whimsimille

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~20000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 1: Intro.

Chapter 2: The Ritual

Chapter 3: All of you

I really really really love it like, really really really!!

Love u and take care! 🤭❤

Minsung x Fem! reader

Summary: Where Minho uses sex and rough words to forget how shitty his life is. It all works pretty well until he meets two people that can only ruin his game.

alpha x alpha x alpha

Word count: ~ 10000

Warnings: angst with happy ending, ptsd mention, coping mechanisms, sex, smut, +18, toxicity, use of alcohol and drugs, knotting, piv, creampie, roughness, dom and sub undertones, f and m receiving, oral, anal, dp, light bondage, breeding kink mention

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"When will I see you again?"

"There we go again."

Every time, the same scene played out: him tying off the used condom, thumb and forefinger working in sync while his gut churned with familiar self-loathing. His tanned legs slid from between the cheap cotton sheets like a lizard escaping midday heat and his shirt, reeking of cigarettes and bearing the evidence of pink lipstick on its collar, returned to its place along with what remained of his dignity.

"You didn't answer my question," she insisted, sitting up with her breasts exposed to the stale air. Her nose, red-tipped like she was fighting back tears, twitched as she caught his scent beginning to sour. "Why do you always run away like this? Is it because I'm a lower-class omega? Because I work at a convenience store instead of some fancy office?"

He had a headache, the kind that started at the nape where his undercut needed a trim and crawled upward. The kind that made his eyes throb as if someone was performing brain surgery with a rusty hammer. He needed to go home. He needed to go to her. He needed a scalding shower to burn away the shame. He needed to stop fucking thinking.

"Listen carefully because I won't repeat myself," he drawled while adjusting his hair in the mirror. "I'm not interested in seconds. I don't do repeats. I thought I made that crystal fucking clear. Or should I draw you a diagram?"

"But Minho-ssi..." she started, biting her lower lip in a way that probably worked wonders on lesser men.

"Cut the honorifics bullshit, Marina. We just fucked; we're not at a business meeting." He yanked his belt through the loops. "Got any coffee in this shoebox you call an apartment? And aspirin. Definitely need aspirin. My head's fucking killing me, and your omega pheromones aren't helping."

"Kitchen," she responded, finally pulling the sheet up to cover herself as if modesty had suddenly become a priority. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily as her own bitter strawberry pheromones filled the room, mixing with his acidic alpha scent to create something that smelled like regret. "First door on the right. We're out of sugar though. And for the last fucking time, it's Melissa. Not Marina, not Mariana. Me-li-ssa, you entitled knothead."

"Perfect. Sugar's for people who can't handle reality." He fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, tapping one against his wrist. "Don't wait up, sweetheart. Or better yet, don't wait at all. Find yourself a nice beta who'll remember your name and buy you flowers or whatever the fuck it is you're looking for."

And he wasn't lying, not even a little. Despite the fact that this omega—Melissa, definitely not Marina or whatever the fuck he'd been calling her—could do things with her tongue that would make a Catholic priest renounce his vows and had a laugh like wind chimes in a summer breeze, Minho simply didn't keep dead weight in his deck. Melissa was nothing but a two of clubs in a hand that needed aces.

It was like a game of Kemps, the same one he played on Sunday afternoons with his friends drunk on soju in Chan's apartment. In the game, four players formed two pairs, each receiving four cards from the French deck. The objective? Get four matching cards before the opponent, discreetly signaling your partner to shout "Kemps!"—a wink, absently scratching your nose. If you were wrong and shouted without your partner having four matching cards? You lost points, just like in real life you lost your sanity. If you missed your partner's signal? More points lost, like the nights of sleep he lost thinking about persistent ex-lovers. It was a game of observation, timing, and strategy.

In the game, as in life, Minho was an expert at this. A pair of toned legs here, full lips there, a cheeky smile elsewhere—he picked up the cards that caught his attention and handed useless ones to the other players. Players like Hyunjin, with his preference for frustrated betas with colored hair, or Felix, who had a thing for alpha literature students who wore thick-framed glasses and quoted Bukowski between one orgasm and another. Minho had been doing this with men and women for years, receiving his cards—their sweaty bodies writhing beneath him, their moans, their phone numbers saved as "NEVER answer"—and discarding those that never made sense with his game. Simple. Quick. Practical. Avoided hysterical screaming at three in the morning, endless crying, ex-lover sex fueled by regret, pathetic relapses fueled by cheap vodka.

But then, on some October night, with the smell of burnt caramel not so characteristic of an alpha and jazz playing softly, there was his jack, the highest card in the deck after the ace. The jack that passed from hand to hand each round like a curse, disrupting the flow of the game until the next round started and the card kept circulating, destroying strategies and ruining plays that seemed perfect on paper. Everyone had to deal with it eventually, but no one wanted to play that card.

That night, as you moved above him with the precision of a hunting feline—hips undulating like waves breaking on the beach, slender fingers tightening around his throat until he saw stars—you had become his jack. The card he held so tightly that the corners were starting to crease, even when he should have discarded it long ago.

Serious relationships and monogamy were never his style. How could he be? His mother taught him that lesson at 8 years old, after swallowing an entire box of Rivotril and writing an apology, not to him, but to her ex. He still remembered the sound her nails made scratching the wooden floor while she convulsed, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling as he screamed for help. But for you? For you he had tried. Really tried.

"Stay," he whispered, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his fingers traced meaningless patterns on the condensation-slick window. His reflection looked pathetically hopeful. "Just... stay for breakfast this time." A pause. "I make decent scrambled eggs."

You shifted on the bed. "Define 'decent.'"

"Edible enough not to kill you," he replied with a laugh that sounded too raw, too honest. "Maybe even good enough to convince you to come back for seconds."

It turned into months of domestic bliss—or his twisted version of it. Months of biting back territorial growls whenever you walked in carrying traces of other wolves' scents. "Just work," you'd say with that infuriating half-smile, and he'd nod like the lovesick fool he'd become. He ignored Chan's concerned glances over soju shots, Changbin's muttered warnings about alpha-alpha relationships being psychological warfare. Tried playing the reformed playboy even when some omega calling herself @sexygirl22 slid into his DMs with explicit photos and "Remember last week's quickie in the club bathroom?" while you danced barefoot in his kitchen, humming "Somebody to Love" and making condensed milk pudding like some domestic deity.

"This pudding..." His finger traced the edge of the mold, stealing a taste of caramel. The gesture was so childlike, so unguarded, you had to suppress a fond smile. "Tastes exactly like my grandmother's."

"Your grandmother made pudding?" Like a flower in bloom, your legs opened naturally as you leaned over the counter. A few centimeters up, the hem of your shirt—it was actually his, stolen a week ago—rode up, exposing that constellation of freckles on your hip that he loved mapping with his tongue.

"Every Sunday after lunch," he answered, eyes fixed on the exposed bit of skin. "She used to say that sweets made with love tasted different."

It's that in the beginning it was simple: you rode him like you were born for it, scratching his chest and whispering obscenities in his ear that would make even a demon blush. It was about smoking a joint on the balcony at three in the morning, your skilled fingers rolling the joint while he kissed your thighs still trembling from orgasm, waiting for the knot to deflate. "I'm getting addicted," he would murmur against your skin, and you both knew he wasn't talking about the weed. It was about the sacred ritual of watching you dress in the morning: first the black lace panties, then the bra that made your breasts look like works of art, the thigh-high stockings he loved to remove with his teeth, the jeans that hugged your curves like a possessive lover. It was about how you never asked about the scars on his left wrist but kissed them with such reverence that sometimes he found himself crying after you left.

"Why do you do that?" he asked one night, voice thick, his fingers digging into the sheets.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me... like that. Like they're not scars. Like they're not..." he swallowed hard, "ugly."

"Because they're not just scars. They're part of you."

Until it became something different: he stopped you from running out after sex one Sunday morning, pulling you by the waist for another round in the jacuzzi. That's when he discovered you were a teacher at a school in the south zone and taught literature to rebellious teenagers, while he was heir to a chain of five-star hotels spread across Asia. That you loved Seoul with its violence and chaos, the underground bars and narrow streets full of people, while he longed for the peace of Jeju, with its deserted beaches and the smell of tangerines in the air. That you had three rescue cats—Sylvia, Virginia, and Edgar, all named after dead writers—who were your fur children and that, surprisingly, he developed a genuine affection for these creatures, even when Sylvia vomited hairballs on his shoes.

It happened when you stopped being a scheduled fuck and started pulling out, one by one, his fingers from the little bag he always kept next to his heart. You never even said anything, never stopped him from leaving and always left the door ajar, because you hated trapping people and making them feel obligated to stay.

"You can go, if you want," you would always say, wrapped in messy sheets. "You don't have to stay."

And maybe it was exactly that—that frightening freedom, that lack of demands—that made him want to stay. Until he didn't want to anymore.

That's why he bailed.

With your makeup all over the bathroom counter and your underwear discovered beneath the bed like evidence from a crime scene, he couldn't stand you taking up space like a terminal illness. Couldn't stand your caramel perfume and alpha pheromones impregnated in the pillows, your toothbrush next to his, you parading naked through the 300 m² penthouse as if you owned the place. Hated you burying your face in his neck when he woke up screaming at 3:47 in the morning.

"Shh, I'm here," you would murmur, running your fingers through his damp hair, your lips brushing his temple. "It was just a nightmare."

But the real nightmare was the dangerous glimmer of hope he began to see reflected in his own eyes every time he shaved while you played in the bathtub, humming "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles.

One day, his hand froze mid-stroke with the razor, watching your reflection dance in the fogged mirror as soap bubbles crowned your head. With the sun creeping through the window and painting your eyelashes gold, Minho's fingers twitched around the razor handle. His phone buzzed in the counter (probably that cute bellboy from the Peninsula Hotel confirming their afternoon rendezvous, or maybe the yoga instructor sending another photo of her impossibly flexible poses). He should check it. Should definitely not be watching you emerge from the water like some fucking deity, all glistening skin and grace.

His thumb hovered over the screen, already pulling up his contacts list. Delete them all. Ask you to be his. Only his. The thought made his stomach turn even as his pulse quickened and he gave up.

At the sound of his loafers, you lifted your head while he perched on the edge of the tub like some lovesick fool, watching droplets trace paths he'd memorized with his tongue.

"Keep staring like that and I might start charging admission," you drawled, reaching for the shampoo.

"You're going to make me deaf with that caterwauling, little alpha," he shot back. "And since when did you become such a Beatles fanatic? Thought you were more of a 'We Will Rock You' kind of bitch."

"First of all," you said, pointing the shampoo bottle at him like a weapon, "the Beatles are fucking transcendent, you philistine. Second," your lips curved into that infuriating smirk that made him want to bite them bloody, "you were the one moaning 'Yesterday' in your sleep last night. Right after you called me 'baby' and tried to spoon me."

"That's bullshit and you know it," he snarled, but his ears burned red at the tips. "I don't fucking cuddle."

"Oh really?" You stretched languorously, water sloshing against the tub sides. Wet toes brushed his thigh, leaving wet prints on his expensive slacks. "Because I distinctly remember you nuzzling my neck and whimpering when I tried to move away. Face it, Min," you purred, and the nickname sent a jolt straight to his groin, "you're going soft on me."

"Keep dreaming, sweetheart," he managed, even as his throat closed around the lie. "I just needed something warm to stick my knot in."

"Mhmm," you hummed, unconvinced. Your foot slid higher up his thigh. "That's why you sent flowers to my work last week? Because you needed somewhere to stick your knot?"

It was like watching an orange tree growing in the middle of his chest: first just a timid sprout, then branches spreading between his ribs, until the roots began to intertwine with his veins and arteries. And when the first white flowers bloomed, perfuming his entire circulatory system with possibilities, he knew he needed to cut it at the root before the fruits ripened and he found himself addicted to the bittersweet taste of your presence.

"Minho! What the actual fuck? It's four in the fucking morning, and you're here smelling like a distillery had an orgy with a perfume store."

"Still looking like a snack, my little alpha. Even with all these..." His hand made a vague gesture at your new appearance, "changes."

You watched as he staggered slightly, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on a fixed point. Fragmented memories of a yellow taxi and questionable decisions in dark alleys flashed through his mind like a silent film. That you were different—unrecognizable, maybe—was the only thing that was certain. Your hair, now long and sprinkled with platinum highlights, framed your face in a profane halo. The thorny tattoo serpentined down your neck, disappearing beneath the loose collar. Beneath the typical caramel, you had a masculine, woodsy scent that made him sick to his stomach.

"You know what's funnier? I always knew you would do this. Always knew you'd leave me and then show up at my door wanting to stick your knot in some hole. It was just a matter of time, wasn't it, Lee Minho?"

Sylvia, that four-legged traitor who had always preferred him to you, was now rubbing against his ankles while trying to reach her favorite human. You pushed her away with your foot.

"Let's... let's talk properly, love. Smoke a joint, whatever. Like the old days, remember?" His hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them in his jeans pockets. "We always solved everything after..." A laugh escaped his lips. "Fuck, why is it so hard to talk about feelings without being high? Must be... dunno, must be the age, right?" The taste of blood in his mouth intensified. This time, he had bitten his tongue.

You let out a scoff—a sound that seemed to have been torn from the depths of your throat with a rusty hook. "Age?" Your head tilted to the side, and for a moment, Minho saw his mother in that same movement—moments before she swallowed the pills. "You were twenty-fucking-seven when you stood in the middle of Changbin's birthday party, so wasted you couldn't even spell your own name, and announced to everyone that I was, what was it again? Oh right! 'just another desperate hole begging for your premium alpha cock.' All because I had the audacity to ask if we could try being exclusive. Remember that night, Minho? Or did you drink that memory away too?"

As you eventually allowed Sylvia to come closer, he saw the cat rubbing her muzzle against your ankles as though she was aware of the precise location of the pain.

Love should heal, shouldn't it? Should stitch together the parts that were never united, fill the voids that echoed inside the chest like empty rooms from childhood. Minho knew this better than anyone—he had been sexualized his whole life, used and discarded like a broken toy.

"You don't have that right," you continued. "You don't have the right to show up here reeking of whiskey and..." Your hands gestured in the air, searching for words. "And talk about 'old times.'"

Minho swallowed hard, watching how your fingers now trembled against the doorframe—not from nervousness, but from contained rage that made your knuckles turn white.

Until his lungs pleaded for air, he had tried everything to fill the void you left: cigarettes. Strange bodies in his bed that never reached the right places, hands that tried to stitch him back together but always using the wrong thread. Like thieves in the dark, all stealing pieces from each other, but never finding what they were really looking for.

"Just let me in, yeah?"

A sob escaped his throat before he could contain it, words tangling in his mouth. Sylvia was now sitting between the two of you, her tail moving in a hypnotic rhythm.

You had been the only one to see through the cracks, the only one who didn't try to fix him like he was a puzzle to be solved. The only one who understood that sometimes a cat's rough tongue on the heels could mean more than a thousand empty words of comfort.

But he wouldn't, couldn't show you how much he loved you. Sex and dirty words were safer territory, familiar ground where he could pretend this was just another meaningless encounter.

"Do you still have that purple vibrator?" The words slurred out as his alcohol-heavy tongue caught on his canines. "You could use it on me today, yeah? Make me beg like I used to?"

Like a desperate merchant hawking counterfeit goods in some back alley, it was pitiful how he still attempted to use sex as currency. As if his body, marked with the fingerprints and teeth marks of countless strangers, was the only thing of value he had left to barter with. As if you still wanted that particular damaged merchandise. You had long since learned that his empty promises and fleeting affections were not worth the price.

"I guess old habits die hard, huh? Still the same horny kitten as always, Minho-yah."

At the sound of that old endearment, Minho's narrow hips jerked forward involuntarily, his lean body betraying him like a puppet with tangled strings. A bead of sweat traced the sharp line of his jaw as the lavender scent of his arousal began to saturate the air, mixing with the sour notes of whiskey and desperation.

"Just... just one more time," he begged. "I promise I'll disappear after. I swear on my mother's grave..." A sob ripped from his throat, more wolf than man. "I just need to feel you one more time. Need to remember what it felt like when someone actually gave a fuck about me."

It was almost poetic, you thought. The way Lee Minho could transform desire into pathology, how his lust manifested in muscle spasms and empty promises whispered through teeth that probably cost more than your yearly salary. His eyes, usually a warm chocolate brown, had taken on a reddish tinge that reminded you of blood diluted in water.

"Get out of here, Minho." You clutched Sylvia closer, her warm body and steady purring acting as a shield against the tsunami of alpha pheromones he was trying to drown you in. Her claws pricked your skin through your thin shirt. "Before I call the police."

"You'd never. You care too much; that's always been your problem."

"Try me." Your fingers found your phone in your pocket. "The last bus passes in ten minutes. But I think you'd prefer if I called your private driver. What was his name again? The one who always brought you aspirin and clean clothes after your... episodes?"

Minho's hand flew to the collar of his leather jacket, adjusting it with trembling fingers. "I don't need your fucking pity."

"I know you don't, Minho." You sighed, watching his shoulders hunch forward like a wounded animal. "But I also know you probably left another black credit card in the lost and found of whatever overpriced bar you were drowning in tonight. I bet you left without any cash. Again. Just like that time at The Rose, when you tried to pay for your cab with your Rolex."

"How the fuck..."

"Love, everything okay?" A sleepy voice emerged from the shadows of the apartment, warm and rough like honey mixed with gravel. The powerful scent of freshly ground cinnamon and handcrafted coffee filled your apartment and permeated the door, causing Minho's nostrils to uncontrollably twitch.

"Fucking hell," Minho muttered under his breath, watching as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Dyed an impossible shade of midnight blue that seemed to swallow what little light remained in the hallway, the man's hair stuck up in wild tufts, as if he'd been wrestling with insomnia rather than sleeping. A thin, silvery scar bisected his right eyebrow. Despite his cherubic cheeks and full lips, there was something lethal in the way he held himself, the casual violence of a loaded gun left on safety.

"Who the actual fuck are you supposed to be?" Minho's words slurred together.

The stranger's bare feet made no sound as he crossed the distance between them. Silver rings caught the fluorescent light as his hand found your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your hip.

"Han Jisung," the man's voice was deceptively soft. His tongue flicked out to play with the silver ring in his lower lip, a gesture that drew Minho's attention despite himself. "And you must be the infamous Lee Minho. The one who thinks it's acceptable to harass people at four in the morning because his wolf is feeling lonely."

The air grew thick with competing pheromones, your caramel sweetness, Minho's lavender, and Han's cinnamon colliding and transforming into something acrid and metallic, like blood left to oxidize. Minho's temple throbbed visibly, and he chewed the inside of his cheek until copper flooded his mouth.

"Christ, is this what you're into now?" Minho's eyes raked over Han's form--the scattered tattoos visible beneath his thin tank top, the messy blue hair, the multiple piercings. "Trading in a pure-bred for some street mutt with a DIY paint job?"

Han's scent soured, turning sharp enough to make your eyes water. "Babe," he addressed you without taking his eyes off Minho. "Should I call the cops, or would you like to watch me teach this trust fund pup some manners? Because I'm really curious if he's as tough when he's not marinading in scotch."

"Oh, sweetheart," Minho purred, stepping close enough that his breath ghosted over Han's face. His fingers played with the collar of Han's shirt, twisting the fabric like he was testing its breaking point. "You've got quite the mouth on you. Makes me wonder what other tricks you know." His gaze flicked to you over Han's shoulder, lips curling into something cruel. "Always did have a weakness for strays with attitude problems, didn't you, love? Tell me, does this one beg as prettily as I used to?"

Han didn't back down, but you saw how his fingers contorted—not into fists, but like claws ready to tear apart.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off." Gripping Minho's wrist, Jisung twisted it until he heard the gratifying sound of tendons being stretched to their breaking point.

What happened next made your breath catch in your throat. Minho—proud, arrogant, never-submissive Minho, who once told an alpha CEO to go fuck himself with a golden spoon—let out a sound that was pure, instinctual submission. His head tilted, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat where fading hickeys told stories of nights you didn't want to imagine. 

The gesture was so fundamentally wrong, so against everything you knew about him, that for a moment you thought the expensive whisky had finally corroded something essential inside him. But then his eyes found yours across the space between you—wide, confused, and terrified—and you saw it: his alpha, for only the second time since you'd known him, recognising another as superior. It had been with you the first time. Normally curled in that angry smirk, his lips quivered.

"What the actual fuck..." With surprise, Jisung's eyes grew wide, and the scar through his eyebrow stretched taut. His grip loosened fractionally, more from shock than mercy. "Did you just..."

"Ah," Minho's voice cracked, desperation bleeding through as he fought to regain control. As he attempted to balance himself against the wall, his hands trembled. "So the puppy has fangs after all. Want to show me how to use them properly, Han Jisung-ssi?"

It played out like a slow-motion car crash, stunning in its destruction. Jisung slammed Minho against the wall with enough force to make the cheap prints rattle in their frames. Something dark and broken slipped out of Minho's lips as his forearm pressed against his throat.

"So fucking predictable," Minho rasped around the pressure on his windpipe, his pupils blown so wide the brown was almost swallowed by black. "All you baby alphas..." His fingers found Jisung's bicep, nails, leaving crescent moons in the flesh. "So easy to provoke. So desperate to prove yourselves. Tell me, blueberry, how many others have you pinned like this?"

"I said," Han snarled, pressing harder until Minho's breath came in wheezing gasps, "shut that pretty mouth before I shut it for you. You reek of spoiled lavender and mommy issues, street pup. Did she not hug you enough? Is that why you're here, trying to ruin what isn't yours anymore?"

Following that, there was too much movement to follow—a haze of tattoos and high-end clothing. Suddenly Minho had reversed their positions, pinning Jisung against the wall. Han grunted in surprise at the impact, his teeth clicking together so forcefully that you winced with pity. 

In an attempt to humiliate the wolf who had dared to assert its superiority, Minho's thigh pushed upward between Han's legs and degraded him. Trembling but determined, his fingers tangled themselves into Han's blue strands.

"Who's the street pup now?" Minho tilted his head, letting his lips brush the shell of Jisung's ear. "So docile suddenly. Where's all that protective alpha posturing? Or does it only work when you're trying to impress my leftovers?"

What tore from Jisung's throat wasn't anything you'd heard before—not in your years of teaching children, not in nature documentaries about wolves, not even in your darkest nightmares. Kind of sound that made your bone marrow freeze and your hindbrain scream danger. At a frequency that made your teeth hurt, the cheap metal numbers on your door vibrated. A picture frame crashed to the floor.

Your own alpha stirred beneath your skin like a serpent uncoiling, recognising the precipice of violence you were all balanced on. 

Sylvia pressed herself against your arms. Her tail lashed the air like a whip, pupils blown so wide the green was just a thin ring. You knew, with the bone-deep certainty of prey watching predators circle, that this wouldn't end with just bruised egos and wounded pride. The territory—you, this hallway, perhaps even this entire narrative—had already been marked with invisible blood.

"That's enough! Both of you, stop this-"

But the words died in your throat as Jisung moved. One moment he was pinned against the wall; the next he was pure kinetic energy unleashed. His body curved like a question mark before springing forward, teeth finding the vulnerable juncture where Minho's neck met.

The sound that followed would haunt your dreams for months: wet, obscene, like overripe fruit being crushed under combat boots. Blood, startlingly bright against Minho's shirt, bloomed like a macabre watercolor.

—-----------

As soon as Minho stepped out of the rehabilitation center, his fingers began the routine dance of coffee, lighter, and cigarette. His eyes, still heavy from group therapy, focused on the cracks in the concrete while he tried to juggle the cheap coffee cup and red Marlboro. A curse that reverberated throughout the alley was evoked by the hot liquid that trickled down his hand.

"Fuck's sake, I can't even do this right," he muttered, licking the coffee that dripped between his fingers.

It was a total and utter catastrophe for him. First, Seungmin had shown up at his apartment at 6 AM with some green tea mixed with ginger and honey that looked more like rat poison. "For detoxing," he'd said, pushing the steaming cup into his hands. Then, Bang Chan practically broke down his door, dragging him out of bed while yelling something about "corporate responsibility" and how the shareholders were concerned about his erratic behavior. As if he didn't know the hotel franchise was crumbling under his fingers since you left him.

To top it all off? Jisung was the embodiment of his headache. An irritatingly attractive alpha who had the gift of making his blood boil—and not necessarily in a good way.

Since the incident that led them to the police station (and subsequently to the emergency room, where Minho needed five stitches in his neck and had to pray the bite hadn't been right on his scent gland, linking Jisung to him in a way that gave him chills just thinking about it), the judge had sentenced them to five months of group therapy. Two hours per week sitting in a circle with other "violence-prone individuals," as Dr. Park—a beta who always smelled like old socks—liked to call them.

And now, to make matters worse, whenever he had the chance, Jisung liked to rub his scent gland against yours right in the middle of the room, masking your natural scent. It was as if he wanted Minho to witness firsthand how you had moved on—the way he adjusted his motorcycle helmet every night after the session, his fingers lingering on your nape; how he whispered stupid jokes in your ear that made you laugh in that way that used to be reserved just for Minho; how he made sure to leave visible marks on your neck, transforming everything that once screamed "Minho" into cinnamon and a blue-haired alpha.

"Hey, princess, still haven't learned how to drink coffee without making a mess? Or do you need me to teach you how adults do it?"

Eyelids fluttering, Minho closed his eyes. After four months in this therapeutic hell, his fingers, now bitten down to raw flesh, involuntarily contracted, imprinting his palms with tiny crescents.

"Jisung, I thought we'd agreed to keep our distance outside of sessions. Or is your memory as short as your self-control?"

"Yeah, but then I saw you here alone," Jisung approached. The smell of cinnamon and coffee invaded Minho's personal space like an unwanted heat wave. "And I thought: 'What a waste.' All this drama, all this tension... for what?"

Carelessly, Minho propped one foot on a crushed trash can and leaned against the filthy alley wall. The cigarette hung loose between his chapped lips, smoke dancing in lazy spirals around his face.

"Go fuck yourself, Han."

"Your ex 'little alpha' is doing that quite well," Jisung responded, running his tongue over the piercing in his lower lip provocatively. "Thanks for asking."

Minho clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The taste of cheap coffee still burned his tongue when he raised his eyes to face Jisung. There was something there, hidden in the shadows of those puppy eyes, that almost made Minho choke on the smoke—something hungry, dangerous, electric. Jisung seemed to be planning something behind those long eyelashes, and Minho recognized the familiar crossroads: run or face it.

He should run, of course. Especially after Han had made his alpha behave like a submissive puppy with a simple touch to the wrist. But Minho never had a sense of self-preservation, and if he was going to die today—if Jisung decided to finish what he started that night, now that you weren't here to stop him—well, maybe it would be an appropriate end to all this mess.

"What do you want?"

Old combat boots scuffing the concrete, Han stepped forward. Gently, he reached for the cigarette trapped between Minho's lips. The touch was brief, but it sent electric shocks down his spine, as if someone had connected his nerves to a car battery. Han's eyes, dark as spilled coffee, never left Minho's as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers before crushing it under his sole.

"Sleep with us," Han said simply. "One night."

Time seemed to freeze. Minho felt his toes curl inside his shoes, as if searching for something to grip onto. Like a bird in a cage, his heart pounded against his ribs, and his tongue felt too heavy for his mouth.

"What the fuck?" The laugh that escaped his throat sounded hysterical even to his own ears. "After all that shit at the police station? After the stitches?" Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the scar on his neck.

Han shrugged. "You think I don't notice?" He moved closer. "How your eyes follow her during sessions? And how you stare at me when you think I'm not paying attention? How your pheromones change when I'm around?"

Minho knew your story with Jisung—it was impossible not to know. In the corridors of the rehabilitation center, the whispers reverberated like poisonous snakes. How you, the beloved suburban teacher, had started frequenting Han's studio to cover old scars. How the tattoo sessions turned into confessions, then into coffees shared in paper cups, then into stolen kisses against walls covered in faded flash tattoos. How Han had restored each broken piece of you—not with empty words or grandiose promises, but with small gestures: americanos left in paper cups with your name always intentionally misspelled, colorful post-its hidden with silly cat drawings, nights spent simply holding you while the world collapsed around you. How he spoke of you with a kind of reverent love that made Minho want to vomit—because he only knew how to express affection through bruises and cutting words.

But if Han loves you so much, why is he here offering you up like a piece of meat?

"You're sick."

Han tilted his head. "Maybe. But so are you. And her..." He paused, letting the word hang in the air like smoke. "She wants us. Both of us."

"Spare me this bullshit," Minho spat the words. "You talk like she's your property. Like you can just throw me into your bed like a new toy and expect me to..."

"Don't be naive," Jisung interrupted, taking another step forward. Tattooed fingers found Minho's chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "She has more free will than both of us combined. And knows exactly what she wants." His thumb traced Minho's lower lip, collecting a drop of blood where he had bitten too hard before bringing the same finger to his mouth. Minho almost moaned at the sight. "Just like I know exactly what you need. What all three of us need."

"You don't know shit about what I need."

"No?" Han teased, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Then why are you trembling?" His fingers moved up to Minho's nape, playing with the short strands there. "Why is your heart beating so fast I can feel it from here?"

"Tell me then," Minho challenged. "What does someone as fucked up as you think I need?"

"Mutual destruction," Jisung murmured against his ear. The cold piercing made Minho's earlobe twitch. "The kind that burns everything to the ground and rebuilds something better from the ashes. The kind that only three equally broken people can create."

A sound escaped Minho's throat. His hands found Jisung's chest. He didn't know if he wanted to push or pull, if he wanted to punch that irritating smile or taste it.

"You're poison," Minho whispered, his nails digging into Jisung's chest through the thin shirt. "The kind that kills slowly."

"And you," Han smiled against his skin, "are too thirsty to care about the antidote."

-----------------------------

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~10000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 2: The Ritual

"Are you... Are you really going to let this happen?" Minho's voice trembled as his feet traced obsessive circles across the empty flower shop parking lot. His fingers, restless like butterflies trapped in a jar, found an old receipt at the bottom of his pocket and began folding it obsessively into increasingly smaller triangles, scratching the thermal paper until it was almost torn.

Looking down, the asphalt was still wet from the morning rain, reflecting the streetlights that would soon turn on, creating small rainbows in the dirty puddles that smelt of oil and urban loneliness.

"Of course I will. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" Minho let out a hysterical laugh, his free hand grabbing and pulling at his dark hair. "Chan-hyung, for heaven's sake— It was a disaster when we both came out as soulmates! Remember the scandal? The headlines? The sasaengs trying to break into the dorm?" He stopped abruptly and spun on his heels to face Chan. "And now you're here dragging me to buy flowers for a ritual that could be completely fake? A ritual he didn't even tell me about?" His voice rose an octave. "Since when do you let Han Jisung get into your head like this? You of all people, hyung! Hell, you literally sacrificed everything so we could stay eight! Gave up everything!"

