#kkangpae

His hands are cold when they press against your ribs, efficient, therapeutic even. You’re not wearing a shirt—ditched it the moment he told you to, because modesty is stupid when someone’s checking for internal bleeding—and the sterile air makes goosebumps rise across your skin.

Or maybe that’s just him.

“Breathe in.”

You do.

“Out.”

The exhale hurts less than it should. Nothing’s broken, probably. You’ve had broken ribs before—this is just spectacular bruising and your body’s usual bullshit of marking too easily.

“You’re lucky,” Hoseok mutters, fingers tracing the edge of the bruise with a touch that’s gentler than his voice. “Another inch to the left and we’d be talking punctured lung.”

“But we’re not.”

“But we’re not,” he agrees, and his hand is still there, palm flat against your ribs, thumb resting just below your breast.

He hasn’t moved it.

You swallow and watch his face—the way his eyes track across your skin like he’s reading something written in the violence. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when he’s worried, and it’s definitely there now.

“I’m fine, doc.”

“You came back bleeding.”

“Barely.”

“Bleeding is bleeding.” His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “And you—you do this too often, Trouble.”

It’s not an accusation. 

It sounds more like something else, something he’s not supposed to say.

“Hazard of the job,” you say lightly, testing the waters. “Good thing I have such an attentive physician.”

His eyes flick up to yours.

Oh.

Yeah, he caught that.

The air between you shifts—not much, just enough to notice. Like the moment before lightning strikes when your hair stands on end and you know something’s about to change.

Hoseok’s hand is still on your ribs.

You’re very aware of this fact.

“Your lip,” he says finally, pulling back to grab supplies, and you can’t (or don’t want to) explain why the loss of contact feels like cold water. “That needs cleaning.”

He comes closer again, now standing between your knees where they dangle off the table’s edge, and you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. 

This is normal, just your usual medical procedure. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But, somehow, today it feels different. 

The antiseptic stings when he dabs it across your split lip, and you hiss.

“Hold still.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder.”

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek to keep your head steady, and—

Fuck.

You blink. 

His thumb moves, just slightly, a tiny stroke across your cheekbone that could be accidental.

Except you can see his face and there’s nothing accidental about the way he’s looking at you right now.

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” The cotton swab moves to the corner of your mouth, careful and meticulous. “Almost done.”

But his hand doesn’t leave your face.

You can smell him from here—sandalwood and something clean, antiseptic mixing with cologne in a way that shouldn’t work but does. 

It’s grounding. Safe. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in and—

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

“There.” He sets down the supplies but his hand is still on your face, and now his thumb traces your jawline in a touch that’s definitely, absolutely not medical. “You should be more careful.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun.” He huffs something that might be a laugh except it sounds pained. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, pip.”

The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.

Too intimate.

You watch something complicated cross his expression—want and restraint tangled up so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. 

His thumb is still moving against your jaw, this slow back-and-forth that’s making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to close the distance between you.

How easy and how stupid.

“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move his hand.

“Shouldn’t what?” Your voice comes out a tad more brittle than intended.

His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second, but you catch it—before snapping back up.

“You know what.”

Yeah.

You do.

“Then why are you still touching me?”

The question hangs there, dangerous and honest, and you watch him process it. 

Watch the muscle in his jaw jump. 

Watch his hand finally, finally drop away from your face like you’ve burned him.

“Get dressed.” His voice is back to professional, clipped and distant. “You’re cleared for light duty. Nothing strenuous for seventy-two hours.”

“Hoseok—”

“I’ll update your file.” He’s already moving away, putting space between you like distance will fix whatever just almost happened. “Try not to get hit in the next week. Your body needs time to heal.”

You slide off the table, grabbing your shirt from the chair. 

The fabric slides over your head and you catch it then—sandalwood clinging to your skin where his hands had been, mixing with your own cherry cordial in a way that makes your chest tight.

He’s at his desk now, back turned, typing something into the computer with a focus you’d say is forced.

You should leave.

You’re going to leave.

“Goodnight, Hoseok.”

A pause.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Goodnight.”

You make it all the way back to your quarters before you realize you can still smell him on your skin.

Just as much as you notice the ache in your ribs has nothing to do with the bruising.

The inventory request comes three days later.

‘Medical storage room. 1400 hours. Need your dual-division expertise for equipment categorization.’

It’s bullshit, obviously.

The medical wing doesn’t need a Cyber-Seduction hybrid to organize bandages. 

But it’s plausible enough that no one will question it, and that’s probably the point.

You show up at two on the dot.

The storage room is tucked in the back corner of the medical wing—one of those spaces that’s technically on the floor plan but rarely used except for overflow supplies and equipment too expensive to leave in the main inventory. It’s cramped and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescents that make everything look slightly jaundiced.

Hoseok’s already there, standing among half-unpacked boxes with a tablet in hand and tension in every line of his body.

“Hey.”

He looks up, and something in his expression cracks before smoothing over into professional neutrality.

“Thanks for coming. This shouldn’t take long.”

Liar.

You step inside and let the door click shut behind you.

The tension from three nights ago hasn’t dissipated, makes the air feel different right upon entry—thicker, charged. 

He’s wearing his usual turtleneck under the white coat, and you know if you got close enough you’d smell sandalwood.

You’re not getting close.

You’re absolutely getting close.

“What am I looking at?” You move toward the nearest box, and the space forces you into proximity.

The storage room isn’t big enough for two people to maintain distance.

“Equipment audit.” His voice is steady but there’s an undercurrent you recognize now. “Need to cross-reference inventory codes with the digital system. Some items are still under old classifications.”

“And you need Cyber for this because…?”

“Because the database is a mess and you’re better at pattern recognition than my staff.”

Valid reason.

Still bullshit.

You pull out your phone, opening the relevant database while he shuffles closer with the tablet. 

His arm brushes yours—brief contact, could be accidental—and you watch his jaw tighten.

Not accidental.

“Okay, so what am I—”

His hand settles on your lower back.

Just rests there, warm through your shirt, like it belongs.

You forget how to finish the sentence.

“This batch,” he says, voice dropping lower as he leans in to point at something on your screen. His chest is almost against your shoulder now, and you can feel the heat of him. “Cross-reference with storage codes 4000 through 4200.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s—” You struggle to focus on the numbers. His hand hasn’t moved from your back. “That’s a lot of entries.”

“Narrow it down by date acquired. Anything older than two years is getting cycled out.”

You should step away.

And yet, neither of you moves.

Your fingers input the search parameters, but you can’t shake off your head how his hand remains on your back, how his arm is pressed against yours, how his breath ghosts across your temple when he shifts to see the screen better.

“There.” Your voice sounds foreign. “Forty-three items flagged.”

“Good.” But he doesn’t pull away to look at his tablet. Doesn’t create distance. “What about subcategory medical-grade diagnostics?”

“Hoseok.”

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing?”

The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.

His hand flexes against your back—not pulling away, but pressing in slightly, like he’s grounding himself with the contact.

“Inventory,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.

“Right. Inventory.”

You turn to face him, which is a mistake because now you’re chest to chest in this tiny room and his hand has slid around to your hip and you can see the exact moment his control starts to fracture.

He doesn’t step back.

Neither do you.

“I want you,” you say quietly, letting your Seduction training color your voice—soft and deliberate and devastating. “You’re aware of that, right?”

His breath catches audibly.

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You tilt your head slightly, studying his face. “Don’t tell you the truth?”

“Don’t make this impossible.”

“It already is.” You shift closer—not much, just enough that your bodies touch. “Has been for weeks.”

His hand tightens on your hip. The other comes up to grip the edge of the shelf beside your head, like he needs something to hold onto.

“We can’t.”

“So you keep saying.” You let your fingers trail up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the turtleneck. “But you’re still touching me.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

His jaw clenches, and you watch him fight with himself—restraint versus want, professionalism versus the very obvious desire written all over his face.

You lean in, slowly, giving him the chance to step back but he doesn’t, until your mouth is a breath away from his. 

Not touching. 

Just close enough that he can feel the ghost of it, the promise of what could happen if either of you closed that final distance.

“You want me?” Your breath ghosts across his lips. 

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse.

“You’re—” His voice is wrecked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, pip.”

“Hmm?” You let your nose brush against his, feather-light. “Am I winning?”

“Fuck.”

His free hand comes up to cup your face, and for a second you think he’s going to close the distance, going to kiss you and damn the consequences—

He doesn’t.

Just holds you there, thumb stroking your cheekbone, forehead almost touching yours, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon.

“Look at you,” he mutters, and his voice has gone rough and low. “So tempting. So—god, you’re making it so hard to resist.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?”

Your lips are still barely a breath apart. 

You can feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood mixing with your cherry cordial until the air is thick with it. 

Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.

“I could—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “If I started, I don’t think I could stop.”

“Good.”

“That’s not—we can’t—”

“Can’t?”

You shift just slightly, and your body presses against his. 

The contact makes him inhale sharply. 

“Or shouldn’t?”

“Both.” But his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this. “Definitely both.”

“Liar.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

“Says the man with his hands all over me.”

“I should let go.”

“Should you?”

But neither of you moves.

You’re pressed together now—chest to chest, his thigh between yours—and you can feel his heartbeat racing to match your own. 

Can feel the way his fingers flex against your back like he’s fighting not to grab you harder.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his lips. 

“I—” His voice cracks. “Pip—”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

He can’t.

You both know he can’t.

His thumb traces your bottom lip—not quite touching, just the barest suggestion of contact—and his eyes are so dark you can barely see brown anymore.

“You have no idea—” He swallows hard. “—how badly I want to—”

Footsteps in the corridor outside.

You both freeze.

The moment shatters.

Hoseok’s hands drop from your body like you’ve burned him, and he steps back so fast he nearly hits the shelf behind him. 

Puts three feet of space between you that feels like a chasm.

The footsteps pass by.

Keep going.

Fade.

“This can’t happen,” he says, and his voice is ragged. “We—this can’t—”

“Hoseok—”

“No.” He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. “We can’t do this. It’s—the rules exist for a reason, and I can’t—I won’t—”

“You won’t what?”

“Ruin you.” The words come out fierce. “I won’t be the reason you get hurt.”

You stare at him—at the wild look in his eyes, the heaving chest, the white-knuckled grip he has on the shelf behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“What if I’m willing to risk it?”

“Well I’m not.” But his voice cracks on the words. “I can’t—you need to go.”

“The inventory—”

“Fuck the inventory.” He won’t look at you now. “Just go. Please.”

You should argue.

Should push.

But something in his voice stops you—desperation mixed with genuine fear, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

You head for the door.

Your hand’s on the handle when his voice stops you.

“Wait.”

You turn back.

He’s still standing there, gripping that shelf, looking completely wrecked.

“Don’t—” He swallows hard. “Don’t think this means I don’t—that I’m not—”

“I know.”

You do know.

That’s what makes it worse.

You leave before either of you can make this any harder.

But three hours later, sitting in your quarters, you catch sandalwood on your shirt and know he’s probably dealing with cherry cordial on his coat.

The almost is becoming unbearable.

Something’s going to break soon.

It’s past two in the morning.

You shouldn’t be here.

You came anyway.

The medical wing opens up ahead after the elevator doors, and you can smell blood and antiseptic in the air. 

That distinctive scent of wounds being cleaned up, of emergency protocols activated, of Hoseok running damage control on something that went very wrong.

The main treatment area is empty now, recently sanitized, but there are signs of chaos everywhere—discarded medical supplies not yet cleared away, monitoring equipment still beeping softly, disorder that only happens when people are fighting to save lives and can’t be bothered with tidiness.

You find him in his office.

He’s standing at the window with his back to the door, still wearing his surgical scrubs under the white coat. 

There’s blood on his sleeves—not his, you know, never his—and his shoulders carry the kind of tension that speaks to hours of adrenaline finally crashing.

“Hoseok?”

He doesn’t turn around.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re standing in the dark staring at nothing.”

His jaw tightens—you can see it in profile—but he doesn’t argue.

You step inside and let the door close softly behind you. 

The office is dim, lit only by the glow from the medical wing beyond and the city lights filtering through the window. 

It evokes a sense of disconnect from reality, like you’ve both stepped outside normal time where rules don’t apply. 

“Was it bad?”

“It’s always bad.” His voice is caustic, scraped raw. “But yeah. It was bad.”

You move closer, laggy and chary like he might bolt if you make sudden movements. 

“Emergency?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they—”

“Stable. For now.” 

He finally turns to look at you, and the exhaustion in his face makes your chest hurt. There are shadows under his eyes, tension in every line of his body, and his hands are shaking slightly. 

“What are you doing here, pip?”

“Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Something flickers across his expression—frustration or maybe relief that someone sees through his bullshit.

“Go back to your quarters, pip. I’m not—I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

“For what?”

“For pretending.” The admission comes out harsh. “For acting like I’m not—like we’re not—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You take another step closer.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know. Twenty hours? More?” He rubs his eyes. “Lost count somewhere around the third transfusion.”

“You need to rest.”

“I need—” His voice splinters. “I don’t know what I need.”

Liar.

You both know what he needs.

“Hoseok—”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand like he’s physically stopping you. “Don’t—I can’t—my control is shot to hell right now and if you—”

“If I what?”

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something wild in them. 

Desperate.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we can’t take back.”

Your heart hammers.

“Maybe I want you to.”

“Fuck.” The word comes out broken. “Don’t say that. Don’t—I’m trying to do the right thing here and you’re making it impossible.”

“The right thing,” you close the remaining distance between you, “is standing here alone in the dark, falling apart, because god forbid you let someone care about you?”

“That’s not—”

“You were scared tonight.” It’s not a question. “I can see it all over you.”

His expression fractures.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I was fucking terrified. And I can’t—I’m so tired of being scared. Of pretending I don’t—that you don’t—”

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds hollow now. Defeated.

“I know.”

“The rules exist for a reason.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of you moves away.

The office is so quiet you can hear both your breathing—his ragged and uneven, yours picking up speed to match. 

Can smell sandalwood and antiseptic and underneath it something raw and honest that you’ve never caught before.

Fear.

Want.

Surrender.

“If we do this—” His voice drops to almost nothing. “If I—there’s no going back, pip.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-breaking.

“I’m serious.”

“Good.”

That’s what does it.

That single word that cracks whatever’s left of his restraint, and then he’s crossing the space between you and his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the almost-moments before.

This is desperate.

This is surrender.

His hands cup your face like you’re something precious, and he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air. 

There’s no gentleness, no careful testing—just need poured into the contact, weeks of wanting finally given permission to exist.

You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his bloody scrubs, and he groans against your mouth.

The sound goes straight through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes between kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted—so long—”

“Yeah,” you manage. “Me too.”

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel how much he wants this. Can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way his hands shake when they touch you.

“Tell me—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want this.” You meet his eyes. “Want you. Please.”

The ‘please’ breaks something in him.

He walks you backward toward the examination table in the corner of his office—the one he keeps for quick checks, private assessments—and lifts you onto it with an ease that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“If we’re doing this—” His voice is wrecked. “If I’m—god, I can’t believe I’m—”

You pull him between your legs, and his words cut off in a groan.

“Hoseok.” Your hands find the hem of his scrub top. “Stop thinking.”

“Can’t.” But he’s already helping you pull it off, revealing skin and muscle and the kind of body you’ve imagined too many times to count. “This is—we’re in the medical wing. Anyone could—”

“No one’s here.” You trace your fingers down his chest, watching his abs contract. “Just us.”

“Just us,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it sounds like he needed the reassurance.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pauses.

“Can I—”

“Yes.”

He strips it off you, then your pants, slowly but surely, until you’re sitting on his examination table in just your underwear and he’s looking at you like you’ve destroyed him.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect. So—I don't deserve this.”

“Shut up.”

He almost smiles.

Then his hands are on you—sliding up your thighs, over your hips, ghosting across your ribs with a touch that’s way too honest and way too imbued in want. 

And when his thumbs finally brush the underside of your breasts, you arch into it.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, taking inventory of your responses like they’re precious. “Good to know.”

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your shoulder. “I’m taking care of you.”

And he is.

His hands map every inch of exposed skin while his mouth works your neck, finding the spots that make you gasp, that make your fingers dig into his shoulders. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, you make a sound that’s almost embarrassing.

He does it again just to hear it.

“You sound so pretty,” he says against your skin. “Going to sound even prettier when I make you cum.”

The words send heat straight between your legs.

“Confident.”

“I’m very good at my job.” He palms your breast properly now, and you arch into his hand. “And right now, my job is making you feel good.”

Your bra comes off next, and then his mouth is on you—tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth—and your head falls back with a moan.

“That’s it,” he encourages, switching to the other side. “Let me hear you.”

His free hand slides between your thighs, pressing against the damp fabric there, and he groans.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“Your fault.”

“Yeah.” He sounds devastated by it. “Yeah, it is.”

Your underwear joins the growing pile of clothes, and then his fingers are where you need them most—sliding through wetness, finding your clit with relative ease—which honestly speaks to medical knowledge put to very unprofessional use.

The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.

“Easy,” he soothes, circling slowly. “I’ve got you.”

He does.

His fingers work you with careful attention, reading every single one of your tiny reactions to figure out exactly what you need. 

Then he slides one inside you, and your hips buck.

“More?”

“Yes—please—”

He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and the sensation makes you gasp. 

His thumb stays on your clit, circling in maddening patterns while his fingers work inside you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it. You’re doing so well for me, pip. Good darling.”

The praise mixed with the physical sensation is simply overwhelming, so much so that you can feel yourself getting close, that tension building low in your belly—

He stops.

“What—”

“Not yet, darling.” His voice is rough but controlled. “Not until I say.”

“Hoseok—”

“Trust me.” He kisses you, slow and deep, fingers still inside you but not moving. “It’ll be better. I promise.”

You believe him.

He starts anew—slower this time, building you up slowly once more. Kissing you, letting you get near the precipice again before he’s stopping his motions.

“Please,” you finally break. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His free hand cups your face. “But we’re not there yet.”

He pulls his fingers out, and you actually whimper at the loss.

Then he’s stripping off his remaining clothes, and you get your first look at him fully naked and—

Fuck.

He’s beautiful. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, all golden glistening skin, and his cock is hard and flushed and exactly as perfect as the rest of him.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up.”

He grins—the first real smile you’ve seen all night—and pulls you to the edge of the table.

Then he pauses.

“I don’t—shit, I don’t have anything here.” His jaw clenches in frustration as he looks over the area. “The condoms are in the main supply closet and I’m not—I can’t—”

“I’m on birth control,” you say. “And I’m clean, remember? Last medical check included testing.”

“I’m clean too.” His voice drops. “But if you’re not comfortable—”

“I want you.” You meet his eyes. “Like this. Please.”

He groans.

“You’re so unfair.”

“Good thing you like it.”

His laugh is breathless.

Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, and—

“Wait.” He leans his forehead against yours. “You okay with this? Really?”

“Yes.” You wrap your legs around his waist, look into his eyes. “Yes, I am. Please, fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first press inside is patient, giving you time to adjust. 

He’s bigger than his fingers, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, and you watch his face the entire time—the way his expression goes slack with pleasure, the way his breath comes in short gasps.

“Good?” he grits out.

You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in. 

“So good. More.”

He indulges, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated inside you and you’re both breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—I can’t—so perfect—”

“Move, please.”

And moving, he does. 

It’s slow at first, careful, but you can see him struggling to maintain control. 

His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and when you clench around him, he makes a sound that’s almost pained.

“You’re—don’t do that—trying to last here—”

“Don’t want you to last,” you manage. “Want you to lose it.”

“Fuck.”

The next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out at the sensation. 

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. You’re taking me so well, darling.”

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as he fucks you meaner now, each thrust sending sparks through your nervous system. 

The examination table creaks under you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember you’re in his office, in the medical wing, where anyone could walk in—

It just makes it hotter.

“Lay back,” he says suddenly.

You do, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his hands beside your head. This position is different—more intimate, nowhere to hide as he looks down at you.

“Give me your hands.”

You lift them, and he pins your wrists to the table above your head. Holds you there while he thrusts into you, and the feeling of being pinned, being held, being completely at his mercy—

“Oh god—”

“Yeah.” His voice is wrecked. “You like that? Like me holding you down?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

His fingers lace through yours, and somehow that’s even more intimate than the sex itself.

Holding hands while he fucks you, faces inches apart, breathing the same air.

“I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, words spilling out unchecked. “Wanted you. So long. Every time you came to medical, every time you smiled at me, every time you called me those ridiculous nicknames—”

“Hoseok—”

“You’re so addictive.” He leans down to bite your shoulder, not gentle, and you gasp. “Can’t get enough. Never going to get enough.”

The devotional quality in his voice, the raw honesty—it’s intoxicating.

Your cherry cordial scent must be everywhere by now, mixing with his sandalwood until the air is thick with both, and you can see it affecting him. 

See the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes ragged.

“You smell so good,” he groans. “Smell like—fuck—like something I should stay away from but can’t—”

His rhythm becomes more erratic, less controlled, and you can tell he’s close. 

Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, the way his grip on your hands tightens.

“Please,” you beg. “Please let me—I need—”

“Not yet.” But his voice is strained. “Little longer, darling. Want to make this last.”

“Can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He releases one of your hands to reach between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come on. Be good for me.”

You try, god you try so hard to hold it for him, but you’re right there on the edge, muscles tensing, breath coming in gasps—

“Now,” he finally says. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Permission granted, you shatter.

The orgasm oozes out of you, pleasure crashing through your entire body, and you hear yourself cry out his name. Feel yourself clenching around him, feel the way it drags him closer to his own edge.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His rhythm stutters. “I’m gonna—where—”

“Stomach,” you gasp. “Pull out—”

He does, barely, and then he’s coming—hot across your stomach, striping your skin—and the sound he makes is broken and honest and absolutely devastating.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing hard, hearts racing, processing what just happened.

What you’ve done.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m here.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “That’s good. Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

Then his medical training kicks in, but gentle, always so gentle when it concerns you.

“Hold still,” he says, voice tender. “Let me take care of this.”

He’s already moving, grabbing gauze and warm water from the supply station. His hands are gentle when they touch your stomach, cleaning you up with careful attention. The cum comes off easily, and he’s thorough about it, making sure your skin is completely clean before tossing the gauze in the medical waste bin.

“Okay?” he asks softly, hand coming to rest on your hip. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Your voice is steadier now. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.

“Good. That’s—that’s good.” His thumb strokes your hip absently. “Water. You need water. Don’t move.”

He crosses to his desk, still naked, and returns with a bottle of water from the mini-fridge he keeps stocked. Twists the cap off and holds it out.

“Drink.”

You take it, but your hands are still shaky enough that he notices.

“Here.” He guides the bottle to your lips, one hand supporting the back of your head. “Slow sips. There you go.”

The water is cold and perfect, and you didn’t realize how thirsty you were until it hits your tongue. 

You drink half the bottle before pulling back.

“More,” he says gently.

“I’m okay—”

“Humor me.” His voice is soft but firm. “You need to rehydrate. Just a little more.”

You drink again, and he watches with that attention to detail that’s so distinctive of him—the doctor who notices everything, who makes sure his patients are properly cared for.

Except you’re not just a patient anymore.

And he’s not just your doctor.

When you’ve finished enough to satisfy him, he sets the bottle aside and helps you sit up properly, moving with you so you don’t have to do it alone. 

Then he’s pulling you against his chest, arms coming around you like he needs the contact as much as you do.

“You okay?” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You let yourself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, but it’s shaky.

“I don’t know.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, slow and soothing. “I just—we just—”

“I know.”

“And I don’t—” His voice stills. “I don’t regret it. I should, but I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

He presses his face into your hair, breathing you in—cherry cordial mixing with sandalwood.

“We could get in serious trouble.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t regret it.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face, tilting it up so you have to look at him. “I don’t regret you.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your chest tight. “Hoseok—”

“I need you to know that.” His thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “Whatever happens next, whatever we have to deal with—I don’t regret this. I don’t regret us.”

“Neither do I.”

His smile is small but genuine, and he leans in to kiss you—soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate kisses from before. This is careful. Reverent. 

A promise.

When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he says quietly. “About what it means. What we do now.”

“I know.”

“The rules—”

“Still exist.” You squeeze his hand. “But so does this.”

“Yeah.” He squeezes back. “So does this.”

And you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

Not even a little bit.

Because there's Jeon, looking absolutely fucking devastating in a perfectly tailored suit, moving through the crowd like he's been here all along.

Like he didn't just materialize out of thin air after sprinting down from whatever rooftop he'd been perched on.

Your knees almost go weak with relief, but you maintain your composure. Barely.

His dark eyes scan the space with his usual demeanor, and then—they land on you. Or, more specifically, on Kaleido.

The flicker of recognition is subtle—so subtle you'd miss it if you didn't know him as well as you do. But it's there, just for a second, before his expression smooths into something blanker.

And then comes the smile.

It's the fakest fucking thing you've ever seen, and you've seen a lot. It's all teeth and no warmth, the kind of smile that says 'I'm being polite because I have to be, not because I want to.' You can practically feel the effort it takes for him to plaster it on, and honestly? It's kind of impressive.

"Ah," Jeon says, voice smooth and pleasant, like he's greeting an old friend at a dinner party. "What a coincidence to find you here as well."

"Isn't it just?" Kaleido's smile is a masterpiece of calculated pleasantness. "Though some things do tend to draw attention. Items of particular... value."

The way he says 'value' makes it clear he's not talking about the general auction items. The microchip. The one MDF is after too.

Jeon's hand presses slightly against your back when he reaches you, pulling fractionally closer.

"There are always valuable things at these events," he replies. "Though value is rather subjective, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I don't know about that."

Kaleido's eyes flick between you two, analyzing.

"Some things have quite... universal appeal. Your wife, for instance—" His smile doesn't waver. "—has proven herself quite valuable in previous negotiations."

Jeon's fingers twitch against your spine. It's barely noticeable, but you feel it.

"My wife excels at whatever she puts her mind to," he says, and there's something acerbic beneath the tone he employs.

"Indeed she does." Kaleido's expression gives absolutely nothing away. "Though I must say, she seemed quite... comfortable with your brother earlier. Lorenzo, was it?"

You feel Jeon tense slightly—probably at having to acknowledge V as his brother.

"Lorenzo has always been..." he starts, then stops abruptly.

His eyes catch on something, and you watch as his whole expression shifts for just a fraction of a second.

His gaze fixes on your neck, where V had—oh.

Oh shit.

"...been... Uh, very european about these things," Jeon finishes, but there's a new edge to his voice. "Family is.... important to him."

"Family," Kaleido repeats, watching Jeon like he's particularly interesting. "Yes, I can see the... dedication to keeping things close."

Jeon's jaw ticks slightly. He's still staring at your neck, like he's trying to convince himself he's seeing things wrong.

The mark V left must be more visible than you thought.

"Speaking of family," Kaleido continues, smooth as silk, "Fervio was quite eager to meet you. He's always had such... intense interests in family dynamics."

The implication in his tone makes your stomach turn.

You remember the way Fervio had looked at you during those trade negotiations, like he was imagining all the ways he could make you scream.

And not in the fun way, you bet.

"I'm sure he does," Jeon's hand spreads wider against your back, nudging you closer. "Though I'm afraid we won't be able to stay much longer. Prior commitments."

"What a shame." Kaleido doesn't sound disappointed at all. "And here I thought we might discuss some mutual interests. Fervio, especially, expressed such... enthusiasm about spending time with you both."

The threat is clear, even wrapped in perfect politeness.

"Another time, perhaps," Jeon says, but his attention keeps drifting to your neck, that muscle in his jaw jumping. "We really should—"

Thorns.

God, it's like being strangled by a rosebush.

"Brooooootheeeeer!"

You've never been simultaneously so relieved and so t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ concerned to hear someone's voice.

"I've been positively dying to find you!"

Jeon's hurricane aura spikes violently, sending invisible debris whirling through your chest. You swear you can hear his teeth grinding even over the ambient party chatter.

V glides over in a way that is too theatrical for the carefulness the situation requires. Fervio, for his part, remains more like death's own shadow, those dead-white eyes fixed on you in a way that makes your skin try to crawl right off your body and book it for the exit.

"You simply won't believe how long I've been searching," V continues, throwing an arm around Jeon's shoulders.

The movement forces Jeon to either step away from you or accept the contact.

...He chooses the latter, but god—you can practically hear his molars cracking from tension.

"Though of course, you've always had such a... talent for vanishing when people need you most."

"Lorenzo." Jeon's society smile could cut diamonds. "How... delightful to see you."

"Isn't it just?" V beams, squeezing Jeon's shoulder hard enough to wrinkle the expensive fabric. "I was just telling Fervio about that marvelous incident in Milan. You remember, surely? With the fountain?"

Something lethal flashes in Jeon's eyes. "You mean when you pushed me?"

"Pushed you?" V's gasp belongs in a soap opera. His free hand flies to his chest in theatrical offense. "Brother, you wound me! You fell."

"Into your conveniently positioned hands," Jeon's smile twitches, and not in the happy way.

"Gravity is such a fascinating force." V's smile spreads until his eyes crinkle. "Almost as fascinating as your newfound appreciation for... architecture."

"Speaking of architecture," Jeon counters smoothly, "do recall that lovely balcony in Rome? The one you nearly toppled from?"

"Ah yes!" V's laugh is bright and deadly. "After your thoughtful analysis of the railing's structural integrity."

"Just looking out for my dear brother's safety."

"Ever so considerate." V's tone drips fakeness. "Rather like that time you helped me gauge the pool depth in Naples."

"You did mention wanting to cool off."

"In December."

"The weather was quite mild for the season."

Kaleido watches this exchange like it's prime entertainment, while Fervio's corpse-pale eyes keep fixing on you in ways that make you want to shower for the next week straight.

