tiarahoarder

[tiarahoarder]

[tiarahoarder]

hey coups, anyone can cook!

a/n: another super fun request! i love writing about silly little shenanigans. as always, enjoy! <3

🏷️: @leejenoenthusiast @dibidibidismynameisleeknow @jae10velies @spacejip @winwintea @polarisjisung @miyx-amour @jihoonsbbygirl @starshuas

[tiarahoarder]

dude, nice try!

◀ part one • series masterlist • part two

joshua hong has had the immense privilege of living 30 whole years without ever feeling so much as an ounce of jealousy. that is, until you come prancing into his picture-perfect life on your dumb burner account with evidence that his long-time girlfriend is cheating on him… with your boyfriend.

as he gets tangled up in your chaotic plan to get back at your adulterous partners, he begins to wonder if this growing discomfort in his chest was ever even heartbreak to begin with, or if it’s something entirely new to him—something that has the ability to eat him alive from the inside out.

♫ get him back! olivia rodrigo ⟡ my kink is karma chappell roan ⟡ see u never niki ⟡ good to me seventeen

pairing: joshua x fem!reader part two: 14.6k words cw: strong language, mentions of/implied sexual activity, kms joke, reader is highly emotional and tbh kind of crazy maybe even toxic but idc bc i support women’s rights and wrongs <3 tags: cheating (not between main ship), strangers to partners-in-crime to partners PERIOD, joshua pov, pining, he fell first AND harder oops, he’s also so incredibly whipped from the jump, a few smau bits but mostly writing, no smut, inspired by get him back! by miss rodrigo a/n: oh nothing, just me getting carried away with the dialogue and my word count like usual :) to the anon that requested this: pls feel free to pop back into my ask and tell me how you think this is going LOL. i'm having fun writing it but i know the jealousy isn't fully fleshed out yet. to everyone else: ENJOY!

dividers by @cafekitsune cover by yours truly!

joshua was being sincere with you when he told you he wasn’t a good bar to set yourself against when it came to breakups. 

there was stephanie from when he was still in college in the U.S.; they broke up because he decided to move back to korea. it was amicable for the most part, but he probably could’ve given her a more generous heads up than the two weeks he did give her. it wasn’t until a year or so later that she realized how unfair that had been and made sure joshua knew—with a series of voice memo texts that were nearly 15 minutes each. 

then, he dated miyoung. she was nice but she also decided she wanted to get married within the next year only three months in, and as a 23-year-old, joshua was freaked out enough to run almost immediately. his relationship with miyoung ended on a phone call that lasted three hours because she was sobbing so hard, he didn’t have the heart to hang up even though he had no idea how to comfort her. he saw her consistently for weeks after out of pure guilt until jeonghan pointed out that this was just a disguised way of stringing her along.

after that, there was bada, nari, bora, aram, and hana, all girls he casually dated for no longer than a handful of weeks before one of them decided it actually wasn’t a fit for various, mostly dumb reasons. nari told him she didn’t like that he collected cologne and had three times as much perfume as she did. he left aram because she ate so messily, it gave him the ick. though apparently, that might be something he doesn’t mind anymore.

he dated yumi for six months, and to this day, she’s still the only serious girlfriend of his that broke up with him. she told him that she felt like after six months, she still barely knew him, and that he was “too concerned” with upholding an image of himself that “didn’t feel real.” he went straight to therapy for that one.

and when he felt a little better in his own skin and ready to put a “realer” version of himself out there, he met mina. mina, his longest relationship, and up until now, someone he was convinced was his first love. he said as much anyway. he was the first to tell her he loved her, he reminded her he did every day, and he thought they had a nice, long future ahead of them. what he pictured in that future exactly, he had no clue. but after an odd and somewhat unlucky streak in dating, he finally felt like mina was a nice and comfy place to land.

he’s never been more wrong about something in his entire life. 

and after the laughable amount of breakups he’s experienced, he’s also never been angrier after the end of a relationship in his entire life.

mina was proving to be a lot of firsts for him—first cheater, first master manipulator and liar, first person who’s ever made him wonder if he could possibly switch over to dating men instead… or simply stop dating at all! sure, he would die alone but he would die in peace. 

whatever the case, he's quickly approaching the conclusion that “first love” is not among those firsts, and it probably never was. no amount of teasing from you or jeonghan did it, but in less than a handful of minutes spent breaking up with mina, he is a million percent sure this was not someone he could have loved. or else what did that say about him and his taste?

sixteen minutes earlier

joshua arrives at mina’s apartment exactly two hours after work ends for her—5 p.m. every day because she always scheduled a pilates class at 5:30 p.m. thirty minutes for her to get to her class, one hour for her to finish it, 30 minutes for her to get home, zero minutes for her to get clean because he doesn’t care how presentable she is when he dumps her. 

plus, however long it takes joshua to end this—hopefully a lot shorter than his experience with miyoung.

he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was coming over; he didn’t think she really deserved that courtesy. he may be intent on a clean break, but he also wanted this to be as annoying for her as it has been for him.

so at a prompt 7 p.m., joshua finds himself casually leaning against the elevator’s railing, ascending the floors of mina’s apartment and feeling almost excited to be free of this experience. 

after he got off the phone with you, he decided he would bite the bullet when work was over. he spent the rest of his day absentmindedly finishing his reports, periodically stopping to scribble an idea for what he would say to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

he takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket now and runs over his options again.

his levels of shame and self-pity were sky high when he first pulled out his notepad at the office to write his thoughts out, but after texting you and letting you know what he planned to do, you insisted on meeting at a cafe beforehand to brainstorm together while he waited for mina’s pilates class to end. and once you both workshopped the entire list, his embarrassment diminished almost completely.

it was clear you took this a lot more seriously than he did. he doesn't know what he expected; you probably have a manila folder stuffed full of notes for what you plan to do to siwoo.

as such, you were very helpful. sure, you were also really distracting, with your subtle, spiced perfume he recognized as lola james harper, and your daunting and unrelenting eye contact, and the way your eyes smiled all on their own when they weren’t busy crying over siwoo, and the fact that you graced him with your laugh in person for the first time (every bit as fun as he thought it would be), and everything else that came with just existing in your presence.

all of it was really distracting—almost to the point of it being entirely counterproductive for him. almost, if it weren’t for the fact that you were so determined on his behalf to make this the most unpleasant experience for mina. he was mostly pleased with where you two landed, and if anything, he at least had a better idea of what he wanted to say.

he reads the completely ruined paper, a mess of his black ink and wrinkles where you kept trying to grab it out of his hands. it was already a vulnerable enough occasion talking about this with you; he did not need you seeing his notes on top of it.