Chan sighed heavily, his fingers drumming against the car hood in a rhythm that Minho recognized as the chorus of "Haven."

"Minho-yah," he began, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and sleepless nights in the studio, "first: lower your voice; people live here." He nodded toward the buildings around them, where an elderly woman in a floral robe was watching them curiously from the third floor. "Second: your boyfriend is having increasingly worse nightmares. Felix told me he found him sleeping in the bathroom last night, curled up between the toilet and the sink, shaking and mumbling about wars and spirals. Third: even though you're here spewing all this in my face, you were the first to get ready and grab the car keys when I said we needed to talk about the possible 'third' person. Didn't even brush your hair properly," he gestured to the bird's nest that was Minho's hair. "If you really wanted to give up on this ritual, you would have gone home to confront Han about not telling you anything. But here you are, destroying a receipt in your pockets and pretending you're not dying of worry."

"I'm not—"

"Fourth," Chan continued, ignoring the interruption, "I don't care about JYP and his minions. They can come at me with their contracts and threats all they want. I did it once for you all, didn't I? Faced that packed room, signed my own artistic exile sentence." He laughed. "Why not a second time? Binnie and I are already used to meetings in empty cafes at three in the morning and stolen kisses in airport bathrooms."

Minho swallowed hard, his fingers finally tearing the abused receipt into tiny pieces that danced in the wind. "Channie, don't do this. Don't sacrifice yourself again. I already feel guilty enough about the first time."

Chan pushed himself off the car. The smell of old coffee and energy drinks finally enveloping the younger one like an ungiven hug.

"Guilty? Why the hell do you feel guilty? I made a choice. I always knew that one day I'd have to choose between being an idol or..." He vaguely gestured to his own chest, where Minho knew his soulmate mark—a complex pattern of sound waves that matched Changbin's musical notes mark—pulsed under the black t-shirt. "This."

"But you chose us. Chose to hide your relationship with Binnie so we could..."

"So you guys could be together? Yeah, I chose that. We chose that, him and I. Besides, being hidden is fucking great." The blonde's fingers found the pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in his denim jacket pocket—he'd sworn he'd quit months ago but always came back in times of crisis, like a stubborn ex-lover who refuses to return the apartment keys.

The pack was crushed, probably from playing with it while listening for two hours to Han Jisung venting about Minho's rejection of trimarks and about how he had found a dusty book in the library that contained a ritual that could prove if he and Minho really had a third soul—preferably alive, because dealing with ghosts would be too much even for them.

"And I'd do it again. And again. And again." He took a cigarette from the pack but didn't light it, just twirled it between his fingers like an invisible baton. "Now there's someone out there suffering. Having nightmares, feeling phantom pains. And if I can prevent someone else from going through that..." He shrugged, finally bringing the cigarette to his lips and lighting it with a silver lighter that had the initials CB97 engraved on the side. "Well, fuck JYP Entertainment. Fuck all of them."

As the first puff of smoke rose in slow spirals against the night sky, it danced with the first snowflakes of winter. A flake caught in one of Chan's hairs, and Minho saw it melt instantly against the warmth of his skin.

"Besides," Chan continued, "it's about time I stop pretending I can control everything. That I can protect everyone." He laughed, the sound mixing with the cigarette smoke. "Look at me: trying to micromanage even my members' soulmates. Typical."

"Chan-hyung..." Minho stepped forward, his hands automatically reaching out to... for what? To hug? To hit? To beg? To tear that resigned smile from the face of the man who had sacrificed everything for them? He didn't know himself.

"No." Chan raised a hand, effectively freezing Minho in place. "Don't look at me like that. Just... let's go into this damn flower shop, buy the flowers for the ritual, and hope that this time..." He took a deep drag, smoke escaping through his nostrils, ashes staining his shirt. "That this time everything works out. And maybe... perhaps it's time for more people to be openly happy."

A car zoomed past on the wet street, its headlights creating elongated shadows that danced on the building walls. The elderly woman in the window had disappeared, probably bored with the drama unfolding in the parking lot, but her black cat still watched them with golden, judgmental eyes.

"Fine, but if this goes wrong..."

"If it goes wrong," Chan stubbed out the cigarette against his boot sole with more force than necessary, the smell of burnt rubber mixing with that of snow, "you can punch me. Right in the face. No consequences. Changbin will probably help you, actually. He's been complaining that I need a few slaps to put some sense into this thick head."

"Promise?" Minho raised his pinky.

"Scout's honour." Chan intertwined his finger with Minho's, raising the other three in a mocking salute.

"You were never a scout, hyung." Minho rolled his eyes but didn't let go of Chan's finger.

"Details, details..." Chan smiled, his dimples appearing like small craters in his pale cheeks—too pale, Minho noticed with concern, making a mental note to force him to take vitamin D. However, before he could say anything, Bangchan threw an arm over his shoulders, cold fingers finding the warm skin of the younger's neck. "Now let's go, before I change my mind and go back to the studio to sleep with my man's voice in the background. Binnie recorded three new tracks yesterday and..." He paused, the tips of his ears turning red as he bit his lower lip. "Well, you don't want to know the details."

"Oh God, definitely not." Minho pretended to shiver dramatically. "It's enough that I've caught you guys making out in the equipment closet like teenagers on their first date."

Chan laughed, the sound echoing in the empty parking lot. "It was just once!"

"Three times, hyung. I counted." Minho raised three fingers emphatically. "And the last time you were shirtless and Binnie had glitter on his neck. Glitter, hyung. I still find sparkles on my headphones when I go to record."

And so, under the first snow of winter and the lights of the flower shop sign—purple twinkle lights that tinted their skin with ethereal shadows like actors in a film noir—the two entered the shop. Like a portent, the bell above the door chimed.

"Fine." Minho wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and his eyes scanned the shelves filled with flowers, each one more exotic than the last. He was fucking pissed, wanted to leave, but knew Chan wouldn't let him, so fuck it all. "I don't know anything about this ritual. When will it be, what will he do, how will it be, where will it be. What do we need? What if he blows up our apartment? Or worse, what if he summons a demon?"

Chan rolled his eyes, but his lips trembled with a contained smile. He took a crumpled notepad from his back jeans pocket and flipped through the pages until he found the list he was looking for. "According to Hannie, we need purple flowers—preferably lavender or iris—rose quartz crystals, and red candles. My God, there are items written in Latin here! Oh, and coarse salt. Lots of coarse salt. Like, enough to make your blood pressure rise just by looking at it."

"Sounds more like my grandmother's cleansing bath recipe mixed with a beginner cultist's shopping list." The smell of wet earth and fresh flowers was starting to make Minho dizzy, his head spinning as if he'd had too much soju. "And where will this happen? In a cemetery? Because if so, I should warn you that my gothic wardrobe is at the laundry."

"No, you dramatic donkey." Chan flicked Minho's forehead, who groaned theatrically. "At your place. Jisung has already prepared everything, including doing an energy cleansing with sage and removing that horrible One Piece poster you insist on keeping in the living room."

"What do you mean? And our children?" Minho's eyes widened. "Will they witness everything?"

"Felix went to help Jisung with the floor writings and took all four to his dormitory with Seungmin. Soonie was especially happy to sleep in the king-size bed. And before you ask, yes, they have enough food for a week."

"It's today?" Minho's voice cracked on the last syllable. How could his soulmate have planned all this with the other members, and he, the one involved, know nothing about it?

"My God, he really didn't tell you anything!" Chan scoffed as he ran his hands through his bleached hair, making some melted snowflakes drip onto the wooden floor. "Typical Han Jisung, planning a mystical ritual without telling his fucking boyfriend."

Like a shadow materialized from his darkest thoughts, a young attendant approached them with steps so silent they could make Soonie die of envy. Her name tag, attached to a cord decorated with small dried flowers and crystals, identified her as "Yeeun.". She had dirt stains on her moss-green painted nails, a silver ring with an amethyst, and smelled of wet earth, fertilizer, and something sweet that reminded of jasmine incense.

"Can I help you?" Her voice had a musical timbre, like wind chimes on a summer afternoon.

"No."

"Yes, ignore my friend, please. He's kind of pissed at life." Chan quickly intervened, nervously rolling up his denim jacket sleeve until it formed a small crumpled tube at his wrist. "We need lavender. Lots of lavender. And Iris too, if you have any. It's kind of urgent. Like, really urgent. Matter of life and death. Or at least of a relationship."

"For a soulmate ritual?" Yeeun asked casually, as if commenting on the weather or asking for the time. When both stared at her open-mouthed, she smiled and pulled aside the turtleneck of her wool sweater, revealing a crescent moon. "My girlfriend is a witch too. I recognise the signs." She smiled, revealing braces with purple elastics. "Come with me; we have a special bed for these occasions. Chaeyoung insisted we keep a separate stock. Said something about specific energies and moon phases."

As they followed Yeeun through the fragrant corridors of the shop, Minho poked Chan's ribs.

"See? Everyone has a witch soulmate except me. I have a music producer who's obsessed with wars and swords and will probably end up blowing up our apartment trying to do a love ritual or whatever. I can already see the headlines: 'Idol dies in mystical ritual gone wrong; neighbours report smell of lavender and regret.'"

"At least he doesn't try to convince you to record demos at four in the morning," Chan muttered, rubbing where Minho had poked him. "Binnie has this annoying habit of calling me in the middle of the night saying he had a musical epiphany. Last week he wanted me to record a rap about mushrooms and astral travels."

Minho's laughter echoed through the shop, startling a hummingbird that was lazily drinking from a vase of orchids. The tiny bird shot away in a blur of green and blue.

"And did you record it?"

Chan blushed to the roots. "Maybe? The melody was good, okay?"

"You guys are ridiculous," Minho declared, shaking his head. A rose petal fell on his shoulder, and he absently blew it away. "All of you. And I'm even more ridiculous for being here, about to spend my salary on flowers for a possibly fake ritual that my boyfriend found in some dusty book. If this goes wrong, I'll make you eat each of these flowers."

"Ah, but it's not just any book," Yeeun commented over her shoulder while bending down to pick up a particularly beautiful lavender vase. "If it's the same one my Chaeyoung uses, it's an ancient grimoire from a poor soul who was exiled and tried to burn the evidence when she was discovered. It's been passed from witch to witch for generations. The rituals there are legitimate, even if what you're reading isn't the original book. They're copies."

"Oh yeah, cool." Minho drummed his fingers against the nearest shelf. "Then answer me something, please. Do any of these rituals end with my butt where my head should be? A tiger's tooth in my armpit? Death?"

"For fuck's sake, Lee!"

Yeeun tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "No, nothing so dramatic. The worst that can happen is a strong headache and maybe some strange visions. Like watching an 80s movie after taking cough syrup."

"Visions? What kind of visions? Because if I start seeing JYP naked, I swear I'll sue everyone."

"Shared memories, mainly." She looks at Chan's notepad that he placed open on a table and starts separating other listed branches. "Sometimes fragments of the past, other times glimpses of the future. Chaeyoung says it's like tuning an old radio—you get some stations clearly; others are just static."

Chan stopped playing with a hanging stone amulet. "And what about the... more permanent side effects?"

Yeeun raised an eyebrow, her astute eyes catching something in Chan's tense expression that Minho couldn't decipher.

"Ah," she said softly. "You're worried about burnt marks."

"Burnt marks?" Minho ran his tongue over his dry lips. "Is that possible? What about Psyche? Isn't that a betrayal to the goddess?"

"Technically yes, to all your questions." Yeeun sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. "Soulmate marks can be burnt, and the bond between the people involved will be broken without the approval of the three sisters of fate, but it's not that simple. The person who wishes to remove the mark would need to contact Psyche, offer her one of their future lives after this one, and only then would the bond be broken and the mark disappear. It's like trading your future for the present, you understand? If you don't complete all the steps, you die and lose the right to reincarnate. And believe me, death is the easiest part of this process. That's why it's illegal, both in our country and worldwide. However, there are rumours in the city that there exists... well, a peculiar person who survived the goddess of souls' wrath and is capable of burning the connection in severe cases. Some call it a gift, others a curse. Personally?" She shrugged, making the flowers in her arms sway. "I think it's more of a haunting than anything else."

"And what about the ritual we're planning to do? One of... reconnection." Chan asked.

"If you wish to perform the attunement ritual, you must understand that the person you're seeking might have ended the bond. There's no certain answer about what might happen in these situations. Some report only hearing buzzing in their ears, like television static; sometimes there's no burnt person at all, and they communicate naturally. Others..." She hesitated. "Others say they hear the burnt person's scream while the mark reforms and the connection is reconstructed. I believe these cases of reconnection are rare; maybe they happen when souls have a very strong connection and channel. But, well," she smiled, a sad and knowing smile, "I don't know much beyond that. Some things are better left in mystery, aren't they?"

"No, miss. I don't need any more mystery in this life. It's enough trying to understand how Han Jisung knows how to wield a sword without ever having practiced fencing in his life."

"In this life, you mean."

Minho swallowed hard, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the shelf until his knuckles turned white. The old wood groaned under his force. "What do you mean, this life?"

Yeeun began wrapping all the branches in different papers to facilitate identification. The sweet and herbaceous aroma intensified with each manipulation of the flowers. "Ancient souls carry memories. Abilities. Sometimes they're just fragments—like knowing exactly how to hold a teacup correctly without ever having learned etiquette or recognizing a song in a language you've never studied." Her eyes met Minho's through the branches. "Other times they're bigger things. Like knowing how to handle a sword."

Chan made a strangled sound, nearly dropping the crystal he was examining. "So you're saying that..."

"That your friend was probably a warrior in a past life? Yes." Yeeun tied everything with a purple ribbon. "And by the way you're looking at me, that explains some things, doesn't it?"

Minho ran his hand over his face. His temples were throbbing. "Great. Perfect. My boyfriend is the reincarnation of a medieval warrior. That explains why he insists on sleeping with that ridiculous sword under his mattress." He paused, frowning. "And it also explains why he cried watching all those documentaries about the Crusades."

"At least he doesn't collect shurikens," Chan muttered.

A melodious sound filled the shop—Yeeun was laughing.

"You really have no idea how special you all are, do you?" She began separating some iris stems, their petals such a deep purple they seemed to absorb light. "Ancient souls gravitate toward each other. It's like... imagine a masquerade ball where everyone is blindfolded. You can't see the faces, but you recognize people by the way they move, by the echo of their footsteps on the floor."

Once again, the hummingbird perched on a nearby orchid, its tiny wings glinting in sapphire and emerald hues. Its bright, bead-sized black eyes examined the environment before darting back to the glass ceiling of the greenhouse, leaving behind only the soft echo of its wings. Some things seemed to exist on a different plane of reality, like that iridescent little bird, transitioning between two worlds.

Exactly like Han Jisung when wielding a sword, his eyes focused on something only he could see, his back straight and chin slightly raised in a posture that screamed years of military training. Sometimes, on the quietest nights, Minho caught him murmuring orders in an ancient language while sleeping.

Exactly like Minho when dancing, his movements carrying an elegance that didn't match someone who grew up in the streets of a small town—it was something more refined, older. Something that made his hands unconsciously search for rings that no longer existed and his feet follow the steps of dances that no one else remembered.

Exactly like callused fingers from so much sewing and a gentle smile that warmed any environment. She who drew on any surface—on market walls, in beach sand, even on the tanned skin of the two men who always followed her like devoted shadows.

Damn! There was no third person; there was no woman between two men! Fuck, this was all Jisung's delusion! Why the hell was he imagining a third soul?

No. No, no, no. It was all nonsense. Schools taught—with colored graphics projected on holographic screens and all that scientific crap certified by the International Academy of Psychic Studies—that soulmates were rare. As rare as a diamond meteor falling in the middle of Times Square. And always, ALWAYS in pairs. It was basic: one plus one equals two. Like a pair of shoes, like the hemispheres of the brain, like fucking DNA with its two intertwined helices. Psyche, the goddess herself—that immortal creature who decided to play puzzle with mortals' souls—had split a single soul into two halves so they would find each other on Earth. Two. Not three. What kind of experimental mathematics was Jisung trying to shove into his head?

Cold sweat ran down his neck like ice snakes, dripping onto his shirt collar while his eyes fixed on a random point on the shelves in front—an amber bottle with what appeared to be salamander eyes floating in formaldehyde—without really seeing.

The chemical reaction that allowed telepathy—documented in thousands of brain scans, studied by crazy scientists in white coats—happened between TWO brains. Neurotransmitters: dopamine and serotonin intertwining in a perfect tango between two minds. The cases were so rare they needed to be registered with specific government agencies, each pair catalogued as if they were specimens of endangered butterflies.

Minho ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, pulling some strands hard enough to make his scalp protest. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, he mentally insisted, but from exhaustion. The air in the shop seemed denser now, as if Yeeun's words had materialized an invisible mist that made each breath a conscious effort.

"What if..." he began, his voice coming out hoarser than intended, "what if someone... hypothetically speaking... could hear more than one person? Like, more voices than they should?"

Chan turned so quickly he knocked over a bottle of essence, his agile hands catching it millimeters before it hit the floor. Yeeun, in turn, remained completely still, her hands frozen in the middle of tying a bouquet of lavender. The only movement in her face was the slow blinking of her eyes, like an owl contemplating its prey.

"More voices?" she repeated softly. "Like a... chorus?"

"Not exactly." Minho moved restlessly, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against his thigh. "More like... a conversation. Between three people. Sometimes they're just fragments; other times they're entire dialogues. And there's this feeling..." He gestured vaguely with his hands, searching for words to describe something he barely understood, "like there's an empty space. An unoccupied chair at a dinner table."

"There are stories, yes, about souls that were split not into two, but into three parts. Even four. They're rare. So rare that most scholars consider them urban legends or mystical delusions. But... some things are rare precisely because they're too powerful to be common."

Yeeun picked up Chan's notebook that was still open on the counter as she moved through the shop like a silent dance.

"If you want advice, in case the ritual is successful and you find a partner without bonds..." Her eyes met Minho's. "Know that the person will burn from within in the real world. Their body will writhe, scream, beg while the organism reconstitutes itself to receive the bond again and the mind dives into ancient memories."

"And how will we know if..."

"Try to find the frequency," Yeeun interrupted Chan, now separating small crystals that chimed like tiny bells in her hands. "The frequency in which their soul will be immersed, even if you can't see their face or hear their voice clearly, maintain contact. Don't let them get lost in their own memories."

Minho bit his lower lip until he tasted the metallic flavor of blood. "And if they get lost?"

Yeeun stopped her dance through the shop, turning to face him. The cobalt-blue crystal in her hands pulsed when she answered, "Then you dive in together. It's risky, but..." Her eyes, now with a supernatural glow.

Chan swallowed hard. "Is that... is that possible? To dive into someone else's memories?"

"Possible?" Yeeun laughed. "Darling, you already do it every night. The shared dreams aren't just dreams—they're memories leaking through the cracks between realities. The ritual will just... open the floodgates completely. All memories, all lives—everything will surface at once."

The hummingbird returned, its wings creating small whirlwinds in the incense-laden air before landing on Yeeun's shoulder. She stroked its iridescent feathers as she continued: "That's why you need to be prepared to anchor whoever is drowning in their own memories. When the memories start flowing, don't fight against them. Let them come like waves. They're just echoes of the past; they're no longer your reality."

"And if... if we discover something we don't want to know?"

Yeeun's smile was as enigmatic as a sphinx's. The hummingbird on her shoulder tilted its head, as if also waiting for her answer.

"Ah, but you already know, don't you? In the depths of your hearts, in the shadows of your nightmares—you already know. The ritual will merely bring to light what your souls have been trying to tell you for centuries."

----------------------------------

Everything ready. Finally.

Han collapsed onto the sofa, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. A tiny respite from hours of moving furniture and scrawling elaborate symbols on the floorboards was the cool leather beneath him. His eyes swept across the room in a final inspection: twenty-three black wax candles formed a perfect circle, their wicks still pristine. Crystals of varying sizes glinted at each cardinal point—bloodstone north, amethyst south, clear quartz east, and smoky quartz west. Empty spaces gaped between them like missing teeth, waiting for the herbs and trinkets Chan had promised to bring.

Sweat was clinging to his shirt, and the strong scent of sandalwood incense was already dizziness-inducing, causing ripples to appear at the edges of his vision. He needed to take that damned iris bath that the grimoire had specified with such emphasis (three whole pages just about the ideal water temperature, for god's sake), but his limbs felt like concrete, and the damn flowers were still with Chan.

It didn't help that his mind was a whirlwind of worries: the four children he had to leave with Felix (Doongie particularly indignant about the temporary change, that little furry dictator), the exact position of the moon that was rapidly approaching the necessary apex, and especially... especially the expression he would see on Minho's face when he arrived.

He tried, for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes, to reach the older one through the mental channel they shared but found only that characteristic silence—like waves hitting against an invisible wall, the kind of blockade that Minho only erected when he was truly furious. Kind of silence that made his stomach twist into impossible knots to undo.

He couldn't blame Minho for being upset about the ritual, about the way Han had let Chan handle the revelation. However, Minho turned impossible, absolutely insufferable, every time Han so much as hinted at finding their third. The tension had exploded at the gym two weeks ago, and even their usual method of working things out in the bathtub afterward hadn't helped. Han had tried bringing it up again, carefully, on different days, but Minho would either block him mentally or physically walk away. And now the perfect moon phase was here, predicted for tonight, and what was Han supposed to do? Ignore the dreams that were becoming more vivid, more urgent? Pretend he didn't feel that empty space in their bond, that phantom limb sensation that made both of them reach for someone who wasn't there?

With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, Jisung fished the phone from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly over the screen before opening the conversation with Chan.

han: hyung, where are you?? the moon's almost at the right point! did you manage to get min out of the dance room? did he agree to go to the flower shop? for the love of all that's holy, tell me he's not planning to kill me. or worse, ignore me forever.

wolf: breathe. just dropped him off at the dorm; he's heading to your place. and stop biting your nails, i can hear it from here.

han: ...alive? like, he's still breathing and everything?

wolf: well... he's SLIGHTLY pissed that you hid your plans and ritual readings. MODERATELY pissed that i took your side and promised to serve as anchor again if needed. CONSIDERABLY pissed about only now understanding this whole soulmate thing that no school bothered to explain properly. and EXTREMELY pissed about not being able to get this triad marks story out of his head.

han: ...so i'm more screwed than an ant at a rodeo.

wolf: not necessarily. i managed to calm him down a bit. i think deep down he wants to help, he's just scared. but han-ah, listen to me: when he gets there, SIT and TALK to him first. don't jump straight into the ritual. he's got his head full of conspiracy theories, needs to vent.

han: but the moon... it'll only be in the right position for like, 3 more hours??

wolf: the moon will be back in the right place next month. you three have waited so long, a few more weeks won't kill anyone. and for god's sake, don't try to solve everything with kissing and sex this time either.

han: hey! when did we...

wolf: last week at the boxing gym? month before last in the kitchen? that time in the elevator that traumatized poor seungmin? the new year's party? the broom closet incident? do you really want me to keep listing? i have a drive file just for this.

wolf: anyway. love you both, you stubborn idiots. good luck! and han? he'll understand. just... give it time.

Jisung stared at his phone until his eyes burnt, until the familiar metallic sound of the elevator cut through the silence, making his breath catch in his throat. The characteristic hum of the motor echoed through the empty corridor—one, two, three floors up. Each second stretched like old gum while his heart hammered against his ribs.

The soft beep of the electronic lock cut through the silence, and Han felt every muscle in his body tense in anticipation.

"Min?"

Through the dark reflection of the turned-off TV, he watched Minho slide into the apartment like night water—silent, fluid, dangerous. Snowflakes melted on his broad shoulders, staining the black shirt that outlined every tense muscle under the thin fabric. A bulky package of flowers and ritual supplies balanced in his arms like a reluctant offering, the crumpled kraft paper whispering secrets of iris and something more pungent, almost metallic.

"Don't even think about opening that mouth." Minho's voice came out controlled—but Han knew that cadence that carried promises of storms to come. While kneeling to untie his shoelaces, his movements were too precise, like a feline preparing to pounce.

"Love, if you'd just let me—"

"I said," Minho raised his eyes, and through the TV reflection, Han saw that particular gleam, like turbulent waves under moonlight, that made his knees weaken. He silently thanked that he was sitting. "That I don't want to hear a single word from your mouth."

"How do you expect to understand if you won't let me explain?" Han felt his own energy responding to Minho's, sparks of frustration igniting under his skin while his fingers dug into the leather of the sofa. "You're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Minho stood up, eyes meeting Han's through the dark reflection. The succulent pot on the small table trembled when he passed, but didn't fall—Minho never completely lost control; that was the worst part. "Then explain to me, Han Jisung, how it's not ridiculous to discover that my boyfriend spent weeks conspiring behind my back."

Han watched, hypnotised, as Minho hung his soaked coat on a random chair. Water drops dripped from the sleeve, forming a small puddle on the wooden floor.

"Min, I..." Han swallowed hard. "I know I should have told you before, but I was afraid you wouldn't understand. That you..."

"That I wouldn't understand?" Minho's laugh sounded like torn silk. "Ah, now you want me to understand? After days of planning all this insanity? After involving Chan-hyung and the others in this..." His fingers contracted in the air, as if searching for words they couldn't reach.

Desperate, Han extended his consciousness through the bond that united them, seeking that familiar connection—and almost screamed. It was like diving into an arctic ocean, waves of icy fury exploding behind his eyes. His temples throbbed in protest while Minho's anger leaked through his mental defenses like ink spilt in clear water, tinting his own thoughts dark blue and silver.

"You have no idea," Minho murmured, and there was something new in his voice now—a raw vulnerability that made Han's heart twist, "what it's like to discover that your soulmate, the person who should trust you above all else, was hiding something like this. Planning a ritual that could..." His voice failed, and for the first time Han saw beyond the stormy waves—saw the pure, crystalline fear that made Minho's hands tremble while he practically threw the flower package in his direction.

"Min, please." Han tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. "If you'd just listen to me—"

"Listen to what exactly?" Minho ran his fingers across his face in an almost violent gesture, leaving pink trails where his nails met skin. "How you want to play with ancient forces we barely understand? How you want to risk everything we've built because of some dreams?"

Something inside Han's chest twisted painfully as a result of the behavior. His Minho, his safe harbor, who would normally envelop him in warmth and comfort as soon as he crossed that door. Who would bury his nose in his neck and breathe deeply as if Han were pure air after days of suffocating?

"They're not just dreams, and you know that very well!" Han stood up in a sudden movement, and the flower package slipped from his lap. Iris petals scattered across the floor like fallen stars, being crushed under his bare feet as he advanced. "They're memories, Min. Our memories. Why are you so afraid of discovering who we were? Of what we meant to each other in other lives?"

On any other day, any other argument, Minho would already be pushing Jisung against the sofa, his eager fingers leaving trails of fire on his skin, his body moving beautifully while mounting his lap and bouncing. He would beg with that hoarse voice for Han to fill him with his cum completely, to make him think only of jisungjisungjisung while he held him by the throat and buried himself deeper, until the nightmares that haunted them dissolved into pure pleasure.

But not today. Today, Minho backed away as if Jisung's touch burnt, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he headed to the kitchen.

Jisung hesitated for three heartbeats before following him.

The switch clicked under Minho's fingers, bathing the kitchen in fluorescent light that highlighted the dark circles under his eyes.

"There is no woman drowning in a frozen river. There is no us walking until our knees bled. There is no woman drawing symbols on our skin. There is no woman feeding the poor with blessed bread. There is no-"

"Wait." Jisung interrupted, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he watched Minho from the kitchen doorway. The older one moved like a caged predator, his eyes frantically scanning every drawer and cabinet. "Drawing on our skin? Feeding the poor? Love, I never... never dreamed of any of that. Just of her drowning. How can you know so much about her if it's all in my head?"

The sound of glass against glass echoed through the kitchen as Minho searched the cabinet under the sink. His hands trembled imperceptibly as he knocked over two empty bottles. "Where the hell did I put that bottle of Macallan? I'm sure that..."

"Min." Jisung took a step into the kitchen, maintaining the distance he knew Minho needed when he got like this. "What else are you hiding?"

"Ah." A sharp smile cut across Minho's face when his fingers finally found the neck of the bottle they had barely touched in months. He held it up against the light like a macabre trophy, the amber liquid dancing hypnotically. "Fifteen years. What a pathetic waste." His lips curved in disgust as he studied the label. "But necessary, isn't it?"

"Lee Minho."

"No." Minho poured a shot, and the crystal clinked against his teeth in a dissonant note as he downed it all at once. A single drop escaped, tracing a tortuous path down his neck. "Don't use that tone with me. Don't dare use that cheap therapist tone thinking you can fix what you don't even understand."

Jisung watched in silence as Minho poured another shot.

"Why won't your hands stop shaking?"

"Fuck off." Minho slammed the glass—not hard enough to break, of course, but enough to make the amber liquid dance.

Jisung moved. His fingers found Minho's nape, where the muscles formed a map of tension he knew by heart; he pressed there, right where the pain always accumulated after endless nights in the studio, feeling the tendons protest under his palm.

"Let me see your eyes." The words slipped against the damp skin of Minho's nape. "Please. Just... let me see what you're hiding."

When Minho remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the half-empty bottle as if it were a private oracle, Jisung slid his hand forward. His fingers spread across the older one's throat with a familiarity that crossed lifetimes—not a threat, but a collar. An anchor.

"Jisung! No!” Yet, Minho's body betrayed him as it always did, responding to Jisung's touch like a compass finding north. It took just a harsher squeeze and his head fell back in a silent surrender that hurt in its familiarity, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat where Jisung could feel his pulse running like a panicked animal. "Han-ah... I can't... I can't go through this. Not again."

"Breathe with me." Jisung pressed a little more, his fingers finding that specific point that made Minho melt—right where his jugular met his jaw. "Slowly. One-two-three, in. One-two-three, out."

"I..." Minho's fingers closed on Jisung's sweatpants like claws. The fabric protested. "Fuck. Shit. I can't... can't lose you both again. Not like this. Not this time."

Jisung's fingers froze against Minho's throat while his own heart stuttered in his chest. "Again?"

"There was this duty..." Minho's voice sounded distant. "It was... it was sacred, you know? Like..."

When Minho started to lose himself in old memories, Jisung tightened his grip on his throat. "Continue. I'm here."

"It was my responsibility." His shoulders—always so proudly straight—curved inward as if trying to protect himself from a blow Jisung couldn't see. "The people were my responsibility, but there was you... you and her in the temple gardens and..." A violent tremor shook his body. "I lost her that day. Not you, never you, but her..."

"It's okay." Jisung murmured against his nape, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there where sweat was starting to accumulate. "You were amazing. We don't need to do the ritual; we can leave this behind if it means our happiness."

"No!" Minho turned abruptly, and his elbows knocked over two glasses. The sound of it shattering against the floor echoed through the kitchen. "Han-ah, no. I... we need to do it. Now."

"Minho," Jisung held his face between his hands as if holding something too precious to name, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on his cheekbones where the skin was too cold. "You're not in any condition. There's another moon in a few days; we can wait and—"

"I need her now, Han Jisung." Minho's hands found his wrists.