"Oh!" V perks up with manufactured delight. "Remember that charming little mishap with the wine cellar? When you were trapped for—what was it, six hours?"

"Five and a half," Jeon corrects with poisonous pleasantry. "Nearly matching your stint in that Florence closet."

"A complete accident. Unlike those three separate occasions your car tried to acquaint itself with my person."

"Faulty brakes, I'm afraid."

"Three times?"

"I'm a dreadful driver." Jeon's laugh sounds like it's being extracted via torture. "Though not quite as dreadful as your aim with that cheese knife in Milan."

"Oh, that!" V squeezes Jeon's shoulder. "A simple misunderstanding. I was merely demonstrating proper cheese-cutting technique."

"At my throat?"

"I'm passionate about dairy education."

What in the actual fuck?

Are they seriously trading their greatest assassination attempts like they're swapping family recipes at a potluck right now?

"Speaking of passion," Jeon's smile could slice atoms, "remember that delightful camping excursion? When my tent mysteriously caught fire?"

"A terrible accident." V sighs wistfully. "Moths are so drawn to flames."

"The moths brought gasoline?"

"Exceptionally determined moths."

"Naturally." Jeon's eyes narrow while his smile stays fixed. "Much like how all your Versace suits were determined to turn pink in the wash."

"A devastating loss," V sighs theatrically. "Though not quite as devastating as what happened to your favorite long-range equipment. The one for... stargazing, wasn't it?"

Jeon's smile holds steady, but his eyes promise bloodshed. "Less devastating than losing an entire collection of first editions."

"Water damage, actually." V's grin turns predatory. "But Dubai was memorable, wasn't it? When that marksman just couldn't find his target. Must have been the heat affecting his concentration."

A muscle twitches in Jeon's jaw. "Not as memorable as Tokyo. Something about a certain knife expert who kept missing... all twelve times."

"Some targets prove remarkably elusive."

"And some people," Jeon replies, "go to creative lengths making that point... crystal clear."

"Communication is vital."

"Indeed. Nothing quite like proper... feedback."

"A well-placed note often suffices."

"Of course." Jeon tilts his head, smile tightening. "Though who would be unhinged enough to drive that message home? Twelve times over, conveniently. Really touched their heart, didn't it? In front of their employer."

V smiles. "Some people truly are passionate."

Their laughter that follows hits a pitch that could shatter champagne flutes.

It's the kind of forced hilarity that makes your teeth ache just hearing it—like they're reciting sitcom punchlines instead of trading stories about attempted murder.

"Such precious memories," V dabs at nonexistent tears. "We simply must make more soon, brother dear."

"Oh, absolutely." Jeon's grip on V's shoulder tightens. "I have so many ideas for future... family bonding."

"As do I!" V's smile turns venomous. "In fact, I was just sharing some with your lovely wife during our dance."

Jeon's smile freezes like fractured ice.

His eyes flick to your neck—where V's mark still lingers.

The muscle in his jaw works overtime.

"How considerate of you," he grits through his perfect smile.

"Always thinking of family," V purrs. "Someone must keep the... bonds tight."

You're pretty sure they're both calculating exactly how many ways they could kill each other right now without breaking cover.

Before V can launch into what's probably another delightful story about fratricide, you grab Jeon's hand, plastering on your best society smile. The one that says 'stop this shit right now.'

"As wonderful as this family reunion is," you say, voice tinged with sweetness, "my husband and I really should check the auction list. I believe they're starting soon?"

"Oh, but I haven't told them about Prague!" V protests, looking far too delighted. "You know, the thing with the chandelier—"

"Or Barcelona," Jeon cuts in smoothly. "With the paella."

"The seafood was a bit... off that day, wasn't it?"

"The shellfish was definitely toxic."

"Such a shame you noticed the puffer fish."

"Just like that time in Singapore—"

You tug at Jeon's hand more insistently.

These idiots are going to blow their cover if they keep this going.

"The auction," you remind them through gritted teeth. "Very important items to bid on?"

"Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you from your... preparations." The way V says it makes it sound distinctly dirty. "Though do save a dance for your brother-in-law later, won't you?"

"After you tell them about Kyoto?" Jeon pushes in again. "With the tea ceremony?"

"The matcha was a bit... bitter that day."

"Cyanide tends to have that effect."

For fuck's sake.

You tighten your grip on Jeon's hand to just shy of bone-crushing.

"We really must go. Right, darling?"

"But I haven't mentioned Budapest," he protests, still locked in this deranged competition. "With the opera house—"

"The acoustics were perfect for screaming," V sighs nostalgically.

"We'll see about that dance later," you cut in before they can start comparing notes on creative uses of stage equipment. Your smile feels painted on at this point as you nod to Kaleido and try not to make direct eye contact with Fervio's nightmare lenses.

Jeon actually tries to resist as you pull him away, like a child being dragged from a particularly violent playground. "The thing with the elevator in Seoul—"

"Later, brother dear!" V calls after you, waving cheerfully. "Don't forget about Amsterdam!"

"The tulips were lovely that spring," Jeon throws back. "Especially after the fertilizer incident—"

You practically yank him around a corner before he can finish that charming anecdote about whatever creative way they tried to kill each other with Dutch flowers.

The moment you're out of earshot, he snatches his hand from your grip like it's burning.

"Brothers?" he hisses, voice low but absolutely vibrating with contained fury. "Seriously? Of all the possible cover stories, you had to family-connect me to that fucking psychopath?"

"Hey, I didn't come up with it!" you whisper-yell back. "V just started spouting that brother bullshit and what was I supposed to do? Call him a liar in front of Kaleido?"

"Yes!" He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled strands. "Or say he's delusional. Or that he escaped from a mental institution. Literally anything else!"

"Oh right, because that wouldn't have been suspicious at all." You roll your eyes. "Besides, you played along just fine. All those lovely stories about attempted murder—very brotherly."

"Those weren't stories," he growls. "They were a fucking highlight reel of actual murder attempts."

Momentarily, he pauses, scanning the palazzo's architecture like he's genuinely checking something.

"...Though that marble banister on the west staircase has potential. Forty-seven-degree angle, roughly sixteen steps... terminal velocity would be—" He catches your look. "What?"

"Wait, what?" You blink at him. "The fountain thing actually—"

"Yes."

"And the car—"

"Three times."

"The cheese knife—"

"Don't." His jaw ticks. "Just... don't."

You stare at him for a moment, processing this. "Okay, but like... the moths and the gasoline—"

"I said don't." He's still eyeing that banister though, and you can practically see him doing the mental calculations. "Though speaking of gasoline, did you notice the antique oil lamps in the main hall? Very unstable. Would be a shame if someone bumped into one near some very flammable curtains..."

"Jeon."

"What? I'm just appreciating the historical architecture."

"Right. And planning fratricide."

"Purely hypothetical fratricide," he corrects, like that makes it better. "With historically accurate methods."

His attention drifts around the room, probably cataloging more potential murder weapons disguised as decor. Then his gaze drops lower, scanning the crowd, probably marking exits and—

He stills.

Right. That mark on your neck. The one he'd noticed earlier but couldn't comment on, not with Kaleido watching their every move.

Now though...

"By the way," he says, voice forced through in a way that suggests he's anything but nonchalant. "What the fuck is that anyway?"

The casual tone doesn't match the way his jaw ticks, that muscle working overtime as his eyes fix on the spot where V's teeth had been.

It's like watching someone try to gift wrap a grenade—the packaging might be pretty, but you can still tell there's something explosive underneath.

"What's what?" you ask, playing dumb even as your hand comes up to cover the mark reflexively.

"That." He gestures sharply at your neck. "The thing my dear brother left on you. During an operation."

You drop your hand, shrugging. "Part of the cover. V was just selling the whole passionate Italian lover thing—"

"By marking you?" He sounds pissed. "In the middle of an operation?"

"It worked, didn't it?" You point out, because it did. "The security guy totally bought it. And Kaleido—"

"Kaleido," he cuts you off, "is probably questioning our cover story right now. What kind of husband lets his brother mark his wife? It's sloppy. Unprofessional."

Typical Jeon, always analyzing every detail, every possible weakness in a plan.

You've seen him spend hours calculating bullet trajectories—of course he'd be pissed about V throwing variables into his perfectly mapped-out operation.

"V was just being V," you say with a shrug. "You know how he operates—"

"Exactly." Something sharp edges into his tone. "He doesn't think things through. Doesn't consider the tactical implications. Just does whatever serves his immediate purpose without regard for the broader mission parameters."

You roll your eyes. Of course this is about V's improvisational approach clashing with Jeon's methodical planning. Again.

"It's just a mark, Jeon. It'll fade."

"That's not the point." His hands clench at his sides. "The point is he compromised operational security. Created a potentially exploitable inconsistency in our cover story. Drew unnecessary attention—"

"Since when does unnecessary attention bother you?" The words slip out before you can stop them. "You were just trading murder stories like fucking Pokemon cards."

"That's different!" His expression hardens. "That was controlled. Calculated. This is just V being chaotic for the sake of chaos."

"How is publicly discussing murder attempts controlled?"

"Because I knew exactly what I was revealing and why." He sounds like he's explaining basic math to a child. "Every story had a purpose. Built our cover as dysfunctional but ultimately loyal siblings. V just..."

He gestures at your neck.

"...Improvises. Without considering the consequences."

You get it, really. Jeon likes his plans detailed, his variables controlled.

V's whole existence is basically a middle finger to that approach.

"Look," you say practically, "what's done is done. We'll work around it. Make it part of the cover somehow."

He stares at you for a long moment, then reaches out to ghost his fingers over the mark, assessing how visible it is, probably already calculating how to minimize its impact on the mission.

"Next time," he says, voice clipped, "he follows the fucking plan."

Simple as that. Just Jeon being Jeon, getting annoyed when things don't go according to his strategies. V probably did this specifically to mess with his tactical approach—they're always trying to throw each other off balance like that.

"Come on," you say, stepping back. "We have an auction to prepare for."

He drops his hand, stoicism sliding back into place.

Time to get back to work.

Besides, you've got bigger things to worry about than V and Jeon's eternal pissing contest.

...Like how you're going to acquire a microchip worth millions without starting an inter-gang war.

The walk to the auction area is quieter than it should be.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet you've come to tolerate with Jeon, but something heavier—like tension that has been pulled so tight you can practically hear the creak of it, threatening to snap.

Jeon's stride is steady, purposeful, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead. Always registering, always aware.

His hand brushes against the small of your back, not for any affectionate reason—Jeon doesn't do affectionate—but to guide you, to keep the illusion of your cover intact.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway.

The corridor is lined with gilded sconces and marble accents, opulence you're getting sick of seeing tonight.

Jeon's silence should be reassuring—he's working, focused, in control. But somehow, it isn't.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tight, the lines of his face harder than usual, and his hand, even when it brushes your back, feels laden.

Like that's right where it belongs.

"So..." you start, voice deliberately light, trying to evaporate the tension. "What's the plan now? Charm our way through a few rich assholes, get the microchip, and go?"

He doesn't answer right away. His eyes flick briefly to you, then to the end of the hall where the restrooms and coat-check signs are posted, and then back to the path ahead.

He's silent long enough that you're tempted to repeat yourself.

Finally, he says, "We stick to the routine. You focus on bidding. I'll handle the rest."

His voice is calm. Too calm.

And when his eyes flick to you again, they drop, just for a fraction of a second, to your neck.

You resist the urge to cover it with your hand again.

Instead, you give him a shrug and a casual smile. "Right. Stick to the plan."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't even glance at you this time. His steps are just slightly faster, his heels clicking a bit harder than before, like he's trying to outpace something.

The corridor opens up slightly as you near the restrooms, with an alcove of doors, each marked individually. Fancy private bathrooms, of course, because nothing screams 'charity' like excessive luxury.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the ornate mirror on the wall. The mark is faint but still there, a shadow of V's teeth left on your skin. Jeon's eyes hadn't lingered on it long, but long enough for you to know it's still bothering him.

"I should fix this," you mumble, breaking the silence again and gesturing vaguely toward your neck. "Can't have Kaleido or Fervio using this as ammo later."

Jeon doesn't stop. Doesn't even turn, but his voice is quieter this time, clipped.

"It's fine."

"It's not," you shoot back, already stepping toward the women's restroom. "You literally said yourself—this makes things inconsistent. Give me five seconds."

You don't wait for his approval because, honestly, you don't need it.

You see him deliberate something for a micro-second, tapping his own ear device. And then, before you can take another step, his hand clamps around your wrist, firm and unrelenting, and it stops you dead in your tracks. That's the thing about Jeon—he never has to try hard to make you freeze. He doesn't have to shout or force anything.

It's the quiet intensity, the way his touch demands obedience without ever being harsh.

"Jeon," you start, your voice lined with frustration as you turn to face him. "What are you—"

You don't get the chance to finish.

Because suddenly, he's moving, his grip shifting just enough to pull you off balance as he drags you toward the men's restroom.

"What the hell—"

The words barely make it out before the door is swinging open, crystal-clear brass letters spelling 'Men's' passing by as you're yanked inside.

The restroom is ridiculous—marble counters, gold faucets, probably the fanciest hand soap you've ever seen—but none of that registers.

All you can focus on is him.

The tension in his shoulders as he lets go of your wrist, the sharp line of his jaw as he stands there, just... looking at you.

"What is your problem?" you blurt, heat rising in your chest—partly from confusion, but mostly from the way he's looking at you now.

Like he's barely holding himself together.

Like something inside him is threatening to break.

He doesn't answer. Not at first. Instead, he steps closer, and for a second, you think he might back off. But no. His hand trails up your arm, slow, deliberate, stopping just above your collarbone.

His index finger hitches higher, grazing the shell of your ear, and you feel the sharp, double-tap of his knuckle against the small device nestled there. A faint, hollow chirp echoes in your ear canal—the mechanical sound of a frequency shifting—but the technicality of it barely registers.

You don't have the mental space to wonder why he’s messing with the comms.

Because the moment the channel clicks over, his eyes snag on your neck again.

Then his thumb brushes over the faint mark, featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"You really shouldn't let him get this close," he says finally, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of the casual tone he usually reserves for these moments.

You blink. Once. Twice. "It's not like I—"

The rest of your words are swallowed as he leans in, impossibly close, the scent of him—pine, smoke, and something minty—flooding your senses. His lips hover just above your neck, right over the faint bruise, and for half a second, you think he's about to...

But instead, his hand shifts lower, curling over your hip like a vice, pulling you that crucial inch closer until there's nothing but fabric between you.

"Do you ever stop talking?" His tone is quiet, almost teasing, but something about it almost gives you a pause.

Your retort dies on your tongue as his other hand plants itself against the door beside your head, boxing you in completely. The shift in his posture presses you more firmly against him, and suddenly the steady silence between you feels... dangerous.

Not in the way danger usually feels in your line of work—guns, knives, threats whispered in dark rooms—but in a way that makes your pulse pound against your throat, erratic and untamed.

"You needed to fix this, didn't you?" he nods at the bite mark.

His lips quirk faintly, but there's nothing playful in the way his eyes roam down to your mouth, then your dress, then back to your neck.

"Let me help."

His mouth finds your neck, and fuck—of course he's good at this too. Perfect, precise Jeon, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that make your knees weak. He works his way down one side, then the other, and your hands find his hair because what else are you supposed to do when he's pressing you against the door like he wants to melt right through you?

"Seriously?" you manage, breathless. "In the middle of an operation?"

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, hips pressing forward, and—oh.

Oh.

That's definitely not his gun digging into your thigh.

"You don't know," he murmurs between kisses, "how you look in that fucking dress."

His teeth graze your pulse point, making you gasp.

"All these women out there..." Another kiss, harder this time. "With their tulle dresses and ornate jewelry..."

Your fingers tighten in his hair as he finds a particularly sensitive spot. "Jeon—"

"They don't compare, sunshine."

The endearment falls from his lips like it belongs there, casual and devastating all at once.

"How you look in burgundy is..." His tongue traces the shell of your ear. "...fucking criminal."

Your head falls back against the door with a soft thud.

Trust Jeon to turn color theory into foreplay.

"The slit on your side..." His hand traces up your leg, teasing. "...been driving me crazy all night."

His fingers slip through the fabric opening, finding bare skin.

"Wanted to place my hand..." He presses closer, grinding against you. "...right here."

His palm is hot against your thigh, thumb skittering up on your skin. You can feel his smile against your neck—the bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"Anyone could walk in," you manage to say, even as your body betrays you by arching into his touch.

Your breath catches when his fingers trace higher up your thigh, but he just hums against your throat.

Clearly, the possibility of getting caught isn't high on his list of concerns right now.

"You're right."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and fuck—his eyes are hazy and opaque. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as his gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the mark there.

"But let me fix that first."

Before you can process what's happening, he's got your wrist in his grip again—and honestly, sue you, because you can't help the stupid smile that spreads across your face as he practically drags you toward one of the toilet stalls.

Trust Jeon to make even manhandling hot.

The lock clicks shut and suddenly he's pressing you against the wall again, mouth finding your neck without hesitation.

His teeth drag along your skin, not gentle at all this time.

And the contrast hits you weird—the sting of his bite, then his tongue soothing over it. Hot and wet. Your head's spinning a little.

You can feel his lip piercing every time he moves. The metal's cool against your pulse point, dragging these trails that his breath turns hot a second later. Then his teeth sink in again—not breaking skin, but enough to make you gasp—and he sucks.

Oh.

He's marking you.

Not like V's casual little nip from earlier. This is different. This is Jeon being stupidly thorough about it, working the skin until you're pretty sure it's gonna bruise. Dark. Obvious.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as he moves to a new spot and starts the whole thing over again. Teeth scraping. Tongue sliding. That cold metal piercing. It's a lot.

Each bite feels harder than the last.

Like he's trying to make sure no one sees V's mark under his.

Which is... honestly kinda hot? In a fucked up territorial way that you probably shouldn't be into but definitely are.

You should probably care more about how you're gonna explain multiple hickeys to literally anyone. But his mouth's doing that to your neck and you can't bring yourself to give a shit.

His hand comes up, fingers finding the sharp hairpin holding your hair up. He twists it—securing it instead of pulling it out—making sure your hair doesn't fall despite how he's manhandling you right now.

Weirdly considerate for someone currently trying to mark every inch of your neck.

But whatever. You're supposed to be playing passionate newlyweds anyway, right?

What's more convincing than some love bites?

That's what you tell yourself as his teeth find another spot.

And god, you love this.

You really fucking do.

The way Jeon gets when he's worked up like this—ready to fuck you into next week without thinking twice..

But.

You're supposed to be maintaining cover here.

A quickie in the bathroom isn't exactly keeping a low profile, no matter how good it sounds.

"Jeon."

You try pushing at his shoulders but he just grunts against your throat and keeps going. His teeth scrape a sensitive spot and—fuck. Focus. You need to focus.

You plant your hands firmer on his chest and push harder.

He finally looks up. The scowl on his face would be intimidating if you hadn't seen it a hundred times before.

"What the fuck are you doing?" It comes out breathier than you meant.

Probably because his hand's still on your thigh.

"Fixing this." He tries diving back in but you hold him at arm's length.

"By making it worse?"

His eyes narrow. "How is it worse?"

"Are you serious right now?" You gesture at your neck where you can feel at least three spots throbbing. "V left one mark. You're turning my neck into a fucking connect-the-dots puzzle."

"At least they're mine."

He freezes like he didn't mean to say that out loud.

Oh.

"Yours?" Your voice comes out edged. "Since when do you care whose marks I wear?"

"Since my brother—" he practically spits the word "—decided to get creative with our cover story."

"Oh, so this is about V?" You arch an eyebrow even as his grip tightens. "Not very professional of you."

"Professional?" He laughs. Harsh. "You wanna talk professional while you're wearing his fucking teeth marks?"

"It was for the mission!"

"The mission didn't require him marking you."

"No?" You push at his chest again. He doesn't budge. "And what exactly would you call what you're doing right now?"

His jaw ticks. "That's different."

"How?" Heat's building between you with every word. "Because you're the one doing it?"

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your neck.

The look makes your stomach flip.

"Because I do it better."

You scoff and shove at his chest again. "Better? You're just pissed V went off script."

"Damn right I am." His fingers flex on your hips. Bruising. "We had a plan. A solid fucking plan. And he just—"

"What? Improvised?" You laugh. "God forbid someone doesn't follow your precious tactical outline to the letter."

"This isn't about following orders." His voice drops. "This is about that psychopath making me play happy families with him. Making me pretend he's my fucking brother—"

"Oh, so that's what this is about?" You curl your fingers in his shirt. Not sure if you wanna push him away or pull him closer. "You're throwing a tantrum because V made you play nice?"

His eyes flash. "A tantrum? You think this is a tantrum?"

"What would you call it? Getting pissy and dragging me into a bathroom to—what? Mark your territory?"

"To fix his mess! Like I always fucking have to!"

"Right, because everything V does is automatically wrong—"

"When it involves putting his mouth on you? Yes."

Silence.

One beat. Two.

His chest's rising and falling fast under your hands. You can feel his heart hammering.

"What's it matter, where he puts his mouth?" You sigh, trying to get out of this conversation. "As long as the mission succeeds, right?"

"The mission would succeed better if he'd stick to the fucking plan instead of—"

"Instead of what? Being V?" You laugh. "News flash, Jeon. Not everyone operates like a fucking user manual."

"No." Venom drips from his voice. "Some people operate like complete fucking wildcard who don't care who they drag down with them."

"At least he knows how to adapt. Unlike some people who need every variable calculated down to the—"

His hand slides up to your throat.

It cuts your words off like he covered your mouth.

"You want adaptation?" His thumb brushes over one of his marks on your neck. "Fine. Let's adapt."

Your eyes narrow.

Oh, so that's how he wants to play this?

Fine.

Chaewon didn't spend months drilling joint locks into your muscle memory for nothing.

Before he can react you've got his wrist trapped, using his momentum against him as you twist. The move sends him stumbling forward and you take advantage, slamming him face-first into the wall. His arm twists behind his back at an angle that's gotta be uncomfortable, but you know exactly how far to push before actually hurting him.

The laugh that escapes him is almost impressed.

"Wow." His voice is rough against the wall. "Really fucking mature, sunshine."

You press his arm up a fraction higher. Just because you can. Just to remind him you're not some damsel he can push around.

His breath hitches but you can hear the smile when he speaks.

"Guess Flower's been teaching you new tricks."

"Guess you're not the only one who can adapt."

He tests your grip—not really trying to break free. More like checking your form.

Always the tactical bastard, even pinned to a fucking wall.

"That what this is? Adaptation?"

His breathing's slightly ragged. Whether from the hold or something else, you're not sure.

"You know what your problem is, Jeon?" Your voice comes out low. "You always think you're in control."

His shoulder shifts under your grip. "And you think you are?"

The challenge in his voice is unmistakable.

Slowly you ease the pressure on his arm—not releasing him completely, but giving him just enough slack to wonder what you're planning.

Then you spin him around and shove him back against the wall hard enough that his breath catches.

His eyes widen slightly. Clearly not expecting the move. And that split second of genuine surprise on his face is so fucking satisfying you can't help what happens next.

You slam your mouth against his, swallowing whatever smartass comment he was about to make.

He freezes for a moment. Caught off guard. But then he's kissing back just as hard, just as angry, like he's trying to prove a point neither of you understand.

He shifts until your back hits the wall again, hands immediately sliding down to your thighs, grip firm as he hoists you up with his infuriating inhumane strength.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, new angle letting him pressing right where you need him.

"This what you wanted?" He breathes against your mouth, rolling his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyes. "To prove you can handle me?"

His lip piercing drags across your bottom lip as he kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like he's trying to taste your answer before you give it.

His hands flex on your thighs, fingers digging in as he grinds against you, pants dragging against your increasingly wet underwear and—fuck.

You should probably be embarrassed by how worked up you are already but it's hard to care when he's moving like that.

"Always so fucking stubborn," he mutters between kisses.

You can feel him smirking.

"Think you can just throw me around, huh?" Another deliberate grind has you gasping. "Show me who's in charge?"

His mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck again.

Apparently still not satisfied with the marks he's left.

His tongue drags slow against your pulse point and you tilt your head. Just slightly. Granting better access.

"Gonna leave you something to remember me by." His voice is rough. "Something that won't fade so easily."

Your fingers tighten in his hair as he sucks another mark into your throat. The sound he makes—half growl, half moan—vibrates straight through you.

You hate this.

Hate how easily he works you up. How perfectly he knows where to touch, where to bite. Hate how good it feels when he's angry like this.

You don't even understand why he's so worked up. Why V's stupid improvisations got under his skin this badly.

But fuck. The way he's grinding against you makes it hard to care about the why.

His hands are bruising on your thighs, holding you up like you weigh nothing, making every single roll of his hips hit perfectly.

It has you arching into him like you can't get close enough.

And maybe you can't. Because even with him pressed against every inch of you, it still doesn't feel like enough.

"Fuck, I hate you," you breathe against his mouth even as your legs tighten around his waist. "Hate how fucking good you are at this."

He laughs. Dark and rough and mean. The kind of laugh that gets under your skin because it sounds like he's done checkmate.

His teeth catch your bottom lip. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to sting.

"Yeah?" His voice has an edge that pulls a gasp from you as he rolls his hips again.

"Yeah."

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging through the fabric of his suit jacket. You feel the muscle beneath tense. Which only makes you grip tighter.

You hope the scratches leave marks. Hope it stings when he moves later. Just enough to remind him you were here.

Because damn it, if he's gonna do this thing where he wrecks you and walks away like it's nothing, you want there to be something he can't erase either.

His mouth moves back to your neck. Latching on like he's got something to prove.

Another fucking hickey.

Because apparently three aren't enough.

You should stop him. This is gonna look insane in the mirror. But when you feel the cold scrape of his lip piercing against your skin, the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly needy.

"Say it again." His words vibrate against your throat as he drags his tongue up.

"What?"

"Say it again." His voice drops a full octave, rough edges and wrecked control. "Turns me on."

You freeze for half a second.

Because why the fuck is that hot?

He's already grinding against you like he's trying to unmake you. His voice is on the verge of breaking. And now he wants you to—what? Say it again so he can smirk all smug and satisfied like the bastard he is?

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

You want to throttle him. You want to mount him.

You want—

"Then maybe you should do something about it."

Your fingers tighten in his hair as you say that—and the way his breath hitches when you tug makes you pull harder.

"Something like what?" His lips curl into a smirk you can feel against your jaw.

It's infuriating.

"I don't know." Your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm out of sheer spite. "Maybe... fuck me like you hate me."

Everything stills.

His movements freeze so suddenly you could swear the air sharpens between you. His body's still pressed tight, trapping you where you are, but his head lifts.

Slowly.

Cautiously.

When his eyes meet yours they're so dark you can barely make out the irises.

"Be careful what you say, sunshine," his voice is low and controlled but straining at the edges.

"Why?"

The word's practically a dare.

"Because if you say that again—" his fingers flex against your thighs "—there will be no going back."

Heat in your stomach spreads like wildfire at the rough promise in his tone.

You should hesitate. Should stop for one second and think about implications.

But you're too far gone for that.

"Maybe that's exactly what I want."

His thumb brushes your leg. A touch so light it's almost mocking as it trails higher.

"What, no going back?" He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear. "Or for me to fuck you like I hate you?"

"The latter." You admit it because there's no point pretending otherwise.

Not when you're already on fire from how he's looking at you.

From how his hands feel like they're branding your skin.

His eyes lock on yours. Searching. Though you don't know what for.

Testing you maybe. Waiting to see if you'll flinch.

But you don't.

If anything you hold his gaze harder.

"You sure about that?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips, quieter but no less dangerous. "Last chance, sunshine."

You're done hesitating.

You meet his glare head-on. A small smug part of you takes satisfaction in how his jaw tightens just watching you.

"Jungkook."

You lean forward just enough to brush your lips against his. A whisper away from contact.

"Fuck me like you hate me."

The moment the words leave your mouth something in him snaps.

His grip on your thighs tightens as he adjusts you against the wall, somehow managing to keep you pinned while his other hand frantically pats his back pockets.

Even now—even when he's practically vibrating with tension—his movements are stupidly coordinated.

His mouth crashes into yours again.

You can feel his eyebrows furrowing against your skin as he kisses you. Clearly annoyed about something. Probably his own organizational skills for once.

Which would be funny if you weren't so desperate to get his hands back on you.

Then his expression shifts—you can feel it in how his lips curve—and he pulls back just enough to show you the condom he's retrieved with a triumphant little smirk.

Because of course Jeon would have protection in his wallet.

Of course he'd be prepared even for angry bathroom sex during an operation.

Fucking boy scout.

"Wipe that look off your face." You chide, yanking him back into another kiss.

His laugh is dark against your mouth.

"Make me." He challenges.

Oh. You're gonna make him regret that.

Really, you're already planning how. But then he's unbuckling his belt with one hand—one fucking hand—like the insufferably coordinated bastard he is and your brain short-circuits a little.

You hate this.

Hate how stupidly hot everything about him is. Especially when you're ready to destroy him.

But what's worse—what's actually infuriating—is how he's still kissing you like it's the only thing he's focused on. Even while you can practically see his big stupid brain dividing everything into perfect little tasks.

Unbutton. Kiss. Unzip. Bite. Adjust grip. Roll hips.

Everything so clean and methodical. Like he's got some flowchart running in his head. Like this is just another tactical operation he's executing accurately.

You want to kick him for being this unnervingly perfect.

Want to mess up his careful control until he—

Oh.

Your thoughts scatter as his fingers push your underwear aside. Testing. Checking.

Because of course he'd make sure you're ready.

Of course he'd be thorough about this too.

