna-go-home” card. You’re determined: you’ll go back out, say a quick goodbye, and leave.

Easy? Not an option.

As you step out into the hallway, he’s standing there. Right in front of you.

You try to brush past him, ignore the way the world seems to tilt on its axis, but his hand shoots out. He grabs your arm with a firm, iron-like grip. Great. His classic.

"Let go," you hiss, your voice trembling. "Wait," he replies, his voice deeper and more grounded than it was in your memories. "What?" Can’t he just continue with being there but not interfering with you? Seeing him from distance is one thing, but him coming directly at you is a whole different story. "I really didn't know that you'd be here," he mutters, his dark eyes searching yours. "Take a seat. I'll leave."

The impact of his words hits you like a truck. The skin under his hand begins to tremble and heat up, a familiar, electric fire that the touch of anyone else could never ignite.

"It's fine," you lie, your jaw tight. "I wanted to leave anyway."

He scoffs, a trace of that old, arrogant smirk flickering on his lips. "But you just came. Be honest... you're a bad liar, don't try me".

Just shut up, can’t he?

"Leave it, Seongje."

You want to deny it, but saying his name again after all this time feels foreign, yet it's a sound, you realize, you've craved in the deepest, most hidden parts of your mind. A cold shower rushes over your body skipping your arm. For a moment you just stand there… thinking. Who knows, what crosses his mind.

During the silence, you quickly muster him. He’s changed. He’s more muscular now, his frame broader and less lanky, though his hair and glasses are exactly as you remember. And there is another thing that apparently didn’t change. His knuckles are raw and bloody. It’s the one variable that stayed constant—he is still the typa guy who lives for the fight.

Before you can think more about it, he lets go of your arm. The heat vanishes instantly, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. You don't want to admit, but wanting that touch that touch is a relapse you never saw coming.

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Without another word he goes back to the table, grabs his jacket, murmurs a goodbye to the others, and leaves. You just stand there in disbelief. Frozen, processing. When Yujin comes up to you, worried, you simply deliver the practiced line. She frowns first, but offers to go with you. You decline, her coming with you means questions. Questions you don't want to answer. Not today. No need for her to get the night ruined because that someone had to appear out of nowhere.

After a “Text me when you’re safe?“ you find your way out, breathing in deeply.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the cold brick. You should leave. You should walk toward the bus stop and never look back, just like you did on that rain-soaked day back then. That was the plan. That was the "peace" you chose.

But the silence of the alley is suddenly shattered.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound is rhythmic, yet nervous. You open your eyes and turn your head. Just a few meters away, leaning against the same wall, is a that someone which has haunted your dreams from time to time. He’s staring at nothing, his thumb flicking the lid of his lighter open and shut in a sharp, metallic cadence.

But something is missing.

Usually, he is enveloped in a shroud of smoke, a grey veil that acts as a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Tonight, the air around him is clear. The only light comes from the dancing flame he keeps lighting up and immediately extinguishing.

Against your better judgment, against every promise you made to yourself, your feet begin to move. You walk toward him, a walk through a minefield of your own making. Maybe this is an attempt to finally do what you refused to do after the fight—to actually step into his shadow instead of running from it. You're too curious, and if you’re honest, you crave the touch he just re-ignited.

As you stop a few feet away, you fumble with your bag. Your fingers find a small tube of ointment you always carry—a habit born from years of patching up yourself and friends. Why are you being so caring? You have no clue. Control is a concept you’ve already hung out to dry tonight.

"Forgot your cigarettes?" you ask, your voice cutting through the clicking of the lighter.

Seongje stops, head slowly turning in your direction. He looks at you in pure disbelief, as if you’re a ghost that finally decided to speak. He doesn't move as you reach out, your palm holding the ointment and a single cigarette—one that Yujin had pressed into your hand earlier.

His dark eyes muster the objects in your hand before slowly traveling up to your face. For a moment, the world narrows down to the two of you, as if everything else is forgotten.

"Smoking now?" he asks. His voice is controlled, but there’s a strange, jagged undertone you can’t quite place.

You just shake your head while he reaches out, his fingers grazing yours as he takes only the tube of ointment. The sensation sends a jolt of déjà vu through your entire body. He’s done this before—that precise, lingering brush of skin that feels too intentional to be an accident, yet too fleeting to name. Was it on purpose? And why the hell did he ignore the cigarette?

"I quit," he mutters. Reading minds now, huh? His gaze drops to his raw, bloody knuckles. "But thanks anyways."

He stares at the ointment in his hand, his thumb tracing the cap with a restless energy that feels like a countdown.

“Will you use it or just caress the cap? If you don’t want it just give it back.”

He doesn’t react directly, but just shortly after, he opens the ointment and applies it on his wounds. Eyes escaping yours.

You just jerk your head to the side, unable to look at him for another second. Awkward, but at least not just for you.

You clear your throat, the sound dry and awkward in the quiet alley, as you desperately try to swallow the lump of anxiety forming in your throat. Meanwhile, your boots scrape restlessly against the gritty asphalt, eyes still trying to look anywhere but at him—at the overflowing dumpster, the flickering neon sign of the bar, the shadows dancing at the alley’s entrance.

Seongje pauses and you can fill his gaze on you, before turning back to him again. The dim light of the alley catches the sharp edge of his jaw, and for a second, his dark eyes seem to demand the truth you’ve been hiding behind years of monotony.

“No need to be so nervous. It’s you who came here, remember?” His signature grin appears once again, paired with an unusual calm. Another challenge that dares you to give in.

"Just go back inside already," he mutters, his voice raspy, not looking at you again. And he calls you a bad liar, huh? He definitely doesn’t want you to go in, leave him. Pathetic. Understandable. "Your friend must be waiting."

“I am on my way back home. Told her already.” There is an unease in the way he looks at you, reading you, paired with a stiffness in his shoulders. He speaks up again: “To someone more important? Baku?”

You swallow the dry lump of bitterness in your throat, the distance between you feeling more like a void than just air. The mention of Baku’s name acts like a needle pressing against an old bruise. You let out a short, hollow laugh that surprises even you- sharp, dry, and devoid of any real humor. "Baku isn't here, Seongje. He’s... miles away. In every sense of the word."

What's up with his expression? Indifference, surprise, relief?

"It didn’t work," you whisper, stepping closer until you can smell the faint, lingering scent of aftershave that’s missing the hint of smoke. "I really tried with him. He was safe. He was loyal. He was everything I thought I wanted after you shattered everything".

Seongje’s expression remains a mask of cold indifference (at least that’s the most plausible), but you notice the way his fingers tighten around the lighter. You push further, the words spilling out like a confession you can no longer hold back.

"But every time he touched me... it was dull. There was nothing. No spark. Not... this". You gesture vaguely to the space between you, where the tension is so thick it feels like a physical weight. "His touch was like a shadow, while yours... even now, fuck, it feels like I’m standing too close to a fire I know will burn me alive".

The effect is instantaneous.

The man’s jaw twitches even harder, a muscle jumping in his cheek—a rare, raw sign of the possessive jealousy he’s trying to suppress. The confrontation with the fact that another man has touched you, even if it was "dull," clearly hits a nerve he wasn't prepared for. Something he wanted to forget, but you had to bring up again.

"Don’t," he growls, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble.

"Why? Because you can't handle it? Get a grip, Seongje. You will never be the only one who—"

Before you can finish the sentence, he moves.

He doesn't hesitate. One second there is distance, and the next, he has closed the gap. His hand shoots out, his fingers—rough, calloused, and still stained with the remnants of his latest fight—grab your jaw and cheek with a firm, possessive grip. He tilts your head back, forcing you to look at him, his eyes wild and dark with a hunger that borders on reckless.

“Can make you feel something like that?”

He crashes his mouth onto yours.

The kiss isn't a request, it's a claim. It’s unasked for and full of a desperate, long-buried desire that tastes like a relapse you never saw coming. It’s messy and hungry, his teeth grazing your lower lip as if he’s trying to consume the very memory of anyone else’s touch.

He’ll never stop being the cut that always bleeds.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2

picture genrated with Ai

Taglist @slovesyouuu @quaff-le-science @4ria790 @dripoftheseus @m3xiezt @ollieoven

Thank you so so much for reading! It really means a lot, that you were looking forward for my work and i hope you will like this part as well and continue to support me.

Some of you wanted jealousy some didn't i tried to include it as a non prominent feature as a compromise.

path one - Stay

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2

Summary: Y/N defies the bus and her friends, turning back toward the shadowed figure under the streetlight—another reckless gamble she can't resist.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, intense interpersonal conflict and tension, manipulation, betrayal, mentions of violence and blood, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: about 2.000 words -> thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The bus doors hiss, ready to close. Your friends are waiting. Your new, hard-won peace is waiting. But he is still standing there, his gaze locked on yours, an unspoken question hanging in the space between you.

What will you do?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You hesitate. Why? You can't even explain it yourself, but his damn gaze draws you to him like a magnet. Who knows, maybe he drugged you so you can't think straight anymore, or you are just an addict for his stupid gambling game. You’d trust him with anything, yet you’d trust him to destroy you just as easily.

The bus driver throws you a demanding look, the engine humming with an impatient, mechanical energy. Just as you are about to lift your left leg onto the step, your body decides to follow a different script. You step back.

With a splash on the rain-soaked asphalt, the bus doors close with a disappointed hiss. Before the vehicle even pulls away, you lower your gaze, not wanting to know what expressions are etched onto your friends’ faces.

Once the danger of their judgment is gone, along with the last bit of common sense, you raise your head and look toward the streetlight... toward the one person you were supposed to leave behind with the fight that just ended.

As he realizes your gaze is fixed on him, Seongje turns slightly, taking one last drag from his cigarette before grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his boot.

The smoke around him thins as you get closer. Every step feels hesitant, yet controlled. A walk through a minefield of your own making.           

“Why are you here? If you expected your ‘grand’ Union to win, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” you say, trying to hide the tremor in your voice. It’s a tremor that makes you vulnerable, a flicker of weakness that could show him that he is not as irrelevant to you as you wish he was.

“Shut up. It’s not...” He stops. He can’t hide it. There’s a crack in his voice, deeper and more jagged than your own slight trembling. He looks uncertain- a side of him you never could have imagined. Until now.

“Then why? Tell me,” you ask, your voice is clearer now, but softer than you intended. Or maybe it’s exactly how it should be?

“I-” he stops suddenly, unable to finish. His foot drags nervously across the ground as he turns away again. The streetlight, cutting through the damp dusk, highlights the faint red mark on his cheek – a stinging reminder of the slap you gave him at the bowling alley.

“Does it hurt?” Your voice breaks the silence that had formed between you two.

He just looks at you. Eyes almost glassy – if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was close to tears.

“What?” He is clearly confused, but as your eyes wander on his cheek again, his hand follows, but he just shakes his head. “Oh, that... No, that... I...”.

A speechless Seongje? Damn, what has happened. You wonder for a second if your hit actually damaged his brain. You cannot help but smirk, your gaze remaining demanding and fixed on him.

His hand flies to his pocket out of habit, ready to grab another cigarette, but he stops before even touching the pack. Instead, his hand finds its way to your face. You flinch back instinctively. It’s unexpected. Previously, you would have leaned into that touch, craved it like a secret truce.

He finally seems to have found his voice again. “I’m not here because of that stupid Union. I would’ve found out about that sooner or later... but this is what I was worried about.” He nods in the direction of your face. You reflexively touch your own skin, and a sharp, stinging pain shoots through you as your finger grazes the fresh cut beneath your eye. As you flinch, you catch the way his hand reaches out in worry. Only to snap back just as fast as it happened, the fragile mask of control trying to settle back over his features.

Seongje reaches into his dark red school jacket. Another try to smoke a cigarette? No, but for a tube of ointment and a handful of bandages. He presses them into your palm, his fingers grazing yours with a warmth that feels like a silent confession in the damp evening air.

