Ateez? More Like A Tease…

Powder in the eyes, cheap shot, sure. But the crowd roared when San went down, blinded and bleeding. Danny had walked out with the cash and the victory, and in his mind, that made it fair. The rain matted his hair to his forehead, the sharp scent of ozone and wet concrete wrapping around him as he lit a cigarette with fumbling fingers as somewhere behind him, a door creaked. He didn’t turn. Didn’t notice the shadow step out from the alleyway. Didn’t notice the other one already tailing him across the street, boots splashing in time with the thunder.

Two figures. One lean, cloaked in black with a slightly off kilter gait, like a dancer enjoying a private joke. The other, broader, quieter, precision in motion. Both masked. Both deadly.

The cigarette was gone by the time Danny reached the corner of Valentine and 6th, a grimy little intersection where even the streetlights gave up. The only illumination came from flickers of lightning cracking across the sky, brief flashes revealing graffiti covered walls and busted out windows. He muttered to himself as he stepped over a soggy pizza box and into the narrow hallway of his apartment building, a concrete coffin of a place with peeling paint and that ever present reek of mildew, sweat, and leftover Chinese takeout.

Unit 206. The lock stuck, like it always did. He jiggled the key, cursed under his breath. The moment the lock clicked, Danny shoved the door open, kicking aside a pile of junk mail and stepping into the dark. The building was quiet, too quiet. Most of the tenants worked late or didn’t come home at all. The overhead light in his unit buzzed once and died as he grumbled, tossing his keys onto the counter, peeling off his wet jacket. Outside his window, thunder rolled in the echoing silence until the sound of soft, dragging leather across tile caught his attention.

Danny turned, confused, not yet afraid. Then the door to his apartment creaked open… slowly. But no one was there. He walked toward it and stood in the threshold of his shitty little apartment, blinking into the hallway. No one. Just flickering overheads and the sound of rain dripping through the broken skylight near the stairs. Maybe the wind had pushed the door back open. Or maybe he hadn’t closed it all the way. That’s what he told himself. Still, he locked it this time. Triple bolt. Slamming it shut and turning around only to freeze.

His kitchen light was on now and it hadn’t been before. And standing directly beneath it, like a fucked up painting brought to life, was a figure in a long black robe and a gleaming Ghostface mask. The fabric clung wetly to his chest, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Playful and mocking as a gloved hand tapped a kitchen knife against his thigh, casual, like he was considering how to use it.

Danny stumbled back a step, heart climbing up his throat. “Who the fuck…”

“Oh, Danny boy,” the voice crooned, playful and syrup slick through the modulated distortion. “You didn’t really think that cheap trick would go unpunished, did you?” The mask tilted again, almost amused as Danny’s eyes darted to the hallway. Too far. The window? Nailed shut. The fire escape? Blocked by an old dresser he never moved. “I mean…. powder? Really? What’s next? Thumbtacks in the gloves? Banana peels in the ring?” Ghostface took a step forward, boots squelching on the wet floor. “San could’ve gone blind, you know. Which would’ve been very inconvenient for me. He’s the only one who knows how to make my coffee just right.”

Danny lunged for the drawer where he kept an old hunters knife, but Ghostface was already there, quicker, smoother, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the counter. The distorted laugh echoed in the tiny space, and Ghostface leaned in close, mask nearly touching Danny’s face. “You don’t get to win dirty and walk away, sweetheart. Not in our city.” He brought the blade up to Danny’s throat, not slicing, not yet, just resting it there. Just enough for Danny to feel the cold edge of inevitability. “Any last words for the crowd, champ?”

Danny tried to spit in his face, but the mask tilted back just in time, unbothered. “Cute,” Ghostface said. “But not original.” Danny’s breath sawed in and out of his lungs, raw and ragged. “Y… You’re crazy,” he hissed, cradling his bruised wrist, stumbling back as the Ghostface in the kitchen stalked toward him, blade twirling with flair. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Aw, come on,” Wooyoung said behind the mask, voice light, teasing and mean. “That’s not very gratitude core of you. I did wait until you got home, didn’t I?” Danny’s spine met the edge of the counter as he backed up and kept backing, heart pounding, eyes wide, completely missing the second figure emerging from the hallway behind him. The second Ghostface was silent. Still. Watching and waiting as Danny took one more step and collided hard with something solid. He turned, gasping and the second Ghostface shoved him backward with both hands right into Wooyoung’s waiting arms.