His smirk widens against your mouth and you already know you're gonna hate whatever comes out of it next.

"This wet already, sunshine?" His voice is rough but entirely too pleased with himself. "Just from fighting with me?"

You actually frown at him. Like full-on scowl.

Because he's such a smug shit.

A hot smug shit, but still shit.

"You know women's pussies produce fluid, right?" You say it with your whole chest. Channeling your inner biology professor. "To clean themselves and stuff. Doesn't mean we're aroused."

His fingers keep stroking lazily up and down. The bastard has the audacity to look amused.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm." You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good his touch feels. "Basic anatomy."

He actually scoffs. This full-body thing that has him pressing closer.

"Sunshine." His voice drops low as his thumb finds your clit. "I know the difference."

"Do you now?"

"Mm." His eyes are dark as they hold yours. "I know how you feel when you're actually wet for me. Know the way your breath catches—" his fingers slide lower, spreading the wetness "—just like that."

You try maintaining your unimpressed expression but he's not done.

"Know how your thighs start trembling." He continues. And fuck—your legs are shaking around his waist. "How your pulse picks up right... here."

His mouth finds that spot on your neck again. Tongue pressing against your racing heartbeat.

"That's not—"

"And I definitely know—" he cuts you off, thumb circling your clit again "—the difference between regular wetness and when your pussy is literally weeping for my cock."

Christ.

"Still wanna lecture me about anatomy?" His smile is absolutely wicked now.

"You're so full of yourself." You manage to say even as your hips betray you by pressing into his touch.

"Nah." His fingers slide lower, parting your folds. "But you're about to be."

You don't know when he managed to roll the condom on.

Somewhere between his insufferable anatomy lecture and the way his thumb had been circling your clit like he was trying to prove a point.

Efficient bastard.

Because now there's no mistaking what's pressing against you, saying a very enthusiastic 'hello' right under you. Like it's been waiting for this moment all goddamn night.

His grip on your thighs tightens. Fingers digging in like he's trying to anchor himself.

His other hand drops and you feel him grab himself, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

There's a pause. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to make you wanna scream at him to get on with it already.

Then he pushes in.

And—fuck.

It's not slow. Not tentative. He just slides in like your body's been waiting for him. Like it's been expecting him. No resistance. No hesitation. Just this smooth fluid stretch that has your breath catching.

Like he belongs there.

Like your pussy was already rolling out the red carpet, practically begging him to come back.

He curses under his breath. Low and rough. His forehead drops to your shoulder as he bottoms out.

"Damn." He mutters. Voice wrecked. "Just like that, huh?"

It's infuriating.

It's humiliating.

It's—god. It's perfect.

"Yeah." He breathes, almost to himself, like he's in awe or something.

His fingers flex against your skin, holding you in place as he rolls his hips experimentally. Just enough to make you clench around him.

"You feel that? Fucking perfect."

Your face goes hot—like boiling hot—and you don't know if it's from anger or embarrassment or the way his voice drops when he says that. Like he's savoring the word.

So you do the only thing you can think of.

You bite him.

Hard.

Your teeth sink into the curve of his shoulder. Right through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

He hisses, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and the movement punches a gasp out of you and you hate how much it gives him the upper hand.

"Fuck." You muffle against his shoulder. "Fuck you."

"Working on it." He shoots back, voice tight.

You can feel the way his lips curl into a grin against your neck.

Smug bastard.

The first thrust is deep but careful, as if he's testing the waters. Gauging just how far he can push you.

The second is harder. Stronger. It knocks the air right out of your lungs.

By the third he's found his rhythm—this maddening punishing pace that has you clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

"Insane." He grits out. "How well you take me."

Your nails dig into his shoulders. Hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents.

You wanna tell him to shut up. To stop talking. To just fuck you and leave it at that.

But all that comes out is this broken breathless sound that you're pretty sure only feeds his ego.

Because of course it does.

Of course he'd get off on this—on the way your body reacts to him. On the way you can't seem to stop gasping his name every time he hits it.

"Yeah." He murmurs, brushing your ear. "Just like that."

And god. You hate him.

You hate how good he feels. How perfectly he fits. How every roll of his hips seems to work the tension inside you out.

You hate the way his voice sounds when he's like this—low and wrecked and so fucking smug. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

But most of all you hate the way your body responds to him.

Like it's been waiting for this. For him.

Like it doesn't care how much you wanna strangle him right now.

As long as he keeps moving like that.

And fuck does he keep moving.

His hands slide down to your ass. Fingers splaying wide. Gripping like he's afraid you might slip away.

Or worse—fight back.

Like hell you'd let him win that easily.

But when he starts gliding you up and down, letting gravity do half the work, all you can do is hold on.

Not because you're weak.

But because his pace is so maddeningly precise it leaves no room for anything else.

You cling to him. Arms around his neck. Squeezing tight enough to feel the strain in your biceps, tight enough that if you were any stronger you'd probably choke him out.

But let's be real—this is Jeon. If there's any way he'd wanna go, it'd be happily suffocated between your thighs.

Then he has the audacity to pause. Just enough to make you wanna murder him.

His head tilts. Smugness dripping from every pore as he leans in.

Voice low and rough like gravel dragged under tires.

"Ready?"

You don't answer. Not verbally at least. Instead you grab a fistful of his hair and yank. Hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

He doesn't complain. Doesn't even flinch.

If anything the fucker smirks. Like the sting of your nails in his scalp is just another reason to wreck you.

"Gonna fuck you like I hate you." He growls. "As promised, sunshine."

Then he delivers.

The next thrust shoves you up the wall hard enough to make the entire stall tremble.

Your back arches, nails scraping against his shoulders.

He takes it as encouragement.

His hips snap forward again—deeper this time, faster—and the sound you make is ripped straight from your lungs.

He grabs your ass harder. Palms flexing like he's trying to mold you into his grip.

And god. It's like he's obsessed with it.

With you.

With the way your body gives under his hands.

So pliant. So fucking willing.

"God—" Thrust. "You really—" Thrust. "Don't know—" Thrust. "How fucking—" Thrust. "Pretty you are."

Your face goes hot. Boiling hot. And you don't know if it's from the way he says it or the way he looks at you when he does.

Because he's looking at you now.

Really looking, obscure eyes locked on yours, lip caught between his teeth like he's trying to keep himself from saying more.

But then his pace quickens and he doesn't look away, no. He maintains eye contact. Looking at you—into you—as he punctuates every single word.

"So—" Thrust. "Fucking—" Thrust. "Pretty."

You don't know when you started loving that word.

Maybe it's new. Maybe it's just him.

Maybe you just like the way it sounds when Jeon says it.

Like it's something sacred. Like it's something that belongs to you and only you.

You don't even realize you're clenching around him until his next thrust makes him groan, low and guttural, like you've knocked the air out of him.

His pace falters for a split second.

Then he's back. Moving quicker now. Fucking you like he's trying to prove a point.

And maybe he is.

Maybe this is his way of showing you exactly what he means when he calls you pretty.

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The setup is pretty genius, you'll give them that. A charity auction? Perfect cover. Rich people love throwing money at ‘causes’ while pretending they're not just laundering funds. Plus, the champagne keeps flowing and the tiny food actually tastes good, so who's complaining?

V's hand finds your waist, grip casual but present. He moves like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn't just finished redecorating the courtyard in various shades of red. His fingers press slightly when Jeon's eyes meet his over your head, and oh—you can practically see the tactical planning passing between them in that single look.

Jeon's gaze drops to you, just for a second, but it's enough to make your chest do that weird tight thing again. He hesitates—actually hesitates—before giving V this tiny nod that probably contains fifteen different contingency plans.

Then he's gone, melting into the crowd like smoke.

Kaleido and Fervio disappear too, though with considerably less grace. You catch flashes of them—green hair here, nightmare contact lenses there—before they vanish into the sea of black suits and evening wear.

Thank fuck for small mercies.

A splash of pink catches your eye through the crowd.

Yunjin, still working that cotton candy princess vibe, being ‘escorted’ by two guys who scream private security. They're trying to look harmless, but you notice how their eyes keep scanning, how their hands stay ready near their jackets.

Not that you're worried. Yunjin's got one hand curved around her clutch, right where you know she keeps that special ‘lipstick’ that definitely isn't MAC. Her laugh tinkles through the air—perfectly pitched, perfectly fake—as she lets them guide her toward the auction hall.

The ballroom itself is... well, it's a lot. More crystal chandeliers than any room needs, ceiling high enough to have its own weather system, and honest-to-god velvet chairs arranged in neat little rows.

There's even a proper auctioneer's podium up front, complete with one of those tiny hammers that judges love.

"Your bidding cards, signore e signora?"

You nearly jump when a server materializes beside you, crisp bow tie and judgment. The silver tray he's holding has these fancy numbered cards, each one sporting a QR code that looks weirdly modern against the old-school setup.

You grab number 23, noting how his eyes linger just a touch too long. Probably memorizing your face for whatever sketchy record-keeping system they've got running.

Your seat comes with an actual printed catalog, bound in leather like this is a legitimate auction house instead of criminal shopping hour. You flip through it, scanning past the bullshit items—some rare wines here, a probably-fake Monet there—until you find what you're actually here for.

𝐿𝑜𝑡 45： 𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐴𝑙𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑚 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑖𝑑： 5，000，000 €

"Cᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ-ᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇssɪɴɢ sʏsᴛᴇᴍ. Sᴇʟꜰ-ʟᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs. Lɪᴍɪᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴀ ᴛᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇᴅ."

Which is fancy talk for ‘AI that could make your gang the most technologically advanced criminal enterprise in Asia.’

No wonder AD's been practically vibrating since this hit the black market.

Five million's just the starting bid, but for tech like this?

Worth every stolen penny.

The room fills up like a who's who of international crime. You spot at least three arms dealers trying to look casual, a politician who definitely shouldn't be here, and what you're pretty sure is actual royalty hiding in the back row. Everyone's playing at being normal auction-goers while definitely sizing up competition.

Some woman in head-to-toe Chanel claims the seat next to you, rattling like a jewelry store with every movement. Her bidding card says 12, and she keeps touching it like she's afraid it'll disappear.

Rookie move.

You can practically smell the nervousness rolling off her designer perfume.

The auctioneer takes his place, and in all honesty, they’ve really committed to the aesthetic. He looks like he should be reading bedtime stories to grandkids instead of facilitating international crime, complete with wire-rim glasses and this perfectly maintained mustache that probably has its own grooming routine.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he starts, voice carrying a mix of authority and charm. "Welcome to our annual charity gala auction. As always, we remind you that all proceeds go to various children's foundations across Europe."

You have to bite back a snort.

Sure, if by ‘children's foundations’ they mean offshore accounts and shell companies.

But hey, at least they're dedicated to the bit.

The first items are your standard rich-people bait.

Some ancient wine goes for stupid money. A definitely-fake vase sells for even more stupid money. Everyone's playing their part perfectly—sipping champagne, making polite noises about art they definitely don't understand, pretending they're not all here for lot 45.

You check your phone under the catalog, making sure AD's account details are ready to go.

You know it'll skyrocket faster than crypto on a good day.

The real question is: who else is here for it? And how messy is this going to get?

Your eyes drift around the room once more, because it’s part of the job, really.

Brioni suit three rows up keeps fidgeting with his cufflinks. Someone's whispering in Russian nearby. And somewhere behind you, you just know Kaleido's watching, probably already plotting twelve different ways to fuck this up for everyone else.

But... Yunjin?

You blink slowly, scanning the crowd for that signature bubblegum pink. It shouldn't be hard to spot—not in this sea of blacks and neutrals—but Yunjin's always been good at disappearing when she needs to.

Too good, sometimes.

Your stomach twists with a familiar anxiety.

Logically, you know she's fine. V made his point pretty fucking clear to Fervio in what might be the most disturbing way possible. But still. You need to see her. Need to confirm with your own eyes that she's okay, that she's not—

You shut that thought down hard before it can fully form.

You're not going there. Not now. Not when you need to stay focused.

It's just... you can't help but think about your first mission. The one where you helped dismantle MDF's trafficking ring. The one where girls kept disappearing, snatched up like they were nothing.

The one where you finally put Hanjun—that sadistic motherfucker—behind bars where he belongs.

You haven't heard anything about MDF restarting those operations. Not a whisper, not a rumor. But you know how they work. You've seen firsthand how they play dirty, how they take what they want without a second thought.

And you can't forget the look on Jessi's face when she showed you those photos.

Those girls, all lined up like merchandise.

And that one girl—god, the resemblance was uncanny.

Same eyes, same curve to her jaw.

Jessi never confirmed it was her sister, but she didn't have to.

Some things you just know.

A burst of familiar laughter cuts through your spiraling thoughts, and your head snaps up, eyes immediately finding that shock of pink hair several rows behind you.

There she is, seated next to some older man in an expensive suit that screams ‘corrupt politician.’ She's leaning in, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her lips curved in that perfectly polishdd smile.

Classic Yunjin. Playing the bubbly airhead while she works her real magic.

You shift in your seat, angling yourself just enough to catch their conversation without being obvious about it. Several months in the Seduction Division have taught you exactly how to eavesdrop while looking completely disinterested.

"...just don't understand why anyone would spend so much on computer stuff," Yunjin's saying, voice pitched higher than normal, that deliberate valley-girl lilt she pulls out when she's playing dumb. "Like, isn't technology, like, always getting better? Why not wait for the next version?"

The politician—balding, probably mid-fifties, wedding ring glinting under the chandeliers—laughs indulgently.

"Sometimes, my dear, it's about being the first. Having what others don't."

Yunjin giggles, the sound calculated to stroke his ego. "I guess that makes sense. You seem so smart about these things."

She leans in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper.

"So which one are you going to bid on? That pretty painting? Or maybe that yacht? You look like a yacht kind of man."

The politician puffs up like a peacock, clearly enjoying the attention from someone half his age.

"Well, I was considering lot 45, actually. The processing algorithm."

"Really?" Yunjin's nose wrinkles adorably. "That sounds so boring. Like, what would you even do with it?"

"It's quite valuable, actually. Revolutionary technology."

"More valuable than a yacht?" She sounds genuinely confused, like she can't imagine anything better than floating around on a big boat. "But you can't even show it off! No one's gonna be like, 'ooh, look at his algorithm.'" She mimics taking photos with her hands. "Like, yacht pics look way better on Instagram."

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

This is why Yunjin's the best. She knows exactly how to play these types—stroking their egos while subtly making them question their choices.

The politician hesitates. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Plus," Yunjin continues, leaning even closer, her hand ‘accidentally’ brushing his thigh, "I've always wanted to see the inside of one of those super fancy yachts. All those... private spaces."

She bats her eyelashes, and wow, she is laying it on thick.

The man actually gulps. You can practically see his brain recalibrating, shifting from ‘valuable tech’ to ‘impress hot girl.’

"The yacht does have... quite the master suite," he manages, his voice going slightly rough.

Yunjin's smile widens.

"Really? That sounds amazing." She sighs dreamily. "I bet the views from the bedroom are just incredible."

And just like that, you can see bidder number one cross lot 45 off his mental list. He's now fully invested in winning that yacht, if only for the chance to show Yunjin the ‘views’ from the bedroom.

Men are so predictable it's almost sad.

You turn back around, smiling slightly.

One down.

But you know there are others—probably smarter, definitely less easily distracted by pretty girls playing dumb. Your gaze drifts to where you last saw the Russian whisperer, noting how he's now deep in conversation with someone who looks like private military. Great.

Your hand moves to your phone again, checking the time.

Where the hell is Jeon?

He hasn't said anything so far. He should be back by now, positioned somewhere high with eyes on everything.

V's lips brush your cheek, and you freeze. Not the fun kind of freeze, like that ‘oh, butterflies-in-my-stomach’ kind. No, this is the ‘what-the-fuck-is-he-doing-now’ kind of freeze. Your whole body goes stiff as a board, the kind of rigid tension that makes your neck hurt to hold, and you shoot him a look from the corner of your eye.

"Pay attention, love," he whispers, voice low enough that it barely registers over the hum of the room.

You exhale through your nose, long and slow, resisting the very real urge to elbow him straight in the ribs. Because of course V thinks this is the perfect time to mess with you. Of course.

His hand lands on your shoulder, light and almost soft, like he's trying not to spook you. The gesture should feel protective, but this is V, so it just feels... calculated.

His arm drapes across the back of your chair, settling like it belongs there, while he leans back like he's got all the time in the world. One leg crosses casually over the other, and yeah—he's smiling. That lazy, shit-eating grin he wears when he's enjoying himself way too much. His head tilts, his posture screams ‘relaxation,’ but that glint in his eye says otherwise.

He's watching the room like he's already mapped it out in his head, every exit, every target.

And somehow, he still finds time to mess with you.

You roll your eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck.

"You're hilarious," you mutter, flicking your attention back to the auction.

And there it is.

The microchip.

The room shifts. It's subtle, but you feel it. The way the conversations die out, the way the collective breath of the crowd seems to catch all at once.

The man at the podium raises his gavel, holding it up like some kind of holy relic. His voice takes on a certain weight as he announces it, drawing out the moment like he's savoring it.

You barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.

The words don't really matter—what matters is that.

Lot 45. The reason you're all here.

Your eyes flit to the side, catching a flash of green in your periphery.

Kaleido.

He's moving, positioning himself, and for a second, your pulse skips.

What's his angle here?

Is he sticking to the script, or is this about to go sideways?

You've seen MDF play nice exactly never, so the fact that they're even pretending right now has you on edge.

But then V's fingers start moving on your shoulder, and your concentration is gone, just like that.

It's subtle at first, light little taps against your skin. Annoying but ignorable. Then his thumb brushes over the thin strap of your dress, tracing the bare skin beneath it, and your patience evaporates.

"Do you mind?" you hiss under your breath, darting him a sharp look.

He doesn't even react. Just keeps smiling, his gaze fixed on your neck now. His lashes half-lower, hooding his eyes in that way that makes it impossible to tell what he's thinking. His fingers graze upward, settling right where the mark sits, the one Jeon left.

The one over—oh.

Shit.

"I see you've been busy," V hums, the slightest curve to his lips. His voice is soft, almost teasing, but there's a weight to it that makes your stomach drop.

Your hand flies to your neck before you even think it through, heat rushing to your face.

"What do you mean? It's your mark," you snap, trying to sound casual, like this is the dumbest conversation you've ever had. "You bit me, remember?"

You throw in a smirk for good measure, injecting your tone with as much sass as you can muster. It's a defense mechanism, sure, but it's always worked before. You're hoping it works now.

But V just... laughs. Not the loud, obnoxious kind, but something smaller. Sharper. A quiet little puff of air that sends a prickle running down your spine because you're the only one who hears it.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't recognize my own canines."

You go still again, your hand still covering the mark.

It's fine. This is fine. He doesn't know anything. He's just being his usual cryptic self, trying to get under your skin. That's all this is.

Except it doesn't feel like that. Not this time.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" you mutter quietly, irritation clear in your voice. "Is this another one of your fucked-up riddles, or did the blood licking from earlier finally poison you?"

V's smile widens slightly, delighted—unbothered, as usual. He shrugs one elegant shoulder, gaze drifting languidly back to the auctioneer like this conversation bores him now. But you catch the sharp, cunning twist of his lips.

"Nothing, darling," he says casually, thumb gliding once more across the sensitive bruise. "Just... an interesting observation. It's quite fascinating, don't you think, how different bites can feel? Some are playful, teasing. Others... intentional. Hungry."

His gaze flicks meaningfully back to your neck, smirk sharpening.

"Territorial, even."

Fucking hell.

You roll your eyes again, forcing your posture to remain relaxed even as you hear your internal voice scream.

He's being purposefully obnoxious, as always. Trying to bait you into some reaction he's clearly fishing for.

"Sorry," you deadpan, cocking a brow coolly, "guess I must've missed the canine identification course during Seduction training."

V chuckles softly. "Well, everyone has their specialities. Mine happen to include... keen observational skills. And yours, apparently, involve collecting lovely accessories on your skin."

You grit your teeth, irritation flaring hot once again. "Again, it's the same damn bite you left. So whatever you're trying to imply—"

"Imply?" V interrupts smoothly, one eyebrow arching delicately. "Oh, darling, I'm merely noting facts. For instance—"

He leans in again, lips brushing your ear.

"My marks are delicate. Artistic, if you will. That one—" He nods at your neck with a subtle jerk of his chin, voice hushed. "That one looks downright feral. Possessive. A real... statement."

A chill skitters down your spine, uncomfortable and unwelcome, because this whole conversation feels wrong.

Off.

"That so? Maybe your artistic talent slipped. Guess you can't always hit the mark."

"On the contrary," he murmurs, voice velvety and amused, "I'd say I hit the mark perfectly. But then again, I suppose my definition of success differs from yours, doesn't it?"

He finally leans back, posture relaxing once again.

But that lingering, calculating glint never leaves his eyes—sharp, vicious, brilliant. Like he's been playing five moves ahead.

And you're pretty fucking sure you just played directly into one of them.

The lights cut out without warning, plunging the room into an inky, suffocating onsidian.

For a second, you think maybe you're imagining it.

But no, the confused murmurs around you confirm it's real.

V's arm over your shoulder goes still. No more lazy drumming of fingers, no casual teasing pressure.

Nothing. Just dead weight.

And then his hand moves, dropping to your forearm in a firm, deliberate grip.

He's not pulling, not pushing, just... holding. Like he's making sure you're still there. Like he's making sure you stay there.

It takes you a second to process it, the grip, the tension. But when you do, your stomach churns.

This isn't part of the plan. It's all wrong.

MDF's play?

Your mind races.

Why didn't AD see this coming?

Why wasn't it flagged in the mission parameters?

The intel was solid—or should've been. You've run through every angle, every contingency, and this just... this wasn't on the board.

You can barely hear yourself think over the voices in the crowd, panicked muttering mixing with sharper edges of annoyance. People don't like being left in the dark, figuratively or literally, and the tension in the room is rising. Fast.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper.

Then Jeon's voice cuts through your earpiece, low and steady. "What's going on? Lights went off."

"We don't know," you subvocalize, your voice tight but controlled. "Might be MDF's doing."

There's a beat of silence, the kind that stretches a millisecond too long to feel casual.

Then Jeon speaks again, his tone neutral, unreadable. "So you're okay."

It's not a question, not really.

But it's not nothing either, and the tiny flicker of reassurance in your chest catches you off guard.

You shouldn't care about the undertone—or lack of one.

But you do.

"Yes," you murmur, trying to keep it curt, professional.

"I'm fine too," V interjects, his voice practically dripping with amusement.

Of course he's amused. Why wouldn't he be? The man thrives on chaos.

There's a pause.

Then Jeon's cold, clipped response: "Huh. Pity."

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. It's involuntary—something about the way Jeon says it, like it's barely worth the breath it takes to spit it out. Typical.

But then the humor evaporates, snuffed out like a candle in the dark.

"Yunjin?" Jeon's voice comes again, a little sharper this time.

Static.

Nothing.

"Yun?" Your voice cuts through next, pitched higher than it should be. Still nothing.

A cold spike of fear lodges itself in your chest.

No, no, no—this isn't happening.

She's fine. She has to be fine. You just saw her. Laughing, flirting, working her magic. She was right there.

But now?

"Yunjin," V says, and for the first time, you hear something in his voice that you're not sure you've ever heard before.

Something in you snaps.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, carrying you toward where you last saw her. But you don't get far. V's grip tightens like a vice, yanking you back into place.

"Stay. Put." His voice is low, barely a growl, but the weight of it anchors you immediately. "No sudden movements. This could get ugly fast."

Ugly?

No, this is already ugly.

The kind of ugly that makes your skin crawl and your pulse race.

But you grit your teeth, fighting against the urge to shove him off and keep moving. Because the rasp in his voice—sharp, calculating, dangerous—tells you he's not bluffing.

"Get out of there," Jeon's voice cuts through again, quieter now, but no less urgent. A half-whisper, half-command.

"The microchip—" you start, your voice rising slightly before you can pull it back.

"I don't give a fuck about the microchip," Jeon snaps, the first bit of real emotion bleeding into his tone. "Get. Out."

That makes your breath hitch.

Because Jeon?

He always gives a fuck about the mission.

Always.

The thought hasn't even settled before you hear it—the rat-a-tat-tat of a Tommy gun ripping through the air like it's 1934 all over again. The sound cuts through the murmurs, sharp and deafening enough to make your bones vibrate. It's unmistakable, even through the chaos. That old-school clatter of destruction, fast and relentless.

The crowd erupts. Gasps. Screams. Chairs scraping against the marble as people scramble blindly in the dark, their panic amplifying your own.

You instinctively shrink back, pressing into V's side because—fuck—you've lost every sense of direction.

V's hand clamps tighter on your arm, his knuckles digging in. You can't see his face, but you can feel him tense beside you, the energy rolling off him like a bomb ready to detonate.

He doesn't say anything—doesn't need to.

He's already calculating, already shifting gears from playful chaos to absolute survival.

"Move!" Jeon's voice roars through your earpiece, cutting through the noise like gunfire itself. "Now!"

Your legs won't cooperate. You're frozen, stuck in place, unable to think past the crackling in your ears and the pounding in your chest.

And then V is pulling—hard—dragging you out of your seat with a force that leaves no room for argument.

You stumble forward blindly, the room still pitch-black, the air saturated with the stench of panic and confusion.

All you can do is follow, barely keeping up with the deadly pace of V's steps, his grip on you unyielding as the sound of chaos swallows the room whole.

Somewhere in the distance, the gunfire stops.

Everything else feels like it's just beginning.

V moves like a fucking ghost.

The moment you clear the ballroom doors—spilling out into the long stone corridor with the crowd’s screaming still raw in your ears—he’s already ahead of you. Not running. Not even hurrying, really. Just moving, with that particular quality of motion that makes him hard to track even when you’re standing right next to him.

You’re clinging to his shadow, heels hitting marble, the chaos behind you collapsing into dull, distant noise.

He takes a sharp turn left, then right, navigating this labyrinth of a palazzo like the blueprints are tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. Every column, every alcove, every too-dark doorway—memorized.

You’d be impressed if you weren’t busy trying not to twist your ankle on four-inch heels in near-complete darkness.

Then it happens.

A man in a charcoal jacket rounds the corner from the opposite direction, moving fast, head down—one of the guests trying to evacuate. Normal. Unremarkable.

V doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even slow down.

What happens next is so fast you almost miss it entirely—a brush of shoulders, an arm passing an arm, a half-second where two men occupy the same narrow corridor space—and then V is past him and gone, and the man keeps walking, and you blink, because—

Wait.

V’s jacket is different.

The deep navy he’d been wearing all night? Replaced. Now he’s in charcoal. The other man’s charcoal. The one that was on the other man’s back approximately four seconds ago.

You look behind you.

The man rounds a corner, oblivious, moving fast—now in what is very definitely V’s—Lorenzo’s—navy jacket—and he doesn’t even know it, and you stare at the back of his retreating shoulders with your mouth slightly open.

“Did you just—” you start.

“Keep moving,” V says, not looking back.

You keep moving.

But your eyes drop, almost involuntarily, to his wrist—and that’s when you clock it.

The watch. Heavy, silver, sitting on V’s wrist like it’s always lived there, like it grew there.

And it was absolutely, definitely not there five minutes ago because you notice things, it’s literally your job—

When.

“The watch,” you say flatly.

V glances down at it with the air of a man admiring his own taste. “Mm.”

“You stole that.”

“Such a loaded word.”

“V.”

He finally cuts you a sideways look, and there it is—that faint curve of his mouth that means he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

“Why,” he says, like he’s in a lecture hall and you’re the slow kid in the front row, “do you think I needed the jacket?”

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Fervio.

When he sees V, he’ll clock the suit—the jacket first, always the jacket. Label, cut, silhouette. Men like Fervio and Kaleido don’t go memorizing faces in a crowd of hundreds, not on a first pass. They track identifiers: what jacket, what’s on your wrist, what’s on your feet.

“He’ll recognize the suit,” you say slowly. “The jacket specifically. But now some random guest is wearing it.”

V tilts his head. Patient and unbearably smug. “There’s hope for you yet.”

“And the pants?” you ask, because the pants are still the same pants, and if you’re right about his logic—

“That,” V says, with a pointed glance at the watch, “is why I have this.”

You stare at him.

He looks back, perfectly composed.

“Guys like Kaleido,” he continues, conversational, like he’s explaining the rules of a board game, “don’t track trousers. They track jackets—brand, cut, the shoulder line. They track accessories. Watches, pocket squares, cufflinks. Shoes, if they’re distinctive.”

A small pause.

“These shoes are not distinctive. Half the men in that room were wearing the same pair. The jacket is gone.”

He adjusts his cuffs, two fingers, the watch catching what little light exists in the corridor.

“They’ll be looking for someone who doesn’t exist.”

It’s so clean it’s genuinely annoying.

When did he take the watch, though. That’s still the thing. You were watching him. You were right there.

And you have absolutely no answer to that question and it’s going to bother you for the rest of your life, probably.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “Fine. You’re very smart. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He sounds like he means it sincerely, which is somehow worse.

The corridor narrows, walls pressing in, and V slows.

That switch flips—the playfulness dissolving into something colder and more focused, the version of him that makes you want to take a small step sideways and give him space.

His eyes cut left, right. Reading. Evaluating.

You follow his gaze.

The room opens up ahead. Wider. Darker.

And then you see them.

Those eerie contact lenses, catching what little light exists like two small moons.

Fervio.

Your pulse slams into the back of your throat.

He’s there, talking in low rough tones to one of his men—that same swagger intact, that slouchy certainty of someone who’s never had a reason to look over his shoulder.