“Sorry,” he mutters. The word is quiet, raw, and completely out of character. It throws you off completely. Your mind scrambles to reconcile this vulnerable version of him with the one he showed usually. Before you can process what was happening just now, he turns to leave, his shoulders stiffening as he retreats into the shadows of the alley.

“Seongje!” You call out, your voice against the mess forming in your head. He stops, a dark silhouette under the flickering streetlight, but he doesn’t turn around. Is he trembling? Or just thinking about if he should keep walking or turn around in an instant.

 You call his name again, more urgently, more energized this time. You know his behavior was more than just fucked up. But honestly? Fuck it. Once again just fuck it.

Seeing him like this, so visibly uncomfortable with his own humanity, makes you realize he is more important to you than you’re willing to admit.

You see the tension in his neck, the way his jaw must be clenched. To save him from the suffocating weight of his own feelings, you retreat into the safety of your familiar armor... sarcasm.

“Hey! Buy me something to eat. I’m starving out here. These things aren’t enough for a proper apology,” you shout, voice sharp as a blade cutting through the heavy atmosphere.

You notice a small shift in his posture, a flicker of relief as your words ease the tension between you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Later, over the rising steam of the ramen bowl you picked, the silence between you is different- less like a weapon, more like the first, hesitant step toward acceptance.  You look him straight in the eye, the neon light reflecting in your own bruised gaze.

He hasn’t said a word since he sat down. He just watches you, the way you quietly pick out the pieces you don’t like and set them on the plastic lid of your bowl like tiny exiles. Then he nudges his own bowl closer, a silent offer to take them from you, as if this small act could bridge the distance between you.

You shrug, trying not to show how that small gesture softens you.

“You’re bad at apologies,” you mumble between two bites. He huffs, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he says, eyes fixed on his chopsticks as he swirls them slowly between his fingers. “Just eat already.”

He leans back slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk, shoulders finally dropping a fraction.

As you still slide the unwanted pieces into his bowl, the plastic lid clattering softly against the table. "I’m not making it hard," you counter, your voice dropping to a low, steady hum that matches the hum of the refrigerators. "I’m just making it real. You can’t expect me to just... reset. Not after that asshole move of yours."

He doesn't look up, but the smirk stays, though it looks a bit more tired now. "Resetting is for cowards who can't live with their mistakes. I'm not asking for that."

He takes a long, deliberate slurp of his noodles and new gained pieces, as if accepting your 'exiles' is a part of his penance. The neon sign of the convenience store buzzes overhead, flickering between a harsh white and a sickly green, painting the sharp lines of his face in ghost-like colors.

"What are you planning to do now?" you ask, leaning your chin on your hand, watching him. "Will the Union come back to life again? Without Baekjin, with you? Or will you just... quit for good?"

He pauses, the steam from his bowl momentarily fogging up his glasses, which he takes off, cleaning them with the hem of his black shirt. Exposing that vulnerable look you fell for.

“The Union?” He lets out a dry, sharp sound that might have been a laugh if there were any humor left in him. “Don’t need them. Who wants to be part of the losing team?” He slides his glasses back on, the metallic click of the frames matching the coldness in his voice. “Not me at least. Maybe I should think about retiring and focusing on more important things.”

You cannot help yourself but laugh at his last sentence. Seongje… retiring… focus on important things? These variables don’t fit together at all. “Are you for real?” it’s hard to form a sentence not buying his words at all.

He huffs, nudging your knee with his under the narrow table—a small, grounding touch. “I am full of surprises, princess. Maybe. Just maybe I’ll just stick around and see how much more chaos you can cause. Switching teams, fighting for fun and…” He pauses, his smirk softening into something almost real. “Nevermind. But if you’re handing out second chances–”

You take a final bite of your ramen, the heat of the broth matching the warmth spreading along your jawline. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Seongje.” You point your chopsticks at him, eyes narrowing in a mock-warning. “It’s your last one. If you mess this up, there won’t be enough bandages in that jacket to fix what I’ll do to you.”

He actually grins then, a lazy, cocky expression that feels like a return to normality— or at least, your version of it. “Understood.“ He lowers his head, smiling to himself like a little boy who just got his favourite candy.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It’s unfair, really, how someone who’s messed up so badly can still make your heartbeat stumble with just one look. Especially now, with that cocky little grin softening his usual sharpness. It‘s never been the simple pretty-boy thing anyway, but that raw mix of sharp jawline, tired eyes, and the rough stare that hits harder than it should. His guard down like this just makes the whole dangerous package even more magnetic, worse. Or better.

You can almost feel the pull of him on your skin, like a drug you’d sworn off but suddenly remember exactly how good it feels. The way his gaze lingers, the way his mouth curves when he’s not fully on defense – it makes you want to close the space between you and just kiss him, just once, just to see if it still tastes like every bad idea you never regretted.

And underneath all the chaos in your head, there’s something else: a stubborn, fragile hope. He won’t turn into a different person overnight. He’ll always be a little reckless, a little too sharp, a little too much. But he came back. He worried. He tried. Not for the Union, not for some game – for you. Maybe he hasn’t changed completely, but he’s changed enough where it matters.

So you breathe in, let the warmth of the moment sink under your bruised skin, and give in to that last reckless thought.

One last fuck it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16 - path 1 - path 2

1st special

picture generated by AI

is there still anyone interested in me writing? i fell into a slump and couldn't write anything. so sorry for that.

But today i woke up and was totally into writing haha so i did something for the where shadows meet storyline.

i am still alive, surprise!!! life was a mess and i hope it will get better now 🙈 also writing on smth but hey lets see how it goes

I am not sure if anyone would be interested in that, so what do you think?

pt.16 Final

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16

Summary: The quiet moments you share with Seongje are overshadowed by the impending war between Eunjang and the Union. As a desperate plan is set in motion, you find yourself at a crossroads where loyalty is tested and motives are questioned.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, intense interpersonal conflict and tension, manipulation, betrayal, mentions of violence and blood, physical fights/brawling, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: about 8.000 -> thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Some time has passed. The world outside seems muffled, filtered through the apartment’s heavy silence. Only the slow, steady rhythm of Seongje’s breathing fills the room—a soft, grounding sound in the aftermath of his storm. His head still rests in your lap, a dead weight of trust that feels both monumental and terrifyingly fragile, as if he’s found a rare peace amidst all the chaos.

You fish out your phone, the movement careful, almost surgical, not wanting to disturb him. The text to your father is short and practical, designed to deflect, not invite.

Hey dad! Will come home late today, sorry! If I don’t come back I stayed at a friend’s place. No need to worry…

No questions, no new arguments, nothing that might spark another round of family drama. You send the message and set the phone aside, the screen going dark.

Your gaze drifts back to Seongje. You watch the gentle curve of his dark curls, how they fall across his temple and nestle against the small birthmark under his eye—a detail normally hidden behind glass. His lashes tremble slightly, and you notice the occasional tic beneath his closed lids, like he’s not fully at rest even now. He looks different without glasses. Less like the monster from the alley fight —who’s only chasing blood and pain — and more like someone who’s just… tired.

As one of his strands of hair falls over his eye, the sudden urge to brush it away rises within you. Just once. A small, insignificant gesture. He probably won’t even notice. You reach out, your own hand trembling slightly, fingers pausing in the air as if afraid to break the spell. But finally, you let your hand move, fingertips barely grazing a curl. Before you can tuck it behind his ear, his hand flies up—swift but not violent—closing firmly around your wrist.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat, every muscle in your body locking up in shock.

For an instant, your eyes lock. In the hush, there’s uncertainty, questions neither of you dares to voice. The silence is deafening. No comment. Just closeness. Heat flares across your cheeks, unbidden and unwelcome. Damn it.

He sits up swiftly, not letting go of your wrist. His grip almost stings—heat prickling beneath his fingers, as if your skin had brushed against nettles. You can’t read his eyes, they’re not entirely cold, but not warm enough to offer any comfort, either. His eyes escape yours, flicking down to your hands that are still locked together. Abruptly, he lets go and reaches for his glasses—grabbing them almost as if they were a shield he desperately needed to put back on. He builds up a slight distance, his shoulders stiffening.

Without glancing back, his voice quietly finds their way to your ears, “You need to learn how to take responsibility for your actions.”

You squint, confusion etched across your brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He just stands up without a word and heads to the balcony, lighting a cigarette. The sharp click of his lighter cuts through the returned silence. You follow, irritation bubbling up inside you like a bitter poison. What is wrong with him? His quiet, distant act is more unsettling than his usual taunts—normally he’d toss out some sarcastic remark just to break the tension, to lighten the mood.

Now, all you get is silence and smoke, his face half-hidden as he stares out into the night.

“Hey, I asked you something.” You narrow your eyes, arms crossing over your chest. “You wanted me to stay, so what’s with… all this?” You gesture vaguely at the cold space between you. It feels pathetic, trying to demand his attention like this, but honestly, who cares anymore?

He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dusk. His gaze finally meets yours, less sharp now, almost hesitant. “Why’d you actually listen? You could’ve just left. I didn’t force you to stay”.

You scoff, a humorless sound. “Yeah, I could’ve.” You shrug like it’s no big deal, but your voice tightens. “But you looked like a rat that had been hit by a truck. How could I just leave? Sorry, I cared”.

You start to turn, ready to go. You’re not in the mood to keep up with this circus. What did you even hope for?

“Just don’t care,” he snaps, flicking ashes over the railing.

That hits a nerve. You whip back around. “Just don’t care? You think I don’t know that’d be easier? Yeah, right, Seongje—the fierce Union fighter beats himself senseless in a brawl. Why should I care? But damn, my stupid mind always drifts back to you, and I worry. I want to check that you’re not fucking dead, because if— I— Fuck it. Stupid me”.

He stares at you, speechless—no sarcastic comeback, no jab, just stunned silence. You actually shut him up. Awesome. Just a muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s holding something back, trying not to let it slip.

You step closer, voice lowering. “I know you won’t tell me what happened. You Union idiots always say it’s better if I don’t know. Fine. But don’t shove me away like that—it sucks”.

His eyes flicker with something raw, something real. He runs a hand through his hair, his voice rough and low. “But if I don’t, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep control”.

You raise an eyebrow, voice steady. “Control over what?”

He looks away for a moment, tongue moving inside of his mouth, visible under his lower lip, meeting your gaze again. “Control the part of me that keeps trying not to want you more than I should.”

Control.

The word echoes in the quiet space of my mind, sharp and familiar. Of course it’s about control. It’s always been about control for him—every calculated move in a fight, every lazy smirk, every silent challenge across a crowded bar. He built his entire world on it. And you? You never really had it. Never.

But now? He stands there, the master of self-possession, admitting that he’s losing his grip… because of you. For a second, it feels unreal, like a victory. You should feel powerful, triumphant. The girl who finally cracked Geum Seongje.

But you just feel… exhausted.

Tired of this constant push and pull, this relentless power play where every touch is a test and every word is a move on a chessboard. A game with no rules and no endgame. A game where, with the two of you as players, there can be no winner.

His eyes avoid yours, staring at the lights that break the darkness. What does he think about? For you to run, or to throw another sarcastic barb his way? Doesn’t matter, but what does is that for once, you don't want to play his game anymore. Time for you to spice things up. Maybe a taste of his own medicine?

"Fuck that control." Your voice is sharp, slipping past the tension like a blade.

You close the gap in one step, your fingers tangling in the back of his neck, pulling him closer—no hesitation. His breath hitches, eyes darkening in surprise as your lips close the distance to his.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry, fierce—a release pent up for far too long. His mouth moves with a raw urgency that’s both consuming and claiming, demanding a response you're not sure you're ready to give. His hands slam down on your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a power play, his desperate need for control shifting from his mind to his body, and you're caught in the epicenter.

