#kingminiefics

“Jeon.”

The slight nick on the edge of the hardwood holds his gaze captive – compact Italian oak amply glossed to glint beneath the suspension lamps. Had he been in the right state of mind, Jeon Jungkook would have already been on his feet, an arm extended in a fold over the other atop his neat Tom Ford ensemble in anticipation to pay his respect to his senior in a form of a bow – much to the chagrin of the latter who countlessly tells the younger not to bother because, friends don’t exactly bow ninety degrees to each other, do they? However, such is not the case as he stays rooted on his seat, unknowing of the shadow that looms over his desk. His eyes have been trained on his work computer for the past two hours and a quarter, as soon as he had stepped foot in the building with a lone thought standing out amidst millions in his head.

Something is missing, one that he knows would be of a little detail, negligible at first glance but one that is likely to be of great gravity to the case.

As he skims over the report of the day’s operation, his stomach tightens at the thought of the casualty count the report holds.

A small 24 written in one section of the paper, branded in bold red ink. Twenty-four lives had been unjustly taken without so much as a bat of an eye nor a remote indication of contempt.

Jeon Jungkook is a man of his words and particularly, his promises. He had planned the team’s incursion on the filthy brothel for months, weeks and weeks of thorough run-throughs of blueprints and raid schemes. And yet, as it turned out, it’s all flushed down the gutter in mere minutes, leaving the department to chase after their own tails once more, all ends tied in a loose blunder.

They had disposed of the instigating handler, a pudgy man of fifty-three named Kang Sojin, the man as their files had read to be disgustingly trafficking minors from overseas, snatched no doubts from the streets and smuggled for sex. Minors. Children. The underground brothel, in disguise of a churchof all things, had been crawling of it, men and women of all ages, lined at the counter waiting to be picked as if they were meat. Jungkook has a strong stomach, one that had held in sheer terror; but one look at a kid barely ten, dragged in a room with a thirty-year-old, his stomach curled and he had threatened to heave.

He knows that taking down Kang Sobin is not an inch, not even a fraction of it, close to taking down every single illegal prostitution ring in the city, much less the country; but taking down one was better than none, at least. Kang Sobin had been a mere dirt on the nail of one finger, a mere pawn used in the game of chess that can easily be replaced – a position that Jungkook is certain had already been filled the minute the bullet had been lodged in between Kang’s eyebrows.

Instead of a bow, Jungkook spreads the photos on the desk, cutting right in the center of the chase. “Somebody was there. In the brothel. Someone higher than Kang in position, significant enough to power thirteen more men than what we had initially anticipated. We guessed it had been the son, or Kim himself, but these pictures—”

His pointer finger descended on the older man’s forehead before pressing on the younger Kim’s chest on the glossy paper, “—clearly show that that had not been the case. Kim had been in China and his son in Vietnam the moment the operation was green-lighted. So, who exactly was that person everybody else just abandoned Kang for the moment bullets flew?”

“Higher than Kang? The asshole held a position that might as well be next to Kim himself,” Seokjin scoffs, “He’s a trusted man of Kim senior and spearheaded most of their filthy business in the vicinity of Seoul, so how is that? Surely, Kim’s men are not turning on him?”

The younger only shakes his head, tongue pressing against the wall of his left cheek, “It’s definitely not that. His men wouldn’t just risk losing their heads for a mere rebellion for Kim’s right-hand man. He would have them dead, heads on a silver platter - quite literally - for the dramatics of it before they even have the time to consider a revolt.”

Jungkook hates the catatonic silence that ensues save for the bothersome static hum of the digital clock that is positioned at the head of the door of his office – not that he needs one as he mostly goes on operations that warrants the use of guns, so having been presented with a desk and a leather office chair within the grey walls of his said office had definitely been one for a huge laugh. “It was definitely someone who possessed power that’s equal, if not more, to Kim’s son.”

“A dark horse, then?” Kim Seokjin does not spare a glance on the empty leather chairs that offer their function as he heads straight for Jeon’s desk, bottoms pressing against the edge as he sits comfortably.

Jungkook had always wondered, still does, out of pure curiosity of course, on what goes on daily in the head of his chief officer – because in contrast to the diurnal activities that comes with the job of being an agent, Kim Seokjin is too much of an optimist and a self-proclaimed pacifist to be perched in the middle of it all. Not that he was underestimating him, no, because eerie as it may seem, Kim Seokjin remains as such amidst cases that would have even Jeon Jungkook on his knees.

“Perhaps.”