You can’t make out the words, just the cadence. Clipped. Certain. Something about the girl. Something about plan B.

And then, in the far corner—

A flash of tulle.

Rose-pink fabric, crumpled against the wall.

Not moving.

Your brain stutters.

Yunjin.

The awful thing in your chest starts doing its awful thing, and you press yourself harder against the stone because if you move, if you make a single sound—

V goes rigid beside you. Not dramatic-rigid. Just stone, like something cold has moved through him and settled.

He doesn’t speak. You don’t either.

His gaze moves across the room in slow, deliberate sweeps—guard, guard, angle, exit, angle, Yunjin—and then his eyes drop to your hair.

Specifically, to the hairpin holding it up.

He reaches over without preamble and pulls it free.

Your hair spills down.

“Hey—” you hiss, barely any sound at all.

He shuts you down with one look.

You flatten yourself against the wall.

Fine. Fine.

He’s still again, too still, and you watch him turn the hairpin between his fingers once—a quick, stylish roll—before his wrist snaps.

The pin cuts through the air with a soft fsst.

Fervio's head jerks. A split-second, reflexive flinch, the kind your body makes before your brain has even registered why. The pin grazes the shell of his ear instead of finding its mark, and a thin dark line opens across the skin.

He doesn't yell. Doesn't flinch back. Just goes very, very still.

Two fingers lift, slow, and touch the nick at his ear. He looks at his own blood.

And then his mouth pulls wide.

Not a wince. Not irritation.

A smile.

The kind that means he liked it.

Your stomach turns.

"V," he says, voice rolling out warm and unhurried into the dark.

He says it the way you'd name a dog you heard scratching at the door—delighted, certain, already excited to open it.

His eyes sweep the room, scanning the shadows with the focused patience of someone who enjoys the hunt, who'd be disappointed if it ended quickly.

"Come on." He tilts his head, rubbing the blood between his fingers like he's feeling the texture of it. Savoring it. "Let's play."

Oh, that's not good.

He didn't see V—the room's too dark, the distance too far for a face.

But the throw gave him everything he needed: the angle, the silence, the half-centimeter miss that wasn't a miss, it was a signature.

The kind of precision with a thrown blade that only belongs to one person in any room, in any country, in any criminal network operating on this continent.

And if Fervio clocks V and Lorenzo in the same breath—

You don't finish that thought.

Beside you, V is already looking at your dress.

Not your face. The dress.

"Don't," you say, flat.

He kneels anyway.

Both hands find the hem of your skirt—full, draped, a truly excessive amount of fabric—and rips. One clean tear from mid-thigh, the seam giving like it was always planning to.

He stands back up with a wide strip of deep burgundy silk in his hands like he just unwrapped something he ordered.

You stare at him.

"That," you say, very quietly, "was designer."

He doesn't respond. He's already bringing it up over his head—not neat, not careful, just fast and efficient, hauling the silk over his hair, his forehead, pulling it flat across his face, dragging it down past his chin and jaw and knotting the ends tight at the back of his neck.

He straightens.

You look at him.

The burgundy fabric is pulled flat and seamless across his entire face—nothing visible, no gap, no shadow where a nose or mouth might push against the silk. Just smooth wine-dark fabric from crown to collar, his hair gone, his jaw gone, every recognizable line of him erased under your skirt.

He looks—

He looks absolutely, certifiably s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ terrifying.

"You literally have zero visibility right now," you say. "You understand that, right? You're blind. Functionally, completely—"

V tilts his head.

Forty-five degrees. Slow. Toward the sound of Fervio's last movement, somewhere across the room.

Oh.

Oh, he's tracking by sound.

Which is insane. Which is the most insane thing you've seen all night, and you watched him walk away from the ballroom still humming, so the bar is high.

But the tilt of his head is so precisely oriented toward Fervio's position that you can't argue with the result, and your objection dies somewhere in the back of your throat.

"Gorgeous," you mutter. "Truly. Go off, king."

From across the room: "I know it's you, pretty boy. Nobody else throws like that. Nobody alive, anyway."

A soft sound—almost appreciative, like he's reviewing a wine.

"How long has it been? Four years? Five?"

V's covered head turns toward the voice.

"Your little sugar plum fairy here makes excellent bait," Fervio continues, crouching down to brush a strand of pink hair from Yunjin's face. "Though I have bigger plans for her than just luring you out."

His fingers trail down Yunjin's cheek in a way that makes your stomach turn.

"She'll fetch a high price, this one. The right buyers pay extra for that innocent look."

Trafficking. He's talking about fucking trafficking her.

V chin dips once.

That's it. That's his whole pre-fight ritual.

And then he goes.

V moves and there’s no other word for it—he moves like something with no visual cortex, like a thing that navigates by other means entirely.

No sight-line adjustments. No head-tracking.

Just forward, smooth, certain, like the room’s geography already lives in him from the thirty seconds he spent looking at it before he wrapped his face in your dress.

The first guard doesn’t hear him coming.

He barely makes a sound—there’s a collision of bodies, almost gentle-looking from where you’re standing, and then the guard folds.

V doesn’t watch the body hit the floor. Already moving, already oriented toward the next one by sound, probably, by the shift of air or the vibration of footsteps on marble or something you can’t quantify from here and honestly don’t want to think too hard about.

The second guard turns at the thud.

V walks into his swing.

Doesn’t dodge, doesn’t weave—just takes the impact with a forward lean, using the momentum to get close, and then his hands find the man’s head and that’s the end of that.

V pauses after the kill. Straightens his tie with bloody fingers. Adjusts his cuffs like he's at a business meeting.

Jesus.

Fervio's head snaps toward the sound.

"Marco?" he calls, voice sharp. "Alec?"

When nothing answers, his posture changes.

He pulls a curved knife from his belt—the kind meant for gutting.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sing-songs, backing toward Yunjin.

V moves to the third guard like he's bored. Casual. One second he's examining his nails, the next his knife is buried in the man's eye socket. He doesn't even watch the body fall—already focused on his next target like a kid with too many toys.

The final guard panics, firing wildly. The muzzle flash strobes the room, and what you see freezes your blood.

V isn't dancing through the gunfire—he's walking. Just fucking walking, head tilted curiously as bullets miss him by inches. Not because he's dodging, but because he doesn't seem to care if they hit him or not. Like death is beneath his notice.

When he reaches the guard, he doesn't kill him right away. He leans in close, whispers something that makes the man's eyes go wide with terror, then slices his throat with a flick of his wrist.

Blood fountains upward. V steps back just enough to avoid most of it, watching with the detached interest of someone observing an unusual bug.

Four down. Just Fervio left.

He isn’t rattled—you’ll give him that. He’s recalibrated, stance dropped low, knife in a reverse grip, turning slowly and putting his back to the wall so nothing can come at him from behind.

Smart.

He’s listening too now, matching V’s method with his own version of it.

“You know,” Fervio says, “fighting blind is a lovely party trick. But I’ve been hunting in the dark since before you could hold a blade.”

V’s head tilts.

Toward the voice. Just slightly.

Fervio catches it, feints left, goes right—knife slashing through the space V had been occupying a half-second earlier.

He almost connects. Almost. The blade catches fabric at the shoulder of the charcoal jacket, a thin slice, and Fervio presses forward because he’s found something and he knows it.

They’re not equally matched in the conventional sense. But they’re equally dangerous, and those aren’t the same thing.

Fervio gets in close, drives an elbow back and catches V across the jaw.

V’s head snaps sideways. He makes a sound.

And then he laughs. Muffled, bright, terrible—a genuinely delighted sound coming out of the blank burgundy face that makes the back of your neck prickle.

He can’t see. He took a hit he couldn’t track because he can’t see, and he is laughing about it.

Fervio reacts instantly, knife flying. There's a soft thud, and V hisses. The blade catches his arm, tearing through skin.

"First blood," Fervio purrs. "And there I was thinking you were all myth, no substance."

V's fingers press against the cut through the silk wrap, feeling the warmth seeping through.

"Interesting," he murmurs. To no one. To himself.

To the wound.

You watch him catch V's wrist and twist, and when V makes a choked sound behind the silk, Fervio's eyes go bright. Brighter. He twists harder, past the point of restraint, past the point of tactical necessity, and you realize he's not trying to break the grip.

He's trying to feel the joint give.

"There it is," Fervio breathes, satisfied, like a man who just found what he was looking for.

V headbutts him.

Both foreheads connect with a crack that echoes and Fervio stumbles back, blood pouring into his eyes from the split above his brow, and V just stands there for a second—covered head tilted, listening to the drip of it—before driving his knife through Fervio's thigh. Not deep. Shallow, measured, exactly enough to—

To make Fervio laugh, apparently.

"Good," Fervio says, pulling the blade out himself with a wet sound and dropping it on the floor between them. "That's good."

He's having the time of his life, and it's the most disturbing thing you've ever watched, and you've watched V lick blood off his knife and say it tastes like wet McDonalds, so.

They're two of a kind.

In the worst possible way.

Fervio gets his hand around V's throat—fingers digging in, arm fully extended, driving him back into the wall.

For two seconds that stretch like taffy, V just—hangs there. Head back. Covered face pointed at the ceiling.

Then he drives a shard of broken display case glass into Fervio's armpit.

The sound Fervio makes is the first genuinely pained sound of the whole fight. It rips out of him involuntarily, sharp and bitten-off, and his grip breaks.

V lands on his feet. Rolls his own neck once, slowly.

Fervio looks at the glass still embedded in his arm.

Then he looks at V, who is now methodically adjusting his bloodstained cuffs.

"You," Fervio starts—

V doesn't let him finish. He presses his advantage, not with skill but with pure frenzy—cutting, slashing, in no pattern you can discern. He slices Fervio's face, not deeply, but precisely, like he's carving his initials.

Fervio staggers back, reaching for something at his belt. It's a gun, small and ugly.

You want to shout a warning, but that would give you away.

So you just press your fist against your mouth, biting down until you taste copper.

V doesn't need the warning.

He's already moving sideways as Fervio pulls the trigger.

The bullet clips the wall, sending marble chips flying.

V straightens, adjusting his bloody tie again. He's bleeding from at least three places now, but his energy is ramping up with each wound—like pain is fuel for whatever twisted engine runs him.

Fervio charges, knife leading. V doesn't dodge—he lets himself get cut across the chest, using the moment to drive his own blade between Fervio's ribs.

Not a killing blow, but deep enough to hurt.

They break apart, circling.

An alarm blares, harsh and electronic.

Security. Someone's called security.

The distraction is all Fervio needs. He lunges, knife aiming straight for V's throat—

You react without thinking. Grab a fallen guard's gun and hurl it across the room. It smashes into a display case with a crash of breaking glass.

Fervio's head turns instinctively. Just for a split second. But enough.

V moves, burying his knife in Fervio's side.

Fervio staggers back, face twisted with fury.

"You're going to regret that," he spits, blood on his lips.

V says nothing. Just watches, head tilting like a curious bird.

The sirens grow louder; footsteps pound in the corridor.

Time's running out.

Fervio moves.

Not toward V.

Toward Yunjin.

V tracks the footsteps and dashes forward—two fast steps, already closing the distance—

Fervio hauls Yunjin's limp form off the floor and over his shoulder in one brutal motion, swinging her weight like she's nothing, and his free hand comes up with the gun, and he fires.

Three shots. Fast, no hesitation.

V drops—hits the marble sideways, rolls—the shots crack off the wall where he was standing, marble chips flying, and by the time he's back on his feet Fervio is already at the side exit, Yunjin's pink skirt visible over his shoulder, her arm swinging loose.

"This isn't over," he snarls, blood dripping steadily from his wounds. "Tell your boss I'll be keeping this one. Consider it interest on our debt."

V lunges forward, but Fervio fires off another shot that forces him to drop.

By the time he recovers, Fervio's already shoving through the door, Yunjin's limp form bouncing against his shoulder.

The door swings shut behind them.

Gone.

"No—"

You're across the room before you know it, heels hitting marble, no plan, no thought, just Yunjin's pink dress disappearing through that door and your legs already moving—

V's hand closes around your wrist like a vice.

He hauls back, and you actually stumble, jerked off your forward momentum and yanked to a stop so hard your shoulder wrenches.

"Don't." His voice comes out through his teeth. Flat and furious and barely controlled.

You spin on him. "He just—"

"I know."

He rips the burgundy wrap off his head in one motion—knots torn loose, silk falling away—and his face when it surfaces is not a face you've seen on him before.

Not the theatrical one.

Not the delighted one.

Not his usual bullshitty one.

This one is just angry.

He turns his head and spits blood onto the marble, a sharp, disgusted motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still fixed on the door.

"We need to go," he says, voice pulled tight. "Now."

"Yunjin is—"

"I know where Yunjin is." The words come out clipped, jaw set, like he's holding something back by sheer force of will. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen. "Jeon's outside. He'll track them. That's what he does."

It makes sense, but it feels wrong.

So fucking wrong to just let Fervio take her.

"V, we can't—"

"We have to."

He yanks you away from the door, toward the other exit, and the grip hurts—not accidentally.

His frustration is in his hands, in the locked set of his jaw, radiating off him in waves.

"If we go through that door and a single camera catches us—bloody, from a room full of bodies—MDF connects Lorenzo to this. He connects you to this. Then it's not just Yunjin, it's every single one of us." He doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back. "RM. The mission. All of it."

He's right.

You hate him for being right.

But it doesn't make it easier to turn away, to follow him through the shadows as gunfire erupts behind you.

"Jeon will get him," V repeats, more solemnly. "He won't let Fervio take her."

Your answer is a mere nod as he pulls you deeper into the darkness.

But the image of Yunjin, limp over Fervio's shoulder like a broken doll, burns behind your eyelids with every step.

Aligning a shot with a thrumming heart is not ideal.

Jeon knows this.

It's a fundamental rule, a sentence that keeps repeating in his mind with the same exact tone his father used to drill into his skull.

Keep it below sixty, or don't bother pulling the trigger at all.

He's perfected the art over years. Built his reputation on it. His breathing pattern is as precise as a metronome, heart rate controlled to the point where other snipers look at him like he's some kind of machine.

The stillness, the patience, the absolute precision—these aren't just skills.

They're who he is.

Which is why this current situation is so fucking irritating.

His heart shouldn't be doing this. Not now. Not ever.

Yet here it is, tapping out an irregular rhythm against his ribs like some amateur on his first mission.

He adjusts his grip on the rifle, minute movements that nobody else would notice.

The scope gives him a crystal-clear view of the courtyard below, every shadow, every potential exit point mapped in his mind with mathematical precision. He's factored in the wind (minimal, barely 2 mph from the northeast), temperature variance (negligible), and the exact distance to each target point.

In other words, he's ready for anything.

Except, apparently, for the silence in his earpiece.

"Y/N, report," he says, voice clipped. Professional. Betraying nothing of the strange knot forming in his chest. "Location."

Nothing.

He counts exactly three seconds—a perfect measurement of time—before trying again.

"Y/N. Status update." His index finger taps once against the trigger guard, a tell he'd normally never allow.

The silence stretches, empty and heavy in his ear.

"Y/N, do you copy?" A new edge enters his voice, something raw that slips past his usual control.

His jaw tightens.

Fine. Fine.

He starts the mental calculation—route down, shortest path, likely resistance—ready to abandon the perch, mission be damned—

One last time.

Try one last time.

"Here," your voice finally cuts through the static, thin and breathless. "V... took off. Fervio too."

Air floods Jeon's lungs, a shaky inhale he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief hits him so intensely it’s almost disorienting. He forces it down, shoves it away.

No room for that shit now.

"You injured?"

His eye sweeps the area below again, tracking shadows.

"No. Fine."

Liar. He can hear the tremor, the adrenaline comedown.

But he doesn't call you on it. Just licks his lips, focus snapping back.

"Details. Fervio?"

"He... he took Yunjin," you manage, the words punched out. "Got away in the chaos. She's unconscious, possibly drugged. He's injured but mobile."

Jeon's focus sharpens, calculations running automatically—Fervio's physical condition, likely speed of movement, probable exit routes.

"V?"

"Separated. He took damage. Multiple hostiles neutralized but..." You hesitate, just for a beat. "Fervio got away with her."

"Of course he did," Jeon mutters, barely audible.

Irritation flares, hot and precise.

V had one job. One fucking job.

And now Yunjin—their teammate, their responsibility—is in the hands of a known trafficker with a sadistic streak a mile wide.

Movement catches his eye—a hulking figure emerging from the shadows, dragging something pink.

Jeon's world narrows instantly, everything beyond the scope falling away. He tracks the movement as someone who's spent thousands of hours honing this exact skill.

Fervio, limping but determined, hauling Yunjin's unconscious form toward a waiting van.

"Visual confirmation," he murmurs, making micro-adjustments to the scope. "Northeast lot, black van. He's moving her now."

"You've got the shot?" .

The question almost makes him snort. 

Seriously?

"Who do you take me for?"

The crosshairs settle on Fervio's head.

At this distance, with these conditions, it's practically point-blank for someone of his caliber.

His finger curves around the trigger, pressure building with perfect control. The mathematics of it all—trajectory, windspeed, the slight adjustment for distance—happens automatically, his brain processing variables that would leave lesser snipers hesitating.

Just 1.2 pounds more pressure and it's done. Clean. Simple.

But then—he stops.

"Wait," he mutters, frowning.

Something isn't right. The scene is incomplete. A critical variable missing from his equation.

"Where's Kaleido?"

His instincts flare, sharp and insistent.

The green-haired negotiator is MDF's brain, never far from their muscle. For him to be absent during an extraction...

Jeon scans the courtyard, methodical sweeps that search every shadow, every potential hiding spot.

And then—movement. A flash of familiar burgundy color catches his attention.

You.

You're out in the open. Alone. And your dress is torn.

"Why are you exposed?" he demands, tracking your progress across the courtyard. "Where's V?"

"Had to split up," you reply, voice tense. "He's circling back to—"

Jeon's question dies as a blur of green enters his scope's edge. His focus snaps immediately toward it, crosshairs abandoning Fervio to center on Kaleido's approaching figure.

What the fuck is he doing?

His pulse spikes—again—before years of training kick in. The slight acceleration in heartbeat is noted, analyzed, and then dismissed as irrelevant data. He can function perfectly well at 70 BPM. Even 80, if necessary.

"Kaleido approaching your position," he warns, voice gone flat and cold. "Ten meters and closing."

What follows is thirty seconds of pure tactical hell.

Through the scope, he watches Kaleido intercept you. The man's hands are visible, posture relaxed—no immediate threat signals—but Jeon keeps the crosshairs trained on the center of his forehead anyway.

His training says eliminate the primary threat to the mission objective.

His instincts say keep you in his protection.

Then he sees it—your hand, raised in a subtle motion as you speak to Kaleido.

The all-clear signal, disguised as you fixing your hair.

Okay. Okay. Not an immediate threat. Covers likely intact.

Jeon breathes out, slow and sharp. His focus snaps back to the van.

Three seconds. Maybe four he'd lost.

Too long.

The van door slams shut. Engine revs.

Fuck.

The irritation doesn't register in his body—no tensing muscles, no change in breathing. Just a cold acknowledgment of failure and an immediate shift to contingency planning.

The crosshairs settle on the driver's head, visible through the window. A clean shot, even at this angle. His finger applies precise pressure to the trigger, and the bullet leaves the chamber with a suppressed crack, traveling the distance in an instant. The driver's head snaps back, a spray of red misting the inside of the windshield.

Perfect execution. Target neutralized.

But the van lurches forward anyway.

What the—

Fervio must have taken the wheel. Injured, bleeding, but still functional enough to drive.

Which is fucking insane and also kind of fascinating, given that most men would be in shock from the injuries V likely inflicted.

The van accelerates, listing slightly but still moving. Still taking Yunjin.

Fury blooms hot and immediate in Jeon's chest.

Fury at himself for the momentary distraction, fury at V for his incompetence, fury at the entire fucking situation that's spinning out of control when control is the only thing he's ever truly valued.

"Fervio's mobile," he reports, voice tight. "Shot was clean but ineffective. Vehicle heading southwest on the main access road."

Your curse comes through the comm, sharp and frustrated.

"Can you disable the vehicle?"

"Calibrating," he replies, sight shifting, mind working through angles and probabilities in the space of a heartbeat.

But if Fervio is escaping, Kaleido sure as hell isn't.

Jeon's scope swings back to where you stand with Kaleido, the man obviously planning to follow his partner's exodus.

Not if Jeon has anything to say about it.

The shot is effortless—an easy calculation compared to the moving vehicle.

Jeon doesn't aim to kill, just to ensure that the bastard stays put, becomes a source of information rather than another loose end.

His bullet slams into Kaleido's foot, splitting leather and bone with equal indifference. Even from this distance, Jeon can see the man crumple, shock and pain registering on his face in the split second before he realizes what's happened.

His attention immediately returns to the fleeing van, recalculating his options.

A flat tire might buy you all some time.

His finger adjusts, preparing for the more complex shot that will puncture rubber without risking a dangerous blowout that could harm Yunjin.

But even as he lines up the shot, he knows it's too little, too late. The van's nearly out of optimal range now, moving fast along the winding access road that leads away from the villa. The window for effective intervention is closing with every second.

"Target vehicle approaching no-fire zone," he reports, frustration evident despite his best efforts. "Switching to tracking mode. I'll maintain visual as long as possible."

You don't respond immediately, and when you do, your voice is tight with suppressed emotion. "Roger that. Securing Kaleido for interrogation. Hold position until extraction team arrives."

Jeon wants to argue, wants to abandon his post and pursue Fervio himself.

The urge is nearly overwhelming—a visceral need to fix this mess, to complete the mission properly, to live up to the impossible standard that's been his only measuring stick for as long as he can remember.

But that's not how this works. Not how he works.

Discipline above emotion. Strategy above impulse.

The rules his father engraved into his bones with methodical cruelty, the ones that keep him alive in a world designed to kill people like him.

So he stays put, scope steady on the retreating van until it disappears around a bend in the road.

Only then does he allow himself a single moment of weakness—a sharp exhale that carries more emotion than he'd ever admit to feeling.

Failure.

It tastes like ash on his tongue.

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You feel him shift behind you, then beside you, then his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in.

“We need to sweep first,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear.

Goosebumps race down your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek because Jesus, his voice does things when it’s pitched low like that.

His eyes are already moving. Methodical. Left sector, center, right. You watch his pupils dilate slightly as he processes everything, like his brain’s running equations you can’t see.

"Kaleido mentioned four men," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "But that's surface intel. Could be six. Could be eight. Depends on shift rotation and whether Fervio called for backup after the villa."

His fingers tap against your hip. Once, twice, three times. Soft little pulses that you feel more than hear.

"Wind's coming from the northeast at approximately four knots, which means sound carries toward the warehouses, not the water. Visibility's decent—maybe sixty percent with the fog rolling in. Moon's at seventy-two percent luminosity, provides enough light for visual confirmation without night vision but not enough for clean long-range shots without thermal."

You blink. "...What?"

His thumb shifts slightly, pressing into the small of your back like he's anchoring himself.

"The patterns," he continues, totally unbothered by your confusion. "They'll likely run standard perimeter checks—two mobile, two stationary. If they're smart, they've got overwatch on the ship itself, probably the bridge or the cargo deck. If they're really smart, they've got a counter-sniper positioned somewhere with elevation advantage, which means I need to map probable vantage points before we move."

"Jeon."

"Blind spots are—"

"Jeon."

He pauses. You feel it in the way his body goes still against yours, that tactical calculator brain of his grinding to a halt.

"Yeah?"

"I'm Seduction Division, not Tactical." You tilt your head just enough to catch his profile in your peripheral vision. "Translate for us mere mortals?"

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close enough that it does something stupid to your pulse.

"Okay," he says, and his voice drops lower, softer, like he's letting you in on a secret. "See those three ships docked to the left?"

You nod.

"Two of Fervio's men are probably moving between them. They'll sweep the perimeter every fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if they're lazy. That gives us a window to move, but only if we time it right."

His fingers tap again, and you're starting to think it's not just tactical—it's nervous energy.

Or maybe focus.

Hard to tell with him.

"The other two are stationary. One's probably on the ship itself, keeping watch over Yunjin. The other..." His eyes scan the surrounding buildings. "Somewhere high. Watching the approach."

"So we can't just walk up there."

"No. We need elevation first. Higher ground means better sightlines, which means I can map their positions before we commit to an approach vector."

You process that. "You need to see them before they see us."

"Exactly."

There's something almost pleased in his tone, like you passed some kind of test.

It shouldn't make you feel as good as it does.

"That's the difference," he adds, and there's a shift in his voice—something darker threading through. "Between Tactical and Stealth."

You go still.

He brought it up. 

He brought up V.

"V would already be moving," Jeon continues, matter-of-fact. "He'd use the fog, the shadows, the blind spots between ships. By the time they realized someone was there, he'd already be inside, and half of them would be dead."

His thumb presses harder against your back. Not painful, just... there.

Then his jaw tightens. Just a fraction.

“Stealth is about chaos. V would go in close, fast, loud when it counts. He’d use the first kill to draw the others out, then cut through them before they could process what’s happening. No corridor. No plan. Just”—he exhales sharply through his nose—“circles.”

“Circles?”

“I think in straight lines,” Jeon says, and there’s something almost bitter in his tone. “Point A to point B. Cause and effect. V thinks in circles. Loops. He’ll take the longest route if it means fucking with someone’s head first.”

You process that.

The way he knows V’s patterns down to the philosophy behind them.

The way he can predict every one of V’s moves despite the obvious hatred simmering between them.

You swallow. "You worked together though."

The words come out carefully. Not quite a question, but an opening. An invitation to say more if he wants.

"Before," you add, watching his face in the reflection of the water.

Before.

Jeon’s silent for a long moment. Long enough that you think he’s going to shut down completely, ice you out like he does when anyone gets too close to whatever history’s carved into his bones.

But then he sighs.

It's barely audible, just this small exhale that sounds... tired.

"We did," he admits. The fingers on your hip go still. "We were—"

He stops. Recalculates. You can practically hear the gears turning as he searches for the right word.

"Effective."

That's not what he wanted to say.

You can tell by the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb twitches against your back like he's physically holding something in.

"Effective how?" you venture, keeping your voice light.

Curious but not pushy, make it his choice to share, not like you're digging.

His hand shifts on your hip. Not leaving, just adjusting. Getting more comfortable, maybe. Or bracing himself.

"I'd clear the approach," he says finally. "Long-range. Silent. By the time targets knew something was wrong, V was already inside, cleaning up. Zero survivors. Zero witnesses. Perfect operational efficiency."

Past tense.

Your chest tightens. You want to ask what happened, want to dig into the wound and see what made two of Kkangpae’s best stop being a team.

But you know Jeon. Know that pushing too hard means he’ll shut down completely.

So you aim as soft as you can.

“What happened?”

Jeon’s quiet again. You feel his chest expand against yours as he takes a deeper breath, scanning the pier one more time before his gaze drops to you.

For a second, you think he’s going to pull away and insist you move forward.

But his hand doesn’t move.

“We need to get to higher ground,” he says instead, nodding toward a stack of containers to the north. “I need line of sight. Need to map where Kaleido’s four men are, plus any extras he didn’t mention.”

He’s avoiding the question.

But his hand’s still on your hip.

And he’s looking at you like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how.

His fingers then hesitate, and there’s no missing it—the moment where he realizes his hand’s been resting there this whole time, anchoring you, keeping you close when tactically there’s no reason for it anymore.

The hesitation stretches.

One second.

Two.

Then his hand drops.

Cool air rushes in where his palm used to be, and you resist—barely—the urge to grab it and put it back.

“Come on,” he says, voice back to business. “Stay low. Follow my lead.”

He moves forward, fluid and silent, and you follow. But you’re still thinking about his hand.

About the way it felt.

About the word he didn’t say when he described working with V.

You try to match his rhythm anyways, the way he distributes his weight so his boots barely whisper against the concrete.

The shipping container looms ahead—rusted red steel stacked two high, perfect cover from whatever’s waiting on the ship. Jeon reaches it first, dropping into a crouch so fluid it looks choreographed. His head tilts back toward you, and then—

His right hand opens in the air.

Palm up. Fingers spread. Waiting.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Oh.

Oh.

He wants you to use his hand as a step. To boost yourself up onto the container.

Your eyes flick upward, taking in the second container stacked on top, the way it creates a perfect concealed pocket where you can move without being spotted from the ship.

Your gaze drops back to his outstretched palm.

One hand.

Just—one hand.

Is he seriously planning to not only support but propel your entire body weight up there with just his right arm? Like you’re a fucking feather instead of a full-grown woman in tactical gear?

You press your lips together, biting back what is definitely not a smile because this is absolutely not the time to be thinking about how stupidly strong he is. How those forearms that you’ve been trying very hard not to stare at aren’t just for show.

But Jesus.

The man’s hand doesn’t even waver. Just stays there, steady and sure, like boosting people several feet into the air is something he does on a weekday.

You take a breath. Deep and measured, the way Flower taught you before high-stakes ops.

Trust the plan.

Trust your partner.

Trust that Jeon’s physics-defying upper body strength won’t let you, you know, crash face-first into rusted steel.

You step forward, right foot lifting to settle into his palm. His fingers close around your boot, grip firm but careful, and you feel the coiled tension in his arm as he prepares to—

“Up,” he whispers.

His arm extends in one smooth, powerful motion, and you reach out instinctively, hands slapping against the steel rim, but you’re moving too fast, momentum carrying you forward and—

You wobble.

Shit. Shit.

Your balance tilts sideways, weight shifting wrong, and for a split second you’re certain you’re going to topple right off the edge and land in a very loud, very ungraceful heap.

But then his left hand catches your hip.