TALKING POINTS FOR BREAKING UP WITH EVIL GF i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because someone sent me proof! — cannot say this without exposing that y/n knows about siwoo!!! i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because i went through your phone and saw your text messages! — better, but am i willing to look crazy just to cover for y/n?  yes  what am i saying NO  this will do ✓ how could you do this to us? i loved you! — seems disingenuous? note: yell at jeonghan and y/n for putting ideas in my head later! i literally gave you everything you could’ve wanted, and that still wasn’t enough? what does any other man have that i don’t? — ok met with y/n for feedback. says this sounds pathetic and that i can't let her think this affected me. but she cheated on me? this LITERALLY affects me. i will come back to this one  ok y/n made a different, better point: i am perfect •ᴗ• and i shouldn’t present myself as lacking. so true. she's very good at this! •ᴗ• do you really think anyone with half a fucking brain cell who's willing to homewreck a relationship is really going to give enough of a fuck about you to be capable of putting up with your insufferable ass and treating you as well as i did? — y/n suggested. had to workshop bc she's alarmingly vulgar. plus, maybe toxic to say i "put up" with mina ?? not sure do you even regret hurting me? — y/n says this is silly bc siwoo and mina obviously do not regret anything, but i want mina to feel guilty. y/n now agrees and says i should add: "or are you just so heartless you don't care?" she said this more colorfully, but i will remain respectful  why should i remain respectful? mina is literally the most disrespectful person i’ve ever met. i’ll say what y/n suggested ⤵ your commitment to being a heartless asshole has you by your ugly ass neck and i hope it starts squeezing with both hands  GET SOME HELP! — more for catharsis. won’t be yelling this at her you're going to regret this and if you think there's a world where i take you back when you do, you're mistaken — wow, no notes from y/n! must be very good •ᴗ• definitely say this one!! please never contact me again — note from y/n: "why are you being so goddamn polite? tell her to fuck off and if you ever see her number on your phone screen, you'll set up an appointment on her behalf to get a lobotomy." ????? note from ME: have a serious discussion with y/n at a later time about why i, a MAN, can't just talk to WOMEN like this!

despite the circumstances that led to having to make the list at all, joshua can't help but grin at it. the time spent with you at the cafe was not only helpful; it was fun. maybe the most fun he’s had with a woman since he started dating mina, who chased off all his female friends within the first two months of being in his life. joshua winces as he pockets the list, wondering how he didn’t see the red flags. 

his thoughts are interrupted with the loud and obnoxious ping of the elevator as it arrives on mina’s floor. the doors slide open, and immediately, he hears the obscene sounds of a woman moaning down the hall. his eyes widen as he steps out and turns down the hall in the direction of mina’s apartment. 

the walls of her place were always thin; they were constantly getting into wars with the neighbors that involved banging on the floor, ceiling, and shared walls with her broom. still, he had never heard this kind of noise from her neighbors. 

“tell me about it.”

joshua looks to his right to find an older woman stepping out of her apartment and locking her door. he must have a look of shock on his face because she snorts and nods in what seems like solidarity as she tucks her empty reusable bags into her armpit. 

“that girl doesn’t seem to ever stop,” she informs him. “i’ve complained to the building manager so many times, and still, here she is, screaming like a little banshee and disrupting this entire floor’s peace.”

joshua feels his skin break out into a cold sweat as his mind starts to go a mile a minute. “huh… interesting…”

“i mean,” the woman turns to step into the elevator joshua just walked out of. “what is she even doing? auditioning for a god damn porn? she sounds like my fucking shih tzu’s squeaky toy!” 

he forces a laugh, too distracted to even feel uncomfortable over the inappropriate joke. “maybe,” he mutters. “she sure is putting on a performance.”

“oh my god!” the voice shrieks in perfect timing, making him flinch. 

“ugh, inconsiderate! all hours of the day! does she even work?!” the woman shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disapproval as she presses a button and the doors close. 

joshua stands there for a moment, staring at the elevator, unable to move as he listens to the noises of what could possibly be his girlfriend having sex with siwoo right now. it didn’t even sound remotely like her, and that fact terrifies him even more because if it is her, then she had to be faking it with someone. was she faking it with joshua or with siwoo?

he groans, letting his head fall into his hands. 

“who cares?” he grumbles to himself. the last thing he should be worrying about is whether or not an adulterous liar like mina thought he was good in bed. he should definitely not care anymore. “i don’t care.”

joshua can practically hear jeonghan’s voice telling him, sure you don’t. he shakes his head, trying to banish his jeonghan-shaped conscience from his brain.  

he doesn’t even know if it’s mina. it could very well be some other female neighbor; it’s not far-fetched for people to be having sex. he could just be paranoid right now since he knows she’s cheating on him. 

each floor of mina’s apartment is huge—a maze, really. dozens of units, at least ten near the elevator, several people who could be having sex. 

he always counted himself lucky that mina lived so close to the elevator, just down the hall a few units down. today, though, as the wailing reverberates off the walls of the hallway leading to the elevator, he thinks mina’s floor plan is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

his phone is to his ear before he can fully consider what he’s doing. 

“did you do it?” you seem to dislike greeting people on the phone properly like a normal human being. you speak a little louder than usual, your surroundings lively and buzzing with the noise of what sounds like several conversations. “that was fast.”

“uh,” joshua elongates the sound for a few seconds while his brain tries to tune out the “porn audition” long enough to comprehend your question. “no… nope. i haven’t done it yet.”

“oh. then what’s up? you need backup after all?” you ask too seriously for him to confidently say you’re joking. 

before you both parted ways at the cafe, you offered him company and said you could tag along and jump mina for him. you both laughed and said your goodbyes, but if what joshua fears right now is true, he definitely doesn’t hate the idea of you jumping her. 

“i’m a little busy—well, kinda, not really—but i can fake some kind of horrific emergency and get out of here and over to you in…” you trail off, probably checking the time. “twenty minutes… maybe ten if i’m okay with breaking a few laws. which, rest assured, i am!”

he feels the dread over his predicament slipping as you keep talking, his emotions turning into an incredibly confusing mix of panic, amusement, anxiety, relief, and so on and so on. the number of odd emotions you elicit out of him are countless. 

joshua glides over what he assumes is a joke and straight to the point; the faster he finds out what he needs to, the faster he can hopefully escape this building.

“do you know where siwoo is?” he asks, taking the first few tentative steps to mina’s door. he walks painstakingly slowly, almost tiptoeing even though there’s no possible way anyone could hear him over the lewd moans. 

“he’s at dinner with his vile parents,” you say, sighing like you’d rather talk about anything else. 

“are you sure?”

“yes… why?”

“like… how sure?” joshua presses. 

“uh, 100 percent.” he can picture the frown on your face that usually matches this tone of yours—confused bordering on annoyed. “i’m literally staring at him as his awful monster of a mother tucks a napkin into his collar like a little fucking devil baby, bro.” 

joshua doesn’t know how at a time like this, his brain has the capacity to still take note of how much he loathes when you call him bro. it’s a weird thought to have to process alongside the thousands of other things he’s suddenly feeling.

“i’m at the bar of this pretentious ass restaurant waiting on the bartender to finish their drink orders while they eat all the appetizers without me, like a good, little stay-at-home girlfriend slash maid slash server slash revenge connoisseur!” you inform him, your voice sarcastically cheerful. “i’m going to spit in all their drinks.” that bit comes out in your normal, low—and a little irritated—voice.

“wow” is all he says because his brain doesn’t supply him with anything else.

“like i said, revenge connoisseur,” you say, sounding bored. “so yes, i’m 100 percent sure he’s here. we have to have dinner with these assholes once a week but—” you cut yourself off as you address someone else. “ah, thank you! oh wait, can you actually remove the espresso beans from this one? the abominable woman who gave birth to my boyfriend doesn’t want to have too much caffeine this late in the day.”

joshua realizes his brain has the capacity to do a lot of things in stressful situations as long as he’s talking to you. because he stops walking and immediately starts laughing when he hears the bartender deadpan: “it’s an espresso martini.”

you sigh like you’ve had to explain this a million different times to a million different bartenders. 

“joshua? hold on, okay?” you tell him before immediately addressing the bartender without waiting for him to reply. “listen, i get it. you don’t have to tell me. i know! she’s a ridiculous airhead who gets her life force from making little people like me suffer and ask for embarrassing things on her behalf. i don’t even care if you stick your bare fingers in there to pluck them out—in fact, i actually kind of prefer you do that. i just need them gone before she comes poking her snobby, little nose over here and demands you make her an entirely brand new one.”

that seems to do the job because the next thing you say is: 

“thank you so much. and please give yourself a 50 percent tip—100 even!” you shout the last part as, joshua assumes, the bartender walks away. “it’s on their card, go crazy!” 

the bartender says something that he can’t make out and you laugh. the sound of it—so light and mischievous and charismatic—completely severs the already increasingly weakened grip his panic has on him. he feels like he can breathe a little easier, even among the horrible sounds filling the hallway. 