The fact that Geum Yong Pa is, yet again, one step ahead of the game he supposedly created has him derailed off the tracks he thinks had been firmly established. In case comparison, Jeon Jungkook had previously expected the Korean syndicate to be merely an ingrown to the Russian Triads case they had a year prior, but they had clearly undervalued it to be some illiberal gang activity when it had been in fact a steady-growing multinational cartel – one that has grown enough to become a nearly invincible empire with numerous hole-and-corner connections and influence that no doubt bestowed them impunity in the present.

Geum Yong Pa is the biggest, most dreaded syndicate empire within the country, rising above undeserved titles such as ‘gangs’ which are all under their hold, with numerous powerful roots that extends to international nations but mainly to Southeast Asian countries, Russia, Europe, and the United States. They are known for their wide expanse of illegal activities; extortion, theft, and fraud carried out by smaller street groups through burglary, embezzlement, and scams. Underneath such are the smuggling of untaxed products and bribery of corrupt law enforcers and public officials with administrative and judicial roles, because really, who would deny a monthly fat paycheck quadruple the original? With a strong connection to the inner circle of a corrupt government, Geum Yong Pa is untouchable.

Along such comes the crimes Geum Yong Pa is truly known for: white-collar crimes, drug trafficking, human trafficking – under which are slavery, human smuggling, and prostitution – but most of all, drugs, violence and murder; one that expresses their power and authority for retribution to competition, not that there are many that dared.

“Is there an operation issued yet?”

Kim Seokjin is a confused mess when he looks over at the younger man, fingers stilling on the papers it's skimming. “For what?”

“Geum Yong Pa.”

At this, the older man stills. He shakes his head, lower lip being trapped between two rows of teeth, “It’s still under my inspection.”

Seokjin then places the paper down on the table once more, finding the conversation to be jumping over the fine line of serious and sensitive.

Pushing himself off the desk, Jungkook finds his senior to be leaning over the table by the heels of his hand, “If an operation is to be released, it will be dangerous, Jeon. This is a whole empire we’re talking about, one that held the Triads which we barely survived. Now, with all that that we know, it will be much bigger than that. It will take months – years even to just infiltrate their lowest circle and climbing to the top will be much harder. And I think you know that there is only one man in this damned team that would be capable of even trying it. The only man I think would even have the chance of surviving, no matter how slim.”

The last sentence has been said so quietly that Jungkook stiffens in his seat, the implication behind the statement clearly not missed, “One man’s life would be worth a million of others.”

Seokjin’s fingers spontaneously fumbles on his tie clip. “Even if it’s yours?”

“More so if it’s mine.”

Seokjin studies the younger man for a moment before glancing at the files in his hand. One signature is all it needs – his, precisely – and Jeon Jungkook will be taken under the wing of Park Kwanghui, a year in the unit’s ‘mob academy’ specializing in mobster tendencies because where else can he get adequate instructions on how to hit ground running with seasoned murders and dealers? With the education – that he’d like to gladly skip on but can’t – comes the rigorous training, which in fact would actually, in comparison to what he will be going through after the mere drills, by the hands of Kim Jinho would feel heavenly.

Park Kwanghui had been a Geum Yong Pa man, as he still is albeit undercover, with a position that gives him enough knowledge about the Kims. But after certain circumstances – as to which he is left with a beheaded wife and a blown-up family, he had sworn reprisal by pledging allegiance to the organization, providing just enough information to keep the backstage operation going.

“I’ll let you know,” With that, Kim Seokjin is walking out of his office, a pair of pursed lips behind the Styrofoam cup of the acidic office coffee that tastes nothing but black tar.

Jeon Jungkook is dedicated, the man knows that, his indifference and nonchalance in jeopardizing his own life in exchange for the peril of Kim Jinho’s empire is a massive proof of it. Yet, Kim Seokjin also knows that the kid’s devotion runs far more personal than just work. It is certainly beyond that.

Seokjin reckons that to him, the reason the operation release of the case is hard to let out is because of the biased reason that Jeon Jungkook is not just a mere agent, to him anyway, no. The kid has grown to become someone the older man considers to be a brother, or whatever term it was that entailed caring for him.

He can still remember when Jungkook had first taken shelter to the unit when the kid had been aged twelve at most, with Seokjin edging close to legality; mere months since he had started to work for the organization. The ghost of innocence that had coated the doe-eyed boy when the glass doors of the elevator had revealed him – wrapped in a wool blanket that they had used to comfort case survivors, his pouted lips quivering as the cold air of the headquarters engulfed his shivering wet frame – was something that the boy had traded along the way in exchange for an identity of a man who did not even blink as he pulled the trigger; that of a man who’s willing to risk his blood be painted on the streets than let his country be pulled under the shackles of Geum Yong Pa.