“Gotcha,” Wooyoung purred, plunging the knife deep into Danny’s gut with an elegant little twist, like he was carving a ribbon into a present. Danny choked, a wet, guttural sound as he stumbled back, eyes wide, hands flying to the fresh wound. Blood poured out in thick, dark ropes as he staggered toward the hallway, hand leaving smeared red fingerprints on the wall as he gasped for air and ran, pure instinct, blind and stumbling toward the only thing that made sense, his bedroom. He didn’t even realize he was screaming as his legs barely carried him across the threshold, crashing into the dresser as he scrambled to shut the door behind him but it didn’t click all the way.

And it didn’t matter. Because the soft sound of boots against tile was still coming. Steady. Rhythmic and mocking as Danny collapsed to the floor, crawling now, fingers reaching for the phone on his nightstand because like an idiot he realized he left his damn cell at the bar, he knocked over a lamp, the shade crashing to the ground and just as he wrapped his trembling hand around the phone…..

The bedroom door opened. Two figures stood in the frame, Ghostface masks grinning like death itself had a sense of humor. Danny was gasping now, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his abdomen, the other slick with blood as he tried to crawl backward, away from the figures in the doorway. His legs weren’t working right. His vision was blurring. He could barely hear over the sound of his own panicked breathing as one of them stepped forward. The broader one. Quieter.

Ghostface didn’t speak. Just crossed the room in slow, even strides and then without ceremony, dropped to a knee in front of him and Danny flinched, eyes wild as the knife in the masked figure’s hand came down, not into him, but into the floorboards. Buried there with a sudden crack, the blade quivering in place beside Danny’s shaking leg. And then, slowly, purposefully, the figure reached up and pulled the mask off.

It was San. His dark hair was soaked, sweat and rain glistening on his jaw, and his eyes, those soft, sweet eyes the crowd always underestimated, were dark and unreadable now. Calm. Cold. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at Danny, head tilted, watching him squirm as Danny’s expression crumpled with shock, disbelief crawling over his features. “No…” he breathed, shaking his head. “No fucking way…”

San’s voice was steady. Quiet. Almost gentle. “You could’ve fought clean.”

Danny’s lip curled, rage flaring like a last ditch defense mechanism. “You serious? You’re gonna kill me over a fight?”

San’s mouth twitched just slightly as Danny barked out a bitter laugh. “What the fuck….” He nodded toward the second Ghostface still standing in the doorway, knife gleaming. “That your boyfriend under that one?”

“Why does everyone think we’re dating?” Wooyoung’s voice snapped through the modulator, dripping with exasperation and theatrical offense. He stepped into the room with a dramatic flair, unbothered by the gore or tension. “Is it the matching masks? The coordinated kills? The cohabitation? We only fucked a few times. Calm down.” He peeled his mask off as he walked, revealing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and a smudge of blood on his cheek like war paint. He crouched beside San, elbow brushing his as he glanced down at Danny like he was barely more interesting than a popped tire.

“Anyway,” Wooyoung added, tone light, “if I was gonna date someone, it wouldn’t be a guy who wears camo to dinner.” San didn’t react. He just reached over and yanked the knife from the floor, jaw set as he wiped a thumb across his knuckles methodically, like someone tidying up after dinner. “I don’t… like dirty players,” he said, voice low and even, the kind of voice that made the room feel colder even though the apartment was still thick with humidity and the smell of hot cigarettes. He never shouted. He didn’t need to.

Wooyoung moved before Danny could draw a breath. Fast, practiced, an arm wrapping around Danny’s chest, pinning him as if the man were already a coat to be shrugged off. Danny thrashed, fist and elbow flailing, panic making him clumsy and loud as San stepped forward, the knife gleaming dull under the single buzzing bulb. He didn’t hesitate. There was no flourish, no dramatic pause, just the brutal efficiency of a man who knew exactly how to end something and had done it before.

One movement and the blade found the first eye. Danny’s scream tore out of him, a raw, animal sound that bounced off the cheap plaster and disappeared into the stairwell. He clawed at San’s hand, fingers scrabbling for purchase on wet tile. His hands left frantic streaks across the counter as he tried to push away, to shove, to move. San’s face didn’t change. He pushed the knife again, the second time more deliberate, and then the first eye stilled in Danny’s face like an impossible, awful punctuation. He blinked when there was nothing left to blink with, a wet, ragged blink that made him choke.