“okay, i’m back, sorry,” you say into the phone, picking up exactly where you left off as if you never stopped talking. “like i was saying, we do this shit every week, so i can definitely get out of this if you need me to. why are you asking about siwoo anyway?” 

there’s something comforting about the way you’re ready to drop everything to get to joshua even though you just said bye less than an hour ago and you don’t even know why he’s calling. though, he does realize your eagerness is also probably due to the fact that you just don’t want to be around your cheating boyfriend and his family.

joshua exhales slowly through his nose. “well, it’s not quite your 100, but i am like, at least… 70 percent sure that mina is having sex with someone in her apartment as we speak. i thought it was siwoo, but…” he lets you come to your own conclusions.

the silence on the other end of the phone is so much more threatening than the gasping and yelling he expected. it stretches for so long that at some point, joshua wonders if you even heard him. 

“did you—”

“i heard you,” you say, your voice clipped. you pause again for a shorter period and when you speak, you sound a lot less short. “i was trying to ignore it because i couldn’t imagine what the hell it was, but you definitely sound like you’re on the set of a porno.”

joshua grimaces, stepping away from the side of the hallway that mina’s apartment is on as if that will help—it doesn’t, not with the way it echoes off the walls. he cups his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone, hoping that it will keep the shih tzu squeaky toy sound effects from traveling to you. “shit, i’m sorry,” he breathes, scurrying down the hallway and several units past mina’s apartment in a desperate attempt to get away from the moaning. “i didn’t realize you could hear it clearly.”

“are you running away from the noise, joshua hong?” you ask, obviously amused.

“um, maybe.”

“wow, what a gentleman, protecting my innocence like this,” you fake-sigh like you’re swooning on the other end of the line and he blushes furiously. he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “chivalry is not dead.”

“you’re so insufferable!” he whisper-yells at you. the poor residents of this floor already have to deal with ‘round-the-clock sex; they don’t need to add him being obnoxiously loud on the phone too. “i’m having a horrible time right now, and you’re joking around?!”

you giggle. “okay, fine. i’m insufferable. but at least i made you smile.”

“and how on earth could you possibly know that if you can’t even see me?”

you snort. “please. i can hear it in your voice. your smile transcends all obstacles, hong. you could smile on the other side of the world and i’d know it.”

the claim makes joshua’s hands clammy, and he finds he has no idea what to say to that. he can barely breathe, but this time, it feels a little different—not quite so wrought with anxiety like it was when he first exited the elevator.

sensing you may have gone overboard with your compliment this time, you clear your throat and steer the conversation back on track.

“mina is a real piece of work,” you state the obvious before rambling a little. “cheating on you… cheating on siwoo… though, is that called cheating if siwoo is also her sidepiece…? no, right? she’s just cheating on you twice—fuck, sorry, that was so callous and dumb to say.” he hears something that sounds like you hitting your forehead repeatedly. 

“yeah… i don’t know…” his mind is not on the logistics of the cheating.

“okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” you say, voice kicking into high-gear. “i’ve been gone from the table for almost… 10 minutes; these rats get impatient after, like, two.”

joshua leans against the wall, finding your little plotting voice weirdly comforting.

“siwoo is going to stand up any moment now to see what’s taking so long at the insistence of his egg donor.”

he closes his eyes and tries to calm his heartbeat, smiling a little at your refusal to call siwoo’s mom anything but his mom. 

“and when he does, i’m—oh my god, i’m amazing.”

joshua opens his eyes and frowns. “what?”

you laugh in disbelief before frantically whispering, “siwoo just got up and is walking over here. he is so predictable. also, i just got the ick so bad. this idiot forgot to take his little napkin bib off. okay, he’s almost here. don’t reply to anything i say, alright?”

“al—”

“oh my god, are you serious?!” you shriek at joshua. he immediately brings his phone away from his ear. “are you okay?” you pause like you’re listening to a nonexistent response. “holy shit, girl—” your next words are an exaggerated whisper. “—it’s soph, she’s on a date, having… explosive diarrhea!”

joshua looks at his phone incredulously. he doesn’t know how you manage to sound so convincing when it’s clear to him everything you say comes to mind the very second before you say it. 

“that’s disgusting.” his eyes involuntarily narrow at what can only be siwoo’s voice. he sounds just as dumb as joshua thought he would.

“i have to go!” you exclaim. 

“what?! why?”

“did you hear me?! soph is having a crisis! what am i supposed to do, just leave her in the bathroom of some dingy sushi restaurant covered in her own shit while her date thinks she snuck out on her?!” she speaks back into the phone. “hold on, girl.”

he snorts as he passes a hand over his face in embarrassment even though he’s completely alone. he’s truly amazed at how committed you are to your act. he would’ve cracked before he ever even got to utter the word “diarrhea.”

“uh, yes? we’re at dinner with my parents and that sounds like a really gross her problem.”

joshua rolls his eyes. siwoo is an asshole through and through. 

you pause and he likes to imagine you’re taking a moment to really process what a fucking dick your boyfriend is. “i’ll be quick, baby,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. his eye twitches at the term of endearment anyway. “tell your parents i said sorry! i’ll text you when i’m on my way home! soph, i’m on my way!”

“y/n!” his voice is further away than he previously sounded. “what about our drinks?!”

“ask the bartender!” you practically bellow at him. “fucking incompetent. ‘what about our drinks?’” your impression of siwoo is simply an exaggerated baby voice, and joshua thinks it sounds exactly the same. “what the fuck kind of question? where else would you get your drinks?” you mutter—to yourself, joshua presumes. “okay, shua, i am free and i am on my way!”

he doesn’t even have the opportunity to be surprised about you coming to mina’s apartment; he’s too caught off-guard by the sudden nickname. 

“hello?” you call, suddenly sounding like you’re, at the very least, brisk-walking if not fully running. “you can talk now! i am not in the restaurant anym—oop, excuse me, sorry!”

“shua?” joshua repeats mindlessly.

“aw, don’t like it? we can workshop that too,” you huff, excusing yourself as you navigate whatever street you’re on. “i think it’s cute, though. no? shua... shua!” 

you repeat it a few more times like that will get him to agree. most of the instances of “shua” are breathed out in a quick exhale as you move, and joshua is almost completely convinced you’re running. 

“okay, i’m kind of losing the meaning of ‘shua’ now. i swear it’s cute, though.”

he smiles. “uh, yeah, it’s… cute. different but cute.”

“right? josh is tired,” you claim. “shua feels more fitting for you. anyway, give me… 12 minutes and i will be there.”

“why are you coming here again?’ he asks, remembering to feel confused about your plans. 

“for moral support, hello?” you answer like it’s obvious. “ah! sorry!” you shout at someone who curses. “you have me now, dude.” dude is better than bro, he supposes. “we don’t have to go through these traumatic events alone anymore! i’ll be there and if you want me to blow my cover and this entire plan so i can slap mina across the face, i will!”

his mouth twitches to keep from smirking. the thought is tempting. “you really don’t have to—”

“shut up, i just told siwoo my best friend is having explosive diarrhea for you,” you point out, practically panting now. “we cannot walk this back! now go break up with that horrid bitch, and if she really is fucking someone in there, you tell me and i’ll march up there and win my very first fistfight… uh, what floor is her apartment, by the way?”

joshua shakes his head, trying his hardest not to grin. “no, you stay downstairs. there will be no fistfights tonight. i’ll see you in a bit.”