It is in Kim Seokjin’s knowledge what the case that is stashed somewhere in his office entails – it's a danger for Jeon Jungkook, and yet he cannot deny that that is what exactly the latter thrived on.

The elder cannot suppress the whirlwind of emotions, feelings of dread and the fear of the unknown the very moment the younger is to enter the circle of Geum Yong Pa. His identity will not be that of the coffee-addicted, villain-hunter Agent Jeon anymore. He would be Jeon Jungkook, a twenty-three-year old Geum Yong Pa man in the palms of Kim Jinho, a rabbit thrown in the middle of the jungle run by blood-thirsty lions.

He knows that Jungkook will be able to go in. He is Jeon Jungkook after all.

And Seokjin is afraid that once he’s in, there would be no way out.

Geum Yong Pa is a one-way destination with no return ticket. A one-way destination to hell.

He trusts Jungkook in doing the task, of course, the man is one of the very best for a reason – the plaques in the younger’s office realizes that. But he also cannot deny the brains of the adversary – the very one that had outsmarted the latest brothel bust lead by Jeon himself. If they are to go through with the operation, they will be fighting a battle blind-folded.

Yet, Seokjin thought, as he grips the expensive stylus, this is exactly what agents like him are for – they need no deliverance, they embody it for people who possess no power.

With his personal sentiments shoved to the very back of his brain, he presses his pen against the paper.

He shifts on his seat just as he finishes his signature with a strong point at the end of the curling scribble, eyes dragging away from the files spread out on his desk towards the unhinged entrance of his office where Kim Namjoon stands, no mere words needed to further his frantic eyes, “This is about the brothel bust. Agent Choi.”

In the mere mention of the still-missing agent, Seokjin is pushing himself off his chair, coat long forgotten on its back as he makes his way to Jeon’s office. Surely, the kid will not want to miss this.

Jungkook barely spares the slightest of attention to the frenzied tap Kim Seokjin leaves on his door as he passes by before he’s on his own feet, hot on his superior’s tail as they make their way to the board room – where they usually hold meetings if cases are urgent enough to be in need of a talk-through as everyone else is seated on the oval mahogany table that sits in the middle of the square room.

Jungkook takes notice that there is nobody else surrounded by the sound-proofed walls, save for himself, Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, and two of his team members that had been in the bust approximately three hours beforehand – Jihoon and Mina. In the middle of the table sits a black rectangular box, no written or printed hints attached as to where it could have possibly come from save for a small white envelope sitting atop the object.

“I left my lunchbox at our apartment—” Namjoon starts to speak and at this, Jungkook sees Seokjin throwing a pointed glare at the other, “–and on the way back, Sanghoon, the building keeper—“ He clarifies, “He gave it to me. It’s on your name, Jin, he said somebody dropped it for you.”

If anybody else mentions ‘Jin’, the chief officer would have been livid but it’s Namjoon, and the man has an extremely soft spot for the spectacled tall man, hence the ring on his left hand. Jungkook moves to prop his hip against the edge of the table, the position offering him a closer distance to the box.

“Was this inspected already?”

Namjoon nods, “The Security department wouldn’t say anything about it though. Only that it’s safe but they didn’t dare touch it further.”

Jungkook moves to pluck the envelope from the lid of the box, placing it on Seokjin’s hand. His eyebrows twitching, furrowing as he reads, “’Precious Choi Youngsik had a valuable tongue indeed’ what is that supposed to mean?” Seokjin drops the envelope on the table, pulling the box closer to the edge, finger delicately moving to lift the lid.

In the middle of the box, in the middle of a velvet cushion lies a tongue – a freshly cut one, Jungkook concludes as he eyes the wet blood the flesh sits on; red and thick. Glancing at the envelope, he plucks it from the table, fingers skimming through the surface before it pauses on a certain corner, “Give me a phone.” Jihoon slides his on the table, already having an idea as to what Jungkook might be on so he had already turned on the light of the device. As Jungkook hovers the light over the smooth paper, the hidden symbol – that of a golden dragon – stands out from the normal white hue, a perfect faint glimmer of gold, “Just as I had thought.”

From the side, Mina scoffs, “Fucking Choi. May his tongue-less body rot in hell.”

As there is goodness in humanity, there is the bad – immoral, unlawful, and evil; both coexisting that one precisely cannot solely be without the other – balance, if one must. Just as it is depicted in the yin and the yang, two opposite yet purely complementary energies that are interdependent, the ancient symbol of harmony serves as a reminder of the duality of life – that in every evil there is goodness, and beyond certain goodness lies wickedness somewhere within.