Wooyoung’s grip tightened and his free hand found Danny’s jaw and tilted the head up so San could reach the other side. There was a mechanical calm to the way the two of them moved together, one holding, one finishing, ritualized and cold. When the second movement came, Danny’s scream broke into a wet, keening sound. He slammed backwards, palms skidding against the floor, knees giving out. For a frantic second his hands clawed at the doorway, at the floor, at any texture that would anchor him as he stumbled to his feet with the disoriented momentum of someone trying to wake from a nightmare.

Blood and rain slicked the tiles, but everything else was a jagged, muffled world. He lurched toward the bedroom window like a man trying to find the exit in darkness, boots slipping on the plastic that had been tracked in from the hallway. He fumbled with the latch, hands trembling so badly they couldn’t form a coherent motion. San and Wooyoung followed, shadows advancing with them, Wooyoung’s laugh was soft, almost conversational, like someone commenting on weather. San kept his face angled down, his breathing measured as Danny threw the window open and there was air, wet and sharp, and instinct, and the stupid bright idea that maybe the fall would jar him back to sense.

He didn’t look down. He tried to climb, tried to pull himself up on the narrow balcony rail, but his balance was gone. The world spun. He crashed through with a flailing, desperate momentum, the lattice tearing like paper. There was a horrible, single instant of suspended weight as his body cleared the sill and then dropped, a graceless, terrible arc and hit the pavement below with a finality that sucked the sound right out of the rainy night.

On the balcony, San didn’t move for a long, steady breath. Wooyoung looked down once, face unreadable for a heartbeat, then turned back toward the doorway like they were leaving a party they hadn’t enjoyed. San slid the knife back into his boot as if it were an inconvenient utensil as Wooyoung clipped the mask back on and offered San a crooked half smile, a private thing between them, before they folded back into the hallway’s shadow and disappeared down the stairs, leaving the apartment to the buzzing light and the rain.

Down below, the street absorbed the body without ceremony. The city, which had been trying to wash itself clean, simply kept on raining.

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The hallway was dim, the overhead light buzzing like it needed to die already. The rain had passed, but the damp stuck to the walls and floor, soaking into everything like grief. Somewhere downstairs, a dog barked followed by someone else slamming a door. It was just another Tuesday in Los Angeles as Y/N leaned against her front door, phone clutched tight in her hand, jaw clenched. “I’m not coming home, Mom.” She wasn’t yelling. Yet. But her voice had that tone, the kind that said she was circling the drain. “I don’t care what he said. I don’t care if he showed up crying in your office or bought you flowers or swore on your favorite rosary. That doesn’t mean he changed.” She paused, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her mother’s voice filtered through the speaker, sharp and layered in guilt. “He’s not perfect, but he loves you. People fight, Y/N. He made a mistake.”

That nearly made her laugh. “A mistake is forgetting to pick up dinner. Not breaking my fucking wrist.” Her mom huffed. “Watch your language.” Y/N blinked hard, her throat tight as the light above her flickered. “You know I didn’t leave for fun, right?” she said, quieter now. “I left because I thought if I stayed, I’d end up….”

“Stop,” her mother snapped. “You’re being dramatic. He’s trying to make things right. He’s been asking about you.”

“Great.” Y/N snapped right back. “He can ask all he wants. I’m not flying back to New York just because he’s suddenly sorry.”

“Don’t be stubborn.”

“Don’t be blind.”

“This isn’t like you,” her mother finally said, low and disappointed. “You’re not this bitter.” Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut and her grip on the phone shook. “Yeah,” she murmured. “And you’re not usually this cruel.” She hung up before she could hear the reply letting the hallway fill with silence, except for her shallow breathing and the faint hum of city noise leaking in from the cracked window at the stairwell. She leaned against the cool wood of her apartment door. She stood there for a moment, staring at the chipped floor tile like it might hold answers. Then she heard the door across the hall creak open. Apartment 3B.