Warm. Steady. Anchoring you as he finishes the movement, pushing you up and over until you can get your elbows on solid steel and haul yourself the rest of the way.

You roll onto the container’s surface, staying low like he showed you, heart hammering from the adrenaline rush. When you turn back to look down, he’s already moving.

Jeon jumps, plants both palms on the container’s edge and pushes himself up.

And fuck, you should look away. Should focus on scanning for threats or checking sight lines or literally anything else that isn’t the way his forearms flex as he lifts his entire body weight like it’s nothing.

But you don’t look away.

Can’t, really.

Because watching Jeon move is like watching engineering in action. Every muscle coordinated, every motion efficient, no wasted energy or unnecessary effort. His shoulders bunch as he pulls himself higher, biceps straining against the black thermal fabric, and then he’s swinging one leg over the edge with liquid grace.

He lands in a crouch beside you, settling against the container wall without even breathing hard.

Show off.

Not that you’re complaining.

“You good?” he asks, voice pitched low.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out steadier than you feel. Because you are good—better than good, actually. There’s something about moving with him like this, matching his rhythm, trusting his strength, that makes every nerve ending feel sparked.

He nods once, already shifting into surveillance mode. His eyes sweep the pier below, noting shadows and movement, building that tactical map in his head.

You try to focus on the mission. Really, you do.

But you’re still thinking about his hands.

The way his right palm felt solid and sure beneath your boot. The way his left hand found your hip without looking, pure instinct guiding him to steady you when you needed it most.

The casual display of strength that probably didn’t even register to him as anything special.

Focus.

Right. Focus on the job. On finding the four men Kaleido mentioned. On mapping exit routes and identifying threats.

Not on the man beside you whose presence feels increasingly magnetic with every passing minute.

You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable position against the steel, and accidentally brush his shoulder with yours.

He doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

And maybe—maybe that’s a problem you’ll worry about later.

When Yunjin’s safe.

When the mission’s complete.

When you can afford to think about the way Jeon’s body heat seeps through your thermal top and makes your skin tingle.

You breathe steady as he shifts beside you, body angling for a better view of the pier.

He peers over the container’s edge, just enough to scan without exposing himself. Makes this soft humming noise, like he’s reviewing information in real time.

“I need a higher vantage point,” he murmurs, eyes tracking upward to the container stacked above you both.

Then he tilts his head toward you, beckoning with the slightest nod.

You scoot forward until you’re pressed against his side, close enough to follow his line of sight. The proximity sends heat crawling up your neck, but you ignore it. Mission first.

His arm extends, finger pointing toward the far right side of the pier. “See that first container?”

You nod.

“One man there.” His neck stretches as he adjusts his angle, scanning further. “Another one on the container after that. They’re both carrying HK416s 5.56, effective range about found hundred meters with those optics, though given the modifications I’m seeing…” He catches himself, throat clearing slightly. “Right. So, rifles.”

You bite back a smile. Only Jeon would start rattling off weapon specifications during a stealth operation and then remember he’s talking to someone who doesn’t need the technical breakdown.

His gaze moves upward again.

“I’ll be your eyes up there.” He points to the container above you both, then shifts back to scan the containers near the boats. “You handle close range, I’ll cover distance.”

And just like that, you realize what he’s saying.

He trusts you.

Trusts you to handle yourself without supervision.

Trusts your training enough that he can focus on what he does best—long-range precision—instead of worrying about babysitting a rookie through close combat.

The weight of that trust hits you square in the chest, making something flutter behind your ribs. Not butterflies exactly. Something bigger. More significant.

He believes in you.

You nod, and his mouth curves into the faintest smile.

Then his expression shifts, brows drawing together as he studies the layout ahead. His lips press into a thin line.

“The problem now is how to get you there.”

You follow his gaze, mapping the route.

There’s the container you’re on, then the massive one balanced on top of both yours and the adjacent container. The gap between them is wide—maybe four feet of empty air with concrete waiting below.

You can’t climb the bridging container. Being on top would leave you completely exposed, visible from the ship. And you can’t scale it while pressed against the side because there’s no foothold, nothing to grip except smooth steel.

But there might be another way.

You reach down, fingers finding the knife strapped to your ankle. The blade slides free with barely a whisper of steel on leather.

“Think I got an idea,” you whisper.

Jeon’s eyes drop to the knife, then flick back to your face. One eyebrow quirks up, curious but not doubtful.

His fingers suddenly catch your chin.

Thumb and index, firm but careful, turning your face toward his. The movement’s so quick you don’t have time to process it before you’re looking directly into those stormy eyes.

“What—”

But his other hand’s already moving. He reaches into the pocket of his tactical pants and pulls out two earpieces—yours and his. Must’ve pocketed them both back at the gravel lot.

He holds yours up, eyebrow raised.

You tilt your head without thinking, offering your ear, and his fingers brush the shell as he fits the piece back in. Careful. Precise. Way more gentle than the situation calls for.

Your skin prickles.

He fits his own in with his free hand, taps it twice, then goes back to yours—adjusting something, fingers working the tiny device with that little furrow between his brows.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

“Chief’s override,” he murmurs back. “Private channel.”

Oh.

Just you and him. No V. No main frequency. No one listening.

He finishes whatever technical magic he just performed and his hand drops. But his eyes stay on yours, scanning your face like he’s checking something important.

“That plan of yours is reckless, sunshine.”

Sunshine.

There it is. The nickname he’s been holding back all night, the one that only comes out when you’re alone and his guard drops just enough to let it slip through.

Bet he’s been wanting to call you that since you stepped foot in that palazzo.

His gaze drifts past you, tracking the route you’re thinking of taking without you having to explain a damn thing. Like your brain and his are running on the same frequency.

Container. Gap. Knife point. Swing. Left turn. First target. Straight line. Second target.

He sees it all in maybe three seconds.

“But then again,” he continues, and something that might be amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth, “your brand of recklessness tends to be refreshing.”

His head tilts slightly, one eyebrow quirking up. That little silver barbell catches the moonlight, and combined with the barely-there smirk playing across his lips, he looks almost… fond.

Fond.

Of your recklessness.

You can’t help but smile back. “I’ve got you, chief.”

The words come out easier than they should. Confident. Trusting. Like there’s no question in your mind that he’ll be exactly where you need him to be, when you need him there.

His expression shifts. Something unreadable flickers across his features before settling into that familiar mask of professional calm.

But his eyes stay soft.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do.”

You turn your attention back to the route, mind already working through the mechanics.

The distance between containers. The angle you’ll need. The momentum required to clear the gap without making noise.

It’s doable. Risky as hell, but doable.

Cross to the bridging container. Wait for cover noise—ship horns work perfectly, loud enough to mask any sound you might make. Embed the knife deep enough to support your weight. Use it as an anchor point to swing yourself across the gap with enough momentum to land silently on the adjacent container.

Then it’s just following the inverse L formation. Left turn, drop down to take out the first guard. Straight line to the second container, quick jump, neutralize the second target.

All while Jeon provides overwatch from his elevated position, ready to take out any sniper that might have you in their sights.

Simple. Clean. Effective.

The kind of plan that blends stealth and tactical precision in a way that shouldn’t work but does.

Seduction Division at its finest.

A low horn echoes across the water. Deep, resonant, the kind of sound that carries for miles and drowns out everything else for those few precious seconds.

Perfect.

You grip the knife handle, testing the weight. The blade’s perfectly balanced, sharp enough to bite deep into steel if you hit it right.

You wait for the next horn.

When it comes, you move.

The knife leaves your hand in a clean arc, spinning once before sinking into a corrugated seam with a solid thunk—wedged deep between the steel panels like a piton.

The horn’s still echoing when you’re already moving, hands reaching for the knife handle, body coiling to make the swing.

Got it.

The swing carries you across the gap with perfect momentum. Your boots hit the adjacent container with barely a whisper, knees bending to absorb the impact.

Nailed it.

You stay low, pressing against the steel as you catch your breath. The knife’s still embedded in the bridging container behind you—you’ll have to retrieve it later. For now, you need cover.

You sprint across the container’s surface, staying crouched until you reach the far edge. Drop behind it, back pressed to the metal wall. Your heart hammers against your ribs, but your breathing stays controlled.

Focus.

A quick peek around the corner shows nothing. Empty pier stretching ahead, shadows dancing between stacked containers. No movement. No glint of weapons or boots.

Good.

You move left, following the route you mapped out earlier. The inverse L formation that’ll take you to the first target, then straight across to the second.

There’s another container stacked on top of the one ahead—perfect cover for what you’re planning. You reach the end of your current position and stop, pressing your hand to your earpiece.

Jeon’s voice comes through immediately, low and steady.

“Hold position, sunshine.”

Sunshine.

Even in the middle of a tactical operation, hearing that nickname makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

“He’s on my right,” Jeon continues, “so your left. Take the right side of the container, stay pressed against it. Walk slow—no rushing. When you reach the corner, wait for my signal.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Copy.”

“And remember—he’s got height on you. Use that. Get under his line of sight, come up from below. Arms up when you make contact.”

You move right, keeping your back flush against the container wall, weight distributed to minimize sound.

Slow and steady.

Your fingers brush the spare knife at your hip—backup plan if things go sideways. But you’re hoping it won’t come to that. Clean and quiet is the goal.

The container’s corner approaches. You can hear something now—faint shuffling, the scrape of boots against concrete.

He’s close.

Very close.

You press yourself tighter against the wall, hand finding your earpiece again.

Jeon’s voice is barely a whisper. “He’s lighting a cigarette. Distracted. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he starts moving again.”

Perfect.

Cigarette means his hands are occupied. Means his attention’s split between keeping watch and getting his nicotine fix.

“On my mark,” Jeon continues. “Three… two…”

You coil your muscles, ready to spring.

“One. Go.”

You round the corner fast but controlled, staying low like he taught you.

And there he is—tall guy with a rifle slung over his shoulder, lighter held up to his face. The orange glow illuminates his features for just a second.

Now.

You surge upward, arms coming up exactly like Jeon said. Your forearm catches the guy’s throat, cutting off any sound he might make. Your other hand goes for his weapon, yanking it away before he can react.

He’s bigger than you, stronger, but surprise is on your side. He stumbles backward, hands clawing at your arm, but you’re already shifting your weight, using his momentum against him.

Basic Seduction Division training. Get close, get control, get it over with.

The rifle clatters to the ground as you adjust your grip, cutting off his air supply completely. His struggles get weaker, more desperate, but you hold on.

Sorry, dude. Wrong place, wrong time.

He goes limp after what feels like forever but was probably only twenty seconds. You lower him carefully, making sure he doesn’t hit the ground too hard.

One down.

“Target neutralized,” you whisper into your earpiece.

“Clean work.” There’s something that might be pride in Jeon’s voice. “Second target’s moving. Straight ahead, next container over. Same approach—he’s scanning left, so come from his right side.”

You’re already moving, adrenaline singing through your veins.

This is what you trained for. What you’re good at.

And knowing Jeon’s watching, that he trusts you enough to let you handle this alone?

That makes you feel unstoppable.

You move right along the container wall. The steel feels solid against your back as you inch forward, listening for any sound that might give away the second guard’s position.

Your breathing stays controlled despite the adrenaline singing through your veins.

The corner approaches. You can hear him now, footsteps pacing back and forth. Restless energy. Good—means he’s not fully focused.

You coil your muscles, ready to spring around the corner and catch him off guard like the first guy.

But then you hear it.

Beep. Beep.

Some kind of notification. Radio chatter, maybe. Or a phone.

Shit.

You round the corner anyway, hoping to catch him while he’s distracted, but his head snaps up the second you move into his line of sight.

Fuck.

His eyes go wide—surprise, then immediate calculation. He’s bigger than the first guy, broader shoulders, and his hand’s already moving toward the rifle strapped across his chest.

You launch yourself at him anyway.

Your forearm catches him in the throat, but he jerks backward just enough that the hit doesn’t land clean. He staggers but doesn’t go down, and his hand closes around your wrist with crushing force.

Strong. Really fucking strong.

He twists your arm, trying to throw you off balance, but you go with it instead of fighting it.

Your legs come up, thighs clamping around his neck in a move Flower drilled into you until you could do it in your sleep. Perfect positioning—if you can just get the pressure right, cut off his blood flow, he’ll be unconscious in seconds.

But he doesn’t panic like most people do when they suddenly can’t breathe.

Instead, his fists start slamming into your thighs.

Ow. Fuck. OW.

Each hit sends spikes of pain up your legs, but you squeeze harder, trying to finish this before he can break free. The angle’s good, you’ve got leverage, just need to—

His hands find your ankles and he yanks.

You lose your grip around his neck and suddenly you’re airborne, the world spinning as he swings you around and releases you like you’re a fucking rag doll.

You hit the container floor hard, pain exploding through your shoulder and hip. Stars dance across your vision, but training kicks in before panic can.

Move. Get up. Fight back.

You roll onto your back just as he lunges toward you, probably planning to pin you down and finish this with his hands around your throat.

But you’re already lifting your leg, boot aimed straight at his descending face—

CRACK.

The sound echoes across the pier like thunder. The guard’s head snaps backward in a spray of red, his body crumpling to the side before he can complete his lunge.

Headshot. Clean. Instant.

Jeon.

“That gave away my position,” his voice comes through your earpiece, calm as if he just hadn’t turned someone’s skull into abstract art. “Listen carefully, sunshine. Point to your left.”

You push yourself up to sitting, wiping blood from where your lip split when you hit the container. Your thighs throb from where the guard’s fists connected, but nothing feels broken.

“My left?” you ask, getting your bearings.

“Your left. See that crane about two hundred meters out?”

You scan the pier until you spot it—massive industrial crane silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky, all steel beams and cables.

“Yeah.”

“There’s a sniper nest on the platform. Third level up, northwest corner. He’s got eyes on us now.”

Your stomach drops. “How do you know?”

“Because I would.” Matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He heard my shot, knows there’s a counter-sniper in play. He’s acquiring me now, setting sights on my last position. You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he realizes I’m moving and decides to focus on you instead.”

“Comforting.”

“Grab the rifle. The one that just dropped.”

You look around, spotting the weapon that fell when the now-headless guard went down. It’s splattered with blood and bits of brain matter, but at this point you’re past being squeamish.

“Got it.”

“Good. Now—you’re going to take the shot.”

You nearly drop the rifle. “What?”

“You heard me. I need you to neutralize the sniper while I relocate. He’s focused on my last position, doesn’t expect you to be armed with anything more than a handgun. Won’t see it coming.”

“Jeon, I’m not—I don’t have sniper training—”

“You have training. Different training, but the fundamentals apply. Breathe, sunshine. Trust me.”

His voice is steady, confident. Like there’s no question in his mind that you can do this.

Okay. Okay.

You grip the rifle properly, checking that the safety’s off. It’s heavier than you expected, built for stopping power at distance.

“Sight picture first,” Jeon continues, voice patient and sure. “Look through the scope, find the crane platform.”

You bring the rifle up, awkward at first until you find a comfortable position. The scope’s magnification makes everything swim into sharp detail.

“I see it.”

“Northwest corner. Look for movement, reflected light, anything that doesn’t belong.”

You scan the platform methodically, the way Flower taught you to observe targets during intelligence gathering.

There—a glint of metal catching the pre-dawn light.

Definitely artificial. Definitely a weapon.

“Got something. Metallic reflection, northwest side like you said.”

“Perfect. Now listen carefully—you need to adjust for distance and elevation. See that shipping container directly below the crane?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s your reference point. Target’s approximately three meters above that container, maybe fifteen meters back from the platform edge. You need to account for windage too—there’s a crosswind coming off the water. Adjust two meters to the right.”

Two meters right, three meters up.

You move the crosshairs, trying to apply everything he’s telling you while your heart hammers against your ribs.

“When I say fire, squeeze the trigger smooth and steady. Don’t jerk it, don’t second-guess. Just like target practice, except this target shoots back.”

“Jeon, what if I miss?”

“You won’t.” No hesitation in his voice. Zero doubt. “You’re steady under pressure, sunshine. I’ve seen it. This is just another target.”

Just another target.

Sure. A target that could kill both of you if you fuck this up.

“On my mark,” he continues. “Take a deep breath, let half of it out, hold the rest. Find your natural respiratory pause and squeeze through it.”

You do exactly what he says.

Deep breath in. Half out. Hold.

The crosshairs settle on where you think the sniper should be, accounting for all the adjustments Jeon gave you.

“Three…” His voice is calm, steady. “Two…”

Don’t think. Just shoot.

“One. Fire.”

You squeeze.

The rifle kicks against your shoulder, and through the scope you watch the sniper’s body jerk backward before crumpling behind the crane platform.

Got him.

A satisfied hum crackles through your earpiece, low and pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

Something hot and violent flutters in your stomach at the words before you can stop it. You squash that feeling down hard, focus on the mission, but jesus—the way he said it.

Like he’s proud of you.

“Moving to your position now,” Jeon’s voice continues, all business again. “Stay put until I—”

“Negative.” You’re already shifting, scanning the pier below. “I’m dropping down. We need to get to that ship.”

“Sunshine, wait—”

But you’re already moving, slinging the rifle over your shoulder and dropping to the edge of the container.

The jump down to ground level isn’t bad—maybe six feet—and you land in a crouch, absorbing the impact through your legs.

Sea level now. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel hits you immediately, stronger down here where the waves slap against the pier supports.

You straighten up, checking your surroundings.

Empty shipping containers stretch in both directions, creating a maze of steel and shadow. The ship’s probably fifty meters ahead, past the next row of—

An arm snakes around your throat from behind.

Fuck.

Pure instinct kicks in. You bite down hard on the bicep pressed against your neck, tasting blood and sweat and something chemical—antiseptic, maybe. Medical supplies.

The arm jerks away with a sharp curse, and you spin around to face—

Fervio.

How the fuck is he still standing?

The last time you saw this asshole, V was turning him into modern art.

He should be unconscious. Should be dead.

But here he is, very much alive and apparently ready for round two.

Blood seeps through his jacket where V’s knives found their mark. His face is a mess of cuts and bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut. But his remaining eye burns with something that makes your skin crawl.

Hunger.

“Hello again, little dove,” he says, voice rough like gravel.

He lunges forward, faster than someone that injured should be able to move. You dodge left, but his hand catches your shoulder, spinning you around.

The rifle slides off your back and clatters across the concrete.

Shit.

You go for the knife at your hip, but Fervio’s already there, his hand closing over yours with crushing force.

“How the fuck are you still standing?” you grunt, trying to wrench free.

He laughs, and the sound makes your stomach turn. “You don’t know what adrenaline injections can do, do you? Black market pharmaceuticals are fascinating these days.”

Great. A psycho hopped up on experimental stimulants.

His grip tightens until you feel bones grinding together. You twist your body, use the momentum to drive your knee toward his ribs, but he shifts at the last second.

Your knee hits solid muscle instead of wounded flesh.

He uses your off-balance moment to grab the rifle and heave it across the pier. It skitters under a shipping container, completely out of reach.

“No, no,” he tsks, still holding your wrist. “That would be too quick. Too easy.”

Sadistic fuck.

He pulls a knife from somewhere—not the curved one from before, this one’s smaller, sharper. Built for precision cuts, not killing blows.

Torture.

You wrench your arm free and stumble backward, putting distance between you and that blade. Your hand finds the backup knife, fingers closing around the handle.

“Come now,” Fervio says, advancing slowly. “I promise to make this educational.”

The way he says it makes your skin crawl. Like he’s planning to take his time. Like he’s got all night to work.

Fuck that.

You feint left, then dart right, trying to get behind him. But he’s ready for it, pivoting to match your movement.

The knife flashes toward your ribs. You block with your forearm, feel the blade slice through fabric and skin, but it’s not deep.

Keep moving.

You circle each other, looking for openings. He’s bigger, stronger, probably more experienced with close combat.

But you’re faster. And you’re pissed.

You dart in low, aiming for his wounded side where V’s knife work left him vulnerable. Your blade finds flesh, slides between ribs.

Fervio grunts but doesn’t go down. Just grins wider, like pain is exactly what he was hoping for.

Psycho.

His knife arcs toward your face. You duck, feel steel whistle past your ear, and drive your elbow up into his chin.

His head snaps back, but he recovers faster than he should. Grabs your wrist and twists until your knife drops.

Then his blade is moving again, too fast to track, and suddenly there’s fire in your thigh.

You look down and see steel buried deep in muscle, blood already soaking through your pants.

Motherfucker.

Pain explodes through your thigh, white-hot and immediate.

You scream—can’t help it—as steel bites deep into muscle. But the sound cuts off when Fervio’s hand clamps over your mouth, muffling everything into a pathetic whimper.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Blood seeps around the blade, warm and sticky, soaking through your tactical pants. The knife’s still embedded, and every movement, as tiny as it is, sends fresh waves of agony radiating up your leg.

“Shh, shh,” Fervio whispers against your ear, voice sickeningly gentle. “Save your energy, little dove. We’re just getting started.”

You try to elbow him in the ribs, aim for one of V’s wounds, but he anticipates it. Shifts his weight and suddenly you’re spinning, your back slamming against his chest.

No no no—

His arm snakes around your ribs, pinning your arms to your sides. The other hand moves to your throat, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you how easily he could crush your windpipe.

You’re trapped. Completely fucking trapped.

“Much better,” he purrs, and you can feel his smile against your temple. “Now we can have a proper conversation.”

He tilts his head toward the maze of shipping containers, voice rising to carry across the pier.

“Jeon!” he calls out, theatrical and mocking. “Come out and play with the grownups!”

Silence. Just the slap of waves against pylons and the distant hum of ship engines.

Your eyes scan the shadows frantically, looking for any sign of movement. Any hint that Jeon’s positioning himself for a shot.

Come on. Where is he?

Fervio waits maybe ten seconds before clearing his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest against your back.

“No? Nothing?” He chuckles, low and pleased. “How disappointing.”

Then his hand moves to the knife buried in your thigh.

“No, don’t—”

But he’s already gripping the handle, and when he yanks it free, the scream that rips from your throat echoes across the entire pier.

Jesus fucking Christ—

Blood gushes from the wound, soaking your leg, dripping onto the concrete in steady plink plink plink sounds that make your stomach lurch. The pain is incredible—like someone’s driving a hot poker through your muscle with every heartbeat.

“Jeon!” Fervio calls again, voice bright with satisfaction. “Come out now, or the next thing that’ll gush blood apart from her thigh is her throat. Hands visible and up.”

Please. Please just shoot this motherfucker.

But even as you think it, you know Jeon can’t take the shot.

Not with Fervio using you as a human shield.

Not when one wrong move means your blood painting the pier.

Movement in your peripheral vision. A shadow detaching itself from behind a shipping container.

Jeon.

He emerges with his hands raised, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes find yours immediately, and what you see there makes your chest tight.

Fury.

Pure, cold, calculating rage barely held in check.

“There he is,” Fervio purrs against your ear, sounding delighted. “The famous sniper. The ghost of Seoul. The man who never misses.”

Jeon’s gaze flicks to the knife in Fervio’s hand, then to the blood pooling beneath your feet. His nostrils flare.

“Let her go,” he says, voice flat and deadly calm. “Your issue’s with me.”

“Oh, but she’s so much more fun,” Fervio replies, pressing the blade against your throat. Not cutting—not yet—but the threat’s crystal clear. “The gun. Drop it.”

Jeon doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

The knife presses harder. You feel the sharp edge bite into skin, feel blood start to trickle down your neck in warm rivulets.

Shit. He’s actually cutting—

“Do it slowly,” Fervio continues when Jeon hesitates, dragging the blade sideways just enough to open a shallow cut. “Any sudden movements and… well. You understand.”

Jesus Christ that hurts.

You bite back a whimper, focusing on staying perfectly still. Any movement could drive that blade deeper, turn a shallow cut into something permanent.

Jeon’s eyes meet yours for just a second. You see the calculation there—the tactical assessment running through his head at light speed.

But also something else.

Panic.

He crouches slowly, placing his gun on the concrete carefully.

“Kick it away.”

Jeon complies, sending the weapon skittering across the pier until it disappears under a shipping container with a metallic clang.

“Good boy,” Fervio grins, and you can hear the satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now. Where’s your psychotic little boyfriend? V didn’t come to our reunion party?”

“He’s busy,” Jeon says, voice still that deadly flat. “Keeping your boyfriend Kaleido company.”

Fervio laughs—actually laughs—like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night.

“Aw, but I was so looking forward to seeing him again. I wanted him to watch when I take one of his precious dolls.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly, fingers digging into your pulse points. “Just like he did to me in Venice. You remember that, don’t you, Jeon? Or were you too busy playing hero from your little perch?”

Venice.

Something passes between them—some shared history you’re not privy to. But the way Jeon’s face goes completely blank, like a mask slamming down, tells you it’s not good.

“That was different,” Jeon says quietly. Too quietly.

“Was it?” Fervio’s voice turns mocking, theatrical. “Seemed pretty similar to me. V taking something I cared about. Making me watch while he—”

“She was a target,” Jeon cuts him off, words sharp as glass. “A legitimate military target.”

“She was mine.”

Fervio’s voice goes ice cold, all pretense of amusement dropping away like a discarded mask. The blade presses harder against your throat—you feel more blood start to flow.

“And he made sure I knew exactly what he was doing when he slit her throat. Made it slow. Made it artistic. Made me watch every. Single. Second.”

Oh.

The picture’s starting to come together now.

Some girl in Venice, years ago. Someone Fervio cared about—loved, maybe? if he’s capable of love on the first place. Someone V killed while Fervio watched.

And now he wants payback.

Fantastic.

“So here we are,” Fervio continues, voice returning to that sick tone. “Full circle. Except this time, I’m the one holding the blade.”

The knife moves against your throat—not cutting deeper, but promising. A preview of what’s coming.

“And when I get back to that sweet little princess on my ship, I’m going to take my time. Hours and hours. She’s going to learn every technique I’ve perfected over the years. Every way the human body can experience exquisite agony before it finally shatters.”

Your blood turns to ice. Because he’s not just talking about cutting or stabbing.

He’s talking about torture. Real, prolonged, sadistic torture.

“I’m going to make her scream until her voice gives out. Then I’ll wait for it to come back, just so I can make her scream again. And when I’m finally done playing, when there’s nothing left of that pretty little mind except fear and pain…”

He leans closer, breath hot against your ear.

“…I’m gonna send what’s left of her back to V in a pretty pink bow.”

The image he’s painting makes your stomach turn to acid.

Yunjin—sweet, bubbly Yunjin who makes cotton candy seem sophisticated—in the hands of this s̶a̶d̶i̶s̶t̶i̶c̶ monster.

No. No no no.

“But enough about future plans,” Fervio continues, voice shifting back to that mock-reasonable tone. “Let’s discuss present arrangements. I’m willing to make a deal.”

Jeon’s eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”

“Simple. I leave with my little pink princess, and in exchange…” The knife presses just a fraction deeper against your throat. “I give you my word that this beauty here won’t be hunted down by my team. Clean slate. Fresh start.”

You feel Jeon’s entire body go rigid at the suggestion. Even from here, you can see his hands clenching into fists.

“Your word?” Jeon’s voice is flat, dangerous. “You think I’d—”

“Ah ah ah.” Fervio cuts him off with a tsk. “We both know words hold no value in our line of work. Which is why I’m prepared to make this… official.”

He shifts slightly behind you, and you hear the soft clink of metal against metal.

What the fuck—

“Personal binding coins,” Fervio explains, like he’s discussing dinner plans instead of human trafficking. “You know how it works. I give mine, you give yours. Physical proof of the contract. Break it, and both our organizations know exactly who can’t be trusted.”

Oh shit.

Personal binding coins are serious business in the underworld.

Not like the neutral coins used for transactions—these are about honor, about binding agreements between high-ranking operatives. When someone gives you their personal coin, it’s their word made tangible. Break that agreement, and your reputation is d̶e̶s̶t̶r̶o̶y̶e̶d̶ gone.

And Fervio knows Jeon has one. All Council of 9 members do.

You watch Jeon’s face go through a series of micro-expressions—calculation, fury, disgust. His jaw works silently, like he’s biting back words that would probably get you killed.

“You sick fuck,” he finally says, voice low and deadly. “I don’t bargain with—”

HOOOOOONK.

The ship’s horn blares across the pier, deep and resonant and perfectly timed to mask the sound of—

CRACK.

Jeon staggers forward, red blooming across his shoulder like a flower. His eyes go wide—not with pain, but with pure shock.

He got shot.

Someone fucking shot him.

Everything slows down.

You watch the impact ripple through his body, see his knees buckle slightly as his brain processes what just happened. Blood seeps through the black thermal fabric, spreading outward in a pattern that looks almost artistic if you ignore the fact that it’s Jeon’s blood.

The man who never gets caught off guard.

Who always has a plan.

Who sees everything coming from a mile away.

Just got shot in the fucking back.

Fervio doesn’t waste the opportunity.

His arms release you suddenly, and then you’re flying through the air, thrown like a rag doll straight at Jeon’s chest.

You collide hard—ribs against ribs, shoulder against wounded shoulder. Jeon grunts in pain but catches you anyway, his good arm wrapping around your waist to keep you both upright.

“Move!”

His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the blood loss. His hand clamps around your wrist like a vice, and suddenly you’re being dragged, stumbling, behind the nearest shipping container.

You hear Fervio’s laughter echoing across the pier, already fading as he makes his escape.

“Yunjin!” you scream, trying to wrench free from Jeon’s grip. “They’re leaving! They’re fucking leaving with—”

“Sit the fuck down.” His voice is ice cold, furious, as he forces you down behind the container wall.

His good hand presses against your shoulder, pinning you in place.

“You’re bleeding, I’m bleeding, and we are unarmed,” he continues through gritted teeth, breathing hard. “Sit. Down.”