There are those who go such great lengths to achieve deeds in the name of goodness – to do good to others regardless of their respective places in the social hierarchy and economic status, persons who are only wishful of nothing else but to be able to help those in need, the kind of people who promote and foster the well-being of others even before themselves. However, as there are many philanthropists in the vast space of the entire societal crowd, the opposite of such are as abundant; the kind of people who, very much unlike the former, go great lengths to inflict harm not only to the welfare of others but to society as a whole.

Human persons are given the privilege to have their own choices – to each their own, they say – gifted with the gift of counsel to discern the right from the wrong and judgment, to know what to rightly act upon if viewed through Christian doctrine. As those who chose to aid in charities and volunteer works, there are those who choose a different path, those who commit crimes for their own living and survival – a life for a life, in which one dies in order for another to prosper – because what some deems as choices are luxurious privileges not everyone can afford.

“Three minutes. They’re going to be here in three minutes.” Resigned, he leans against the cushion – fingers mindlessly twitching against the grey material, uncut nails slightly dragging across the diamonds encrusted on the leather. A streak of red light reveals a portion of his face, enough to highlight the shimmer of the thin layer of sweat he sports; every pound of bass against the wall of the disguised building a church bell that signifies every second that approaches his death sentence, “Tell Master Kim it was a pleasure to work for him.”

“Kang Sojin,” The utterance of those two words are kind yet a contrast to the evident drop of silence in the dimly-lit room, “a name highly praised. Let me tell you, my father does not usually play favorites but I could definitely say you are one of his. You’ve done your duties exceptionally well, and it’s a pity it has come to this. Daddy really does love his theatrics, doesn’t he?”

“I was starting to believe you were a myth, but indeed, you’re real – an ace, a phantom gracing me with its rightful presence before my death.” An airy laugh escapes the mouth of the executed man, “But of course, he does.”

“Too bad you became his sacrificial lamb.” The sound of a door being unhinged is loud then, despite the loud music, “I trust it has gone as planned?”

A nod is given, confident despite the ghost of death hanging above his head, “Those who are left upstairs are…take-aways, all twenty-four of them, they won’t be of any use to Master Kim. The rest of the hundreds are on the plane halfway to Mexico by now, ready to be transferred to Cancun by dawn.”

A thunder of gunshots is heard as the man sighs with a roll of his eyes, murderous footsteps and yelling echoing right after.

“Your family will be in good hands, Kang. My father does not break his promises.”

“I know you will,” As if he has all the time in the world, he smiles, graciously leaning deeper into the cushions, “Agents are a pain in the ass. Now, by all means—” He lifts a hand, gesturing to himself, “—I’d rather die by the hands of a Kim than theirs."

Loyalty and integrity – two things your father prides his people on.

No more words are needed to be said for the trigger to be pulled, a golden bullet embeds itself to the walls of Kang Sojin’s skull, right in the middle of his forehead – a dark hole that now oozes of thick blood, dark and richly red similar to the walls of the establishment – just as the glass wall breaks with a strike of a bullet from the outside, the tiny object barely hitting the glass table, tiny sparks shattering into hundreds of pieces.

Pairs of feet are quick to move at the sight of a slight tear on your left cuff. You wave them off. “It’s fine.”

It is with a scoff that you hand the gun over to an older man who receives the weapon with a graceful bow, “

This is what the people of our country pay for? Shitty operation agents with dysfunctional aims? Shame.”

“We’ll make sure to take care of the rest. Master Kim himself has requested your immediate presence.”

Oh, you always have time for daddy dearest.

With a flippant wave, you walk towards the hidden elevator, “Save your time and yourself a bullet. Let them think it was them who killed Kang.” And then you’re gone – engulfed by the metallic doors before you start humming along to the tune of Duke Ellington’s Satin Doll, a cheerful classic jazz that is an immense disparity to the thunderous breaking of glass and the murderous sounds of bullets being fired on the other side of the silver doors.

Idiots.

Just then, your phone rings and you have no hesitation in picking it up.

“Enjoying Ho Chi Minh, dear brother?”

“Want to fly out here for dinner?” You laugh, slightly weary and half-breath that reflects the accumulation of today’s errands, “Ooh, I can still hear gunshots. You okay, lil phantom?”

“Kim Taehyung, you astound me. How’s it going with the casino?”

“I’ll fly home at midnight. Stay up ‘til dawn and I’ll let you know how it went.”

“You’re a cheat. You know just how much I love to see that bitch propel down to the pits of hell.”