She glanced up just in time to see Wooyoung step out, barefoot and blissfully unfazed, holding a carton of orange juice like it was a chalice. His platinum blonde hair was still damp from a shower, sticking to his forehead in soft messy tufts. Gray sweats slung low on his hips, a black tank top clinging to his frame, silver chain resting on his collarbones like decoration on a weapon. His smirk was subtle but there. “Hey,” he said easily. Y/N straightened up, blinking once to shake off the conversation residue. “Hey.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, carton in hand. “You alright?” he asked, eyes flicking toward her phone. “You sounded kind of… murdery.” That pulled a soft snort out of her, more breath than laugh, but still something.

“Just my mom,” she said. “She wants me to go back to New York.” Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “And let him win?” Her head snapped up, startled, but then she saw the way he was watching her. Not cruel. Not judging. Just knowing. She looked away, embarrassed. “You heard that?” He shrugged. “Old pipes. Shitty building. Not my fault the walls are emotionally codependent.” That earned him a real laugh, quiet and unguarded as she ran a hand through her hair. “We’ve been arguing on and off since I moved here.”

“I figured.” He tilted the carton toward her. “You’ve got the same don’t fuck with me face I had after my cousin’s wedding.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your cousin’s wedding?”

“Long story. Involved shrimp cocktails, a fake pregnancy announcement, and a very drunk groomsman with a nipple ring.”

Y/N blinked. “That sounds like a story I absolutely need to hear.” Wooyoung grinned, and it did something strange to the air between them, charged it a little as he pushed off the doorframe and took a step closer, not too close, just… there. “You wanna come over for a bit?” he asked, voice lighter now. “San made too much pasta and we’ve been watching The Shining like it’s a romcom.” Y/N tilted her head. “That… actually sounds perfect.” He held the door open with one hand, gesturing like a dramatic hotel concierge. “Madam.”

Y/N stepped across the threshold into their apartment, not quite sure what she expected, but surprised at how… lived in it felt. The place was cozy, if a little chaotic. Posters and old fight flyers were tacked up on the wall beside shelves crammed with blurays and video games. The living room was lit by the soft glow of a lamp with a cracked shade, and something that smelled like garlic and red pepper hung thick in the air. “Ignore the mess,” Wooyoung said, closing the door behind them. “San doesn’t know what a laundry basket is. He thinks the couch is the basket.” A voice came from deeper in the room, low and tired. “I can hear you, asshole.”

Y/N turned and looked at San. He was sprawled out on the couch in black sweatpants and a black tank top that matched Wooyoung’s, one arm draped over the back cushion, the other holding a spoonful of pasta that had long since cooled. His hair was still damp from a shower, a few strands curling over his forehead, and there was a faint bruise blooming along his jaw, old enough to not look fresh, new enough to make her stare a little too long. He looked up when she entered and didn’t look away as Y/N offered a small, polite smile. “Hey, San.” He nodded slowly, like it took effort to look casual. “Hey.” Wooyoung breezed past her, already grabbing two forks and a third bowl from the drying rack. “She’s staying for pasta and horror clichés,” he called.

Y/N moved further in, pretending she didn’t notice the way San’s eyes tracked her the entire time, like she was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t need to. The silence said enough. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even uncomfortable. But it was… thick. She sat down on the edge of the loveseat beside the couch and crossed her legs, trying not to notice the way his gaze lingered on the exposed stretch of skin just above her knee before flicking back up to her face. San had never really talked to her much. A few “good mornings,” a few quiet nods in the hall. He wasn’t like Wooyoung, didn’t flirt or banter or ask what she was listening to through her headphones. But now, sitting this close, the quiet buzzed between them. And he was looking at her. Not in a creepy way. But not in an innocent one, either.

The movie was playing, but nobody was really watching. Y/N sat between them now on the couch, her bowl of pasta balanced on her knees, fork twirling absently as thunder cracked from the TV. Jack Nicholson was yelling in a snowstorm, but the real storm was the glances San kept failing to hide. Wooyoung sat to her right, one leg tucked under him, his head tipped back against the cushion as he picked at his own bowl. He wasn’t subtle about watching her either, but his gaze didn’t linger. His style was quick flicks, playful jabs, heat without the ache. San, though? He was hurting. He sat on her left, elbow on the armrest, hand half covering his mouth like he thought it might disguise the fact that he hadn’t looked away from her in at least ten minutes. His pasta was untouched as he watched her lips every time she took a bite. Watched the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. Watched the stretch of her thigh where her shorts rode up when she shifted.