You answer, not just by letting him take the lead, but by pushing back, a silent challenge. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you, just the searing heat burning through your clothes. Between the heated moments, you catch the sharp, bitter taste of nicotine—a flavor you know you should hate. And yet, somehow, it pulls you closer. It tastes like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make, a part of him you can’t help but crave, no matter how little sense it makes to resist.

The world around you blurs, tugging you in a fog of confusion and a racing heart. Stop—don't? The thought is a splinter in your mind, a faint echo of every warning you've ever ignored.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“Hey, earth to Y/N!”

The voice cuts through the haze, sharp and unfamiliar. It doesn’t belong here. It’s too loud, too real. For a moment, you almost think Seongje said it, but the sound is wrong. You blink, and the image of the balcony shatters like glass. The warmth vanishes, replaced by a sudden, biting shiver that seeps through your clothes.

Gotak’s face swims into view, his expression a mixture of concern and impatience. You’re not on a balcony, instead the scent of asphalt and the evening air replaces the smell of nicotine.

“You’re here, right? You’re listening?” he asks again.

You force a shaky smile, your own heart still pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs from a kiss that never left your mind since yesterday. “Sorry,” you manage, the word feeling thin and distant. “I was just… thinking.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, a sharp, insistent vibration that cuts through the tension. A welcome interruption. Thank God. You pull it out, your thumb swiping across the screen with muscle memory.

It’s Seongje: “I have one of your friends here. Saved him from getting even more beat up by Baekjin’s guys. Come to the garage from last time.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Ice floods your veins, sharp and immediate, a reality check you didn’t need. Your breath hitches. You don’t hesitate.

“Gotak, Sieun—we need to move. Now.”

They exchange gazes, looking confused but barely ask questions. As you get on your feet, the air feels thick as the three of you slip through the shadows, each step pounding with urgency. As you hurry through the dim streets, the city blurs into streaks of neon and darkness. Gotak casts a sideways glance your way, brow furrowed. “Hey, seriously, you are like a headless chicken. What’s going on?”

You run a hand through your hair, not slowing down, forcing your words to sound calmer than you feel. “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you guys out.” The lie tastes like ash in your mouth. You did mean to freak them out; you needed them to move. “I just... It’s Juntae. Seems like he is in a bad shape. I panicked. We can’t afford to waste a second.”

Sieun snorts quietly, but nods. “Right. Fair enough.”

You swallow, the dry lump of fear still lodged in your throat, and meet his eyes for a split second. You know he hates to run, hates chaos without a plan. But you also know that when one of you is in trouble, his caution is always outweighed by a fierce, quiet loyalty. And tonight, you're counting on it.

The garage looms ahead, dark and the hint of a metallic tang of blood mingling with the damp chill of concrete. Inside, Juntae’s pale face greets you, blood seeping through messy hair, his body slumped and vulnerable.

Without thinking, your hand goes to his head, fingers brushing against the stickiness of dried blood. He’s okay. He has to be. Gotak and Sieun stop behind you, their collective breath catching before their eyes shift to the lone figure standing some steps away. You signal them to get closer, helping them steady Juntae, their strength a fragile anchor in the chaos.

Sieun is casting sharp glances at Seongje, who steps out of the shadows, closing the distance—calm, distant, but unshaken. It's not just a glance, it's Sieun’s signature analytical stare, the one that dissects a situation piece by piece. The tension between them crackles, an unspoken history hanging heavy around them.

You nod sharply, signaling your friends. “Get him out of here.”

You linger a moment, taking in the scene—bodies thrown down like discarded dolls, the scent of sweat and fear lingering like usual. Looks like someone hosted a very enthusiastic furniture-tossing competition, you think, a familiar dark humor bubbling up to keep the panic at bay.

Then your gaze fixes on Seongje, steeling yourself. “You alright?”

His crooked smile flickers on his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Geum Seongje. Forgot that?” he says, his voice dripping with that lazy arrogance you know so well. “These guys? They never really had a chance.”

You chuckle softly, mimicking his boastfulness, “Big talk for someone who couldn’t walk straight just yesterday, because he was beaten up”.

His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something raw in his eyes before he masks it. Then your gaze catches his hand—the knuckles raw and bloody. Without hesitation, you reach out and grasp it gently, the roughness of his skin grounding you. “Thanks… for helping Juntae.”

He shrugs, but his eyes stay locked on yours, intense and unblinking. The usual mockery is gone, replaced by something more direct. “He’s loyal, I value that. That’s worth something. You Eunjang guys have guts”.

You grin, a real smile this time, reluctantly letting go of his hand. Turning to leave, you toss a casual, “I’ll text you later,” over your shoulder. But before you can take more than a step, he grabs your hand, pulling you in. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, and he presses a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips. It’s over before you can process it—just a brief, shocking warmth flooding your body.

You roll your eyes, forcing a mock-scolding tone to cover the sudden lurch in your stomach. “You’re lucky that was quick”. But inside, your heart does a stupid, frantic flip, and the spot where his lips touched tingles. Asshole.

You shake your head, lips tightening into a strained smile you barely recognize. The cold night air brushes past you as you step closer to the trio, the sound of your footsteps pounding a frantic rhythm against the pavement, almost in sync with your still-hammering heart. Your hand darts out, landing on Gotak’s shoulder. He flinches almost imperceptibly, eyes flickering from yours to the alley’s shadows and back again. The weight behind their combined stares pins you in place.

“What did you want from that scumbag?” Gotak’s voice rises and falls, threaded with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

You hesitate, fingers twitching. Your nail digs into the soft skin of your thumb—a small, secretive act to ground yourself, to dull the sting of the lie already forming on your tongue. You can almost still taste the nicotine from Seongje's kiss, a bitter secret you have to swallow down.

You force a happy expression, tighter than you'd like. A classic.

"I wanted to ask if he did it under some condition. But I guess not, just liked your loyalty." Right, you think, just checking the terms and conditions of our friendly neighborhood rescue service. Maybe I should have asked if he offers a subscription model.

Gotak’s hand lightly slaps Juntae’s shoulder, a silent pat of approval. Juntae’s body stiffens for a second, a sharp wince flickering across his face like a shadow before he can hide it. Then, slowly, his lips curve into a smile—an uneasy mixture of pride and pain barely kept at bay. His eyes flick away, resting briefly on the cracks in the pavement, before finding their way up again.

Sieun cuts through the moment, sharp and blunt as ever. "Where did he even get your number?".

You shift your weight, tugging nervously at your jacket. Your mind races, scrambling for a plausible story.

"Uh... not sure exactly, he also had it on your last ‘trip’ here, but considering his stalking traits I am not surprised." You almost believe the lie yourself. It sounds just plausible enough. Then you add a final, desperate flourish of fake confidence. "And hey, I mean look at me, I totally understand”.

A ripple of laughter breaks out, but Sieun doesn’t join in. His eyes bore into you, cold and silent. He is definitely not buying it, and you know it. The lie trails behind you, a quiet shadow stalking its prey.

You move forward, your shadows melting into the engulfing darkness that the weak streetlamps fail to touch. The further you drift from the garage, the more life seems to return to Juntae — his steps gain steadiness, a quiet resilience settling in his gait.

He and Gotak exchange a brief nod and say their goodbyes, their figures folding back into the shadows like smoke vanishing in the night.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You and Sieun linger behind, and the silence that falls isn't comfortable. It wraps around you like a dense cloak, broken only by the irregular hum and distant whistle of cars on the nearby street. You know this silence. It’s not the easy quiet of friendship, it’s the loaded stillness before a storm. His thoughts hang heavy in the air as if he's just waiting for the right moment to let them drop.

Sieun’s voice finally cuts through it, sharp and devoid of warmth.

"What’s going on?"

Your brows knit tightly. Your chest tightens as your mind scrambles around an excuse, but the words tangle in your throat. You should’ve known you wouldn’t get away with it. Not with him. Baku might be loud and Gotak might be impulsive, but Sieun… Sieun sees everything. He's the quiet mastermind, always five steps ahead.

His eyes don’t waver, unblinking, emotionless but relentless, demanding an answer as if the stakes were life or death.

"What’s between you and Seongje?"

You glance up, meeting his cold gaze. You catch the slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his left eyelash—the only crack in his otherwise perfect mask. It’s the single tell that reveals the quiet battle of concern and fury locked behind that unwavering stare. He’s not just asking because he’s curious. He's asking because he already suspects the answer.

"Nothing." The word barely escapes your lips and tastes hollow, like ash. It’s not quite what you want to say, but it’s all you can spit out.

He scoffs, a low growl in his voice that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

"I’m not stupid, y/n. Don’t lie to me."

To him you are an open book. Still, you force a grin, a desperate, brittle thing meant to push down the fluttering fear in your stomach.

"Okay, maybe not nothing. But it’s nothing you need to worry about."

Sieun narrows his eyes, his voice sharper than before, cutting through your flimsy defenses.

"Yeah, sure. Just so you know, he isn’t as nice as he wants you to think".

Your facade cracks just a little. Panic flares, hot and quick. You do the only thing you know how to do when you're cornered: you lash out with sarcasm, your last line of defense.

"What do you mean? Is there something between you two? Is he your type? Is that why you don’t want me to get too close?"

Sieun’s gaze sharpens, cutting through you like a laser.

"Not funny, y/n..."

His death stare is terrifying—red-hot and unrelenting. He leans in a little, lowering his voice, and the words he speaks land like stones, shattering the fragile peace you’d tried to build.

"Did you know he was the one who forced Gotak to quit taekwondo? He chased Gotak and Juntae to the rooftop where he... until I–".

The world around you seems to tilt on its axis. The distant hum of traffic, the whistle of cars, the weak glow of the streetlamps—it all fades into a dull, meaningless buzz. The only thing that feels real is Sieun’s stare, and the echo of his words in your head. Gotak, Sieun... and Seongje. The images refuse to connect, like pieces from two different puzzles forced together. A bitter taste rises in your throat. It feels like betrayal, even though you’re not sure who betrayed whom.

Your head tilts, confusion blooming across your face.

"Wait, seriously? I had no idea… but wh–".

He cuts you off without a second thought, his final words a chilling warning.

"Just don’t let him mess with you".

And just like that, the moment shatters. Sieun’s gone, his figure melting back into the shadows, leaving you standing alone. You’re left speechless, dumbfounded yet again, the weight of his words crashing down on you.

Thanks for nothing, idiots

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It’s been some days, the air between your group is thick and the smell of fried chicken at Ttosikki Chicken doesn’t invite to eat. At least not for you, sitting at a table, once again discussing how to act. You went back to war council mode, even more, after Baku officially challenged Baekjin to fight. Eunjang ver. Union. A fight that seems already decided, at least for most people involved. Baku works out more these days, he wants to battle Baekjin alone, you others just need to take care about Baekjin’s lackeys.

Sieun, still keeps an eye on you, knowing there is still something fishy, but creating a plan takes higher priority. “A direct fight is suicide,” he says, his voice a low, steady anchor in the rising tide of tension. “The Union isn’t held together by loyalty. It’s held together by money. If we disrupt Baekjin’s cash flow, the whole system collapses.”

Gotak cracks his knuckles, a restless energy buzzing under his skin. “Sounds great, but how do we get that kind of info? We can’t just walk in and ask for their accounting records.”

All eyes land on Sieun as if he knows everything. And well, he probably does. Of course. He just looks at you, testing if you could read his mind. Suddenly your phone feels hot in your pocket, heavy with the secret, late-night texts from Seongje that no one should know about.

You point your finer at yourself “Me?” you flare up, trying to keep your cool. Great, this is nothing but of course you have to act like there is definitely something up.  

“Ehm, right. I have Seongje’s number, that’s what you mean. I could ask him,” you offer, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You try to sound casual, but it’s too obvious it’s not. “Maybe I can convince him.”