His head tilts back against the steel, face pale but eyes still sharp.

Blood seeps steadily from the wound where the bullet tore through muscle and sinew, staining his thermal top crimson.

But he’s not letting go of your wrist.

Can’t. Can’t just sit here.

“Let me go.” Your voice cracks on the words, panic making everything feel razor-sharp. “Let me fucking go!”

You try to push yourself up, try to get to your feet, but Jeon’s hand clamps down on your wrist.

“They got Yunjin—”

“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” The words explode out of him, voice cracking like a whip.

His eyes snap open, and jesus—you’ve never seen him look like this.

Wound tight enough to snap, fury and something that looks like despair warring across his features.

“Then why are we still here?” Your voice rises to match his. “We need to—!”

“We need to what?” He turns toward you, and there’s blood smeared across his mouth where he bit his tongue. “Run onto that ship unarmed? Let them cut us both down?”

“We can’t just sit here!”

“Yes, we fucking can!”

“She’s my best friend!” The words tear out of your throat, and you don’t care that you’re screaming, don’t care that your voice is cracking. “She’s my—”

“You think I don’t want to go after her?” His voice drops to something quieter but no less vicious. “You think I don’t want to tear that ship apart board by board until I find her?”

His breathing’s gone harsh and uneven, like he’s fighting for air.

“Then why—”

“Because I fucking considered it!”

The words explode between you like a grenade, sharp and devastating.

What.

Your mouth falls open.

You stare at him, at the self-loathing written across every line of his face.

“For a fucking second,” he continues, voice breaking on every word, “I considered it. Considered trading your fucking life for Yunjin’s.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Your tongue feels completely, utterly, absolutely useless inside your mouth.

“When he offered that deal—when he wanted to trade my coin for his—” Jeon’s head falls back against the container with a dull thunk. “For one second, I thought about it. Weighed the options. One life versus another.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think past the rushing in your ears.

“And that makes me no better than him,” he whispers, staring up at the gray pre-dawn sky. “No better than the piece of shit who just walked away with her.”

Jesus christ.

He actually considered it. Actually stood there and considered your life was worth more than Yunjin’s.

Part of you wants to hit him. Wants to scream until your voice gives out.

But a bigger part—the part that knows him, knows how his brain works—understands exactly why that thought would destroy him.

Because Jeon doesn’t make emotional decisions.

He weighs variables and chooses the most tactically sound option, and the fact that he even considered sacrificing Yunjin means—

Means you matter to him.

More than just professionally. More than just as a team member or a responsibility.

“Jeon,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t.” His voice is flat again, empty. “Just—don’t.”

The sound of the engines gets lost in the distance.

Yunjin is gone. The microchip isn’t secured. The mission has been a catastrophic disaster.

And you’re both sitting here bleeding onto concrete, having the worst possible revelation at the worst possible time.

if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡

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Then, quick as a switchblade, he buries himself to the hilt, so deep you swear you can feel him in your goddamn lungs. His hand comes up to your mouth, covering it firmly, cutting off the sharp gasp that nearly escapes. The pressure is just enough to keep you quiet without hurting, but the message is clear: Don't. Make. A. Sound. n̶o̶t̶ e̶a̶s̶y̶

His eyes meet yours, dark and sharp, and you can see the tension rippling through him. He looks focused, his shoulders squared and jaw tight, listening intently to the voices filtering into the space.

It's Kaleido. And Fervio.

i̶t̶'̶s̶ a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ t̶o̶ b̶e̶ a̶ p̶a̶r̶t̶y̶ i̶n̶ h̶e̶r̶e̶

"—weird, wasn't it?" Kaleido's voice echoes off the marble walls, smooth and calm. "Seeing the woman with the brother?"

Your entire body stiffens, and Jeon's grip on your mouth tightens, his fingers pressing harder against your skin. His hips stay locked against yours, unmoving, but you can feel the way his muscles coil.

"She seemed content to share," Fervio replies casually, tone laced with sleazy amusement. "The husband was the territorial one. Maybe she's the free spirit, and he's just latched onto her."

Kaleido hums thoughtfully, the sound deep. "That's a good point. If needed, we could leverage that. Might be useful."

Your heart is pounding so loud you're convinced they'll hear it, but Jeon doesn't falter.

Until he moves.

Slow. So fucking slow, like he's deliberately testing your restraint. His hips pull back an inch, just enough to make you feel the unbearable drag of him leaving you empty, before he pushes forward again. Deep. Controlled. Devastating.

Your body betrays you instantly, clenching around him like it's trying to keep him there, and his reaction is immediate. His hand tightens on your mouth, his breath hitching through gritted teeth. He leans down, biting into your shoulder as if the pressure will somehow silence the groan threatening to escape him.

"Keep quiet, sunshine," he murmurs into your skin.

His hand flexes against your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like a warning.

"Be good for me."

The words send heat cascading through you, pooling low in your stomach.

You hate how your body responds to him. Hate how a simple command in that voice makes you so fucking h̶o̶r̶n̶y̶ willing.

But when you clench around him again—entirely involuntarily, mind you—it nearly undoes him. You feel his teeth sink harder into your skin, the pressure bruising, and his hips stutter just slightly before he regains control.

"Do that again," he growls, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing, "and I swear to god, everyone will know what we're doing in the men's bathroom."

It's a dare. A warning. Both.

And you're half tempted to test him.

His next thrust empties your head completely.

It's slow—god, it's so slow—but the depth of it makes your breath catch somewhere in your throat and refuse to come out. The stall creaks, barely.

Kaleido and Fervio's voices drift through the bathroom like they're underwater. Kaleido says something sharp, Fervio's laugh scrapes low and oily in response, but none of it reaches you. Not really. Not when Jeon is doing this—moving like every thrust is deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece.

And he does.

The way his hips roll infinitesimally, but burying himself impossibly deeper, carving space inside you that feels like it was always meant for him. Like he's trying to leave an imprint. Something permanent. Something you won't be able to shake even after this is over.

You're already so close it hurts.

His palm stays firm over your mouth, silencing the sounds that want to spill out every time he bottoms out. His other hand has traveled to your thigh, grip now hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into your skin like he's holding onto you for dear life. Like letting go isn't an option.

Then his thumb moves, finds your clit easily, dragging slow circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

Not fast. Not frantic.

Just this steady, torturous pressure that makes your whole body tremble.

You feel his teeth graze your shoulder again, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. His chest presses flush against yours, slick with sweat and heat, and you can feel the restraint radiating off him.

The way he's barely holding it together.

The way he's trying so hard to stay controlled, even as your body clenches around him like it's trying to pull him under.

"Good girl," he whispers, voice low and frayed at the edges.

That's it.

That's all it takes.

The words hit you like a d̶e̶t̶o̶n̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ key turning in a lock, and everything inside you breaks.

Your orgasm doesn't crash over you—it unfurls. Slow and heavy and all-consuming, like a wave pulling you down into depths you didn't know existed. It rolls through you in shuddering pulses, each one deeper than the last, and you swear your vision whites out for a second.

Your thighs lock around his waist. Your nails dig into his shoulders. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except feel as your walls clamp down hard around him.

He feels it. You know he does.

You can tell by the way his body goes rigid, every muscle locking up like he's been hit with a current. By the way his fingers flex on your mouth.

And then he follows.

His teeth sink into your shoulder—harder than before i̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶p̶o̶s̶s̶i̶b̶l̶e̶—and his hips stutter. Just once. Just enough to lose that iron control he's been clinging to.

You feel him pulse inside you, thick and hot through the condom, and his groan vibrates against your skin, muffled and desperate and so goddamn raw it makes your chest ache.

He doesn't speed up. Doesn't lose the rhythm. If anything, he slows down even more, like he's trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from this moment without giving you away.

It's the depth that does it. The way he's buried so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. The way each roll of his hips pushes him impossibly further, grinding against places that make your vision spark and your breath catch.

Your body responds without permission—squeezing him again, and the sound he makes against your shoulder is almost pained.

"Fuck," he growls against your skin, muffled and rough. "You're—fuck—you're unfair, sunshine."

Honestly? If this is what he classifies as unfairness, he'd better get ready for a lawsuit.

You don't realize you're still holding onto him until you register the damp heat of his back beneath your forearms. It's instinct. Like clinging to him is the only thing keeping you upright.

Your legs feel like jelly, and you let your head drop back against the tile. The cool surface shocks your overheated skin, but it feels good.

You close your eyes and focus on slowing your heartbeat, on coming back down from wherever the hell you just went.

Not easy when Jeon's still buried so deep inside you it feels like he's part of your anatomy now.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck without thinking. They thread through his damp hair, nails dragging lightly over his scalp, and you feel the way his whole body shudders in response. His forehead stays pressed to the side of your neck, lips brushing your collarbone with every exhale.

He's quiet.

Too quiet.

And that's what tips you off.

Jeon is never quiet. Not like this. Not with you.

It's subtle at first. The way his body changes.

Stiffness creeping into his shoulders. His grip on your mouth falling.

His breathing doesn't slow like it should.

It stalls.

That's when you hear it.

"—pink hair, right?" Kaleido's voice slices through the bathroom like glass. Smooth. He sounds like he's smiling. "What's her name again? Rina? Rika?"

Your stomach drops.

"Riva," Fervio corrects, his tone dripping with that disgusting amusement that makes your skin crawl. "She's gorgeous. Like a doll. Eye candy like that doesn't walk into places like this without a reason."

Yunjin.

They're talking about Yunjin.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You can feel the blood drain from your face, leaving you cold and clammy despite the heat radiating off Jeon. A chill skitters down your spine, and your hand moves without thinking. You tap against Jeon's neck—once, twice—trying to get his attention. 

But when you glance down, you realize he doesn't need it. 

He's already listening. 

His head is tilted just slightly, his jaw set tight, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes. They're open now, glinting like molten steel beneath the fringe of his lashes. He's not looking at you, though. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, sharp and unyielding, like he's trying to burn holes through the stall door with sheer willpower. 

And that's when you know. 

He heard them before you did. 

"She's the kind you keep an eye on," Fervio continues, his voice taking on a sickeningly casual lilt. "Could be useful, you know? Get her in the right situation, the right mood. Make her comfortable. Easy prey." 

Your nails dig into the back of Jeon's neck without meaning to, and his reaction is instant. His hand rests on your thigh—and just for a second, a fleeting pulse of pressure, enough to steady you.

To remind you that he's here, that he's got this. 

Kaleido hums thoughtfully, the sound echoing off the marble like some kind of sinister lullaby. "Three of our boys are keeping tabs on her. Make sure she doesn't slip out of sight." 

Fervio chuckles, low and guttural, and you swear your stomach twists into knots. "Smart. We can't afford to lose her, especially after Hanjun." 

And just like that, the chill in your veins turns to fire. 

You know what he's implying—you can hear it in his tone, in the way his words drip with sleazy satisfaction.

That bastard. That fucking bastard. 

Your gaze darts back to Jeon, searching his face for any flicker of emotion, any sign of what's going through his head right now. But his expression is blank—a mask of control so perfect it's almost terrifying. 

Almost. 

Because you can see through him.

The way his jaw ticks. The way his nostrils flare. The way his fingers flex against your skin, like he's holding himself back from doing something he'll regret. 

You've seen Jeon angry before. Hell, you've seen him downright murderous.

But this?

This is personal. 

And honestly? That scares you more than anything they could've said. 

He shifts first, one deliberate movement at a time, like he's cataloging every muscle, every joint, making sure nothing snaps the wrong way. His hands drift to your waist, steadying you, though you're not exactly sure who he's doing it for—you or him. Maybe both of you.

And then, slowly, carefully, he eases you down onto the floor.

His hands never leave you, guiding you as if he's afraid you'll suddenly break. It's stupid, really—you're not the fragile one here. Not by a long shot. But his touch stays soft, measured, and there's something about it that makes you hold your breath.

Gentle. He's always been gentle, hasn't he?

Even when he's in full business mode.

Even when he doesn't mean to be.

Your mind flickers back to that time you twisted your ankle during that improvised paintball game of V, back when you two barely spoke. Could barely tolerate each other. He didn't say many words back then, either—just crouched down, his brows knitted in that perpetual storm-cloud scowl of his, and told you to get on his back. He carried you like it wasn't a big deal.

But his grip had been careful then, too. Like he didn't want to risk making it worse.

And now? Now is no different. He handles you just as softly.

The thought digs into your chest, uncomfortable in a way you can't quite name, so you shove it down and focus on the present.

On the way his hands linger just a second too long before pulling back.

On the slight downturn of his mouth, like he's thinking too hard about something he'll never say out loud.

He leans back slightly, adjusting his weight on his heels as he reaches for the tiny trash can bolted to the stall wall. The condom comes off in such a practiced, easy way, it almost makes you laugh. He ties it off, tosses it in the bin with a quiet flick of his wrist, and sits back on the toilet, finally meeting your gaze.

"You okay?"

His voice is low, quieter than usual, and it takes you a second to realize he's waiting for an answer.

You nod. "Yeah."

No point in saying more. He wouldn't believe you if you tried to downplay it, not with the way your legs are still shaking, but he doesn't push. Just gives you a small tilt of his head before his hand drifts to his pocket.

Your brows knit together as he pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up with a quick swipe of his thumb. He types something out, fingers moving fast.

You arch an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't look up, his focus locked on the screen. "Letting V handle it."

You blink.

Handle what, exactly?

And why does that answer make your stomach twist in five different directions?

You want to ask, to press, but the way his jaw tightens makes you pause. Because the weight to his words had left no argument.

Whatever it is, he's already decided.

Your eyes dart across the room, wild and frantic, moving too fast to really make sense of anything.

Faces blur together, it’s a mixture of masks, glittering jewels, and expensive fabric, but none of it matters.

None of it.

Not the champagne glasses clinking, not the murmured conversations, not the fucking string quartet playing Mozart in the corner.

Where is she? Where the fuck is she?

Yunjin. Yunjin. Yunjin.

Your pulse is hammering now, loud and erratic, each frantic beat slamming into your ribs like it's trying to break out.

You scan the crowd again, face after face, but none of them are hers.

And it's fine. It's fine.

You tell yourself it's fine, but your chest is so tight it feels like it might collapse in on itself.

God, where the fuck is she?

You try—try—to keep your expression neutral, to keep your desperation from bleeding through the cracks, but it's hard. Too fucking hard. Because this is bad. Really fucking bad.

And it's your fault.

Your stomach twists violently.

Fucking your fucking fuck buddy—your husband, apparently—in the middle of a mission. What the hell is wrong with you? You knew this shit was risky. You knew it the second RM dragged you into that stupid briefing room and started handing out roles. You were supposed to watch each other, keep each other safe, make sure she didn't—

Your chest caves in.

You drag in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to stay upright, forcing yourself not to panic.

Panic won't help her. Panic won't get her back.

But fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Your brain is spiraling, doubling back on itself in a loop of frantic guilt and dread, when—oh.

There.

She's there.

Your breath whooshes out of you all at once, too fast, leaving you lightheaded but relieved. So goddamn relieved. You can feel the tension draining from your limbs, leaving them heavy and shaky, like you've just run a marathon uphill and lived to tell about it.

She's fine.

She's fine.

She's still standing by the fireplace, all five feet and some change of her wrapped up in that ridiculous pink tulle monstrosity.

She looks like a fucking cupcake, and you could kiss her for it.

Not literally, obviously. But still.

She's laughing at something. Some sleazeball in a black tux who's probably trying to chat her up. You can tell by the way her head tilts, the way her hand flutters to her throat in that delicate, practiced move she does when she's trying to look shy. It's her distraction routine. And god, it works.

She's fine.

She's fine.

She's—

A hand snakes around your waist, and you freeze, the sudden contact making your breath hitch.

Jeon.

His palm settles low, just above your hip, and it's so fucking stupid how good it feels—how grounding, how solid, how right. Like your body is wired to respond to him.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and he's already looking past you, his gaze locked on Yunjin. His expression doesn't change—it's still that same unreadable steel—but you can feel the shift in him. The subtle tightening of his grip.

And then, just as quickly, he's scanning the rest of the room. His eyes sweep over the crowd like he's cataloging every face, every corner, every potential threat.

You don't have to ask what he's looking for.

You already know.

MDF. 

His hand tightens on your waist, just for a second, just enough to make you feel it, before he leans in close.

"I'm going to scan the room," he murmurs, low and quiet, like he's trying not to draw attention.

You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on you, though. The way his eyes flicker, just barely, like he's trying to make a decision he hasn't fully committed to yet.

You know that look.

It's hesitation.

And it pisses you off.

"Jeon," you scoff, turning to face him. Your brow arches, your tone sharper than it probably needs to be. "I'm fine. Go."

He doesn't move. Not at first.

He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together in that way that's probably supposed to intimidate you but mostly just pisses you off more.

Like he's trying to decide if he believes you. If he trusts you.

And for a moment, you wonder if he's going to stay. If he's going to plant himself right there next to you like some overprotective bodyguard and refuse to leave, even if it means blowing the mission.

But then he nods.

Just once.

It's quick. Barely there.

And yet somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

The muffled sound of grunting filters through the gala, irregular amid the laughter and clinking glasses.

It's out of place, barely audible through the heavy oak doors leading to the palazzo's west courtyard, a good thirty meters from the main ballroom. You glance around the opulent space—no one else seems to notice, too absorbed in their champagne and shallow conversations.

Curiosity tugs at you, a low ripple of unease curling in your stomach.

You step closer to the terrace, weaving past the velvet curtains as the noise grows clearer with each passing second. The muffled thud of something—or someone—hitting the ground. A low, wet groan.

You push the double doors open just enough to slip through, the cold night air hitting your skin like a slap. The courtyard stretches before you, moonlight spilling across ancient cobblestones bordered by immaculately trimmed hedges.

And then you see him.

V.

So that's where he was.

He's a vision—chaos and precision—standing amidst three writhing bodies like a composer orchestrating a bloody symphony.

His suit is immaculate—of course it is—but his knuckles are smeared with blood, and there's a gruesome spatter across his cheek. Despite his somber expression, his movements are liquid, almost hypnotic, as he drives a boot into one man's chest with a thud that sends shockwaves down your own ribs.

"Come on," he says coldly, "I just want to talk."

You freeze, tucked in the shadows of the terrace's ornate archway, unsure whether to intervene or bolt.

One of the men groans, clutching his ribs as he sobs incoherently, begging under his breath. V

squats down gracefully, grabbing the man's chin with blood-slick fingers and forcing his face up.

"You were saying something earlier," V murmurs, voice velvet-smooth and unnervingly soft.

His knuckles are slick with crimson when he brings them to his side, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"But now you're all quiet. Why is that?"

The man lets out a wheeze, his body curling instinctively to guard his ribs.

Gently—oh so gently—V pats the man's cheek, smearing blood across it like some dark mockery of affection.

"Come on now," he coos, his hand lingering just a beat too long, fingers pressing into the bruised, wrecked skin. "What was it you said about her? Hmm? Be a good boy. Use your words."

The man whimpers, mouth opening like he wants to say something—but all that comes out are garbled, incoherent cries.

V tsks softly, like a disappointed teacher.

"No? Nothing?" V sighs, the sound loud and final amidst the greenery of the courtyard. "What a shame."

The next motion is so quick you almost miss it.

He draws a blade from somewhere—thin, sharp, glittering in the moonlight—and drives it straight into the man's throat.

The dying gargle that follows is brief, cut off—the man twitches once before going still, blood seeping across the cobblestone like spilled wine.

V doesn't even spare him a second glance as he stands up. His attention has already shifted to the second one.

A man who is still conscious, though he's attempting to crawl backward, his heels scraping uselessly for purchase on the blood-slick stones.

V catches him by the hair with a casual, almost lazy motion, yanking his head up.

"Ah-ah. Don't go anywhere just yet."

The man is trembling, his face a grotesque mask of fear.

"P-please," he stammers, eyes darting anywhere but at V. "I—"

"Shh." V crouches down again, his face inches from the man's. The bloodied knife dangles loosely from his other hand, glinting ominously. "Will you tell me then? What you said?"

The man starts crying—loud, pitiful sobs that echo. "I-I didn't mean it! I—"

"No, no. Be a big boy for me now, come on," V interrupts, his tone light, chiding. "You were so confident before. Something about her legs, wasn't it? Or was it her mouth? Remind me."

The man breaks, the words spilling from his lips in a desperate rush as he repeats the vile comments he and his friends had made earlier.

You don't catch all of it, and honestly, you don't want to.

V listens intently, his expression unchanging, like he's picking up every word. When the man finishes, his lips curve into something that might pass for a smile.

"Good boy," he says softly, almost fondly.

Then, without warning, he slams the man's head into the stones.

Once.

Twice.

The crack of bone is deafening, and by the time V stands, the man isn't moving anymore.

The point of his shoe then connects with his torso. You flinch, but V is relentless, kicking the man's ribs until the screams fade to wet, gurgling gasps.

By the time he steps back, the man's chest looks concave, his lifeless body sprawled awkwardly on the bloodied marble.

The third man does what any sane person would do.

He runs.

Or at least, he tries.

V's wrist snaps in a graceful arc, and the knife whistles through the air, embedding itself into the man's hand with a sickening thud. The force pins him against one of the terrace's ornate columns, his scream piercing the night air.

"You're an ambitious one, aren't you?" V murmurs, walking toward him with maddening calm.

The man whimpers, cradling his impaled hand as blood pools at the base of the column.

V stops just short of him, knife in hand again before you even realize he's pulled it free. He tilts his head, studying the man like he's deciding which part to cut first.

"I think I'll leave you as a messenger," he muses aloud. "Fervio does love a good story."

The man starts to stammer something, but V presses the blade against his jaw, silencing him in an instant.

"No, no," he chides softly. "You don't get to speak anymore."

V slices cleanly through the man's tongue, the bloody piece falling to the floor with a wet plop.

The man collapses to his knees, clutching his face and making choking, guttural noises.

"There. You'll have to write the message instead," V says, voice like cold silk. "Now listen to me very well, dear."

V elevates the knife on the air, analyzing the crimson liquid. He leans in slightly, leveling the man with a look that sends a chill down your spine.

"Tell your men—write it down, obviously—that if any of them even glance at her again, I'll carve their eyeballs out with a fucking spoon." He smiles, and it's an ugly thing.  "Though I'd advise against making spelling errors. You know how particular Fervio can be."

Then, casually, he brings the blade to his lips, running his tongue along its edge to taste the blood. He grimaces. 

"Terrible diet," he says to no one in particular, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing wine pairings.

The quiet that follows is deafening.

You're still frozen, heart hammering, unsure if you're breathing.

He turns and immediately spots you in the shadows.

He offers a smile so disarmingly charming it makes your stomach flip for all the wrong reasons. His suit is slightly stained with blood now, but it somehow only adds to the fucking spectacle of him.

"Ah," he says, his voice smooth, unbothered, like he's not standing in a literal bloodbath. "You weren't supposed to see that."

His hazel eyes lock onto yours, sharp and glinting under the pale moonlight, and you swear he's amused. Like this is funny to him. Like you catching him in the middle of his art is some sort of inside joke.

Your stomach churns.

He tilts his head slightly, and then—of course—he lifts the knife. The blade is still wet, slick with blood, and it shines in way that makes your throat tighten.

He turns it lazily in his hand, like he's showing it off. Like this is normal.

And then he smiles.

"Wanna taste?" he drawls, his tone light and teasing, as if he's offering you a sip of his wine instead of a goddamn murder weapon. "Not recommended, though. Tastes like wet McDonald's."

You blink, your brain stuttering to process what the actual fuck he just said.

Wet McDonald's? What does that even—?

No. You're not doing this. You're not playing his stupid game.

You tear your gaze away from the blade, focusing instead on... nothing. The ground. The sky. Literally anything else.

But it doesn't help. The image is already burned into your brain.

The blood, dark and glistening.

The bodies, crumpled and broken.

The way V had moved through them like he was painting a masterpiece.

You've seen violence before. Plenty of it. Enough to know that it doesn't faze you the way it used to.

But this? This is different.

You've heard the stories about him. Everyone has.

About how V doesn't just kill—he creates.

How he makes it messy. Personal. How he treats it like an art form, savoring every brushstroke like he's a fucking Picasso of murder.

And hearing about it is one thing. Horrifying, sure, but distant. Detached.

Seeing it? In real life? Up close?

You swallow hard, the bile rising in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him watching you.

He doesn't look guilty. Or ashamed. Or even particularly interested in the carnage around him.

No, he's completely unphased, like this is just another weeknight for him. Just another job.

He glances down at the knife still in his hand, then back at you, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of amusement. "No? Not hungry? Fair enough."

Before you can respond—because honestly, what the hell do you even say to that—he flips the knife in his hand, wiping the blade clean against the pristine white handkerchief he pulls from his pocket.

He just does it like it's part of his routine. Like wiping someone's blood off a knife is equivalent to brushing lint off a suit.

He tucks the knife away somewhere, then pulls his phone out of his jacket. For a second, you think he's ignoring you—just texting someone like he didn't just massacre half the courtyard—but then his eyes flick up to meet yours again.

"Ah," he says lightly, sliding the phone back into his jacket's inner pocket. "Don't worry, love. Cleanup crew has been notified."

The casualness of it makes your skin crawl. He gestures vaguely toward the bodies, like they're nothing more than a stain on someone's fancy carpet.

And maybe to him, they are.

"Now," he continues, stepping toward you, his voice dipping into something warmer, almost playful. "Let's get back to the party, shall we? You're a bit far from it."

Before you can even think to argue, he drapes an arm around your shoulders, guiding you back through the ornate double doors.

You pass through the dimly lit antechamber, your heels clicking against marble as V steers you away from the main hallway that would lead back to the gala.

Instead, he guides you left, down a narrower corridor lined with renaissance paintings and gilded mirrors.

You follow him because... well, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

You realize then why he's chosen this route—of course, he cannot make it back to the main ballroom with dark red stains marring his otherwise impeccable suit. The service corridors, you suppose, must lead to somewhere he can clean up unnoticed.

V moves like he's gliding, not walking, and it's starting to really fuck with your head. His steps are so smooth, so unhurried, it's like he's taking a goddamn Sunday stroll instead of weaving through the labyrinthine passages of a centuries-old palazzo with blood drying on his suit.

It's impossible not to notice the way he moves. His shoulder brushes yours every now and then—not enough to feel intrusive, just enough to remind you he's there. In control. Completely nonchalant, like he's not leaving a trail of very real corpses behind.

It's disorienting. Maddening, even.

Because, somehow, he knows exactly where he's going. Exactly when to turn.

He doesn't so much as hesitate, not when there are forks in the hallways or doors that all look the same.

It's like he's got the whole fucking layout of this place tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.

And the worst part? He's not even trying.

You're trudging along beside him, trying not to think about the fact that your shoes are probably going to need to be burned after this, when he suddenly stops. Just—stops. So quickly that you almost slam into his side.

"Wait two seconds," he says, as casually as if he's asking for a light.

You open your mouth to ask what the fuck he's talking about, but then you hear it.

Footsteps.

Two pairs of them, echoing faintly down the corridor ahead. Your breath catches, and you instinctively press yourself deeper into the shadowed corner where he's already ducked.

The footsteps grow louder. Closer. Two people—a man and a woman—walk past, their voices low but animated, completely unaware of the murderous lunatic and his reluctant accomplice lurking ten feet away. They don't even glance in your direction.

Once they're gone, V straightens, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve.

"See?" he murmurs, already moving again. "Two seconds."

You blink, scrambling to catch up to him. "Okay, what the fuck was that?"

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. "What was what?"

"Don't play dumb," you snap, your voice low but sharp. "How did you know they were coming? You didn't even look. You didn't—" You make a vague, frustrated gesture. "You weren't even paying attention!"

His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk. "I was paying attention."

"To what? The voices you couldn't hear? The footsteps that weren't there yet?"

He hums, a soft, noncommittal sound that somehow makes you want to strangle him.

"Patterns," he says after a moment, like that explains anything. "Rhythms. This place has them if you know where to look."

You squint at him. "Patterns."

"Mm-hmm." He turns down another hallway, his hand brushing the wall briefly as he passes. "These old places... they have a pulse, you know? A heartbeat. You just have to listen for it."

You have no idea what he's talking about, and judging by the way his smirk grows, he knows it. He just likes being mysterious and theatrical.

Or so you think.

"That's the thing with people," he adds, his tone as light as if he's saying the alphabet. "They're predictable. Always moving in loops, repeating the same habits without realizing it. You just have to pay attention to when they breathe."

"When they... breathe?" You stare at him, half-convinced he's bullshitting you just to mess with your head.

He stops again, turning to face you with that same infuriatingly calm expression.

His eyes flick to your collarbones, then back up to meet yours, and you feel your shoulders stiffen under the weight of his gaze.

"You're used to Jeon," he says, his voice dropping just slightly. It's not an accusation, but it's not not one either. "He works in straight lines. Makes sense. Clear, logical. You like that about him, don't you?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

V chuckles softly, shaking his head like he finds your silence amusing.

"Me?" He steps closer, his voice dipping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. "I work in loops. Circles. Chaos. Everything connects if you know where to look. Even when it doesn't seem like it should."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you say the first thing that comes to mind. "That's the most pretentious thing I've ever heard."

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that makes your chest tighten.

"Mhm. Maybe," he agrees, already turning away. "But it's true."

And just like that, he's walking again, his pace as steady and unhurried as before.

You stay rooted on the spot, still trying to wrap your head around what the hell just happened.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, he's not wrong.

Not about Jeon. Not about himself. And definitely not about this place.

He stops mid-step, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder at you.

His expression is light, bordering on amused, but there's that something behind it—something indecipherable—lingering just under all of it.

