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edenesth · 28 days ago

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ATEEZ as Marvel Superheroes

Pairing(s): marvel superheroes!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Thank you so much, my lovelies, for helping me reach 2.8k followers! To show my appreciation, I'm back with another one of these hehe I'm a big fan of the MCU, and I hope you are too!🫰🏻 Also, I do apologise in advance because only after I started writing did I remember most of these heroes have tragic love stories😭

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Iron Man

• Visionary • Bold • Burdened •

Based on: Tony Stark × Pepper Potts

The rooftop hummed with tension, faint jazz playing below from the afterparty no one really wanted to attend. The evening air was cool against your skin, but the press of Hongjoong's eyes on you felt warmer than the champagne you abandoned minutes ago.

He stood at the edge of his tower, staring out at the city like it held all the answers. His signature suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, and hair messier than usual—a rare, raw version of him few got to see.

This wasn't new. You'd watched him slip out of rooms like this before—countless times. He didn't care for the forced glamour of galas or the hollow praise from politicians who barely understood what he did. To the world, he was Iron Man—the billionaire genius, the weapon-turned-saviour, the man in the indestructible suit. But to you, he was your boss. Your headache. Your 3am emergency call. And, if you were honest, something a little more complicated than that.

You'd been with him since the beginning—when he still walked into meetings late with coffee stains on his shirt and bad excuses for skipping board briefings. Back then, you were the assistant with the clipboard and the sharp tongue, the only one who could organise his chaos and get him to actually listen. Somewhere between the prototypes and press conferences, your role stopped being about just calendars and contracts. You were the one who saw him—when the arc reactor flickered in his chest, when he got too deep into his head, when the weight of the world sat heavy on his shoulders.

And he always, always came to you when he didn't know where else to go.

"Why are you out here?" you asked gently, stepping closer, heels clacking softly on the rooftop tiles.

"I needed air," he replied, his voice casual, but his shoulders too tense to match. "And maybe… I needed to not be in a room full of people who only see me as the guy in the metal suit."

You crossed your arms, watching him avoid your gaze. "You're more than that. You know that."

He finally looked at you, and for a second, the flicker of something unguarded passed between you. "Am I?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you walked to stand beside him, your presence grounding, quiet. He glanced at you sideways, then chuckled bitterly.

"I've built weapons, armour, an empire—and still, somehow, I can't figure out how to talk to you like a normal person," he said, eyes on the skyline. "That should tell you something."

Your lips curved. "You're doing fine so far."

"That's because you're here," he muttered, almost too low to hear. Then, louder: "You make it easier. Being… me."

He turned to you fully now, brows drawn together like the words hurt coming out. "I've spent so much time protecting everyone else that I forgot what it's like to want someone to stay—for me. Not because I'm useful. Or powerful. Or dangerous."

Your heart ached for him. "You don't need to be any of those things, Joong," you whispered. "Not with me."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but couldn't find the wit. Instead, he reached for your hand—hesitant, unsure. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "But I want to try… if you'll let me."

You smiled softly, squeezing his fingers.

"Then try."

He looked at your joined hands, then at you—really looked. And for the first time all night, Kim Hongjoong looked less like Iron Man… and more like the man underneath.

Seonghwa ↠ Vision

• Graceful • Thoughtful • Profound •

Based on: Vision × Wanda Maximoff

The rain tapped gently against the wide glass windows of the compound, casting blurred shadows across the dimly lit room. You sat curled on the end of a sleek velvet couch, arms wrapped around yourself, staring blankly at a cold mug of tea that had long since lost its warmth—like you had.

You hadn't expected anyone to find you here. Not tonight. Not after the funeral.

They'd said all the right things. That he was a hero. That he made the ultimate sacrifice. That he died saving millions. And while all of that was true, it didn't matter. Not when he was your brother. Not when you were the one who held his bloodied hand until it went still.

No amount of medals or eulogies could fill the hole he left behind.

Everyone had given you space, unsure of what to say. Grief made people awkward. Grief made you awkward. You were used to being strong, used to being the one people turned to when the sky started to fall. But now?

Now you couldn't even make yourself take a sip of tea.

"You're still here," came a soft voice from the doorway. You didn't look up, but you knew instantly—it was him.

Seonghwa.

The android who wasn't supposed to feel. The creation who somehow became the only person who ever truly understood you.

"I thought I wanted to be alone," you murmured. "But now I'm not sure."

He didn't respond right away. He never rushed his words. Instead, he crossed the room with near-silent steps, the weight of him more emotional than physical. He sat beside you—not too close, not too far. Just there. Just enough.

"There's no shame in mourning," he said gently. "You loved him. That love doesn't disappear just because he's gone."

You stared down at your hands, clenched tightly in your lap. "I know. I just… I thought I'd be stronger than this. I've lost people before. Friends. Teammates. But this? This was different."

Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated how raw it still was.

"I can't stop thinking about when we were kids," you whispered. "He used to tell me that if anything ever happened to him, I had to promise not to cry. He hated seeing me sad."

A tear slipped down your cheek despite your effort to hold it in. "I broke that promise the second I saw him on that table."

There was a pause. Then, he reached out—not with urgency, but with infinite care—and placed his hand over yours. Cool, steady, real. You glanced down at the contact. His touch, though artificial in origin, felt more comforting than any human hand ever had.

"You haven't broken anything," he said quietly. "He asked you not to cry because he didn't want to see you in pain. But your tears… they're proof of love, not weakness."

You let out a shaky breath.

"How are you like this?" you asked, voice thick. "You weren't even supposed to be human."

His expression remained calm, but his eyes—those eyes that were never programmed but somehow still held galaxies—watched you with impossible depth. "I wasn't designed to feel," he said. "But from the moment I met you, I started learning what it means to care. To wonder. To worry. To hope. Maybe it's not biology that makes someone human… maybe it's simply the capacity to love something enough to hurt when it's gone."

You turned to him fully now, tears clinging to your lashes. "In that case," you said, voice trembling, "you might be the most human person I've ever known."

A flicker of something almost fragile passed across his face—like your words touched something inside him he didn't yet know how to name. "I'm not asking you to be okay tonight," he said softly. "I just want you to let me be here. With you. Until the ache dulls enough to breathe again."

You looked at him—really looked. And in the echo of your sorrow, surrounded by the quiet hush of rain and memory, you nodded.

Because grief didn't need to be fixed. It just needed to be felt.

And with Seonghwa beside you—wordless, patient, profoundly present—you didn't feel alone anymore.

Yunho ↠ Spider-Man

• Devoted • Selfless • Brave •

Based on: Peter Parker × MJ

The coffee shop on the corner had become your quiet place—a little escape from the chaos, the fights, the headlines. You used to meet Yunho here after missions, on stolen afternoons, when all he wanted was to share a pastry and rest his head on your shoulder like the world didn't need saving for a while, when he was just himself and not the Spider-Man everyone looked up to.

But now?

Now he stood across from you, shoulders tense, hands buried in the pockets of a worn hoodie, his smile forced and eyes far too sad for someone so full of life.

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since the sky tore open and everything went wrong. But the second he walked in, you knew. Something was different.

Something was ending.

"You okay?" you asked gently, wrapping your hands around the warm paper cup in front of you. "You're fidgeting like you've got a confession and a time limit."

That smile again—crooked, soft, but never quite reaching his eyes. "I guess I do," he said, voice lighter than the weight behind it. "It's just… hard to explain."

You watched him closely, heart already bracing. He had always been an open book. When he loved, he loved out loud—loud laughter, bright texts, full-body hugs that said I missed you without words. But right now, he looked like someone who had to seal off the pages.

"Try me," you whispered.

He hesitated. Then stepped closer. The sun outside hit his profile just right, highlighting the bruises he hadn't bothered to hide and the flicker of fear in his gaze.

"There's something coming," he began. "Something big. And to stop it, I have to do something... irreversible."

Your chest tightened. "What do you mean?"

His voice dropped. "Everyone who knows me—who knows who I am—will forget. You included."

Silence crashed between you.

You stared, unsure if you'd misheard. "Forget you? How?"

"It's the only way to close the breach," he said, eyes shining now. "The only way to keep you safe."

You rose from your seat, the air suddenly too thin. "So that's it? You disappear from my life, and I just wake up one day wondering why I feel like something's missing?"

"I don't want to," he said quickly, stepping forward. "God, I don't. But if you remembered me, you'd be in danger. They'd come for you. I can't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I can't lose you. Not like that."

Tears welled in your eyes. "But you're okay with me losing you?"

"I'd rather be a stranger who watches you walk down the street alive than someone who holds your hand while the world burns around us," he said. "I love you. That doesn't stop just because you forget."

You reached up, hands framing his face, memorising him with trembling fingers. "You are the most stubborn, selfless idiot I've ever loved."

He laughed, shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'll find you," he whispered. "After. I'll find you again. Even if you don't know who I am, even if I have to fall for you all over again—I will."

The pain in your chest splintered into something deeper, something sacred. "I'll wait," you whispered. "Even if I don't remember what I'm waiting for."

He kissed you then—slow, aching, infinite. The kind of kiss that stitched memories into bone, that would haunt your dreams long after you'd forgotten his name.

And when he pulled away and walked out the door, the bell above chimed softly.

You didn't know it yet, but that sound would echo in your heart for a long, long time.

Yeosang ↠ Doctor Strange

• Mysterious • Intelligent • Guarded •

Based on: Stephen Strange × Christine Palmer

The sanctum was quiet, except for the soft, rhythmic hum of magic pulsing through the walls—like the world itself was holding its breath.

You stood just inside the threshold of Yeosang's study, the air between you heavy with things left unsaid. Books floated lazily around him, sigils still glowing faintly on the floor where a portal had only moments ago sealed shut.

"I saw it," you said softly, stepping closer. "The universe where we made it."

He didn't turn around. His back remained to you, cloak draped over one shoulder like a curtain shielding whatever war raged inside him.

You swallowed the ache in your throat. "You were different there. We both were."

A pause. Then: "Did we win?"

You nodded. "We were happy."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling like the answer wounded him more than comforted him.

The multiverse had changed everything. Once just a theory whispered in secret texts and dismissed as dangerous speculation, it had now torn open in ways neither of you could ignore. You'd seen it—fragments of alternate lives, cascading timelines stitched together by decisions, accidents, heartbreak. There were countless versions of you and him scattered across the infinite—some together, some strangers, some never even meeting at all.

And yet no matter the universe, no matter the shape of your stories... the love never changed.

"I saw the version of you who let me stay," you said gently. "And you were still strong. Still brilliant. Still you. Just… not alone."

He finally turned to face you, and though his expression was composed, his eyes gave him away—tired, aching, full of things he'd never say aloud.

"I've seen what happens when I try to have both," he said. "Every time I let you in, something else falls apart. Sometimes the world. Sometimes you."

You nodded slowly. "I know."

A quiet beat passed between you. Magic crackled faintly beneath your feet, but all you heard was the thud of your heartbeat. The heaviness of goodbye. Again.

"You always had to be the one holding everything together," you said. "Even when it meant breaking your own heart. Even when I wished you'd just let me share the weight."

His gaze fell. "I didn't want to lose you."

"You didn't," you whispered. "But you couldn't keep me either. Not the way you wanted." You stepped closer, raising a hand to his face. He leaned into your palm like someone starved for the warmth of something real. Something human. Something that couldn't be conjured with a spell.

"I love you," he said, voice barely holding together. "In every universe. Even the ones where I never get the chance to say it."

"And I've loved you in every one," you replied, eyes glistening. "Even the ones where I had to let you go."

A long silence stretched between you, neither of you reaching for a solution because, for once, there wasn't one. Just acceptance. Just truth. "I hope you're happy somewhere," he said softly. "Even if it's not here. Not with me."

You smiled, bittersweet. "I am. I will be. And so will you."

You stepped back first.

Because this was the part you had to play—not the anchor, not the ending, but the memory he'd carry when he needed to remember who he was beneath the title.

And as the portal opened behind you, casting gold and firelight across your face, you lingered just one more second.

"You have to face your universe now," you said.

"I know."

"Be brave, Yeo."

"I always was… with you."

And then you were gone.

Not forgotten. Not unloved. Just… left behind by someone who never stopped loving you.

San ↠ Wolverine

• Wild • Passionate • Protective •

Based on: Logan × Jean Grey

The world was chaos.

You could feel it in the air—thick and charged—raw power pulsing out of you uncontrollably, shaking the earth beneath your feet. You hadn't meant for it to go this far. You never did. But the power had awakened again, darker this time, hungrier. And now, you weren't sure you could stop it.

You stood at the centre of it all—eyes glowing, hair whipping wildly in the storm you were unwillingly creating. Around you, people fled. Structures collapsed. Metal bent. Air cracked.

And then… he walked through it.

San.

Unflinching. Unafraid.

Walking straight through the inferno of your destruction like nothing in the world mattered but you.

Because nothing ever had.

Not since the moment he first saw you.

He hadn't come to Xavier's School to belong—just to recover. He arrived half-feral, bleeding from wounds that wouldn't stay closed, memories in fragments, rage barely kept in check. Everyone kept their distance.

Except you.

You were already part of the school—a teacher, a leader, someone respected and calm in ways he wasn't. You were also the first person who saw through his defensiveness. You didn't treat him like a threat. You treated him like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

He noticed you the moment he opened his eyes on the infirmary bed. You were the first voice he heard—low, steady, kind.

"You're safe," you'd said.

And for some reason, he believed it.

He watched you from afar at first, drawn to you and hating himself for it. You were everything he wasn't—disciplined, compassionate, good. But you didn't look at him with fear. You looked at him like you understood something about him that even he couldn't put into words.

And even though you had your own demons—your own unstable power humming beneath the surface—he never flinched.

Over time, that tension between you became something more. A stolen moment here. A shared silence there. Not loud, not obvious—but real. And dangerous. Because both of you knew what it could become. And how badly it could end.

Now, here he was. Standing in the eye of your storm.

"Stop!" you cried, voice echoing. "You can't be here!"

But he kept coming, body healing as fast as the storm tore at him—skin splitting, bones cracking, then mending again. "I'm not leaving you!" he shouted over the roar. "Not now. Not ever."

"Sannie," you choked, trembling. "I can't hold it back—I'll hurt you—"

"You already are," he said, stepping within reach. "And I'm still here."

Your knees buckled. Magic surged, uncontrolled. The part of you that once felt human was slipping fast. But his hands caught you before you could fall. Rough, scarred, but gentle.

Your voice trembled. "You have to stop me. Please."

He looked at you—eyes wild with pain, with love, with everything he'd never been able to say out loud without it sounding like a growl. He'd always loved you in extremes: fiercely, wordlessly, endlessly. And now, it would be no different. "I can't lose you," he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. "But if I have to be the one to end this… I will. For you. Because you asked."

Tears spilt from your eyes as the force inside you built higher, screaming for release. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"I'm not," he breathed, voice breaking.

Then you kissed him—desperate, searing, the kind of kiss meant to be remembered long after everything else is gone. The kind of kiss that lives in the bones.