Baku’s head snaps up, his expression darkening at the mention of the name. “No way. You’re not contacting him if not really necessary. We can’t trust that bastard.” His gaze is a mixture of warning and a fierce, protective concern you’re still not used to.

You force a shrug, careful to keep your expression neutral so you don't give anything away. “It was just a suggestion.”

“He’s the right one tho,” Sieun cuts in, his voice sharp and decisive. “Seongje is the key. But Baku’s right—you’re not going.” His direct gaze meets yours, and you avoid it instantly. Trying to figure out a way to protest, scratching your temple. You are the least one, who needs protection from Seongje. But before you can say anything Sieun adds, “I’ll talk to him. He’s loyal only to himself, not to Baekjin. I’ll make him talk.”

Fine. You want to insist that this, or rather he, is your mess to handle, but you see the logic in his plan—and the unspoken concern in his eyes.

If only they knew, you think, the thought bitter and deeply ironic. They see the cold, unpredictable vice-boss of the Union, the “smoking Union asshole,” as Baku calls him. They don’t see the guy who you had surprisingly gentle moments with you, or the kisses so intense they steal your breath. But fine, let Sieun talk to him, seems like he knows what he does.

You lean back, crossing your arms, the faint sting of his rejection still lingering. “So, if I’m benched for the Seongje mission, what’s my role in this grand plan? Moral support?” The question is laced with a sarcasm you can’t quite hide.

Sieun’s gaze remains steady, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something almost like dry amusement. “Hyoman,” he says, the name dropping into the conversation with quiet finality. “He’s our next target. Just like last time, we’ll use him.”

He pauses, letting his words sink in before adding, “He’ll talk to you. You seem to have a… persuasive effect on him”.

You blink, caught off guard. Sarcasm from Sieun is a rare, almost endangered species, and this close to a genuine compliment, it throws you completely off balance. A slow smirk spreads across your face, one you don’t even try to fight. It’s a small victory in a losing game, a tiny crack in his unreadable facade. “Persuasive, huh? Is that your tactical analysis, or are you trying to be charming?”

He just gives a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, but the corner of his mouth twitches. The closest you’ll probably get to a smile from him.

So the plan is set. The roles are assigned, each of you prepare as best as possible according to plan. Sieun himself will handle the direct contact with Seongje, a move that still makes your stomach twist with a mixture of relief and a strange, unwelcome jealousy. Your job is Hyoman—you’re the designated diplomat, tasked with turning their weakest link into your sharpest weapon. You have to coax the information out of him, making him spread the news that will part the Union.

The days that follow blur into a tense, adrenaline-fueled montage, in which you train and sweat and bruises are more present than chicken and fries. Time feels both too fast and agonizingly slow.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It’s the night before the great battle between Eunjang and the Union. One day before and you have nothing better to do than meeting the right hand of your enemy’s side. Your phone light up a while ago. A message, a few words, you totally drawn to the designated place. Seongje with just a: Let’s meet at the bowling alley, princess. We have it all to ourselves, made your heart do a stupid, frantic flip before getting dressed nicely.

Finally, everything is – maybe not totally, but almost- clear between you two. In the past days after your “confession,” you secretly met almost every night exchanging close moments that felt like a normal, not toxic relationship. God, if that only would be true you could call yourself a happy non-single anymore. If…

As soon as you arrive, the place is actually empty. The usual crowd of Union thugs nowhere in sight. He’s alone, leaning against a pool table, a cue held loosely in one hand.

“Big Union meeting and the vice-boss is skipping out?” you ask, voice laced with a teasing edge.

He looks up, and that familiar, lazy smirk curls his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Told them I had something more important to do,” he says, his gaze lingering on you. “Turns out I was right.”

The air crackles with the old tension, but it’s lighter now, laced with something new and fragile. You play a round of pool, the conversation a comfortable volley of sharp banter and loaded pauses. Every brush of his hand against you sends a jolt through you, a dangerous warmth spreading through your veins.

He leans over the table to line up a shot, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his shoulders.

“Still think you can beat me?” you murmur with a surprisingly low voice.

He straightens up slowly, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something hotter, more intense. He rounds the table in two long strides, and before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the felt table. You’re trapped, his body caging you in, the scent of smoke and him overwhelming your senses.

“Maybe you should stop talking and show me what you’ve got, princess,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. His hands rest on the table right next to your hips until one of them finds your thigh. His thumbs draw slow, deliberate circles that make your breath catch. The world narrows to the space between you, to the undeniable pull that exists where shadows meet.

His mouth finds yours, and it’s not a battle this time. It’s slow and deep, a silent confession. It’s the kind of kiss that makes you believe, just for a second, that maybe everything could be okay.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing as unsteady as your own. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, and for the first time, the silence that follows isn’t a weapon. It’s a temporary truce in a war you both know is far from over.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The all too familiar scent of stale beer and old cigarette smoke hits you the moment you push open the door to the bowling alley, but the usual chaotic energy is gone. It’s eerily quiet. Seongje is there, leaning against a pool table, looking exactly as he did the night before—calm, unreadable, and dangerously captivating. Just yesterday you were here, with him, but not as enemies, as lovers. The desire turned to mistrust. About Sieun’s whereabouts and Seongje’s unclear intentions.

“Where is he?” you ask, your voice sharp, cutting through the silence. “Where is Sieun?”

Seongje doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze meets yours, and for a split second, you see something flicker in his eyes—regret? No, it's gone too fast. Before he can speak, a side door creaks open.

Sieun emerges, his knuckles are raw and there’s a fresh cut above his eyebrow. He’s breathing heavily but stands tall, he stares at Seongje with his eyes telling more than words ever could. Behind him, you see a Union member slumped on the floor, unconscious. So it was a trap. And the one who set it up? Seongje. Fuck.

A bitter taste rises in your throat. It feels like betrayal. After last night, after his vulnerability and the quiet intimacy you shared, this feels like a deliberate, personal blow. You look at Seongje, the disappointment so heavy it feels like a physical weight in your chest. You trusted him, just a little, and he shattered it.

“I’m fine,” Sieun says, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth as he walks past you, his eyes never leaving Seongje. “We need to go. The others are waiting.”

You nod, turning to follow him, wanting nothing more than to get away from Seongje and the crushing weight of his deception. But before you can take a step, his hand shoots out, closing firmly around your wrist. His grip is strong, almost bruising, a familiar sensation that has shifted from possessive desire to a cold, restraining hold.

“Let go,” you snarl, trying to wrench your arm free, but he doesn't budge.

Sieun turns back instantly, his posture shifting into a protective stance. “Let her go, Seongje.”

But you shake your head, your eyes locked on Sieun. “Go,” you tell him, your voice steadier than you feel. “Baku needs his backup. You need to be there for the fight. They need you more than I do.” You know this is part of their plan B – if Baku falls, Sieun has to step in to buy him time. He hesitates, torn, but the logic in your words wins. With a final, warning glance at Seongje, he turns and runs, leaving you alone with him.

The second Sieun is gone, you renew your struggle. “What the hell, Seongje? Let me go!” you demand, but his grip is like steel.

“Stop fighting,” he says, his voice low and rough.

“Why should I? You cannot stop either? Trapping Sieun, really? And this?” you press, your voice rising with fury and hurt, echoing the same question you've asked before.

“Luring Sieun here, setting him up… was that your idea of fun? Another game to get off on?". You throw his own manipulative tactics back at him, your voice dripping with the same sarcasm you've used before when feeling cornered. "Congratulations, you won. Can you let me go now? I'm tired."

He finally meets your eyes, and the mask of indifference cracks. The words that come out are quiet, devastating. “I stopped playing some time ago, y/n.” No nickname, suddenly serious. “But… Aish!” he turns, sliding his hand through his hair.

You watch him turn away, the frustration radiating off him in waves. His admission hangs in the air, heavy and incomplete. "But…?" you echo, your voice sharp, cutting through his turmoil. "Tell, Seongje! What about today? Huh?"

You take a step closer, not letting him off the hook. "You can't just drop a line like that and expect me to fill in the blanks. Tell me. What the hell is going on?"

He finally turns back to face you, a chillingly familiar coldness in his eyes. "You want to know what's going on?" he says, his voice flat. "This is what's going on."

He gestures vaguely around the empty bowling alley, the site of his trap. "This is who I am, Y/N. Have you forgotten? I profit from the Union, not from you and your fucking friends. I do what needs to be done. The way I want it to be done. You keep looking for something in me that isn't there. Did you expect me to change?"

The coldness of his words sinks in, a stark reminder of Sieun's warnings. "So what," you press, your voice trembling slightly. "Baekjin tells you to jump, and you ask how high? Is that it? Was trapping Sieun his idea?"

Seongje lets out a humorless laugh. "Baekjin doesn't have to tell me every little detail. He gives an objective. How I get there is my business." He pauses, and his gaze becomes sharp, almost cruel. "And his objective was Eunjang. He wanted a way in, a weakness to exploit. Information."

His eyes lock onto yours, and the final, devastating piece falls into place. "And then you showed up. You were perfect. The unpredictable variable, who got close to Baku and the others. The perfect opportunity for me to stay even closer."

His words land like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. He sees the look on your face—the shock, the betrayal—and his grip on your wrist softens slightly, though he doesn't let go. For a moment, he just watches the devastation he's caused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

You finally find your voice, a ragged whisper. “Fine. I get it. Now let go. My friends, I know a word you don’t really understand, need me right now.”

He looks away then, jaw tight, the muscle twitching furiously. When he looks back, the cruelty is gone, replaced by a raw, simmering frustration.

“You were supposed to be,” he spits out, the words laced with self-directed anger. “It was supposed to be simple. Get close, report back, keep control. But you…” He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You don’t make anything simple.” He laughs out loud with a straining laugh. “I tried to keep my distance. I tried to focus. But everywhere I looked, there you were. Messing with my head, making it impossible to think straight.”

You just stare at him, the buzzing in your ears drowning out all other sounds. Your mind runs wild. He didn’t just deceive you. He studied you, used your trust to get closer to your friends, and weaponized that knowledge to go against you. The hurt coils in your stomach, hot and bitter, before it erupts into a surge of white-hot rage. It’s the agony of betrayal, the humiliation of being so utterly played.

Your hand moves before your mind can catch up. The sound of your palm connecting with his cheek cracks through the silence, sharp and final.

Seongje’s head snaps to the side from the force of the blow. For a moment, he is utterly still, shock freezing his features. The usual mask of lazy arrogance or cold indifference is gone, replaced by a raw, stunned expression you’ve never seen before. He slowly turns his head back to face you, a faint red mark already blooming on his skin. There’s no anger in his eyes, just a quiet, heavy disbelief. He just fixes his glasses. Eyes stay on you. Mouth shut.

A single, traitorous tear escapes, hot and sharp, and you hastily wipe it away with the back of your hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break down completely. Your voice, when it finally comes, is a ragged whisper, laced with a pain so deep it feels like it’s tearing you apart.

"Fuck you, Seongje," you breathe, the words tasting like nicotine, this time definitely not addicting. Distgust. Nothing more.

Without another word, you turn and run. You don't look back. You flee the bowling alley, the sound of your own frantic footsteps pounding on the pavement, each stride carrying you further away from him, from the lies, and from the painful truth that you had started to fall for a ghost. You leave him standing there, alone in the aftermath of his own carefully constructed chaos, the sting of your handprint on his cheek a testament to the one variable he never managed to control.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The sound of the wet pavement is a desperate beat in the gray stillness of the day. A light, persistent drizzle has started to fall, plastering strands of your hair to your cheeks and blurring the city into a watercolor wash of muted colors. And then, abruptly, you stop. You gasp for air, your lungs burning. A sharp, hysterical laugh escapes your lips, raw and humorless, startling a pigeon pecking at the damp ground. You place your palms on your thighs, to rest for a second. You are almost there just going up and you’ll join the fight of the year. But before you can go up there you need a second. A second to regain energy or maybe to get rid of the frustration beforehand.