“I figured you’d want evidence from her downfall. Solid evidence,” The implication behind his voice isn’t hard to miss and you smile. Overbearing assholes deserve to get a piece. Or more like be in pieces, “Anyway, I’ll see you soon with a gift. Love you. Let’s eat lunch together with father tomorrow.”

With a slight hum to stand as an acceptance to his dinner invitation and an irritated (but unforced) affirmation that you loved your brother back, Taehyung ends the call.

As you stand stationary in the solace of the lift’s corner, underneath the golden hue of the slightly flickering bulb lights that are probably worth a couple thousands and the cold feel of the gold handle bar beneath your fingertips, you look down on your hand. The glistening lights above reflects against the surface of the band around your middle finger, slowly running down its golden surface as you twist it back and forth, a fleeting thought occurring as you mull over the number of bullets you have buried underneath human flesh as well as the seconds you have spent waiting for a heart to stop beating.

Compassion is a weakness, says those around you.

But as ironic as it is, your father is the one who always firmly opposes the proverb.

“Compassion is not a weakness, darling, never. And if it were to be, then might as well make yourself as weak as you possibly can,” You remember him saying, words heavy on the accent, the embers of his tobacco flaring an angry orange as he inhaled, the smoke released in slow soft wisps that coiled in the winter air. “Being compassionate about something is not a weakness—”

“Misplacing compassion is.”

Said best friend leaned his weight on the wooden surface, exposing the poorly-hidden mirth that was clear-cut under the soft lights of the quaint shop, masked behind the narrowing of his eyes as he shoves his papers aside to make space for his frothing glass – a four-dollar Diabetes-in-a-mug, so you would say. “What’s gotten you so interested, anyway? It’s not even related to your paper, is it?”

“Well,not exactly, but I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to take into account others perspective on it ‘cause—you know what? You’re right. Forget I ever asked.”

At this, Jimin laughed. He shifted on his seat, the trace of prior laughter still apparent on the upward curve of his mouth, “Didn’t know it bothered you so much, so, let’s put it this way,” His index finger tapped on the oak twice, lower lip being nibbled on as he contemplated on his answer, “As you know, I was raised in a Catholic home—”

“I’m asking you, Jimin. Do you believe in it?”

The concept of heaven and hell had always been slightly bizarre to you and the thought of afterlife was just a little bit absurd. You were always one to assume that the inane phrases talking about the existence of those who have passed being in a “better place” or that the dead were now looking after those left behind were mere portrayals of what people can’t accept; sheer attempts in avoiding the reality of death. If one dies, then, you believed, that they simply cease to exist. Passed. Deceased. Gone. No more afters. The only afterlife will be in that of the memories of those left behind; no reincarnations nor rebirth; no redemption nor damnation.

It’s a tad bit selfish, you thought, the philosophy people tend to construct in hopes to alleviate grief.

Although, you weren’t one to criticize. To each their own.

Jimin’s answer was soft, fingers tracing the little cracks that littered the polished wood. The glow of the lights blanketed his lashes, casting a faint shadow on his cheeks, moving as he blinked. “I do. Maybe it’s because of the way I was raised, I don’t know, with my grandmother being the way she is and all.” There was a slight pause, a beat, before he slightly nodded, “But somehow, if I really think about it, I do. Although I’m not quite sure where we go after death, I do believe that there’s somewhere — wherever that may be. I’m really not too keen to find out about it so soon.”

“You know what they say, the good ones are harvested from the garden first. So, it’s quite fitting to say you’re safe, Minnie.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers in a rhythmic sequence before leaning back on his seat as he strained his neck from one side to another with a succession of sharp cracking noises, eliciting a strong grimace and a glare from you. A warm and hearty you’re a pain in the ass was thrown your way before Jimin resumed writing his notes — his version of it, anyway — with a soft hum of whatever song he last listened to.

Growing up, both you and Jimin were raised in a Catholic household, albeit a different domestic establishment but a similar strict Christian upbringing nonetheless. It was one Sunday, a humid summer Church day that you met Jimin when he was eight and you were seven — a pudgy 8-year-old Jimin who had an orange-flavored twin popsicle to share after church.

All your life, you both grew up in the practice of youth group scripture readings on Saturdays, serving in Eucharistic masses on Sundays, reciting the Holy Rosary on the eighteenth hour of each day, as well as attending religious youth camps and worship concerts on Friday nights instead of house parties — well, as far as your families knew, you were going to worship concerts.

However, you always weren’t one to conform. Adolescence brings forth you challenging the beliefs they were preaching, always asking questions that always end up in a moral homily from your mother about how little faith you had to doubt. It was a factor — one of many that had your family bringing you to church on Sundays and Saturdays in hopes to maybe nurture your faith, but of course, it was a bittersweet futile thing seeing as it drove you even further instead of closer; another thing you had in common with Jimin growing up.