"Shh... breathe."

"Now!" It was the first time Minho truly raised his voice, the word coming out like a contained sob. His knees gave way. He slid down the counter to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, dragging Jisung with him. "Please, please, please..."

"Minho, enough." Jisung knelt in front of him, ignoring the shards digging into his knees. "You're going to take a shower, and when you're calmer, we'll talk about—"

Suddenly, like a dam breaking, Jisung felt the older one finally release the mental connection that united them.

A flood of ancient memories hit him—fragments of past lives mixing like a maddened kaleidoscope. His vision darkened at the edges as images overlapped: Minho and him, pale skin against tanned skin, calm against destruction, duty against war. Candles lit in circles of salt, molten gold chains flowing down their wrists like liquid blood, screams echoing through ancient stone corridors. The smell of incense and death mingled on his tongue as Minho seemed to finally relax, Jisung's love flowing through the mental channel like warm honey, trying to calm the storm of memories.

The flame mark on his left side began to burn as if being branded again, and he could swear he felt the waves tattooed on Minho's abdomen rippling in response, their bodies recognizing each other across centuries.

"We need..." Minho took a deep breath. His fingers involuntarily contracted against the fabric of Jisung's shirt. "We need to take an iris bath first. If... if we're going to do this. Your subconscious is saying this."

Jisung didn't even question how Minho had access to his subconscious. His own thoughts seemed distant, as if observing everything through a veil of murky water.

All he knew now was that they needed to do the ritual. Today.

"Come." He murmured, his voice coming out strangely velvety, as if someone else was speaking through him. He lifted Minho with supernatural strength that made his own muscles protest.

The older one's body trembled against his as they crossed the hallway. The iris flowers lay scattered across the floor like small purple corpses, their broken stems leaving a trail of fragrant sap.

In the bathroom, Jisung undressed Minho with fingers that no longer felt like his own, his knuckles cracking with each undone button. Each movement was guided by muscle memory too old to belong to this life. The warm water fell over them like a ritual blessing, purple petals floating on the surface while steam rose in lazy spirals. Minho sobbed softly, words in ancient Sanskrit flowing from his lips.

"Han-ah..." Minho grabbed his wrist with enough force to leave crescent moon-shaped marks, his teeth chattering from cold despite the hot water.

But Jisung was already floating somewhere between lives, his body moving of its own accord while his consciousness observed through a veil.

"We need..." Minho tried to speak, his voice breaking. A drop of water ran down his tense jawline, hanging for a moment before falling. "The circle... the candles..."

Later, Han guided them back to the living room, now dressed in white robes that seemed to absorb and reflect the moonlight, fabric thin as a spider web against their still damp skin.

Minho's kiss came like an electric shock—their teeth accidentally clashing, the taste of metallic blood mixing with salt—and suddenly Jisung blinked, violently returning to consciousness. He found himself standing in the middle of the circle of candles, all lit by his own hands at some point. The antique silver lighter still burnt against his palm, metal too hot to be natural.

In silence, as if moved by invisible strings pulled by an ancient puppeteer, both let the white robes slide from their bodies, the fabric whispering secrets against their skin as it pooled at their feet.

Minho shuddered when his feet touched the circle of coarse salt, a strangled sound escaping his throat that reminded Jisung of a wounded animal. His fingers contracted involuntarily, joints cracking like dry twigs, as if responding to an invisible electric current.

"Lie down." The words escaped Jisung's lips, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. "Let the salt embrace you, hyung."

"Jisung-ah... What if... what if it goes wrong again? If she... if this time we lose everything? The energy feels different, wilder somehow."

"Look at me," Jisung commanded, his hand finding Minho's chin with surprising steadiness. "This time is different. We are different. We're stronger now, aren't we? Together."

"Together."

They lay face to face in the center of the circle, their bodies forming a perfect mirror image, like twin flames dancing in the darkness. The coarse salt scratched their bare skin, leaving tiny red marks that mapped across their flesh.

"Your heart," Minho whispered, his hand hovering over Jisung's chest. "It's beating so fast. Like hummingbird wings."

Jisung raised his hand, his fingers tracing the contours of Minho's face without actually touching him.

"Do you trust me?" Jisung asked, his breath ghosting over Minho's lips.

"Until the end of time itself."

Always.

"Psyche..." The ancient words began to flow from Jisung's lips like sacred water: "Mother of lost souls, guardian of eternal bonds, keeper of memories that time forgot..."

A violent tremor shook Minho's body, his spine arching off the ground like a drawn bow. His fingers dug into the salt, leaving deep furrows as his nails scraped against the wooden floor beneath. "J-Jisung... it's burning..."

"Shh..." Jisung continued the chant, his voice taking on impossible layers and textures, as if multiple versions of him were speaking at once—past, present, and future converging in a single moment. His hand found Minho's, intertwining their fingers despite the older's trembling.

The air around them began to vibrate with an ancient frequency that made their teeth ache. The candle flames flickered and danced, casting shadows that seemed to have lives of their own on the walls, twisting into shapes that shouldn't exist in this reality. The smell of ozone filled the environment, heavy like before a storm, mixed with something more ancient—the scent of incense and snow.

"Han-ah," Minho gasped, his free hand clutching at his abdomen where the mark of waves rippled beneath his skin. "I can feel her. She's... she's so close..."

Before darkness engulfed Jisung, he last saw Minho's eyes, which were no longer black but instead glowed with an unearthly blue that he recognized from other eras, lives, and rituals. Those eyes held universes of memories, lifetimes of love and loss.

And then, like a door being violently broken down by the fist of Psyque, their consciousness plunged into darkness, the echo of ancient temple bells reverberating in their bones, calling them home to a place they had never been in this life.

------------------------

"Prince Minho?"

Minho's head jerked up suddenly, skull connecting with something solid that sent reverberations through his bones. The impact made his teeth chatter, and for a heartbeat, he tasted metal on his tongue.

"My prince!" Water exploded across the marble floor in a cascade. Jiwoo’s silk hanbok, a shade of pale peach, darkened where the water soaked through. "I... I apologize profusely, you were... you seemed... I was just washing your hair, Your Grace." Her eyes darted between him and the door, body already half-turned toward the exit. The way she flinched at her own clumsiness spoke volumes about the bruises his father's temper had left on the palace staff.

King Youngho's legendary rages had sent more than one servant to the infirmary for smaller offenses than a spilled pitcher.

Minho pressed his palms against his eyes until starbursts exploded behind his eyelids. One moment he felt the porcelain of the royal tub beneath his fingers, the next he was somewhere else entirely – somewhere with lights that buzzed and walls made of something cold and grey. The sweet perfume of jasmine and moonflowers from his bath twisted into something sharp and artificial, bringing with it the memory of something called... ramyeon?

"What is happening to me?" His own hands looked wrong when he held them up before his face – too pale, too unblemished. These weren't the hands he remembered, were they? Where were the calluses from sword practice? The small scar on his right thumb from when he'd tried to save a kitchen cat from the rain?

"Your Grace," Jiwoo ventured, "shall I fetch the royal physician? Master Zhang mentioned you've been missing your sleeping draught these past three nights."

But Minho barely heard her. He saw himself galloping through burning villages, the reins cutting into his palms as his mount's hooves threw up sparks against the cobblestones. He felt the weight of ceremonial robes dragging at his shoulders as servants bowed in his wake. But there were other memories too, memories that couldn't possibly belong here – thousands of voices screaming his name in adoration rather than fear, while colored lights painted patterns across his skin.

"Your Highness?" Yerin, the head maid, stepped forward from where she'd been supervising Jiwoo. Her face creased with concern. "When was the last time you truly slept?.”

Minho opened his mouth to respond, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy, as if he'd been chewing on cotton. The words wouldn't come.

"Perhaps some chamomile tea?" Jiwoo suggested timidly, already backing toward the door. "Or I could ask Cook Min to prepare that honey milk that used to help when you were a child—"

A different kind of heat was building now, starting at his navel where his soulmate mark pulsed like a second heartbeat. The sensation spread through his veins and he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that someone was coming. His body recognized the presence before his mind did.

And, sure enough, the heavy oak door rattled in its frame, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

"Lee Minho!" The voice that bellowed through the wood made his mark flare even hotter. "If you're trying to drown yourself in there, I swear by every constellation in the winter sky—"

"Such impertinence!" Yerin clicked her tongue, but Minho caught the way her lips twitched upward, the same way they had when she'd caught them stealing moon peaches from the kitchen as children. "That Captain Han behaves more like a feral dog than a royal guard these days. Nothing like his father - now there was a proper soldier."

Another crash against the door made the hinges groan in protest, the sound of splintering wood making both maids jump. Through their bond, emotions that weren't his own flooded Minho's senses – worry, fear, anger. All of it tangled together until he couldn't tell which feelings belonged to whom.

"I mean it, Minho! Twenty seconds before this door becomes kindling! And don't think I won't – or have you forgotten about the time I scaled the north tower during that blizzard!"

Despite everything, Minho felt his lips curve into a smile.

"One... Two... Three..."

"Jiwoo-yah," Minho called softly, watching as the young maid knelt beside the tub, her knees carefully placed to avoid the puddle of spilled water. Her eyes stayed fixed on a point just past his shoulder, avoiding both his unclothed form and the bathwater as if they were equally dangerous.

Poor thing had only been working in the palace for three moons, and already bore the marks of his father's temper - a split in her lower lip from when she'd dropped a tray of tea cups last week. Youngho had backhanded her before Minho could intervene, ranting about the cost of imported porcelain while the girl bled onto the carpet.

He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek in what should have been nothing more than a reassuring gesture. But he saw how she shivered at his touch, pupils dilating slightly as a blush crept up her neck. Her reaction wasn't entirely from fear - he'd seen that look often enough to recognize desire when it flickered across someone's face. His beauty was a double-edged sword, a weapon he'd learned to wield long before he'd mastered the actual blade hanging above his bed.

"Could you open the door?" he asked gently, letting his hand fall away. "Before our dear Captain actually follows through on his threats? The last time he broke down a door, Father made him personally sand and refinish every door in the east wing."

"Of course, Your Highness," Jiwoo whispered, relief evident in her voice as she scrambled to her feet, nearly slipping on the wet marble. "Though perhaps... perhaps we should fetch you a robe first?"

"Please." Minho let his head fall back against the tub's rim, eyes sliding shut. "Something tells me I'm going to need it."

The door creaked open, and there stood Jisung, chest heaving as if he'd run the entire length of the palace. His training clothes were rumpled, the ceremonial sword at his waist. Sweat had plastered his black hair to his forehead, and there was a smudge of dirt across one cheekbone that made something in Minho's chest ache with fondness.

"You..." Jisung's dark eyes raked over Minho's form in the bath, the familiarity in that gaze making the maids avert their eyes with embarrassed coughs. His voice dropped to a growl that sent shivers down Minho's spine. "Missed the war council meeting."

Minho tilted his head back, letting a drop of water trace down the elegant column of his neck, past the fading bruises from the night before. Through their soul-bond, he sent vivid flashes of their midnight—Jisung emerging behind the wardrobe panels, desperate kisses muffled against palms and pillows, the way Jisung had pressed him against the cold stone wall, one hand tangled in Minho's silk robes while the other covered his mouth to silence his whimpers. Later, in this very bathtub, steam rising around them like a veil as they moved together, water splashing onto the floor with each of Minho’s thrust.

"Sweet merciful gods," Jisung swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides as if remembering the feel of Minho's skin. A flush crept up his neck, disappearing beneath his high collar. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Am I?”

Jisung's laugh was rough, almost pained. "I... might have contributed to your delay."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, they were children again—the young prince and the nursemaid's son, racing through palace corridors with muddy feet and flower-stained hands. Minho remembered how Jisung would help him escape his endless calligraphy lessons, hiding together in the eastern garden where ancient cherry trees provided perfect cover for two boys dreaming of adventures bigger than palace walls.

But those innocent days had ended at the Lantern Festival when they were sixteen and fourteen, respectively. Their soulmate marks had appeared simultaneously during the midnight ceremony—waves for Minho, eternally chasing Jisung's flames. The horror in Queen Luna’s eyes had been immediate and absolute. A prince could not be bound to a servant's son, she'd declared, and King Youngho must never know.

That very night, Jisung was sent to the military camps with his father. Lunaris had been different then—peaceful, prosperous, before Chrysalis's war machines darkened their horizons. Their only communication had been through coded letters hidden in supply shipments.

For five years, their only connection had been through letters, each one carefully encoded using the secret language they'd invented as children. Jisung would hide his messages in supply shipments—sometimes pressed between pages of military reports, other times wrapped around arrow shafts or sewn into the linings of uniform packages. "Today I saw a butterfly land on my sword and thought of your dancing..."

When Jisung returned at nineteen, the palace guards almost didn't recognize him. Gone was the boy who'd sneak extra mooncakes to the kitchen cats and help Minho practice his calligraphy. In his place stood a warrior whose eyes held shadows deeper than the ancient wells beneath the castle. His chest was a canvas—kill-marks inked by fellow soldiers around campfires, each one representing an enemy commander who'd fallen to his blade. Some were elaborate, like the serpent that wrapped around his ribs for the Chrysalis general he'd outmaneuvered in the Battle of Whispered Plains. Others were simple lines, quick scratches made in the aftermath of bloody skirmishes. But it was the smallest mark, right above his heart, that held the most weight—a delicate crescent moon, marking the night he'd had to grant his father mercy.

That first night of his return, while celebration horns blared in the great hall, Jisung had appeared like a ghost through the wardrobe's hidden panel. His mother had forbidden Minho from attending the warriors' welcome feast, claiming a prince shouldn't be seen celebrating with common soldiers. Yet, nothing could ever stop Han Jisung.

They'd stared at each other in silence, cataloging changes—the new scars on Jisung's knuckles, the way war had carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, how Minho’s shoulders had broadened and he no longer had that chubiness on his face.

When Jisung finally moved, it was with a predator's grace that made Minho's mouth go dry. No words were needed. Minho had simply hoisted himself onto his vanity table, scattering cosmetics and hair pins, and pulled Jisung between his thighs. They'd cum together, muffling their cries against each other's skin, five years of longing expressed in teeth and tongues and hands.

Now at twenty-seven and twenty-five, their love had grown roots deep enough to shake the foundations of the palace itself. Jisung's brilliance had earned him command of Lunaris's armies, while Minho's silver tongue had made him the crown's most valuable diplomat. Queen Luna no longer dared threaten her eldest son, too aware that Captain Han's loyalty belonged to Minho alone. The soldiers would follow Jisung into hell itself—he'd proven that at the Battle of Moonfall Pass, when he'd led a suicide charge to save a village of common folk that the nobility had written off as acceptable losses. He could have taken the throne a dozen times over, but Jisung's heart had always belonged to the people first. Even now, with Chrysalis's shadow lengthening across their borders, he focused on evacuating civilians rather than consolidating power.

Perhaps that's why the queen had softened, why she pretended not to notice Jisung's boots outside Minho's chambers at dawn.

"All of you," Minho waved his hand, "may leave. Han Jisung will help me with the rest of my bath."

The maids exchanged hesitant glances, before bowing and guiding out of the chamber.

"You're impossible today," Jisung muttered as soon as the door closed. "The entire council was waiting, including the ambassadors from the southern kingdom."

Minho observed his lover's movements with half-closed eyes, appreciating the way the muscles in his arms rippled under sun-bronzed skin. "And since when do you care about protocols, love?"

"Since there's a war knocking at our door with its drums of death," Jisung growled. "And a marriage—no, a sentence—that you insist on pretending doesn't exist, as if you could erase reality as easily as you extinguish the candles in your room every night." His dark eyes shone with a mixture of anger and fear that made the bond between them vibrate painfully.

"Don't you dare mention that wedding," Minho hissed. His fingers found one of the towels that Seulgi had left, the soft fabric absorbing the water as he wrapped himself in it. "Not today. By all the old and new gods, not today."

"Then when?" Jisung followed him into the main chamber, his training boots leaving damp tracks on the carpet imported from the west kingdom—that same kingdom now burning under Chrysalis's siege. "When their armies cross our borders with their machines? When their war towers spit fire? When they discover the ancient tunnels?"

Minho stopped in front of the ancient wooden wardrobe, his fingers tracing the dragon carvings that decorated the doors—first the head, then the wings with their delicate membranes, then the serpentine tail, in a pattern he had repeated since he was small enough to hide inside it during storms. That same wardrobe, which now hid the hidden passage Jisung used to sneak in each night.

"They found someone. For the ceremony attire."

This caught Minho's attention. His kingdom, Lunaris, cradle of lunar crystals and enchanted forges, had always been better known for its weapons than its textile arts. Every craftsman had become a manufacturer of weapons, every weaver a manufacturer of military uniforms, and every child a potential soldier as a result of the never-ending conflict with Chrysalis. Needles had been exchanged for swords long ago.

"Who?" Minho asked while donning the black silk tunic.

"One of the refugees from the royal kitchen. Y/N," Jisung replied, his boots scuffing against the ornate carpet as he took two hesitant steps toward Minho. "They say she crossed the Red Plains alone, in the dead of winter. The border guards..." He swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing. "Changbin and Chan were the ones who saved her. Gods, you should have seen how King Youngho bellowed at me in the throne room - I swear the crystal chandeliers shook. But those two kept insisting about how she was protecting a child, bleeding and snarling at the guards like a cornered wolf. I thought... well, anyone with that much fight left deserves a chance, even if I'd never laid eyes on her before."

"From the east?" Minho's fingers froze over the silver buttons.

The east kingdom—formerly known as the Garden of the World, Solaris—had fallen to Chrysalis three moons ago. Its famous hanging gardens, where Minho had once attended a summer festival as a child, had been transformed into training grounds. The fountains that once spouted holy water, blessed by priests in white robes, now leaked a dark, viscous liquid that made the earth scream and the flowers wither.

"The war isn't just coming, Minho," Jisung whispered, closing the distance between them. His calloused fingers found Minho's soulmate mark through the thin fabric of the tunic. "Chrysalis has already devoured the east. The south bent its knee during the last new moon. And the west..." He gestured toward the window, where the horizon had taken on an ominous red tinge. "The west burns bright as a funeral pyre since they refused to surrender the Twilight Crystals."

"And you actually believe," Minho spun around so violently that his tunic billowed like dark wings, sending a stack of papers flying from the nearby desk, "that marrying that viper in silk will prevent any of this? That fucking princess is rot wrapped in roses. I've seen how she looks at our people, like they're less than the mud on her slippers. Last week, she had a servant flogged for spilling wine on her dress - and you want me to exchange vows with that monster? To let her corrupt our sacred crystals, turning them into fuel for those abominations they call machines? To lie in her bed while you-"

"No," Jisung cut him off, his hand rising to cup Minho's face, thumb brushing away a tear Minho hadn't even realized had fallen. "But it will buy us time, my love. Time to strengthen our walls, to get our people behind safe borders, to hide the crystals. Time to find another way."

"To say goodbye?"

Jisung sighed. "Don't say it like it's final. You know I always find my way back to you."

A sad smile played on Minho's lips. "Like a stray cat that always returns home?"

"Like a soulmate who accepts no other destinies," Jisung corrected. "Come. The seamstress must be waiting, and I," he stepped away while heading to the desk near the window, "pilfered something from the meeting that might improve your mood."

Minho arched an eyebrow, watching Jisung retrieve a wax paper package from behind a stack of official documents. The seductive aroma of fresh bread and melted cheese made his stomach protest loudly, a cruel reminder that he had missed breakfast due to his... nocturnal activities.

"You stole food from the war council meeting?" Minho asked, a genuine smile finally illuminating his face. His fingers found Jisung's when he handed him the still-warm sandwich.

"Actually," Jisung began, adjusting the golden buckle of his military uniform, "I saved this poor sandwich from a terrible death by neglect. No one was really eating—too busy shouting at each other about fortifications and defense lines. General Kim almost spilled a wine jug on Counselor Park."

Minho took a bite of the sandwich, an involuntary moan escaping his lips when the melted cheese touched his tongue. "You are impossible, Han Jisung. Completely impossible."

"Says the prince who missed a crucial meeting because he was too busy taking a petal bath," Jisung teased, his hand finding the small of Minho's back as he guided him out of the room. "And before you say anything, yes, I saw the death glares Counselor Jung was throwing at the door every five minutes."

"He was always too dramatic," Minho muttered, cleaning a crumb from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Remember when he nearly fainted because he found Jeongin practicing archery with the guards?"

"Now let's go," Jisung chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the empty corridor like music, "before the poor seamstress thinks she's been abandoned. And Minho? No matter what happens, remember: some things are stronger than political agreements or wars. Our mark is proof of that."

They walked together through the palace's silent corridors, their steps echoing against the polished marble like a melancholic duet. The afternoon sun entered lazily through the high windows, creating golden patterns on the floor.

"Can you hear that?" Minho tilted his head, ears straining toward the distant echoes. The king's baritone voice boomed through, followed by the sharp crack of what could only be his ceremonial staff. "They're practically screaming in there. Haven't heard father this worked up since the summer solstice incident."

"Northern borders," Jisung murmured, absently adjusting the silver medallion at his throat. "Hyunjin sent a raven this morning. Spotted unusual movement near the Crystal Peaks. And your mother..." He trailed off, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "Well, she's been locked in the East Wing since dawn with that harpy you're supposed to call mother-in-law. Wedding preparations. Gods know the king gets... volatile when she's not around to temper his moods."

"Speaking of volatile temperaments," Minho said, his fingers working the wax paper with nervous energy, folding and unfolding until it resembled a tiny sphere. "Have you seen that little menace I call brother today? Jeongin's been suspiciously quiet - last time he went this silent, we found him teaching the kitchen boys how to shoot arrows from the bell tower." The paper ball danced between his fingers like a restless spirit.

"Actually," A half-smile played on his lips as Minho's tongue poked out in concentration, his nose scrunching in that way that made Jisung's heart stutter even after all these years. "Found him in the library earlier. Poor Seungmin had built a literal wall of books around him." He plucked the paper ball mid-arc, ignoring how Minho's eyes narrowed dangerously.

The paper made a satisfying thunk as it hit the bottom of the waste bin.

Minho's palm connected with Jisung's chest plate hard enough to make the metal ring. "I was playing with that, you insufferable, impossible, absolutely barbaric excuse for a captain!" He hissed, his royal composure slipping as his fingers itched for something else to fidget with. "Do you know how long it took me to get those creases just right?"

"If you'd let me finish," Jisung continued, rubbing his chest dramatically while dodging another swat. "your precious baby brother spent twenty minutes explaining to Seungmin, and I quote," he raised his pitch to match Jeongin's younger voice, "'these musty old scrolls are completely useless when the real merchants are right there in the marketplace, sharing actual secrets over wine and card games!'" His impression was so spot-on that a passing servant nearly dropped her tray of tea cups.

Their footsteps fell into sync as they walked, Jisung's sword belt occasionally brushing against Minho's thigh. His pinky finger found Minho's for just a heartbeat before dropping away. "That kid really never learned how princes are supposed to behave, did he?"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Minho’s finger jabbed into the space between Jisung's collar bones. "Or should I remind a certain captain about the time he convinced the crown prince to disguise himself as a common flower merchant? What was it you said - 'the summer festival is better experienced from ground level, your highness' - right before you nearly got us both arrested for-"

"By the seven hells, don't," Jisung's hand shot out, pressing against Minho's mouth. The prince's breath was warm against his palm, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Jisung's eyes darted to the shadows in the corners, to the seemingly empty alcoves. When he spoke again, Minho barely heard. "These walls don't just have ears, love. They have eyes and mouths too." His hand fell away, leaving a phantom warmth on Minho's lips. "Which brings me to... her. The seamstress."

Minho's entire demeanor shifted, no longer pouting, shoulders tensing beneath the silk. "An eastern refugee appearing exactly when we need someone with her skills? The timing makes my skin crawl. What do your instincts tell you?"

Jisung's fingers drummed against his sword pommel. "Chan vetted her personally. Three separate investigations. But my mother always said the most dangerous spies were the ones who seemed to fit perfectly into place. Not all assassins carry blades in their boots" he quoted.

From the corner of his eye, Minho observed how Jisung tensed at mentioning his mother.

Through their bond, he felt Jisung's memories float—his mother singing while sewing uniforms for her son, teaching him to use a sword, telling stories about spies and heroes while preparing jasmine tea for the queen. And then, the distant echo of screams, flames consuming the village, his mother pushing children into a secret tunnel while facing a dozen Chrysalis soldiers alone.

Minho discreetly slid closer and his eyes swept the empty corridor before placing a soft kiss on Jisung's temple.

I'm here, my love. I'll always be.

Jisung breathed deeply and his lips curved into a small but genuine smile as he nodded his head.

I know, baby. I'll always know.

In silence, Jisung guided the way through the ornate corridors to the seamstress's room, their fingers occasionally brushing when they were sure no one was watching. His hands, calloused from years of wielding swords and climbing walls, could still make Minho's heart leap like a lovesick teenager. While being escorted, the prince fidgeted with the silver ring that was set on Jisung's ring finger in the shape of a crescent moon.

When they arrived, it was Han who opened the door, his body freezing instantly in the doorway as if struck by a paralysis spell. Minho noticed the immediate change—Jisung's broad shoulders tensed under his uniform, his breath caught, and his lips parted in silent surprise.

"Jisung?" Minho called, his own hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden in his boot. "What is it?"

Jisung didn't answer him.

Intrigued, Minho gently pushed him aside, only to perfectly understand his soulmate's reaction. The seamstress—Y/N—had her back to them, hanging various fabrics and drawings on an ornate folding screen. As though Aphrodite herself had sculpted each of her features, the afternoon light streaming in through the high windows cast a golden halo around her, and her precise movements and posture evoked Athena's wisdom.

When she turned, Minho felt his soulmate mark burn as if touched by live embers. Beside him, he heard Jisung stifle an exclamation. Y/N gazed at them with eyes that seemed to contain entire galaxies, deep and ancient as the universe itself. For a moment, the prince completely forgot how to breathe, his throat closing as if he had swallowed desert sand.

Our Bond Reaper

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~8000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 1: Jack Daniels

Hook. Straight to the jaw. Side dodge. Low kick. Uppercut.

Boxing isn't easy. Sweat trickles down the temple, runs down the neck and soaks the tank top, clouding the mind. Raw skin protests every time an impact occurs, and knuckles burn beneath the bandages. Purple bruises appear along his arms, and his muscles shake from the strain of maintaining his vigilance. Nonetheless, if Minho didn't have this outlet for all the accumulated pressure of idol life—the endless travels, exhausting recordings for the new comeback, and the imminent move from the dorm he shares with Jisung—he probably would have imploded or smoked until his lungs turned to coal. Boxing is his purification ritual, his way of breathing when the world gets too heavy.

Yet, not everything can be that simple.

Light switches are predictable—flip them up, darkness dies. Simple physics, no philosophy required. But soulmate bonds? They're like someone took his brain's wiring and twisted it into art. Every time Jisung's thoughts leak through their connection, it's electricity dancing across Minho's synapses. Right now, his soulmate has colonized the space beside the punching bag, sprawled out like some blue-haired cat claiming its territory, completely oblivious to the fact that this is supposed to be Minho's escape room, not his personal reading nook.

Crumbs from Minho's protein bars (the ones he specifically labels "DO NOT TOUCH HAN JISUNG" in angry red Sharpie) dot his oversized hoodie as he devours yet another dusty tome.

Sweet fucking Psyche, Minho thinks, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It's not that he isn't grateful for his soulmate—for Jisung's heart-shaped smile, the manhwa labyrinths across their bedroom floor, even those 3 AM trot concerts that drive the neighbors mad. Yet, just like you know hitting a switch will flood a room with light, Minho knows that every time he steps into this gym, Jisung's thoughts will flood his mind. His complaints about chalky protein bars, his excited rambling about dusty tomes, and his constant mental chatter—it's all there, derailing Minho's focus from the punching bag that's practically begging to be hit, unstoppable even if he slams the switch.

"Min," Jisung pipes up, his tongue darting out to catch the crumbs while his fingers tap a rhythm on the book's spine. "You ever wonder if maybe... maybe they haven't told us everything about soulmates? Like, what if there's more to it?"

Minho's fist freezes mid-trajectory, his heart stumbling over its next beat. "Han..."

"No, shut up for a second," Jisung sits up straighter. "I had this dream last night—we were somewhere old, like ancient-ancient, and there was this feeling in my gut. Like... you know when you're doing a puzzle and you're missing the centre piece? That kind of incomplete."

"For fuck's sake, we're not starting with this story again."

Here's what everyone knows about soulmates: they're as rare as winning the cosmic lottery, as unpredictable as Seoul's summer storms, and about as controllable as a sugar-high toddler. Whether you are cleaning your cat's litter box or running for coffee in the morning, the bond can strike at any age. Some couples are so emotionally invested in one another that they can tell when their partner is having a rough day from across the globe. Finding your soul mate, though? And three souls? That's fairytale territory, kind of bedtime story parents tell wide-eyed kids before tucking them in—right up there with dragons and honest politicians.

What Minho didn't tell anyone—not even Jisung, especially not Jisung—was how that whole soulmate business terrified him. In his 25 years of life, he had witnessed enough to understand that love was a force.

When the news leaked—three blurry photos of him and Jisung sharing that characteristic glow of soulmates during a rehearsal—it was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of K-pop. The hashtags #MinSung and #SoulmateDuo dominated social media for weeks. Fansites shut down in protest. Other groups began canceling appearances at the same events as Stray Kids. JYP almost dissolved the group, citing "public image concerns.".

It was Chan who saved everything, planting himself in front of the CEO like a human wall and swearing he would resign from his position if anyone was forced to leave.

And now Jisung comes with this story about medieval dreams and a third person? As if the chaos of two men discovering they were soulmates in an industry that sold the illusion of eternally single and available idols wasn't enough. As if Minho didn't already spend sleepless nights trying to decipher why fate had chosen precisely him—pragmatic, cynical, broken—to complete someone as brilliant as Han Jisung.

"The dream was different this time," Jisung insisted, sitting up and letting the book fall to the floor with a dull thud. "We were wearing heavy clothes, like robes and cloaks. The river was freezing—I could feel the water on my feet, Min. And we were shouting for someone... a woman. I couldn't hear the name, but the feeling..."

Minho closed his eyes, his hands falling heavily at his sides. The problem wasn't not believing Jisung—it was believing too much. Because if there really was a third person, if those dreams were more than just his partner's hyperactive imagination... well, history had proven time and time again that love rarely came without its dark twin: destruction.

"I..."

"No, wait. Come see this." Han patted the space beside him with that infectious enthusiasm that made his eyes sparkle like city lights reflecting off the Han River at midnight. “Please? I swear it's important this time."

The older one gave in—because that's what he always did when Jisung deployed that specific tone, pitched somewhere between a whine and urgency. Similar to a fishhook stuck deep in his stomach, their soul bond yanked, and Minho found himself sliding down next to him.