"I love you," you said. "I always will."

"I know," he said. "Me too."

And then, with his arms around you, his claws unsheathed—

And it was quiet.

The storm stopped. The earth stilled. The world was safe again.

But San dropped to his knees, holding your body close, shaking, broken in ways no healing factor could ever mend. Because even with everything he had—his strength, his rage, his fire—he couldn't save you from yourself.

But he did save you from being alone at the end. And that, more than anything else, was what made him human.

Mingi ↠ Star-Lord

• Charismatic • Playful • Devoted •

Based on: Peter Quill × Gamora

The music was still playing.

A soft crackle from a salvaged cassette tape echoed through the rubble of Ego's collapsing planet—tinny and warped but still playing. Somewhere, under the chaos and blinding energy blasts, you could hear the faint hook of "Bring It On Home to Me."

And then you saw Mingi, blood on his temple, eyes wide with disbelief, chest heaving like he'd just lost gravity. "I told you I wanted to believe you," he rasped, voice cracking. "You said you loved her."

He wasn't talking to you. Not yet.

He was staring down the man who called himself his father. The same man who had just confessed to killing his mother. And destroying the last real piece of her he had left—his Walkman.

The explosion came before you could blink.

Song Mingi, the self-proclaimed legendary outlaw known across galaxies as Star-Lord, who flirted with danger like it was a sport and wore charm like armour, didn't hesitate. Didn't joke. Didn't smile.

He opened fire, rage and grief pouring out like stardust.

You found him in the wreckage after it was all over—shoulders hunched, headphones cracked in his lap, fingers gripping them like they'd fall apart if he let go.

"Mingi…" you said softly, kneeling beside him.

He didn't look at you at first. Just stared at the broken tape player. "She gave this to me," he whispered. "Said it would keep her close. Now it's gone."

You reached out gently, brushing a cut on his cheek. "She's not gone."

"I know," he said. "I just… I built so much of myself around what I lost. And now I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

You remembered when you first met him—blaster slung low, grin cocky, eyes twinkling with trouble. He was loud. Annoying. Ridiculously persistent.

You were on opposite sides of a bounty job—he was after the reward, and you were trying to destroy the target. He tried to charm his way out of a fight. You knocked him flat.

You thought he'd walk away. He didn't. He showed up again. And again. With jokes. With food. With music. A walking contradiction: rogue, thief, soft-hearted orphan clinging to a mix-tape and memories of a mother he still missed like it was yesterday.

He flirted shamelessly. You ignored him. He made you laugh once—you hated that.

But somehow… he got in.

You saw through the persona, the leather jacket, the smooth one-liners. You saw the man underneath—the one who took every loss personally and loved like the universe was ending. Eventually, you let yourself fall. Not because he wore you down, but because he earned it.

Now, in the middle of a dying world, he was still the same. Wounded. Grieving. And yet, holding on.

You sat with him in silence, the dust settling around you both, the air still crackling with faint cosmic static. "You're still you," you said. "All the jokes. All the charm. That heart you pretend you don't have."

That made him glance at you, finally. "I don't pretend," he said, smirking weakly. "I just… edit."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Then let me read the unedited version sometime."

He went quiet. You thought maybe you'd pushed too far, but then his fingers laced into yours. "You already are," he said. "Every time you look at me like I'm more than just the punchline."

You turned to face him fully, nose inches from his. "You are."

And just like that, he kissed you.

It wasn't grand or perfect or polished. It was messy and raw and tasted like salt and ash and something honest. Like laughter after crying. Like letting go.

Wooyoung ↠ Deadpool

• Chaotic • Flirty • Loyal •

Based on: Wade Wilson × Vanessa Carlysle

You weren't sure if this counted as a date or a war zone.

There were bullet holes in the walls, smoke in the air, and some guy's flaming motorcycle helmet rolling by in the background. But in the middle of it all—covered in soot and blood and probably laughing too loudly—was Wooyoung.

Deadpool. Mercenary. Menace.

Your complete and total problem.

"You okay?" he called, leaning around a pillar with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone who'd just taken a sword to the shoulder.

You blinked. "You were on fire."

"Hot, right?" he winked, lifting his mask just enough to show that too-wide, boyish grin that somehow always disarmed you. "I mean, what time is it?" He flicked up his wrist with exaggerated flair, flashing a cracked, dusty Adventure Time watch, its glass fogged with ash but still ticking like nothing had happened. "It's about… pain-thirty," he deadpanned. "Right on schedule."

You groaned and tossed him a spare mag. "One day I'm leaving you for a man who respects clocks."

"Too late," he called, slamming the clip into place with flair. "I am the time of your life."

You never intended to fall in love with someone like him.

He was too loud. Too unpredictable. Too him. The type of guy who flirted mid-battle, made crude jokes during hostage situations, and once broke into your apartment at 3am just to bring you a taco 'because it reminded him of your attitude.'

But you stayed. Because somehow, in all that madness, he gave you something no one else could.

It hadn't started with romance. It started in a crappy bar with sticky tables and a broken jukebox, both of you strangers clinging to bad nights and worse decisions. He slid onto the stool beside you with all the confidence of a man who believed the world owed him a drink and a laugh—and probably your number too.

Offered you his last claw machine token like it was a love language. Said he could win you a plushie or disappointment—dealer's choice.

You told him he looked like a disappointment.

He grinned like you gave him a gift. "That's the hottest insult I've ever received. Marry me."

The banter became a habit. Sarcasm turned into late-night stories. Somewhere between vodka shots and childhood trauma, something clicked. And suddenly, his chaos didn't scare you—it matched yours. It made you feel again.

He wasn't perfect. He was far from it. But he remembered your coffee order. He memorised your laugh. He stitched the ugly parts of himself into yours like it made something stronger. He called it dysfunctional. You called it real.

And now, in the aftermath of another mission gone sideways, he sat slumped on the ground, his mask peeled off, blood crusting around a cut on his cheek. His fingers toyed with the cracked kids' watch on his wrist, the plastic band fraying.

"I know I'm a handful," he said, voice quieter than usual, eyes avoiding yours. "Like… emotionally unstable with a side of mental mayhem."

You lowered yourself beside him, dirt smudging your palms. "That's putting it lightly."

He laughed once, under his breath, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You didn't sign up for this. You deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn't cry over dropped chimichangas or monologue in the shower."

You turned his face toward you gently, both hands cradling him like he wasn't all blades and explosions. "I didn't fall in love with normal. I fell in love with you, Woo. The chaos, the scars, the fourth-wall nonsense, and yes… even your disturbing relationship with street food."

He blinked at you, trying to make a joke but failing. So instead, he kissed you—hard and unapologetic, like he needed the reassurance that he still existed, that this was real.

It was messy. You tasted blood and smoke. Somewhere in the background, something else exploded. You didn't flinch.

His forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled away. "If you ever leave me, I'm keeping your Netflix password."

"You hate Netflix."

"I hate what it represents."

He said it with a straight face. You burst out laughing.

Because love with Jung Wooyoung wasn't quiet. It was loud, chaotic, and way too dramatic. But it was yours. And his. And somehow, that made it perfect.

Jongho ↠ Captain America

• Strong • Noble • Steadfast •

Based on: Steve Rogers × Peggy Carter

The world had been saved.

At a terrible cost, yes—but for once, there was peace. No more missions. No more orders. No more running from one crisis to the next, pretending that saving the world filled the ache in his chest.

Because it didn't.

Jongho had fought every battle they threw at him. Woke up in a world seventy years too late and learned how to live in it. He adapted. He endured. He led. People called him a hero. A symbol.

But behind all the accolades and duty, he was still just a man with a hole in his heart.

A man who never stopped thinking about you.

You had been his constant back then—steady and unshaken in a world that was crumbling under war. Where others followed orders, you challenged him to think. Where others admired him, you saw him—saw the weight he carried and loved him anyway.

You had met when he was still learning how to be more than just a soldier. Back when he was still unsure, still growing. And somehow, even then, your presence grounded him. You reminded him of the world he was fighting for.

He never told you how much he needed you. Not before the crash. Not before the ice. Not before he disappeared and left you behind.

When he woke up decades later, it hit him harder than anything else—not the time he lost, not the confusion of the modern world… but knowing you were gone. That he'd never gotten to say goodbye.

He tried to move on. Really, he did. But no matter how many missions, how many people he tried to protect… your memory clung to him like a ghost.

He'd see your favourite flower blooming on a street corner. Hear your laugh in the static of an old radio. Pass by cafés and wonder if you'd still like tea the way you used to. If you'd be proud of the man he'd become.

There were nights he couldn't sleep. Nights he'd sit by the window, replaying that last conversation. The promise of a dance you never got to share. The ache never dulled.

You had been his past. But somehow, you were still his home.

And then… came the second chance.

The mission was meant to end with him returning the Stones, fixing what had been broken. But somewhere along the way, he realised the truth: He didn't have to keep choosing the world over his heart.

For the first time in his life, he made a selfish choice. He didn't tell anyone. He just… slipped away. Back to the moment he left behind. Back to the time he belonged.

Back to you.

You didn't hear him come in.

You were at the kitchen sink, hands in the dishwater, humming to a tune that played low from the radio behind you—an old swing record crackling through the speakers.

He paused in the doorway, sunlight pooling behind him, framing the familiar silhouette you'd once thought was gone forever. Your back was to him, but everything in him stilled just watching you—still here, still real.

"Is this a good time?" he asked softly.

You turned, heart catching in your throat.

There he was. Choi Jongho. No shield. No uniform. No headlines. Just the man you never stopped loving.

Your eyes brimmed with disbelief and something deeper. "How…?"

He stepped forward, slower now, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, you'd disappear. "I promised you a dance."

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years, of longing, of silent promises that were never meant to die.

You crossed the room before you knew it, falling into his arms like no time had passed. His touch was steady, warm, heartbreakingly familiar. Your head rested against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat—strong and real and finally home.

"I never stopped waiting for you," you whispered.

He swallowed hard, voice low. "And I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Not through all the years, or the wars, or the sleepless nights in a time that never felt like mine."

You held him tighter.

"Then stay, Jjong," you said.

And he did.

The record spun. The living room faded. The world outside could wait. Because at last—after everything—you were dancing.

And for Jongho, that was the real victory.

Tbh, I had a lot of second thoughts about this, but then I reminded myself that it's okay if not everyone likes it or agrees with the heroes or the scenes I've selected for the members, heh. YOLO.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@blueberrychan @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

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edenesth · 2 months ago

Text

04. The Phantom — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Yeosang x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 20k

Summary: Mysterious and elusive, the Black Pirates' intelligence expert is known for his sharp instincts and unparalleled skill in espionage and reconnaissance. But when he crosses paths with a woman who surpasses him in both skill and wit for the first time, his confidence begins to waver. As she outsmarts him at every turn, he finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her, eagerly anticipating each challenge—because the thrill of being near her is something he never expected to crave.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, manipulation, abuse, blood, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"Well? You bailed on the Prestige Asylum mission and left Yunho to handle it solo—so what's next? Got some grand plan, or are you finally taking a break?" San asked, one brow arched in curiosity as he lounged across the desk from the Phantom, who was currently sifting through a thick stack of documents.

Yeosang smirked, barely sparing his brother a glance as he flipped through the files Jongho had dug up for him. "A break? You know I have no interest in dull things like that. I've already found myself a new mission. Yuyu's doing just fine without me—the last thing I need is to play the third wheel to whatever awkward tension he's got going on with his precious Dr Prude."

"A new mission?" San repeated, leaning in with interest. "What kind of mission?"

Yeosang tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. "You've been awfully curious about what everyone's up to lately. What's gotten into you, Sannie? Or could it be your little withering flower—"

"Don't." San's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, his sharp glare cutting across the room. "Don't ever call her that again. And this has nothing to do with her." Without waiting for a response, the Tempest pushed back his chair and stood. "Forget it. If you don't want to tell me, fine. I'll leave you to it."

The Phantom sighed, guilt tugging at him as he watched his brother turn away. "It's a series of heists," he finally muttered, tossing the files onto the desk for San to see. Artefacts, gold, and rare treasures. "Hongjoong hyung already gave me the green light. Figured it's time we expanded our collection."

"Good luck, Yeo."

Thrilled to finally have something of his own after spending so long assisting with his brothers' missions or acting as the Captain's go-to informant, Yeosang dove into his meticulously planned heists. Unlike the rest of the crew, who were either chasing volatile targets or caught up in messy affairs of the heart, he was certain his operations would go off without a hitch.

After all, he was the Phantom—the master of locks, the ghost in the shadows. No vault had ever kept him out, no trap had ever slowed him down. High security, tight patrols, complex encryption—none of it mattered. He could slip through fortresses like smoke through cracks.

So naturally, he expected his missions to be the cleanest. The smoothest. The most successful. With his contribution, he was confident he'd help Hongjoong restore the Black Pirates' reputation in the underground scene in no time.

But things... didn't go as planned.

He thought he was fast. He thought he was invisible. He thought he was untouchable.

Until now.

The Black Pirates' latest intel reveals a string of high-profile heists—artefacts, gold, and precious rarities vanishing without a trace. The only thing left behind? A calling card, marked with a signature so elegant, it almost mocked him.

Yeosang—an expert in espionage, surveillance, and silent infiltration—has never been outplayed. His instincts, his pride, his entire reputation were built on being the smartest one in the room.

But this thief? She doesn't leave footprints. Doesn't leave room for mistakes. Doesn't follow any pattern.

For the first time, he feels it: the sting of being bested. And worse—he's intrigued.

The room was cold and silent, save for the faint echo of the Phantom's boots against marble floors as he stepped into what should've been a locked, high-security vault.

He froze.

Empty.

Not a single artefact remained—not the ancient relic he'd been tracking for weeks, not the encrypted lockbox he'd expected to crack, nothing.

Just like the last time.

And the time before that.

His jaw tensed as his eyes swept the chamber, instinctively scanning for the only thing she ever left behind. And there it was—placed delicately on the velvet pedestal where the artefact should've been.

A single white rose, petals unbruised, impossibly fresh. Tied to its stem was a narrow strip of paper, curled slightly at the edges. He plucked it off with a sigh, already knowing what it would say.

"Sorry, I got here first. Better luck next time. xoxo"

The note was signed off, as always, with a seductive lipstick print in deep crimson, the faintest trace of rose and something spicier—sandalwood, maybe—lingering in the air around it.

Yeosang let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples before muttering a quiet, colourful string of curses under his breath.

"Not again."

This was the fifth mission she'd intercepted. Five high-profile jobs. Five flawless thefts. No alarms. No forced entry. No noise.

And each time—the rose. The note. The kiss.

A part of him simmered in frustration. Not at the loss—that was irritating, sure—but at the fact that she was winning. Beating him at his own game.

But another part? That part laughed.

A soft, breathy chuckle escaped him despite himself as he reached for the delicate rose, brushing a thumb along the curve of the note. Without thinking, he lifted the flower to his nose.