"Congratulations, Y/N," you mutter to your blurry reflection in the puddle in front of you. Your voice dripping with biting sarcasm. You're officially the most easily deceived person in Eunjang, and this title comes with a faint smell of betrayal and stale ramen.

You laugh again, louder this time, shaking your head in disbelief as the rain patters softly on the awning above. You should have known. Everyone warned you. But no, you had to walk right into the fire, just to see if you’d get burned.

"Spoiler alert: you did," you snort, wiping at your cheek where rainwater and a single, traitorous tear mingle. And guess what? It hurts just as much as they said it would. Who could have possibly predicted this outcome? Oh, right. Everyone.

But you just couldn’t help yourself. Seongje was just there at the right time to make you fall. You liked the thrill, the way it made you feel. A way to break out, a way to do something you shouldn’t. Break the rules like he did. Sure, let’s involve him to. Your brother.  You remember how he started missing practice, showing up with bruises he wouldn’t explain, his easy laughter replaced by a restless, guarded energy. He, too, was a brilliant fighter, someone you admired. But he also had that hidden side, secrets that wedged themselves between you until you barely recognized him. Baekjin’s name was a ghost in his stories back then, a name you never understood the weight of until now.

Seongje is just like him. A brilliant fighter who uses his skills not for sport, but for control. Someone who can show a flicker of genuine kindness one moment—like carrying you home or tending to your wounds—only to turn around and remind you that he profits from the chaos. Two sides of the same damn coin.

"Emotionally unavailable, morally ambiguous fighters with a penchant for secrets and a talent for breaking my heart. Fantastic.” At least you stay loyal to the type of guys you let in your life.

You shake your head, a final, weary smile on your face. You should have known better then, and you should have known better now. But you never learn. Maybe that’s your superpower. You start jogging again, the burn in your muscles a welcome distraction. The fight is waiting, and the rain is falling, just like the punches will soon. And right now, hitting something—anything—sounds a lot better than thinking.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You arrive at the battleground—a desolate, rain-slicked lot under the gray, unforgiving sky. The air is thick with the sounds of the fight: the sickening thud of fists against flesh, grunts of pain, and the rhythmic splatter of rain on concrete. It’s chaos. Eunjang is outnumbered, but they’re holding their ground, fighting with a desperate tenacity.

Your eyes scan the brawl, just to see Juntae needing help more than anyone. You don’t hesitate. The rain has turned the edges of the lot into patches of thick, slick mud—a liability for most, but an opportunity for you. With a surge of adrenaline, you plunge into the fight, but your target isn't a person. Not yet.

You stomp hard into a deep puddle, kicking a spray of muddy water directly into the face of the Union member closing in on Juntae. He recoils with a sputtered curse, momentarily blinded, hands flying up to wipe the grit from his eyes. It’s the opening you need. Your first attack is a surprise, brutal and efficient. You swing your leg, shattering a kneecap or cracking an elbow against someone’s temple. Gotak sees you, a flicker of relief and surprise in his eyes.

"About time you showed up!" he yells over the noise, wiping blood from his lip. "Just saving you the embarrassment of losing without me," you shout back, your voice sharp with sarcasm and adrenaline as you scoop up a handful of wet, heavy mud.

Another attacker lunges at you. You don't try to block his punch. Instead, you duck under his swing and smear the handful of mud viciously across his face, grinding it into his eyes and mouth. He staggers back, disoriented and sputtering, trying to clear his vision. You don't give him the chance. A swift, brutal kick to the back of his knee sends him crashing face-first into the soggy ground.

You and Gotak fall into a rhythm, using the terrain to your advantage. Your styles complement each other perfectly: Gotak’s powerful kicks create space, while you attack them after he got their attention. You fight not just with raw power, but with the cold, calculated fury that Seongje’s betrayal ignited in you.

The fighting around you falters as Baku hits the ground, knocked out cold by Baekjin. A triumphant roar goes up from the remaining Union members. Baekjin stands over Baku, arrogant sure to be today’s winner. "Is that all Eunjang has to offer?" he taunts.

Gotak wants to go at him, but you hold him back, eyes finding Sieun, who only now appears to the scene. The bruises he got from the bowling hall still visible, but not of his concern. He seems more than determined as he steps in front of Baekjin.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

"So," Baekjin scoffs, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You want to fight against me? You of all people? Don't you know your place?"

Sieun doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. His purpose isn't to trade insults, it's to execute a plan. He knows he can't win this fight in a conventional sense. Baekjin is a monster of strength and skill. But victory isn't the objective. Survival is. Buying time is.

Baekjin lunges first, his movements a blur of controlled violence. He expects Sieun to dodge, to try and find an opening. Instead, Sieun takes the first punch head-on. It sends him stumbling back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but he doesn't fall. He just resets his stance, his eyes never leaving Baekjin. Sieun ducks under a wide swing, not to counterattack the head or torso, but to drive his foot hard into Baekjin's thigh. It’s a move devoid of flair, purely functional. Baekjin barely registers it, retaliating with a brutal kick that sends Sieun crashing to the wet concrete. The Union members jeer, but Baekjin's smirk falters slightly.

Baekjin has the power to end it at any moment, but Sieun has a tolerance for pain that is almost inhuman, fueled by a fierce, quiet loyalty to his friends.

The rain falls harder now, mixing with the sweat and blood on Sieun's face. Baekjin is clearly winning, his hands and legs battering Sieun relentlessly, but the cost is becoming apparent. A slight limp begins to disrupt his confident stance. His powerful kicks lose their speed. The damage is accumulating, exactly as Sieun planned. Just as Baekjin raises his fist for what looks like the final, finishing blow on the nearly unconscious Sieun, a shadow falls over him. Baku is back on his feet, aiming directly at Baekjin.

He’s recovered, thanks to the precious minutes Sieun bought him with his own body. The final fight is short and decisive. Baekjin, now slowed and weakened by the relentless attacks on his leg, is no match for a recovered Baku, who finishes the fight and secures Eunjang's victory.

A moment of stunned silence hangs over the rain-slicked, ravaged lot. The fight is over. Baekjin lies defeated on the ground, unable to get up. A raw, exhausted cheer erupts from the Eunjang students, but it fades quickly, replaced by a deep, collective weariness. The remaining Union members, their loyalty held together only by money, dissolve into the night, their leader now broken.

The fury at Seongje that drove you here has cooled to a hard, cold knot in your stomach, temporarily pushed aside by the immediate concern for your friends. You move between them, a part of the chaotic mess of bruises, scrapes, and bloody knuckles.

You help Juntae to his feet, a small, patterned plaster still somehow clinging to his cheek. You steady Gotak, who winces as he puts weight on his leg. Your gaze meets Sieun's. He’s leaning against a wall, barely able to stand after the brutal beating he endured to buy time, but his eyes hold the quiet glint of a successful mission.

Then you look at Baku. He stands over the defeated Baekjin, not triumphant, but pensive, the rain mixing with the blood on his face. He decrees the end of the Union, his voice lacking any celebratory tone, filled instead with the heavy weight of responsibility. The victory doesn't feel glorious. It just feels... over.

The group moves slowly, a battered but unbroken unit. You support each other, the worst of the injuries needing attention. The walk away from the battlefield is filled with a pained silence, broken by occasional, quiet reassurances.

Baku walks beside you, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a still exhaustion. He seems distant, but this time it's not from anger—it's from sheer depletion.

"You did it, Baku," you say quietly, the words almost lost to the sounds of the city.

He just nods, his gaze distant. "We did it," he corrects, his voice rough. "But... it doesn't feel like a win. Just the end of something."

You eventually reach a main road, the bright, sterile lights of a bus stop cutting through the gloom. You’ll take the bus together, then you’ll part ways—some to the hospital, others straight home. Sieun, despite his condition, insists he's fine, his thoughts likely already on visiting the hospital not for himself, rather for his friend, telling him he didn’t lose. Gotak and Juntae lean on each other, promising to get checked out. Baku gives you a final, tired nod, a silent acknowledgment of everything you've all been through.

One by one, they board the arriving bus, their weary figures disappearing inside. You’re about to follow them, your foot on the first step, when a familiar scent cuts through the night air—smoke.

You pause, glancing to the side. And there he is.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Seongje is standing a short distance away, under the weak glow of a streetlight, which already turned on, welcoming the slowly arriving evening. He is leaning against a wall, bringing a cigarette to his lips. The ember flaring brightly, illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He looks calm, unreadable, as if he's just an observer to a world he set in motion.

His eyes find yours. For a long, silent moment, he just watches you, smoke curling from his lips. Then, as if making a decision, he drops the cigarette to the pavement and deliberately grinds it out with the heel of his boot.

The bus doors hiss, ready to close. Your friends are waiting. Your new, hard-won peace is waiting. But he is still standing there, his gaze locked on yours, an unspoken question hanging in the space between you.

What will you do?

-> Stay

or

-> Leave

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16

1st special

edit: i reached 3460 today lets gooo

edit 2: 4327... next goal 5000 👀🙈

edit 3: 5753 words, thats crazyy

...🔷️...

I couldn't concentrate on writing (it's in progress, but i need more time for it to have the quality i want😅) but i had to do something creative anyways.

⋆✧1st special✧⋆ (takes place during pt.15)

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15

Summary: While waiting for Seongje, memories of the day Mom and your brother moved out come flooding back. You feel the weight of how much has changed—the silence in the house, the distance growing between everyone.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> special chapter to deepen the story not necessary for the main plot -> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, mention of violence and blood (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Waiting for Seongje, your mind drifts back to the page Juntae showed you today. It nags at you—the layout, the numbers, the strange color codes. Somewhere deep down, it feels familiar, like a half-forgotten whisper.

You stare blankly ahead but your thoughts won’t loosen their grip. The puzzle pieces shuffle until—snap—it clicks.

The move-out. Your brother’s room. That damn note you found there, tucked away like a secret. You were confused about it, not knowing what the hell the notes meant. Thought it was just a thing you shouldn’t understand, didn’t even want to. Your chest feels heavier as the memory floods back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The tension had thickened days ago when the suspension was announced. Your father had locked himself in silence, his jaw clenched tight—anger simmering beneath his untouched words, eyes sharp with disappointment. He hadn’t spoken to your brother anymore. Not a word.

Your brother? He had shrugged off the cold shoulder, his eyes distant as if nothing could touch him. Not the lies, not the frame-up, not being forced out. He was once warm, but he got colder, like a forgotten cup of coffee left on the counter.

He never told you the truth. He probably never wanted to, probably never would. You had bitten down on the confusion twisting inside you. Why hadn’t he done anything? You had looked up to him. Envied him. But that? That hadn’t really seemed like him. Those guys he’d been hanging out with for a while had seemed to have a deep impact, making him accept his fate. Stupid dumbass.

“No. It couldn’t be him. He would never do that, not my son.” Your mother’s voice had looped the same phrases under tears, like a scratched vinyl. She had believed in him—her eyes softened whenever she talked about him, quiet but fierce. Favorite child—always just beneath the surface. She had tried not to show it, but the cracks had given her away. You had always known but hadn’t complained. For what? It wouldn’t have made a difference, and it wasn’t even that bad. Now? Everything had been awkward around him, you were even more forgotten, less compared. Just hope you won’t get worse. Worse, that had said enough

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You release a heavy breath. Taking another bite of your dripping ice cream.

At the time, your parents couldn’t talk normally to each other. They were loud, but silent all at once. How they settled everything in that case? No clue, but before you could adjust to the situation, you were put before a set of irreversible facts. Your mom was about to leave with your brother.