Their knees brushed—just the lightest touch of skin against denim—and Jisung shuddered visibly. Minho was still drenched in sweat from training, the gray tank top clinging to his body.

"Holy shit, you smell like a CrossFit demon had a baby with a sauna," Han teased, his nose scrunching up in that way that made his cheeks bunch up adorably, but Minho noticed how he actually leaned closer.

"Fuck off. You're the one who invaded my training session like some kind of blue-haired gremlin."

"Technically," Jisung drawled, gesturing expansively with his free hand. "This gym belongs to the dorm. So it's ours. Collective. Communist. Like our hearts, you emotionally constipated fool."

"For the love of—" Minho fought back a smile. "Just show me the damn thing before I change my mind and go back to beating the shit out of that punching bag."

Laughing, Jisung folded back a page of the tome. For a heartbeat, Minho's breath caught in his throat—there was something hauntingly familiar about the illustrations sprawling across the yellowed pages, like déjà vu in ink and parchment.

"Look at this."

The illustration seemed to pulse with its own life—the kind of arcane artwork you'd expect to find in some medieval witch's forgotten grimoire, tucked away in a basement. The page edges were singed, as if someone had tried to burn away its secrets. Two soulmate marks intertwined—waves in a tempest, the other dancing like flames. In his abdomen, where his own mark rested just below his ribs, Minho felt an answering tingle. His fingers itched to trace the familiar patterns—identical to his and Jisung's marks, the latter's etched onto the soft skin of his side like a divine signature.

Minho's nose wrinkled as his eyes tracked over the strange characters crowning the page, his brain struggling to make sense of the alien script. "This title is wrong. It doesn't match what I'm seeing here. It looks like... like Latin got drunk and hooked up with something even older."

"Min..." Jisung’s hand crept up Minho's thigh like a curious spider. "You've always been absolute shit at dead languages. Remember that time you tried to help me with Ancient Greek and somehow translated 'divine wisdom' as 'cosmic chicken'?"

"Go to hell." Minho swatted away the wandering fingers, ignoring how his skin tingled. "Fine, they're our marks. Now unfold the rest before I lose what's left of my patience." He crossed his ankles, right foot bouncing in the air.

A third mark appeared from the yellowed folds of the page as Jisung unfolded it. It was a spiral of leaves and flowers entwined with the other two, so complex that it hurt your eyes to try to follow its pattern.

"What the hell is this?" Minho backed away as if the book were a snake about to strike, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. "Where did you dig up this crap? No, wait, don't answer. I don't want to know."

"At the national library," Jisung answered anyway. "Had to bribe three employees and promise a private show to the librarian. Even autographed her planner, can you believe it?" His eyes shone with that familiar intensity, like a child who discovered where the candy was hidden. He leaned forward, closing the space between them until Minho could count every microscopic freckle on his nose. "Min, aren't you connecting the dots? It's exactly like the dreams! The same curves, the same patterns we see every night!"

"Don't start."

Minho stood up as he returned to the punching bag. Lactic acid burned in his muscles like tiny fires, protesting the abrupt movement.

Sweat trickled from the tip of his nose and clouded his vision, and the punches had become unpredictable and uncontrollable.

"Damn it, Jisung." Punch. "Can't we just accept that it's the two of us and that's it?" Hook. "Do you have to keep digging up old stuff?" Uppercut. "You're like my grandma rummaging through family albums. Always looking for stories where there aren't any."

"You become such a fucking coward when you're scared, Lee.”

Goosebumps ran up his arms as the air conditioner hummed against his hot skin. "If I could have a straight talk with Psyche right now, you know what I'd say? Go fuck yourself. Because tying me to this hard-headed lunatic wasn't enough torture, right? Had to make up more drama. Had to keep pushing and pushing until everything breaks."

Jisung launched forward. Through their bond, he could feel exactly where Minho's defenses were weakest. His hands found the older one's shoulders, spinning him around with enough force to send Minho stumbling back, his spine hitting the punching bag.

"Look at me, you stubborn piece of shit."

"Get off me, Jisung."

"Lee Minho."

"Han Ji-fucking-sung."

Their mouths crashed together like waves breaking against cliffs. It was not kind; Minho dragged his teeth along his tongue in retaliation as Han's tongue pushed past his lips, causing their teeth to clank.

"I'm not just some fucking complication you can file away in that brain of yours. I'm your damn soulmate. Your other half. The flame to your tide." Jisung’s thumb brushed over Minho's swollen bottom lip, pressing just hard enough to sting where he'd bitten earlier. "And if there's someone else out there… Well, you'll have to swallow that truth too, darling. Because I'm not going to stop looking.”

Deflated, Minho lowered his forehead to Han's shoulder. Sweat mixed with that Dior perfume that Jisung insisted on wearing—Sauvage, he always corrected, saying it with a French accent just to irritate—in a sickening way. Moving to Minho's nape, Jisung's fingers played with the wet hair there.

"I just wanted some peace, damn it," Minho mumbled against the fabric of his soulmate’s shirt. "Is that too much to ask? I'm starting to feel like a Mexican soap opera protagonist. Any minute now, La Usurpadora's theme song will start playing in the background."

With his nails lightly scratching Minho's scalp, Jisung laughed. "Peace? With us? Make me laugh, darling. As if you don't know me after all these years of sharing a dorm. Peace is for the weak. And you," he gently pulled Minho's hair, forcing him to look into his eyes, "have never been weak a day in your life."

"I want to be fucking weak right now. Just... just for a moment."

Jisung's humming vibrated against Minho's throat as he pressed open-mouthed kisses there. With his fingers tightening on Han's hips, the older man's breath caught. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, Jisung controlling the pace while Minho made these desperate little sounds that he'd deny later. Hands mapped familiar territory, one sliding down to press against the small of Minho's back while the other traced the line of his jaw.

"Look at you," Han murmured against his mouth, teeth catching Minho's lower lip. "Already trembling. Your skin's so hot I could burn myself."

"I swear to god, Han Jisung, I will end you." But Minho's head fell back against the punching bag, exposing the long line of his throat.

"You're wound so tight, hyung. Let me help you forget for a while."

"Han—"

"Shh," Han breathed against his skin, "just let me take care of you."

And Minho surrendered, because that's what always happened with Han. He felt like that antique music box from his grandmother's shelf that haunted his childhood memories—a delicate ballerina spinning on worn gears, twirling gracefully until the mechanism wound down. The melody promised "eternal dance," but the dancer always ended up frozen mid-pirouette, her mechanical grace failing until someone wound her up again. Staring at the ceiling, feeling Han's heartbeat against his chest, Minho couldn't help wondering if this mysterious third person from Jisung's dreams would be the missing piece that could make him function properly, or if they'd be the force that would finally make his gears crack and splinter.

-----------------------------------------------------------

2 weeks later

"Unnie, holy fucking shit!" Bora bursts through the door. Doc Martens squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum, leaving zigzagging scuff marks that'll make the cleaning lady curse tomorrow. She doubles over, gasping, her hand shaking. "I need the special ink. The one in the red bottle. The heavy-duty stuff."

"Define your emergency," you murmur without looking up, wiping away crimson droplets from your client's hip.

Bora always gets like this—dramatic, overflowing with empathy she can barely contain. Unlike Mina, Bora explodes. She paces, she curses, she stress-eats entire packages of banana milk cookies. Even so, both of them try to shoulder burdens they weren't meant to carry, attempting to ease suffering through temporary tattoos when neither has the cursed gift of truly breaking bonds.

On the table, Jiyeon lies face-down, her designer crop top pushed up to expose pale skin. Mascara-stained tears drip onto the leather cushioning while her fingers trace the edges of the fresh tribal design—thick black lines and sharp angles now covering what was once a vine pattern, her soulmate mark. The same mark that tied her to Seo-yeon. After Jiyeon discovered that Seo-yeon was organising a spring wedding with her ex—the jerk who left her arms with bruises resembling cigarette burns—she stopped responding to her texts.

You don't comment on the crying. Several years of breaking bonds, and you've witnessed enough shattered connections to understand Psyche's judgment weighs heavier than any earthly pain. That ancient, otherworldly voice that scrapes against your skull like broken glass, whispering condemnations that echo through time itself. Every fucking day you hear it too.

Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. How dare you sever what the goddess has joined with her own hands?

"Stop touching it," you say, your voice softer than usual as you gently bat away Jiyeon's exploring fingers. Placing your palm over the fresh tattoo, you feel it.

Rainbow-colored boba pearls explode between teenage teeth. Clumsy fingers weave friendship bracelets during marathon study sessions. Graduation caps soar toward summer sky while joined hands squeeze promises of forever. Then reality shatters—screenshots of late-night texts between Seo-yeon and Eunkwang flood Jiyeon's phone. "He's changed," Seo-yeon insists while Jiyeon traces finger-shaped bruises blooming across old photographs. A wedding invitation arrives in a rose-gold envelope.

Under your touch, the soul bond flickers like a dying lightbulb. An once-vibrant pink glow that represented Jiyeon's side of the connection has faded to a sickly rose, the golden cosmic threads unraveling.

"Two days," you whisper, more to the universe than to anyone in the room. "Maybe less."

"Fuck me sideways," Bora hisses through clenched teeth, her lip piercing clicking against her canine. She paces the room. "The guy out front, Y/N... it's bad. Like, soap opera bad. Caught his mom fucking his soulmate in their family vacation house. He tried to burn the mark off with fucking bleach. Chemical burns everywhere. And my machine picked today of all days to shit itself, and you know I can't—"

"Out of ink," you cut her off, dragging your forearm across your eyes. It leaves another streak of black around them but it doesn't compare to how they're burning from three sleepless nights of the same recurring dream—a viscous sensation of seaweed wrapped around your ankles, invisible chains pulling you to the bottom of the river, voices distorted by water calling your name with a familiarity that makes you nauseous.

Punishment from your ancestors, who must be turning in their underwater graves.

"Damn, the guy's really messed up, Unnie!"

With a sigh, you pick up a bottle of lukewarm water from the table. Cleaning gel sticks to the plastic. "Tell him to come back tomorrow. I'm going to the supplier tonight, after the last client." The bottle is empty in four gulps. "If he's really struggling, there's Jack Daniel's in the bottom drawer. New bottle. Offer him a double shot; he'll need it."

As Bora leaves your room muttering a litany of creative curses at deities you didn't even know existed, Jiyeon finally gets up from the table. The movement is slow—like someone testing a broken bone. Her high-waisted jean shorts barely cover the bandage.

"You're kind of bitter, aren't you?" she murmurs. "Cold. Full of... walls. The true Bond Reaper. That's what they call you out there, you know? In the Telegram groups, on the forums..."

You shrug, already starting to dismantle your machine. "And what else do they say in those little groups?"

"That you charge in dollars. That you only take... complicated cases. That you almost died when you burned your mark. They say your heart stopped for seven minutes."

Shit...

Every Sunday morning, you still recall your father kneading dough while humming old Beatles songs, the flour sprinkling his dark hair like early snow. How your mother's sewing machine would provide percussion to his off-key rendition of "Hey Jude," guiding fabric through the needle. The way three-year-old Hyewon would toddle around the kitchen in her yellow polka dot dress, stealing bits of cookie dough when Dad wasn't looking. Despite Mom's objections, you were fifteen at the time, sitting on the counter and assisting Dad in measuring ingredients while daydreaming about your soulmate mark.

Then came that Tuesday in March. The sound of your father's belt when your mother used it to hang herself, three days after he ran away with his "true" soulmate, a yoga instructor. Following the dull thud of the body striking the bathroom tiles, there was the creaking of leather against the rusty metal railing. Hyewon's screams from her bedroom, where you'd locked her in with her stuffed rabbit when Mom started acting strange.

Then came your aunt Soo-jin, who was dying in her flat because her soulmate had wrapped his Mercedes around a lamppost in Manchester. Then came your high school friend Min-ji, who swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills after finding her soulmate in bed with her twin sister. When her mark turned ash-gray, indicating her husband's death in a fishing accident, your neighbour Mrs. Kim just stopped eating.

To keep Hyewon in school, you worked double shifts at convenience stores for three years, cleaned office buildings at night, and slept on newspaper-wrapped park benches when you could not afford rent. Somewhere between cleaning toilets at two in the morning and paying for Hyewon's school uniforms with your mother's cherished sewing machine, your sunny personality died.

Since then, you prefer your days fueled by weed from Park in 302 and bottom-shelf vodka from Mrs. Lee's corner store. Your nights are filled with casual sex with people who don't ask about the elaborate tattoo between your breasts.

Form, structure, and physical boundaries were desperately needed in the world to contain the primordial chaos that this soulmate nonsense threatened to unleash at any moment.

Much as a jellyfish was forced to develop an exoskeleton to survive on solid ground, you transformed your curse into art, your pain into livelihood. Just as precisely as they create beauty, your hands can break divine bonds. It was inevitable to succumb to the need for containment, to the visceral dread of remaining undefined, so you chose your own chains and forged your own prison with ink and needles. And if Psyche wanted to curse you with the gift of destruction, well... you would make this curse your masterpiece.

"Bitter? Die? Me? No way! They're just stories, dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare the room for the next client. Mina handles payment at reception—cards, transfers, divine favors... hell, she'd probably accept your firstborn if Psyche deemed it worthy."

Jiyeon's fingers twist the strap of her designer purse. "Thanks... and thanks for listening too. Not many people understand the whole..." She swallows hard. "Best friends who were soulmates thing. And then with her marrying my ex..."

"Honey, I've seen bonds between twins shatter. Marks appearing on corpses.” You grab a fresh needle, testing its weight. "Your story? It's Tuesday afternoon in my world."

"The aftercare..."

"Right. Lukewarm water, mild soap, three days." You demonstrate the cleaning motion in the air. "No direct water contact. Healing ointment—the expensive kind, not the corner store garbage."

"And no swimming or gym," she mumbles, shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller.

"For two weeks minimum." The machine whirs to life in your hands, its familiar buzz drowning out the voices for a blessed moment. "If it gets infected or your friend starts fighting the severance—and trust me, she will—come straight back here. Don't play doctor with drugstore remedies."

Jiyeon shifts her weight from one foot to another, her expensive heels clicking against the floor tiles. "One more thing? How... how do you do it? Day after day, hearing these stories? The goddess's gift... is it real? The voices everyone talks about... do they..." She gestures at her head.

In the pocket of your apron, your fingers locate the pack of cigarettes. "Psyche's not some benevolent matchmaker—she's a cosmic chaos agent with a sick sense of humor. Some get marks, some don't. It's a divine lottery where everyone's ticket is already rigged. And some of us?" Your free hand unconsciously moves to your chest. "Some of us are born marked but spend every day wishing we weren't. As for the voices and that whole near-death drama? Just stories people tell to make sense of their broken hearts."

Words die before they reach Jiyeon's lips as her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"Save your breath.” Once, twice—the metal wheel scrapes against your calloused thumb. Third time's the charm, and the flame dances to life. Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. Smoke billows out of your nostrils and you fancy yourself some ancient dragon, not hoarding gold but guarding a collection of bonds. “Just take care of that tattoo. And when you need another cover-up..." Before it falls and scatters on the floor, the ash column grows dangerously long. "You know where to find me. I'll be right here, giving the middle finger to destiny."

The door clicks shut behind her.

As soon as you feel safe and lonely enough, you trace the outline of the mark through your shirt. That cursed patch of skin that refuses to forget. Trembling between your fingers, the cigarette hovers closer to your chest. Closer. The heat seeps through the cotton, a promise of pain, of release. Just one quick press and maybe... Your breath hitches. Maybe this time...

When something—or someone—slams against the front door with enough force to make the ink bottles on their shelves dance akin to inebriated soldiers, the studio erupts in chaos. The cigarette slips from your startled fingers, landing on your thigh. "Son of a fucking—" Pain explodes across your leg as the ember burns through denim and finds flesh. Your fingers scramble to brush it away, skin blistering against hot ash.

Through the thin walls, Bora's voice rises like a war cry: "Oi, shitstain! Try that again and I'll rearrange your face so badly your own mother won't recognize you at Chuseok! Some of us weren't raised in a goddamn circus!"

"Christ on a cracker," you mutter, picking gray ash from your jeans.

It didn't work. Again. It never does. You’re too coward to burn the skin only to see it intact a few weeks later.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite agent of chaos." Mina materializes in your doorway like an urban legend, all dramatic timing and knowing smirks. From the recent burn on your trousers to the spot where your hand is still hovering over your chest, just above that cursed mark, her dark eyes dart. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "That murder-suicide energy you're radiating could power half of Gangnam, and Bora's about to commit a felony in the waiting room. You know how she gets when entitled assholes treat this place like their personal fight club. The vibes in here?" She wrinkles her nose. "More fucked than that time Park Jin-young tried to cover up his ex's name with a portrait of his cat. Want me to tell your next client to fuck off? Park-ssi's been around long enough to know the drill. Wouldn't be the first time you've needed space to..." She waves her hand vaguely, "Process your shit."

Lavender incense—the kind she religiously buys from that ancient grandmother with milky eyes at Gwangjang Market every Thursday—weaves through the air. It combines with the sting of ink and your personal scent to create a mood that veers between a crime scene and a temple.

She moves through your space like water finding its level, the hem of her thrifted black dress whispering secrets against legs covered in Korean mythology. Dragons chase tigers across her calves, while dokkebi dance around her ankles.

There's always been something otherworldly about Mina, but today it pulses stronger, like a radio picking up signals from another dimension. Every word of your conversation with Jiyeon must have reached her ears through the paper-thin walls of this dilapidated building. And Mina, sweet, cursed Mina, has never learned how to shut off that cosmic antenna of hers, picking up pain frequencies that should stay buried in the static.

It's her fucking birthright after all—this ability to absorb others' emotional garbage like some metaphysical recycling bin. Psyche's golden child. The unofficial therapist of Seoul's walking wounded.

"I said I'm fucking fine," you snap, but your hands betray you, trembling worse than that time you tried to quit smoking cold turkey—another souvenir from that night in the burned-out palace gardens, when Psyche decided to make you her cosmic janitor. " Just... drained. This week's been absolute shit wrapped in more shit. Five bond severances back-to-back, and that perpetual disaster Park Jin-young showing up again wanting to tattoo what's-her-face's name over his chest. For the fifth fucking time! Fifth! I swear to god, that man's skin is more crossed-out names than actual skin at this point."

"And those dreams are back, aren't they? About the voices underwater?" Mina twirls one of her purple-dyed dreadlocks around her finger, a habit she's had since that rainy night four years ago when she crashed into your life—quite literally—by falling through your apartment's window while chasing what she swore was Psyche's spirit animal. 

You remember how she sat there, surrounded by broken glass and your sister's scattered Barbie dolls, blood trickling down her temple, looking at you with those huge doe eyes and announcing, "The goddess sent me to find you."

She takes another step forward now, her collection of silver anklets jingling softly. "I heard you last night. Screaming about chains and seaweed and something about a book." She pauses exactly two steps away—close enough that you can smell her bubble tea, far enough that you won't feel cornered. "Listen, my cousin Seo-yeon—you remember her? The one who caught her ex trying to burn down her apartment? She's a therapist now. Specializes in post-severance trauma cases. Got her master's in Soul Psychology from that university in Bangkok—"

"No." You stand up abruptly, your thighs hitting the metal table hard enough to knock some needles that clatter against the floor. "I don't need therapy, honey. I don't need anyone else trying to get inside my head. I just need..."

"Just need what, unnie?" Mina's hand lands on your shoulder.

"I need you to stop trying to save me like I'm another one of your divine charity projects. I'm not a lost soul for you to rescue, dammit."

"What if I don't want to stop?" Mina challenges, lifting her chin stubbornly. "What if this is my purpose? My destiny? To heal what you break?"

Prior to your protest, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, right where your third eye would be—according to her endless spiritual babble. It's quick, almost chaste, almost sacred, a profane blessing. The kind of gesture she started making when she first noticed how the souls' voices wouldn't quiet in your head, how they screamed louder with each bond you severed.

"Psyche brought us together to be soul sisters, remember?" She murmurs against your skin. "Light and shadow. Healing and destruction. Yin and yang."

In some ways, kindness has always hurt more than cruelty, so you pull away as though her touch burns. 

Your knees protest as you bend down to pick up the needles from the floor. "I just need to work, okay? The busier I stay, the less time I have to think about..."

"About how you still feel the bond even after burning it? About how Psyche cursed you in that garden, giving you the gift you feared most? Or about how you secretly like this gift because it gives you a perfect excuse to keep everyone at a safe distance?"

As if your own body were betraying you, you keep picking up needles from the floor, ignoring the fact that your hands are shaking more and more and that your fingers do not seem to be able to grasp the metal.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Mina says, fishing her phone from the pocket of her dress. Her nails tap against the cracked screen. "I'm getting us coffee. That fancy shit from the place near Hongdae, not the vending machine piss you've been choking down."

"Don't waste your time, Min."

"See, that's your problem right there," she cuts in, already backing toward the door. Her fingers find the obsidian amulet she hung above your door last full moon—"for the dark energy," she'd said, while Bora rolled her eyes and muttered about superstitious girlfriends. "You think every kind gesture is a waste, every connection is a trap waiting to spring." One boot is already in the hallway when she stops. "News flash, unnie— Some people stick around because they want to, not because they have to. Some bonds heal instead of hurt. But your thick skull is too busy building fortresses to notice the difference."

Some bonds heal instead of hurt, you repeat mentally, but how can you know which ones are safe when even your own soul can betray you?

---------------------------------------------------------------

"When will I see you again, love?"

"When I run out of ink, Junho." You slide off his lap, adjusting your lace. "And that might take a while; I just got a new shipment."

"Are you kicking me out?" He laughs, that deep, husky laugh that makes your stomach do a treacherous flip. His fingers fish out a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. On his bare shoulders, the old lamp's yellowish light dances. "I thought we had something special. You know, after that thing you did with your tongue..."

You roll your eyes while searching the bedroom floor for your shirt. Finally, you find the fabric under a stack of old sheet music, still damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably. 

"The only special thing here is your ability to not take a hint." A bottle of soju is half-empty when your fingers find it. The liquid burns down your throat, already hoarse from earlier moans. "Don't complicate what's simple, guitarist."

"Simple?" Junho exhales smoke slowly as he forms perfect circles in the stale air. "You call this simple? Three months of late-night meetings, coded messages, and nail marks on my back? The way you tremble when I touch—"

Bile rises in your throat, acidic and familiar. You know this tone, have heard it from others before him—that possessive edge that creeps in like poison ivy. It would be easier if this was just about dramatic choices, lightsabres, and villains to defeat. Real life, however, is not a film with definite heroes and villains. Small decisions like accepting a second date, letting someone stay until morning, or acknowledging that the warmth in your chest is not just the soju talking are what can ruin you. These mundane decisions are the ones that can shatter your walls, and unlike a seatbelt click or a dramatic battle scene, there's no manual for protecting your heart from the slow poison of attachment.

"You don't even feel anything," you mutter, more to yourself than to him, as your fingers finally locate your combat boots under his vintage armchair—that hideous moss-green velvet monstrosity he swears came from some artist's estate sale in Hongdae. Still wrapped in its brown paper, your knuckles brush against a new bundle of inks and needles as you touch the top of it.

"What did you say?" Junho's voice carries that puppy-like eagerness that makes your stomach turn. He's too invested, too hungry for validation, for connection.

"Nothing. Just thinking about my next appointment with Lee Jiwoo. That cover-up piece won't ink itself."

"Come back to bed," he purrs, patting the twisted sheet. "I could reschedule my morning practice with the band. We could order that spicy tteokbokki you like!"

"What you're doing is pathetically obvious," you cut him off, yanking on your left boot. "The constant questions about my clients. The 'accidental' glimpses at my phone when you think I'm sleeping. Those calls you take in the bathroom." Your laugh is a broken thing. "What's the going rate for information about the bond reaper these days? Or did Detective Park promise to clear your assault record from that bar fight in Itaewon instead?"

Junho's face drains of color faster than soju spilling on concrete, his fingers clutching the bedsheet like a shield. "Jagi, I don't—you're not making any—"

"Spare me the stuttering act." You stand, ignoring how your knees crack from kneeling too long on his cheap laminate flooring. "You're not the first to try gathering intel between the sheets, and hell, you won't be the last. But here's some free advice: next time you're playing undercover cop's lapdog, don't keep your burner phone in the same jacket pocket as your guitar picks. Amateur move."

That carefully constructed puppy-dog sweetness melts away as his expression contorts. Something darker emerges, something that was always there, lurking beneath his gentle musician facade. "You went through my fucking things?" His voice cracks on the last word. "You paranoid psycho—"

"Oh, baby," you drawl, watching his jaw clench at the pet name he once begged you to use. Your lips curl into something that might look like a smile but feels like a wound. "I've been going through your things since that first night at the jazz bar. The police reports stuffed in your guitar case? Sloppy. Those surveillance photos under your mattress? Embarrassing. But those encrypted messages to Detective Park about my 'suspicious late-night clients' and 'possible illegal modifications of soul bonds'?" You trace a finger along your bottom lip. "Now that was some riveting bedtime reading."

With the coordination of a drunken toddler, he lunges forward, but you are already subconsciously affected by six years of street survival. Your elbow finds his solar plexus—right where that hideous compass tattoo points perpetually north—and he crumples. A puddle of regret and cheap tobacco forms as the Chamisul smashes against the floor and mixes with his dropped cigarette.

"Fucking—" he wheezes between gasps, one hand pressed against his stomach where tomorrow's bruise is already blooming, "—crazy cunt."

"See?" You retrieve your ink bundle from the chair, careful not to step in the growing puddle of soju. "That honesty suits you better than all that 'jagiya' bullshit." At the door, you pause, not bothering to look back at him sprawled among the wreckage of his failed operation. "Oh, and Junho? Next time Detective Park wants to investigate suspected bond modifications, tell him to send someone who can at least fake sincerity. This?" You wave vaguely at the rumpled sheets where you'd wasted three months letting him think he was getting close to proof. "This was just embarrassing. Even that rookie he sent last spring—Kim Minseok, wasn't it?—at least knew how to forge a convincing backstory."

As you descend the stairs of his shithole apartment building, past the perpetually broken vending machine that dispenses warm Sprite and the wall where someone spray-painted 'dreams die here' in neon pink, you don't feel anything. Not betrayal, not anger, not even disappointment. Sex had been decent, and his connections for rare inks had been useful. That's all it ever was. All it could ever be in a world where burning soulmate marks is whispered about in dark alleys, where even the suggestion of being the infamous "bond reaper" could get you disappeared into some government black site.

-------------------------------------------

When you get home, the low sound of some Korean drama—seems to be True Beauty from the theme song playing—leaks through the door. Mina and Bora are on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft sighs. Bora, with her hair spread like a fan across Mina's thigh, has a thread of drool running onto her girlfriend's silk shorts. The caramel popcorn bag is tipped over on the Persian rug.

"Unnie!" Mina's voice is thick with sleep as you drape the blanket over them. Her fingers fumble with the remote, pressing random buttons. "Tell me everything about guitar boy. Did he do the thing with his tongue and the cigarette smoke again? We closed early just for your date, you know."

"Your concealer's smudged all over your chin," Bora interrupts, face still buried in Mina's thigh. "And you've got that look again—the one where you just crushed someone's soul into dust and maybe enjoyed it a little too much." She snorts, finally cracking one eye open. "Poor Junho-oppa. Bet he thought he was being so smooth with his undercover act."

"Both of you, sleep," you whisper, pressing a kiss to Mina's forehead. Her skin is warm, slightly sticky from the face mask she never properly washed off. When you kiss Bora's temple, she swats at you with the precision of a drunk cat, nearly knocking over the soju bottle. "We can dissect the train wreck that is my love life tomorrow, after I've had at least three shots of espresso and maybe some soju."

Bora mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "You're just scared of feelings," but her words dissolve into soft snores before you can argue.

When you first arrive at the flat, you are met with its familiar chaos, which is the inevitable outcome of living with two artists who view organization as a suggestion and an eight-year-old whose life's work is to collect every piece of Stray Kids item ever made. You hang the jean jacket in the hallway closet, wincing as the floorboard under your left foot lets out a betraying creak. The living room floor has transformed into an obstacle course of your sister’s scattered toys—plushies, abandoned coloring books, and what looks suspiciously like Felix photocards arranged in a perfect circle ("It's for summoning him!").

In the kitchen, yesterday's ramyeon bowls still crowd the sink like ceramic mushrooms, and a stack of bills—mostly from Mina's black card adventures at Gucci and her newfound obsession with some obscure Japanese streetwear brand—threatens to avalanche off the dining table.

Your eyes catch on the newest masterpiece stuck to the fridge—Hyewon's latest attempt at capturing Felix's essence. Despite the wobbly lines and questionable proportions, there's something endearing about how she captured his signature heart smile. The messy hangul beneath reads "The prettiest boy in the world!!!" with at least seven exclamation points. Next to it, held by that ridiculous rabbit magnet Bora won at some arcade in Hongdae, Mrs. Jung's neat handwriting reports, "Hyewonnie cleaned her plate today! Even asked for extra kimchi (progress!). Oh, parent-teacher meeting tomorrow at 2PM—talent show preparations.”

Gently, you fold the note and slide it into the pocket of your torn jeans.

In her room, the bedside lamp is still on. Hyewon sleeps hugging the official SKZOO pillow, and her long black hair, identical to yours, is spread across the pillow.

"Mom?" Hyewon's voice cracks with sleep, her small fingers rubbing at her eyes. She started calling you that when she was three, after your mother died. Back then, she'd cry herself hoarse asking for "mommy," and somehow, between midnight feedings and endless diaper changes, the word stuck to you like honey. "Is that... wait, ugh, why do you smell like an ashtray?" Her nose scrunches up. She pushes herself up on her elbows. "And that's definitely Uncle Junho's cologne."

You sink onto the edge of her bed and your fingers find their way to her hair, working through a stubborn knot near her temple. "Hey, detective squirrel, enough with the interrogation." You try to keep your voice light, but something must slip through because she tilts her head, studying you with that perception that makes her seem older than eight. "Tell me about your day instead. That dance routine you were working on..."

"Wait, no, this is way more important!" Sleep vanishes from her face like magic. She jolts upright, her knee catching the edge of her water glass. It wobbles dangerously before you steady it. "Mrs. Jung told me I could finally tell you! She made me do the super special pinky promise with the thumb press and everything!"

She scrambles out of bed, her feet barely touching the floor as she moves. There's a moment where she trips over her giant Wolfchan plushie, arms windmilling, but she catches herself with that natural grace you never inherited from your mother's side.

"Look, look, look!" She slides across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop at her desk. Under the soft glow of her star-shaped night light, four VIP tickets gleam. "Mrs. Jung got them as an early birthday present! They're not just regular tickets—they're VIP! Front row! We could actually see Felix's freckles!" Her words tumble out faster than her breath can keep up. "Can we go? Please? I'll do all my math homework first try! I'll even eat the green parts of the kimchi!"