It was ridiculous, he knew. Who carries a fresh rose into a high-security vault just to leave it behind? Who plans their thefts with such finesse and style, just to gloat—just to tease him?

Who the hell was she?

Yeosang lowered the rose, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "You're nothing if not consistent," he murmured to no one, folding the note neatly and tucking it into his coat pocket alongside the last two.

He didn't know her name. He didn't know her face. But her message was loud and clear: Catch me if you can, Phantom.

And now, more than ever, he wanted to.

Not for the artefact. Not even for the mission.

But for the thrill of the chase.

Because someone had finally managed to make the master of shadows feel like prey.

And he liked it.

You smirked from the shadows, concealed in the narrow gap between steel support beams and the cold stone of the vault's inner frame—your favourite vantage point.

There he was. The infamous Phantom of the Black Pirates. So sharp. So calculated. So smug. And yet, here he stood, blissfully unaware that you'd been watching him the entire time.

You leaned against the metal, arms crossed, quietly savouring the sight of him lifting the rose to his nose like some smitten fool. You had to bite back a laugh. He always did that like clockwork.

Honestly, you were starting to wonder if he looked forward to finding your little gifts. He never shouted. Never raged. Never trashed the room in frustration. No—he smiled. He chuckled. He took the rose with him. Every time.

Adorable.

But that wasn't going to save him.

Not tonight.

He'd gotten here barely three minutes after you'd finished the job, as if he almost had a chance. But close calls didn't count in your world. You were always faster. Always cleaner. Always ahead.

Still, you weren't heartless. Well… maybe just a little. With a quiet sigh, you turned toward the door, fingers brushing lightly over the emergency control panel you'd rigged earlier on your way in. You tapped a single button.

The alarm shrieked to life.

Red lights bathed the room in an urgent glow, sirens echoing through the vault's thick walls. A mechanical whir signalled the lockdown beginning—steel gates lowering, magnetic locks sealing.

You didn't even glance back to see his reaction. You could picture it perfectly in your mind: the narrowing eyes, the shift in posture, the way his jaw would clench just slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation.

This wasn't sabotage. Not really.

You were just… levelling the playing field.

After all, you'd stolen his treasure—the very thing he came for. It was only fair to give him a little something in return. A challenge. A thrill. A taste of danger.

You smiled to yourself as you disappeared down a hidden shaft leading out of the building, your coat fluttering behind you like a wraith in the dark.

Consider it my apology, Phantom.

You might've taken his prize… but you're leaving him something just as sweet: a reason to chase you harder.

And deep down, you knew he would.

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The front doors of the Black Pirates' mansion creaked open, and Yeosang stepped inside, limping slightly. His coat was torn at the hem, boots scuffed with soot and dirt, and a fresh cut curved along his cheek—just beneath his birthmark. Blood had dried there, crusting into the corner of his jaw.

It was well past midnight.

He was hours late. And from the way he staggered through the hall, he clearly hadn't taken the quiet way home.

The Captain's office door was ajar, light spilling into the corridor. He didn't even knock. Just pushed it open and let it swing behind him. Hongjoong looked up from his desk instantly, rising to his feet the moment he saw his brother's condition. His sharp gaze scanned the limp, the bruise forming under his eye, the smug—but exhausted—tilt to his mouth.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Was it her again?"

Yeosang let out a breathy laugh, dragging a hand through his tousled hair as he collapsed into the nearest chair without invitation.

"Who else?" he muttered, voice laced with both irritation and reluctant admiration. He pulled the torn glove from his hand and tossed it onto the desk. "I walked into the vault not five minutes after she left. The damn rose was still cold."

Hongjoong grimaced. "And the alarm?"

Yeosang gave him a look. "Triggered. Locked me in. No exit points. No ventilation escape. Had to improvise."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"How bad?"

The younger man winced, rolling his shoulder. "Jumped three floors. Landed on a moving patrol truck. Limped two kilometres until I hijacked a bike." He gestured vaguely to the gash on his cheek. "Guards had sharp aim tonight."

Hongjoong sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's the fourth mission she's hit before you."

"Fifth," Yeosang corrected, eyes narrowing faintly as he reached into his coat and pulled out the familiar note. He held it up between two fingers like a trophy—and an insult. "She switched her lipstick shade this time. Cherry red. Thought I wouldn't notice."

He tossed the note onto the desk with a bitter chuckle, and the Captain stared at it. The mocking message. The perfect handwriting. The damn lipstick kiss.

"You know this isn't a game, right?" Hongjoong said quietly. "If she's targeting the same objectives we are, it could mean someone's feeding her our intel."

Yeosang shook his head, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere between frustration and fascination. "No. She's not working for anyone. Not like that. She's… playing with me."

Hongjoong raised a brow. "You sound flattered."

Yeosang gave him a flat look—but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. "I'm furious."

"Uh-huh."

"She left me a flower, hyung. And a trap."

Hongjoong folded his arms. "And you kept the flower, didn't you?"

The Phantom didn't answer. Just reached into his coat again and carefully withdrew the white rose, only slightly wilted from the heat of the chase. The scent was still there. Hauntingly familiar.

He stared at it for a long moment.

"She wants me to find her."

"You sure?"

Yeosang smiled—slow, dangerous, amused. "If she didn't, she wouldn't be leaving me clues."

The gang leader's gaze hardened. "Then find her. Before she starts aiming higher."

Yeosang nodded slowly, still holding the rose between his fingers. "Oh, I will." And for the first time in years, he didn't care about the treasure anymore. He just wanted to see you.

Just you wait, little vixen.

The thrill of the chase still buzzed under your skin as you stepped through the reinforced steel doors of your hidden base. The adrenaline was fading, replaced now with the familiar calm that came after a perfect job.

Your coat slipped from your shoulders as you moved through the dim corridors—your heels quiet on the marble floor, the scent of the rose still faint on your gloves. The aura of mischief, the flirtatious game, the playful smirk—all of it faded the moment you reached the tall double doors of the main chamber.

This was not the place for indulgence.

You pushed open the door.

The room was bathed in warm firelight. Shadows danced across the stone walls, flickering with each crackle of the flames. And there, in his usual place, sat him—your boss. An imposing figure in a tailored suit, swirling a glass of brandy with the kind of poise that came from power long held and rarely challenged.

He didn't look at you as you entered. He never did, not at first. Just sat there, one leg crossed over the other, gaze fixed on the fire as if it whispered secrets only he could hear.

"I take it the mission was successful," he said at last, voice deep, unbothered, like he already knew the answer.

You stepped forward with purpose, spine straight and voice steady. "Yes, sir. Every single piece of artefact the Black Pirates had on their radar is now in our inventory. Undamaged. Untraced."

A satisfied smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. He took a long sip of brandy, savouring it. Then, still staring into the fire, he asked: "And the most important part of the mission?"

Your lips curled into a small, secret smile. The real objective. The reason he'd chosen you for this series of thefts. "I'd consider it a success," you said, folding your hands behind your back. "The Phantom didn't seem too disheartened. If anything… he looked thrilled. I may have stolen his target, but I gave him something in return."

A pause.

"In return," you continued smoothly, "he was gifted an exciting escape mission. Complete with locked doors, a ticking clock, and the satisfaction of surviving something no one else could've walked out of."

Now, your boss finally turned his head—just slightly. You could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a cloak. Measuring. Evaluating. Approving.

"You continue to entertain him."

You inclined your head. "He's easy to read—and surprisingly fun to provoke."

"Good." He leaned back, swirling his glass again. "Keep him interested. The longer he plays, the deeper he'll fall. And eventually…"

"He'll jump right into the trap we've set for him," you finished for him.

"Exactly."

He raised his glass in a toast to the flames.

And in that moment, you were reminded: this wasn't just about treasure. It never was. This was a game layered in shadows and misdirection—and the Phantom was slowly being lured into the centre of it.

The chase was far from over.

And you? You were just getting started.

But so was he.

The mansion was quiet at this hour. Most of the crew had already turned in, and the halls were dim, lit only by the soft flicker of sconces along the walls. But Yeosang's office remained lit—warm, golden, and undisturbed.

He sat at his desk, a fresh line of stitches hidden under a bandage on his side, and a thin strip of gauze just below his cheekbone. The in-house doctor had worked quickly, wordlessly. She knew better than to ask questions when any of the members came back from a mission looking like that.

His fingers hovered over his files, schematics and intel on the pages, but his gaze was elsewhere. Drawn—again—to the modest vase at the corner of his desk.

Five white roses sat there now.

Each one carefully preserved. Each one taken from the scene of a stolen mission. Each one yours. The latest bloom—barely beginning to wilt—stood tallest, its petals still holding that soft, ghostly scent. A scent that was slowly becoming too familiar.

He should've thrown them out. Should've scoffed, torn the notes, and incinerated every last petal. But he didn't. Because for some reason… they made him feel alive. Driven. Sharper than ever.

He leaned back in his chair, studying the flowers like they held answers, like they were puzzle pieces in disguise.

This was no ordinary rival. No opportunist thief. This woman was deliberate. Precise. And you had him dancing on the edge of his own ego. He told himself it wasn't personal. Not like Hongjoong's situation. Or Seonghwa's. Or Yunho's, definitely.

This was different.

He wasn't being distracted. He was refocused.

Because catching her—outwitting her—wasn't just about getting back the treasures. It was about proving he was still the best at what he did. Still the Phantom. And if he pulled this off? If he could trap her, the one ghost even he couldn't touch?

It would be his greatest triumph yet.

He pulled up the latest map on his file—an exclusive auction rumoured to feature another item the Black Pirates had been eyeing. Word had already spread that the underground elite would be attending.

He knew you'd be there. You could never resist something like that. And this time… He would be waiting.

No roses. No lipstick. No escape.

Just you—and him—and a reckoning long overdue. A slow smirk formed on his lips as he went through the blueprints. "Let's see how well you dance when the trap's already closed," he murmured.

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The underground auction had been whispered about for weeks now—an exclusive event, tucked away behind a labyrinth of security and secrecy. Invitations were coded, locations encrypted, and only the highest bidders in the criminal world were welcome.

Naturally, you had found your way in.

You'd already acquired the encrypted access, memorised the floor plans, rehearsed your entrance and exit routes until you could walk them blindfolded. Another night, another prize.

You were nearly ready—dressed in sleek black, your hair pinned just right, tools concealed and steps silent. You fastened the final clasp on your utility belt when you heard it: A soft knock on your door.

Your breath hitched. You knew that rhythm.

The moment the door cracked open and he stepped into your room, you straightened instantly, spine taut, arms behind your back. Always alert in his presence. Always prepared.

The middle-aged man walked in slowly, eyes scanning your setup with cool approval. Then came the flick of his finger—the subtle signal that meant relax. You obeyed immediately, allowing your shoulders to drop, though your heart still raced.

A gentle smile curved his lips, warm enough to melt the steel cage around your chest. "You know how crucial this mission is, yes?" he asked, his voice like velvet. He moved to stand beside your table, picking up a small tool and turning it in his fingers with idle curiosity. "What you're stealing tonight isn't just another valuable relic. It's a key. A key that will unlock a hidden treasure—something the Black Pirates have been desperate to acquire for years."

You nodded, swallowing the flicker of pride in your throat. His voice was always calm, measured. And when he spoke of trust, of importance, it always filled you with fire.

He stepped closer now, placing the tool down and turning toward you fully. His hand came to rest lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of that touch seared through the fabric of your suit.

"You know I reserved this mission just for you, yes?" he said, softer now. "You're different from the others, kid."

You blinked. Your chest fluttered.

"Do well tonight, and…" He paused, smiling deeper—something almost fatherly. Almost. "You'll finally get to call me Father."

Your heart stuttered.

That word—it struck something raw and desperate within you. The part of you still trapped in the memory of a rain-soaked alley, cold and afraid, abandoned with nothing to your name but a broken past and a stolen future. He had taken you in and given you purpose. Raised you. Trained you. Moulded you into what you are now.

Your voice didn't waver when you answered, "Yes, sir. I will not let you down."

He smiled again, the pride in his eyes glowing like it never had before. To you, it was warmth. You didn't notice the way his smile lingered too long, or how his gaze flicked past you momentarily, distant and calculating. You didn't see the shadows shifting behind his approval.

Because to you, his recognition was all that mattered. And tonight, you would earn it. You picked up your mask, slipped it on, and left without a second thought.

I won't let you down, Father.

The auction hall glowed like gold beneath the chandeliers—opulence dripping from every corner, every guest draped in luxury and shadows. The air was thick with wealth and deception, masks hiding more than just identities.

Yeosang leaned against the upper balcony rail, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a silver half-mask hiding the sharp cut of his cheekbone. No one would recognise him as the Phantom tonight—at least, not until it was far too late.

Below, the auctioneer's voice echoed through the chamber, bidding rising for a centuries-old dagger—just a taste of what was to come.

He didn't need to look at the blueprint tucked in his back pocket; he had memorised the layout hours ago. Every exit. Every ventilation shaft. Every camera blind spot. He had Jongho monitoring the perimeter, San blending in as a buyer, and Wooyoung stationed near the vault, ready to block any attempt at retreat.

But Yeosang wasn't watching the stage.

He was watching the crowd.

Waiting.

Anticipating.

His gloved fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the marble railing, his gaze sweeping over masks and gowns and whispers. His heart beat with an unfamiliar tempo—half thrill, half tension.

After five stolen missions, he had finally stopped chasing shadows. He knew your patterns now—how you circled the scene first, how you blended in with the elite, how your every step was artfully calculated yet deceptively casual. You were unpredictable. But he was precise. And tonight, he trusted his gut.

"Movement near the west stairwell," Jongho's voice crackled softly in his earpiece. "Slim build. Doesn't match the guest list. Looks like she's heading toward Vault C."

Right on cue.

The Phantom's lips quirked. Not quite a smile—more a silent acknowledgement.

He moved swiftly, cutting through the crowd without so much as a glance. Past flirtations and fine wine. Past relics and red velvet drapery. Every step was fueled by anticipation. He had waited so long for this moment—not just to see your face, but to finally outwit you.

Yeosang reached the hallway leading to Vault C and slipped into position, pressing himself into the shadowed edge of a pillar. The vault entrance was just ahead—unguarded for the moment, exactly as planned.

This time, he had set the trap.

And you were walking straight into it.

He steadied his breathing, eyes locked on the hallway, counting the seconds. Ten… Nine… Eight…

Then he saw you.

For the first time—not in glimpses or illusions, not in whispers of perfume or the curl of a mocking note—but truly. Clad in sleek black, your mask elegant, your movements effortlessly fluid, like you belonged to the darkness itself. You scanned the hallway once, graceful and confident, and his pulse surged.

So it's you.

There was something maddeningly satisfying in seeing you like this—real, tangible. Beautiful, yes, but dangerous. Focused. He let you get close. Closer. Just a few feet from the vault when—

Click.

The floor under you shifted just slightly. A trap panel. Subtle, but enough. Your weight had triggered it.

You froze.

Too late.

Yeosang stepped forward from the shadows, his voice calm, almost amused. "Expecting someone else tonight?"