"You coming?" he asks, his head tilting slightly to the side.

You hesitate for half a second before moving, your feet carrying you toward him like you don't have a choice.

Which, let's be real, you don't.

He waits patiently, doesn't even blink, but there's something about the way his gaze stays fixed on you that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope. Like he's dissecting you just for fun.

When you're close enough, he extends his arm toward you—not in a flourish, but with that same infuriatingly calm confidence that seems to ooze out of him. His other hand is already busy, tugging at the bloodied gloves on his fingers like he's peeling off a layer of skin. The first one comes free with a soft snap, revealing his pale, unblemished hand underneath.

You glance at the glove, then at him.

"That's gonna leave a trail," you say, unable to help yourself. "You know, for the cleanup crew you're so confident about."

V's lips twitch upward—barely a smirk, more like a shadow of one.

He turns the glove over in his hand, studying it like it's a piece of art, before tucking it into his pocket.

"No," he says simply, and it's infuriating how certain he sounds.

"No?" you echo, crossing your arms. "What, you think blood just... vanishes because you said so?"

He sighs, like you're being difficult on purpose, and pulls off the second glove with the same practiced ease.

"Blood doesn't vanish," he says, his tone patient, like he's explaining basic math to a particularly slow child. "But people don't notice what they're not looking for."

You frown, watching as he pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wipes down the cuffs of his suit jacket. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It does if you're paying attention." He pauses, flicking the handkerchief once, twice, before folding it neatly and tucking it away. "You'd be surprised how much you can get away with when you control the narrative. People don't see blood if you don't give them a reason to look for it. They see wine. Spilled sauce. A clumsy waiter."

You don't respond. Mostly because you don't know how. He says it so matter-of-factly, like this is just another random day for him and not the aftermath of three brutal murders.

He straightens his tie next, smoothing the fabric, and his knuckles are clean now—no blood, no dirt, nothing.

Not a single trace to suggest he just beat a man to death with them.

You blink. "How—?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he cuts in, the corners of his lips twitching upward again. "But let's just say... I'm very good at my job."

That much is obvious.

When he finally turns back to you, his arm is still extended, and his smile is just a little too charming to be trustworthy. Against your better judgment, you hook your arm through his, letting him guide you forward once more.

There’s a bit of silence then, wrapped in multiple questions you're not sure you want to ask.

But one of them slips out before you can stop it.

"Was this about Yunjin? Did you get Jeon's message?"

He stills. It's subtle—just a fraction of a second—but you catch it.

The way his shoulders tense, the way his steps falter ever so slightly before he recovers.

When he looks at you again, his smile is different. Smaller. Tighter.

And his eyes... his eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.

"This?" he says, harsh suddenly. "This has nothing to do with Jeon."

Your brow furrows. "Then why—?"

"I don't like when people want my things." His tone is light, almost playful, but there's an edge to it that makes your skin prickle.

The kind of edge that tells you not to push.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, and decide to let it go.

His smile widens, as if it hadn't disappeared at all.

"Now," he says, his voice warm and charming again, "shall we? The party's waiting, and I'm dying to see how Jeon's managing husband duty."

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest doesn't ease.

Not even a little.

V's arm stays looped through yours as you enter the ballroom, grip light but present as a reminder.

You're still trying to process what just happened in the courtyard, the images flashing behind your eyes every time you blink.

The blood.

The bodies.

The way he'd moved through it all like a dancer in a violent ballet.

Then you feel it. A chill skittering down your spine, making the tiny hairs on your neck stand at attention.

It's not the cold—no, this is different.

This is that hurricane feeling, that storm-driven intensity that can only mean one thing.

Your eyes drift left, up toward the grand staircase, and—yeah. There he is.

Jeon.

He's leaning against the ornate railing, and his gaze... fuck.

The weight of it hits you like a physical thing, heavy and intense.

But his face? Perfectly blank.

You wouldn't even know he'd noticed you if not for the way he straightens, pushing off the railing in a swift movement.

His descent is as if he's got all the time in the world.

But you know better. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the barely-there tick of his jaw.

He's not happy.

When he reaches you, his arm extends—an invitation that feels more like a demand.

But before you can even think about taking it, V's grip on you tightens just slightly.

"Come now, dear brother," V's voice drips honey and arsenic. "Let your wife have some fun, no?"

Jeon's eyes narrow, that storm brewing behind them getting darker by the second.

He doesn't speak—doesn't need to. His hand just reaches for yours, palm up, waiting.

V twirls you to his other side, smooth as silk, putting himself between you and Jeon like some kind of demented dance move.

"You know," he muses, "I believe you had a rather important position to maintain. Something about... higher ground?"

"The plan changed," Jeon's voice comes out between gritted teeth, "the minute you decided to include me in your little family drama."

"Ah, but that was when our dear friends were present." V's smile is bright enough to blind. "And they're not anymore, are they? So..."

He makes a shooing motion with his free hand.

"Off you go, mm?"

"MDF is still here." Jeon's words clip short, precise. "Kaleido and Fervio may very well be—"

"All the more reason for you to return to your post, wouldn't you say?" V cuts in smoothly. "Unless..." His head tilts, that smile turning sharp. "You'd rather stay down here? For some reason?"

You watch Jeon's tongue press against the inside of his cheek, a tell you've learned means he's about two seconds from violence.

His eyes narrow at V for a moment, calculating, assessing—but then they shift to you.

And oh.

Oh.

Something in his expression... changes.

Softens.

Breaks.

You've never seen him look like this before, like he's trying to hold something together that's already slipping through his fingers.

And then, when you thought that was the most devastating thing of all, you hear him say—quiet, almost childlike:

"Where were you?"

He’s looking at you like—like what? Like you might vanish if he blinks too long? Like he's been searching for something and can't quite believe he's found it?

It feels wrong. All of it. The way he's looking at you, the way his voice sounds, the way your stomach twists under the weight of his stare.

Something's off, something's bad, and you don't know what or why but—

"She was with me," V interjects, his voice light and playful. "We were having lots of fun on the terrace."

But Jeon... Jeon doesn't even acknowledge him. He just keeps looking at you, waiting. Patient. Still. Like whatever answer you're about to give matters more than anything else in this moment.

You lick your lips, mind racing.

You could tell him the truth—about V, about what you saw, about how you'd stumbled onto his little murder scene like the world's worst timing.

You open your mouth, ready to explain that you're fine, that he doesn't need to look at you like that, like you're something precious and breakable and—

"Well, isn't this cozy?"

Kaleido's voice slides over your skin like oil, and suddenly he's there, materializing beside you like he's been summoned by the tension alone.

His smile is perfect, manufactured, and absolutely fucking lethal.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

The shift in V is immediate.

You don't even know how he does it—how he can just flip like that.

One second he's all charm and poison, smiling like he's got the whole world in the palm of his hand, and the next...

Gone.

That eerie brightness in his expression? Snuffed out. Just like that.

His face hardens, subtle enough that only you can really tell. The corners of his lips drop, and his jaw sets just a fraction tighter.

But it's his eyes that change the most.

Darker now. Hooded.

Like thorns coming out, a warning of something far worse than poison.

You see it right as Fervio steps up next to Kaleido, all dead-eyed menace and the kind of loose-limbed swagger that makes you want to puke.

And apparently, V sees it too, because his hand—warm, steady—moves to your arm.

Then you feel it.

The tug.

It's barely anything, just this slight but certain pressure as he moves you behind him, placing his body between you and whatever fresh hell Fervio plans on bringing.

It's subtle enough that no one else would notice—the careful repositioning, the way his stance changes just so—but you do.

And you know why he's doing it.

He's pissed.

That glimpse of darkness you saw during the courtyard massacre earlier?

It's back now, crawling underneath the surface of his skin, but this time it's sharp, jagged.

And the worst part is, it's not even for himself. 

You don't breathe, not when he transforms back into his usual self with that radiant, fake-ass smile plastered across his face.

It's so bright, so blinding, you almost forget what you saw just seconds ago. 

"What a surprise seeing you again!" V chirps, his voice as cheerful as a champagne flute toast.

His shoulders are loose again, posture casual. Like you just imagined what you just saw.

Kaleido doesn't return the enthusiasm, but his eerie smile deepens, the kind that doesn't quite reach his cold, calculating eyes.

"We've been compromised, dear partners." His voice is smooth, calm. "Kkangpae is here."

You don't dare look at Jeon. Don't need to look at Jeon.

You already know his reaction—or lack of one. He doesn't so much as blink. He just stands there, cool and detached, like the mention of his gang's name isn't a firework primed to go off.

V tilts his head, that perfect expression of polite curiosity staying firmly in place.

"Compromised, you say?" His smile stays fixed, but you can sense something ominous curling around his words. "How troubling. Though I can't imagine what Kkangpae would be doing here of all places." 

"That motherfucker V left me a little message," Fervio growls, his voice raspy and rough like sandpaper. His gaze flickers toward you, and it's greasy, sticking to your skin like tar. "Now it's made me want to toy with his pink-haired beauty even more."

Oh. God. 

You don't realize you're holding your breath until your lungs start burning.

The room feels too small, the air too thick, and all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears.

But V doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.

If anything, his smile widens, and it's... terrifying. 

"Well," he says, as smooth as silk, "hate the message, not the messenger. Isn't that what they say?"

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial.

"And between us"—his voice turns lighter, almost theatrical—"perhaps it would be wise to listen." 

Fervio cackles, sharp and guttural, like it's the funniest fucking thing he's ever heard. The sound makes you want to hide, recoil into yourself, and you hate that he sees it.

"Listen?" Fervio drawls, teeth baring in a smile that's more snarl than anything else. "Why would I listen to that amateur? V thinks he's an artist, but he doesn't understand murder." 

Jeon's lips twitch at the word amateur, but he doesn't interrupt. He's watching—waiting—and when you risk a glance at him, you can see it in his stance.

He's tense, calculating.

Ready to pounce if given the excuse. 

"He thinks pain is art. But real artistry? Comes when you've separated pain from pleasure. When you've extricated sex from violence. That's when you see the difference in level—between a master's work," Fervio’s hand spreads, a mock flourish, "and that rabid little dog V." 

V's hand barely spasms, the movement almost imperceptible. You only notice it because you're watching him like your life depends on it—which, let's be honest, it probably does.

But when he speaks, his voice is light, sweet even. 

"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of art?" V's tone stays warm, friendly, even as his words cut like razors. "Everyone has their own... interpretation. Though some prefer a more refined approach than others."

"Refined?" Fervio scoffs. "There's nothing refined about his messy displays."

"Perhaps yes, perhaps not," V concedes with a graceful shrug. "But at least he understands the importance of... consent in certain matters. Unlike some who must force their art upon unwilling canvases."

The barb is subtle—wrapped in velvet and delivered with a smile—but it hits.

Fervio's eyes narrow slightly.

"After all," V continues, smooth as honey, "true artistry lies in making someone want to submit to the pain, doesn't it? Anyone can take by force." His head tilts, expression innocent. "But making them beg for it? Now that's skill."

You watch the way Fervio's lips purse.

V's just called him an untalented hack who can't get willing partners, all while looking like he's discussing cooking recipes.

"Though I suppose," V muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "when one lacks the charm to seduce, force becomes the only option, no?"

And for the first time all night, you feel it—a flicker of something close to hope. 

Because if anyone can hold their own against someone like Fervio, it's V.

if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´∀｀♡

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Your body moves on instinct. Pure, beautiful muscle memory from all those hours Flower made you practice until your thighs burned.

In a blur of movement that would make her proud, you swing your leg up and over, wrapping your thighs around Kaleido's neck as you drop to the ground.

His eyes bulge, surprise replacing the cool calculation that's been there all night. His hands claw at your legs, trying to break free, but you've got him locked tight. You squeeze harder, cutting off his air, watching as his face turns an interesting shade of purple.

"Night night, asshole," you mutter through gritted teeth.

It takes exactly fourteen seconds for him to go limp. You count every single one of them, making sure he's actually unconscious and not just playing dead. When his body finally slumps, you release him, pushing his deadweight off your legs with a disgusted grunt.

Rising to your feet, you drag your fingers through your hair, pushing it back from your face. Your dress is torn mid-thigh, blood splattered across the fabric in an abstract pattern that probably costs extra at designer boutiques. Your feet ache from running in these ridiculous heels, and your throat feels raw from breathing in all that gunpowder residue.

But you're alive.

Unlike those guards V liquified back in the palazzo.

Your earpiece crackles to life, V's voice cutting through the static. "Where?"

Just that one word, sharp and demanding.

You know exactly what he's asking.

Where's Fervio? Where's the body? Where's our teammate, safe and sound?

The weight of it settles in your chest like a stone.

You exhale, shoulders slumping with the admission of failure.

"He's gone. Fled."

Silence stretches out, heavy and accusatory.

"What?" V's voice is dangerously soft.

You swallow, tasting copper and regret. "He's gone."

Another beat of silence, this one charged with something hot and volatile.

"What."

It's not a question anymore. It's a statement of disbelief, of mounting fury.

Before you can respond, Jeon's voice cuts in, equally tense. "Target escaped containment. Vehicle is mobile, heading southwest."

"The fuck is your fucking problem, Jeon?" V snaps, all pretense of calm evaporating like morning dew. "You had one fucking job—"

"Rich coming from you, fucking psycho," Jeon fires back, voice cold as ice. "You let him take her in the first place. What happened to 'I tagged her'? What happened to having a plan?"

"YOU? are talking about plans right now—"

"Shut the fuck up," Jeon interrupts, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes even hardened criminals think twice. "You compromised the mission the second you decided to turn this into your personal art show. Three bodies, V? Then another four? In the middle of a covert operation?"

"Would've been EIGHT if you had done your fucking job as a sniper. But noooope, let me guess, you were playing babysitter."

Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the surrounding area. The voices are getting louder, not just through your earpiece but in real life. Both men are approaching from opposite directions, converging on your position like opposing storm fronts.

Jeon appears first, emerging from the shadows with his rifle slung over his shoulder. His face is a mask of controlled rage, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. His eyes barely flick to you, too busy searching for V.

Who materializes a second later, stepping out from behind a pillar like he's been there the whole time. There's blood on his suit, though you can't tell if it's his or someone else's. Probably both. His expression is light, almost playful, but his eyes are cold enough to give you frostbite.

"Babysitter?" Jeon repeats, voice dangerously low. "Is that what you think I was doing?"

"Indeed, were or were you not checking whether miss lady over there was safe and sound?"

"Because we already lost one teammate! All while you were, what? Painting the courtyard red? Leaving a trail of bodies for MDF to follow right back to us? That was your job?"

They're closing in on each other now, tension so thick you could cut it with one of V's knives.

Which, given the way his hand keeps twitching toward his jacket, might actually happen soon.

"My job," V says, each word precise and cutting, "was keeping our covers intact while securing our target. Which I did. Until you decided to play hero from your little perch and blow everything to hell."

Jeon's laugh is cold and brittle. "Right. Because you had everything under control. That's why Yunjin's being driven off to god knows where right now."

"I have a tracker on her," V hisses, face finally showing real anger. "We could have followed them to their base, taken out the entire operation in one strike. But no, you had to take that shot, alert everyone, and force Fervio to change routes."

"I disable threats. That's my job. Your job was to make sure no one got fucking, I don't know, kidnapped? Which you failed spectacularly at."

"Fuck you," V spits, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. "You don't get to lecture me on—"

"Hey!" you shout, but neither of them even glances your way.

Jeon's hands are fisted at his sides, knuckles white. V's got that look in his eye, the same one he had right before he ventilated those guards' skulls.

This is about to get really ugly, really fast.

You press your fingers to your lips and let out a whistle sharp enough to make both men flinch. The kind of whistle that could shatter glass and eardrums in equal measure.

"Down, boys!" you snap, stepping between them like the world's most underpaid referee. "Can we fucking save the dumbfoolery for when we've rescued Yunjin? You can go back to cutting or sucking each other's dick later."

They both stare at you like you've grown a second head. Jeon's eyes narrow dangerously, storm clouds gathering. V's mouth twitches at the corner, like he can't decide if he wants to laugh or stab you.

"We have a teammate missing," you continue, fixing them both with your hardest stare. "A girl who's probably terrified right now, if she's even conscious. And you two are what? Measuring dicks in a palazzo courtyard while she gets farther away by the second?"

Jeon's jaw works silently, a muscle jumping in his cheek. V goes unnaturally still, that eerie focus returning to his gaze.

"The tracker," Jeon says finally, voice clipped. "Is it active?"

V's eyes hold his for a long, tense moment before he nods once, sharp and decisive. "Yes. Signal's weak but present. Moving southwest, just like you said."

"Then we follow it," you say before either of them can start arguing again. "We track them, we find them, we get Yunjin back. And then you two can tear each other apart for all I care."

"What about him?" V jerks his chin toward Kaleido's unconscious form.

"We take him with us," Jeon ays, all business now. "He'll have information. Locations, contacts, plans."

"And when he wakes up?" V asks.

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

The look that passes between them makes your skin crawl. For all their fighting, there's something in that shared glance that reminds you these two used to be partners. Used to be the most lethal duo in Kkangpae.

Maybe still are, when they're not trying to kill each other.

"You drive," Jeon says, eyes already locked on his phone screen where Yunjin's tracker blinks. "I'm not losing this signal."

V cocks an eyebrow. "You're letting me drive?"

"You want to explain to RM how we lost her because I was too busy parallel parking?"

V considers this, then shrugs. "Fair point."

V strides toward a modest Toyota parked at the edge of the lot, twirling a set of keys around his finger like they're one of his knives.

Of course. Of fucking course he had the foresight to steal a car at some point during the gala. Probably frowned when he realized it wasn't a Maserati, but beggars can't be choosers when you're planning an emergency getaway from a villa full of corpses and angry Europeans.

You watch them load Kaleido's limp body into the back of your extraction vehicle, all previous hostility temporarily shelved in favor of efficiency. It's almost impressive how quickly they switch from wanting to murder each other to working together seamlessly.

You start toward the passenger side when Jeon appears beside you, opening the door with a tilt of his head. The gesture is so unexpected you almost laugh.

Who knew assassination chiefs had manners?

Then again, you're still technically playing husband and wife, so maybe it's just habit from the long night of pretending to be madly in love.

You slide in, scooting across to make room as he folds his long frame into the seat beside you. The interior smells like cigarettes and cheap air freshener—far cry from the luxury you've been swimming in all night.

V starts the engine with a satisfied hum, like this whole ordeal has been nothing but a minor inconvenience in his otherwise pleasant evening.

Meanwhile, Jeon's already pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.

The car lurches forward, and V takes the first turn like he's auditioning for Fast and Furious. You grab the oh-shit handle, but Jeon doesn't even flinch—just keeps his eyes glued to that little red dot, watching it move.

"She's heading southwest," he mutters. "A4 highway."

V suddenly reaches back, phone in hand, offering it to you over his shoulder.

"Call AD, sweetheart. Tell him we fucked up spectacularly."

You blink at the phone, then at him.

"Why me?"

Jeon's lips flatten into a thin line. "He'll listen to you."

"Bullshit. He'll be pissed."

"Exactly," V pipes up from the driver's seat, eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror. "He'll rip us apart. You? He'll just be annoyed."

"That's your plan? Throw me to the wolf because he bites you harder?"

Jeon's jaw tightens. "AD doesn't waste time bitching at newbies. We tell him, he'll spend fifteen minutes telling us exactly how we fucked up before he even starts helping."

"But if you do it," V adds, turning onto a narrow street, "he'll skip straight to the fixing part. Basic psychology, love."

You take the phone despite yourself, and his lockscreen is surprisingly mundane—just a black background, no personal photos.

You swipe up and squint at the contacts list, scrolling until you find—

Wait.

"n00b?" you read aloud, staring at the contact name. "You have AD saved as n00b?"

V's grin widens in the rearview mirror. "Oh, that pisses him off so much. He's Challenger rank in League, you know."

You deadpan. "So you call him a noob."

"It's the little things," V says cheerfully.

You shake your head and hit call, pressing the phone to your ear. It rings once, twice—

"What now?" AD's voice cuts through, sharp and irritated. He clearly expected V. "I swear to god, if you're calling to brag about some pretentious wine you stole—"

"Uh," you manage. "Not V."

Silence. Then he says your name.

"Yeah."

More silence. You hear him shift, the telltale creak of his chair.

"Where's Jeon?"

"Here. Next to me." You glance at Jeon, who's still laser-focused on the tracker, ignoring everything else. "He's busy."

"Busy," AD repeats, flat. "During an extraction call."

"He's tracking Yunjin's signal. Can't look away from it."

"Tracking—" AD pauses. You hear the distinct sound of fingers flying across a keyboard. "What the fuck happened?"

Your throat tightens. "Mission's a bust. Lights cut out, gunfire in the ballroom. Fervio grabbed Yunjin while everyone was scrambling."

"He took her? Physically?"

"Drugged her, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of rice," you confirm, your voice tightening. "Got her in a van before we could stop him."

"Fuck." It's so quiet you almost miss it. More typing follows, rapid and aggressive. "And Kaleido?"

"In the trunk. Jeon shot his foot."

"His foot?" AD says, disbelieving. Then, after a sigh: "Where are you now?"

"Heading out of Venice. V tagged her before she was taken—that's why the tracker's live."

"Signal strength?"

You glance at Jeon, who doesn't look up but says, "weak but steady."

"Weak but steady," you relay.

AD grunts.

You hear him typing, then: "Got it. She's on the A4, past Padua. Speed suggests highway travel."

Relief floods through you. "So we can catch them?"

"Not in whatever shitbox you're driving," AD scoffs.

"It's a Toyota," you offer weakly.

"Of course it is." You can practically hear his eyes rolling. "At their current trajectory, they're heading to Milan, but that's not the final stop."

"Where, then?" Jeon asks, leaning closer.

"Genoa, most likely," AD answers, voice hardening. "Port city. International waters. MDF's old trafficking routes all went through there."

Your blood runs cold. "Trafficking. So he's really—"

"Yes," AD cuts you off, tone leaving no room for doubt. "And if they get her on a boat, we're fucked. Finding one vessel in the Mediterranean is—"

"How much time?" Jeon interrupts.

Keyboard clicks. "At their current speed... five hours to Genoa."

V presses harder on the accelerator, weaving between cars like they're standing still. "We can do it in four."

"Three," Jeon corrects.

"Not in that car, you won't," AD counters. "I've got a contact in Padua. Ex-military, owes us. He'll have something faster waiting—a helicopter. Sending coordinates now."

Your phone buzzes a second later.

You check it, showing the map to V, who nods and adjusts course, cutting across two lanes without signaling.

"What about backup?" you ask, anxiety gnawing at your insides.

The line goes quiet except for more typing. "Working on it. RM's greenlit emergency response, but we need to coordinate with our international contacts."

"Too long," Jeon mutters.

"No shit," AD snaps back. "Which means you three are it right now. Try not to fuck this up more than you already have." He pauses, then adds in a slightly less acidic tone: "Sending you schematics of possible port facilities they might use. Study them."

"Will do," you say.

Then AD says your name.

"Yeah?"

"Put V on."

"He can't really—"

"Put. Him. On."

You glance at V helplessly. He just grins wider, eyes on the road.

"Can't talk, noob!" V shouts toward the back seat, not even bothering to look. "So sad I'll miss your charming voice! Truly devastating!"

He reaches back without taking his eyes off the road—because of course he can drive one-handed at this speed—and plucks the phone from your grip with perfect precision.

"V, don't you fucking dare—" AD's voice cuts off as V ends the call, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"Oops," V says, not sounding sorry at all. He pockets the phone while steering with his knee around a tight curve. "My hand slipped."

"You're an asshole," you mutter.

"And yet, here we are." V's eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror, glinting with mischief. "Everyone's secret favorite asshole."

Jeon finally looks up from his phone, expression unreadable. "He's going to murder you."

"He can get in line," V replies, taking another turn that makes your stomach lurch. "Right behind you, presumably."

Jeon doesn't rise to the bait. Just returns his attention to the tracker, watching that little red dot move steadily southwest.

Silence falls.

You don’t say anything else.

After 30 minutes of no talking, the atmosphere feels suffocating.

Jeon keeps shooting glances at the trunk, where Kaleido's probably starting to come around based on the occasional thump against the back seat.

Suddenly, Jeon taps the dashboard. "Stop the car."

V doesn't even slow down. "Yeah, right."

"Stop the fucking car," Jeon repeats, voice dropping to that register that makes your spine lock up.

"We're on a timeline, in case you forgot—"

"He's waking up." Jeon's tone is flat. "We can't interrogate him in the trunk. Can't do it in a moving vehicle. Once we're airborne, there's no time."

He looks at V directly now.

"This is our only window for intel. Ship layout, guard positions, her exact location. Unless you want to walk in blind."

V's fingers drum once against the steering wheel. His smile's gone brittle.

"Fine."

He pulls onto the shoulder hard enough to make gravel spray, tires crunching to a stop in the middle of nowhere.

Just empty road and the hulking shadows of abandoned warehouses.

“Five minutes. Then we move.”

Jeon’s out before the car fully stops. He reaches up, pulls his earpiece out, pockets it in one smooth motion. Glances back at you through the open door, then at V.

“Comms off. We’re all here.”

V plucks his out like it’s a piece of lint. “Yunjin’s are gone by now anyway.”

Nobody says anything about that. The weight of it just sits there.

You pull yours out too. The silence that follows is different from the car silence—fuller, somehow. No static. Just the three of you and whatever comes next.

He pops the trunk with zero ceremony, hauling Kaleido out by his collar and dumping him onto the gravel like he’s unloading groceries.

V climbs out after him, hands in his pockets.

He looks down at Kaleido.

Then he looks at Jeon.

Then he looks back down at Kaleido—at the man's slack face tipped toward the moonlight—and something shifts in V's expression. Not quite anger. Not quite disbelief. Something more personal than either of those. Something that's working its way up from his chest into his jaw in real time.

"Hm," he says.

Jeon crouches beside Kaleido, checking his pulse with two fingers. "Don't."

"I'm not doing anything—"

"You're about to."

"You don't know what I'm about to—"

"V."

V exhales through his teeth. Long and deliberate.

He gestures at himself. At the charcoal jacket. At Kaleido. At the general universe.

"I wrapped a dress around my entire head," he says. "My entire face. Hair, nose, chin—the whole production. I fought four men blind. Not figuratively. Literally blind. No eyes. Just darkness and the sound of their fear."

He pauses for effect.

"I was the Venetian Batman. A shadow. A ghost. A legend who left no evidence of his own existence, because I am that dedicated to this operation—"

"You are also," Jeon says, without looking up, "currently standing in a gravel lot in Italy at two in the morning having this conversation."

"—and now he's going to look directly at my face."

There it is. Said out loud, the thing that's been sitting in V's chest since they hauled Kaleido out of the trunk.

You can see the genuine pettiness of it, the specific wound of someone who committed fully to a bit and got absolutely nothing out of it.

Jeon stands. Brushes gravel off his knee. His expression doesn't change by a single millimeter.

"He's drugged. In our trunk."

"He has eyes, Jeon."

"Which aren't open."

"They will be." V turns to you, arms spread wide, like he's presenting evidence to a jury. "Tell him. Tell him this is insane. Tell him I bled—I bled, by the way, three separate places—so that Lorenzo's face stayed clean, and now we're just going to crouch in the dirt and wave hello—"

"You didn't bleed for Lorenzo," Jeon says. "You bled because Fervio's good and you got cocky."

"I bled artistically."

"That's not—"

"It was a choice."

"Getting stabbed was a choice."

"The angle was a choice."

"Nothing about that was a choice—"

"Okay but—" You push through it before this devolves into something you'll have to physically separate.

Both of them look at you.

You press on. "He's not wrong that it's not nothing. Yunjin was separate from us at the gala. Fervio saw her with that politician—not with Lorenzo. If Kaleido never connected her to us before tonight, that gap—"

"Existed," V says, pointing at you like you've just cracked a code.

"Past tense," Jeon says, pointing at V like he's the problem, which, to be fair…

"She's making a valid—"

"I know she's making a valid point—"

"Then what are you—"

"I'm not arguing with the point—"

"That's literally what it sounds like—"

"I'm arguing with you, it's different—"

"That's the same thing—"

"It is categorically not—"

"Both of you."

You step between them, one hand raised on each side, the world's most underpaid traffic cone.

Silence.

Jeon's jaw works once, stops. He looks at you and something in his expression drops half a degree—not soft, exactly. More like he remembered you're here and adjusted accordingly.

"You're right that it would've been cleaner," he says, voice leveling out. "It would've been better."

A beat. Brief, but there. 

"But Kaleido knowing our faces is a smaller problem than walking onto that ship without knowing the layout, the guards, or where she is. Every second we stand here is another second they get farther."

V opens his mouth.

"And," Jeon says—half a second before V speaks, automatic, the timing so precise it's almost choreographed—"yes. You fought blind. It was—"

It costs him something, visibly. You watch him locate the word like it's buried under rubble.

"—effective."

V goes completely still.

Jeon is already looking away, crouching back down to check Kaleido's restraints.

"Did you just—"

"Don't."

"You just said—"

"I said it was effective. That's an assessment."

"Your voice did a compliment."

"My voice didn't do anything.

"It absolutely did. It went—" V makes his register go raspy in an impression that's, honestly, devastatingly accurate. "'It was effective.' That's the voice. I know that voice. I have heard that voice exactly twice in my life and both times it meant you were genuinely—"

"V."

"—impressed but constitutionally incapable of—"

"V."

"—saying so like a normal—"

Jeon stands up. "There will be no record of this conversation."

V blinks. "I didn't say anything about a record—"

"There was never a record. There will never be a record."