It wasn’t as if you had not believed in God with a capital first letter, no, because you did. Actually, you do. You believed in a supreme being — a deity, a God, gods, whatever — in terms of creations. It was just the concept of life, death, and the supposed notion of life after death that you had your doubts about. It was a complex matter to explain, one you opt to just be silent about.

You have faith — albeit a slightly wobbly one at that.

With a groan, you pushed the laptop close, all initial hope of at least writing an introduction to your paper going down the gutter.

“I’m taking this to the library. I’m going to at least try and find some references to cement whichever take I have on this stupid paper. You know, some Lichtenberg and Nietzsche take.”

Jimin snorted, “That basically cements it. They’re atheists.”

With a huge bite from his onion bagel that had him scoffing and a quick kiss on Jimin’s cheek as a bid of farewell with a mouthful of bread, you laughed, “Don’t stay out too late, honey.”

“I hope you trip and lose a tooth,” was the last thing you heard from him before you went out the shop, laughing quite a bit too loud.

The winter air wasted no more than a second to harshly bite into your skin the moment the doors slid open, eliciting an involuntary shiver that had you tightening your coat. Technically, it was Jimin’s, a thick cream-coloured fleece that had been long forgotten by the initial owner. It was one of comfort and convenience and had it not been for your best friend forgetting he had bought it (not really a problem since he’s basically a one-and-done kind of person when it comes to his pieces of clothing), you would’ve been turned to a human icicle not even two steps away from the shop.

The city was blanketed in white, a heavy veil that masked the metro blurring the top of skyscrapers — imprints of different shoe sizes plastered on the thin layer of snow as people rushed by to get to their destination, a collective flurry of vapor as people talk in the middle of the cold, shops on the sidewalk with fogged-up windows harbouring the cloudy silhouettes of those inside in hopes to seek some warmth, tiny little crystals suspended in the branches of trees — it was in the minute triviality of things in which you find the beauty of winter.

Past you, people rushed; to seek shelter from the biting cold or just rushing for the sake of it, you didn’t know, but you took your time, relished in the little pellets that showered your face.

Winter was beautiful.

And despite the brutal cold it brings, it was your favorite season.

A series of short vibrations in your coat pocket had you moving to the side for a while to check on your phone, the numbness of your fingers making it quite tough to get a hold of the device, a slight chuckle pushing past your lips when you read the message.

It was from Jimin, a short but an all-too-knowing text sent with a scoff, no doubt.

[17:02] Jimin make it to the library without being turned into a popsicle, k?

[17:02] Jimin i’ll bring us some fried chicken for dinner so don’t cook

Pocketing the device with a satisfied smile, you hurried just a tad bit.

It was 9:32 in the evening, a bit past the operating hours of the public library, when you felt the slightest sense of satisfaction after a thousand repetition of backspace presses and emotional meltdowns. A good four hours had passed and by the miracles your brain has conjured, a couple thousand words had been created for your paper and you were sure you were done for the night, cemented by the low rumble of your stomach.

The table you were occupying was, in its lightest description, messy. Books were littered in all corners, decorated with colourful plastic packets of consumed cheap biscuits and bottles of water and a stash of mix coffee sticks in one corner. You were alone and yet you were occupying the entirety of a six-seater table.

Another ten minutes was spent in cleaning all the loiter as you had refused the sweet it’s my job to clean up, it’s okay of the community volunteer who was on closing duty. You were apologetic enough for holding them back a good thirty minutes of their time after work just so you could do your paper. Cleaning up after your mess was the least you could do.

Borrowed books in both hands, you gave a firm thank you — exhausting all possible feelings of gratitude — to Justin (too Western of a name for a person living in the city, you initially had thought), as stated in their nameplate, who held the door open for you. With a slight bow and a wide smile, he went to wish you a good night.

Washed with the realization that it was nearly ten in the evening and you had said to Jimin you’d be home by eight, your stomach did a minute somersault in panic, expressing it physically in form of a slight groan, carefully stacking the seven books in one arm. Another wave of horror surged from the bottom of your spine as your hands felt nothing but empty bags of sweets in both of your pockets. You never put your phone inside your bag as it’s often in your hand or coat pocket so there was no point in searching your bag.

Turning around, the library lights were now all but turned on. That was fast, you thought.

The streets were now quite empty, save for a couple of students who were passing by, given the proximity of a school in the near corner. The library was situated in the quieter side of the city, thus, the absence of cabs and cars passing by. With the lack of a better term for your situation, you were quite fucked. Not the I’m-stuck-somewhere-with-no-phone-nor-money-please-save-me kind of fucked, because you knew how to get home and you had money with you.