You turned sharply—and for the first time, your eyes met. The infamous Phantom and the bearer of the white rose finally stood face to face, seeing each other clearly at last.

His gaze glinted with smug satisfaction as he added, "Took me a while, but I'd say the wait was worth it."

Your breath hitched—but only for a second.

He was unfairly beautiful.

Even under the low lighting and behind that silver half-mask, you could see the sharp lines of his face, the calculated calm in his eyes, and that slight tilt of his lips—infuriatingly self-assured. You hated how easily he wore that smirk. How, even now, standing between you and your goal, he managed to look like he was the prize.

And yet… you couldn't look away.

You hadn't expected him to be this striking up close. All the reports, the files, the rumours—they never quite captured this. Yeosang, on the other hand, looked just as stunned. If only for a heartbeat.

You noticed how his eyes briefly widened—taking in the black ensemble that clung to your form like smoke, the soft glint of your earrings, the way your lips were painted the same deep red as the lipstick on every note you'd left him.

He inhaled slightly, and you saw it—the way his breath stuttered, ever so subtly. So the great Phantom wasn't so unreadable after all. The realisation gave you a flicker of satisfaction. But you didn't have time to savour it.

Focus.

Your boss' words echoed in your mind—"This isn't just another relic. It's the key to a greater treasure. Do not fail me." The vault loomed just behind you. Your objective was so close… but so was he.

"Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to spy on a lady?" you finally spoke, recovering with ease, your voice smooth as silk as you tilted your head slightly, letting your eyes trail over him with calculated curiosity.

"I've never been good with manners," he replied, his tone still casual, but his stance sharp, ready. "Besides… I think you like the attention."

You smiled sweetly. "Flattery? From the Phantom himself? I'm flattered." You took one step back—close enough now to touch the vault keypad. His eyes flicked to your fingers, then back to your face.

"Don't," he warned, stepping forward.

You raised a brow, hand hovering just an inch away from the code input. "Or what? You'll trap me like I was trying to trap you?"

There was no humour in his eyes now. Just steel. "You won't win this time."

You exhaled through your nose, almost a laugh. "You sure about that?"

In a blink, your free hand flicked something from the inside of your sleeve—a smoke pellet. You dropped it at your feet. Yeosang cursed as the thick white smoke exploded instantly, clouding the hall in seconds. You moved fast, flipping backwards from the keypad, rolling low, using the dense fog to shift direction.

But he was fast too.

Faster than you expected.

A strong hand closed around your wrist just as you tried to slip past him toward the west corridor. You both froze mid-motion, hidden by the smoke but locked together—his grip firm, your balance thrown off just enough.

You were both breathing hard now. Inches apart.

"Nice trick," he muttered near your ear.

"Likewise," you whispered, jerking your wrist hard and twisting your body. You knew the exact angle to dislodge his grip without hurting either of you—but just enough to slip free.

His fingers slipped from your skin.

You were already gone.

By the time the smoke cleared, you were nowhere to be seen.

Yeosang stood in the corridor, alone again. The vault untouched. A faint trail of your perfume still lingering in the air. But on the floor, just by the corner of the hallway, lay another white rose. This one had no note. He stared at it for a moment before letting out a breathless laugh.

You were good.

But now… he was better.

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You ducked into the narrow alleyway between two crumbling buildings, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. The adrenaline that had carried you this far was starting to wear thin, replaced by something far heavier—frustration.

You pulled off your mask and ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. "Damn it," you muttered under your breath, leaning against the cold stone wall behind you. "Damn it, damn it."

This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You had planned every move—timed every step, memorised every route, even anticipated his presence. You knew he'd be there. You'd even wanted him to be there.

But you hadn't counted on them.

You cursed again, louder this time, drawing a startled hiss from a nearby alley cat. You didn't care. You'd meant to slip back in after shaking him off, get to the relic before he recovered from the smoke. Maybe even lift it right out from under his nose, again—a poetic twist to an already entertaining game.

But you'd only made it to the edge of the auction grounds when you saw them. The others.

The towering figure who could crush bones with his bare hands—the Anchor. The silver-tongued negotiator whose charms could talk secrets out of shadows—the Charmer. And of course, the unpredictable storm himself, the one they called the Tempest, known for levelling entire black market routes in a single night.

He didn't come alone this time.

The realisation hit like a slap across the face.

For the first time since your missions began, a cold tendril of fear curled in your chest. You weren't just up against the Phantom anymore. You were staring down half the Black Pirates' elite. And even you had to admit—that was a gamble not even you were arrogant enough to take lightly.

You slid down the wall into a crouch, breath ragged, hands trembling against your knees. You'd never retreated like this before. Never had to. But the odds tonight? They weren't just stacked against you—they were practically carved in stone.

You shouldn't go back.

You couldn't go back.

But…

Your boss' words echoed in your mind, thick with that false warmth you'd always craved: "You're different from the others, kid. Do well in this mission, and you'll finally get to call me Father."

Your jaw clenched.

After all these years—after everything—you finally had a chance at a real place by his side. You couldn't return empty-handed. You couldn't throw away the one mission that had been reserved just for you.

He trusted you.

He believed in you.

And you…

…You needed that belief to mean something.

Slowly, you stood again. The cool night wind wrapped around you like a whisper of warning, but you ignored it. If you were going to fail tonight, you'd do it trying. No more clever escapes—just you against them. You cracked your neck, threw your mask aside, and adjusted the twin daggers hidden beneath your sleeves.

Let's see how determined you really are, Phantom, you thought bitterly, starting your silent path back toward the auction grounds.

Finally. The relic was finally in his hands.

Smooth. Cold. Priceless.

After weeks of preparation and months of frustration, Yeosang closed his gloved fingers around the artefact with a rare sense of victory. But that sense didn't last long—not when a shift in the air tugged at his instincts, honed sharper than any blade.

From his vantage point in the upper chamber, he tilted his head, scanning the corridor where Wooyoung stood on lookout. The Charmer's brows furrowed, then he lifted two fingers, signalling movement.

"How many?" Yeosang asked quietly, eyes narrowing.

Wooyoung didn't look back, keeping his gaze trained on the hallway's shadows. "Just one. Light steps… I think it's your girl again."

Yeosang exhaled sharply, though it came out more amused than annoyed. Of course, you weren't done. Of course, you'd come back. He should've been frustrated. Instead, he found himself smiling—just a little—at your persistence.

"You're relentless," he muttered to no one, tucking the relic safely into a pouch before turning to his brother. "Take this," he said, handing over the prize. "I'll deal with her. You head for the eastern escape route. The auction officials will be back soon to do inventory. If they find this missing, it'll blow our cover."

Wooyoung raised an amused brow, securing the artefact under his coat with a smooth flick of his wrist. "Right. But let's not pretend this is about the mission anymore."

Yeosang shot him a flat look.

Wooyoung grinned wider. "Just say you can't bear to leave without seeing her again."

"Oh, fuck off, Woo."

"Have fun~" he sang quietly, already slipping down the exit path.

Now alone, Yeosang rolled his shoulders, adjusting the fit of his coat. His heart was beating faster than it should've. Not out of fear—no, it was something far more dangerous.

Anticipation.

The kind that buzzed under your skin, knowing someone was coming for you. Someone clever. Unrelenting. Beautiful. Dangerous.

The moment he had longed for—dreaded, even—was approaching again. This time, he wasn't going to let you disappear into the smoke. This time, he would be the one setting the trap. And this time, he'd finally see the fire in your eyes, not through the lens of security footage or vanishing shadows—but up close.

He waited in the shadows, body taut with anticipation, every sense tuned to the footsteps growing nearer. He expected a flourish, a sly grin, maybe even a flirtatious remark dripping with overconfidence. That was how this game had always gone—push and pull, banter and brilliance.

But when you finally emerged into view, everything inside Yeosang came to a halt.

No mask.

No smug smile.

No elaborate, dramatic entrance.

Just you—eyes wide, chest heaving, and tears. Actual tears. Big, fat ones that carved glistening trails down your cheeks as you stumbled toward him. For a moment, his mind couldn't process what he was seeing. All he could think was how they said a woman's tears were her greatest weapon. He never believed that crap until now.

He didn't move. Couldn't. His hand instinctively twitched toward his back pocket—but hesitated.

Then you spoke, voice trembling and ragged.

"Please… I—I'm sorry for everything I've done so far. But I—look, I have no choice in this, alright?" you cried, eyes locking onto his with a desperation he couldn't ignore. "If I don't clear this mission tonight, I might not live to see the day again."

That struck him.

Harder than any blade.

You took another step forward, your expression cracked wide open with fear. Raw. Human. Nothing like the cunning ghost that had danced through every security system he'd built.

His fingers twitched again, uncertain, reaching for the weapon behind him—but you saw it. Panic surged through you, and before he could react, you lurched forward, collapsing into him.

He caught you instinctively, his arms wrapping around your trembling frame as you sobbed into his shoulder. His mind screamed trap—but his body refused to let you fall. The warmth of your body, the shuddering breath against his collar—it all felt too painfully real.

"Please…" you whimpered again, and something inside him frayed.

That moment was all you needed.

A swift flick of your wrist, and the needle hidden in your sleeve slipped between your fingers. Your hand darted up—and with frightening precision—you pressed the tip just beneath his jawline.

A barely audible hiss. A faint click.

The sedative surged into his bloodstream.

Yeosang's breath hitched, his grip on you tightening involuntarily for a fleeting second before his legs gave out. His body went slack in your arms. "So long, Phantom," you whispered coldly.

Then you shoved him off.

His body crumpled silently to the floor, landing in a heap of black leather and stolen breath.

Without missing another beat, you tore off into the hallway, chasing after the route Wooyoung had taken with the relic. You didn't even allow yourself to look back.

Not at the man who had once scared you.

Not at the man who had unknowingly softened you.

And certainly not at the man who now lay unconscious—because of you.

But despite the cold victory blooming in your chest… something didn't feel right.

Not anymore.

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You bolted down the marble corridor, every step echoing off the polished floors like gunfire. Your breathing was ragged, but your eyes were sharp—locked onto the prize that glinted faintly under the lights in Wooyoung's hands.

The relic.

You'd come too far. Endured too much. Betrayed too deeply. Tonight couldn't end in failure. Not when the meaning of your entire existence hinged on it.

You tightened your grip on one of your daggers and shifted your weight, judging the distance. He was fast—but not untouchable. You zeroed in on the sweet spot between his shoulder blades. One clean throw could stop him. Just one.

You inhaled—

Threw—

"Duck, Woo!"

And missed.

That voice—too close, too powerful.

Then something collided with you like a freight train.

SLAM.

The world blurred as you were pinned, back crashing against the stone wall with a hard, breath-snatching impact. Your eyes darted up—wide, panicked—and met the calm, unwavering stare of Jongho.

The Anchor.

His grip was like iron, unmoving and merciless as he wrenched your second dagger from your hand and twisted your wrist until it stung. The cold kiss of your own blade now hovered dangerously near the base of your throat, trembling against your pulse as he held it there with terrifying ease.

Fuck.

You'd been so focused on the Charmer, so distracted by the aftertaste of Yeosang's damn scent still lingering on your shoulder, that you'd forgotten the one thing he always reminded people of too late: never underestimate the Black fuckin' Pirates.

You caught a blur in your peripheral vision—Wooyoung, slipping through a door at the end of the corridor, the relic safe in his hands.

Gone.

No—

Gone.

You let out a shaky breath, bitter and seething.

"I don't suppose saying 'oops' would cut it?" you muttered, forcing a smirk despite the sting of failure biting at your ribs.

Jongho didn't smile.

His stare didn't waver.

"You should've stopped while you were ahead."

Your mind raced. You let your head rest back against the cold wall, not in surrender—but calculation. Think. Think. You weren't out of cards yet. He was stronger—undoubtedly so—but even the most solid anchor had weak spots.

And lucky for you, men shared a universal one.

You shifted slightly, feigning weariness, watching carefully as his grip loosened just a little. Just enough. His body language said it all—he thought he'd won.

That was his mistake.

In a flash, you struck with your knee, driving it right where the sun doesn't shine. Jongho's breath left him in a grunt as he recoiled. That was your cue. You dropped low, slipping out from under him, your body hitting the floor and rolling as you twisted around, hand darting for the dagger in your boot.

One hit. One clean hit anywhere would buy you time.

You rose with the blade and spun—

Only to be caught mid-motion by another body slamming into yours from behind. Bigger. Heavier.

Strong arms coiled around you like steel cables, locking your limbs before you could react. A sharp twist to your wrist sent your dagger clattering to the ground with a metallic clang.

Shit.

And then you felt it—the cold press of steel against your temple. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" came the low, venomous growl behind you. The voice of a man whose reputation made grown criminals sweat.

The Tempest.

"Had you been a man, you'd already be dead," San hissed, voice like thunder against your skin. "I try not to harm women… but I can make an exception for you."

You stilled, breath catching, rage and frustration rising like bile in your throat. You were so close. You could still see the exit Wooyoung had used in the corner of your eye. So close, yet now impossibly far.

Oh, I'm so fucked...

Yeosang's breath came out ragged as he fought the numbing haze clouding his mind. His legs felt like lead, his limbs sluggish, but his thoughts were sharp—sharp with frustration, disbelief… and something else he wasn't ready to name.

"For fuck's sake…" he muttered, weakly laughing to himself as he leaned against the wall for balance. "She got me. Again. When… will I learn…"

His hand moved slowly to the side of his neck, fingers brushing the tiny prick left behind. His head throbbed, but he shook it violently, willing the sedative to leave his system. He staggered forward, one step at a time. The mission was technically over. He should've headed for the exit. Should've disappeared before the auction officials came swarming in.

But instead—he followed you.

He couldn't explain why.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was something else entirely—but every step he took screamed a single truth: You wouldn't survive his brothers.

By the time he reached the hall where the confrontation echoed off the stone walls, his vision was blotting at the edges. But he saw enough. Jongho was doubled over, groaning with one hand braced against the wall, eyes sharp and filled with venom. San stood tall and steady, one arm tight around your body, the other pressing a gun to your head—finger already flicking the safety off.

But it was your face that truly stopped Yeosang cold.

You weren't struggling. You weren't bluffing or mocking or smirking like usual. You were still. Resolved. Eyes open, mouth parted slightly, a single tear trailing down. Like you'd accepted it. Like you knew this was how it would end.

And suddenly, everything you'd said before came rushing back—"If I don't clear this mission tonight, I might not live to see the day again."

It could've been a lie.

Should've been a lie.

But his gut twisted anyway.

And he didn't care if it was stupid, or reckless, or a complete lapse in judgement, he took a shaky step forward, his voice hoarse and broken but clear enough to cut through the tension.

"No… let her go."

San didn't move at first. His eyes flicked sideways, gun still pressed against your skull. "You're awake," he said coldly, not lowering the weapon. "Didn't think that little jab would wear off so soon."

Yeosang dragged in a breath, forcing his shoulders to square. "She's not a threat right now. Just let her go."

Jongho snarled from the side, "She nearly gutted me, hyung."