“got it, boss.”

“and stop running,” he orders. “you’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“mmm, agree to disagree,” you heave. “see you soon!” you hang up in a hurry, giving him no time to say bye. 

as he stands in the hallway, he realizes that in the time he spent with you on the phone, the moans subsided. between the absence of your mayhem and the vulgarity of maybe-mina’s maybe-cheating, it’s almost eerie how suddenly quiet the floor is. 

he drags his feet as he makes his way back to mina’s door. when he gets there, he tentatively presses an ear to the wood, and when he can’t hear anything, he raises his fist and knocks before he can change his mind. several seconds pass and he doesn’t hear anyone coming to the door or even speaking. his discomfort eases a little as he starts to think maybe she’s not even home.

mina isn’t one to deviate from her plans; she gets irritable when she has to, so joshua knows that pilates definitely had to be on the agenda today. and if she’s not home yet, then she should be arriving any moment now. he punches in the code for her apartment, determined to wait it out and get this over with because he has no plans to spend another day tied down to a cheater.

“mina?” he calls out as soon as he steps in. he almost bends down to take his shoes off, thinks twice about it, and leaves them on. what did you call it again? taking your small joys wherever you can. tracking dirt into mina’s apartment felt like a small joy right now. 

with no response, he heads into the kitchen to grab himself a water bottle before sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. he’s about to take his notes out again when he hears a door click. he frowns. 

“hello?” mina’s voice tentatively calls out from the hallway. 

“it’s me,” joshua says, leaving his notes where they are in his pocket. “i knocked but i guess you didn’t hear.”

“josh?” mina rounds the corner, in her bathrobe. she smiles brightly when she confirms it’s him. “hey, baby. what are you doing here?”

she walks up to him with the ease of a loyal girlfriend. he’s astounded by it, actually; how she can act so sweet and kind and cute when she’s sleeping with siwoo every chance she gets. if he thinks about it too hard, it actually scares him. 

she loops her arms around his waist and hugs him from behind, hooking her chin on his shoulder. he tenses and immediately slips off the stool and out of her grip. 

“i wanted to talk to you, remember?” he says, stepping away when she tries to reach for him again. she frowns like she’s finally understanding there’s a problem. “yesterday. but you said you were busy.” busy fucking siwoo. 

even with a direct reference to her infidelity, mina doesn’t bat an eye. he thinks she could probably thrive in a career in acting. “yeah, i had to clock some overtime yesterday,” she lies. “it was such a drag,” she complains as she gets her own water bottle from the fridge. “i paid for my pilates class and everything and had to pay the fee for missing it.”

the lies roll of her tongue so effortlessly, joshua knows he would’ve easily believed them if he didn’t have cold, hard proof. even with the cold, hard proof, he wonders if there’s any way you could have still gotten it wrong. he knows you didn’t. maybe he is gullible because after two days, he already trusts you more than he does mina. 

“pilates,” he repeats in a daze. 

she raises an eyebrow as she takes a sip. she caps her bottle again and nods slowly. “yes, baby, pilates… is everything okay?”

“mina, have you ever cheated on me?”

joshua sees it then—the crack in her facade. her eyes widen, not with surprise or disbelief the way an innocent person’s probably would, but fear. to her credit, it passes quickly as she schools her expression into one of bewilderment. if joshua hadn’t known to look for it, he knows he would have missed it. he would have missed it along with all the other red flags he’s missed. 

“why are you asking me that?” she asks, her voice sharp with the vexation of someone who’s been offended. joshua doesn’t let it faze him.

he shrugs, clenching his jaw briefly before speaking again. “just answer the question, mina.”

mina seems to realize joshua isn’t in the mood for games because her shoulders deflate the tiniest bit, her eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other as she tries to think of what to say. he knows it’s because in the year they’ve been together, joshua has never—not once—lost his temper or expressed any kind of annoyance with her.

it’s always “joshua is so sweet,” “joshua is such a gentleman,” “joshua is so kind,” “joshua is so mild mannered,” “joshua is so fucking gullible.”

joshua is done.

“mina.”

he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sharp and raised the way it does, but when she flinches, he realizes his patience is slipping faster than jeonghan could ever dream of making it.

“wh—?” she squeezes her eyes shut like she’s trying to understand how they got here. “what?” she suddenly shrieks, eyes opening wide with disbelief and what he’s sure she thinks is translating as devastation. “what are you even saying, joshua?!”

the sheer amount of willpower it takes to keep from rolling his eyes is staggering. “it should be an easy question to answer,” he sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly. “so i think the fact that you refuse to is an answer in itself.”

he sets his bottle on the counter and moves to step around her so he can leave and just let it be over with—going out, not with a bang, but with a pathetic little sigh—but she steps the same direction, palms out like she’ll shove him if he gets any closer to the door.

“what the fuck are you on right now?” she asks, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into an ugly, displeased sneer like a switch just flipped.

joshua feels the hair on the back of his neck stand as he frowns down at her. she doesn’t try to wrestle her face into playing along with her placating, innocent girl act. instead, she wears her scowl proudly, crossing her arms across her chest in defiance as she blocks his way from his emergency exit. 

“you’re not leaving until you tell me why you’re asking me that,” she states.

he finds her rage as discomforting as yours but in wildly different ways. your anger makes him freeze up and almost panic; it renders him unable to speak or even think, and he’s still not even sure why. but mina’s makes him physically cringe away. it… annoys him.

just like she wasn’t used to his impatience, he wasn’t used to her being angry—at least not at him. all mina’s ever been angry about have been baristas who used 2% instead of fat free milk in her lattes (and yes, she insists she can tell), long wait times, and her boss demanding she work overtime. though joshua realizes that was probably just an excuse to see siwoo.

“mina, why are you doing this?” he asks, exasperated.

“why am i doing this?!” she repeats, scoffing so obnoxiously hard in his face, spit lands on his cheek. 

he closes his eyes for a brief moment as he wipes it away, willing his patience to hold out long enough to get him out of this building.

“why are you doing this?! why are you as—”

“because i know!” he shouts over her increasingly high-pitched whining. “i’m asking because i know all about how awful you’ve been, mina! and i wanted to see if after a year together, you’d at least have the decency to be honest with me!” 

mina’s attitude drops, her hands immediately combing through her hair frantically, a nervous tic she always had.

“i know you were faking business trips, i know you were sleeping around, i know you were fucking him last night when i told you i needed to talk to you—when your boyfriend of a year wanted to see you!”

she stares at him helplessly, mouth hung open and her eyes quickly filling with tears. he realizes as he stares back, feeling nothing but resentment and disdain for her, that your wildly fluctuating emotions unnerve him because he wants to find a way to get you back to your baseline, if not all the way to the other end to happy.

as he watches mina begin to weep, he feels none of that. for the first time in his life, joshua yearns to be cruel. he wants to make her cry harder, and it makes him resent her even more—for making him think and feel something so reprehensible.

he suddenly sees why you’re so open to letting your fury flow through every part of you before unapologetically releasing it right out into the world the way you do. after a lifetime of insisting on being the calm one, the collected one, the unbothered one, the unfeeling one, he realizes that being angry like this is addicting—freeing.

“baby, i…”

“don’t, mina, i’m not your fucking baby,” he says. even he can hear how tired he sounds. 