It was the fact that you probably had a hundred unopened messages and missed calls from Jimin, and that, in itself, is scarier than being stuck some place you had no idea about with no money.

Funny how the world works though, because as you leaned your body on the crystal surface of the library doors, eyes closing in frustration, you feel a cold sensation on the tip of your nose, causing you to scrunch your nose; a stray snow, most probably. But it wasn’t, because you felt it once more and you thought of all the time there is to snow, must it really be now?

“What—”

“Rare to see you around without Park in sight.”

Kim Taehyung had always been a man of extravagance — realized in his penchant for luxurious things; in brands or in theatrical physical states of his belongings. However, now, he was a bit dressed down in comparison to his usual clothing when you see him around the grounds of the university — a simple matching champagne hoodie and sweatpants and white shoes.

Now, you weren’t close to him in a sense that you’d call him a friend, it was more in the lines of an acquaintance, slightly more than one, given that you have a class together and he sits beside you in it. Coming to think of it, his ragtag circle was a tight-knit one albeit small; not that you always look for them, but you’ve always seen in passing on campus, it’s always Kim Taehyung and two upperclassmen, graduate students of the university.

“Might be a little hard to believe but we have separate lives, yeah.”

“What are you doing out here so late? Lib’s closed already.”

Pushing against the glass door, you stood a bit straighter, “I’m on my way home, actually.”

“Oh, yeah,” His eyes widened, hand digging into his right pocket, “Here.”

On his hand was your phone, unmistakably yours, by the custom case wrapped around it.

“How—I mean, thank you. This is mostly the reason why I’m out here.”

“I was the last one out the library, some business here after you,” he motioned towards the door of the establishment, “Thought it was the volunteer’s since it was on the floor but he said it wasn’t his. So, logically, I concluded it was yours. And you know, with the lock screen and all.” He smiled, a movement that formed his lips in a rectangular shape.

Your lock screen had been one of that photo booth strip picture with Jimin and Hoseok from the summer festival the previous year. Clicking the device to life, you heaved a sigh at the number of texts and missed calls from Jimin and Hoseok, the last one being Jimin’s ten minutes ago.

Taehyung moved to grab the all the books in your hold in one fluid motion, effortlessly carrying it in one hand. Surprised, you looked at him, “It’s okay. I can handle it.”

He chuckled, a low and warm sound, “I know you can.” He then nodded his head towards the phone in your hand, “You can text Park as we walk, it’s getting quite late.”

Muttering a quiet thanks, you moved to walk alongside Taehyung who started to hum a song to himself, vapor forming as his hot breath moved to mix with the cold air, eyes crossing as he looked at it himself. It was a second later you realized that there was something peeking out from the edges of the neck of his hoodie, eyes widening as it occurred to you that it was a tattoo. Well, a part of one.

You never pictured Kim Taehyung, of all people, to have a tattoo.

Eyes still trained on the vapor in front of him, one corner of his lips curved upwards, “Just saying, some people find it uncomfortable when others stare at them.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“M’not one of those people though, so stare away.”

Rolling your eyes, you unlocked your phone to send a quick text to Jimin and Hoseok, long enough to reassure them that you were fine, and that you were on your way home — adding enough emojis to alleviate the frustration they were both for sure harbouring.

It was silent as you walked towards the bus stop, save for the sound of soles hitting the icy pavement, before Taehyung spoke once again, “What were you writing about? You looked so out of it back in the library.”

“So much for uncomfortable staring, yeah?”

Taehyung laughed, a loud hearty sound that had the hairs in the back of your head raise for a reason you didn’t know.

“Just a paper. But now that we’re talking about it,” you started, “Can I ask you one question? Like in relation to it.”

He nodded with a short sure, arms tighter around the books he was carrying.

“Do you believe in the existence of heaven and hell?”

Coincidentally, the street lights flickered just as Taehyung halted his steps.

His gaze was piercing, and if it weren’t for the fact that you knew Taehyung, you’d say he was frightening — his eyes held something you can’t quiet pinpoint, his face holding an expression that toes the line between scrutinizing and questioning. Cold crept its way up your skin, and you attributed the seemingly subtle drop of temperature of the already-freezing air to your imagination. Swallowing, you then cleared your throat, “It’s what my paper’s all about.”

“What about you?”

You really weren’t expecting the question to be returned so suddenly so you shrugged, “Won’t believe it ‘til I see it.”

There a beat of silence then.