"And I didn't say forgive her," Yeosang snapped, the steel slowly returning to his tone. "I said let her go."

You blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.

He shouldn't be doing this.

Not for you.

Not after everything.

And yet there he stood—between you and the storm—his eyes never leaving yours.

You didn't know what happened after that. Everything blurred. Voices rose. San cursed. Jongho groaned. And Yeosang—he had started to fall again, the sedative dragging him under once more.

You moved. Instinct? Desperation? You weren't sure.

But in the end, none of it mattered.

Because you'd failed.

And when you finally returned, hours later, you were already on your knees the moment you stepped into the room, head bowed low, fingers clenched so tightly into your palms that you felt your nails pierce skin. The scent of blood—your own—was faint, but grounding. The only thing keeping you from shaking apart completely.

You didn't dare look up.

You didn't dare speak.

The fire crackled in the hearth, deceptively warm. Mocking, almost.

Your boss hadn't said a word since your return. And that silence… it was worse than shouting. Worse than punishment. It was disappointment—the one thing you never wanted to see in his eyes. Not from him.

And you had failed him. You'd promised. You'd vowed not to come back empty-handed. But you had.

You failed the mission.

You let the Phantom get to you.

You got caught.

Even now, you weren't sure which of those three things enraged him the most.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

Too calm.

"Well," he said, swirling his brandy as he stared into the fire, "I trust you don't need me to tell you what's next." Your stomach plummeted. You wanted to beg. Plead. Something.

But that wasn't allowed.

You weren't a child anymore.

You weren't allowed to cry.

The double doors behind you opened with a thunderous clang, and your heart seized as the sound of heavy boots approached—his most trusted men. Your worst nightmares. "Time Out Room," he ordered without looking at you, "until further notice. Perhaps that'll teach you that making empty promises… is bad."

The men grabbed your arms, hauling you up, and though you didn't resist, your body trembled. You stared straight ahead as your feet were dragged backwards, your mind spiralling with dread.

The Time Out Room wasn't just a punishment.

It was a lesson.

And no one ever came out the same.

You told yourself you could endure it.

That this pain was temporary. That you'd earn his trust back. That one day, you'd sit beside him—not kneeling like a pawn.

But as the doors to the chamber slammed shut behind you, the cold darkness wrapped around your spine like chains, and for the first time in years, you weren't sure if you believed that anymore.

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The ceiling above him was an uninspiring shade of white—bland, clinical, too bright for the pounding in his skull.

Yeosang stared at it anyway, as if the plaster might suddenly give him the answers he didn't have.

The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft beep of machines and the distant hum of life elsewhere in the mansion. The sting at his neck had dulled into a persistent throb, the last remnants of that damn sedative finally bleeding out of his system.

But the weight in his chest? That hadn't left.

He replayed it all—again.

The mission. The trap. The way your mask had been gone. The tears. Your voice, small and trembling. The please that had cracked something open in him he hadn't even known was there.

And the way you had fallen into his arms.

Only to betray him.

Again.

He sighed harshly, throwing an arm over his face, as if darkness would drown out the memory of your scent on his jacket or the tremble in your voice when you said you had no choice.

He should be furious.

He was furious.

But more than that—he was confused.

"So," came a voice from the doorway, quiet but sharp as a blade. "Why'd you let her go?"

The Phantom didn't move. He didn't have to. He knew that voice. And the weight of it. His leader didn't speak without reason.

Yeosang slowly lowered his arm and closed his eyes. "I didn't," he said flatly. "She drugged me."

Hongjoong stepped into the room with a soundless sort of grace only a leader of his calibre could manage. He didn't speak, just waited.

"I… miscalculated," Yeosang muttered after a beat. "Thought I had her read. She came in crying. Maskless. Threw me off."

Excuses. "She got to you."

"I was off-guard," Yeosang snapped, more to himself than the Captain. "But that's on me. I was… careless."

Another pause.

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose. "You know damn well that's not what I asked, Yeo."

Yeosang's jaw ticked as he turned his head away from the Captain's gaze. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter. "Because… it didn't feel like an act. Not all of it. The fear was real. Her desperation. The way she looked at me—she meant it. At least some of it."

Silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. He could feel the gang leader thinking, and that was always more dangerous than when he spoke.

"So," the Captain said at last, eyes narrowing, "you believe the enemy has a soft spot."

"I think," Yeosang said carefully, "she's being used. And if that's true, then we're not just dealing with a skilled thief. We're dealing with someone who doesn't know how to get out."

Hongjoong studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "Then maybe," he said, voice heavy with layered meaning, "you shouldn't wait for her to come back next time." Then he turned on his heel and left without another word.

And Yeosang, still staring at that stupid ceiling, felt the first flicker of something even more dangerous than anger.

Resolve.

And so he returned to work.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the Phantom had been the first to arrive. No flurry of footsteps behind him. No shadow flitting past his peripheral vision. No scent of sandalwood teasing the edges of his senses.

Just silence. And the prize.

The relic gleamed under the low light of the Captain's office, sitting in the velvet-lined case like a trophy. One he had secured. Alone.

He set it on Hongjoong's desk without a word. The gang leader looked up, offering a pleased nod. "Efficient," he said simply. "Exactly the kind of momentum we need."

Yeosang inclined his head, murmured a clipped "Yes, hyung," and turned to leave before the moment could stretch too long.

That was the first time. The first mission after the auction where you didn't show. No white rose tucked into the vault door. No playful taunt written in sweeping script with a smudge of lipstick in a different shade this time. No chase.

He'd told himself it was a fluke. Maybe you were regrouping. Maybe your boss had assigned you elsewhere. Maybe you were waiting.

So he pushed forward.

One heist after another. More treasures acquired, more enemies bested, more praise from the Captain. The Black Pirates were thriving. Their inventory glittered with artefacts, gold, secrets—everything they had set out to gather when he had first pitched this operation to Hongjoong. And he delivered, exactly as promised.

He should've felt unstoppable.

He should've felt proud.

Instead, every time he slipped into the shadows to begin another mission, he found his senses sharpened not for danger—but for you. Always listening for that sigh you made when you barely missed a step. Always scanning for the glint of your daggers. Always waiting.

But there was nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not a trace.

The world felt duller without you in it.

By the fifth job, he had grown used to it.

By the seventh, it was starting to ache.

He sat alone one night in the corner of the library, the spoils of his most recent success catalogued and locked up. A quiet buzz of celebration echoed faintly in the distance—some of the younger crew tossing cards, drinks clinking. Wooyoung had tried to drag him into the festivities earlier, flashing his usual grin.

But Yeosang hadn't moved.

He stared down at the pages of a book he wasn't reading, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the worn table surface.

What was the point of winning if no one was keeping score?

No one was matching him move for move.

No one was slipping through his fingers with a smile and a wink and that damn rose tucked behind their ear.

He was winning.

And it never felt more like losing.

But more than anything, he wondered about the possibility that your words had been true. That you hadn't lied. That you might not have lived to see another sunrise if you failed that mission.

Could that be why you'd vanished?

Could you be… gone?

The thought twisted in his chest like a blade, but just as quickly, he scoffed at himself. Why should this bother him? He wasn't like the others—emotional, sentimental, easily swayed. He was the Phantom. Sharp. Precise. Unshakable.

This wasn't grief.

This was just boredom.

He was restless because the game was over. The thrill was gone. The challenge had evaporated.

Yes, that was it.

He told himself this lie over and over again until it sounded like truth. To fill the void, he aimed higher—proposing increasingly impossible heists, each more dangerous than the last. A fortress in the sky. A vault beneath the sea. He didn't care. He needed something to set his blood on fire again.

The brothers protested, of course. Mingi was the loudest, San the most sceptical. Even Wooyoung had narrowed his eyes and asked, "You trying to die or something, Yeo?"

But in the end, they'd relented—like they always did—silently pledging their support with muttered curses and weary loyalty.

And now, he stood at the edge of his latest mission—breaking into the royal vault itself. The jewel of an empire. A feat even the Black Pirates once deemed untouchable.

Until now.

He moved through the layered security with elegance and efficiency, each locked chamber, each coded seal falling like dominoes before him. It was working. This was the high he'd been chasing.

Until it wasn't.

Because as he passed through the final set of laser grids, his senses locked onto something else—something far more jarring than the alarms he'd bypassed.

A scent.

Soft, familiar. Sandalwood.

His heart missed a step. His hands froze mid-motion. It couldn't be. He whipped his head toward the far end of the hall, where moonlight poured through the stained glass and bathed the room in pale colour. And there—half-shadowed, half-bathed in light—was a silhouette.

You.

Not a dream. Not a ghost.

Just you.

Everything roared back at once—heat, thrill, fury, relief. The mission? Forgotten. The prize? Irrelevant.

Because suddenly, all meaning returned.

You shot him a smirk, voice laced with that familiar teasing edge. "Right on time, Phantom. Looks like you're finally learning. But don't get too comfortable—this win won't be yours."

He couldn't stop the grin that tugged at his lips, adrenaline already coursing through his veins. "Oh, is that so? We'll see about that, princess."

And just like that, the game resumed.

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Yeosang was back. Or so he told himself.

Back to scaling impossible heights, slipping through security like smoke, cracking codes with that old gleam in his eyes. The thrill had returned—so had the pace. So had the challenge.

And so had you.

He'd catch fleeting glimpses of you during these encounters: the sly curl of your lips, the taunting glint in your eyes, the whispered "better luck next time" as you disappeared through skylights or back alleys. It was all there—the chase, the tension, the rush.

Almost.

The first time he saw you again, there'd been something off. A half-second delay in your movement, like your body lagged just behind your usual rhythm. You'd wrestled the relic from its pedestal with your usual finesse, but the Phantom, sharp-eyed as ever—noticed your hand trembling as you clutched it. And then the red. A faint stain blooming under your jacket, spreading slowly like a secret unravelling.

He'd let you have the win that night.

The second time, mid-heist, as you vaulted over the maze of laser lines, your shirt rode up ever so slightly—and he spotted it. The shadow of a bruise, dark and blooming against your ribs. His steps faltered. Just a little.

You still beat him, of course. Smug as ever with a wink over your shoulder. But that bruise stayed in his mind longer than your words did.

Then came the third. He noticed the limp before you even broke into a run. Barely there, expertly masked—but not from him. You moved like someone holding their breath through pain. Gritting through every step. The sweat clinging to your brow had nothing to do with exertion. That night, he didn't even try to beat you. Just followed.

He never said anything. Never called it out.

But it lingered.

A whisper in the back of his mind louder than any of your teasing words: Something's wrong. And no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, it only grew louder with every heist.

"Well?"

The word cut through the air like a blade.

You dropped to one knee, arms outstretched as you presented the prize, its polished surface glinting under the cold light of your boss' quarters. "It was a success, sir."

A pause. Then a scoff, sharp and bitter. You didn't dare lift your eyes, but you felt the heat of his glare like fire against your skin.

"You think this is the success?"

Your breath caught.

"You know your real purpose out there."

Your head bowed further, hands curling tight around the prize in offering, as though your grip on it could deflect his disappointment. Of course, you knew. You'd never forgotten. Kang Yeosang was the mission. Not the jewels. Not the ancient scrolls or stolen artefacts. Him.

The Phantom.

The untouchable.

The monk among wolves.

No vices. No weaknesses. No distractions.

Not until you.

And that had been the point.

Infiltrate his walls. Crack the shell. Expose the heart—if it even existed—and bring it back to your boss in a box made of proof and vulnerability. That was the job. Always had been.

You'd told yourself that every step of the way. When you studied his patterns. When you timed your entrances. When you perfected that smirk that you knew irritated and intrigued him. At first, he was nothing more than a blueprint to analyse, a challenge to conquer.

But after that night...

The memory still stung like a healing wound.

You had betrayed him. Lied to his face. Drugged him, left him behind, and still, he let you go.

He'd stood between you and the gun you'd earned with your own treachery, bloodied and half-conscious, and still he told his brothers to let you go. Something shifted in you that night. You didn't want it to. You didn't ask for it. But the fracture had begun, and no matter how hard you tried to tape it over with pride and purpose, it wouldn't stop bleeding.

Still, what choice did you have?

You forced the corners of your lips to lift. Not a real smile—just a flicker of one. The kind you'd learned to wear like armour.

"It's looking good, sir," you said evenly, even as something tightened in your chest. "The Phantom seems to be letting me win." Letting. The word tasted bitter on your tongue. And worse, you knew there was truth in it.

A silence followed. Thick. Measured. Then the slow curl of a smile tugged at your boss' lips. Cold. Knowing.

"Good," he murmured. A flick of his fingers dismissed you, but his voice chased after your retreating steps. "Looks like the walls around his heart aren't so impenetrable after all. A man is still a man. Keep doing what you're doing."

You rose to your feet carefully, each movement deliberate—like your bones remembered the Time Out Room too well to tremble.

You turned, walked out, head held high, but something inside you still faltered. Because he wasn't wrong. Yeosang was changing. He hesitated more when you crossed paths. His eyes lingered longer. His aim wasn't always as sharp. Sometimes... he let you go. Just like that.

Your mission was working.

So why didn't it feel like winning?

You told yourself it didn't matter. That you'd keep going until your boss was satisfied. Until your bruises faded. Until Yeosang stopped letting you win.

Until you figured out why, despite everything, it was starting to feel like you were the one being dismantled.

Piece by piece.

You stepped into the Time Out Room with steady feet, but your insides twisted with every step. It was cold—always cold—and smelled faintly of iron and old pain. You hated that you were starting to recognise the scent. Your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides.

The boss said until further notice.

And somehow, you knew that wouldn't be anytime soon. Because this time… you weren't sure you hated what you were doing to him as much as you hated what all of this was doing to you.

The men were already waiting—your punishers, your reminders, your keepers. Their expressions unreadable. Efficient. Cruel.

They didn't speak as they began. They didn't need to. Each hit was practised. Measured. Designed to bruise, not break. Not too much. Just enough to scar.

You shut your eyes and endured.

As always.

You'd told yourself this pain was a path. That suffering was the way forward. That it would be worth it when the Phantom fell and your boss finally looked at you with pride instead of passing disinterest.

Remember who you are, you told yourself.

It's just another target, you said again and again.

This is loyalty, you whispered inside, trying to swallow down the bitter taste rising in your throat.

When it ended, you got up slowly. Bloodied lip. Ringing ears. Shoulders heavy with bruises, but not broken.

Never broken.

You walked out of the room with your chin raised and your mind reset. You would take him down. Until the next heist. Until the next smirk. Until the next time you came face to face with Yeosang—and forgot what you were fighting for all over again.

It was becoming an endless cycle.

And yet, you had no other choice… but to keep going.

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The moon loomed high above the old city museum, its pale glow slicing through the mist that curled around the gothic arches and stone gargoyles perched along the roofline. Inside, the halls were dimly lit by flickering sconces, and the only sounds were the echo of dripping pipes and the low hum of the ancient heating system groaning to life.