He had been distant, not at all like the silly idiot you grew up with. Normally, his presence was almost too confident, always finding new ways to tease you and only laughing harder when you reached your limit. But now his eyes had gone dull, as if all the cigarette smoke he’d inhaled had stolen their sparkle, leaving them shrouded in fog.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You remembered the day of the move-out with stark clarity. Your father sat silently on the couch, the TV blaring louder than necessary, his body tense. He hadn’t wanted to get involved, choosing instead to ignore them both, as if their leaving might erase them from his world and his memories. You still couldn’t understand him. Yes, disappointment made sense—illegal activities were hardly the hobbies any parent would choose for their child—but to you, his bitterness seemed far too deep.

Your mother’s eyes were always glassy when you saw her, dark circles etched beneath them that she tried and failed to hide behind a strained, artificial smile. She’d tried to call out to your brother, but her voice faltered, thinning to nothing. You remembered the moment you placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension in her muscles, so desperate for release.

“I’ll get him,” you’d whispered, and she’d simply nod.

You let go, your eyes following her as she lifted her suitcase and carried it out to the car. It looked as if it would weigh tons, and she used all the strength left to lift it with a loud sigh.

Then you’d gone to your brother’s room and knocked on his door. No answer. Nothing. You knocked again—still nothing. Frustrated, you opened the door without waiting any longer.

He sat on the bed with his headphones on, his expression blank. You dropped down beside him, tugged the headphones from his ears, then flopped back onto the bed, letting his music fill your head for a moment. It took him a while to react, but when he finally turned to you, a genuine smile flickered across his lips—one you hadn’t seen in ages.

He stopped the music on his phone, prompting you to set the headphones aside.

“Hey, what was that for? That song was good,” you’d said.

“I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t listen to it,” he replied, a trace of annoyance sharpening his words as he rolled his eyes.

A brief silence settled between you before your curiosity got the better of you. You sat up and asked quietly, “Will you ever tell me what the hell really happened, or are you just going to leave me in the dark?”

The mood shifted in an instant. He looked at you, suddenly serious.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” he said softly, then turned away.

“Idiot,” you muttered softly, but loud enough for him to hear. Then you added, “Mom wants you to come. Her suitcase is already in the car. You should grab the last things and go to her. She wants to leave.”

The moment the words left your mouth, it hit you hard. They were leaving. You were staying behind. Your fingers tightened into fists, and the room felt colder, emptier.

You hated change. You really did.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

He stood slowly, dragging his backpack and suitcase from the corner, their worn edges whispering of travels and endings. You lingered for a moment, noticing some of his things still left behind—little bits and pieces your father would probably clear away starting tomorrow.

Drawn like a magnet, you stepped to his desk. Your fingers brushed a photo—the proud moment frozen forever—him gripping a medal after his first big fight, eyes bright with fire. As you reached to set it back, something slipped from beneath it—a folded slip of paper, plain and unremarkable.

You held the note carefully, fingers trembling slightly as you read the faded numbers and color codes. It had seemed so meaningless before—a scrap of paper you barely noticed. But now, it felt heavier, like a secret waiting to burst.

The door creaked open behind you.

He stepped in quietly, eyes flickering to the paper in your hands. Without a word, he reached out and took it from you, his fingers brushing yours. Then, almost instinctively, he pulled the photo beside it from the desk—his medal shining faintly behind the glass in the dim light.

You watched him, heart thudding in your chest.

“Will you send us off?” His voice was low, strained, almost fragile. No anger, no accusations—just that single, raw question hanging between you.

You didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Together, you left the room. Down the stairs, outside. Your dad did not move an inch.

You hugged your mom first, who was waiting at the door – impatiently. Ready to leave. The hugs exchanged were brief, followed by rushed words, eyes probably heavy with unshed tears.

Before your brother got in the car, he paused at the threshold, giving you one last look—a silent apology, a goodbye without words. After that, the car door slammed shut.

Later, as the engine hummed softly, he pulled the note from his pocket, fingers tracing the worn edges. The cold weight of the paper pressed in his palm, mind drifting back to the origin of it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

He hadn’t planned to meet Baekjin that day. It happened shortly after a street fight—fists bruised and pride bruised deeper—when Baekjin stepped out of the shadows and spoke with a calm confidence that made itself impossible to ignore.

“I’ve got work for you,” he said simply.

For a student scraping by, that offer was like gold. Money wasn’t easy to come by, and Baekjin’s tone held a promise of something steady, something reliable. But it wasn’t just about the pay.

Baekjin knew about you—Y/N—hearing your name out of his mouth gave him chills. That knowledge hung in the air between them, an unspoken threat. It was a weapon Baekjin wielded with precision. A lever to pressure him, to keep him in line. To make him carry the blame, to take the fall when things went wrong—accept the suspension so someone Baekjin valued more wouldn’t have to.

He knew the guy under the nickname Wolf, ultra cheesy, but not for him to decide. He had met him only in passing. Brief but charged encounters, where they stood side by side, fighting for the same cause within the tangled web of the Union. Conversations were traded in quiet smoke breaks, fingers wrapped around cigarettes as they exchanged words that only meant business. It was a fragile alliance, whispered in smoke and half-truths.

That note—the one tucked away, almost forgotten—was a sign. A silent plea, a cryptic message from the depths of a life far more complicated and entangled than he let on. It marked how deep he had sunk, a desperate call for a way out.

The suspension, the reckoning—it came at the perfect time. An excuse to step back, to breathe, to regroup. But beneath it all, his only hope stayed clear and sharp—that you would be safe, untouched by the web that threatened to pull him under.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15

pt.15 Call

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16

Summary: Lost in uncertainty after fractured friendships and an ignored call, Y/N wanders the city. What feels like another failed night changes on Seongje’s doorstep, where vulnerability breaks the silence. Between melted ice cream and bruised pride, they find a rare sense of calm in each other’s quiet company.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, mention of violence and blood, emotional vulnerability and intimacy (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: 3.120 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first series — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You walk home in silence, the night pressing close around you. Even with strangers passing, unsteady footsteps, dark reflections in lit-up windows, the streets felt like an abandoned stage, and you are the only actor left after the play had ended.

What was that?

You’ve learned to expect Seongje’s unpredictability —like it’s part of the script— but this… this felt different.

A sharp chill threads through the air — or maybe it’s lodged in your chest. Hard to tell.

Returning that shirt could’ve been the end of it, the last thread cut. Clean. Him leaving without a word. Back to normal.

Except it isn’t.

The second he slips into your thoughts, it’s like he’s there — a quiet, invasive presence changing your easy, automatic heartbeat into something deliberate and uneven, each thud too loud in your ears. And you know exactly that you want it — his hand gripping you fiercely, pulling you closer into a fierce, undeniable want.

Your phone is warm in your palm, the screen dark, heavy as if it knows what you’re about to do.

Text him? Ask if he’s okay?

You start typing, half-formed words blinking on the screen… then vanish with a swipe.

He’d looked… concerned — or Seongje’s version of it.

That restless gaze, the razor-edge readiness, like he’d kill for one wrong move.

But there had been something else there for a second, a flicker behind the calm violence.

You shove the phone into your pocket, but the thought won’t leave.

Not the image of him standing there.

Not the unspoken questions hanging between you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The questions cling to you like smoke, trailing around you as you drop into a seat at your favorite chicken place on Monday — Baku’s eyes already on you.

Without a word, he grabs your arm — soft, but firm enough to catch you off guard.

“Don’t mind me, just kidnapping her real quick,” he mutters, flashing the group a quick grin before heading for the door.

Gotak’s about to collect orders, Juntae nods in vague confusion, and Sieun only raises a brow. Baku’s almost out the door — you right behind him. You follow. No argument.

Outside, the air smells like fryer oil bleeding from the vents. Baku plants himself against the wall, arms crossed, gaze locked on you.

“Before the fight,” he starts, tone flat but edged, “I ran into Seongje. Literally — sprinted right past him.”

Your stomach tightens.

“He said his “guys” were headed toward some street, told me to cut through some shortcut if I wanna find you and the others. Then—” Baku’s mouth twists, “told me to make sure I hurry.”

There’s a pause where you can hear the muffled chatter from inside.

“Didn’t think about it till later. Till you went back.” His eyes sharpen. “You weren’t subtle.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“So what is it? Is he blackmailing you? Got something on you? Or—” his lip curls, “are you fucking him? Please tell me it’s not. That would be… disgusting. Not that I could interfere, but it’s… Geum Seongje. That smoking Union asshole. Just to imagine—”

He shudders, probably running through the worst mental movie of his life. Silence, the weight of another question on your shoulders. Feels like truth or dare — but without a choice.

You huff out a laugh, low and rough. “Wow… quite the selection of theories you’ve got there.”

You tilt your head, slow, eyes narrowing just enough. “If this were a quiz show, you’d be going home with nothing but the consolation prize.”

A pause, your smirk deepening. “And maybe a reminder that you have a very… active imagination.”

Baku’s brow furrows deeper, but he doesn’t back down. “Alright, gameshow queen. If I’m wrong, why’d you go back to him? Not just ‘cause you left something behind, huh?”

You shrug, pretending indifference but feeling the flash of heat behind your eyes. “Maybe I like living dangerously. Or maybe I just don’t like being left with questions hanging in the air.”

His arms still crossed, muscles flexing under tension. Voice low and serious now. “Look, I don’t trust him. Never will. But he helped you — saved your ass, maybe. So I’m not gonna start trouble… yet.”

His gaze pins you. “But I need to know you’re not walking into something that’ll burn you down. ‘Cause if he’s got anything on you, or worse, if you’re caught up in something you can’t get out of, I’m warning you.”

You smirk, corner of your mouth twitching, and say firmly:

“Who says he’s the one holding something over me? Maybe I’m the one calling the shots.”

Baku blinks, caught off guard for a moment.

“Just don’t get burned.”

You hold up a hand, cutting him off smoothly. “Not planning to.”

You step back toward the door, voice lighter but firm. “Now, let’s get back before they devour our portions too.”

Without waiting for a reply, you open the door and head inside.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You drop into your seat, hand already reaching for fries before Baku can. There’s a weird charge in the air – light enough for jokes, sharp enough for glances. Sieun’s eyes find yours, loaded with questions, but you swerve straight past it.

“So, what was Friday supposed to be?” You toss the words toward the table, casual but landing heavy. “Self-destruct mission? Why didn’t anyone say a word?”

Juntae shrinks halfway into his hoodie. Gotak cuts in “Last-minute call. Juntae heard something about the garage and told me. But I couldn’t sit still… went straight for it. Next thing, we’re neck deep before anyone can blink. Figured we’d handle it, or at least not die trying.”

Sieun just watches, silent, listening to you guys talk. In his eyes, worry shimmers through. Not too obvious, but clearly there. Baku sits up straighter, not pissed but edged, voice more sober than usual. “Did it at least pay off? Or did I get my skull cracked for nothing?”

Gotak grumbles, picking at his food. “Would have been worth it. We almost got the ledger—real dirt in there, but—”

He doesn’t finish. Juntae slips a torn sheet from his pocket. Folded, worn at the edges. “Not quite. I kept this. Maybe it gets us somewhere.”

The table goes quiet. Gotak’s eyebrows shoot up, Sieun actually leans in. You trade a glance with Baku – and both reach at once. He’s faster, snatching the page, scanning quick.

You crowd his shoulder, chin tipped toward the scribbles.

Serial numbers. Color codes. Phone numbers.

Bingo.

Baku stares at the page. All those numbers, codes—his brow bunches, and he actually squints like the info might reassemble itself.

He coughs, scratches at his neck, lets out a hesitant, “Uh…”

Juntae looks at him while pushing up his glasses.

You lean in, tap the paper, then lay it flat for all to see. “Sieun, what do you think? This is something, right? Does our mastermind have any next steps for us?”

You slide the sheet his way. Sieun studies it, face unreadable. A moment later, he takes a photo and stands up, stuffing his phone away.

“I’ll check this out at home,” he says—the words clipped, tired, like something’s still weighing on him. “I’ll text if I figure out a plan.”

You track him as he leaves, noticing how his shoulders slump.