And of course Y/N noticed. How could she not? She didn’t say anything, just kept eating, slow, unfazed. But her body shifted ever so slightly toward him on instinct. Not away. And San, poor San, almost dropped his fork. “So,” Wooyoung said suddenly, grinning over the rim of his glass. “You ever been to an underground fight?” Y/N blinked, thrown by the change in topic. “Like… real ones?”

“Very real,” Wooyoung said, winking. “Blood, sweat, broken noses, the occasional flying tooth.”

“That sounds wildly illegal.”

“Illegal?” he gasped, mock offended. “Absolutely not. It’s a totally normal sweaty man violence club held in a condemned warehouse run by a guy named Rico who owns four snakes and a pet raccoon.”

Y/N laughed. “You’re not serious.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Come Friday night and find out.” San shifted beside her but said nothing as Y/N glanced at him. “Wait… do you fight?” He paused. The muscles in his jaw twitching as he shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Wooyoung snorted. “He’s the headliner. Crowd favorite. Once punched a guy so hard he threw up.”

San sighed. “He bit me first.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “He bit you?”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung leaned in. “And then San broke his ribs and gave him a concussion.”

“I didn’t give him the concussion.”

“Oh, my bad.” Wooyoung took another bite. “The floor did.”

Y/N looked back at San. “So you’re, like… dangerous.” His eyes flicked to hers, dark, unreadable and something in his chest visibly tightened. “Only when I need to be.” The words hung in the air for a second too long and Wooyoung smirked into his glass as San looked away first. Y/N finished her last bite and placed the bowl on the coffee table, leaning back against the couch. Unknowingly sitting between two men who’d both killed someone less than a couple days ago. One of them trying not to explode from how good she smelled. The other trying not to say something like, Wanna wear my knife like jewelry?

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Wednesday smelled like burnt coffee, dry printer paper, and someone’s off brand cologne that should’ve been outlawed in 2011. The office was a colorless blur of gray cubicles and cheap carpet, the hum of fluorescent lights mixing with the distant clack of keyboards and the occasional sigh of a broken spirit as Y/N sat at her desk in the far left corner of the floor, staring blankly at the spreadsheet glowing on her monitor like it might suddenly become interesting. It never did though. Her job was, technically, client data coordination, which really meant organizing paperwork that people like Brian were supposed to help file and then somehow always forgot about until the last minute.

Speak of the devil…. “Hey, Y/N,” Brian’s voice carried from behind her partition like a nasal storm cloud. “Quick question.” She turned in her chair slowly, already bracing herself as Brian leaned one elbow on the cubicle wall, tall enough to peer over it like a nosy giraffe. His tie was crooked. His smile smug. “Any reason the ledger reports for Q2 haven’t been submitted yet?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows in faux innocence. “They’re due today. You were supposed to send them to Mel by noon.” She stared at him. “You were supposed to log them into the portal first. Remember? We split the task Monday.” Brian gave a slow shrug. “I don’t know, I don’t think that was me. You sure?” Y/N fought the urge to throw her stapler at his face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mel, the department head, look up from her glass office and Brian, of course, saw it too. “I mean, if it’s your part that’s holding things up, we should probably just let Mel know so it doesn’t reflect poorly on the team.”

Y/N stood up, voice sharp but controlled. “Brian, the folder was on your desk yesterday. I emailed you a reminder. Twice.” He gave her a look that was all pity and performance. “I didn’t see any email.”

“Maybe check your inbox instead of TikTok next time.” That earned a snicker from someone a few cubicles over and Brian’s jaw clenched. “Wow. Okay. No need to be hostile.”

“Then stop lying.”

The air tensed as Mel opened her door. “Y/N, Brian,” she called, voice polite but clipped. “Can I see you both in my office?” Brian gave her a what did I do? smirk and strolled ahead like a smug golden retriever that just peed on the rug as Y/N followed, teeth gritted and palms itching.

Sometimes she wanted to stab him with her pen until the ink turned from blue to red.

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The pizza place smelled like melted cheese and old dreams, exactly what Y/N needed after a day spent in cubicle hell. The bell over the door jingled weakly as she stepped in, hair damp from the light drizzle outside, purse slung over one shoulder like it was carrying all her rage. She didn’t bother looking around. Just bee lined to the counter and gave the guy a flat, “Two slices of pepperoni, please,” before collapsing into the booth nearest the window. Her head thumped back against the cushion.