The target: an empress' gemstone—said to have commanded kings and bent empires to her will. Kept in a velvet-lined glass case, guarded by nothing more than a heavy lock, a sleepy security guard, and a few well-placed pressure plates along the marble floor. No lasers. No biometric sensors. Just the kind of old-school security you could feel under your fingertips.

You were already inside, the musty scent of old books and waxed floors grounding you as you slipped through the main hallway in silence.

Every movement ached.

Your ribs burned with each breath, your thigh pulled tight with every step, and your wrist throbbed from the last time-out session. But your expression stayed steady as ever. This wasn't your first job under pressure. And it wouldn't be your last.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Then you felt it—the air shifted. A breath behind you. A shadow where there should've been none. Then, his voice, smooth and low like the jazz playing from the gramophone downstairs. "Was starting to think you forgot our little tradition."

You didn't turn right away, just let a smirk curl the corner of your mouth as you adjusted your gloves. "Ah, Phantom," you said like a greeting, your voice light and sharp, "late as ever."

Yeosang stepped into the amber light spilling from the stained-glass windows, trench coat brushing his legs, black gloves tucked into his belt. A flat cap cast half his face in shadow, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.

He looked you over like a man inspecting a crime scene. "You're slower tonight."

You raised a brow, forcing yourself not to favour your left leg. "You always this observant, or just when I'm about to win?"

"I'm saying…" he stepped closer, voice dipping to something quieter. "You're hurt."

You hated the way those words dug under your skin. So you did what you always did. You offered him a slow, sly grin, brushed invisible dust from your coat, and said with a glint in your eye, "Try and stop me then."

And then you ran.

Your boots thudded softly on the carpeted floor as you ducked behind statues, slid down bannisters, and threw open the door to the main exhibit.

Behind you, the chase echoed like a dance—his steps steady, unrelenting. But this time, it wasn't just about the gemstone anymore. For him… it was about uncovering what you were hiding beneath that smile.

And for you… it was about pretending you could still outrun everything breaking inside.

Fuck me, it hurts...

The alley behind the museum reeked of soot and old rain. Smoke curled from nearby chimneys, mingling with the metallic tang of blood already drying against your ribs. Your boots hit the cobblestone in uneven rhythm, coat sticking to your skin as you moved through the fog. The velvet pouch beneath your coat was secure.

The cost of getting it? Still bleeding.

Not much. Just a reopened cut along your ribs, soaked through the linen bandage that did a piss-poor job of holding you together. But you didn't stop. Not yet. The mission came first. It always did.

But your steps slowed when you heard him—steady, deliberate. "Thought you were faster than that." Yeosang's voice cut through the fog like a knife, smooth and low, tinged with quiet frustration. He emerged from the shadows.

You didn't bother to turn fully. "Following me again, Phantom? Didn't think you liked easy wins."

"You're not making this easy," he muttered. "Not when you look like you've barely made it out alive."

You let out a soft laugh, hollow and dry. "You should see the other guy."

He didn't smile. "I'm serious."

You turned just enough for him to see the shadows beneath your eyes, the bruising that makeup couldn't quite hide. "Don't look at me like that," you said, tone sharpening. "You wouldn't understand anyway."

He took a step closer. "Try me."

You smiled then—but bitterly. "Greatness doesn't come without pain. If I want to be acknowledged… truly acknowledged… then I have to earn it. That's what you don't get. Some of us don't get handed power. Some of us bleed for it."

His jaw tensed. "Is that what you call this? Earning it?"

You looked away.

"You think I've never bled for anything?" he asked, voice quiet but edged. "You think I was born into this with a silver dagger in hand?" He scoffed to himself, shaking his head. "I've seen what that kind of hunger turns people into. That's why I made sure I'd never be like that."

You frowned, caught off guard by the emotion simmering beneath his words. And then the silence came—heavy and charged, the kind that clung to the bones.

His gaze met yours, deep and unreadable. The longer he looked at you, the harder it became to remember what you were even doing here. What side you were meant to be on.

Your breath caught. And that's when you knew you had to go. You shoved him—not hard, but enough to startle—and turned on your heel. "Just stay out of my way, Phantom." Your voice cracked just a little. Enough for him to hear it.

And then you were gone, coat whipping behind you as your silhouette vanished into the fog and firelight, leaving him standing alone in the alley with nothing but the echo of your retreat and the bitter taste of something he wasn't ready to name.

The door to his room creaked open, but Yeosang didn't bother with the light. He moved on autopilot—coat slung over the back of a chair, gloves discarded carelessly onto the floor—before heading straight into the bathroom.

The cold tap groaned as he twisted it on, water splashing into the basin. He stared at his reflection, jaw tight, blood smudging his cheek where you'd managed to get a lucky cut in.

Another failure.

Another missed shot.

And yet, as Hongjoong's voice echoed in the back of his mind from earlier—sharp and unimpressed, "So she slipped through again? You're slipping, Yeo."—he hadn't flinched. He hadn't flinched, hadn't defended himself, hadn't cared.

At least… not about the mission.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the sink. His eyes, sharp and weary, met his own reflection. He hated this. He hated you. He hated that he didn't.

Once—years ago—he would have understood your desperation.

Born into a house that barely qualified as one, he had spent his earliest years chasing love the way children chase kites—hopelessly, with bleeding hands and skinned knees. His father, a failed revolutionary turned drunk, had instilled in him nothing but bruises and bitterness. His mother—once a brilliant violinist—had withered under that roof like a flower trapped in frost, taking her own life when Yeosang was twelve. And him? He was nothing more than a disappointment in a boy's skin.

He remembered the way he used to sit outside his parents' locked bedroom door, whispering apologies he didn't even understand for things he didn't do, hoping they'd let him in. Hoping they'd say something. Anything.

They never did.

And so he stopped hoping. Stopped asking. Stopped enduring pointless beatings. And somewhere along the way, he'd decided that love was for fools. Love was for the naive. Love was a leash waiting to be yanked. All it ever did was hurt.

The streets were cruel, but at least they were honest. It became his teacher, and the underground, his home. He fought, stole, bled his way through alley fights and black market rings until he was noticed by the right person—the Captain. Hongjoong hadn't promised love. Only purpose. And that was all he needed. That was all he wanted—structure, loyalty, silence where affection used to be.

And it worked.

It worked for years.

Until now. Until you.

He slammed the faucet shut, water dripping off his chin. His chest heaved slightly, though he wasn't sure if from rage or regret. Probably both. "You burned that version of yourself," he muttered, staring into the mirror with cold determination. "You buried that boy."

But why, then, did he see the boy staring back at him now?

Why did it feel like he was slipping?

You were never meant to matter. You were a mark. A rival. A name on the board. And yet—your words wouldn't leave him.

"Some of us bleed for it."

You bled, alright. He'd seen the bruises. The limp. The hidden agony you covered with smiles. And still, you pushed forward.

Just like he once did.

And now, he couldn't stop seeing himself in you. That terrified boy begging to be seen.

He grabbed the towel and scrubbed his face hard. He hated that he was starting to care. Because caring was the first step to needing. And needing had once broken him.

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You slammed the door shut behind you with a force that rattled the frame, disregarding the relentless pain pulsating throughout your body. The prize was in your bag. Mission complete.

And you hated every second of it.

You should've been proud. You should've been thrilled. The Phantom had let you go again tonight. No chase. No clever trap waiting to outwit you at the last second. Just that infuriatingly concerned gaze of his, calm and knowing as he watched you go.

And you'd walked away. You walked.

As if you hadn't spent months training to best him. As if you hadn't spent your whole life preparing for this mission. As if you hadn't begged to be the one assigned to him.

You dropped the satchel onto your desk with a thud, the stolen artefact clinking faintly inside, and stared down at it with clenched fists. You hated that your reflection in the glass surface looked so hollow.

What the hell was wrong with you?

This was success. This was what you wanted. This was what you were meant to want.

And yet all you could feel was rage. Rage at the way he looked at you. Rage at the way he let you go again. Rage at yourself—for feeling this way in the first place.

You sat down heavily, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. A bitter laugh bubbled up your throat before you could stop it. "Why?" you hissed into the silence. "Why are you doing this?"

You didn't deserve kindness. Not from him. Not after everything you'd done. The lies. The manipulation. The little games. The way you wormed your way into his blind spots.

And still… he kept letting you go.

Surely he had already figured out that you were up to no good. He was the Phantom of the Black Pirates after all. He saw through people like glass. So why was he playing along?

The more you tried to rationalise it, the more it all slipped through your fingers like smoke.

Was it pity?

You flinched.

Was it some twisted sense of mercy?

Or was he simply tired of fighting?

That one made your stomach twist the worst.

He had been your challenge. Your perfect, untouchable opponent. He made you feel alive. Made your mission feel like it meant something. And now he was... softening.

For you.

For you, of all people.

And it made you feel sick.

Because you weren't worth it. You weren't worth the warmth in his eyes, the way he seemed to see through your mask and still… hesitate.

And the worst part? You knew exactly why this anger clawed at your chest, why it left you trembling and breathless every time you thought of him. You were afraid. Afraid you didn't want to destroy him anymore. Afraid that somewhere along the way… you'd started to care.

But you couldn't let that be true.

So you locked your jaw, wiped the tears you hadn't realised had fallen, and stood. You still had a job to do. You were not going to fall for the enemy. Not when you'd bled and clawed your way here. Not when you'd already been broken for this mission. Not when this was all you had left.

You'd end this. You had to.

Before he saw too much. Before you forgot how to walk away. Before this mission became something else entirely.

You reminded yourself, with clenched teeth and a heart you swore was steel, that Kang Yeosang was your target. Nothing more. You were not here to feel, to hesitate, to hope.

The next heist would be the start of your distance. The cold line drawn in silk and deception.

The ballroom was bathed in gold and smoke, jazz humming low beneath the soft clinking of champagne flutes and the hollow laughter of men in suits too expensive for their character. Tonight's prize—a priceless family heirloom belonging to the reclusive conglomerate boss hosting the soirée—rested somewhere within the estate, heavily guarded and rumoured to be worth enough to fund a small country. But you moved through it all like silk—graceful, elegant, untouchable. No one questioned your presence. Not in that platinum white dress, not with that disarming smile, and certainly not with the invitation forged with such precision, even the host himself might be fooled.

The white rose nestled behind your ear was an afterthought. Or so you told yourself. It wasn't until your path curved toward the grand staircase that your eyes locked with his.

Yeosang stood at the far end of the room, flanked by a few of the richer patrons he'd long since outgrown. In a tailored black three-piece with a silk cravat tied at the throat, he looked every bit the elite he was pretending not to be. His eyes found you with frightening ease—always had—and the glint in them told you he'd recognised you instantly, despite the disguise.

You didn't falter.

Not a flicker. Not this time.

With a turn of your head and a slight arch of your brow, you simply walked on. Past him. Past the ache. Past the game you didn't want to play anymore. Not a smirk. Not a wink. Not even the satisfaction of a witty jab.

He could barely believe it.

For a moment, he just stood there. Like a statue carved of disbelief. He turned slowly, watching as your white silhouette glided through the crowd like smoke he couldn't catch.

Only the soft familiar trail of sandalwood hung in the air where you'd stood, and that single white rose glinting in your hair like some cruel farewell. He hated how it twisted something deep in his chest.

You weren't supposed to haunt him like this. But damn it… you did. His jaw clenched. No teasing tonight. No tug-of-war. Just ice where fire used to be. It unsettled him more than it should have.

He didn't hesitate. Without so much as a word, he veered off from his intended path and slipped down one of the side corridors, silent as a ghost. He knew where the target was kept—the master suite above the third landing, past the reinforced gallery wing. You'd be there. Of course you would. You always were.

And yet tonight, everything felt... off.

He took the back stairwell, avoiding the guards with practised ease. Every step he took, the memory of your expressionless face looped in his mind. No mask of flirtation. No sly amusement. No you.

Just a vision in white with no warmth in your eyes.

What are you doing to me...

By the time he reached the gallery doors, he no longer cared about the heirloom. He needed to see you. To look you in the eye and ask—what the hell is happening to us?

And somewhere deeper still, a quieter question clawed at him.

Are you trying to protect me... or yourself?

The gallery was quiet, tucked deep within the mansion, far away from the function. Hidden behind walls of velvet and gold, it was a vault in all but name—lined with ancestral paintings, ivory-framed mirrors, and ornate vases under spotlights. And in the centre of the room, poised atop an intricate pedestal encased in glass, sat the prize of the night: a priceless family heirloom. Known to have been handed down for generations, it shimmered with legacy and wealth, too revered to be replicated.

You slipped past the last set of red beams like liquid shadow, breath even, body graceful, each movement practised to perfection. You'd done this a hundred times before. But this time, something in your chest was heavier.

Then came the sound you were waiting for—footsteps behind you, soft but unmistakable. You didn't turn, didn't offer him your usual smirk or tease. Only cast a cold glance his way before continuing, moving with efficiency, not flair.

Yeosang stopped at the threshold, his breath catching slightly—not from exertion, but something more hollow. You looked radiant, like a ghost from some other world, white silk catching the dim lights just enough to remind him why he hated crossing paths with you. Because you made it hard to stay numb.

No teasing remark. No smirk. No challenge.

Only silence.

And the sandalwood scent clinging to the air between you. It shook something loose in him. Frowning, he took the shortcut he knew by heart, skipping the usual dance. He had no patience for games tonight. He reached you just as your fingers curled around the heirloom, lifting it with ease. You didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Just held it out toward him, still not meeting his eyes.

"Here for this, Phantom?" you asked, voice cool.

"I guess I am, princess," he said as he stepped forward—but didn't take the prize.

You arched a brow. "Well? It's right here. Aren't you going to take it? You know you don't have to go easy on me."

He scoffed, folding his arms, though tension was already gathering in his shoulders. "You know damn well I never have to."

"Then why aren't you completing your mission yet?" you asked, voice sharp, accusatory. "Have you forgotten what you're here for? What you began this series of heists for? What would your leader say about this? Is he okay with you letting him down again and again?"

Yeosang blinked, thrown by the sudden venom in your tone. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at you, confused and bothered.

You shoved the heirloom into his chest again, harder this time. "You've grown so boring, Phantom. You used to be so challenging because of your spirit. But now? You've gone soft. It's pathetic."

His brows furrowed, but he didn't move away. He let your hand stay pressed against him, even when it lingered just a second too long. Even when your fingers trembled.

You hated that your throat threatened to tighten, but your voice didn't waver. "Don't forget who you are. Don't overthink it. This is all just a game."

But he didn't speak. He only looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence between you thickened, like fog before a storm.

You tore your hand away with a shaky exhale, trying to retreat into words that hurt less than the truth. "Go back to how you were. Go back to being the man who didn't care. The one who never hesitated. The one who only focused on the prize. He was stronger. Better. Safer."

"For who?" he asked quietly, breaking his silence.

You stilled. The answer sat on your tongue, heavy and aching. For me. But you swallowed it down, letting a bitter, hollow laugh escape as you looked away. "Doesn't matter."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice had dropped lower, more intimate now. You could feel the heat of his body just inches away, the air between you tightening like a wire. "You're pushing me away like it's going to fix something."