The paper feels expensive under your fingertips—thick, textured, with a hologram that catches the light just so. These tickets probably cost more than what you make in a week covering soulmate marks for trainees and politicians with secrets darker than their coffee. Your thumb traces the embossed date, mind already calculating risks and escape routes.

"Hyewonnie..." you start, watching her bounce on her toes. Her small fingers twist the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. She's practically vibrating with hope, and something in your chest aches. "Baby, you're only eight. These concerts... they get pretty wild. People push and shove, and sometimes—"

"NINE!" she corrects indignantly, her voice rising an octave as she straightens her spine and cheeks puff out. "I'm turning nine in exactly—" she counts on her fingers, lips moving silently, "—forty-three days! And Mrs. Jung confirmed she's going with us! She even said we can bring Mina unnie too! They're the ones who made me become a Stay! They showed me the 'God's Menu' video seventeen times in one day!" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please, Mom? Pretty please?”

You sigh, watching as she squeezes her pillow so tightly that poor Wolfchan's ears stick out at odd angles. The truth hits you like a brick—your baby sister, this tiny human who still can't reach the top kitchen shelf even on tiptoes, has been completely and utterly converted into a Stay by your chaotic roommates. She learned the names of eight boys before she could properly write her own name in Hangul.

"Mrs. Jung really thought of everything, didn't she?" You smile despite yourself, sliding the tickets into the desk drawer. They disappear beneath a scattered constellation of photocard. "We'll have a proper talk about this tomorrow, okay? Right now it's way past little Stays' bedtime."

"But you'll think about it? Like, really think about it?" She burrows under her blankets. "Chan oppa would be so disappointed if I didn't go... and his dimples get all sad when he's disappointed... and then I'd feel terrible forever and ever..." Her voice trails off into a yawn that she tries to hide behind her hand.

"Unnie will think about it. Promise. Sleep well, my little Stay." You press a kiss to her forehead.

Through heavy eyelids, she mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'I love you.'. Her small fingers—still sticky from the candy she definitely wasn't supposed to have before bed—curl around the hem of your shirt. It's the same instinctive gesture she's had since she was a baby, as if making sure you won't disappear while she dreams.

She was so small, impossibly small, like a sparrow that had fallen from its nest too soon. You remember how her fingers, no bigger than guitar picks, had latched onto your old Nirvana shirt with surprising strength, as if she already knew you were all she would have.

In the hallway, you trace the marks on the wall—each line a complete story, each number a small revolution. "Look, unnie, I grew two centimeters!" Her voice echoes in your memory, bouncing on her tiptoes to appear even taller. The last mark, made just two weeks ago during a lazy Sunday morning, shows she's already past your elbow. Soon she'll be your height, maybe even taller.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter when your phone vibrates again. The blue-tinted screen illuminates the dark hallway. The photo—you and Junho at Namsan Tower—feels like a lifetime ago.

His voice message arrives, that infuriating little 'ping' that makes your jaw clench: "Listen, jagiya,” . The ice cubes in his whiskey glass (probably his third) clink against each other. The familiar jazz from Sol Music Bar—where he first tried to impress you with his terrible English pickup lines—bleeds through his words. "I know you hate when I do this shit, but we need to talk about what went down today. You can't just—"

Delete. Block. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before choosing both options.

"Unnie?" Bora's leaning against the doorframe like a ghost from a Joseon painting, platinum blonde hair creating a halo around her face. "Got any soju left? That fucking dream again... the one with the blood and the—".

"Bora-yah," you whisper, gathering the fallen blanket from the floor. "You have work tomorrow. The exhibition at Seoul Arts Center, remember? The one you've been preparing for months?"

"But, unnie..." She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, smearing what's left of her eyeliner across pale skin. Her bottom lip trembles—just slightly, but you catch it. "I saw Mina again. In the dream. She was wearing that stupid hanbok, the one from the palace, and her hands were covered in—"

"We'll talk about your not-so-prophetic dreams tomorrow, okay?" You guide her back to the couch, where Mina's sleeping form creates a perfect curve.

"They're not prophetic," she mumbles, voice muffled against Mina's shoulder. Her words slur together. "They're memories. From before. When we were—when you were—" She doesn't finish, already half-asleep.

You watch as they gravitate toward each other, even in sleep. Mina's fingers find Bora's wrist instinctively, tracing the outline of their matching marks—twin sunflowers, eternally blooming, stems intertwined in an endless dance.

Your phone buzzes again—once, twice, three times. The vibrations travel through your pocket and into your bones. You switch it off completely, watching the screen fade to black.

In your room, where half-finished tattoo designs and anatomical sketches create a wallpaper of controlled chaos, you sink into the desk chair. Old wood protests under your weight, a familiar creak that sounds like an old friend's greeting.

Lifting the sketchbook—that lovely, awful thing with its tattered black cover and sin-thick pages—from the drawer, your hands tremble. Another of Mina's gifts because she always seems to know exactly what you need before the thought fully forms in your mind. The pencil moves across the paper with a will of its own, like a Ouija board planchette guided by unseen hands.

An ancient castle rises from the depths of memory. Its towers pierce a clouded sky, stone walls holding centuries of secrets. In your mind's eye, you can hear the echo of footsteps—your footsteps—bouncing off corridors. Air fills with the musty sweetness of black mold and the sharp tang of melting wax, so real you can almost taste it on your tongue.

"Quick, quick!" you whisper to yourself, your words ricocheting off the damp walls. A rebellious strand of hair escapes from the linen scarf that holds your locks. Your fingers press the breadbasket against your chest as you descend the spiral stairs of the royal kitchen. The thick apron brushes against your ankles.

In the street, under a sky that begins to lighten at the edges like a burned parchment, the line is already forming—dozens of thin, pale faces, sunken eyes shining with a hunger that goes beyond the physical. The cold dawn wind makes tattered clothes dance around bodies too fragile, too worn by the Lunaris kingdom's misery.

It pains your heart, knowing that even when Chrysalis delivers their crops after the marriage ceremony in two moons, the distribution will be anything but fair. As a Solaris baker, you are left with few choices in a castle where people mock the loss of your kingdom. You were saved by the kindness of two soldiers whom the captain trusted when the others had been too eager to kill you and your infant sister. Still, you persist in your small acts of rebellion. Mina and Bora, bless their souls, run interference when the head chef notices your absence, their quick tongues spinning tales of errands and duties that never existed.

"By the old gods, look who's here!" Mrs. Jung's weathered hands reach out. The finest weaver in the Lunaris Kingdom, now reduced to threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks. "Our Solaris angel, bringing warmth to our cold mornings."

"Careful with those words, Mrs. Jung," you murmur, pressing the still-warm loaf into her hands. Your fingers linger on hers, trying to share what little warmth you possess. "The castle has ears, even at this hour."

More children emerge from the shadows like spirits. Against the cold cobblestones, their feet, encased in strands of fabric ripped from old clothing, produce an eerie cadence. You recognize the makeshift bandages as pieces of the royal banners that once flew proudly over the gates.

"Unnie!" Soo-yeon's teeth chatter as she tugs at your apron. "Jin-ho's here today. His first time." She points with her chin toward a boy who's pressed himself so far into the shadows that only the gleam of his eyes gives him away. The military coat he wears—his father's, you'd bet your last copper on it—hangs off his frame like a tent, the sleeves rolled up six times just so his hands can peek through. "His mama caught the winter fever."

"Come here, little soldier," you beckon to Jin-ho, watching how his fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his thighs. You extract an extra portion wrapped in cloth. "This one just came from the ovens. The crust might burn your tongue if you're not careful, mind you. Small bites, like a proper nobleman."

You catch Min-ah trying to inhale an entire roll like a snake swallowing its prey. Her cheeks bulge impossibly wide, crumbs dusting her chin. "Saints above, sunshine! Did the orphanage run out of plates?" Your hand shoots out to pat her back as she makes a sound between a laugh and a choke. "Remember what happened with Bora last week? Poor thing went whiter than the palace sheets when you started turning blue."

Your attention splits as Soo-yeon shuffles closer against you, drawn by the warmth radiating from your body. Your fingers find her hair, working through knots that would make a sailor weep. "And what's this mess, my little star? These braids look like they've been through a war." Your thumb brushes away a smudge of dirt from her temple. "Where's that pretty ribbon I gave you? The blue one?"

"Lost it," she mumbles, eyes downcast. Her lower lip quivers. "During the guards' raid. They—they tore through everything looking for—"

"Shh," you cut her off gently, cupping her chin. "Visit my compound later, after the morning bell. We'll fix these braids properly." You lean in close enough that your breath stirs the wisps of hair around her face, voice dropping to that special whisper that never fails to make her eyes sparkle like dewdrops in sunlight. "And if you can sneak past that grumpy old Master Lee without making a sound, we might just find some honey cakes that survived the night. Enough to share with Hyewon too, if you’re feeling generous."

Between the frost-covered windows of the castle, your eyes dart. Usually, the guards sleep until the sun rises high enough to break their stupor, their bellies full of wine and meat from the feast last night celebrating the impending union of Lunaris and Chrysalis. But Commander Jung, that snake in armor, has grown suspicious. Just last week, his eyes followed your movements through the corridors. His thin lips curved into that knowing smirk that made your blood run cold, the same expression he wore when he ordered the burning of the Sun Temple.

Suddenly, there’s smoke curling around your feet and you no longer see their faces.

The ornate room feels like a gilded cage, suffocating in its opulence. The Venetian mirror reflects three souls caught in an impossible web—one small figure and two tall ones.

"Your Grace, please try to steady your breathing." Your hands adjust the formal attire. The familiar scent of mint leaves, coffee beans, and something uniquely him—like summer rain on hot stones—wraps around you.

"Does it pinch here?" Your fingers trace the embroidered seam along his shoulder blade, feeling the way his muscles twitch beneath the fabric. When he shakes his head—a movement so slight you almost miss it—you catch sight of his eyes in the mirror. They're swimming with unshed tears, and something in your chest splinters. Those eyes, god, those eyes. You can't remember his name or the exact shape of his face, but those eyes are burned into your memory—the same ones that danced with mischief as you three raided the kitchen's sweetmeats at midnight, the same ones that grew soft and liquid while reading poetry by candlelight in the library's hidden alcove. "My l—"

"Don't." His fingers spasm toward yours but retreat. "Please. Not—not today. I'll shatter if I hear that word from your lips."

Across the room, he—the other he, your morning star to this one's evening moon—paces like a caged beast. His teeth worry at his bottom lip until you see a bead of blood well up.

As you hold him, servants flit about with ribbons and flowers as the wedding preparations whirl around you like some hideous funfair.

"Your Grace," a maid's voice pipes up, "the bride is ready."

Time crystallizes like honey in winter when she enters. Her wedding dress ripples like liquid moonlight against marble floors that reflect her silhouette in fractured pieces. Red roses tumble from her hands; you watch a single petal break free, spiraling down in lazy circles until it kisses the marble floor like a drop of blood. The sight makes your stomach lurch.

A shudder runs through him, his breath hitching against the curve of your neck, warm and damp and desperate. "Can't—can't breathe. Why does it feel like we're conducting a funeral instead of a wedding?"

Without a word, you simply draw him farther into the shadows where the tapestries provide cover. The guards won't see their war captain like this, won't witness how his knees almost buckle when another wave of perfumed air carries the scent of roses. For God’s sake, in mere minutes, he'll have to represent the military! Kneeling before their next queen and king with a face carved from stone. 

And there, at the altar draped in Lunaris silk, the crown prince stands like a man facing his executioner.

However, there's happiness too, isn't there? Memories as sweet as honey wine: lazy afternoons in secret clearings where the grass grew tall enough to hide three bodies. His head in your lap—dark hair spread like ink on your skirts, cat-like eyes half-closed in contentment—while the other's fingers trail patterns on your arm. Wildflower branches woven through dark hair while the summer sun painted everything gold.

"That crown suits you better than any other, my sunny queen." A playful tug on a flower stem sends petals cascading around your shoulders.

"Shut up and pass me another daisy," you mutter, but your voice trembles slightly. Your hands fidget with the stem, weaving it into the growing crown.

"He's right, you know?" The other one shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. "You were born to wear crowns. Even if they're made of wildflowers." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, the calluses from years of swordplay creating a delicious friction. "Though I prefer you in the morning, wearing nothing but sunlight. Solaris blood really runs in your veins—you practically glow."

By the riverside, where the air smells of herbs and magic, ceramic pots bubble with mysterious concoctions. Steam rises in spirals, carrying the scent of crushed moonflowers and dragon's breath herbs. Your hair curls in the humidity, becoming wild and untamed.

"Be careful with that one, kitten; it might explode!" He lunges forward, muscles tensing beneath his thin shirt. His hand reaches for the pot, but you swat it away.

"For the love of the old gods," you hiss through clenched teeth, your fingers still tingling from the contact. "I know what I'm doing. I've been brewing potions since before you learned to hold a sword properly. My kingdom actually specializes in that, if you've forgotten."

"Of course you do, our little sun." The other one laughs. His feet dangle in the river, creating ripples that distort his reflection into fragments. He leans back on his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes your heart stutter. "Remember when she turned your hair green for a week? You looked like a walking garden." His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

"That was an accident!" you protest, but your lips twitch traitorously. "Besides, the color brought out your eyes."

"It brought out something alright," the first one grumbles, running his fingers through his hair as if checking it's still the right color. "The castle guards couldn't look at me without laughing for months."

"Oh please," you roll your eyes, adding a pinch of crushed starflower to the mixture. The potion turns a deep violet, exactly as it should. "You loved the attention. You practically strutted around like a peacock."

"Speaking of attention," the second one's voice drops lower, more intimate. He catches your wrist gently, thumb pressing against your pulse point. "That merchant's son couldn't take his eyes off you at the market yesterday. Should we be concerned?"

"Jealous?" You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your skin burns under his touch. "Of a boy who still trips over his own feet?"

"Never," they say in unison, and the synchronicity makes something warm unfurl in your chest. The first one moves behind you, his chest pressed against your back, while the other tugs you forward by your captured wrist. You're caught between them, like always, like destiny.

One pair of honey-golden hands, calloused from wielding swords and scaling castle walls to get to your window, always gentle when wiping tears from your face, are the hands you remember like a prayer. The other pair, pale as ivory, stained with ink from writing poetry and royal decrees, skilled at braiding your hair in the traditional style of his homeland.

Remember sleeping squeezed in the middle of a too-large bed, even though you hated being in the center (you always preferred the edges, or even the floor, much to their amusement). One would whisper poetry in your left ear while the other sang softly in your right, old lullabies from the Lunaris provinces."

"I hate you both," you'd lie, voice muffled by silk pillows, trying to hide your smile.

"No, you don't." They'd say in unison, making you laugh despite yourself. Then one would start tickling your feet while the other stole your pillow, and the serious moment would dissolve into childish wrestling.

Suddenly, there's fire—so much fire it steals the air from your lungs. You try to burn an ancient book, its yellowed pages curling and blackening as flames lick at your own clothes. The smoke stings your eyes, or maybe those are tears. The leather binding crackles and pops.

"I can't let them find out!" Your voice breaks on the words. "They'll hurt you both. They'll—" A cough interrupts you, smoke filling your lungs. "I have to protect you. Even from yourselves."

Then you're drowning, being pulled into the depths of dark and icy waters. The cold bites through your clothes, into your bones. Hands—those same hands you know better than your own—extend desperately, trying to reach you. Their faces blur above the surface as you sink deeper.

"Don't let her sink!"

"Hold my hand, love, please!"

When you finally blink, returning to reality in your Seoul apartment, you realize you've covered twenty pages with the same intertwined marks: turbulent waves like a stormy sea swallowing whole ships, dancing flames shaped like fire serpents, and an intricate spiral of black roses and sharp thorns connecting the two in an infinite pattern.

"Shit," you whisper to the empty room, letting the pencil roll across the desk with a metallic tinkle. "Shit, shit, shit."

The pain is sudden and overwhelming. Like lightning cutting through your chest, the sensation burns between your breasts with an intensity that makes you drop the notebook and slip from the chair. The impact with the cold floor makes your teeth clash. Your fingers tremble as they tear at your shirt buttons, desperate to understand what's happening, your nails leaving red marks on your skin.

Love, is there any pie left? I woke up hungry. That apple one you make, with extra cinnamon.

Where is he? Did he go to war? He promised he'd return before the solstice!

I have a duty before love. You knew this from the beginning! The crown weighs more than my heart.

Please, don't make me choose between you. It's like tearing pieces from my own soul.

The roses are dying in the garden without you here.

And there it is—beneath the covering, beneath the old burn that marked the breaking of the bond, your soulmate mark pulses with a life of its own. The pink scar tissue glows with its own light, as if something were trying to emerge from within your skin. You close your eyes, fingers brushing the sensitive area, and see: lines green as springtime vines, pink as the dawn sky, and purple as amethysts intertwining, restitching something that should be permanently broken.

"No, no, no." Hot tears stream down your face as you plead into the void, knees hitting against the wooden floor: "Psyche, my lady, please, stop. Why are you doing this to me?"

The goddess cursed you, didn't she? Condemned you to keep breaking bonds while dealing with the voices of ancestors and the loss of your soulmates. The echo of her laughter haunts your nightmares and you can still see her furious face, beautiful and terrible, when you tried to burn the mark without divine permission. Why now? Why rebuild the bond? Could this be your true punishment—making you remember everything you lost?

The pain is so intense that you barely register the moment Mina bursts through the door, her own eyes wide with panic, hair still messy from sleep. The air seems to vibrate with static energy around her. Of course—she would feel it too. Your soul sister, designated by Psyche herself to keep you in check, to heal the souls you leave behind like breadcrumbs on a dark path.

"Unnie!" She kneels beside you, cold hands against your feverish face. The lavender scent of her night cream is almost sickening. Her fingers tremble when they touch the pulsing mark, and you see the exact moment she understands—her eyes widen even more, color draining from her face. "What did you do? The bonds... they're..."

"I didn't..." Your entire body convulses, muscles spasming as if trying to reject your own skin. Sweat makes your clothes cling uncomfortably, and you taste copper on your tongue where you've bitten the inside of your cheek. "I didn't do anything, I swear by the old gods and new. It's... it's coming back on its own. They're coming back, Min. All of them."

The last thing you saw before consciousness slipped through your fingers like water was Mina's face, contorted in a silent scream, and Bora's figure sprinting down the corridor, her gold hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail.

"Hey! Y/N!" Their voices seem to come from underwater, distorted and far away.

OMG HI!!! 😍😍😍 I'm so thrilled you found me here too! Your comment on AO3 absolutely made my day, you have no idea! 💖 I'm beyond happy that you enjoy my work so much. It means the world to me to connect with awesome readers like you across different platforms!

Hello again, bby!

First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read ALL of my Lee Dong Wook fanfics! That alone is such an honor, and I'm beyond thrilled that you LOVE them! Your enthusiasm is contagious, and it's giving me such a boost of energy and inspiration.

To hear that my stories are exactly what you've been looking for... wow, that's just the most amazing compliment a writer could receive. I'm so happy that I could create something that resonates with you so deeply. And the fact that they make you blush and kick your feet? That's the cutest reaction ever, and it's making me smile from ear to ear! 😊

Your words about no one comparing to me and being obsessed with my stories... I'm honestly at a loss for words. You're incredibly kind, and I'm truly humbled by your praise. It means the world to me that my work has had such a positive impact on you.

Knowing that it has made your day better is the greatest reward I could ask for as a writer. Your support and appreciation fuel my passion for writing and motivate me to keep creating stories that hopefully continue to bring joy to wonderful readers like you.

Thank you for your well wishes, and I sincerely hope you're having a fantastic day too! Your kindness and enthusiasm have certainly made mine brighter. 🌞

With all my love, deepest respect, and endless gratitude,

Sending love

❤️❤️

Dear wonderful reader,

Oh my goodness, your message just filled my heart with so much joy and warmth! 🥰 Thank you, thank you, thank you for your incredibly kind words and for taking the time to share them with me. You've truly made my day (and week, and month!) 💖

I'm absolutely thrilled that you enjoyed the update! Knowing that you've been waiting for it and found it amazing means the world to me. It's readers like you who inspire me to keep writing and pouring my heart into every word. 🌟

The fact that I could make your day 10 times better is just... wow! That's the greatest gift a writer could ask for. Your happiness and enjoyment are what fuel my passion for storytelling.,=

Please know that your support, patience, and enthusiasm are deeply appreciated. You're not just a reader; you're a vital part of this creative journey. Your kindness and the love you're sending are felt and cherished more than words can express.

Thank you for being such an incredible, supportive, and loving reader. You've brightened my day just as much as you say I've brightened yours. I'm sending all that love right back to you, multiplied by a thousand! 🌈❤️

With endless gratitude and a heart full of joy,

Hey there, amazing reader! 😊💖

Wow, your words just made my heart do a happy dance! Thank you so, so much for this incredible feedback. It means the absolute world to me!

Thrilling, heart-throbbing, and sweet? You're making me blush! 😳 I'm over the moon that my writing gives you these feelings. It's exactly what I hope to achieve when I pour my heart into these stories.

And oh my goodness, a loyal reader? You're not just making my day; you're making my entire year! 🎉 I promise to keep the stories coming, fueled by the amazing support from wonderful readers like you.

Thank you for being so awesome and supportive. Readers like you make this writing journey an absolute joy.

Love,

Dear reader,

Your words have touched my heart in ways I cannot fully express. Thank you so much for your incredibly kind and thoughtful message. It means the world to me to know that my writing has resonated with you so deeply.

As a writer, there's no greater joy than knowing our work has found its way to someone who truly appreciates it. Your feedback on the characterization of LDW is particularly heartwarming. I pour my heart and soul into trying to capture the essence of these characters, and it's wonderful to hear that it comes across in my writing.

I understand the struggle of finding good fics for specific characters, and I'm honored that you consider my work a "blessing." Your encouragement to keep writing is a powerful motivator, and I promise to continue putting my best effort into every story I create.

Your support and recognition mean everything to me. It's readers like you who inspire writers to keep going, even when the journey feels challenging. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and for the love you've shown for every single fic.

Your kindness and enthusiasm have brightened my day and renewed my passion for writing. I'm truly grateful for readers like you who make this journey so rewarding.

With heartfelt appreciation and warmest regards,

Buuut, I'm planning to make a comeback (HEEEY!!) and in the meantime, while I literally analyzed anatomy in my classes and almost slept on my arm, I thought about changing the ship "Moonjo x doc! reader" in "Psychochromia" for "Moonjo x Jungwoo x doc! reader". What do you think, eh?

Jeong Jin-Man x Fem! Reader

Chapter 2: VENDETTA.ZIP

“Momma?”

You're roused from your slumber by a peculiar sound that gushes—the way rapids dash against jumbled rocks. Your ear still nuzzles against the pillow plastered with black cat motifs. Unruly strands of your obsidian hair sprawl over the sable felines printed on your comfort.

This might be your final summer snuggling in this kitty patterned pillowcase—a relic better suited for preschoolers. You’ve been contemplating a more sophisticated change—not so much “grown-up” because that phrase seems oddly outmoded to you now. These days, it’s either 'mature’ or 'adult’. A plush silk case endorsing maturity may be owned soon enough, akin to those Jin boasts of from Sonyeo—an opulent Korean label— nonetheless! But till you bring home that plush treasure, it's the humble black-cat print for you—especially given its ability to maintain a coolish touch even when midsummer night's force is nothing besides sticky humidity and trills of katydids.

Yes, the string of sounds filling up your room are those made by katydids. Momma was sure those chirping notes were not lent by cicadas, as they preferred daylight hours over nocturnal ones for their concerts. She referred to these symphonies rather derogatively as 'that racket’ and rarely allowed her own window to be tampered with lest 'that racket' invade her serene sleep haven.

“Momma… Are you close?”

From deep down the hallway comes an array of sounds far louder than mere bugs tapping on exterior walls—they seem uncomfortably domestic. Bugs couldn't pass through barriers, but these incoming clips could—they undeniably belonged within these four walls.

Peering into silhouettes strewn around your bedroom, eyes accustomed to nightpicking details shimmering in monochromatic shades—black stands stark against muted greys in ambient darkness. Occasionally, a faint wave of moonlight filters through the open window, supplemented by the luminescence radiating from your trusty nightlight purchased at some local convenience store—a tiny LED bunny that stood guard near your bedroom entrance. At night, your heavily populated room transformed into a monster land, with forsaken clothes heaped around on the floor, resembling predatory creatures lurking in shadows. Now your token light was placed too far—a seeming hundred miles away—just so you could avoid tumbling over these innocent-looking beasts camouflaged in gloom while scurrying to the door. Not fear—you were far above such childish frights—but maturity guided you, or so you reassured yourself.

Still, it’s quiet enough now that you can hear your own breathing. You frown at that silence. It’s an unfamiliar quiet—the quiet that fills up the bedroom at night when you can’t sleep, the quiet that surrounds you when there have been bad dreams or when you’ve been sent to bed early for some infraction. This kind of quiet is the reason you sleep with your windows open, so you can hear something other than yourself alone.

It wasn’t too dark to see, not with the thin wash of light from outside that made it into the entryway. But it was dimmer than you would have thought for so early in the evening this close to summer. You wondered if a thunderstorm was gathering outside, and you just hadn’t noticed. You strained your ears for the telltale rumble of thunder or the flash of lightning but heard nothing. Just the whooshing sound and the quiet.

“Momma, please answer me.”

No. The silence stretches out, almost becoming a presence in itself. You sit up, the whooshing sound seeming to grow louder as you become more awake. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and hesitate for a moment, your bare feet hovering above the floor.

The hallway doesn't look any different from before—plain white walls, family photos hanging askew on their hooks, old throw rugs scattered here and there for comfort underfoot—but right now it's a dark tunnel with the faintest hint of light at the end. You step onto the floor, the coolness of the wooden boards grounding you. Each step you take is careful, slow. You don’t want to make any noise. You don’t want to disturb whatever might be lurking in the shadows.

You peer into Momma's room, blinking slowly to adjust to the darkness. It smells stale here—like a mix of cigarette smoke and old clothes, the kind that have sat too long in the back of a closet. Momma has been sleeping less lately; it's like she's avoiding her room at night.

Her side of the bed is rumpled, the sheets twisted and wrinkled as if she's been tossing and turning all night long.

You bite your lip. Something feels off about this whole situation, but you can't quite put your finger on it yet. Looking back at your own room, you gulp hard and step in, hesitantly putting one foot in front of the other.

Did she leave? Is she hurt?

You advance. Nothing here, nothing. Just an empty, cold room because today was the day to pay the electricity bill and she must’ve forgotten. A dresser with chipped paint and a missing drawer knob. A wardrobe with the door open, displaying a bunch of hotel hangers—the kind you can't steal. A Bible on a corner table. To the left, the bathroom door, a mirror in its full length reflecting your own pale image. That door was slightly ajar and... You saw your reflection nodding slowly. 

Yes, that was where it was, whatever it was. In there. In the bathroom.

Your reflection advanced, as if it were about to escape from the mirror. It extended a hand, pressing it against yours. Then it disappeared at an angle as the bathroom door opened. You looked inside. A long, old room, like a train car. Small hexagonal tiles on the floor, some of which are cracked and discolored. At the far end, a toilet with the lid up, a roll of toilet paper dangling precariously from its holder. To the right, a sink, and above it another mirror, the kind that hides a medicine cabinet filled with old prescription bottles and half-used tubes of toothpaste. To the left, a huge white clawfoot bathtub with a shower curtain drawn.

"Momma?" you call again, your voice trembling now. 

There was water running.

You entered the bathroom and walked towards the bathtub as if in a dream, as if you were being propelled, as if all this were one of those dreams horror movies brought, as if maybe you were going to see something good when you opened the shower curtain, something you had forgotten or something Momma had lost, something that would make you both happy.

You reached for the curtain, your hand trembling, and drew it back.

-----------

There was nothing but blood and a knife in Jin-Man’s bathtub. No water. No glazy eyes looking up at the ceiling. No body. Just crimson stains streaking down the porcelain, the knife resting at an odd angle, as if someone had dropped it hastily.

Your fist clenches around the curtain as you feel your eyes getting wet, trying to make you feel something. Something that involves anything but crying like a lost little child. You glance around the bathroom, noting the little details that seem to scream at you—the designer shampoo bottles Jin-Man always bragged about, the lavender-scented candles he adored, now splattered with red.

You wanted to say you thought you weren't going to crumble. That you were not tangled in lies and were ready for this. But looking behind you, you saw your hair, shorter now, messier and lifeless, and you saw the woman that you were supposed to be. The woman who didn't run but followed the line she was always meant to follow. Determined. Confident. Someone who has seen grief rears its head countless times and isn’t supposed to cry. But the thing about grief is—it isn't like other emotions; it begs for something so visceral. It induces that gut-churning feeling, even when it isn't directed at you. And just like when you were a child, you do not know what to do with such raw fury, so you swallow it down, until your stomach hurts and you are coughing back up those shards, and suddenly, "I wish you were here.”

You closed the tap. With no sound of water, the house fell into complete silence. The only noise was the steak dropping from the counter onto the floor and a slight scratch on your jeans as you pressed your nails against them, trying to keep yourself together.

Interesting house for an ex-mercenary, you tried to distract yourself with that thought as you scanned the bathroom meticulously, looking for any signs of a struggle. Overturned objects, broken tiles, anything that might suggest there had been a struggle. 

However, the razor blades were neatly aligned in the sink, the aftershave was covered and in place, and even the toothbrush was upright in its holder. Checked the medicine cabinet, hoping to find something—perhaps a hidden compartment or a secret weapons cache. But it was as tidy as the rest of the room. Painkillers, vitamins, and antibiotics—everything perfectly lined up. No clues, no detours.

Quickly, you moved down the narrow corridor, your footsteps echoing off the bare walls. The empty frames hanging seemed to mock you, as if to say that there was nothing left to see, nothing to remember. The walls were a weird white, the kind of white you only find in hospitals or in houses where life has been carefully erased.

In the kitchen, you found an old Italian coffee maker on the stove. Next to it, a can of ground coffee from Starbucks, the brand he insisted on buying despite your complaints about the exorbitant price. Next to the tin, a box of tea, still sealed. Jin-Man never liked tea so it might belong to Ji-An. 

On the counter, a plate of leftover food. Kimchi and rice. Next to it, a half-empty bottle of soju, the lid open. Jin-Man was never much of a drinker, but when he did, it was always soju. He said he remembered the days when he was just a kid, stealing bottles from street stalls in Seoul.

You opened the fridge and found only a few cans of Cass beer, a packet of tofu, and a pot of kimchi. Nothing to indicate that he planned to run away. You closed the fridge with a sigh, the sound of the door echoing through the empty kitchen.

You had to be quick; Ji-An must be getting done with the hospital paperwork by now.

Here comes the worst part: you moved to the bedroom.