She hadn’t even taken a bite when someone cleared their throat gently. “You look like you fought a printer and lost.” San. Alone. Black hoodie. Soft joggers. Damp hair pushed back under a black cap. His hands in his pockets. No Wooyoung. Just him. The last person she expected to see without the chaos twin attached at the hip.

He gave her the softest smile. Like he didn’t want to intrude but couldn’t just walk past her either. “Mind if I sit?” Y/N nodded, surprised at how easy the yes came out. “Yeah. I mean… no. Sit.” He slid into the booth across from her, legs slightly spread, arms folded casually on the table. His eyes flicked to her pizza, then back up to her face. “Rough day?” She let out a snort that was barely a laugh. “You could say that.” He raised an eyebrow and she hesitated, then shook her head. “Just… work stuff. Office drama. You ever meet someone whose whole personality is blaming other people?”

San’s lips twitched. “I fight people for fun. But yeah, I’ve met that kind of guy.”

She smiled at that. “Brian,” she muttered like it was a curse. “My coworker. Lost the reports he was supposed to file, threw me under the bus, and then played victim in front of my boss.” San didn’t say anything right away. Just watched her quietly, like he was letting her talk as long as she wanted. “And then he had the nerve to act like I was emotional. Like, no, Brian. I’m just two seconds away from flipping a table and setting you on fire.”

That made him huff out a soft laugh, just a breath, but real. “Want me to hit him?” She paused, pizza halfway to her mouth, eyes flicking up. San looked completely serious. So calm it was almost dangerous. She blinked then smirked. “That an official offer?” His mouth curved. “Limited time only.” The smile that tugged at her lips stayed longer this time. “Tempting.” Their eyes met across the table. And for the first time since she moved across the hall… she realized San wasn’t just shy. He was quiet. Intentional. The kind of man who didn’t waste words, not because he had none, but because he only gave them to people he wanted to understand him. And he was looking at her like he wanted that very badly.

They ate in easy silence for a few minutes, just the occasional clink of the metal tray, the shuffle of feet behind the counter, and the hum of neon from the buzzing “OPEN” sign in the window. It wasn’t awkward, just… simple. Comfortable. Y/N finished her first slice and leaned back in the booth, watching San tear through his like a man who’d earned it in blood. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility. Her eyes drifted again, just a second too long. Across his shoulders, the way his hoodie clung when he leaned forward, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing strong forearms and a faded bruise near his wrist.

He looked up suddenly, catching her gaze mid glance but she didn’t look away. Instead, she tilted her head a little, lips tugging upward. “Can I ask you something?” San blinked, wiping his hand on a napkin, wary but open. “Sure.” Y/N hesitated for a second, but not because she didn’t want to ask, because she didn’t know how he’d react. “Are you and Wooyoung…… together?” The words landed softly but they hit hard. San blinked. Once. Twice. Then again, like he genuinely hadn’t expected that to come out of her mouth. And then he laughed. A real, low, guttural kind of laugh that made her eyebrows raise. His head dropped back for a second, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek before he looked back at her, grinning wide. “Why does everyone think that?”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile. “I mean… you kind of give off matching tattoo, shared Spotify playlist, codependent energy.” That made him laugh harder and he shook his head, still smiling. “No. We’re not together.”

She smirked. “Ever been?”

San opened his mouth. And then, carefully, “Once. A long time ago. Didn’t stick.” She lifted a brow. “But you still live together?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “We’ve known each other since we were seventeen. It’s just… easy.” She took a slow sip of her soda, watching him over the rim of her cup. “So… what you’re saying is, you’re single.” San met her eyes and for once, he didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said, voice just a little quieter than before. “Very.” The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Like something unsaid had just sat down at the table with them.

By the time they stepped out of the pizza place, the rain had returned, not heavy, but a lazy summer drizzle that made the asphalt shine and the air smell like earth and smoke. San clicked the lock on his old black pickup, the kind that rattled slightly when it idled but ran like a beast. He reached for the passenger door without thinking and opened it for her. Y/N glanced at him with a raised brow as she climbed in. “Chivalry? In this economy?” He gave her a half smile as he rounded the front. “It’s rare,” he agreed, “but not extinct.”