“i’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “i am, i really am. i don’t know why i did it. i—i don’t know—i’m so—i…”

“save it,” he puts her out of her misery of trying to find the right words to manipulate him into thinking she’s anything other than the deceitful cheater she is. “i know you don’t regret hurting me like this. i—”

“no, i do!” she wails, throwing herself at him now.

he immediately starts untangling himself from her hold but she makes it impossible, her grabby hands all over him as she tries to get him to stop attempting to escape her.

“mina, let go o—”

“i regret it, joshua, i swear to god i regret it!” she weeps so loudly now, he starts to feel dread gathering in the pit of his stomach the way it did when he broke up with miyoung. “i never wanted to hurt you, i love you!”

“holy shit,” he grumbles, shoving her hands off him and stepping away from her even though it meant being farther from the only exit. “how can you even say that to my face right now?”

“it’s true!” she screams, grating his nerves. “i love you! i want to spend the rest of my life with you! it was all a mistake! minhyuk was just a temptation i gave into at a weak moment, and i swear it didn’t mean—”

“who the hell is minhyuk?” he asks, frowning when her words finally catch up to him.

mina freezes, and it’s like her tears get the memo because they stop too. it’s the only reason joshua knows that no matter how convincing, this was also just an act.

he glares now.

“who. is. minhyuk. mina?” he staggers his words like it’ll help her few remaining brain cells unite long enough to understand and answer his question.

“i… what do you mean? you said… you said you knew that i… you said—”

“i know about siwoo,” he clarifies, his temper at its breaking point. he’s a moment away from calling you to come up here and make sure he doesn’t land himself in jail, wrecking mina’s entire apartment in an attempt to claw his way out of it. “who the fuck is minhyuk?”

joshua doesn’t think he’s ever cussed this much in his life.

“i—”

“who the fuck is siwoo?” 

joshua’s head whips around toward the voice, coming from the hallway that leads to mina’s room. the laugh that immediately escapes his mouth is instinctive and hysterical. he doesn’t know any other way to react than to start laughing; if he doesn’t, he’s positive he’ll somehow spontaneously combust. 

because standing in mina’s hallway is one of the many reasons her neighbors despise her. a very half naked reason, dressed only in boxers.

“are you for fucking real?” mina hisses, shutting her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as if joshua isn’t even in the room. “i told you to wait in the room and be fucking quiet, you moron. are you—”

“who is siwoo?!” the man shouts now.

joshua’s laughs peter out, and with them goes his anger. he sighs, shaking his head and remembering how drained he feels. 

“i take it you’re minhyuk.” the man glares at him but doesn’t respond, so he nods. “well, mina, i guess you were truthful about one thing: you really were busy last night, weren’t you?”

“how did you even know siwoo stopped by here?!” she yells. joshua hopes building management kicks her out after the noise complaints she’s bound to get from today alone.

“i can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on me!” minhyuk disappears back into mina’s room, shouting nonsense as he gathers his things. 

“you’re definitely not the one who was cheated on!” joshua calls after him, rolling his eyes. he turns back to mina, mustering up the very last of his energy to finally end it. “mina. you’re disgusting. i will move on from this remembering you as nothing other than a nasty stain on my otherwise amazing life.”

a squeak of protest erupts from her mouth, but he doesn’t let her get a word in.

“but you... you’ll continue to do whatever sleazy shit you’ve been up to for who knows how long, and one day, you’ll wake up and realize how empty and tragic and ugly you and your life both are—” she has the audacity to look offended at the word ugly. “—and you won’t be able to do anything to change that because no one worth having around will have cared enough to stick by you.”

her tears start again and this time, they feel real—they don’t come with screaming or begging or lying. they steadily stream down her face and it makes joshua feel like he’s high.

“your commitment to being a selfish asshole really has you by the neck and i pray to god it starts squeezing with both hands,” he says, delivering your line with a tight-lipped smile.

he finally steps around her, making his way to the door. he opens it and just before he leaves, he thinks, what the hell? and turns back.

“mina,” he calls softly. she turns back to him, face red and splotchy. “don’t contact me. if i ever see your phone number on my screen, i’ll personally call every single cafe on this fucking continent and make sure they only serve you whole fat milk for the rest of your life.”

she gasps like he just made a legitimate threat, and he gets the immature and overwhelming urge to ridicule and laugh at her.

“oh, and get some fucking help,” he adds before turning away and leaving without waiting for her reaction.

fortunately, he gets the elevator immediately. 

unfortunately, none other than minhyuk comes barreling in before the doors close. he has the sense to at least look ashamed, throwing joshua a pitiful smile, but it isn’t enough, so he steps forward and presses a finger to the button that keeps the doors open.

he doesn’t say anything, blankly staring at the man who apparently had sex with his girlfriend either before or after siwoo did last night. minhyuk gets the clue and sighs.

“bro, we’re on the 13th floor,” he protests.

he still doesn’t respond. finally, when several seconds of minhyuk fidgeting have passed, the man groans dramatically—not unlike mina herself—and he stomps out of the elevator and toward the stairwell.

joshua smiles to himself, releasing the button and letting the elevator doors close and take him down to the lobby—down to you.

when joshua exits mina’s building, you’re waiting exactly where you had accosted the two of them the night before, sweaty and disheveled from your run over, but somehow still looking so incredibly pretty. 

you take one look at his face and know exactly how the entire conversation went down without even having to ask. then, an interesting thing happens: you do something joshua thinks is akin to exploding, and he has to hold you back from storming the building. you don’t even know where mina lives, but he knows if he lets you go, you’ll knock on every single door of all 25 floors until you find her and sock her in the face. 

and even as he tries to calm you down now, something warms his heart knowing you care enough to do something as ridiculous as that.

“you’re causing a scene,” he grunts, stepping in your way again when you try to dodge him.

“if you think this is a scene, you’re gonna hate what i’m about to cause on whatever goddamn floor that bitch lives on!” you inform him. 

“i’m not telling you and the front desk won’t either. he’d probably call security on you before you even get to the elevators.”

“i don’t care! i’ll punch the man at the front desk too! my fists are rated E for everyone!” you shriek wildly, darting back and forth as you try to get around him. against his will, an amused snort escapes him.

when it’s clear to you that joshua’s height and long legs are going to make it impossible for you to fake him out, you give up on going around and decide to go through.

joshua shouts in surprise when you barrel right into him, opting for pushing him backwards to get a few steps forward. he catches on quickly and digs his heels in, gripping your shoulders and holding you at arm’s length.

“she’s not worth this time or energy,” he tells you. 

“oh, i disagree, i think she’s worth a lot of my time and energy!” you refute. “i think she’s worth as much of my time and energy as it takes for me to rock her shit!”

you groan as you struggle against his hold, and he almost laughs at how hard you seem to be trying because it’s relatively easy to keep you where you are. you shrug his hands off and slap him away, charging forward again, but before you can, he plants his palm on your forehead, stopping you in your tracks.

“yah! joshua hong!” you shove his arm away from your forehead, and he can’t help when the laughs finally break free. “how are you laughing right now? i could kill her!”

he shrugs, his laughter suddenly snowballing until his hands are on his knees and he’s trying to catch his breath. 

he can’t do anything other than laugh. he has to laugh at the year he’s wasted with mina, or he’ll drive himself crazy asking himself what’s wrong with him that his taste led him so astray (something to unpack when he inevitably returns to his therapist). he has to laugh at the memory of walking in while minhyuk was still there or he’ll fixate on the fact that he has no idea how many men mina’s cheated on him with—and the fact that he needs to go get tested for STDs immediately. there is no other option but to laugh because he has no idea how someone’s life can change this fast because of an instagram DM.

when he finally stops, he sighs, straightening up to find you looking at him with a blank expression.