These days, he looks thinner, a bit stretched—maybe it’s his friend in the hospital. He barely ever talks about it, but you catch it sometimes—in how he disappears, how his voice goes quiet. Right now, you can’t shake the thought that you maybe should’ve gone with him.

Juntae folds the torn page carefully, taking it back under his jacket like a shield—better safe than sorry, for now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The rest of the evening loosens up. The weight in the air lightens bit by bit. Baku can’t stand the lingering tension and decides to step in.

He throws a jab at Gotak, who fires back with a loud retort, and before long, everyone’s caught in a roar of laughter—raw, loud, clumsy.

For a moment, it feels like all the worry, the danger, the unease… been eaten up with all the food on the table.

Even though you all know, deep down, none of it’s really gone anywhere.

As you split up, you say a friendly goodbye. Gotak leaves with Juntae, while Baku and you head the same way.

“Are you really okay?” you ask, nodding toward the big plaster on his head from where he got hit days ago.

“Looks worse than it is,” he shrugs. “You know me, I can take a hit or two. That’s nothing.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips. Your eyes widen a bit in amusement. “Yeah, sure. Nothing fragile there to break. Explains a lot.”

He bumps his elbow into you in revenge. “Yahh, you’re being mean. It’s been a while since you got a good beating, huh?”

He raises his fists, pushing himself in front of you and playfully challenging you to a fight.

You can’t help but grin wider this time. You lay your hand over one of his fists. “Come on, save that for the Union. I promise to be the loudest one cheering, okay?”

His gaze flickers to where your hands meet. He pulls away, stepping back to your side again.

Did his ears just turn red? No. You must be imagining things.

You both fall back into step, the sidewalk patched with yellow streetlight. For a while, neither of you speaks.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Then your phone vibrates.

You glance at the screen—a call, that name lit up. Seongje.

Baku clocks it instantly, lips tightening, jaw clenching.

“You’re not gonna answer? The wolf calls for his lamb, huh?” His voice hits, wounded, but he masks it well. You refuse to read too much into it.

You shrug, thumb hovering uncertainly. “Maybe later. Probably just a mistake.”

You shove your phone away and keep walking, while letting the call fade out. But your thoughts loop tight around it, which doesn’t stay unnoticed. “Just call him back. I won’t lose it just because you talk to him. But don’t let him drag you into any more nonsense.”

He gets a bit faster—lost the sync. “See you tomorrow. Don’t get kidnapped,” were his last words before he left you behind, not giving you a chance to react.

You cannot help but take out your phone again. The screen glares in your hand.

What if it was a mistake? But what if it wasn’t?

With him, who knows – maybe Union guys want ramen, but he’s missing his ramen buddy, so he calls? No. That’s not him. He wouldn’t just call.

You call. Silence.

Try again. Still nothing.

The quiet wraps around you. Your phone feels heavier in your hand now. You fire off a quick text: "Everything okay? Sorry, missed your call.” Wait a moment. Nothing.

You wander down the street, slip into a convenience store, and the neon reflects off the phone’s display. Your eyes catch the ramen cups immediately, and a sharp memory hits—

Squished on that bench at 7Eleven with Seongje. Two steaming bowls, his teasing over your choice of flavor, the way your legs accidentally brushed beneath the table.

Your fingers hover over the plastic packaging. You grin, and for a moment, the noise around you fades, and the simple warmth of that night presses against the cold.

Cold. Right. Ice cream. The reason you went in. You finally pick out a flavor, pay, head back out.

You check your phone again—still nothing.

The worry is stupid. Why should you worry about Geum Seongje? He’s the last person who needs anyone worrying about him. If anything, it’s everyone around him you should warn.

But then it hits you. Last time, Seongje’s whole mood flipped after seeing those random guys. What if something fishy is up? The way he followed them, how his eyes changed. You haven’t heard from him afterwards, not thinking too much about it. But after all that, you can’t deny that it’s strange, making your pulse tick faster.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something.

Either way, you head for his apartment, just in case. You can’t just do nothing at that point.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The ice cream you bought… still unopened in your hand, probably melting away like the last shred of your dignity and hidden feelings, dripping away.

He’s probably just at home, probably misdialed, maybe didn’t really mean to call you. Or maybe he’s ignoring you because it doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t matter anymore. Not fun to play with right now.

You kick the stairs up to his door, your fingers gripping the cold metal of the bell. The chill bites straight through your skin. No answer. No flicker of light. Nothing.

You can’t help but laugh bitterly to yourself.

“Great—a quote of nothing. But hey, nothing beats a trip to Seongje’s hideout. And right now, you can save your breath and just enjoy your ice cream. Goal achieved.”

You drop onto the bottom step, opening the plastic of your nightly treat, carefully. Not bad. Still edible.

The street is quiet except for distant hums. Across the way, the old house’s chipped stone is tangled with creeping vines, stubbornly holding on despite the decay. A motion sensor light clicks on and off above the door, casting fleeting shadows—enough to blur the edges of the night.

Your thoughts spiral, chaotic and sharp, then soften with irony. Here you are, sitting like a tourist who missed the last bus and now studies gravel instead of sights.

The night holds its breath.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From the shadows, a figure emerges, footsteps slow and uneven. Seongje. His usual confidence is muted, replaced by a slight limp that disrupts his steady pace.

You stay seated, silent and still, watching him approach. You don’t move, plunging the doorstep into darkness.

He pauses just short of the door. The soft jingle of his keys breaks the silence, crisp in your ears. Then he moves closer, stepping into the weak glow again as the light flicks back on—illuminating his face. You see it clearly now, a mask of pain behind his sharp features.

Blood stains splatter his light gray shirt, stretched and worn at the seams. His hair is messy, wild in that unbothered way only he wears so well. Nothing too unusual so far. His glasses, at least, sit perfectly balanced on his nose, though a fresh blood scratch sits beneath them. A subtle wince crosses his face, fleeting but unmistakable. It’s unlike him. He never lets pain show, always masking it under that careless smirk or a sharp joke. But now, the tension lines his jaw and the limp tells its own story—a silent admission you’re not used to seeing.

A closer look reveals more scrapes, bruises, and dark-smudged blood stains scattered across his skin and clothes. Probably not all his, but still enough to say it’s been a rough night.

Do you ask? Or wait for him to speak first?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Seongje’s eyes find you after a brief delay, his expression flickering—surprise, confusion, something softer you can’t quite name.

His voice comes out rougher than usual, quieter, but still trying to hold a poker face. Pain? What is that? Idiot. No need to play tough.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You stand up, meeting his gaze with a half-smile tugging at your lips despite the tension.

“You called. Then you decided to ignore me. Rude by the way,” you say slowly, letting the words hang between you. “But I…” your gaze flicks away for a second, then back. “I was around, thought I could make it hard for you to ignore me. Only to be confronted with nothing once again.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, but you keep your voice steady, a touch teasing.

Seongje stays silent, the tension hanging thick between you. You smirk, breaking the quiet with a teasing jab.

“Well, I guess I can leave now, then.”

He hesitates, the limp visible even in stillness. The pause stretches just long enough.

“No wait,” you add, standing straighter. “You can at least offer me a glass of water, right?”

That’s your in. He doesn’t deny you, maybe even waits for you to take the initiative.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Inside, he heads straight for the shower. You settle on the couch in the living room, a glass in your hands, listening to the sound of water.

You stay unnoticed as Seongje moves into his bedroom. The door remains slightly ajar—almost as if he forgot you were still there. The muffled sounds of him getting dressed drift through the gap, fading slowly into silence.

When he re-emerges, he’s swapped his bloodstained shirt for a fresh black one and lowers himself onto the floor before the couch now. A subtle but clear distance between you is present. That’s odd—something you’re not used to. The last times you met, he couldn’t get close enough.  

You rise and carry your empty glass to the kitchen. As you return, he’s still sitting there, sloppy, eyes unreadable. But something about his posture—a quiet weariness, a guarded calm—draws you closer. You settle down on the floor beside him, maintaining a respectful space.

“What happened?” you ask gently.

He shrugs, deflecting, voice carrying a fake hint of tease. “Not a big deal. I would’ve spared those guys too… if they had behaved this well.”

There’s a pride in his tone, a hint of boastfulness about the fight and the minimal pain it caused.

You raise an eyebrow. “Want help wrapping those up?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ve got it.”

You accept his refusal quietly, remembering the saying: If they don’t want help, they don’t need it. (if that's even a proper saying or just your interpretation of one)

His shoulders slump gradually, weighed down by exhaustion, while his head falls back against the couch. You sit quietly beside him, listening to his deep and heavy breaths.

When you finally start to rise, intent on leaving, a firm, deliberate hand tightens around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion.

His eyes remain closed, but his voice is steady, barely above a whisper.

“Stay.”

You don’t pull away. Instead, you ease down beside him, close enough to sense a shift in his presence.

He moves, ever so slightly, before settling his head against your lap without a word. Eyes still closed, avoiding your gaze. You catch your breath—partly overwhelmed, partly comforted by the unexpected closeness.

The warmth of his skin seeps into your thigh, and you are unsure of what to do. You decide to stay still, letting the moment unfold around you.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15 - pt.16

1st special (takes place pt.15)

wahh thank you so much 💕 I actually thought about deepening her background story and maybe some other side stories as well, since i enjoy that hehe but i wasn’t sure if that would be interesting (i know that its already a suuuuper slow slow burn so i tried to get forward and don’t get too lost in detail 🙈) but i could do some special chapters for readers like you who want to know more without dragging the main story too long 🤔 the special chapters probably won’t affect the main story so it's not necessary to read them but they will have some memories or inner dialogues etc that add to the story. i have some ideas 👀

but it will take a bit until i can work on that since university is still stressing me out 😭

i am open for feedback and ideas under this post hehe

pt.14 Next Time

*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15

Summary: It’s an off day after last night’s events, each friend caught up in their own way of coping while Y/N drifts through the hours, restless and a little bored. The quiet almost holds—until the day takes a turn. Before trouble can catch up, she ends the night in unexpectedly pleasant company.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: swearing/strong language, emotional distress, subtle flirtation/relationship Tension, mention of violence and blood, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> all characters are portrayed as being of legal age -> Wordcount: ca. 3.000 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first series — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your home is finally in sight. Now your body trembles—the adrenaline that carried you is gone, and the cold hits even harder. Your fingers twitch and unconsciously trace the rough fabric tied around your bruised knuckles. The coarse cloth rubs against your skin, a dull reminder of the fight and the storm of thoughts swirling inside your head. For a fleeting moment, a quiet smile grazes your lips—small, almost shy, like a secret truce with yourself.

For a moment, you fumble in your pocket for your keys. Your fingers quiver—unusual, unexpected. You pause, shaking your hands lightly, as if trying to rid yourself of the strange sensation. Then, a warm, almost electric shiver runs through you, spreading from your fingertips up your arms. It’s odd, unfamiliar—yet somehow comforting. Taking a steadying breath, you finally press the key into the lock and step in.

Inside, the muted glow of the TV spills from the living room. The Friday evening show flickers erratically across the screen, its blaring sounds clashing with the rhythmic snoring that fills the room like a low drumbeat. You pause, tilting your head slightly. Is your dad starting to lose his hearing, or is the volume just ridiculously loud tonight? Maybe it’s just you—downright hypersensitive after everything that happened. No wonder the noises prick at your nerves like static.

He had wanted to talk to you so badly earlier, but now his breathing deepens in sleep far earlier than usual. It’s not even late, but the steady rise and fall of his chest says he’s given up.

Before stepping into your room, you stop beside him and gently pull a soft, worn blanket over his shoulders. At least some good daughter qualities simmer inside of you.