You met his gaze again, and this time, there was no shield—only rawness. "Because it's the only way you'll live."

That startled him. He leaned in instinctively, one hand brushing your arm in a gentle touch you almost flinched away from. Almost. But you turned the softness into venom again, a reflex you'd perfected. "You're just a job, Phantom. I'm only here to win. So stop making things so damn hard."

He moved in closer, slowly, deliberately, until your back was nearly touching the wall behind you. His hand ghosted over your waist before settling there, anchoring you in place, not forceful, but steady. "I don't believe you," he said, voice almost a whisper.

"You don't have to," you whispered back.

His forehead grazed yours as you both breathed the same air, a heartbeat apart, and for a second, you let yourself stay in that moment. Let his touch hold you. Let the war fade.

But then you pulled away—forceful, panicked. "You need to forget whatever this is," you said, backing up. "I don't want your pity or concern. You think you're the only one who's fought through blood and pain to get where you are? You don't know what it's like to claw your way to a place that might finally mean something."

"I do," he said. "I've been there."

"No," you snapped, eyes gleaming now. "You are loved. Respected. You have your brothers. You don't know what it's like to be beaten into shape and told you're nothing until you prove your worth with your own blood."

He stepped forward again, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "And what, so you think letting them keep breaking you makes you strong?"

You flinched at the softness in his voice. It was almost worse than anger. You looked away, blinking hard. "One must endure if they want greatness. It's all worth it in the end."

"Bullshit."

You blinked. That wasn't what you expected.

"Strength isn't letting them destroy you and calling it progress," Yeosang said, his voice louder now, eyes burning. "I used to think like you. Thought that if I earned enough, bled enough, maybe my parents would finally look at me like I mattered. But they never did. I chased that for years, and I lost myself in the process. That's why I stopped. That's why I chose this gang. Because here, no one fakes love. No one hands it out as a reward."

You froze, his hand still warm against your cheek. The silence stretched between you. You didn't want to care. Didn't want to need him. But the way he looked at you—

You gulped, panic rising. You were forgetting your purpose again.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You shoved him back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to break the moment. "I don't want to play this game anymore," you said, voice tight. "Let's stop pretending. Just take the prize, Phantom. Let's go back to being enemies. It was simpler that way."

Yeosang didn't chase you.

Not because he didn't want to—but because, for the first time, he knew this game had never been a game at all.

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The old Graymoor Archives loomed in the mist like a relic of its own—stone walls darkened by soot and decades of secrets, its iron gates twisted with vines and rust. Once a fortress, later a wartime prison, now a confidential storage site reserved for relics that governments wanted buried. There were no visitor entries. No maps. No traces.

But tonight, that changed.

Your target: the Blade of the First Flame, a royal heirloom said to have ignited a revolution. A blade soaked in legend and power—priceless, protected, practically unreachable.

Except, you had a plan.

Every move you'd made over the past months had been leading here—each forged document, each hand shaken, each identity worn like a mask. You'd sold lies as easily as you breathed. Every blueprint stolen and studied until your mind ran through corridors in your sleep. You knew this place better than its architects.

And this prize—this was the one.

The one that would rewrite your future.

You were certain: no successful mission could ever outshine this. Not even the one involving the Phantom.

If this went right—if you walked out of this fortress with the Blade in hand—it would be the pinnacle. It would prove your worth once and for all. It would make your boss untouchable, and you, finally, irreplaceable. The years of scars and sacrifice would have meaning. You would rise.

No more time-outs. No more blood in the name of loyalty. No more whispers behind closed doors about whether you could deliver.

This was it.

It had to be.

Meanwhile, in the shadows just outside the perimeter, Yeosang waited. His eyes were fixed not on the vault, not on the prize—but on the one person he couldn't stop thinking about. You.

He'd seen enough. The way your boss operated, the way you were always sent on missions no one else would survive—there was a pattern. One final glorious job. One last push.

Then disposal.

He clenched his jaw, a sick feeling brewing in his gut. You thought this heist would make you indispensable, finally free from being used and punished. But Yeosang suspected the opposite. That your boss had saved this prize—the impossible one—for last. A way to wring every last ounce of brilliance from you before cutting you loose.

Before making sure you never rose high enough to threaten him.

Yeosang didn't know when exactly his mission had shifted. When watching you had become protecting you. But tonight, if you walked into that vault thinking the Blade was your ticket to freedom—he had to make sure you walked out again. Alive. Intact.

Whether or not you ever forgave him for it.

Almost... there.

You were seconds away.

Each breath came sharp, ragged, as crimson bloomed from a fresh gash slicing across your side. Blood trickled down your leg from where one of the retractable spikes had scraped your thigh—fast, vicious, and entirely uncharted in the blueprints you'd studied for weeks. This wasn't supposed to happen.

None of it was.

The Blade of the First Flame glinted ahead, sitting cold and proud on its pedestal, guarded by a vault far more lethal than you'd been led to believe. Pressure sensors, hidden blades, pulse-reactive wires... and now, seemingly sentient traps that activated with no clear trigger.

Every step forward had cost you something.

A sliver of flesh.

A jolt of pain.

A piece of doubt.

You clutched your side, barely holding yourself together, gritting your teeth as another pressure plate hissed beneath your feet. Nothing happened. For now. Still, your vision blurred.

Shit.

You weren't even sure if you'd make it out of this one.

And then—

"Don't touch it." His voice. Kang Yeosang.

You froze. Not from surprise—somehow, you expected him. Like a shadow you couldn't shake. Like a memory refusing to fade. But not now. Not when your body felt seconds from collapsing and you were already questioning if you'd make it out alive.

You didn't turn.

You didn't want him to see you like this—weak, trembling, bleeding. "How poetic," you rasped. "Arriving just in time. Again."

He stepped further into the vault, his eyes sweeping over you like a storm, his expression crumbling as he caught the bloodstains, the way you favoured one leg. "What the hell happened to you?"

You forced a smirk through the pain. "Turns out the rumours were true. It is impossible."

"And yet here you are," he murmured. "Still trying."

"I'm close," you said, voice low, strained. "I just need a few more seconds."

"No. You need to stop."

You finally turned.

And Yeosang's expression twisted—raw concern bleeding through the cracks of the Phantom's usually unreadable mask. "I know why you're here," he said. "I know what your boss promised you."

"Then get out of the way and let me earn it," you hissed.

"You think this blade is your key to freedom?" His voice rose with disbelief. "You think bleeding out in a vault is how you prove your worth?"

"If that's what it takes," you shot back. "I'm not like you, Phantom. I have to endure. If I want power. If I want recognition."

"You call this recognition?" he snapped, taking a step forward. "You're just a pawn to them. A piece. And when they've used up your brilliance, they'll leave you bleeding in some other vault. That's not power—it's a death sentence."

Your eyes locked on his, fury clashing with something softer in his gaze. "I endured worse than this to get where I am," you said bitterly. "So don't lecture me about survival."

His tone lowered, sorrowful. "I chased love like that, too once. My parents, the people I thought were family. I bent until I broke, all just to be seen. It left me empty."

He stared at you—no mask, no shield.

Just a man who didn't want you to die.

"I swore I'd never let anyone break me again," he added, softer now. "Don't let them do it to you."

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze anymore. Your arm was shaking now, and the edges of your vision were darkening. But still, you reached for the pedestal.

Forget him. I'm already this close.

One more step, maybe two—if your body could still obey you. The pedestal stood just ahead, glowing faintly beneath the deadly web of light sensors and unpredictable, ever-shifting traps. The Blade shimmered in its resting place like it was laughing at your pain, at your desperation. Your vision swam. Your knees buckled.

"No! Don't move!" Yeosang's voice ripped through the air like a shot.

You didn't need to look to know he was charging in. "What are you—" you started, but the words never finished. A new trap sprang from the floor—razor-thin wires whipping out like vipers, slicing toward you so fast that even blinking felt too slow. But you never felt the blow.

Because he reached you in time.

You gasped as his arms wrapped around you and you were yanked roughly into his chest—his body turning, shielding you as the wires slashed through the air. You heard the sound first.

Then the warmth. Then the blood.

"No," you whispered in disbelief.

He grunted, holding you tighter despite the searing pain you felt in the tremble of his arms. Time slowed. It was happening again. He was holding you. Protecting you. But this time, it wasn't a trick, not a ploy from either of you. It was real.

Your thoughts blurred back to that first night—the first true encounter between predator and prey—when you'd cried fake tears, trembled like a lost thing, and he'd fallen for it. He had let you. Had held you. But this… this was different.

No more deception. No masks. Just your body trembling for real in his arms, and his blood dripping down for you. "Let me go," you choked out weakly, trying to push at his chest with your failing strength. "Yeosang, let me go before you get yourself killed."

He didn't budge, only smiling at the sound of you saying his name for the very first time. Perhaps he finally understood how his brothers had felt. Seems he was just another lovesick fool like them after all. His hand only gripped the back of your head, pulling you tighter against him. "Not this time," he muttered, jaw clenched. "I'm not letting you fall alone again."

Your vision blurred for another reason now.

Tears, hot and ashamed, slipped past your lashes before you could stop them. No one had ever protected you like this. Ever. Not your comrades. Not your handlers. Not even the man you called "boss"—the man you once so desperately wanted to call Father. He only ever measured your worth by your pain. Your failure was discipline. Your success was silence. His affection? A ghost you chased your whole life, too afraid to admit it never truly existed.

And yet… you'd still bled for him. Still called every scar a badge of loyalty. Still told yourself that one day, he'd look at you and say, you've done well.

But he never did. He wouldn't.

You knew it now.

But you'd been too afraid to let go—because what else was there to live for?

Until Yeosang.

Until now.

"Why… why would you do this?" you whispered into his shoulder.

His voice was low. Shaky. Honest. "Because someone should have done it for you a long time ago."

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You had never run from a mission before.

Not once.

But here you were—bleeding, gasping, half-held upright by the man you were meant to destroy—racing against the fading strength in your limbs and the echo of alarms to escape the vault.

You didn't look back.

The Blade stayed behind, sealed in a cage of death traps and your shame. You'd given up the prize. And still, you didn't care. You'd made it out. With Yeosang. But you didn't make it far.

The doors blew open to the night.

And he was there.

Your boss. Flanked by his monsters—the two right-hand men who'd known every weak spot on your body since you were a teenager. The ones who etched every punishment into your bones like scripture. You stopped dead.

The Phantom moved instinctively, slightly in front of you, protective even as he swayed on his feet.

"All those years I invested in raising you…" the man said, almost wistfully, shaking his head. "I should've known you'd betray me one day." His words were calm, but the rage behind them coiled like a whip. "Couldn't even secure the Blade," he went on. "And here you are—fraternising with the enemy."

Yeosang's jaw clenched. "She's more loyal than you ever deserved."

The boss finally acknowledged him, gaze cool and cutting. "So, the infamous Phantom of the Black Pirates does speak. Pity that voice wasn't enough to win battles lately. All those losses. A shame, really. I had hoped for more from you."

"And I had hoped a man who hides behind fists wouldn't be so predictable," Yeosang shot back coldly. "I guess we're both disappointed."

Your boss' expression darkened. "You got smitten, that much was clear. But I never expected her to fall for you," he added, glancing between the two of you with mock pity. "How… disappointing."

He sneered, stepping closer. Your stomach twisted. "I guess," he continued coolly, "that just makes your disposal easier." With a flick of his hand, the right-hand men moved. You stiffened—ready to fight despite your wounds—but instead of attacking you outright, your boss held up a hand to stop them. His lips curled.

"Or…" he said smoothly, "you could finish the job."

Silence. Cold and deafening.

He took another step, his voice nearly coaxing. "Deliver the Phantom. I'll forget tonight ever happened. Walk away now, and you're on your own. You know what that means."

Your blood ran cold. You were wounded. So was Yeosang. There was no guarantee you'd survive being on the run. And part of you—the part that had spent years surviving the only way you knew how—hesitated. That instinct to obey. To submit. To live.

Your eyes flickered uncertainly.

Yeosang saw it.

He didn't beg. He didn't move. He simply looked at you and said, softly but with unwavering strength, "You don't owe me anything. But you do owe yourself a life that isn't dictated by fear."

His voice broke something in you. Your lip trembled as your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, his blood soaking into yours. He held you steady, gaze unflinching. You hated that this was happening. Hated that it had come to this.

And in that fragile, suspended moment… you didn't notice the right-hand men slowly reaching for their guns. Your boss watched, smirked. "Still so easy to manipulate," he murmured. "You think he's going to save you from what you are? From what I made you?"

Click.

Yeosang moved first.

But so did they.

One of the right-hand men lunged for his gun, the other drawing his blade—chaos erupted instantly. Before they could strike, a piercing alarm shrieked through the compound. A blinding floodlight cut across the courtyard, and then—

"FREEZE!"

A dozen voices. Boots thundered across the concrete. Flashbangs lit up the night. The Graymoor Archives' private security had finally arrived, their rifles raised and shouts echoing through the smoke. "Security breach in Vault Sector C! All units respond!"

Gunfire cracked the air.

"Move!" Yeosang barked, dragging you behind a concrete barricade as bullets whipped past your head. You barely registered the pain anymore—your limbs were numb, your ears ringing. It was chaos, pure and absolute, and you didn't know how you were still alive.

But he didn't let go. He hauled you forward as the two of you weaved through the mess of shadows, bodies, and fire, until the front gates loomed through the haze.

You didn't think you'd make it. But then, a sleek black car screeched to a halt in front of the gates. The back door flew open.

"Get in!" a familiar voice roared.

And just like that, you saw him. The Tempest. You could've cried. Not because you were happy. Not entirely.

You never thought you'd be glad to see San again—not after the last time. Not after he'd pressed a gun to your head, unwavering, steady, like you were nothing but a stain to be wiped clean. His fingers had been on the trigger, ready to end you then and there. The only reason you were still breathing was because his brother had stepped in at the last second. His voice. His mercy.

And yet, here he was now—saving your ass. Well, more like his brother's. But you were grateful nevertheless.

Yeosang didn't hesitate. He pulled you inside with him, and the moment the door slammed shut, the car shot forward like hell was behind it. Which, for once, wasn't an exaggeration.

You collapsed against him in the back seat, limbs trembling, blood sticking to the leather, your breath catching in your throat.

He said nothing.

You said nothing.

But his arm stayed around you, firm and steady. Like he wasn't letting go.

Not this time.

The next thing you knew, the gates creaked open to a world you never thought you'd enter alive. The Black Pirates' mansion loomed before you — all imposing stone and thick shadows and centuries of buried secrets. You'd heard whispers of it before, in hushed tones and half-truths. Enemy stronghold. Death trap. No return.

But now, bathed in moonlight and strangely silent, it didn't feel like a battlefield. It felt like a sanctuary.

You didn't remember crossing the threshold, only the weight of Yeosang's hand at your back as he helped guide your stumbling steps. Blood left a trail behind you — both his and yours — but no one said a word about it.