“oh, you’re so not okay,” you mutter.

“i’m fine,” he insists, shaking his head. he rests his hands back on your shoulders, this time gently, and he nods once. “this has just been the most ridiculous 24 hours of my life, and i’m tired and i’m starving. can we please escape this hellhole and eat? i’ll even pay.”

your eyes narrow at that, studying his face like you’re trying to see if he’s lying to you about being okay. he isn’t—at least he doesn’t think he is—but he also doesn’t think you’d be able to tell if he were anyway.

“i know a ramen spot near here?” you offer hesitantly.

it irks him that you not only have a go-to fried chicken spot in the area but a ramen spot too, and only because you’ve followed siwoo here enough times to have favorites. he thinks you deserve to find favorites in more meaningful ways.

he doesn’t say that, though, of course. instead, joshua looks you up and down before he scans himself, pointedly staring at how sweaty the two of you are in this sticky summer heat. 

“ramen is good for the soul,” you say, reading his mind. “the best comfort food. plus, you’ll sweat out all your heartache.”

“i have no heartache to sweat out.”

“right,” you agree, nodding easily and in a way that makes him question if you’re being sarcastic or not. “maybe we should invite jeonghan.”

he tilts his head. he’s not opposed because he needs to fill his best friend in, but he’s also not enjoying you being the one to suggest it. “why…?”

you shrug. “my offers to dole out violence on your behalf can only go so far. your best friend will probably be better equipped to handle… whatever that was that just happened right now.”

he snickers and rolls his eyes. “okay, i’ll text him.”

“no need, i already did!” you say as you loop your arm through his and begin to pull him away from the building. 

he scoffs, a little too aware of the scowl that erupts on his face. “how do you have jeonghan’s number?”

you look up at him and snort. “we all exchanged information last night, remember?”

no, you and joshua exchanged information last night after he insisted on it so he knew when you got home safe. his eye twitches when he thinks about jeonghan sneaking you his number too—and maybe even texting or calling you as much as he was today.

“he’s waiting for us at the ramen shop.”

he clenches his jaw before forcing a smile. “you really are such a well-prepared individual, aren’t you.”

“gotta be if i’m going to ruin siwoo and mina’s lives.”

“mina? i thought—”

“oh baby,” you say it with fake pity like he’s actually a child, but he finds he likes it a hell of a lot more than dude. infinitely more than bro. “she doesn’t get a pass anymore. that ship sailed when she decided to do my shua like that.” oh, he likes that one a lot. “she’s officially back in the plan.”

joshua grins genuinely now, nodding without arguing. even if he didn’t want you to wrap your metaphorical revenge hands around mina’s ugly neck and shake violently (he does), he knows arguing with you is futile.

“okay.” he feels the exhaustion from earlier slowly leave his body, already feeling lighter as he walks with you, arms looped together like you’ve been best friends for years. “let’s ruin some lives then.”

you look up at him and squeeze his arm, jumping a little as you squeal, “let’s!”

“bye, y/n.”

joshua tries not to glare as jeonghan pulls you into a hug, one arm snaking around your waist as he grins over your shoulder at him. he flashes his eyebrows at him and all his efforts go to waste. he gives him the nastiest glower he can. his best friend’s smirk just widens. 

he doesn’t know what’s going on—with jeonghan, with you, with the both of you, with himself. for the first 40 minutes sitting in the restaurant, joshua retold the hellish afternoon he experienced and took all of his best friend’s many i-told-you-so, what-a-bitch, and i-knew-she-was-a-snake comments with grace. but as soon as that was over, jeonghan flipped a switch.

all night, the man has been acting so weird with you, laughing too hard at everything you say, touching you any chance he gets, saying things just because he knows you’ll agree. and all night, for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on, it’s been driving joshua up the wall. it’s probably because you’re literally still in a relationship. his best friend could at least wait until you’re properly single before he starts doing whatever jeonghan-styled mating call this is.

nope. that’s not it. that thought drives him even further up this insufferable, metaphorical wall.

“later,” you say as you step back. “don’t forget to send me that brand of hair remover you were looking at.” you turn over your shoulder and joshua immediately drops his glare and smiles. if you saw the look he was giving jeonghan, you don’t show it. instead, you wink at him. “we’re going to need that for mina’s shampoo now, huh, shua?”

“shua,” jeonghan repeats, obviously delighted, eyebrows rising and grin quickly entering shit-eating levels. “cute!”

you turn back to him excitedly. “right?! i think so too!”

“you’re such a genius, y/n,” he says, sounding nauseatingly lovesick. joshua silently scoffs at him behind your back. he should know better, though, because that just eggs him on. “i’ll text you the link as soon as i get home. or—” he meets his eyes again. “—i’ll just call you!”

“sure, whatever,” you shrug, as indifferent as ever. it makes joshua happy. maybe a direct rejection would make him even happier, though. “get home safe!”

“yeah, get home safe,” joshua echoes as jeonghan steps around you to hug him as well. “don’t fall into a manhole or get run over by a massive truck or anything,” he mutters too quietly for anyone else but him to hear. 

“i love you too, man,” jeonghan laughs, rubbing his back and squeezing his shoulder as he steps away. “call me if you need to drink your sorrows away. see you two!”

he finally walks off toward his car as you step up to joshua’s side, looping your arm through his again. his heart immediately slows, recovering from the irritation of dealing with a menace.

“jeonghan knows i have zero interest in dating him, right?”

joshua can’t help the bark of laughter that all but rips its way out of him.

“no, like,” you laugh a little, “he comes on so strong? i don’t think i’ve ever met someone as bold as he is.”

that’s ironic, seeing as joshua has never met anyone as bold as you.

“i don’t know if he knows that,” he says honestly. “but either way, he wouldn’t make a move until you were single.”

he gets brief flashes of jeonghan’s fingers brushing up against yours, jeonghan delivering wings onto your plate, jeonghan hugging you a beat too long, jeonghan existing around you. 

“i think,” he adds, frowning.

you make a sound of disbelief as you both watch jeonghan pull out of his spot and drive away. you both stay rooted to the spot, watching nothing in particular.

 “i am single. for all intents and purposes, i am absolutely single.”

joshua is alarmed at how horrible the chill that runs up his spine feels—like an omen of how unbearable his life will become if two crazy people like you and jeonghan join forces to become one.

“i just happen to be a single woman pretending to still love her ex so she can obliterate his entire existence from the inside out.”

“right,” he says, nodding. “of course. i just mean that… i—uh… i have no idea what i mean. but i’ll tell jeonghan to fuck off.”

you whistle, laughing after you do. “i think that’s the first time i heard you cuss,” you inform him. “my shua cussing…” 

you don’t finish your thought because you giggle, and he thinks the sound triggers his fight or flight. he lets you laugh and when it fades, you shake your head.

“don’t tell jeonghan to fuck off,” you tell him. “it’s fun. flattering.”

“flattering?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

you shrug. “i’ve been with that idiot, siwoo, for two years. i guess it’s nice to know that someone thinks i’m cute enough to flirt with. at least i know i’m still an eligible bachelorette.”

joshua huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “are you serious?”

you yank your arm out of his, startling him. “what?! you don’t think i’m cute enough to flirt with?!” you ask, half offended but obviously thoroughly amused.

“quite the opposite, actually,” he says before he can convince himself not to. he’s about to start sputtering about how he means it in the most platonic and objective way possible, but since you’re you, he doesn’t need to.