"I'm just saying what I observed—"

"You observed nothing."

"I observed your voice—"

"I don't have a compliment voice—"

V turns to you with the energy of a man who has just been gravely wronged and needs a witness.

"He has a compliment voice."

"I'm staying out of this," you say.

"You heard it."

"I heard words."

"You always do this," Jeon says flatly, and the ‘you’ is pointed directly at V, not at you, which—right.

Old habit.

Like they're slipping back into something grooved too deep to fully erase.

"Every single time—"

"Because every single time you do the voice and then act like it didn't happen—"

"It didn't happen—"

"It happened twice! I just said twice!"

You stare at them both.

Incredible.

Kaleido is unconscious in a gravel lot in the Italian countryside and these two are relitigating what is apparently a years-long argument about whether Jeon has a compliment voice.

The fact that V is right is something you're keeping firmly to yourself.

"I still want it on record," V announces, pivoting with great dignity back to the original grievance, "that I fought blind. Like—"

"There is no record—"

"Daredevil. But competent. And with better hair.”

"—in the history of records—"

"A legend," V continues, gesturing at himself. "Unseen. Unknown. A ghost among men."

"—that will ever contain this conversation."

"And I still managed to neutralize four armed men in total darkness, injured, with her dress on my face—"

"Completely your choice, by the way—"

"—for nothing." V spreads his hands magnanimously. "For absolutely nothing. Because the universe has no taste."

Jeon closes his eyes for exactly one second.

"Are you done."

V considers. "Mostly."

"Then get the vial."

V reaches into his jacket, already moving, and produces a small glass vial with the casual ease of someone who had it ready the whole time.

He crouches beside Kaleido, and just like that—theatrical grievance shelved, performance over—his expression goes still.

That flat, particular stillness he gets when the game starts.

“Wakey wakey, green bean.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"What is that?" you ask, even though you're not sure you want to know.

"Something J-Hope would absolutely not approve of," V replies cheerfully, unscrewing the cap. "But desperate times and all that."

He waves the vial under Kaleido's nose. The effect is immediate—Kaleido's body jerks like he's been electrocuted, his eyes flying open as he gasps for air.

He coughs violently, trying to roll away, but V's hand on his shoulder pins him in place.

"There we go," V coos, pocketing the vial. "Welcome back to the land of the living. For however long that lasts."

Kaleido blinks rapidly, his gaze sharpening as he takes in his surroundings.

His composure rebuilds itself in real time—shoulders straightening, face smoothing into that eerie calm.

Even with a bullet hole in his foot and gravel digging into his back, the man looks unnervingly collected.

His eyes land on the rifle case leaning against the car. Then V. Then the other male figure next to him who must be the owner of the weapon.

Something clicks behind his gaze.

"Ah."

His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn't so cold.

"V and Jeon. How delightful." He shifts slightly, testing his restraints. "Never thought I'd see Kkangpae's most volatile partnership reunited. Tell me—how's that working out for you both?"

V's smile sharpens. "About as well as your foot."

Kaleido huffs something that might be a laugh. "Fair. I assume this means we're negotiating."

V snorts, the sound sharp and unpleasant.

"Negotiating? That's adorable." He positions himself on his heels, looming over Kaleido with that manic smile plastered across his face. "I was thinking more along the lines of carving practice."

But before he can start whatever horror show he's got planned, Jeon steps forward.

"I'll handle this," he says, voice flat as a frozen lake.

V's eyebrows shoot up, his smile widening into something genuinely amused now.

"Oh? The stoic sniper wants to get his hands dirty? This'll be good."

He steps back, making a grand sweeping gesture.

"The stage is yours, chief."

Kaleido's gaze shifts, moving past Jeon to land on you. His eyes narrow slightly, calculating something you can't read.

You shift uncomfortably, but before you can respond, Jeon moves.

Not dramatically. Just a single step to the left, positioning himself directly in Kaleido's line of sight.

Blocking his view of you completely.

"Eyes on me," Jeon says quietly. No emotion, no emphasis. Just a statement of fact that somehow carries more threat than a shouted warning.

Kaleido's lips quirk, amused. "Of course."

But his eyes stay on you a beat longer than necessary.

Jeon doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't move suddenly. Just reaches out and grabs Kaleido's injured foot, applying just enough pressure to make the man's eyebrows frown.

"That's one," Jeon says calmly.

You blink, confused.

One what? Warning? Chance?

Kaleido seems to understand though. His face smooths back into that mask of control, but there's a new wariness in his eyes.

"Where are they taking her?" Jeon asks.

"You really think I'd tell you that?" Kaleido replies, matching his tone. "Business is business. Nothing personal."

"It became personal," Jeon says, voice still eerily flat, "the moment you involved my team."

"Your team?" Kaleido's gaze slides to you again, deliberate this time. "Or specifically her?"

Jeon doesn't hesitate. His hand slides to V's ankle. There's a flash of silver as he pulls something from what must be a concealed sheath.

V's eyes go wide. "That’s my favorite butterfly knife—don't you dare—"

Jeon drives it straight into Kaleido's thigh.

Not deep. Just enough to make a point.

Kaleido chokes on a scream, body arching.

"That's two," Jeon says, leaving the knife embedded.

V groans, throwing his hands up. "Oh, perfect. Now I need to pay extra coins for car cleanup. Fuck you, Jeon."

"Bill me," Jeon says flatly, not looking away from Kaleido.

Kaleido spits blood onto the gravel. "How many do I get? Just so I know when to start worrying."

Jeon doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out his gun, examining it with detached interest under the moonlight. The metal gleams as he turns it over, checking the chamber with practiced motions. It's almost hypnotic, watching his hands move with such delicacy.

"You seem to have misunderstood my intentions," he says finally, lowering the gun until it points at Kaleido's uninjured knee. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm not here to trade information. I'm here because I need intel don't see why I should make the process comfortable for you."

The cold calculation in his voice makes your skin prickle.

This isn't the Jeon you know—the one who takes clean shots from a distance, who executes missions with detached precision.

This is something else.

Something raw and visceral barely contained beneath the iciness.

"The Demeter," Kaleido says suddenly, eyes on the gun. "That's the ship. Greek registry, usual berth is pier 19."

"And the schedule?" Jeon asks, not moving the gun an inch.

"Five-thirty departure. Dawn." Kaleido's eyes flick to you again, quick but unmistakable. "Your wife would have found out eventually. She's quite resourceful."

The bullet hits the ground less than an inch from Kaleido's ear, sending gravel spraying.

You hadn't even seen Jeon fire—just that tiny adjustment of his wrist, the bare minimum movement needed.

"Three," Jeon says, voice still perfectly level. "Mention her again. Give me a reason."

V whistles, low and appreciative. "This is much more entertaining than my method."

"Your method involves too much screaming," Jeon responds without looking away from Kaleido. "It's inefficient."

"Interesting dynamic," Kaleido observes, looking way too calm for someone with a gun pointed at him. "One chief who feels nothing, one who feels too much. I wonder which approach is more effective."

"Both have their uses," V says with a casual shrug, but his eyes are sharp, watching Jeon. "Though I find Jeon's approach a bit... limiting."

You don't miss the undertone.

"So tell me, Kaleido," V continues, stepping closer, that unnerving smile plastered on his face. "Why the pink-haired beauty? Fervio's always had such specific tastes."

Kaleido's eyes narrow fractionally. "Perhaps she reminds him of something he lost."

"Unfinished business, huh," V says, voice deceptively light. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

Jeon's head tilts slightly, the only indication he's paying attention to the conversation.

"Among other things," Kaleido admits. "The girl you stole from him left quite an impression. Though your friend here made sure he never found another to replace her." He nods toward Jeon. "Until now."

"I disabled a threat," Jeon says, making it sound like he's discussing the weather rather than whatever the hell they're talking about. "Nothing personal."

"Nothing personal," Kaleido echoes, smiling thinly. "Yet here you are, personally holding a gun to my head because one of your assets was taken."

"Assets are valuable," Jeon replies coolly. "Replacing them is inconvenient."

Kaleido's calculating gaze slides to you again, more deliberate this time. "A shame. Your wife plays her part too well. Very... convincing."

The implied suggestion makes your skin crawl, but before you can respond, Jeon shifts position.

Nothing dramatic—just that same economic precision as he adjusts his aim, now pointing directly between Kaleido's eyes.

"Convenient, isn't it?" Jeon says, voice mild as milk. "How we're in the middle of nowhere. No cameras, no witnesses, no one to verify what happened out here."

The gun presses harder.

"Could do a lot of things in a place like this. A lot of things that would never make it into any official report."

Holy shit.

That's... actually pretty terrifying coming from Jeon.

Not because it's violent—you've seen him take dozens of lives without blinking—but because there's an undercurrent of something that sounds almost like irritation.

Jeon doesn't do irritation.

He does cold, calculated professionalism.

V notices too. His eyes gleam with sudden interest, like a cat spotting a mouse.

"She's valuable," Jeon continues, calm and detached again. "All of my team is. Otherwise I wouldn't waste my time training them."

"Then consider this a free training exercise," Kaleido says. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised the infamous Jeon would bother personally handling this. Isn't field work beneath you these days?"

A muscle in Jeon's jaw ticks, so slight you'd miss it if you weren't looking. "I handle what needs handling."

"And what exactly does Fervio need handling for?" you ask, pulling attention away from whatever is being played between them.

Kaleido's eyes linger on you again. "Let's just say your pink-haired friend is the spitting image of something Fervio once thought was his. Something he's been obsessing over since Venice."

"Yunjin isn't a thing," you snap, anger flaring hot and sharp. "And she sure as hell isn't his."

"No?" Kaleido's smile turns knowing. "That's between her and Fervio now, I suppose. Though I will say he's gone to extraordinary lengths for this one. Quite the production."

Jeon's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on the gun. "Where on the ship?"

"Lower deck, third cabin on the right," Kaleido answers, surprising you with his directness. "That's where he'll keep her until they clear the harbor."

"Security?" Jeon presses.

"Four men, plus Fervio."

"Armed?"

"Naturally." Kaleido's eyes narrow slightly. "Though I should warn you, Fervio's been expecting this. Hoping for it, even. He has... unfinished business with certain members of your organization."

V laughs, the sound cold and unpleasant. "The feeling's mutual."

"Then I suggest you drive very, very fast," Kaleido says, his gaze drifting between the three of you. "The clock is ticking, and Fervio's not known for his patience."

Jeon stands smoothly, gun never wavering.

"Load him up," he tells V, his voice revealing nothing. "We're taking him with us."

V raises an eyebrow. "Alive?"

"For now." Jeon holsters his weapon. "He still has value."

Kaleido snorts, a surprisingly inelegant sound from someone so polished. "This is absurd. You're all going to get yourselves killed for one girl? For what? Professional efficiency?"

"For one of our own," you answer before either chief can respond. "That's how Kkangpae works."

"How touching," Kaleido drawls. "Though I suspect there are other motivations at play." His eyes flick between Jeon and V meaningfully. "Old scores to settle, perhaps?"

"The only score that matters," Jeon says, "is the one where Fervio ends up in the ground."

V grins, all teeth and no humor. "See? We can agree on some things after all."

As they haul Kaleido back to the car, shoving him unceremoniously into the trunk, you can't help noticing the way V keeps watching Jeon,.

And you realize something unsettling.

Whatever this mission started as, it's become something more—a convoluted chess match where rescuing Yunjin is just one objective among many.

V's playing his own game, Jeon's fighting to keep his mask intact, and you?

You're just trying to keep up, caught in the middle of a power struggle you never asked to be part of.

The engine roars to life as V slides behind the wheel, throwing a look at Jeon that's half challenge, half amusement.

"Ready for a reunion tour, partner?"

Jeon doesn't answer.

Just stares out the windshield, that storm brewing behind his eyes hidden from everyone but you.

The old man looks at you like you're something he found stuck to his shoe.

"What." Not a question—a dismissal wrapped in a thick Italian accent and crossed arms.

The helicopter sits behind him, sleek and deadly in the gray predawn light.

Your ticket to Yunjin, if this crusty gatekeeper would move aside.

Jeon steps forward, hands visible at his sides. "Nightingale sends regards from Prague."

The man's face doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts.

He jerks his chin toward the backyard.

"Helicopter's fueled. You're late."

Jeon turns, glancing between you and V. "Two on the helicopter, one stays with Kaleido. Make sure he doesn't move."

His eyes land on you, mouth opening, and you already know what's coming.

"If you're about to suggest I stay behind, think again," you cut in, stepping forward.

Jeon's mouth snaps shut.

He tilts his head, fixing you with that storm-cloud glare that usually makes recruits cry. "You don't have the mastery or skills to go aboard a helicopter on a rescue mission."

"Jeon, she's my best friend," you fire back, heat rising in your cheeks.

"And you're a rookie," he counters, voice cooling several degrees. "Which is why you stay down here."

"You think me staying with Kaleido is better than up there?"

"I know so."

"That makes no sense!"

"He's restrained. You have more chances of—"

"She's my best friend!" Your voice cracks on the last word. "I am not staying down here while she's being—!"

"You are because I'm your superior and I am telling you so." His tone is flat, final, brooking no argument.

Which makes you want to argue even more.

"Why are you being so fucking difficult?" You throw your hands up, stepping closer until you're nearly chest to chest.

"I'm being practical," he says, like you're a child who needs things explained slowly. "This is a high-risk extraction requiring specific skill sets—"

"Jung—"

His real name almost escapes you.

Good thing his code name and the first syllable of his real name sound almost the same.

But from the way his eyes widen slightly, you know he knows it too.

"I can't bear—" he starts, voice rising to match yours, then cuts himself off.

His eyes dart to V, who's watching the exchange with undisguised interest, then back to you.

"We can't afford more losses. V and I are equipped to handle this type of risk. You are not."

Your throat tightens.

This isn't the Jeon you know—pure logic and mission parameters. There's something else there, something that makes you step closer, close enough that only he can hear you.

"Jungkook," you whisper, only for him to hear. "I need to be up there. She's not just my friend. She's the first person who ever made me feel like I belonged at Kkangpae. When everyone else was busy sizing me up, figuring out if I was worth their time, she just... took me in. No questions asked."

His jaw works silently, eyes searching yours like he's looking for something specific.

"If it were me up there," you continue, voice barely audible, "she'd tear apart heaven and earth. She wouldn't wait behind. She'd fight—even you—to get to me."

Something flickers across his face—not softness exactly, but a crack.

"I've been trained for this," you press, seeing the hesitation. "Maybe not as long as you, but I'm not useless. And I need to be there when we find her. I need her to see a friendly face, not just..." You gesture vaguely at him and V. "Not just Kkangpae's scariest."

Jeon exhales through his nose, a long, controlled breath.

His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign of weakness or doubt.

He won't find any. Not about this.

After what feels like forever, he gives a single, sharp nod.

"V," he says, turning to where the other chief leans against the car, looking thoroughly entertained by the whole exchange. "You're staying with Kaleido."

V's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm what now?"

"Staying. With Kaleido." Jeon enunciates each word like he's speaking to a particularly slow child. "We need information. Get it."

V straightens, all amusement evaporating. "You're taking her instead of me? On an extraction mission? Are you fucking serious?"

"Dead serious," Jeon replies, already turning toward the helicopter. "She's trained for this. You're trained for..." He gestures vaguely at V's entire being. "Whatever it is you do."

"I kill people," V says flatly. "Very efficiently."

"So does she." Jeon doesn't even look back, just keeps walking. "Come on. We're wasting time."

You follow, heart hammering against your ribs.

You'd won the argument, gotten exactly what you wanted.

So why does victory feel like swallowing glass?

Maybe because Jeon gave in too easily.

Maybe because V is watching you both with those calculating eyes, like he's putting pieces together in a puzzle you don't want solved.

Or maybe because, despite everything, you know Jeon is right—this is high risk, and you are the least experienced person here.

But none of that matters now.

What matters is Yunjin, and the approaching dawn that threatens to take her away for good.

The old man hands Jeon a set of headphones as you climb into the helicopter after them.

You settle into the seat beside Jeon, buckle in and put on your headphones just as the old man flips several switches on the control panel.

"Last chance to stay behind," he whispers into the mic, not looking at you.

You meet his gaze steadily. "Not happening."

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't argue further.

The old man starts flipping switches like this ancient beast of a helicopter is his personal arcade machine. Everything inside rattles as the rotors groan to life overhead.

Jeon doesn't say anything. He hasn't said much since you strapped in.

Thirty minutes pass like that—quiet, save for the rising hum of altitude and tension.

Then he leans forward, just enough to catch your eye. Nods once.

A signal.

You unbuckle. Stand. He mirrors you, smooth and deliberate, like he's already mapped out this movement ten steps ago. Of course he has.

He bends down, unstrapping the smaller bag that's been latched to his seat the whole time.

Not the long sniper case—that one's still in the trunk with V. This is a separate one. Something you forgot existed. Which is wild, because nothing Jeon carries is ever just extra.

He unzips it without ceremony. Pulls out a bottle of water, two tablets in a foil pack, and then—

Clothes.

You blink. "Is that—"

"You're not planning to partake in a tactical operation in that burgundy dress, are you?"

You snort, loud. "You carry outfits now?"

He doesn't blink. Just starts laying them out on the empty bench beside him.

"Always plan for contingencies."

You raise a brow. "So what, you just happen to have a wardrobe stashed in there?"

"Four sets," he says, tone flat. "One for me. One for you. One for V. One for Yunjin."

"Four?"

"They're compact," he adds, like that explains everything. "Thermal-lined. Cargo pants. Tight long-sleeve body. Practical. Low-visibility. Optimal for movement."

You grab the one he slides toward you, unfolding the pants first. Thick but flexible. Fur-lined interior, surprisingly soft. The body top's all sleek stretch fabric, no excess seams. Jet black. Feels expensive.

"You really think of everything, huh?"

He exhales through his nose—almost a scoff. "I'm literally Chief of Tactical."

You shake your head, holding up the clothes. "Jessi signed off on this?"

"Obviously." A flicker of something close to smug crosses his face. "All gear goes through Jessi."

You hum. "Yeah, that tracks."

Of course she did. Only Jessi could find a way to make emergency extraction outfits both functional and slightly hot.

He shrugs off his blazer.

You pause mid-fold and blink at him. Once. Twice. Brain catching up in slow motion.

Because—he's not just adjusting or stretching or whatever guys do when they pretend they're not showing off.

He's unthreading the tie from around his neck, one hand working the knot with ease.

The motion's smooth, confident. Lazy, even. Like it's nothing. Like he doesn't know what he's doing.

Except he does.

The fabric slips free and hangs loose in his fingers, that grey silk catching just enough light to look expensive. He lets it dangle for a second, then tosses it onto the seat beside him, like it's a napkin and not part of a five-thousand-euro suit.

You're still staring when he goes for the collar next. Fingers dip in to loosen it. Thumb brushes the base of his throat.

And then, the buttons.

The fucking buttons.

The first one pops open like it's got no business being there. Then the next. Then two more. Each motion is annoyingly smooth, rhythm steady, like he's done this a million times.

"Wait—what are you doing?" Your voice cracks mid-yelp, too loud in the tight space.

Jeon just frowns. Not even a startled look. Just that deadpan, unreadable scowl that's basically his signature.

"What's it look like?" he mutters, tone dry.

You gape. "Are you seriously getting fucking naked in the middle of the air?"

He blinks. "Pretty sure I'm in a moving vehicle. Not the air."

"Not the point, jackass!"

He keeps going.

Of course he does.

Another button slips free, then the last one, and the shirt opens completely—clean white fabric falling away from skin like it was never meant to be there. He shrugs out of it, one shoulder, then the other, like this is normal. Casual. Like your entire brain isn't currently short-circuiting.

And yeah, you've seen it before. You've felt it before. His chest, his abs, that long inked line of muscle running down to his navel.

Still hits different now.

No dim light. No adrenaline-fueled fuck session. Just him, standing shirtless in a humming helicopter, muscle flexing as he folds the shirt and tucks it into the same bag. Like it's a mission task. Like you're not practically vibrating with tension just watching him.

He catches your stare. Smirks.

"What?" he says. "You getting shy now?"

You scoff and rip your eyes away, folding your arms.

"You've literally been more naked than this," he adds, tone light, mouth curved into a smug little thing that makes you want to punch him.

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because—" You wave a hand vaguely, still refusing to look directly at him. "Because that was... then. This is—this is something else."

He hums, low in his throat. Like he's enjoying this more than he should.

Then your eyes snap back as you hear the distinct sound of another button popping.

He's undoing the fly of his pants now.

You spin around on instinct, back to him, ears burning. "Oh my god, can you not?"

Behind you, there's a soft chuckle. Deep. Quiet. Almost warm.

"You gonna stand like that the whole time?" he asks.

"I will if you keep taking your clothes off like this is fucking Chippendales."

"You wanna watch, just say so."

"Go fuck yourself."

"I would," he says, voice amused, "but someone's in the room."

You don't answer. You don't breathe. You just stare at the wall like it's suddenly the most interesting part of the helicopter. Like your heart's not hammering against your ribs, and your thighs aren't clenched tight just from the sound of his voice going low like that.

You hear fabric shift behind you. A belt unlooped. A zipper. A dull thunk of folded clothes hitting the bench.

And still—he doesn't sound rushed. Doesn't act flustered.

If anything, he's comfortable, like getting stripped down for tactical gear mid-flight is just another line item on his checklist.

You risk a glance back.

He's already pulling on the thermal top. The body-hugging one. Muscles flex as he lifts his arms overhead. Ink peeks from under the hem before it disappears beneath black fabric.

It shouldn't be this hot.

But it is.

And you hate that it is.

You look away again before he notices you looking. Again.

Too late.

He already saw, and you know from the way he smirks. That smug, lazy smirk that means he's about to say something that'll make you want to throttle him—or climb him. Depends on the angle.

The piercing on his eyebrow catches the light when he tilts his head, like even the metal's in on the joke.

"Why you acting like this?" he says, voice low, unbothered. "I literally fucked you in a stall like three hours ago."

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide, and hiss out a panicked, "Shhh!"

The sound comes out louder than you mean it to, and you wince, glancing up toward the cockpit. The old man doesn't move, but still—you elbow Jeon in the side with zero hesitation.

He doesn't flinch. Just zips up his pants in that calm, methodical way of his, then glances casually at the cockpit. At the man sitting there with his ancient headset and absolute zero interest in your conversation.

"You know it's sealed off, right?" Jeon says, flicking his chin toward the front of the chopper. Then he looks back at you, one brow cocking. "Like, he can't hear a single thing we're saying."

You glance between them, then slowly turn back, narrowing your eyes.

Jeon's already got that look—the one he only wears when you're alone. A little too relaxed. A little too smug. Not the stone-faced, council-grade assassin the rest of the world sees. This version of him is still cold, but playful in the most dangerous way. Like he enjoys watching you squirm.

You press your lips together, holding back the first response that jumps to your throat, because of course he's like this. Of course the second you're alone, the snark cranks up and the smirking starts and suddenly it's like every rule back at the castle stops applying.

He steps closer, socked feet silent against the floor. "Turn around."

You squint. "Why."

"Just turn around."

You sigh, but you do it. More out of curiosity than anything. Maybe a little irritation. You're not about to admit how fast your pulse kicks up once his fingers touch your hair.

He brushes it off your neck gently, a single sweep that leaves goosebumps behind.

You stare ahead, spine straight, but his hands are slow. Intentionally slow. His index finger traces the top of your shoulder, then his middle, then all of them. A soft drag across your skin, barely there, but your whole body tightens under it.

His fingertips reach the base of your neck. Pause there.

Then, unhurried, he finds the zipper of your dress and pulls.

It slides down with that quiet metallic sound, cool air hitting your skin inch by inch.

You grip the sides of your thighs to keep from shifting. From saying something dumb. From backing into him just a little more.

His mouth brushes your left shoulder.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

Until he shifts, mouth pressing a real kiss this time. Slow. Warm. Right on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

His breath fans against your skin.

"Your turn to undress," he murmurs.

You inhale sharply. Hold it.

"And redress," you mutter back, pulse hammering.

He makes this thoughtful hum, but it's not really agreement. More like acknowledgment that he heard you, not that he's listening.

You're frozen. Not because you're shy—you've done so much worse with him—but because he's being slow. Controlled. Focused. And that's always dangerous.

Jeon's the one tugging the dress lower, easing it off like it's silk, not tight formalwear. You don't help. You just stand there and let him, your breathing shallower with every inch he pulls down. The fabric slides down your hips and then it drops.

And then?

Nothing.

Nothing except silence and stillness. Which is exactly how you know he's staring.

You glance over your shoulder.

And yep.

He's locked in like he's lining up a shot. Gaze fixed on your ass, completely unbothered by how obvious he's being. His mouth slightly open. The sharp edge of his jaw tightening.

"You're unbelievable," you mutter.

His response is immediate. "No. That ass is unbelievable."

The way he says it—low, reverent, almost a growl—sends a hot flush across your chest.

His hand slides down the line of your back. From your shoulder blades, over your spine, until he's hovering just above the curve of your hips.

Then he stops.

Like he's asking. A̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶.̶

"Can I?"

His hand hovers. Not touching. Just waiting.

You bite your lip. "Jeon, I have to get dressed."

"Just—" he swallows, voice husky. "One touch. Please?"

Fuck.

You hate how he says it. Like it matters to him. Like the stakes are high and all he wants is this one goddamn thing.

You sigh, soft. "...Unbelievable."

You hear him swallow. "Please."

God, he's ridiculous.

But you nod. "Okay."

He exhales—one of those shaky, unguarded ones that sound like relief. Like he's been waiting for this.

His palm covers your ass, warm and firm. Fingers spread slightly, fitting around the curve like they've done too many times before. He gives it a slow, thorough squeeze, like he's savoring the feeling, grounding himself in it. His thumb drags up the side, over the roundest part, and he mutters it low—like it escapes him without permission:

"Fuck."

Your skin prickles.

His other hand finds your hip, steadying you. You're not even moving, but he holds you anyway.

His head dips, breath ghosting over your skin, and he squeezes again. Firmer. Like he can't help it.

"Why is this ass so—" he doesn't even finish. Just groans softly, forehead resting against your bare shoulder for a second.

You snort. "Are you talking to it?"

He doesn't deny it.

Of course he doesn't.

His hand slides around slowly, fingers brushing the dip just beneath your ribs before finding your navel.

The touch is light. Careful. Almost reverent. Not grabby, not greedy—just there.

Then the other hand joins in. Arms wrapping around you from behind. His forearm presses against your stomach, the solid weight of him anchoring you in place.

Not that you'd move. Not that you could.

His forehead rests against your shoulder.

You feel the exhale before you hear it. Warm. Shaky. His breathing's gone shallow.

You know that sound. That restraint. That barely-there edge to his self-control when his body's wound too tight and his patience is hanging by a single frayed thread.

And then he shifts forward. Just a little.

Just enough that you feel it—fuck—how hard he is. His hips slot flush to your ass and there's no way he's hiding that. That thick, unforgiving pressure pressed right where he wants to be.

Your breath catches.

Because you knew. Obviously you knew. Jeon's obsession with your ass is legendary by now—something he's reminded you of with his mouth, his hands, his hips, over and over again.

But it still gets you, the way he reacts to you like this.

Like he's not used to it.

Like he never gets used to it.

Your cheeks burn, stupidly pleased. You want to say it's just ego, just the thrill of control, but it's not. Not really. It's something else. Something warm and annoying and too much to name.

The weight of his cock thick and hard against your ass is bad enough. But then he mutters it—

"Shit."

Low. Guttural. Like it ripped out of him before he could stop it.

Your thighs clench instinctively.

He hasn't even done anything. He hasn't moved. He's just standing there, holding you, hard as fuck because of your backside, whispering curse words reverently into your skin.

It shouldn't affect you this much.

It's not new.

But his voice is different this time. Softer. Like awe threaded through heat.

Like he's not just turned on.

He's wrecked. Just by you.

Your breath stutters out.

You feel his arms tighten a little. Not crushing. Not demanding. Just close. As if he needs to feel all of you under him or else he'll lose his goddamn mind.

You want to lean back. Want to grind just once. Let yourself melt into that heat and get off on the friction alone, like you've done before.

But it's not the time.

Not the moment.

Not the place.

So instead, your hands slide down. Over his forearms. Slow. Gentle. Your fingers curl around his wrists and hold there for a beat.

He stills behind you, his mouth parting slightly against your skin.

You don't turn around. Just focus on his hands. Beautiful hands. Inked and veined and big. Hands that have held knives and necks and your thighs spread open in dark rooms.

You swallow.

"Jeon," you murmur, barely above the rotor hum. "I have to get dressed."

You feel it the second it hits him.

The stiffening in his posture. The way his hips pull back like it physically hurts. That little breath he takes through his nose, sharp and clipped like he's pissed at himself.

"Yeah," he says, rough. "Yeah. You're right, I—"

He swallows hard. You feel the bob of his throat against your shoulder before he steps back. Barefoot on the steel floor, fingers twitching like he doesn't know where to put them.

"I'm sorry. I just—" His hand lifts, then drops, then lifts again as he gestures vaguely at you. "Fuck."

He actually says it like that. Soft. Defeated.

Like the sight of your half-undressed body scrambled something in his brain and now he's trying to reboot with blood still rushing south.

He shakes his head like he's trying to snap out of it.

Then he crouches to grab the pile of clothes you haven't touched. Holds them out to you with both hands like you might break if he gets too close.

"Let me help you," he says. Quiet. Not pushy. Like he wants to do something with his hands that isn't gripping you tight enough to leave bruises.

You reach for the thermals, and that's when you notice it.

Have Jeon’s ears ever been red?