Inside, it was quieter than you'd expected. Dim, but warm. Not what you imagined from the most feared gang on the continent.

And then you were in the infirmary.

They didn't treat you like a prisoner. No chains. No accusations. Just a bed, warm light, and hands that worked carefully to patch up every inch of your broken body. You winced, silent, biting your tongue through every stitch.

The Phantom lay on the next bed, close enough to touch. He kept glancing at you. You didn't return the look. Not once. You stared at the ceiling. The corner. Your bloodstained hands. Anywhere but him.

He knew why. You could feel it in the way he fidgeted — unusual for him — with the edge of his blanket, lips parting more than once before he finally worked up the nerve to speak.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low. Careful. Like if he was too loud, you might shatter again.

You didn't answer.

He tried again. "You've barely said anything. Since we got in the car. Since the vault."

Still, nothing.

The words clawed at your throat, but you couldn't make yourself speak. You were scared that if you did, you'd break. You didn't know how to explain the storm in your chest — not to him, not to anyone.

He shifted, wincing as he sat up despite his injuries. "You're safe now," he said softly, his voice hoarse. "You don't have to shut me out."

You closed your eyes. Safe. You'd never really known what that word felt like before. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe that's why the silence felt safer than his kindness — because if you let yourself believe this was real, if you let yourself feel it… you weren't sure your heart could handle the break that would come after.

"I'm fine... I just—"

You didn't mean to speak. You really didn't.

But something about the way Yeosang looked at you—bruised, bandaged, bloodied, and still soft with concern—tugged too hard at the thread holding you together. "I didn't think I'd make it out." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He froze. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pain flickering through his expression as he shifted to rest his elbows on his knees, facing you. "I did," he said gently. "I never stopped thinking you would."

You let out a bitter laugh, quiet and shaky. "I almost took the deal."

The words hung heavy in the space between your beds. He didn't flinch. Just waited.

"I... considered handing you over. Letting them take you," you admitted, eyes focused on the fresh white bandage around your palm. "Not because I wanted to. But because I was scared. Because that's all I've ever known. Choosing survival. Even if it meant losing something that mattered."

Yeosang's voice was softer now. "But you didn't."

You swallowed. "No. I didn't. Because for once, I wasn't scared of dying. I was scared of being without you."

That made him go still. The air seemed to shift.

"I've lied to you so many times," you whispered. "Used you. Let myself believe that keeping you away was protecting you. But all I did was hurt you—and myself. You saw through me from the start, didn't you?"

"I saw you," he said, his voice breaking just a little. "Even when you were hiding."

You finally looked at him then. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A look. Full and aching. And he met it with something stronger—something steady, unwavering, real.

"I don't know how to be good," you murmured, the tears sliding down without your permission. "I only know how to survive. And it's always been alone. But… I don't want that anymore."

Yeosang reached out with his bandaged hand and rested it over yours—gentle, patient, asking nothing. "You don't have to be good," he said. "Just be here. With me."

And for the first time in your life, you let yourself want that.

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The Captain's office was far too quiet.

You sat rigid in the leather chair, back straight despite the pain in your ribs, feeling more like an intruder than a guest. Yeosang sat beside you, close but not overbearing, and when Hongjoong finally looked up from the papers on his desk, you braced yourself.

"Are you…" he began slowly, eyes piercing, "working for the White Serpents?"

You didn't hesitate. "No." You shook your head. "The Snow Syndicate. That's who I've been working for."

You caught the flicker in the leader's expression—the way his shoulders slumped, the corner of his mouth twitching in disappointment. But beside you, Yeosang let out a breath you didn't realise he'd been holding. He was relieved. You hadn't lied. Not about this, at least.

"But…" you continued, voice quieter now, "I believe they've struck some sort of deal with my boss. I've only heard about the White Serpents in passing. And then… next thing I knew, I was given this mission. To target the Phantom."

The room fell still.

"I thought I heard something… about Yeosang being the only one left."

Jongho, who had been leaning against the bookshelf behind Hongjoong, straightened slowly. His face hardened. "So this does have to do with the White Serpents then," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "We've been tracking them down for years."

Wooyoung, who'd been silent for once, let out a low whistle. "Damn. That explains why they were always a step ahead. They weren't just using pawns. They were using Syndicates."

"I suppose," the Anchor continued, "it's a good thing we have you on our side now."

That's when the fear began to creep in. You bit your lip, lowering your gaze. What if they'd made a mistake letting you in? What if you had nothing useful to offer?

Then you felt it. Yeosang's hand brushing over yours. You looked at him. The way his thumb gently moved against your knuckles was barely perceptible, but his eyes—his eyes said everything. It's okay. You don't have to prove anything. Not to them. Not to me. Just tell your truth.

You inhaled shakily and looked up again. "I… I don't actually know anything about the White Serpents," you admitted, voice quiet with shame. "My boss never let me in on anything bigger than the mission I was assigned. He said I didn't need to know."

Silence blanketed the room. No judgement.

But the heaviness was real.

You forced yourself to meet Hongjoong's gaze again. "But I do know about the Snow Syndicate. At least them. Maybe we could go after them instead. Would that help?"

The Captain stared at you for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then, just slightly, he nodded. "That would help a lot." And just like that, you'd gained something you'd never expected in enemy territory.

Approval.

The mansion's back terrace was empty.

The others had dispersed to follow up on the intel you'd shared, leaving you with Yeosang in the quiet dusk. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and woodsmoke, the kind of peace you weren't used to. Maybe never had been.

You stood at the balcony's edge, gripping the stone railing, eyes fixed on the horizon. Your shoulders ached—not from the wounds, but from the weight of everything unsaid.

He leaned beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brushed. His presence was like a whisper against your skin—warm, unassuming, steady. Neither of you spoke at first. Then—softly—he broke the silence. "You did well in there."

You didn't answer. Your throat felt too tight. After a beat, you murmured, "I didn't tell them anything useful."

"You told them the truth," he said, turning slightly so his shoulder lightly bumped yours. "That's more than most do."

Your hands curled tighter around the railing. "I was raised to deceive, Yeosang. Raised to manipulate. And when I finally had something real… I nearly traded you for a second chance at survival."

He was quiet. The breeze lifted a strand of your hair, and before you could react, his hand gently tucked it behind your ear. "But you didn't," he said.

You looked at him, and your breath caught. The fading light caught in his eyes—steady, calm, and painfully kind. You hated how much it shook you. "I almost did," you whispered, your voice crumbling all over again. "I hesitated."

"You're allowed to," he replied. "Survivors hesitate. It's how we stay alive."

You didn't realise you were crying until he reached up again, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek—slow, deliberate, almost reverent. His hand lingered against your skin longer than it needed to.

"I'm scared," you admitted, blinking through the blur. "I don't know who I am without them. Without orders. Without needing to earn someone's approval just to exist."

Yeosang stepped closer. Not invading—just… there. "You're someone who walked away from everything you knew," he said, voice low and steady. "Someone who chose to protect the person you were supposed to destroy."

He reached for your hand. Not forcefully. Just an offer. You hesitated—but only for a second—before lacing your fingers through his. His palm was warm, solid. Real.

"Someone who's still standing," he added, "despite every reason not to be."

You shook your head. "You make me sound braver than I am."

"No," he said, gaze fixed on yours, "I make you sound exactly as brave as you are."

You turned to him fully now, overwhelmed. His hand never left yours. "Why do you keep believing in me?" you asked.

"Because," he murmured, "you're not the only one who used to survive by following orders. I know what it's like… to want out and not know how. To hurt someone because you thought it was right. Or because it was the only thing you were allowed to do."

You stared at him, every part of you unravelling.

"I'm still figuring it out too," he said. "But maybe we don't have to do it alone anymore."

Your breath hitched. It was too much, and not enough. "I'm not good at this," you whispered.

"Neither am I," he replied, and a tiny, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then, without thinking, your hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt. "Thank you," you said. "For being here. For not giving up on me."

Yeosang didn't answer with words. He simply leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours—gently, quietly—eyes closed, as though just the contact between you was sacred.

It wasn't a kiss. But it felt like one. And for the first time in your life, closeness didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a beginning.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Preparation began the very next day.

You found yourself spending long hours in the meeting room of their mansion, surrounded by blueprints and surveillance photos, your finger tracing paths you once took blindfolded. Every corner of the Snow Syndicate's base, every shortcut and security measure you remembered, was laid bare on the table under the sharp gazes of the crew.

Some of them didn't trust you yet, and you couldn't blame them. Jongho, ever the tactician, challenged each piece of intel you gave, questioning every detail. But you never faltered, answering each test with quiet confidence. Even when Wooyoung's eyes followed your every movement, sharp and sceptical, you stayed steady.

Seonghwa and his partner were the first to show subtle signs of acceptance. The Gentleman had passed you a water bottle during a particularly long session without a word, and you nodded in silent thanks. Yunho pulled you into a sparring match one afternoon, clearly testing your mettle. He didn't go easy. You didn't want him to. You blocked and countered until your arms ached, but you stayed standing. And when he finally offered a hand to help you up from the mat, you took it with something close to a smile.

But Yeosang—he was your constant.

He was never far. Whether you were hunched over files late into the night or mentally reeling from memories stirred by old maps, he was there. Sometimes he didn't say anything at all. He didn't need to. A brush of fingers as he passed you a pen. A shared glance that said, "You've got this." A hand on the small of your back when it all became too much.

Even the dining hall, once a battlefield of sideways stares, began to feel less cold. At first, you sat in silence. Then the occasional murmur. Then, one evening, a laugh—small, involuntary—at something Yeosang whispered, and the tension eased slightly around the table. You were still the outsider, but no longer the enemy.

Then, at last, came Hongjoong's quiet nod. "It's time."

You led them in.

Father, I'm home.

The compound hadn't changed.

Your footsteps echoed down its hollow halls, your eyes darting to each corner that used to mean home. You guided the crew through a rear passage you'd used in emergencies. A route you had memorised like a prayer.

But something felt wrong. The air was too still. Too quiet.

The grand marble hall you once knew was in shambles. Furniture overturned, walls cracked, the polished floor smeared in streaks of dried blood. But not a body in sight. You drew your weapon, breath shallow. The others moved in formation behind you.

"This wasn't recent," Seonghwa murmured, stepping cautiously over a broken chandelier.

Heart pounding, you pushed forward.

And then—you saw it.

His office. The place where you knelt so often. The place where orders came cloaked in patience and poison.

Your boss was there.

Seated in his favourite leather chair, slumped back, mouth ajar, lifeless. The drink he always held—the crystal glass only he was allowed to use—was still clutched in his hand, tilted slightly as if he'd just taken a sip.

You stepped forward slowly, your stomach twisting. Yeosang appeared at your side, eyes sweeping the room before dropping to the body. He bent slightly, carefully plucking the small piece of paper stuck beneath the glass.

His voice cut through the heavy silence.

"Better luck next time, pirates. – WS."

Time seemed to freeze. You stared at the words. At the mocking loop of those final initials.

WS. White Serpents.

A chill ran down your spine. It wasn't grief that made your legs tremble. It was the realisation that this wasn't retaliation.

It was bait.

A message meant to be found. And the White Serpents had just painted a target on every one of your backs. The weight of it settled in your chest like a curse.

When the others began combing the scene, voices rising in alarm or fury, you barely heard them. Your gaze had been fixed on the glass in your boss' limp hand. You didn't remember how you got back to the mansion. Just that everything between the discovery and now blurred into a silent fog.

And now…

You didn't know how long you'd been sitting there. The moonlight spilt in through the half-drawn curtains, casting long, silver streaks across the floor of your room in the Black Pirates' mansion—the one they'd offered without question. A place that had once been enemy territory… now the only place you could breathe.

And yet, you felt like you were suffocating.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees as you sat on your bed, shoulders hunched, lips pressed together tightly. The tears had come without warning. At first, you thought it was just exhaustion. Then maybe grief. Then guilt. Maybe it was all of it.

You'd led them into an empty stronghold. Given them hope. And what had you found?

A message. A corpse. And a bigger storm coming.

A sob clawed its way up your throat before you could swallow it down. You turned your head into the pillow, wiping angrily at your cheeks, as if hiding the tears might undo the pain that came with them. But they kept coming, traitorous and warm.

You didn't notice the door creak open. Didn't hear the soft footsteps until the bed dipped slightly at the foot. You flinched, startled—until your gaze landed on him.

Yeosang.

He didn't say anything. Just met your eyes from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning gently against the mattress. There was no judgement in his face. Only that quiet strength, that soft warmth you'd grown to crave. "Hey, there."

When he offered you the smallest smile—tired, but reassuring—your composure crumbled.

You didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

You lunged forward, throwing your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder. He caught you instantly, pulling you into his lap, holding you so tightly you thought maybe he was the one who needed this just as much. "I'm sorry..." you choked out between breaths, clutching his jacket. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head and pressed his lips to your hair. "Don't be, princess," he murmured against your temple. "It's okay."

You clung to him tightly as he gently rocked you, his voice low and steady like the ocean after a storm.

"We knew the White Serpents had been targeting us all along anyway. This isn't anything new," he continued, his hand soothing along your back. "Sure, getting to the Snow Syndicate might've helped… might've made things a little easier, perhaps. But it's fine."

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, brushing a tear away with the back of his knuckle.

"We'll get through this. Together. Hm?"

You nodded slowly, lips trembling as your forehead fell against his. He stayed like that with you—no pressure, no demands.

Just him. Just this.

And for the first time since that cursed vault, you allowed yourself to believe it.

Together.

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"The job's done, sir. The Snow Syndicate's been wiped out. The Black Pirates won't find a single thread leading back to us."

The man exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he glared down at the Phantom's file. With a sudden slam, he shut it—rage bubbling up for the first time in a long while. "So… he does have a weakness now. But at what cost?" His tone turned bitter. "The Snow Syndicate were such loyal dogs all this time. And look at what he's made us do."

His subordinate shifted uneasily, then gestured to the next file laid out on the table. "True… but maybe this just exposed their incompetence. Cutting them loose might've been a blessing in disguise. Besides, this gives us the perfect chance to shift focus."

"To the Tempest?" the man asked, his mood already shifting.

The subordinate gave a nod. "Yes, sir."

That did it. A slow grin curled on the man's lips as he slid the new file toward himself, fingers drumming once before he flipped it open. His eyes lit up, excitement flickering in them as he read the first few lines.

"Well, well," he murmured, biting his lip, relishing what he saw. "This one's practically gift-wrapped. No effort needed. The weakness is already in place…" He chuckled, low and cruel. "And the best part? She won't be around much longer anyway."

His grin widened.

"This might just be the best one yet."

Y'all, I'm so sorry this took like a million years to complete. Work has been and still is crazy. I'm sick and am still tRYING TO RECOVER FROM THE DAMN NEW ALBUM. My apologies. I hope this one was decent and met expectations because I struggled a little midway through *sobssss*

Thank you for reading, and as always, let me know your thoughts! <3

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