You took in the scene as if it were a movie playing before your eyes. The sun's rays escaped through the curtains, dancing around the room like intruders, unable to touch the cool tiles beneath their sharp gaze. The bed was made; no rumpled sheets and blankets fanning out in all directions, resembling waves on a stormy ocean like yours always are. A sense of loss crept into your bones as you almost smell his unique musky perfume lingering in the air, mixing with faint hints of sweat and aftershave. His old army boots were by the corner, cleaned and polished, waiting for him to wear them again someday. 

Over there by the dresser was a framed photo of him and Ji-An at some beach, her dark hair whipping in the wind as she smirked at something he said just out of sight. In another corner stood an oversized clock whose ticking echoed through the silent room like a heartbeat missing its rhythm. Its long hands pointed to 4:15 PM, hours before you arrived here.

Deeper in the room, you noticed a small dresser adorned with trinkets and memorabilia. A delicate porcelain vase sat atop it, filled with dried lavender that exuded a subtle fragrance. Next to it was a collection of novels, and you recognised some of the titles—classics by authors like Kim Young-Ha and Han Kang, stories that Jin-Man had once passionately discussed with you during quiet evenings.

Five minutes and nothing. Just nothing. You frown and ruffle your hair once more. The frustration gnaws at you, a beast with sharp teeth. You start pacing, your eyes flicking from one object to another, trying to read the story they were silently screaming at you. Jin-Man was always meticulous, always one step ahead. He would hide things so well that even the most seasoned detectives would miss them.

"Jin-Man, you clever bastard," you mutter under your breath, looking around the room. Your eyes land on the oversized clock. The ticking is louder now, each second feeling like a hammer hitting an anvil. One of two things: you were either deaf or hearing too much—you responded to this new confusion with a malicious and uncomfortable feeling, with a sigh of resigned satisfaction. To hell with it, you said softly, annihilated.

You walk over to it. Jin-Man always had a thing for old-fashioned things, said they reminded him of a simpler time—an era of wind-up mechanisms and the kind of craftsmanship that required patience and skill. Your fingers trace the edges of the clock, feeling for anything unusual. The wood is smooth, polished to a fine sheen, and the brass accents gleam faintly in the dim light. And then you notice it—a slight indentation on the side, almost imperceptible. It’s a minuscule detail, the kind only someone intimately familiar with the clock would notice. You press it, and the back of the clock slides open with a soft click, revealing a hidden compartment.

Inside, there's a small key and a slip of paper with a note scribbled in Jin-Man's handwriting. "Office," it says. Your heart pounds. You grab the key with fingers that feel like they belong to someone else and head out of the bedroom, your steps quickening as if the floorboards beneath you were on fire.

The office door creaks as you push it open. The room is where his personality shows through—bookshelves lined with volumes on military strategy, psychology, and history. The desk is cluttered with papers, but everything has its place. You move to the desk, pulling open the drawers one by one. They're filled with the usual office supplies—pens, sticky notes, paperclips—but nothing stands out.

Then you remember Jin-Man's favorite hiding spot. Kneeling down, you start feeling around the base of one of the shelves, cursing under your breath when a pencil stub pokes into your hand. With a determined grunt, you keep searching until your fingers brush against something hard hidden behind a row of history textbooks. It's a loose floorboard.

With trembling hands, you pull it open to reveal a small compartment within the wall. Inside is a box, plain yet sturdy. You pick it up slowly, heart pounding like a drum in your ears as you flip open the lid. A letter addressed to you in Jin-Man's neat handwriting sits on top—the sight of it making your throat tighten. Beside it is a USB drive and an old photograph of both of you from years ago; laughing over some forgotten joke while enjoying each other's company under bright sunshine at what seems like paradise now.

Your legs feel weak, and you drop into Jin-Man's office chair, clutching the items.

"My doll,

If you're reading this, it means something has gone terribly wrong. I know you hate me, and I don't blame you. But there's something you need to know, something I couldn't tell you before. The USB drive contains information that could change everything. 

Be careful. Trust no one.

Jeong Jin-Man."

You disguise your anguish and invent a pretext to be weak for a few moments. At the table, you bite the sleeve of your jacket, suffocating the screams threatening your throat. You sink further into the chair, your face buried in your arm, waiting for something to happen and save you. The room filled with Jin-Man's belongings, feels both comforting and suffocating. The scent of his cologne lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the coffee he loved so much.

You start to hate them, all of them—the people who took him away, him, the circumstances that led to this moment. And you wish to abandon them, to flee from this feeling that develops with each passing minute, mixed with unbearable pity for them and for yourself. As if together you were victims of the same irremediable threat. You try to reconstruct the image of Jeong Jin-Man, line by line. His strong jaw, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the sound of his voice when he called you by your nickname. It seems to you that if you recall him clearly, you will have some sort of power over him.

You hold your breath, tense, pressing your lips together. Just a moment... Just a moment more, and you would have him, gesture by gesture... His figure starts to form, nebulous... And finally, little by little, desolate, you perceive it fading away. You have the impression that Jin-Man is escaping from you, smiling.

The blinds moved with the wind, and you could see him in the dim light sitting at the counter staring at you. He didn't look sad, or mad. Jin-Man was scanning you. His eyes darted from your button nose to your lips, from your ears to your sweaty forehead. Every inch of your face was being studied intensely, like it was the last time he'd ever see it. You knew because you did it all the time. You know how the shadows fall under his chin and along his shoulders. You know how his spine showed itself against his back. You know him in all the impossible ways dogs can't know ourselves, even when they drink from a river and stare at the water for seconds.

You didn't want Jeong to look at you like you looked at him, with a compulsion to memorize every part in case it all disappeared tomorrow. You traced every outline of him once, all the places he couldn't see.

You weren't the one who had the tendency to leave suddenly, making the other wonder if the last time would really be the last time.

“Can you stop it? I won’t be able to concentrate on decorating this cake if you’re going to stare the shit out of me like a fucking weirdo.”

You met at night at home that Friday, exhausted and excited; you recounted the day's exploits and planned the next attacks. You didn't delve too deeply into what was happening at Babylon in your house this night; it was enough that all this had the stamp of friendship while you made the blessed chocolate mint cake that he always wanted to try. 

With a deadpan expression, Jin-Man leaned back against the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his broad chest, looking amused at your irritation. "You've got it bad," he said with an eerie calm that made your stomach flip. It was strange how he could remain so unfazed when you felt like you were on fire just from him looking at you like that.

He watched as you slapped the mixing bowl down onto the counter, sending a small splash of batter flying up in the air before it sputtered back down onto the granite surface. You took a deep breath and tried to focus on the task at hand, huffing out a laugh as you pulled out the ingredients for the cake batter. The scent of cocoa and mint wafted through the air, mingling with the faint smell of sweat from both of you as you worked together in silence. You cracked open eggs one by one, letting their yolky goodness drip into the mixture below.

The sound of butter being creamed together with sugar filled the room, along with faint metallic clangs from when you added flour and baking powder to make the batter smooth. It was oddly soothing, almost hypnotic—except for Jin-Man's gaze boring into your back like an anchor tethering you to the spot. They moved down to the collar of your shirt, a faded band tee from an old Metallica concert, then back up to your eyes, locking onto them with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Can I taste some of this mix?"

You turned around to face him, surprised by the request. His eyes were narrowed slightly in curiosity as he leaned forward on his forearms on the countertop, his fingers tapping lightly on the granite surface.

"Do you have any idea how many calories are in that mix?" You teased, scooping up a small dollop of the mint frosting with a spoon anyway and holding it out to him. His eyes lit up like a child’s, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips in anticipation.

He took the spoon and you watched as he brought it to his mouth, his lips closing around the metal. His eyes fluttered shut, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working as he tasted the frosting. His tongue played with the minty sweetness, and you could tell he was debating whether to spit it out or swallow it, much like a child chewing on an unfamiliar piece of bubblegum.

“Well?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest and raising an eyebrow.

He opened his eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. “It tastes like toothpaste,” he said, his voice muffled by the spoon still in his mouth.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I've seen you handle a sniper rifle with precision. This should be a piece of cake. Plus, you've been bugging me for weeks to make this cake, and now you’re complaining about the frosting? You’re going to eat it whether you like it or not.”

He coughed, pulling the spoon out of his mouth and setting it down on the counter. “I’m not that picky about my alcohol, but cake frosting? That’s a different story,” he said, shaking his head. “This is like brushing my teeth with dessert.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for a bag of powdered sugar from the pantry. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on your lips. “Here, let’s try adding more sugar. Maybe that’ll make it less ‘toothpaste-y’” The pantry door creaked as you opened it, revealing an assortment of baking supplies organized in neat rows.

As you reached for the sugar, however, Jin-Man grabbed a handful of cocoa powder and playfully tossed it at you. “Hey!” you exclaimed, laughing as the powder dusted your hair and clothes. “You’re going to pay for that!”

You retaliated by grabbing a handful of green food coloring and flicking it at him. It splattered across his shirt and into his hair, staining it with bright green specks. “Now you look like a Christmas tree,” you teased, unable to stop laughing. 

“Oh, it’s on!”

Before you knew it, the kitchen had turned into a battlefield, with cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and flour flying through the air. Your hands were stained green from the matcha powder, and his hair was speckled with chocolate chips, sticking out like tiny, sweet stars against his dark locks. Every surface in the kitchen bore marks of your playful war—cabinets smeared with butter, the floor dotted with floury footprints, and the stainless steel fridge now sporting a streak of vanilla extract.

“You're the worst baker!”

"You're going to regret this," you laughed, grabbing a handful of chocolate chips and throwing them his way. They bounced off his chest, leaving tiny smudges on his black t-shirt, before he grabbed your wrist and pinned you against the counter. Chest against chest.

You were laughing so hard, you couldn't do anything but shake your head as you wiped the chocolate smudge off his shirt with the hem of your own. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, and for a moment, it felt like time stopped. His skin was warm under your fingertips, the soft fabric of his shirt clinging to the hard muscles beneath. You could still taste the mint frosting from earlier on your tongue, and the cocoa powder on your lips mixed with it, making everything just a little bit sweeter. You looked at him in the dim light of the kitchen, taking in the playful glint in his eyes as he leaned down closer to yours.

"I shouldn't have started this." His nose brushed against yours as he spoke.

Butterflies danced frantically in your stomach as you both stayed still, eyes locked onto each other. Even worse, their wings started to scratch the walls of your guts, and they danced a folklore song around your heart as his fingers trailed softly along your jawline before cupping your cheek gently.

"You always start things you can't finish.”

He smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly in that way that always made your heart skip a beat. "Oh, you think so?" he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. "Maybe I just need the right motivation."

"And what would that be?" 

Jin-Man's eyes flicked down to your lips, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across your skin. "You," he said simply, his voice low and husky. "You are my motivation."

Your heart pounded in your chest as he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, but then he deepened it, his hand sliding around to the back of your neck to pull you closer. You complied,  clinging into him without thinking, pressing up against his strong frame as you tasted him fully now: mint frosting mixed with high-quality coffee, a hint of mint leaf extract, rich dark chocolate, and something so uniquely Jin-Man that made your mind swirl with confusion and want. 

Still, there’s this gross thing inside of you that can’t help but make you think that it would've been a kinder fate if he had stolen the words out of your brain, if he had beaten you up until you became a litter of teeth and limbs than holding you like this. This, this touch of your tongues intertwining was horrible. It meant being engraved in your brain, just like the feeling of these cold tiles beneath your bare feet until you were put seven feet in the ground.

Before him, you thought it was impossible to keep your heart but give your skin, and you never got to know the difference between love or obsession. 

Jeong? He was the kind of person who would light a cigarette and watch it burn down to the filter, never taking a single drag, just mesmerized by the way the flame consumed the paper and tobacco, turning it to ash. He was fascinated by destruction, by the way things fell apart, but he was too afraid to consume himself. He'd leave the door ajar, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his vulnerability but never enough to let you step inside fully. He'd leave his boots by the entrance, yet his heart remained a no-go zone.

And you don't know how to love without bleeding. Your love wasn't a soft, pastel-hued glow but a crimson torrent. The kind of love that left stains—on your white cotton sheets, on the hardwood floors of your apartment, even on the porcelain of your shared bathroom sink. It was a love that demanded sacrifices—late-night hospital visits from knife wounds barely stitched up, bottles of antiseptic, and gauze pads hidden in the medicine cabinet among tubes of Colgate toothpaste and Dior Sauvage aftershave.

Perhaps you like how it feels when someone depletes you of your own blood. And deep down, you contemplate if he never let you in because he doesn't want to be responsible for the blood on his fingertips. All he might want is to feel your skin but never get to know what's beneath it.

Maybe he wanted to trace your figure, but never long enough to question about the same tattoo that he was caressing now, or the scars from the missions that marred your skin like battle relics. He might never have noticed the way you always cleaned your weapons in a precise, almost ritualistic manner or how you preferred to read military strategy books late into the night. He probably didn't pay attention to the way you meticulously organized your gear by functionality or how you always carried a first-aid kit, even when you were off duty. Perhaps he never realized how you preferred to sit with your back to the wall in a restaurant or how you always needed a cup of black coffee before starting your day to stay alert.

On the other hand, you wanted to know him. Wanted to know him before touching his skin, wanted to question the bruises on his back before leaving bite marks on his neck.

But the sound of keys jangling came before your question mark, and you both jumped apart like startled animals. Pinpricks of color stained your cheeks as you quickly wiped away any remaining powdered sugar from your face, trying to compose yourself while Jeong took a step back, his face flushed and eyes locked onto yours.

“Here. I brought the green sprinkles for the cake,” Pasin announced as he entered the kitchen, his eyes half-closed and a smirk playing on his lips. He tossed the bag of sprinkles onto the counter, narrowly missing the pile of powdered sugar. 

“Hey! Good night to you too, dude,” you said, using your hair for coverage while pretending to wash something out of your nails under the sink. The faucet gurgled as water splashed onto the stainless steel basin, masking the awkward silence that followed. Your hands trembled slightly, the cold water biting into your skin like tiny needles before you turned off the tap and dried your hands with a dish towel as you turned around to look at him.

Pasin seemed to ignore your trembling voice and how Jin-Man almost drowned in a cup of water and grimaced at the state of the kitchen before even starting to speak, tying his hair back into his usual ponytail. "Don’t mess with me. An old lady spilt milk on me at the grocery store," he continued, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated, his Thai accent becoming more pronounced. "Can you believe that? I tried to help her pick up her groceries, and she upended a whole carton of milk on me. Smells like a dairy farm now. I’m going to take a shower; try not to set the kitchen on fire or make babies on the stove while I’m gone."

You glance at Jin-Man, who is now coughing, trying to get the water out of his windpipe. His face turns a shade of red that matches the color of crimson stains. You can see the frustration in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches, and you wonder how much longer he can keep it together.

"We’re not—"

The Thai immigrant gave a smile, shaking his head as he fetched a can of beer from the fridge. "Yes, yes, sorry, I forgot. 'We are just colleagues. She is the one who uses the knives; I'm the shooter. Plans, gunshots, blah blah blah,'" Pasin mimicked Jin-Man, closing the fridge with his foot before rolling his eyes dramatically and straightening his back, squaring his shoulders. "You two are impossible. And speaking of which, who's going to clean up this mess in the kitchen? Because it won't be me. And if you find my body lying in a pool of chocolate, at least give me a decent eulogy."

Jin-Man smirked, shaking his head. "You always have a flair for the dramatic, Pasin. Maybe you should have been an actor instead of a soldier."

Pasin laughed, taking a swig of his beer. "And miss out on all the fun of dodging bullets and cleaning up after you two? No thanks. But seriously, what’s with the cake? Are we celebrating something, or is this just another one of your midnight baking sprees?"

You rolled your eyes, scooping another dollop of frosting onto the cake. "Jin-Man has been nagging me to make this chocolate mint cake for ages. Figured I’d finally give it a shot. Besides, it’s been a while since we had something sweet around here."

Pasin raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. "Chocolate and mint, huh? Sounds fancy. You know, back in Thailand, we had this dessert called Khanom Chan. It’s a layered cake made of rice flour, coconut milk, and pandanus leaves. My grandma used to make it for special occasions. Maybe I’ll whip it up for you guys sometime. Show you what real dessert tastes like."

Jin-Man chuckled, shaking his head. "I’ll hold you to that, Pasin. But for now, let’s see if this cake lives up to its hype. And maybe, just maybe, we can avoid burning down the kitchen in the process."

Pasin clapped Jin-Man on the shoulder, grinning. "Deal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to scrub the smell of dairy farms off me. Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone."

The sound of gravel beneath tires makes you startle back to reality. It's a motorcycle. The low hum of the engine cuts through the evening silence, and you can hear the faint squeak of brakes as it comes to a halt. Ji-An arrived. You can hear her fidgeting with her pockets, can see her expecting to hear the jingle of keys mixing with the distant chirping of crickets, and see the crunch of her nose when she finds nothing. The smell of gasoline and dust lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of pine from the trees surrounding the house.

You stash the letter and USB drive into the inner pocket of your jacket, feeling the cool metal press against your ribcage. There’s no time to be delicate; you have 2 minutes before she gives up and bends down to pick the spare key beneath the worn-out welcome mat. You need to leave before she sees that the weird doctor from the morgue is in her fucking house

"Where the hell is that key?" Ji-An mutters under her breath, frustration evident in her voice. She pats down her black leather jacket, and the sound of metal on metal grows louder as she digs deeper into her pockets. Her boots crunch on the gravel. "Come on, come on," she grumbles, her voice rising slightly in pitch. Her hair falls into her eyes. She blows a stray strand away impatiently, her breath visible in the cool night air.

You barely have time to hide the loose floorboard and close the office door before you hear her footsteps approaching the front door. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You slip out of Jin-Man's office, moving swiftly but silently through the hallway, your breaths shallow and controlled. You navigate through the dimly lit house, your senses heightened, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a thunderclap in your ears.

You reach the back door and gently push it open, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of water. You step outside, careful not to let the door slam behind you. The moon casts long shadows across the backyard, and you stick to the darkest corners, moving quickly towards the side gate. You glance back once, making sure Ji-An hasn’t noticed your escape.

You slip through the gate and duck behind a row of hedges, your motorcycle hidden just a few feet away. The sleek, black machine is your lifeline now. You move with purpose, straddling the seat and inserting the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and you cringe at the noise, glancing back towards the house. But there's no sign of Ji-An. You twist the throttle and take off, the wind whipping through your hair as you speed down the gravel path.

The bike's headlight cuts through the darkness like a knife, illuminating patches of yellow grass and muddy puddles on the sides of the road. Every now and then, a bat flaps its wings close to your face, causing you to swerve reflexively, and a small stream hums to your left, its water glimmering silver in the light. There are narrow streets lined with old wooden houses, their eaves heavy with age and darkness. The smell of rotten fish wafts from one open window as you pass by; another house has a young family gathered around a TV set, laughing at some ancient sitcom that blares from within. A group of teenagers huddle together on a corner, passing around a cigarette and talking loudly about sports or the new porn edition. 

As you approach the main road, however, you hear the voices of an old couple. They’re coming up the road, carrying bags of food in their hands. You slow down, trying to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible.

The old man, Mr. Park, as a name tag from the local market says on his chest, adjusts his glasses and squints at you, trying to make out your face in the dim light. He's wearing a faded blue cap that looks like it's seen better days, and his clothes are practical—heavy-duty work pants and a checkered flannel shirt, the kind you'd wear for a day of hard labor. He has a sturdy build, with broad shoulders that hint at a lifetime of physical work. On the other hand, his wife’s silver hair is tied back in a neat bun, and she clutches a small purse under her arm, its clasp shaped like a tiny bird. She’s wearing a floral apron over her coat, the kind with deep pockets that always seem to have a piece of candy or a spare coin for the neighbourhood kids. 

"Ji-An, is that you?" Mr. Park calls out, his voice trembling slightly with age. He shifts the bags in his hands, the labels from different brands of local produce peeking out—fresh vegetables, a loaf of bread from the bakery, and a carton of milk. "Where are you going at this hour, girl? We just saw you come up the road!"

Mrs. Park nods vigorously. "Yes, yes, darling. Something happened? Poor thing, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

You quickly put your helmet on, hoping it will obscure your features. You pull up beside them, pretending to be Ji-An. "Oh, just running an errand, harabeoji and halmeoni!" you say, your voice muffled by the helmet. "What do you have there?"

Mrs. Park smiles, her dentures slightly slipping as she does, and hands you a bag filled with homemade kimchi and rice cakes. "We brought some food for you. This kimchi is from the last batch we made, and these rice cakes are fresh. We know it’s been a tough time since Jin-Man’s passing. Our condolences, dear. We’ll be at the funeral."

Mr. Park places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "If you need anything, anything at all, you just let us know, alright? Jin-Man was a different one, detached from the countryside, yes, but he had a good heart. He helped us a lot, especially with the summer crops. Those tomatoes wouldn’t have grown half as well without his help. He was a master with that old tractor of his, always fixing it up so it could run just a little longer."

You nod as you clutch the bag tighter, feeling the warmth of the rice cakes through the plastic. "Thank you. He was a good uncle. Always knew how to lend a hand." You shift uncomfortably on the hard seat, feeling the cold leather bite into your skin through your thin jeans.

Mrs. Park's wrinkles deepen as she places a wrinkled hand over her husband's. "Take care, dear. Sleep and eat well. Do you need any help with the funeral, or is your auntie going to help you with it?"

Auntie? Jin-Man had… he had another woman? That’s why he left you behind? That’s why he didn’t have anything related to you in his house? Did you really sit there teaching him how to love and how to let someone in, knowing damn well it wouldn't be you?

“Auntie?” you repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue like rotten fruit. Your mind raced, trying to piece together this new fragment of information. You imagined a woman, perhaps in her late thirties, with a kind face and warm eyes, someone who had shared Jin-Man’s life in a way a younger girl like you never could. Someone who knew his secret laughter and his midnight snack cravings, who had nursed him through illnesses and comforted him during sleepless nights. Someone who had grown old with him, watched their garden wither and grow beside each other, their hands aged from hard work and time. The thought of it made your stomach turn, and you couldn't help but wonder what kind of person she was—did she know about you? Has Jin-Man ever mentioned your existence? Were they happy together?

You waited for a response, and in expectation, with all your senses heightened, you wished to immobilize the entire universe, fearing that a leaf might move, that someone might interrupt, that your breath, any gesture, might break the spell of the moment and make you fall again into the distance and void of words. Blood throbbed dully in your wrists, chest, and forehead. Your hands were cold and damp, almost numb. Your anxiety left you in extreme tension, as if ready to throw yourself into a whirlpool, as if ready to go mad.

Mr. Park widens his eyes slightly, a flicker of realization crossing his face. He stammers, his words faltering. "Ah, y-yes, your auntie. I suppose you might not know about her..."

The taste of bitterness lingers on your tongue, and your hands tremble slightly as you grip the handlebars of the motorcycle. “Oh, no, no! I know who you are talking about, yes. But I’m not actually in contact with her, so I don't know if she will... appear," you say, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably as your voice wavers. You can feel the cold sweat forming on your back, drenching your shirt and making the fabric stick uncomfortably to your skin.

The elderly couple exchanged a worried look but did not insist. "Well, if you need help, dear, we are here," said Mrs. Park, the compassion in her eyes making her lips tremble slightly. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, shielding herself from the cold night wind. 

“Thank you, I really appreciate it," you replied, your voice almost a whisper as you started the motorcycle's engine again. The Yamaha roared to life, the sound reverberating off the brick walls around you. “Thank you for the food again, really.” You bowed your head to them in deep gratitude, the weight of your helmet making the gesture slightly awkward. “Good night!”

"Good night!" Mrs. Park added, her voice a touch higher, betraying her worry. She reached out, as if to touch your arm, but stopped short, her hand hovering in the air before she let it fall to her side.

You speed through the empty roads leading out of town, passing by fields that seem to stretch endlessly into oblivion—their crops swaying gently under the moonlight like they have stories to tell if only someone would listen. The darkness swallows everything beyond them; it feels like there is no end or beginning to this world where secrets are buried deep within hearts and closets alike. The wind bites at your cheeks and fingers numb from cold; yet still, adrenaline keeps pumping through your veins like an unrelenting beast demanding acknowledgment.  You glance into your side mirror occasionally, making sure no one is following you, but for now, it seems like they've all gone inside for the night. You smile grimly in response to their absence—alone time is what you need right now more than anything else.

You want to scream, to break things, but instead, all that comes out is a hollow smile.

-------------------------

“Mrs. Lee? Can you wait just a second?”

Halting your steps, you look back to see the attendant from the shady motel you were staying in. Her name tag read "Mina," and the bubblegum she chewed snapped between her teeth, a pink bubble forming and popping every few seconds. She had a bored expression on her face, her dark eyeliner smudged slightly as if she'd been rubbing her eyes. Beside her, Yumi sat on the counter with her legs crossed, her skirt riding up just enough to almost show her panties. She glanced at you from under her eyelashes as she painted her nails a bright crimson, the color matching the cherry-red lipstick she wore. If she were off duty and you weren’t that urgent to look at this USB, it wouldn't hurt to have a quickie with her in some spare room. It wouldn't hurt to have some hot flesh in your cold hands.

“What is it?”

“Two men, twins, came here looking for you,” Mina said, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and fear. Her fingers drummed nervously on the counter, each tap echoing like a heartbeat. “Both had a cold expression and were filled with scars. They looked like they just walked out of a warzone.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grip tightening around the bag of food in your hands. “Twins? What did they look like?”

Mina chewed her gum thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing as she recounted the details. “They were tall, maybe about six feet. Both had buzz cuts and wore black leather jackets—looked like something straight out of a biker gang. One had a scar running down his left cheek, and the other had a tattoo peeking out from under his collar—a snake or a dragon, couldn’t tell for sure.”

Yumi glanced up from her nails, her smirk widening as she blew on them. “They were packing heat too. Saw the outline of a gun under one of their jackets. Made me think they were either cops or criminals.”

“Did they say what they wanted?” 

Mina shook her head, her oversized, retro glasses slipping down her nose as she did. “No, but they didn’t look like the talking type. More like the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kind.”

You sighed, recognizing the description. Dad always knew how to find you, no matter where you went. It seemed that your short-lived escape was over. Probably checking if you already knew about Jin-Man’s death. He isn’t stupid and you have a tendency to do things without thinking through the consequences. Now, the consequences were there, floating in your mind, and you couldn't keep them shoved back the way you shove dirty laundry into a closet instead of washing it.

Yumi hopped off the counter, her Converse sneakers squeaking slightly against the tiled floor. She started to circle you, her eyes scanning your face and clothes with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. “They scared the living daylights out of us,” she said in a childlike voice, her eyes wide with faux innocence, the kind you'd see on a doll in a horror movie. “I thought they’d hurt us if we didn’t tell them where you were staying. But we’re such loyal attendants, we never told them a thing.”

Mina’s gaze lingered hungrily on the homemade kimchi and rice cakes you carried before she glanced sideways at Yumi, who was now biting her lips and touching your arm like you were a lamb, although it was pretty clear you were the wolf in this scenario. “We just thought… maybe we could use some reinforcements. Just in case they show up next time.”

Yumi nodded vigorously, her pigtails bobbing with each movement. “Yeah, like, maybe we should call in some favors.”

You understood what she was hinting at. 

With another sigh, you handed her the bag of food and fished a couple of wons from your pocket, handing them to her. Yumi's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she took the money, giving you a glimpse of her cleavage as she tucked the wons into her bra. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, a calculated move from her days working the streets, using every trick in the book to get what she wanted. But you knew the game too well to be swayed by her flirtations.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lee!”

“Good night. I’m going to my room now.”

The stairs were narrow and steep, each step creaking ominously under your weight. The walls were lined with faded, water-stained wallpaper that might have been green once but now looked like a sickly shade of brown. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne grew stronger as you approached the fourth floor, mingling with the faint odor of mold and dampness. You passed by room 304, where the sounds of drunken laughter and a woman's exaggerated moans spilt out into the hallway. Some businessman letting off steam with a prostitute, you guessed. You were glad you didn’t have to settle for such shallow pleasures.

You reached your room, number 402, and slid the key card into the lock. The door opened with a reluctant groan, and you pushed it open with your fingertips since your hands were full of takeout from a restaurant near the port that was still open late. The fries were steaming hot and sour, and you savored the taste as you closed the door behind you, setting down the bag of food next to your laptop on the cheap wooden desk.

You took off your jacket and threw it on the bed before reaching for the lighter and cigarette that lay on the nightstand. Your hands were shaking slightly as you lit up; the smoke filled your lungs, and you exhaled slowly, trying to calm your nerves as you thought about what to do.

The room was small and dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a stained mattress on the bed. A small, portable fan whirred loudly on the nightstand next to it, doing nothing but pushing hot air around the room. There was a dirty sink and an equally filthy mirror above it, making it hard for you to look at yourself in the eyes. But it was more than enough for what you needed right now. You dropped onto the bed, feeling its springs groan under your weight, and stared at the empty bottle of soju next to an ashtray filled with butts and cigarette filters.  It seemed like forever since anyone had bothered to clean this place.

You finished smoking before tossing the cigarette butt into the ashtray carelessly and stood up again, pacing restlessly across the room. The squeaky floorboards beneath your feet only added to your agitation as thoughts raced through your head like wild horses. Your father would be here soon enough; there was no avoiding him this time. He always found you eventually; he always knew just where to look or who to ask for information about his wayward daughter. You rubbed at your face wearily before walking to your laptop.

You slide into the creaky chair, the legs scraping against the worn linoleum floor as you open your laptop. The screen flickers to life, casting a faint blue glow across your tired features. You plug the USB drive into the port, your fingers trembling slightly as you wait for the device to be recognized. The familiar chime of the computer acknowledging the new hardware is almost comforting in its routine normalcy.

The folder opens, revealing a series of files with cryptic names. Your eyes scan the list, searching for something that stands out, something that might give you a clue as to why Jin-Man had kept this hidden. The filenames are a mix of alphanumeric codes and odd words—"Dossier_003," "ProjectKX," "Confidential_12/21." 

You scroll, scroll through packs of photos and zips of files until one calls you out.

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 2: Slaughter house

Tick tack

Tick tack

30 minutes now and you're going crazy. You look at Moonjo through your mascara-coated eyelashes, the clumps of black giving your gaze an almost predatory edge. He only smirks, a Cheshire curl of lips that deflates another question once again. It's grating. It's perverse. But you still take a sip of the cold coffee.

Your fingers moved almost subconsciously to cross over each other on top of the table—a nervous habit you had since childhood when Mom wasn't looking. She would have shot you a disapproving look if she were still alive, reminding you of Dad and how he used to beat you for being so much like him. But she wasn't here now; she couldn’t make you feel like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. She couldn't see you crossing your fingers in this room, hoping against hope that Moonjo would open up and reveal something about his past or his crimes.

"Can you tell me about your... work? How do you reconcile your actions with your own moral compass, Mr. Seo?"