You shed your clothes as if leaving behind a second, utterly disgusting skin, ready to wash the rest away with a hot shower. The water tickles against your skin, and steam rises in lazy swirls that blur the edges of the mirror. You close your eyes, drawing the heat deep into your skin, the glowing pulse from the shiver before now blooming into a soothing fire that undulates through your limbs with tender insistence.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You dry yourself off and slip into something comfortable. With the soft fabric hugging your body, you collapse onto your bed with a deep sigh. Automatically, you reach for your phone and let your thumb scroll carefully as you open the chat with your friends—you had already sent a message while you were out, checking if everything was okay with them.

No immediate response. But now a notification blinks at you. Juntae informs that everyone’s fine, Baku has a ridiculously tough skull, and it’s not as bad as expected. Gotak adds they just need some sleep and a free Saturday.

You type a mostly short, caring reply:

Thanks for the update. Take care, okay? Tell me as soon as you feel worse, and I can help.

Then your eyes catch another chat—Seongje. You hadn’t even remembered to thank him. Hesitating, you open his messages again: the warning, the unexpected help. A small pang hits you. You quickly type:

Thanks for the help. It means a lot.

A few seconds pass with no reply. You smirk softly, thinking to yourself, What a stupid, lovesick teenager I am. Honestly—yeah, that’s you. Suddenly, your phone buzzes—it’s a brief message from him:

Sure.

You set your phone down on the bed, but just then it buzzes again. Another message:

Sleep well.

A smile tugs at your lips. You tap back:

You too.

Then you sink back into your pillows, fatigue washing over you, and as the phone rests quietly beside you, you close your eyes.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You wander around your room, phone idly shifting between your fingers. Your mind drifts back to the morning, to the half-awake talk with your dad over breakfast.

You’d covered the basics, skirted around anything too dramatic. He wasn’t exactly thrilled, but at least he didn’t make a huge deal out of it. That’s good enough for now. Small mercies—sometimes, that’s all you get.

The group chat is quiet, your friends taking the day to sleep in and drift lazily through their routines. No sudden mission where someone might lose their head.

Awesome… in theory. You tilt back in your chair, the legs tipping dangerously for a moment before you drop them down with a muted thud. Your fingers tap against the desk, restless.

The open stack of books on the corner stares back at you, a thin film of dust softening their edges. You drag a fingertip through it, leaving a faint line you don’t bother to wipe clean. What’s one more day of neglect? You push the thought away with a sharp exhale.

Silence wraps around the room, too still, too careful. From the other side of the door, there’s the faint rustle of movement—your dad. You keep your shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the screen, pretending you can’t hear it. Probably just waiting for something to spark the argument back to life.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and click play on the next video. Fighters move across the frame, calculated, efficient. You mimic the stance with your hands in the air, testing the shift of balance in your feet. Notes pile up beside you—short, messy scribbles on fighting and, more importantly, the Union, pages crumpled at the corners. Fingers sliding through social media in the hope of finding something new, helpful. Prepared feels better than bored, you decide.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Wow… you almost sound like Sieun, you think, flexing your fingers before hitting replay.

You lean your head back, eyes closed. Your arms stretch behind you, spine popping slightly as you loosen muscles you didn’t even realise had tensed. Time must have slipped straight through your fingers, disappearing somewhere between endless scrolls and half‑read posts—you’d lost track of it entirely.

You push yourself upright and stroll slowly towards the window, fingers curling around the frame as you swing it open. Evening air slips in, cool against your skin. Outside, the world is already wrapped in deep blue shadows.

As you turn around, your phone chimes—a sharp, intrusive ping that cuts through the quiet. Your friends? More spam?

Or maybe some tax office bot finally sending you a “friendly reminder” that you owe them your soul.

You drop back into your chair, grabbing your phone in one swift motion and unlocking it with muscle memory. Not your friends. Not spam.

Instead, Seongje’s name sits right there at the top of your screen. Your grip tightens, making your tips turn white. Damn… getting persistent, aren’t we?

You open the chat, and there it is dripping with that smug tone you can hear in your head:

Hey, pretty face… time to give me my shirt back, huh? Come out.

You roll your eyes, letting out a short, mocking sound before catching your lower lip between your teeth. Idiot.

Then it hits you. Wait—does that mean he’s downstairs? Great.

You grab the shirt from where it’s been folded neatly on your dresser since you washed it. Your eyes had kept wandering to it whenever you passed by, wondering when you’d finally hand it back—and, well, looks like that time is now.

Before leaving your room, you catch your reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. Baggy joggers, loose shirt… but at least your hair is behaving. You hook stray strands back behind your ears, holding your own gaze for a second longer than necessary. A quiet mhm slips out before you turn away.

Quick word in passing, shoes on, keys in hand. Done.

Your steps quicken, that restless thump in your chest pushing you forward.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

As you step outside and pull the door shut behind you, you catch sight of Seongje just a few feet away, grinding out a cigarette beneath his heel.

Without a word, you toss the shirt at him.

“Here.”

Luckily, his reflexes are sharp—he catches it mid‑air. For a second, a flicker of surprise breaks through the calm, careless mask he always wears, but he recovers fast, lips curling into that half‑smirk.

“Yah, princess! Not the greeting I hoped for.”

Seongje tosses the shirt casually over his shoulder, that half-smile still fixed on his lips.

"Not even a 'hi' this time, princess? You're slipping on your usual charm."

You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. “Guess I’m saving my energy. It’s my day off.”

 “Harsh. You know, you could make it up to me, you still owe me… Buy me dinner.”

Your brow lifts. “Dinner? Where?... Why?”

“Our next time at the all too familiar Seven-Eleven. Remember?”

You’re not entirely sure if you’re welcome there—but whatever. “Fine.”

You fall into step beside him. The quiet between you hums with a strange, restless energy. Every so often, your hands brush in the natural sway of your strides, each accidental touch pulling just a little more air out of your lungs.

He glances sideways, voice dripping with casual provocation. “Not bad… for someone who looks like they just rolled out of bed. Your hair’s the real MVP here.“

You turn your head toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe you’re—”

You never finish, because you’re not looking where you’re going. A lamppost looms inches away.

Before you can collide with it, his fingers hook into the hem of your shirt and tug you firmly toward him. You stumble a step into his space, close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke clinging to him. He doesn’t say a word, just releases you and keeps walking, waiting for you to finish whatever you were about to say.

It takes a second to find your voice again, your pulse skipping unevenly. “—… just not worth the effort,” you manage, though it comes out softer than you’d meant.

You steady your steps, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if you hadn’t just stumbled into him. But your pulse hasn’t caught up yet, thudding harder than it should. The spot where his fingers gripped your shirt feels warm, almost branded against your skin.

You focus on the road, on the neon blur of a corner sign, anything but him. He’s pulled you close before—half in jest, always easy to brush off. This… isn’t the same. You don’t say it. You don’t look at him. But the space between you stays thinner than it used to.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The neon gets sharper, resolving into the Seven-Eleven’s striped glow—green, orange, and white bouncing off the pavement and painting your faces in colors that look almost unreal. The storefront hums with brightness. You step inside together, greeted by a wall of snack bags and the chilly blast of AC overhead.

It’s almost too normal… the harsh lights scrub the edges off every tense thought. Seongje bumps your shoulder, already reaching for the ramen aisle, flipping noodle cups like you’re there to pick the fate of your night.

“Choose wisely,” he murmurs, putting on a comically solemn voice. “Spicy or—are you feeling like risking your dignity with shrimp flavor?”

You scoff, handing him a tame beef flavor. "Someone’s got to keep you alive. You’d burn the roof of your mouth off if I left you to your own devices."

He grins, shaking his head. "I survived rougher nights than this. And with worse company, believe me."

You roll your eyes, bump his arm with yours—maybe, purposely a bit longer than you mean to. For a moment, just standing with him under the unforgiving store lights, laughing over instant noodles, it’s easy to forget everything brewing outside. He’s quick-witted, unpredictable, and you can’t help but laugh at another ridiculous line about his tragic lack of cooking skills. It feels weird—laughing like this. Not just because your friends would never understand, but because he’s suddenly so… human. Like that moment when you ended up at his place. Maybe ramen really does make people softer.

You make your selections, and after some joking (and one failed attempt to convince him that seaweed flavor is indeed disgusting) you fill your cups with boiling water. With warm bowls in your hands you both slide onto a narrow bench along the wall, knees a little too close, the space between you charged but lighter than before. Steam rises, fogging up both the plastic lids and Seongje’s glasses until his eyes blur behind them in a way that’s oddly endearing.

He peels off his glasses, swiping at them with the edge of his sleeve, lips twitching in half-defeat.

“Great. Now I can’t see how ugly my dignity looks in beef flavor.”

His tone is light, but he glances up through the steam at you, mouth quirking as if daring you to tease him back.

A smile pulls at your lips—bigger than you mean, hard to hide. You didn’t really expect him to go along with your choice, much less joke about it now, dignity and all. It’s ridiculous, but somehow it gets under your skin in the best possible way. You let the grin linger for a moment before you shake your head, fishing for noodles.

He catches the grin and meets it with a tilt of his chin, the steam softening every edge of his features. For a beat, words aren’t needed. The bench is narrow, his knee pressed against yours—neither of you moves away.

You scoop noodles, careful not to splash, noticing the way he handles his bowl with the reluctance of someone resigning to fate. He sniffs theatrically at the beef broth, sighs with exaggerated suffering, then slurps a mouthful anyway.

“You know,” he says, blinking as steam curls around his face, “next time, call it my quest to expand your culinary horizons. Or at least your pain tolerance.”

You hum in mock consideration, twirling noodles. “I don’t trust your taste in drama, let alone ramen. Besides, having a spice tolerance is overrated.”

He feigns shock, raising his brows, then grins, nudging your knee beneath the table.

“Come on. Where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

You just shake your head, letting your laughter—a real one—mix with the warm hum of the store. The bench feels a little smaller, the distance between you easier than it should be.

He lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbles low and gets lost in the noise of humming refrigerators and distant footsteps. His bare face, glasses set aside, is more expressive—real. Warmth settles over the cramped little space, making it feel less like a store bench and more like an accidental safe haven.

The joking and flirty back-and-forth keep the air buoyant—he nudges you, you toss a mock insult back, and for a few bites, you wonder if this could keep lasting.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

But outside, shadows shift. A group of guys floats across the window, projecting tension through the glass. Seongje freezes. His whole body tightens next to you. The warmth in his eyes is gone, replaced in an instant by cold focus. His joking lips flatten. It’s instant— like the bright soap bubble of the store is popped by a jagged nail. The fragile shimmer of warmth gone, leaving behind only sharp drops that sting your eyes the way soap does: sudden, bitter, burning.

Seongje’s jaw flexes; his hand scrambles for his glasses, sliding them back onto his face with a hurried, practiced motion. Next comes the shirt—forgotten on the bench beside him—fingers closing around it almost too fast.

He stands so abruptly you nearly drop your ramen. The bright store lights stretch his shadow thin as he edges toward the door, never quite meeting your eyes.

“Sorry—I gotta go. Thanks for dinner. See you around, babe.”

The words spill out, clipped and low. Before you can reply, he's already moving: posture rigid, the shirt bunched in one fist, the other adjusting his glasses. He slips through the automatic doors—slow, deliberate steps, every inch of him coiled tight.

You just sit there, stunned, watching as he threads into the night, following the group of guys like a pulled string. The nickname echoing in your mind. A faint warmth blooms along your jawline, spreading upward in a soft, quiet rush you barely notice. Your fingers trace the rim of your cup, gripping it a little tighter, as if holding onto the moment just whispered. You can’t make sense of the sudden shift, all you can do is stare, waiting for feeling to catch up with thought. Eventually, you get back to your senses, toss the empty bowls in the trash—one final, pointless gesture before moving toward the door.

On your way out, you catch your reflection in the window.

Figures. Only you could turn instant noodles into a full-blown melodrama.

The next “Next time”, you promise yourself, you’ll keep it strictly to dinner.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 - pt.10 - pt.11 - pt.12 - pt.13 - pt.14 - pt.15

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