“good, that’s what i thought,” you say, grinning and weaving your arm through the ditch of his elbow again. “i’m very cute.”

joshua is glad you’re so comfortable to be around. he knows if he agreed with you now, you’d happily accept the compliment, but if the roles were reversed, he would be flustered for the next week. 

you two enjoy a comfortable silence before he sighs contentedly and looks down at you to ask if you’re ready to leave. he forgets what he’s about to say when he meets your eyes, though.

you’re already looking up at him and smiling softly. “did you like the ramen? do you feel better?” you ask, tilting your head.

he thinks you would look nice resting it against his shoulder. “i feel much better,” he confirms. “thanks again—for coming so fast and so last minute without me even asking you to.” he pauses to think, frowning when he confronts how ride-or-die you’ve been for him today. “and even before that. thanks for workshopping all those horrible lines with me.”

you grin. “don’t mention it, dude.” he’s too content right now to make a face at that. at least it’s not bro. “it was a lot of fun, actually.”

“i still don’t think i have any heartache to sweat out into any other bowls of ramen—” you snicker. “—but it’s nice to know i have two people to cry to if i ever do.”

you nod enthusiastically. “exactly! you have jeonghan, and you have me now.”

he hums, feeling an intense desire to say you have him too—because you do, and you unfortunately already have jeonghan as well—but he stops himself. he’s only known you one day, and he’s just not as courageous as you are with your words. 

“it’s nice,” you mutter, “to have people to go through these things with.”

joshua doesn’t voice his curiosity about your own friendships. were there no other people you were able to expect this kind of support from? where was this soph you used to excuse yourself from dinner? any other friends? family? 

he lets his curiosity simmer. you’ve already subjected each other to incredibly intimate parts of your life; the rest can come another day.

“hopefully, it’s the first and last time we go through this,” he remarks, chuckling.

“one can hope,” you agree. “and the ramen?” you prod. “was it good?”

“i loved it,” he says honestly, “but—”

“‘but’?!” you practically shriek. “but what?! the ramen here is really good! what could you possibly have to say about the ramen here?”

he laughs, looking away from you and rolling his eyes at how fast you are to pounce. “i love the ramen, but,” he continues, “we need to find you some favorites that don’t involve roaming around the area that siwoo and mina happen to be in. i’ll show you some of my favorites. away from here. and if you want your own favorites, then we’ll go to a place you’ve never been and we’ll find you new favorites. but i hate to inform you… this will be the last time we eat in this godforsaken area so i hope you enjoyed that.”

when joshua looks back down at you, you’re no longer smiling. he tenses when he realizes you look a little sad, your mouth turned down at the corners so slightly, he probably wouldn’t notice if he weren’t so close to your face.

“oh,” he breathes, “y/n, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

you shake your head quickly and he clamps his mouth shut.

“y’know,” you say quietly, like any louder and you’ll start crying. he doesn’t doubt that you would. it’s been a whole 24 hours since you did—at least in front of him. “it really fucking sucks… finding out your boyfriend is cheating on you, and on top of that, having to continue relying on him.”

your hold on his forearm tightens for a moment, and before he can think about it, he removes his right hand from his pocket and closes it over yours.

“and i know that we’ve only known each other for like… a day,” you say, laughing even though your voice is getting dangerously watery, “but every time we talk… i stop to think i’m really lucky that of all the people i could’ve been suffering through this with, it turned out to be you.”

joshua’s mouth parts to say something, but nothing comes out because nothing even comes to mind. there you go again—so honest and forthcoming and bold and you. there you go again, making his brain the most useless organ in his body without even trying.

“you’re really nice,” you sigh. “thank you.” you turn away and wipe at your eyes quickly before taking your hand back from his and releasing his arm altogether. he immediately feels a little colder. he returns his hand to his pocket. “for my last dinner in this stupid fucking neighborhood.”

he clears his throat. “you’re welcome.”

“i’ll hold you to it, y’know,” you warn him, bumping his shoulder. “don’t think you can say nice things like that and then have no follow-through.”

from the way you say it, he knows you’re thinking of siwoo. he wonders what sort of tiny things siwoo promised you that he never delivered on if he couldn’t even do something as simple as stay true to you. joshua thinks it will be easy for him to show you how nice people can be when they aren’t taking you for granted.

“good, hold me to it.”

“i will! you owe me a favorite chicken shop, a favorite ramen shop, a favorite boba shop, a favorite ice c—”

“jesus christ, how often were you here?”

you laugh loudly. “you owe me so many favorites.”

joshua smiles. “come on,” he says. “we’ll get you all those favorites. but for now, let’s get you home.”

“goodbye forever, ramen shop,” you bid the establishment farewell happily. “and goodbye, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

he grins. “good riddance, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

you’re consumed by giggles hearing him curse again.

acting normal while texting you proves to be the hardest thing joshua has done every single time he does it. it’s either you’re being incredibly funny and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot, or you’re saying a bold inside thought and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot. either way, even if he thinks he does a good job at appearing normal via text, he knows he looks crazy in person.

“you’re cheesing real hard, bro.”

joshua immediately locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket as he forces his face into a blank stare. 

“smooth,” jeonghan says, snickering from where he’s sprawled across the other side of joshua’s couch, no longer paying attention to the movie he begged to put on. “texting y/n?”

“no.” the lie comes out before he can even think about it. “watched a funny video.”

he hums, a soft smile on his lips. joshua knows he doesn’t believe him. “well, speaking of her, what’s going on with the two of you anyway?” 

“what?”

“what’s going on with—”

“no, i heard you,” he laughs. “i just meant, like… what do you mean? i’m helping her with siwoo. you know that.”

he narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, but being his best friend, joshua is educated on all the nuances jeonghan’s face comes with.

“what?” he asks again. 

“do you like her?”

“yeah, she’s cool. kind of intense but cool. don’t you?”

jeonghan rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s trying not to smile too widely. he cocks an eyebrow at him. “i mean, do you like like her? do you fancy her?”

joshua scoffs. “what?”

it’s such a ridiculous question to ask someone who broke up with his girlfriend not even a full week ago. he thinks he was mostly telling the truth when he told you he had no heartache for him to expel from his body because both his heart and brain have been fairly quiet since that afternoon, but even then, he’s still too disoriented from how fast his life changed to think about liking anyone.

“it’s been days since mina and i broke up,” he reminds his best friend. “how could i already be interested in someone else?”

“well, mina didn’t wait to break up before she bec—”

“okay,” joshua holds a hand up to stop him from pointing out mina’s infidelity for the thousandth time since they found out. “mina and i aren’t the same. i can’t just jump into something else so quickly after. and it’s not even about mina.”

“oooh,” jeonghan sits up properly and crosses his legs, folding his hands over his knee. “explain.”

he shrugs. “i don’t really feel all that torn up about her as much as i am about how bad my instincts are.”

he frowns. “your instincts?”

“yeah, like… the signs were glaringly obvious,” joshua explains. “you knew she was a snake before all of this; you just didn’t know why. how come i didn’t see any of that? and,” he practically yells as he resituates himself on the couch so that he’s fully facing jeonghan, “how could i have thought i was going to possibly marry someone like that? i can’t even think about looking at another person until i wrap my mind around how i could have ever thought i was in love. what if i don’t even know what love is?”

“whoa, okay—”

“what if i end up with another mina?”

“—slow down,” jeonghan raises his hands like he’s trying to calm a bull. he mirrors his position, fully turning to him on the sofa now. “first of all, you know what love is. your judgment was just clouded for a little bit! you were lost in the joy of having a girlfriend that lasted a lot longer than the others. or you were being a weirdo and getting swallowed up by the plight of being in your 30s with no prospects for marriage, so you deluded yourself into thinking mina was it.”

joshua’s mouth pops open in shock a little at that. “i mean… that’s… plausible.”