Moonjo's smile widened, revealing perfect, gleaming teeth that seemed almost too pristine, too sharp. He reached for the crayon you usually leave out for Mina, a patient with regression disorder. The bright red crayon looked almost comically out of place in his large, bruised hand. Without breaking eye contact, he began to sketch on the paper in front of him, making slow and chirurgical strokes that gradually took form.

"You see, Dr. Song, extracting a tooth is an art form. It's delicate, precise. You must be gentle but also firm. One wrong move and you could shatter the tooth, ruin the whole endeavor. It's very similar to... my other work."

He paused, glancing down at his doodle. Hollow eyes, razor-thin smile lines carved out of the paper.

"I had an unfortunate upbringing. My father was a strict man—a pastor who preached about sin and damnation every Sunday. I suppose it rubbed off on me." Moonjo pulls at one of his bottom lips with his teeth, revealing the sharp edge of his incisor. There's something feral about him now, almost primal. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment—not only to share his story but also to relish in it. "I remember one Sunday, after a particularly fiery sermon about the wages of sin, he took me to the basement. There was a row of dental tools laid out on a white cloth—forceps, scalers, probes. He said they were instruments of God's will, tools to cleanse the soul. That day, I learned how to extract a tooth. He made me practice on myself first, pulling out a molar with trembling hands. The pain was excruciating, but the lesson was clear: salvation through suffering.”

Your pen hovered over the page, barely able to keep up with the torrent of his revelations. "I’m sorry for you—" 

“Don’t,” he shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. “People think of God as a comforting figure. Like a teddy bear a child clings to at night, or a security blanket. It's nice to think there's someone up there who's always watching, always caring. The promise of paradise, of eternal life—it’s a comforting thought, isn't it?"

You shifted in your seat again, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way around, trying to find some sort of comfort in the movement. "But not everyone sees it that way. Some people find comfort in the rituals and the community. It's not just about fear or comfort; it's about belonging."

Seo paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were trying to recall a distant memory. "For some people, yes. But I understood that it was always in the blood, in the agape mouths and in the crushed windpipes. It was in the steel of the dental tools, the ones I used to clean my victims' teeth before... well, you know."

It was like listening to a twisted version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; the transformation from healer to killer so seamless it was almost poetic. It was like being in a surreal version of a dentist's office—one where the patients were more likely to bite you than spit out what was stuck in their teeth.

“I might not understand everything, Mr. Seo. But I do know that everyone has their reasons and their justifications. Even if those reasons are twisted and dark, yes. I know.”

The man looks up from his drawing and raises an eyebrow at you—a challenge in his eyes. You force yourself to maintain eye contact, holding his gaze even if it feels like he's seeing straight into your soul.

"If the idea of eternal punishment is the only thing keeping you good, are you really a good person? Is it the fear of hell that makes you help an old lady cross the street, or is it genuine kindness? Maybe it was other things that caused me to lose my belief. Maybe my faith was only conditional to begin with. Perhaps it was rooted in the childlike wonder I felt when I first read the Bible, like believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny."

Moonjo stretches his arm out, displaying the paper with the half-finished drawing—a crude sketch of a man in a robe, arms spread wide and eyes closed—and an almost serene smile on his face. Above his head, a halo glows bright and golden. "Sometimes when we prayed at church or at home, I would close my eyes and try to summon that feeling of awe, of connection to something greater. But it always felt hollow, like I was reciting lines from a play I no longer believed in."

You took a deep breath before speaking again, not wanting to break the eerie silence that had fallen between you two. "I understand, Mr. Seo… But what do you want me to do with this? This man in your sketch, is he supposed to represent your father, or perhaps a version of yourself?"

You held up the drawing, trying not to let your shaking hands give away your fear. There was no answer from Moonjo; he simply sat there, staring at you with those empty eyes that seemed to hold an endless well of madness. Sweat began to bead on your forehead as the temperature in the room dropped precipitously. It felt as if the air itself were becoming chilled by his presence, as if he were sucking out all warmth and light like some kind of parasite.

"Mr. Seo?" You tried again, louder this time. "Are you alright?"

He didn't respond, but instead reached over to a small pot on the table and picked up a stick of sugar-free gum from it. Popping it into his mouth with a loud crack, he began chewing vigorously on it as he stared at you intently, studying your every move as if trying to decide whether or not you were worth keeping around any longer.

“This is how they saw him. Pure and holy, a beacon of light." His voice drawls with disgust, lips pulling back to show his teeth chewing the gum. "But I saw something else. I saw an old man who'd lost control of his son, who beat him when he misbehaved and demanded silent obedience. I saw the hypocrisy in their pews every Sunday. They sang hymns of love while their husbands beat their wives at home." He pauses, nodding slowly as if in agreement with himself. "So I started cleansing them—cleansing them with my own hands and tools. It was liberating."

As he speaks, he absently fiddles with the red crayon, twirling it between his fingers before dipping it into the black inkpot on the table. A smear of blood-red color mixes with the black ink, forming an ominous stain on the wet surface. The sound of scratching fills the air as he writes his next words: 'Sometimes I imagine they scream so loud for me'. 

In general, when you start working with a patient, there is no urgency, no predetermined therapeutic timeline to meet specific goals. Usually, it begins with many months of conversation. In an ideal world, Moonjo would talk about himself, his life, and his childhood. You would listen, gradually building a picture until it was complete enough to venture into precise and useful interpretations. But in this case, nothing real would be said. Nothing non manipulative would be heard. The information you needed would have to be obtained from non-verbal cues, from whatever information you could extract from other sources, like the confidential notes from the police files or the whispered rumors among the nurses.

In other words, you had to set a plan in motion to help Moonjo without knowing exactly how to execute it. 

A fly buzzes aimlessly around your head before landing on Moonjo's sleeve; he casually reaches out and crushes it between his fingers, never breaking eye contact with you. The crunch of the exoskeleton is barely audible, but you can see the minute satisfaction in his eyes as he slowly pulls at the insect, dismembering it piece by piece. His jaw tightens, and you can't help but notice the pure, unadulterated grayness in his gaze—no spark, no humanity. Were the men and women he killed made out of a pair of fully developed wings on the thorax and a knobby, vestigial second pair of wings too? Had they too committed the crime of being small enough to fit between his fingers?

"You know, Mr. Seo, everyone has a different perspective on faith and morality. It's not always about fear of punishment or the promise of reward. Sometimes, it's about the simple act of doing what's right because it feels right. It's about the connections we forge and the empathy we extend to others." You spoke with more confidence than you felt. And you thought your voice sounded inordinately high and squeaky, though you could barely hear it, blood pumping so hard in your ears.  "When I help someone, whether it's through my work here or in my personal life, it's not because I'm afraid of some divine retribution. It's because I believe in the inherent value of each human life. I believe in the power of compassion and understanding to bring about change, no matter how small."

Moonjo's smile widened as he dropped the insect, now crushed like an ant beneath a boot heel. Its wings had been smudged into grayish-black smears and you tried not to fidget at the thought that you were now the insect he wanted to dissect, to see if your blood was just as shiny and if your teeth would be as easy to pull out, but the rustle of your skirt against the vinyl chair caused you to twitch involuntarily. 

"Do you really believe in what you're saying?" he asked, wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell, emphasizing their length and dexterity. "Or is your faith rotting in your drawer alongside your paints and canvases?"

Breath catches in your throat like an invisible noose tightening around your neck and your hand moves instinctively towards your necklace at the base of your throat—a simple silver chain holding an old Saint Christopher medal your first patient had given you when you first started working here.

You had never mentioned your passion for painting to anyone. How could he possibly know? 

Quickly, you find your hand reaching for the recorder, your fingers fumbling a little, but you manage to hit 'pause' just before the next words. You can't believe what you're hearing. Your stomach churns and you feel your face go pale, yet you know that there are only ten more minutes left and you're pulling the plug on this interview. You'll have to pick it up with another patient later or simply write it up yourself based on his words, but the last thing you will do is be here when night falls. 

"How do you know about that?"

He pointed toward your nails. "It's all in the details, Dr. Song. The way you hold your pen, the slight smudges on your skin... It's clear that you paint. And it's also clear that you're trying to reconcile two parts of yourself—the healer and the artist."

You glanced down at your hands, now trembling slightly. The faint traces of ultramarine blue under your thumbnail, the barely noticeable streak of burnt sienna on your wrist—marks of your late-night sessions that never seemed to completely wash away, no matter how hard you scrubbed with the lavender-scented soap from the local market.

Still, who would look at tiny bits of color strokes that couldn’t be cleaned with a sponge and make poetry out of them?

You gulp down the rest of your cold coffee, feeling its harshness sit heavy in your stomach like a rock. Moonjo watches intently as you set the mug down gently on the table that separates you from him—its metallic clank echoing off the walls like a warning bell in an empty church steeple.

"What makes you think my faith is rotting?" 

"Because, jagiya, people like us... we wear masks. We hide behind our roles and our titles. But deep down, we are all searching for something. And sometimes, the very things we believe in, the things we cling to, can decay and fester within us."

"And what about you, Mr. Seo? What are you searching for? What lies beneath your mask?"

Moonjo shrugs nonchalantly, his chained hands moving up to his leather restraints as if he could snap them off at any moment if he wanted to. "Perhaps I'm searching for someone who can understand the darkness within me. Someone who can see beyond the monster and find the humanity buried deep.”

Tick tack.

Suddenly, another fly buzzes around the room. It lands on the battered oak table, right next to the crushed remains of the last one Moonjo had dismembered. Its tiny legs twitch as it surveys the scene, perhaps sensing the latent malice in the room. It cautiously inches towards your coffee mug. You shiver involuntarily as its spindly legs dance closer to the rim of the mug, delicately navigating the remnants of your lipstick stain. 

Still, you just roll a piece of paper—the appointment schedule for the day, printed on flimsy office stock—and swat it away. The fly buzzes off, leaving a faint smear on the page, the scent of ink and paper mingling with the stale smell of old coffee.

It's an innocent gesture, a reflex born out of years of dealing with minor nuisances. But the act makes Moonjo stifle a laugh, a sound that is both mocking and curious. He tilts his head as if you were an interesting specimen under his scrutinizing gaze, his eyes narrowing like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

“…Or maybe I'm just looking for my next challenge." His tone was perfectly neutral, without judgment. 

Even so, you felt a swell in your chest—a familiar toxic squeeze—like your lungs were eroding under the sheer weight of your work. You exhaled, fighting to remain calm. Seo Moonjo stayed under control only so long as you were calm. 

"And do you think you'll find what you're looking for here, in this room with me?"

Moonjo's eyes bore into yours. "Maybe. Or maybe you'll find something about yourself that you never wanted to confront."

After a failed snack at the cafeteria—where the only offerings were a sad-looking sandwich with wilted lettuce and a cup of what could only be described as dishwater masquerading as coffee—you wandered through the dimly lit corridors of Gonjiam, still stained with the rusty marks of dried blood from the day a patient named Ji-Hoon had torn out his IV and sprinted through the halls, desperate for an escape. The metallic tang of old blood seemed to cling to the air, mingling with the antiseptic scent that never quite masked the underlying odor of despair. You needed to sneak out for a cigarette to escape the suffocating weight of your thoughts after the unnerving session with Seo Moonjo. His doodle, now folded and tucked away in your pocket, felt like a lead weight pressing against your leg.

Just as you were about to give up after minutes of wandering around and heading back to your office, Son Yoo Jeong appeared near the fire escape, her ever-present clipboard clutched to her chest and a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, suggesting she'd been rushing around the ward. Still, she was pretty with her new short bob cut, the kind of haircut that looked effortlessly chic but probably required meticulous maintenance.  

“Are you lost, Y/N?" Jeong tilted her head slightly, her brown eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress.

You hesitated, the urge to confess weighing heavily on your chest. “No, not lost. Just... needing a break, noona.” 

The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, there’s no need to lie, honey! It happens even with senior nurses! It took me months to find my way around here. It feels like a maze with no exit. Sometimes I still get lost, and I've been here for ten years." She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that contrasted sharply with the heavy atmosphere.

Before you could protest, she gently took you by the arm, her fingers surprisingly strong for someone so petite. She led you through a series of twists and turns, past the nurses' station, where a couple of RNs were chatting over their cups. You barely had time to register the framed prints of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Monet's "Water Lilies" hanging on the walls before she was guiding you upstairs, where nurses and aides moved in and out, their scrubs a blur of blues and greens, punctuated by the occasional flash of a brightly colored lanyard or a pin celebrating a recent vaccination. 

"I'll put the water on to boil," Jeong said as soon as you two entered the place, her voice cutting through the noise. "What a miserable weather, huh? It would be better if it started raining to end this... Rainis a very strong symbol in the imagination, don't you think? It cleans everything. Have you noticed how patients like to talk about storms? Try to observe. It's interesting."

To your surprise, she reached into her oversized tote bag—a well-worn, brown leather piece that looked like it had seen better days—and pulled out a huge piece of cake wrapped in cling film, placing it in your hand. "Here. Walnut cake. I made it last night. For you. Don't think I didn't notice your pretty face getting smaller every day. I know you're not eating."

"Wow, thanks. I..."

"I know it's not conventional, but I always get better results with difficult patients when I offer a slice of cake during the session," she said with a wink.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. "I bet you do. Am I a difficult patient?

Jeong giggled with a deep, hearty sound. "No, although I also think it works well with difficult team members... which you are not, by the way. A little sugar helps a lot to improve the mood. I used to make cakes for the cafeteria, but Sangwoo made such a fuss about all that nonsense about health and safety with food brought from outside... It was like I was smuggling files to see through the bars. But I still make my cakes on the sly sometimes. My rebellion against the dictatorial state. Eat a piece.

It wasn't a suggestion but an order. You took a bite. It was delicious. The cake had a perfect consistency, full of walnut pieces, and just the right amount of sweetness. You were chewing, so you tried to cover your mouth while speaking. "I have no doubt that this will put your patients in a good mood."

Jeong clapped her hands, seeming pleased. You realized why you liked her: she radiated a kind of maternal calm. She reminded you of your former therapist, Go Eun. It was hard to imagine her angry or upset. She also had that pink shade on her, mostly on the tip of her nose. You suspected it was partly from the cold; the hospital's thermostat perpetually set a few degrees too low, partly from her habit of pinching her cheeks whenever she felt flustered—a nervous tick she picked up from her grandmother, who always said a little color in the cheeks made one look healthier and mostly because she was just pure goodness and kindness.

You glanced around the room while she made the tea. The nurse's station is always the center of a psychiatric unit, the heart of the place: staff coming and going, and it's from there that the ward is managed day-to-day, or at least where practical decisions are made. "Aquarium" was the nickname the nurses themselves gave the station because the walls were made of reinforced glass, meaning the staff could keep an eye on the patients in the recreation room, at least in theory. In practice, the patients roamed outside constantly, looking in at us, making us the ones under constant observation. Since the space was small, there weren't enough chairs, and the existing ones were usually occupied by nurses working on the computers. So, you generally stood in the middle of the room or leaned awkwardly against a desk, making the place feel crowded no matter how many people were inside.

"Here you go, my dear." Jeong handed you a cup of chamomile tea, the steam curling up in delicate tendrils. 

"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed after Jungwoo dropped a big case on my lap out of nowhere. He didn't even give me a heads-up; he just waltzed into the garden and dumped a stack of files on my hands. I swear, he enjoys watching me scramble."

Jeong sighed like a teenage girl from one of those American movies, twirling a lock of her new short bob cut around her finger. "Oh, that cutie. Have you seen him this afternoon? I wanted to show him my new hair. I thought he might appreciate the change. You know, he has a good eye for detail.”

You took a sip of the tea, savoring the gentle floral notes. "He clocked out around three. Said he had scheduled a meeting with his previous seniors and his girl. Probably talking about his residency program and catching up on old times. He looked pretty excited about it.”

"Wished I was her," Jeong sighed wistfully, leaning against the counter. Her new bob swayed as she shook her head. "It must be nice to have a boyfriend so cute like that. Plus, he's a nurse. It makes his appeal get a boost. I mean, who wouldn't want someone who can take care of them and look like he walked out of a K-drama? Remember when he helped old Mrs. Kim during her panic attack last week? The way his hands moved so gently, so sure..."

"Please, stop," you groaned, feeling the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. You set down your cup with more force than necessary, the china clinking against the saucer. It was bad enough that Jungwoo was the topic of many daydreams among the staff; hearing it out loud made it all the more embarrassing. And it certainly didn't help that you'd caught yourself staring at those very hands more times than you cared to admit.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot I'm talking with Mrs. Cold here."

"Mrs. Cold, huh?"

"Well, you know how it is," Jeong leaned in conspiratorially, her breath smelling faintly of the walnut cake. "You've got that icy exterior, but we all know you're just a big softie underneath. Like a lollipop with a hard shell and a gooey center. Besides, it's kind of endearing. The way you pretend not to care when Jungwoo brings you coffee every morning, or how you always make sure he eats during long shifts..."

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Just call me the Ice Queen of Gonjiam.”

“Hey, it’s better than some of the other nicknames flying around,” Jeong winked, glancing around as if to make sure no one else was listening. “Remember when Nurse Kim accidentally dyed her hair green and everyone called her ‘The Hulk’ for months? At least your nickname has a certain... elegance to it.”

“You're impossible, Noona.”

Just then, the door to the nurse's station creaked open, and Go Sangman entered, his presence immediately commanding the room. The man was painfully thin, almost skeletal, his frame accentuated by the oversized white coat he wore. His thick glasses magnified his eyes to an almost comical degree, and his hair clung to his scalp in a desperate attempt to cover the bald spots. A dark blue one.

As always, though, he exuded a strong smell of mint gum that he was always chewing. 

It was one of the few things you shared in common while you worked at a downtown asylum, and you recalled that he smoked a lot. However, he had given up smoking, got married, and had a young child since then. You pondered Sangman's potential as a father. Thought he was not a very caring guy, and yet here he was—the new employee of the month, with his picture emblazoned on the bulletin board outside the "aquarium," surrounded by an outrageous gold border.

He gave you a cold smile. "Funny running into you again, Y/N."

"Small world."

"The world of mental health certainly is," he said, as if to imply that he could also be found in other, broader worlds. You tried to imagine what those might be like, but all you could visualize was him hunched over a dimly lit desk, engrossed in the latest volume of "Attack on Titan" or scrolling through a forum dedicated to anime theories.

"How's Ji-Young and little Soo-Min?" You asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Ji-Young has become quite the entrepreneur," he finally said, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Her brownies are practically flying off the shelves. And Soo-Min... She's already the teacher's pet. Loves her new ‘Frozen’ backpack and can’t stop talking about Mrs. Kim, her homeroom teacher. Time flies, doesn't it?"

You nodded."It sure does."

Sangman stared at you for a few seconds. You had forgotten his habit of pausing, sometimes for a long time, forcing the other person to wait while he considered his response. It annoyed you now, just as it did back then.

"I’ve joined the team at a rather inopportune moment," he said finally. "The sword of Damocles is hanging over the Gonjiam."

"You think the situation is that bad?"

"It's only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the government will close our doors," he replied, his eyes narrowing as he leaned against the doorframe. "The question is, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Jeong asked, pausing mid-bite of her walnut cake, the crumbs scattering onto her clipboard. A child’s laughter at a funeral.

"Well, when the ship starts sinking, the rats run away. They don't climb aboard."

You were perplexed by Sangman's direct aggression. You decided not to take the bait. "It's possible. But I'm not a rat. And in that case, you are the one who should leave since you’re new here."

Before he could respond, a violent bang on the reinforced glass interrupted the conversation. Hanna was on the other side of the window, pounding on it with such ferocity that the glass vibrated. Her face was pressed against the glass, nose squished flat, features distorted to the point of resembling something out of a Francis Bacon painting. 

"I'm not taking this shit anymore. I hate these fucking pills, man..."

Sangman opened a small hatch in the glass, the kind you see in old bank teller windows, and spoke through it. "Now is not the time to discuss this, girl."

Hanna's eyes were wild; her pupils dilated. "Discuss? What's there to discuss? You people don't listen. You just shove pills down our throats and expect us to be grateful."

"I'm not talking about this now. Make an appointment to talk in a private setting. Please, step back.”

But Hanna was having none of it. "You mean the isolation room, right? Where you can pump me full of more drugs?" Her words were laced with bitterness, and you couldn't blame her. The isolation room—Room 317, a windowless cube—was a last resort, a place none of the patients wanted to end up. The walls were padded, and the only window was a small, barred one high up on the wall, allowing in just a sliver of daylight. Designed to break the spirit.

“Go. Away.”

Hanna furrowed her brow and thought for a while. After that, she turned and went away with a heavy step, leaving behind a small condensation circle where her nose had touched the glass. Her slow shuffling step, with one foot dragging slightly behind the other due to an old injury sustained during one of her episodes, was audible.

Jeong sighed while pouting, "Poor Hanna."

Sangman grumbled, " There’s nothing poor about her. Difficult. That 's all she is."

"Do you even know why she is here?" You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the chamomile tea in your hand, before eyeing his red face, the veins in his neck bulging slightly as if he were restraining himself from snapping back.

"Double homicide," Go replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "She killed her mother and sister. Smothered them while they slept."

You shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth curling into a grim smile. "No. Wrong. She actually killed her abusive father. The one you’re talking about is Gunwoo-shi. Before calling me or other people rats, you should recognize you’re one yourself.”

Sangman’s eyes widened momentarily, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through his usual facade. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for the pack of cigarettes he no longer carried. "I don't recall—"

“Of course, you don't," you interrupted. "You’ve always been quick to judge, slow to understand. Hanna was admitted last spring. Maybe you’re too busy with your ‘research’ on the effects of antipsychotic medications on her to notice the details. She killed her father in self-defense. He broke her soul before she broke his neck.”

“Ouch!” Jeong giggled. “You deserved that, oppa!”

“That’s not funny,” Sangman retorted, rubbing his arm where Jeong had playfully swatted him. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he pushed them back up.

Ignoring them, you watched what was happening on the other side of the glass. 

Hanna had joined the other patients. She was much larger than the others. One of the patients, a man named Minho with a penchant for collecting bottle caps, handed her a crumpled five-thousand won note, which she pocketed with a practiced nonchalance. Minho's eyes darted around nervously, his fingers twitching as if he were itching to add another cap to his collection. 

Just as you were about to resume your conversation with Jeong about the teenager’s relationship, you noticed a stillness settle over the room. Across from you, Jeong looks like she might be sick; her face is ashen and she keeps licking her lips, a nervous habit you remember from when she first started working here. Go Sangman stays rigid near the doorway, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his mouth slightly agape as if unable to find words for once.

It was as if someone had pressed a mute button, silencing the usual ambient noise of whispers, shuffling feet, and the hum of fluorescent lights. Every head, every pair of eyes turned slowly to the left, towards the maximum security room.

You followed their gaze and felt a chill run down your spine. The double doors of the high-security wing creaked open, and there he was—Seo Moonjo. Flanked by five guards, he walked with an unsettling calmness, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying his territory. The guards looked tense, their grips tight on the batons at their sides, ready for any sudden movement. They had seen this before—patients attempting to attack their infamous new roommate in order to earn his favor and join his ranks.

As they led him towards the solitary dining area, the patients parted like the Red Sea, creating a wide berth for Moonjo and his entourage. Some of the more unstable patients reached out as he passed, their fingers barely grazing his skin. Their eyes were wide, filled with a mix of awe and fear, as if they were in the presence of some unholy deity.

"Moonjo-ssi," Yoo Gi-hyeok said, his voice trembling. He stretched out his hand, trying to touch Moonjo's face as if seeking a blessing. "Save us..."

The dentist’s lips curled into a smile, but it held no warmth. His eyes were dark, devoid of any human emotion. He allowed the patient to touch his cheek for the briefest moment before the guards shoved the man back, causing him to stumble and fall. 

Gi-hyeok didn't seem to mind; he lay on the floor, gazing up at Moonjo with a look of reverence. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth slightly agape as if still tasting something—perhaps what little piece of human connection he got from touching the infamous killer or perhaps simply relishing in fear itself. Whatever it was, it made them all feel alive in some twisted way.

A savior? Or a butcher? Did the others sense the predator within him, the one that saw them not as individuals but as prey? As potential meals, are their flesh and bones nothing more than sustenance for his insatiable hunger? Did they sense, in some deep part of their psyche, that he would devour them, body and soul?

And what did Moonjo see when he looked at them? Did he see the delicate curve of their necks, the pulse of their blood just beneath the skin? Did he imagine the taste of their fear, the texture of their flesh as his teeth tore through it? Was every touch, every glance, a prelude to a feast, a silent promise of their inevitable consumption?

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—horrifying yet impossible to look away from. Moonjo continued his march towards the solitary dining area, his presence casting a long shadow over the room.

Jeong took a quick sip of her tea but spilled some down her chin when her hand shook; she quickly wiped it away with a trembling hand. 

She glanced at you with wide eyes before looking back at Moonjo's retreating form. ” It's his first day here and they act like this when he's around. They treat him as if he's some kind of messiah."

With that, Moonjo and his guards disappeared behind the heavy metal door of the solitary dining area, the clang of the door echoing ominously through the now silent room.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Kwang, Min-Jun's father, short leashes his dogs again. They were valuable, and he had no intention of losing them to a shot female doe howling and gibbering just down yonder. His son reloaded their guns and snapped them closed. That howling had chilled you and made the sweat under your arms run down your back feel like ice water. When situations become uncomfortable like this, people look for someone to guide them and in such cases, Kwang Jun steps up. He wasn’t feeling much of a hero right then—quite the contrary—but he did it nonetheless, leading the way toward an outcrop of alders jutting ambitiously from the woody fringe on your right side while you followed nervously at a short distance behind him, trying hard not to stumble over roots or fall behind too far.

Only once did he halt his stride—long enough to crush his spent cigarette underfoot—and then push ahead into the vast open area beyond trees filled with dense underbrush.

To the left, the riverbank sloped gently. Thunderstruck, you halted, wishing you could erase the sight that greeted you, a sight that would haunt your dreams—it was the sort of raw, sun-scorched nightmare that lurked beyond the ordinary—church suppers, walks along the vibrant Han River, honest labor in the factories, stolen kisses under the cherry blossoms. As you'd often told Ae-ra after her nightly story, there's a grimacing skull lurking behind every man's smile. That day, you saw it—you saw the grinning skull.

Sprawled on the riverbank was the most beautiful doe, a bullet lodged in her back. Flies had already begun to gather, buzzing around her wounds and settling in the congealing blood. Her head turned towards the gray sky, as if admiring the sparrows launching from the Lotte World Tower before retiring to the bushes. And then you notice it—a slight bulge in her abdomen. She was pregnant.

So often you read in the local paper that “the killer showed no remorse,” but that wasn’t the case here. Min Jun was torn open by what he had done, you saw it in the trembling of his lips, the quivering of his right point finger on the trigger, the way his eyes widened and darted around, almost as if seeking an escape from the reality he had created. . . But he would live. The doe would not. She had been torn open in a more fundamental way, a way that the blood seeping into the earth couldn't even begin to convey.

You have never been as quiet as you were at that moment, holding that live track. Your whole body just stopped working. Your legs felt like water, jelly, completely unreliable. Your mouth opened. You didn't open it; it opened by itself, a gaping maw trying to silently scream. You couldn't move, but you could hear, see and sense everything inside you and for miles around. It was like you were hyper aware of every rustling leaf, every distant bird call, every breath you took. You thought of church mornings at the confessional with that smelly priest, and you thought that Min Jun and you would soon be joining him in seeking absolution.

You think it was fear. You're always fearful. For what you've done, for what you haven't, for things that haven't even happened yet. The fear is a constant deadweight. A backpack full of wet cement is strapped to your shoulders, dragging you down. You were fearful of not spending enough time outside, of playing with your dolls—a Barbie with a missing shoe and tangled blonde hair that you found in the trash and the plush rabbit Dad won you at the county fair before getting drunk and hitting Mom in front of the Mayor. Fear accompanying your neighbors on their hunt. 

You were fearful of not trying hard enough to be better.

"Come on, girl. Get closer. Don’t think too much about it. Her head will have a special place in our family’s house," Kwang chuckled as he finished lighting his tobacco stick, the one he always kept tucked behind his ear, before ruffling your hair and pushing you to stand in front of the bloodied carcass. "She turned out to be on our way; she turned out to be prey, kid.”

You think about the way he said it. Turned out. Not grew up to be a prey. She turned out to be prey. Like she was always supposed to be this way, and it was just hiding inside of her. And this was all inevitable. And her instincts of submission were hiding right underneath the surface when she birthed her fawn in the spring, teaching it to navigate the forest, to find the sweetest grass by the riverbank, to leap over the streams that crisscrossed the woods. Like a volcano that's seen as a mountain, the ones people live right on top of. 

It doesn't look deadly until it is.

Your bones shift away from one another like nervous tectonic plates as you crack your head down to finally look at the animal’s eyes. Toes become bloated like little water balloons as you kneel in the grass, the damp earth soaking through your worn-out Converse sneakers. Your eyes crystallize and for a second, everything feels okay as you wrap the frayed, weathered cord around the doe’s neck, the rough fibers scratching against your palms.

Then you explode.

No.

You don't explode.

You slowly morph as you finish the third loop. The wick effect. Your own fat keeps you inflamed. Looking into the water of the river, you see yourself changing. Your reflection warps; your features distort and elongate. Your hair falls out in clumps, drifting away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Your eyes, once black and sharp, soften and take on the glassy, lifeless stare of the doe. You watch as your skin stretches and sags, transforming into a hide, your freckles merging into the spots of a fawn. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, but no sound comes out—only the soft, pitiful bleat of a wounded animal.

Just before you fully morph into the doe, before your mind succumbs to the instinctual fear and resignation of a hunted creature, you wake up.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You reach for the hairbrush and start smoothing down your wild hair. It always stuck up all over the place in the morning, especially after a nightmare that involved placing the corpse of a doe in the back of a truck. 

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. Still the same, old you: short, black hair that reached down to the chin, black eyes, and splatters of freckles over the ridge of your nose and the rest of your body. Your nightgown had slipped down during the night, revealing a pale shoulder. You stopped brushing out your hair and tugged it back up.

Your eyes caught the glint of the diamond ring on your finger, a small but noticeable sparkle even in the dim morning light. You looked outside. The sky was gray today, with a blanket of clouds promising a downpour. The kind of weather that made you want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over your head, and forget the world existed.

It's funny, isn’t it? 

Sighing, you reached for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter at the far end of the vanity, only to find nothing. Jesus. Min Jun and his fucking ramblings about lung cancer and how, as a doctor, you should stop going to the hospital smelling like nicotine or weed. The endless lectures about the carcinogens, the secondhand smoke, the image you presented to your patients—it was all part of his new routine.

“Looking for this?” 