The drive was short, ten minutes, maybe. Mostly quiet, but not in a bad way. The kind of quiet where neither of them needed to fill the air with noise just to prove something. Still, at one red light, Y/N spoke. “You’re not as quiet as I thought.” San glanced over, smile creeping in. “You just haven’t caught me in the right mood before.” She arched a brow. “And today is the right mood?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave her a side glance that lingered a little too long, his voice low when it finally came. “Might be.” Y/N looked out the window, biting back a grin. When they pulled into the lot beside the apartment building, she hesitated before getting out. “Thanks for the ride,” she said as San looked at her, one hand gripping the wheel still, knuckles tight. “You wanna walk up together?” he asked. “Since we’re both headed there anyway.”

She smirked. “Trying to walk me to my door like we’re on a date?”

He smirked right back. “I’ll take the side closest to traffic. Just in case.”

They walked up the stairs slowly, lazily. Still no rush. Their steps echoing quietly in the stairwell. Y/N was close enough to brush against him once, twice, once by accident, once definitely not. Neither commented on it as they reached their hallway, the familiar soft buzz of the overhead light flickering as always And then the door to apartment 3B swung open and Wooyoung, dripping wet, fresh from the shower, stepped into the hallway in nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips, one hand scratching lazily at his chest like he didn’t even notice the world existed. His hair was slicked back, face flushed from the steam. “Oh. Thought you were Yeosang bringing me my weed.”

Y/N snorted as San sighed. Wooyoung’s eyes flicked from San to her, still walking together, still a little too close, and a devilish grin crawled across his face like he’d just found a button worth pressing. “Well hello, neighbor,” he said slowly, adjusting his towel in the least helpful way. “Didn’t know you two were out having a little date without me.” Y/N laughed because what else could you do when your hot towel clad neighbor said things like that with full eye contact?

San, on the other hand, looked like he wanted the floor to open up and eat him alive. “If you still need me to hit that coworker of yours…. Let me know.” He said only half joking before shoving a protesting Wooyoung back inside leaving Y/N to stare after them.

That offer looking more and more and inviting as each second passed.

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It was just past eight when Y/N stepped off the bus and started up the stairs to her building, heels echoing with each tired step. Her blouse was wrinkled, her tote bag heavier than usual, and she had that post work glaze in her eyes, the one you only get after surviving another day of Brian and two surprise meetings that should’ve been emails. She was halfway down the hallway when the door to 3B opened and San and Wooyoung stepped out, mid conversation. San wore black joggers and a fitted zip up jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows again, hands taped already. A few fading bruises trailed his collarbone where his tank top didn’t cover. His hair was loose and a little messy, fight night mode already dialed in.

Wooyoung? Tight black jeans, leather jacket, rings on four fingers, platinum hair tousled to perfection. Danger in cologne form. They both looked up at the same time when they saw her and Wooyoung grinned first. “Look who’s home.” Y/N slowed, giving them both a once over. “Where are you guys off to looking like you’re about to commit crimes?” San’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk as Wooyoung stepped forward. “Fight night,” he said, like it should’ve been obvious. “Rico’s warehouse. Underground chaos. Men bleeding for money. That kind of thing. You know.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Romantic.”

“You have no idea,” he said, then leaned just a little closer. “You should come.” San glanced at him, eyes flicking sideways fast, but he said nothing as Wooyoung kept his gaze locked on her. “Seriously. You said you’ve never been to one, right? Consider this your personal invitation. You’d love it. It’s loud. Sweaty. Unhinged.“ Y/N gave a skeptical tilt of her head. “And by love it, you mean…?”

“I mean you’ll have fun,” Wooyoung grinned. “And you’ll get to see San half naked and knock a guy out with nothing but his elbow.” San exhaled, finally speaking. “He’s exaggerating.”

Wooyoung waved it off. “Barely.”

Y/N hesitated in front of her door, key in hand. Something in her buzzed a little at the thought, warehouse lights, loud music, danger in the air… and San in the ring. “What time?”

San blinked in surprise as Wooyoung smirked wider. “We’ll text you the address. Don’t wear anything you care about.”

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Brian left the office an hour after most people had clocked out. Not because he was working late. But because he was dragging his feet, stalling, probably trying to find a way to frame someone else for his fuck up on tomorrow’s deadline. The building was mostly dark now, just the glow of the exit signs and one buzzing vending machine light near the elevator. He didn’t notice the black truck parked across the street earlier. Didn’t notice the two figures slipping quietly into the side stairwell before he hit the button for the garage.