It was at that moment he moved, a fraction of an inch closer but you were hyperaware of the movement. His shoulder was now trailing behind yours.

“What are you doing, Kim?”

His lips curled into a grin, “It’s cold.”

Rolling your eyes, you moved your shoulder back a bit to hit his before moving forward. The bus stop was a closer walk now, the unmistakeable familiar structure of the shade coming into view.

“Aren’t you living at the other side of the city?”

He nodded. A swift single upward motion.

“The East, yes.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Kim, I really appreciate you being here at this time of night, but you’re literally going to the wrong bus stop for that.”

Was there even a bus to the East? It’s the richest part of the city. Exclusive.

Surely, those living there don’t ride the city buses?

“I… have never ridden a bus.” Point made. “But, ah, what would that make me as a person if I don’t make sure you get home safe?” There was his smile again, one that stretched his mouth into a near rectangle.

Snorting, you get half of the books from him, “We got ourselves a little angel here, don’t we?”

You halted your steps, mimicking Taehyung who had stopped walking behind you. Looking back, you laughed at the sincerely disgusted face he was making.

“You know, you’re not so bad to be with.”

Taehyung clicked his tongue, “Now, what has been Park saying about me?”

“His name’s Jimin.” You emphasized, “And it’s not just him, you know. You have this, I don’t know, reputation, you could say? You have eyes and ears, Kim, I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

Shrugging, he then adjusted the books, your books, in his arms. “Do tell me this, do they precede me?”

You paused to look at him, head tilted, “I haven’t been in your presence enough to concede or dispute it.”

Smirking, he took a step forward, “Are you saying you want to spend more time with me?”

You laughed, patting him on the shoulder with your free hand, noticing him flinch.

“You know, I think I never got to answer your question earlier,” You were a few steps in front of him when he spoke and you turned around with an eyebrow raised, a gesture for him to continue, “It’s a yes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, is that so hard to believe?” He laughed, “I have quite a complex belief on it, though, but I mean, right now? This?” He gestured between himself and you, “Isn’t this heaven enough for you?”

With a groan you turned back around, hearing his laugh echo in the empty streets, and you didn’t know if you were imagining it once more but it got a bit warmer. Whether you felt in inside or outside, you had no idea.

Now, you weren’t one to believe in heaven, that’s for sure.

But Kim Taehyung’s laugh made you rethink that notion for a quick fraction of a second.

“I’m still ignoring you.”

Seven in the morning of the following day finds you clinging onto Jimin, arms encircled around his waist and chin hooked on his shoulders as he sat on one of the white island bar stools, laid before his eyes the feast of a breakfast you woke up early for, all in an arranged array atop the marble kitchen island; from hash browns and eggs to strips of bacon with a plate of fresh-baked bagels on one corner.

You remained attached to your best friend, a slight pout on your lips as you watch him eat.

“I’m sorry,” your voice was small and quiet, slightly muffled against his shirt, “I apologize for making you and Seokie worry over me, I really understand your frustration ‘cause frankly, I would be too if it were to be you.”

You felt his breathing as it moved your head as well seeing as you were leaning on his shoulder. “However, I’m not apologizing for my perception towards Taehyung. I really do not get your deal with each other, since you refuse to tell me since the first day, but at the very least invest a little trust in me, Jimin.”

You felt him sigh, moving so that his arm, the one in which you were leaning on, was wrapped around your shoulder, fingers softly stroking your head, “It’s just—I know him enough to say that he’s trouble. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“And I love you for it, Minnie,” you faced him, “but I can handle myself just fine.”

The kitchen was silent, save for the background noise of the city waking up below filtering through the opened glass door of the balcony of the kitchen.

“I—okay. I’ll trust you.” Jimin sighed, lips pressing against your hair, “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, squeezing him just a tad bit tighter. “Can’t you at least tell me what happened between the two of you? For you to hate him so much.”

“I don’t hate him, it’s just he and I are—shit!” Jimin had his fist balled up, violently coughing not long after, “—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You understood, and it was really fine as it was not your place to pry. It was their business anyway. Whatever happened was between them and you understood that. You nodded and waved it off, “So, are we good? I can’t stand having my best friend angry at me.”

“You’re an idiot, and yes, we’re good.”

He gave you a look.

“What?”

“I could be all things in the world but I’ll never be angry at you. I was just worried,” he smiled, a sheepish one at that, “and maybe a bit overprotective?”

“A bit, yeah right.” You opened your mouth as he popped a strawberry in your mouth, “Thank you. For always looking after me. Maybe you’re my guardian angel?”

Jimin just smiled, little moon crescents appearing.

See, always an angel.