You cracked your head to the side, turning to see the man himself standing there in the doorway, wiggling your cigarettes and the lighter. He was already dressed in a new, crisp suit with trousers tailored to his frame, as well as a tie that matched his jacket and polished leather shoes from Ferragamo. God, he had been insufferable since he discovered aesthetics on his social media feed, always posting pictures of himself in meticulously coordinated outfits, each post tagged with #OOTD and #Style Goals.

But, yeah, today, his clothes matched the color you always associated with him.

Yellow.

Min Jun’s yellow wasn’t the vibrant hue of sunflowers or gold. It was the jaundiced yellow of sickness, the kind that creeps into your skin and festers. It was the color of deceit, of broken promises whispered in the dark. Every time he flashed that politician's yellow smile, the one inherited from his dad, it made you nauseous. Old man Kwang, who had escalated a non-violent protest into bloodshed. It was Min Jun, though, who took Ae-ra with him that day. He paraded your girl around like some political prop to gain momentum for his father’s campaign.

You could never forgive him—not after what happened to her.

Because, in the end, it was their ambition that had taken your daughter away. A lamb led to slaughter.

Colorful flyers and bold banners invaded the city streets while chants and marches echoed in every corner—all for endorsing Kwang’s political charade. Slogans rang through speakers: "For a Brighter Tomorrow," "Unity and Progress," "Kwang Jun for the People." And Min Jun, playacting as the perfect son, had pulled Ae-ra into that cyclone of chaos. Your sweet little girl was swallowed by a turbulent crowd, lost within its confusion—her wide eyes were framed on the hospital TV screen as she clutched her new Hello Kitty backpack from Lotte Mart nervously—a maze of pink braids bouncing behind her with every step she took.

Everything around you in the psychiatric ward was fast and stressful that day, but you were stuck in tar while everyone else was on land. Sinking slowly while other people were using their legs to run in circles to help the Gonjiam Hospital with all the hurt people. Your legs didn’t work for days. Neither has your brain.

And now? Now you haven't cried since three weeks ago on the third anniversary of her death; your eyes feel dry and cold. You've tried, but there's just nothing. Even when you sit away from Min Jun and ignore his extended hand, watching things that aren't lungs move his chest up and down, praying to feel something for him, there's just silence in response. 

You did love Min Jun once. At times when he was cornered, you would dive into the deep end, plunge so suddenly it would cause waves to ripple out, drawing the public’s attention away from him. You would swim to abandoned shores where you would carry buckets, helping him scoop up the murky water of regrets as he cried out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed into the horizon. 

But what has he done for you? All these years of sacrifice have caused this world to erode everything that was once pure and you can no longer breathe with a rib missing. There was all of this water settling deep within the walls of your lungs, drowning you slowly. 

So, after her death, he grabbed another bucket and took you to the abandoned shores, where you used to scoop up his regrets to free him from all his mistakes. And you didn’t even cry out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed because, after all these years of carrying his mistakes, how could you believe that you had become one?

“Do you mind knocking before entering my bedroom?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so grumpy at this hour!” Min Ju retorted, his voice carrying an almost cheerful lilt that grated on your nerves. 

Sleeping in his office wasn’t doing the best things for his princess back; of course, you saw it as he walked in a hunched way. His loafers made no sound on the thick, cream-colored carpet, but the rustle of his suit filled the silence. He placed the lighter and the pack on your side on the vanity, making sure not to knock over the scattered makeup compacts and the crystal perfume bottle.

From the corner of your eyes, you noticed how he kicked the clothes you left on the floor after getting home exhausted from another grueling 12-hour shift. You noticed how he scoffed as he saw the patches on your faded covers, once a deep navy but now a murky gray from too many washes and your sweat.

“Did you wet the bed?” His laugh was a little louder this time, but still hollow. That was his old joke. It was stupid. 

Long ago, you pretended to laugh, pretended to play along, as if to apologize in front of former friends. In front of your own eyes, for admitting such a yoke. Nothing, however, was funny to you anymore.

“No, I had another nightmare.”

The cigarette finally lit, and you took a slow drag, feeling the familiar burn of nicotine as it filled your lungs. You discarded the lighter in the jewelry holder plate, where it landed with a small clank, nudging a pair of earrings slightly askew.

He scrunched his nose the exact same way Ae-ra used to before deciding to grab all the covers, making a bundle in his arms. “Nightmares again, huh? You know, Y/N, maybe if you didn’t bring your work home with you, you’d sleep better. All that stress isn't good for you. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, letting out a plume of smoke, coughing. “I’ll get right on that.”

He received the phrase with displeasure, as always, when your "animal intensity shocked him." He fixed his eyes on you, and progressively his features transformed. You almost blushed. The constant preoccupation with reaching his thoughts had not granted you the power to penetrate the most important ones, but it had honed your intuition regarding the smaller ones. You knew that for him to pity you, you had to be ridiculous. Neither hunger nor someone's misery moved him more than the lack of aesthetics. Loose hair, damp with sweat, fell over your flushed face, and the pain, to which your long-calm features had not yet adapted, must have twisted your mouth, lending them some grotesque note. At the most grave moment of your life, you were ridiculous, his pitiful gaze told you.

Finally, after seconds that felt like centuries, his eyes briefly flitted to the divorce papers on your nightstand but he ignored them. Instead, he focused on the small details of the room—the way your books were scattered everywhere, mostly medical journals and a few dog-eared novels, a framed photo of you and Ae-ra by the Han River, and, in the darkest corner of your room, your unfinished canvas.

“You know,” Min Jun began, walking towards your creation as if he were a little boy eager to discover his mom’s secrets. “I remember when you used to teach Ae-ra how to paint every night. So sweet….”

People said that a lot. Even your own mind did, sometimes. Be sweet like before; be better for the people around you. They knew there was a gaping hole inside of you, and they poked and prodded in there, looking for bits of Ae-Ra floating around in the void. As if somehow you could reach inside yourself and pull parts of her out—parts that you lacked. But she wasn't there. She was nowhere. When a part of you disappears, you change, and sometimes it's impossible to go back to who you used to be. That's what people didn't understand. That’s what this cosplay of SpongeBob didn’t understand.

You coughed again, then took one last inhale and stubbed the end of it on the vanity’s smooth and sanded surface, ash and embers falling to the carpet like crumbs off a pastry. “Yeah, well, those days are gone.”

Min Jun touched the dried paint, lingering over the signature line that remained blank. “You know, maybe if you spent half as much time on this marriage as you do at Westlake, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

You bristled at his words, but he continued, undeterred. “You’re always so busy, Y/N. Always with your patients, your research. Think about Ae-ra. She wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want her parents to fall apart like this.” He leaned closer, his cologne—something expensive and heavy—filling your senses and making you want to recoil.

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” you snapped, your voice breaking. “You think you can manipulate me with memories of her? You think that’s going to work?”

His eyes softened. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I just want us to be a family again. I miss her too, you know. Every single day.” He reached out to touch your hand, but you pulled away, the gesture feeling like a trap.

You pushed past him to the dresser made of dark, deep oak with elegant twisted legs and gilded golden trims. You picked out your attire for the day, folding it into a bundle: a red silk blouse, black high-waisted trousers with a tailored fit, a leather belt that cinched snugly over your waist, and your usual black heeled boots, still at the foot of the bed. There was still some mud caked on the bottoms, no matter how much you had scrubbed them the night before from running after a patient. You’d have to ask Jungwoo for his shoe shining spray.

With your clothes in hand, you made your way to the bathroom. Min Jun followed you like a shadow, still grumbling something about you and your work, but you tuned him out, focusing instead on the sound of your bare feet padding against the cold, hardwood floor. Still, after twenty seconds, you had enough.

You stopped at the bathroom door and turned to face him. “Why aren’t you at work already? Taking care of Daddy’s laundry?”

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening in a way that reminded you of the time he had to tell his father that he didn’t want to go into politics. “I was actually trying to be good for you. I know your car is still at the workshop and your driver is on vacation.”

You turned on the faucet, letting the warm water fill the tub. “I’ll take a cab,” you muttered, the words rolling off your tongue with a deliberate calmness, pronounced in a way that revolutionized and exposed what was most hidden within you.

While waiting for the water, you grabbed a towel from the shelves in the back as well as a bar of soap.

Min Jun’s eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Just like you always do. Ignore the problem, run away.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you laid out the towel on the heated rack. “You’re so dramatic, Min Jun. It’s almost entertaining.”

“What’s so funny?”

You turned off the faucet and threw your head back, your hair falling behind your back like a cascade of dark silk, the ends brushing against the lace trim of your nightgown. You laughed then, a sound that felt foreign, almost unnatural, before walking towards him, cornering him against the sink. He almost dropped the bundle of sheets in his hands, his eyes going wide with a mix of surprise and something else—fear, maybe?

For the first time in a long while, you saw the old Min Jun, the rebellious teenager who once stole his father’s suits to impress you, the same boy who would sneak flowers into your school locker when no one was watching. He used to bring you daisies, your favorite, wrapped in newspaper because he couldn’t afford anything else. Now, he stood before you, a stranger in an expensive suit, holding onto wet sheets and a past that no longer existed.

After feeling helpless, unsure of what to do with yourself, not wanting to continue the same past of calm and death, and unable to dominate a different future due to the habit of comfort, you now realized how free Min was and how unhappy he had been. His past—obscure, riddled with frustrated dreams—had left him unable to settle into the conformist, half-happy world of mediocrity.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his cheek, and whispered, "Min Jun." 

The sound of his name seemed to snap him out of his daze, and he blinked rapidly, trying to regain his composure.

He tried to take a step back, but the sink behind him left no room for escape. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his, and he flinched, almost losing his grip on the sheets.

“You think I don’t know you, huh?”

“W-what?”

He raised his eyes, meeting your anguished face, and narrowed them, analyzing and understanding you. There was a long minute of silence. You waited silently. You knew this moment was the first truly alive between you, the first that connected you directly. That moment suddenly separated you from all your past, and in a singular premonition, you foresaw that it would stand out as a red dot over the entire course of your life.

“Are you fucking out of your-” he began, but you cut him off, your words spilling out in a rapid-fire burst.

“Elections are coming up, aren’t they, honey? Elections are coming up, and your damn wife isn’t going to any of those shitty interviews or rallies anymore. Your wife doesn’t appear on the cameras, and it is making the public’s attention go to us instead of your father, and that is driving him mad. And now? Now I’m taking over Seo Moonjo’s case! What a perfect way to steal his lollipop, huh? So I’m guessing you’re being all sweet like that because something’s going to happen this weekend, isn’t it? A meeting or a family dinner? Or do you want to take me to bed, soften me up like a piece of meat and tell you all of the things that serial killer told me?”

Min Jun’s face flushed a deep red, his hands trembling slightly. “Are you really trying to use your psychiatric skills on me?”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Oh, darling, I don’t need to use any skills on you. You’re an open book and I know you're scared, aren’t you?” You whispered, your lips barely an inch from his ear. 

Jeong Jin Man x Fem!reader

Summary:

“Look at Babylon’s little princess! Got tired of being Dad’s loyal dog, huh? Decided to avenge your boyfriend instead of wagging your tail? What a dumb choice!"

There are hounds behind your eyes and between your molars. They nip your heels and bark in your ears. They're loud. Years ago, you wished someone would take this part of you out to the backyard and, like a sick dog, put it out of its misery. Years ago, you would pull them away and beg them to be quiet for once.

But now? Now you just watch them run wild and feral. They bite Bale as you lean down to whisper in his ear, and you let them. You do not put leashes on, and you do not open the cages.

“You don’t know me, Bale.”

”Oh, I don't?” he mocked, his lips curling into a sneer as he shifted his weight, trying to ease the pressure from where you had kicked him earlier. Blood trickled down from a cut on his forehead, mixing with the sweat on his face.

“No, because do you know what I became after Babylon, asshole?" You whisper as your left hand, free from the weight of the gun, grabs a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look directly into your eyes. "I'm the dog that tasted its owner's blood and learned that it was sweeter than any bone."

------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: Genesis

“She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.”

—Stephen King

It's hard to explain what it felt like to breathe when you saw him wrapped in the cold sheets of the morgue, his lifeless form lying on the stainless steel gurney under the fluorescent lights. Your eyes fall on the tag attached to his toe—the final indignity in a life cut short. Jeong Jin-Man, the label reads, followed by a string of numbers that mean nothing to you. 

He was more than just a name and a number. 

It's like your body betrays you. That's the only way you know how to say it. Your body doesn't know that it's supposed to move and run away from this hospital before the necropsy crew enters the room again, that the rest of you—the stuff inside—is locked away in someplace you can never return to. Your body doesn't know you don't want to stay there, in this cold environment that smells like formaldehyde and antiseptic, where nothing has changed along with the dead corpses all around you.

So it just keeps growing, changing, carrying you ahead—more machine than anything—but inside you are torn apart by the disparity of it all as you lift one trembling finger and trace Jin-Man’s nose, the tiny notch on top from that time you punched his face after a mission failed. 

But just as soon as you touch him, just as soon as you notice he won’t scrunch his nose and push your hand away because he always claimed it smelled like gunpowder, just as soon as you notice that he won’t look up at you through drowsy eyelashes before he pulls you by your waist, letting your body drape over his like a makeshift blanket, just as soon as you notice that he won’t use those big calloused hands—hands that were so skilled at maneuvering firearms—to wrap around your throat until your ears ring and your eyes get watery because it feels good to feel something other than panic attacks and anger, you step away.

You think about the time you spent together, the clandestine meetings in seedy motels, the whispered conversations about safe houses and escape routes, the constant fear of betrayal. 

But there will be no more whispered promises, no more shared secrets. That was what finally made you realize that the guy was dead. He wasn't ill; he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't going to get up in the morning anymore, or eat too many porky bellies from the street vendors, or worry about amino and bombs. He was dead, completely dead. He wasn't going to go out with his brother in the spring to collect bottles uncovered by the departing snow. He wasn't going to get into fights on the playground. He wasn't going to kill men in the name of Babylon. He was everything like wasn't, can't, don't, shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't. He was one big not. Jeong Jin-Man was dead.

That night, 13 years ago, you awoke with that fuzzy sensation in the back of your skull—the feeling you hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since you had last had a drink anyway. Your mouth felt like it had been wrapped in cotton, your tongue like sandpaper.

You dared a glance at the old clock above the fireplace mantel, the one that was commonly out of commission. It had numbers painted in black, elegant cursive with golden trim that had a knack for accumulating dust on its glinting edges. 

4:06.

“Where are you going at this hour, dude? Just lay with me for a little while. The training won’t start until 5:45,” you mumbled as you woke up to the sound of him buckling his belt. Jin-Man was always an early riser, but this was unusual. Bale was gone now, and the twins and Seung-Ho were missing. Everything was perfect; why was he waking up at this hour?

“I need to speak with Yong-Han. Just go back to sleep, doll.”

Your only reply was moaning into your pillow, still groggy from sleep. Gently, Jin-Man reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face, his movements light and tender. A part of him wished he could stay in bed all morning, wrapped in the maroon covers, by your side, warm and cozy. You knew that.

Even so, you let out another groan and rolled over. Your hair was messy, features highlighted in the ethereal light of the night sky. You met Jin-Man’s steady gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. Your brown eyes opened, clearing away their cloudiness as you fully came. “Speak with Dad, why?” you said, voice husky as it always was in the morning.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” Jin-Man replied, musing. “But, yeah, confidential things about the explosion,” he added, looking away as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear.

You held back your sigh. For God’s sake, you had just wanted to have a quiet, uneventful shift after the chaos that was last night. Still, you bit your tongue and said nothing. Picking fights probably wasn’t the best idea when Jin-Man was already on edge. So you just hummed and stretched out your entire body, letting your feet wiggle beneath the covers instead. You soaked up the moonlight like a cat basking in the sun. Your gaze fell back on him. “Do you have to?”

“Yes,” he said, already rising and clambering out of your shared bed. He had to get ready and get to the old man’s office. Things to do, people to meet, secrets to keep.

You groaned yet again and fell backwards into the pillows, rather dramatic. If it weren’t for your handiness around guns, you might have missed your call to the theater.

“I’m sorry, doll. I’ll see you later.”

The room was filled with the lingering scent of Marlboro Reds, a habit he had kicked months ago, but the smell had woven itself into the very fabric of your shared space. His movements were quick, efficient, almost mechanical as he slipped on his black shirt, a standard-issue piece that had seen better days. You watched him intently, memorizing every detail—the way his dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed down to put on his socks, knowing you’d have to beg him to let you trim it again or risk losing more of your beloved black hair ties, the slight stubble on his chin that made him look ruggedly handsome, the way his hands fumbled slightly with the zipper of his jacket. 

Jesus, you absorbed him like a parched earth soaking up the first rain after a drought. But, perhaps, being flooded by him was all worth it, if you got to feel that relief, even if just for a moment.

“Don't forget to take your meds,” you reminded him softly. That bottle of Zoloft sat untouched in his leather bag, right next to the spare magazine for his Glock.

“I won't,” he assured you, but you knew better. It was a lie you both told each other to make the mornings easier. “I’ve got the bottle in my bag. I’ll take them with my coffee.”

"Liar…" you sing songed, rolling your eyes. "You always forget and end up chugging an energy drink instead."

“Shut up and go back to sleep," he teased, giving you tickles in the sensitive spot just in the middle of your feet, making you squirm and giggle despite yourself.

As your laughter started to die down and you began to slap his hands away, he paused, his eyes roaming over your naked form. The covers had slipped. He admired the scars on your right hip from that knife fight in Busan, the moles that looked like constellations on the valley of your breasts, and the freckles that appeared when the light hit you just right, like a painter’s masterpiece. He traced the scar on your shoulder from that time you took a bullet for him in Hongdae.

“You’re beautiful. Even when you’re being a pain in the ass.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

He laughed softly, the sound like music in the quiet room. “I’ll miss you, you know that?”

“Then don’t go.” 

Jeong didn’t answer. Duty called, and Jin-Man was nothing if not dedicated. You just didn't know which position of priority you occupied in his life. Maybe the 20th?

He moved back to the bed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. His lips were chapped, tasting faintly like the mint ChapStick he always used. You wrapped your arms around him like a koala, pulling him closer. 

“You always taste like mint,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Better than cigarettes, right?” he teased, his hands caressing your cheekbones while nuzzling the soft curve of your neck with his sharp nose.

“Much better,” you agreed as your legs wrapped around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I hated those Marlboro Reds. Always told you my brand was better.”

He rolled over, slipping onto your waist, straddling your hips and pinning you down on the bed. "Stop trying to start a fight. You're impossible," he chuckled, breaking another kiss reluctantly. "I really have to go. Yong-Han is expecting me, and you know how he gets when I'm late."

"Fine," you sighed, releasing him. "But you better come back in one piece. And don’t forget to bring my favorite coffee from that little shop near the base.”

"Always," he replied with a wink, giving your nose a playful tweak before finally straightening up and heading towards the door. "And don’t worry, I’ll bring back an extra donut for you. Mrs. Park will probably insist on it anyway."

"You say that every time, but you always end up eating it on the way back.”

He turned around at the door, one hand on the knob, and gave you a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. "I can’t help it if they smell better fresh. Now go back to sleep before I change my mind and keep you up all night."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget. And for the love of God, take your meds, Jin-Man," you muttered, turning over in bed and pulling the covers up. 

He nodded, leaning his head against the doorway as he watched your back. "Yes, ma'am. Zoloft first, then coffee."

"Good," you said, your voice muffled by the pillow. "Now get out of here before I change my mind and chain you to the bed."

Jin-Man chuckled and stepped out into the hallway, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way to the kitchen. You could still hear him moving around, the sound of cabinets opening and closing as he grabbed his travel mug and filled it with the last dregs of coffee from the pot you had brewed the night before. Masochist. In his opinion, he always expressed that the rainwater in the city’s numerous potholes probably tasted better than your coffee. Yet, here he was, probably shaking the bottle for one more drop.

You turned over in bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and closed your eyes. The room was silent now; the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You tried to will yourself back to sleep, but the emptiness beside you made it impossible.

You sighed again, burying your face in the pillow. You would wait for him, just like you always did, and when he came back, you would wrap your arms around him and hold on tight, hoping that one day he wouldn't have to leave.

But until that day came, you would endure. Because loving Jeong Jin-Man meant accepting the goodbyes, no matter how much they hurt.

And that should be enough for you to get your shit together and clutch your lab coat even more to stop yourself from clenching your teeth until your bruxism gets worse as you fight the urge to cry and kiss him. He abandoned you. He left you in Babylon, built a family in the countryside with his niece and never once contacted you. Not a single email, a text, or even a postcard from the village market. He had moved on, leaving you to rot in the shadows of your shared past. Well, until the hospital called, at least.

“Miss Y/N, we found your phone number in Mr. Jeong Jin-Man’s past records at Seoul Presbyterian Hospital. You were always listed as one of the primary emergency contacts. It appears you were the one he trusted the most to be informed if anything ever happened to him.” Said the voice on the other end. It was a woman, perhaps in her late forties. Her voice was clinical, detached—like she had made hundreds of these calls before and would make hundreds more.

Silence.

“Miss Y/N? Are you there?” Her voice carried a hint of impatience now, as if she were checking her watch, waiting for you to respond so she could move on to the next call.

Silence.

Radio silence. Silence of the waves crashing against the dock. Silence of restless sleep haunted by dreams that feel all too real. Silence of eating breakfast alone in the dingy kitchen that still smells faintly of burnt toast and instant coffee. 

Just silence, because after that night he said he was just going to take a break, your Jin-Man was gone. Because you tore out the love he stitched in the codes of your encrypted messages and smudged the writing on the walls of an abandoned warehouse as soon as he kissed you a fake “I’ll see you soon, doll” and never came back. Those codes no longer serve a purpose. The world doesn’t need to know the empty promises he built in a life he abandoned you in for greener grass and an honest life. But watch your rage come undone as you look at him one more time before putting him back on his fucking shelf. Maybe in the autopsy, doctors would declare he had venom on his tongue from all the lies he had spun.

Still, suicide? It didn’t fit him. Not at all. 

Burn everything tied to the decade of memories he left you here to turn gray with as you pass by thousands upon thousands of doctors and empty grieving families. This love was useless, so degrading. Burn it all. Open the windows to send smoke signals to the world. Send your condolences and announce your formal goodbye. Let this rage set fire and engulf every corner of the hideout resting on top of the hill. The mercenary in you has shrunk, as has your dossier.  Look at all this abandoned data the world won't decrypt from turning to ash as you go down the hallway.

Jin-Man was a man you bore no love for. His demise was warranted, perhaps even long overdue. Still, there's a remnant inside you—maybe the part that still clings to familiar pains and old grudges—that can't seem to fully sever ties with him. His persistent stubbornness made his sudden death unexpected. It felt too staged, too clean-cut.

Investigate? No. Of course not.

But here you stood, drawn to Jeong Ji-An who was locked in battle with an ancient vending machine that bore the ghost logo of an extinct company. She was waging a war to tease out one more pack of Marlboro cigarettes from its cold grasp. The irony of a hospital vending machine dispensing life-threatening products wasn’t lost on you. Perhaps it was their last-ditch attempt at salvaging their struggling oncology department or just proof positive of how much this place was going to ruin unnoticed.

“Stupid machine. Stupid cigarettes. Stupid everything!” Jeong Ji-An grunted, her frustration making her face twist and turn into a snarl as she slammed her hand against the machine again, this time harder than the last. "Useless pile of metal!" She hurled out the insult as if in a tug-of-war game—the veins on her neck popping with each heave to shove crumpled notes into its slot—reminding you of an exasperated puppeteer and his uncooperative marionette.

The aggressive clashing and grating of metal ricocheted off the cream-colored walls of the small room, morphing into an ear-splitting symphony that made a few people wince.

A nurse across from you glanced over, raising an eyebrow at the commotion, before returning to his paperwork with a shake of his head. A few patients sat in chairs nearby, flipping through old magazines or staring blankly into space. They didn't seem to mind; they were used to this kind of chaos, you guessed. 

The vending machine let out a final "Error" beep and spit out a crumpled bill before falling silent once more. 

Ji-An cursed under her breath and slumped against it, sucking in a deep breath as she tried to calm herself down. You almost scoffed at the sight of it. Like Uncle, like niece. Maybe hate is like a gene; as long as you teach it, it will be passed down.

Still, she wasn’t crying, not at all. She was just angry and you desired to meet her under other circumstances where she wasn’t a bundle of nerves, grief, and anger. Circumstances that involved leaving Dad and Babylon behind. Circumstances where Jeong Jin-Man had taken you with him—circumstances where you lived together in a pastel-hued cabin tucked away amidst verdant forests, enclosed within a pristine white picket fence—an Eden pregnant with fruit-laden apple and peach trees backed up those fanciful mental paintings. 

A porch with a wicker chair and a small table, where you could place a vase filled with wildflowers you picked together on walks through the forest. Inside, there would be a kitchen that always smelled of freshly baked bread and coffee. The countertops would be cluttered with jars of homemade jam. The fridge would be covered in magnets from places you had visited together—Paris, Tokyo, New York. In these circumstances, Jin-Man would tease you about your green thumb, but he would secretly love the fresh basil in his pasta. On weekends, you would work together in the garden, your hands dirty with soil, the sun warming your skin. You would laugh as you chased each other with the garden hose, spraying water and creating rainbows in the sunlight.

You always kind of wished you had met as kids, back when you were missing your front teeth and he was stealing from small markets. Maybe you would have shared a lollipop, or he would have pushed you on a swing at the playground. You could have built forts out of blankets and chairs in the living room, pretending to be explorers or knights on a quest. 

Parts of you were still girlish and soft and your heart was unguarded. You wish he had met you then. You think he could’ve stayed.

Too bad you'll never be that girl again, huh?

“Anger doesn’t suit you, darling,” you said as you approached her. There’s no need to hide anyway. Snatching the ID from a doctor and her clothes had been surprisingly easy—a well-timed distraction with a spilled cup of coffee and a conveniently unlocked locker. So, yeah, no need to hide. You just need Ji-An’s key and pretend you’re innocent. “It's like an overgrown coat. There’s no threat and you’re not a dog. Don’t bare your teeth.” You leaned against the machine, feeling the cold metal against your left side and the chill creeping into your bones. You tilted your head to look up at her. Damn the Jeong’s and their genetics.

Ji-An froze when she heard your voice from behind her. She turned slowly, glaring at you with those same intense eyes as Jin-Man’s, yet they were filled with anguish rather than curiosity, like when he looked at you as you used knives in missions. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, ready for a fight or ready to break down in tears—you couldn't tell which. But what you did know was that you were right; anger didn't suit her. It made her look fragile and vulnerable, despite the tough exterior she tried to maintain. 

She looked exactly like him. The same sharp jawline, the same piercing eyes. A small pendant dangled from her neck, catching the dim light of the hallway. It read "Ji-An" in delicate, cursive letters. You noticed the brand of her training jacket—Nike, worn and slightly frayed at the cuffs, hinting at long hours of use. Her black leggings were adorned with the logo of a cheap athletic brand, and her sneakers were scuffed and dirty, evidence of countless miles run.

Visibly shaking now, she took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking through gritted teeth. "What did you just say?" she whispered. And this time, as clear as the words of a parrot or a redskin whose tongue had been cut off, the phrase was unmistakable: "Who the fuck are you?"

You smiled gently, feigning innocence. "Just a concerned doctor, trying to help," you replied smoothly. "I couldn't help but notice your struggle with this little guy here."

She scoffed. “Concerned doctor, huh? What kind of doctor goes around giving unsolicited advice to strangers?” A single tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away roughly, revealing reddened skin beneath where she had been scratching herself earlier. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, small crescents of dried blood visible at the edges.

“The kind that cares,” you said, offering her a warm smile. “And the kind that knows a thing or two about stubborn machines.” You reached out and gave the vending machine a firm tap on the side, the metal groaning in protest. This close, you could see the slight tremor in her hands and the growing redness around her eyes. “Sometimes, all it takes is a gentle touch. Can I?”

Ji-An hesitated, her eyes flicking between you and the vending machine. Finally, she let out a frustrated sigh and stepped aside, allowing you to approach the devil in metal and gears. As you moved closer, you could feel her eyes boring into your back, every muscle in her body tense with barely contained anger.

You kneeled down, pretending to inspect the machine. "They really should replace them. My brother works in maintenance; maybe I can put in a good word. Still, I can manage it for now.”

Ji-An narrowed her eyes at you, skepticism etched on her face. "Your brother, huh? And you just happen to know how to fix vending machines too?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

You gave a nonchalant shrug. "What can I say? It's a family thing." Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your ID, sliding it into the coin slot as if it were a makeshift tool. As you did, you noticed a small panel on the side of the machine that was slightly loose. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching too closely, you subtly pried it open with the edge of the card.

Inside, the machine's inner workings were a tangle of wires and gears, some of which looked worn and outdated. You carefully maneuvered your fingers, adjusting a misaligned lever and reconnecting a loose wire. The machine let out a soft whirr as it came back to life, the lights flickering slightly before stabilizing. You could hear the faint hum of the compressor kicking in and the clinking sound of coins inside the hopper.

"These old models always have issues with the coin mechanism," you said, half to yourself and half to Ji-An. "A couple of the gears tend to get misaligned. That's probably why it wasn't taking your money."

"Yeah, well, it's been one of those days," Ji-An muttered, folding her arms across her chest. She shifted from foot to foot and her eyes darted around the hallway, as if expecting someone to appear and drag her away from this frustrating situation.

"I know the feeling. Sometimes it seems like the universe just wants to mess with us.”

With a few more movements, you managed to dislodge the stuck pack of cigarettes. It finally dropped down, landing with a dull thud on the ground. Ironically, it rolled slightly before stopping at Ji-An's feet. 

“Fuck! Finally!”

She bent over to pick it up, slamming it against the machine in triumph before turning towards you. Her expressive eyes flashed with anger and something else—recognition? Grudging acceptance? It was hard to tell with all the emotions swirling around like a hurricane inside that small space behind them.

As she bent down, you saw your chance. Her training jacket pocket was slightly open, revealing the edge of a keyring. With drilled ease, you slipped your fingers into the pocket and retrieved the keys, all while keeping your expression neutral and your movements casual.

Ji-An straightened up, clutching the pack of cigarettes tightly in her hand. "Thanks.”

"No problem. Just doing my job." You stood up and dusted off your hands, slipping the keys into your own pocket discreetly. "I hope you find some peace, Ji-An."

She looked taken aback for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise. "How do you know my name?" 

You gave her a knowing look, tapping the name pendant around her neck lightly. "It's right there," you said with a small chuckle. "Take care, okay?" 

Ji-An's eyes followed your finger, her expression softening ever so slightly. "Yeah, thanks. You too, I guess."

As you walked away, the keys safely in your possession, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. But you pushed it aside. You had what you needed. 

“By the way," Ji-An called out, making you pause. "Do you work here often? I don't remember seeing you before."

You turned back, giving her a casual smile. "I'm new here. Just transferred from another hospital. Maybe that's why."

She nodded slowly, still clutching the pack of Marlboro Reds. "Well, thanks again. I appreciate it."