His footsteps echoed too loud in the stairwell and when he hit the bottom, pushing the heavy door open to the underground parking deck, the concrete swallowed the sound. It was cold down there. Damp. Reeking faintly of oil, rubber, and mildew. Half the lights were out, and the rest flickered just enough to be annoying as Brian yawned and muttered to himself, fumbling for his keys as he crossed the lot. He was parked in the corner next to the concrete pillar and the busted security camera no one ever fixed.

He reached his car, opened the door….

He froze. There was a sound behind him. Like a boot scuffing the pavement. Slow and deliberate. He turned quickly but there was no one. Just the shadows between cars. He squinted. “Hello?” No answer came. His hand twitched toward his phone.

“If you have to ask,” a voice called from somewhere in the dark, distorted and playful, “you already know the answer.”

Brian spun around again, keys clattering to the floor as behind one of the pillars, a figure stepped out in a Ghostface suit. Long black robe dragging across the floor, head tilted like he was confused or maybe just entertained. Brian backed up fast, slamming into the door of his car. “What the fuck?”

“Brian,” the voice said, cheerfully now. “Middle manager. Team killer. Email CCer.” The ghostface took another step. The blade in his hand gleamed in the low light. “You’ve been very busy.”

Brian scrambled for his phone again. But it was already too late. Because now there was a second one. The other ghostface moved faster, cutting across the aisle between cars in a blur, boots slapping wet pavement as the blade slashed out, sparking briefly against the metal hood of the car just inches from Brian’s face and he screamed and ran. Because they always do.

Brian’s dress shoes squeaked uselessly on the slick concrete as he tore down the row of parked cars, phone in hand, thumb shaking on the screen to call 911 but it failed. “SIRI, DIALL 911!”

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat your question?”

“YOU USELESS BITCH!” Brian threw a look over his shoulder, ghostface one still followed at a walking pace, knife in hand, posture casual like this was all just a fun little cardio circuit as Brian veered around a beat up sedan, tripping over a loose parking block and slamming into the concrete wall. He gasped, turned, knife still down the row, glinting like a promise in ghostface’s hand. “Wh…. WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Brian shouted, eyes wide, spit gathering in the corners of his mouth.

The figure just stopped and tilted its head. “Want?” the voice was distorted and amused. “Oh, sweetie. You don’t get to ask questions. You filed the wrong paperwork for that.” Another voice joined in, calmer and quieter from behind. “Check your blind spot.”

Brian whipped around and ghostface two was now much closer. Too close. He screamed and scrambled to the right, slamming into a side mirror, drawing blood on his arm. “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” His voice bounced off empty walls, unanswered as ghostface one was laughing now, slow and syrupy through the voice modulator. “You know what the funny thing is?” the voice mused, circling. “You’re not even special. You’re not a killer. You’re not a genius. You’re just… annoying.”

Brian was crying now, face twisted with panic. “Please…. please I… I didn’t do anything…..”

“No,” ghostface two said, quiet and still, voice deeper under the modulation. “But you were a dick to her.”

Brian blinked. “Who?” But it was too late again. Wooyoung’s blade came first, quick, across the thigh, sharp enough to make Brian collapse screaming. Not fatal. Just enough to make it fun. He tried to crawl. Tried to pull himself under the neighboring SUV. But San grabbed his ankle hard and yanked him back so fast his forehead smacked the concrete with a wet crack. He barely had time to scream before San knelt on his back, cold blade pressing to the back of his neck as Wooyoung crouched nearby, watching with one leg lazily bouncing, mask tilted. “Say hi to HR,” he said cheerfully.

And San drove the blade in. Quick and precise. Brian’s body twitched once. Twice. Then went still. San stood slowly back up, blood dripping in steady lines from the blade in his hand as Wooyoung stepped up beside him, pulling off his mask with one hand and let out a breath like he’d just come off a treadmill. “God,” he sighed. “That guy smelled like microwave soup.”

San didn’t say anything. Just wiped his blade on Brian’s sleeve, tucked it away, and started walking. “You think she’ll come tonight?” Wooyoung asked, trailing behind him.

San didn’t look back as blood poured into a pool around Brian’s dead body. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She’ll come.”

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