“whatever it is—even if it is that she fooled you and you were blind to all the red flags, that doesn’t mean you don’t know what love is. how could you not know what love is when i’m your best friend? i love the shit out of you.”

he does crack a smile at this. he lets the reminder sink in and marinate in his brain. jeonghan could very much be right on the money with this one; after all, mina came at a time when joshua was starting to question if his love life was cursed. he was fresh out of therapy he sought out because his ex broke up with him for essentially being a robot, and he was eager to share more of himself with the next one—to love the next one harder than he had the rest. maybe he really was just forcing something to be that wasn’t meant to be.

“say it back.”

he laughs. “i love you too.” he sighs. “what else?”

“huh?”

“you said ‘first of all.’ i assume you have a second of all?”

jeonghan frowns for a moment before a light bulb goes off in his head. “yes! second of all, y/n is not mina.”

“wait, what?”

“you said, ‘what if i end up with another mina?’ y/n is not mina.”

“of course she’s not mina,” joshua says. that much is obvious; if mina is one end of the spectrum, you’re so far on the other end, it went all the way back around to mina. “but why are we even talking about y/n?”

“because it’s clear you like her,” he informs him, amused. 

“i don’t like her like that,” he disagrees confidently and somewhat exasperatedly. whenever jeonghan got ideas like this in his head, it became an inarguable truth to him regardless of what anyone else said. he knows if he doesn’t nip it in the bud, he’ll run with it for the rest of their lives. “she’s funny and nice and cool to hang out with, but she’s just a friend.”

“is that why you’re texting and calling her 24/7 when the rest of us feel like we’re pulling teeth trying to get you to respond to us?” jeonghan points out. joshua opens his mouth to refute his point, but he steamrolls right over his words. “is that why you’re extra mean to me whenever the three of us hang out?”

“we’ve only hung out all three of us twice. and what do you mean i’m mean to you?”

his best friend laughs openly in his face. “you’re really going to tell me you don’t notice the way you kick me or interrupt me or glare at me whenever so much as an ounce of y/n’s attention is on me instead of you?”

is that what his odd behavior at the ramen shop was about? he was trying to get on joshua’s nerves as some kind of experiment?

joshua narrows his eyes at him. “i do those things because you’re annoying me.”

“i’ve annoyed you our whole lives,” he shoots right back. “you’ve only started abusing me recently.”

“you’re so dramatic and wrong.”

“okay!” jeonghan agrees too easily. he stands up.

“where are you going?” joshua leans back to look up at him. “aren’t we getting dinner later?”

he hums in thought before quickly saying no. “rain check! i think i’m going to ask y/n if she wants to go out instead. i’ve been thinking about asking her out.”

joshua is not dumb. joshua is actually very smart. he graduated top of his class from an ivy league in the U.S., he has an MBA, and he—much like you were supposed to be before siwoo upended your life—became a director at his company before 30, still on track to become the youngest senior director.

joshua is smart and he knows what jeonghan is trying to do, but his dumb face frustratingly doesn’t get the memo. before he can even fully process the words, his eyebrows are pulling down, eyes sharpening into a glare, and jaw clenching so hard, he knows jeonghan can hear his teeth grinding.

“oh, really,” he deadpans. 

“yup!” he has the audacity to grin at joshua, eyes so full of mischief and mirth, he wants to kick him again and give him something to really complain about. “i’ll see myself out, don’t worry about getting up. bye joshuji! i’ll tell y/n you said hi!”

joshua scoffs as he watches him actually leave his apartment. and again, because various parts of his body seem to be missing signals from his brain that he doesn’t care, once the door clicks closed behind jeonghan, he throws himself back onto the couch mindlessly and hastily, struggling to retrieve his phone from his pocket. 

“why are these jeans so fucking tight,” he mumbles as his hand gets a little stuck. when he finally rips the phone out of his pocket, he briefly considers texting you but lands on calling you instead. what he’s going to say, he has no idea. 

“i was just about to call you,” you once again answer without greeting him first. 

“oh. hi,” he says, a little thankful for the non-greeting for once because it gives him some time to come up with an excuse for calling you other than he wanted to beat jeonghan to it. “why were you going to call?”

“because you were taking a long ass time to reply again,” you say simply. he snickers at your streak of impatience. “why are you calling?”

that wasn’t a lot of time to come up with an excuse at all, but joshua thinks “so we can make plans. i don’t feel like texting” is more than good enough. 

“oh yay,” you accept the fib easily. “well, as an unemployed idiot, i am free… let me see… oh yes, all day every day, but extra free on whatever day siwoo’s parents decide to hold me hostage at dinner with them.”

joshua laughs, slowly relaxing against the couch once more. “well, how about tonight?”

“ugh, unfortunately, they do not want to have dinner tonight, but yes, i am free.”

“how about we meet to discuss your top secret plan tonight and then hang again whenever your dinner with that nightmare family is?” he suggests. 

“joshua hong, my knight in shining armor,” you joke. his cheeks warm at the words. “sounds like a plan. can we meet at yours, though? i don’t want to reveal how crazy i am in a public setting. that seems too vulnerable. and i’d invite you over here but it’s probably best we don’t discuss these plans in the home of the man whose life i’d like to destroy.” joshua truly admires your way with sarcasm. 

“yeah, i’ll text you my address,” he agrees. and because he’s extra irate with jeonghan for thinking he can manipulate him into becoming some kind of jealous monster, he adds: “you can come over whenever—even now if you want. i’m free all day” just in case his best friend calls you too after you hang up.

“oh great!” you say. “siwoo is out all day doing lord knows who or what and i’m done brushing the toilet with everything he owns, so i can be on my way once you send it.”

joshua smiles. “perfect.”

he knows he literally just played right into jeonghan’s game, but somehow, he still feels like he won.

it doesn’t take you long at all to get to his apartment, and when you do, he’s a little stunned to open the door and find your arms completely empty—no files full of information only the CIA would have or fat manila envelopes stuffed with plans to eviscerate your exes like he expected. instead, you stand there, hands clasped in front of you with nothing but your purse hanging on your shoulder. 

“nice place,” you comment as you look around his apartment, unabashedly looking at the books on his shelves, art on the walls, even running your fingers across the strings of his guitar in the corner. “you play?”

he hums as he plops back down on his couch. “yeah, since i was young. do you?”

you laugh like he told a joke. “no. i’m not creatively gifted. it doesn’t really surprise me that you are, though.”

he’s about to ask you what makes you say that but you turn to him and clap your hands together once. 

“okay! let’s do this! we have a lot of material to get through tonight.” 

you throw your purse on the counter of the breakfast bar, make your way to the coffee table in front of him, take your phone out of your pocket, and sink to the floor. 

“let’s start with mina; i think she’ll be much easier since she doesn’t have a family-owned empire for us to topple.”

joshua’s eyes widen. “a family-owned what for us to what?”

you wave your hand like it’s an irrelevant detail. “we’ll get into it later,” you assure him as you get to wherever you were swiping to on your phone. you read a few lines and then nod, looking up at him. “so mina is a grade A gold-digger.”

joshua huffs, leaning his elbows on his knees and shaking his head. “i’m not saying i disagree because you have very solid evidence—good job, by the way—”

“thank you!” you chirp happily, smiling widely.

“—but i am not rich enough for anyone to try digging for gold around here.”

your smile disappears, expression flattening into a glare as you pointedly look around his apartment. he follows your gaze, and yes, he sees what you see: a very spacious apartment, all of the interests and hobbies he can afford to indulge in, and furniture he hired an interior designer to curate for him. he’ll give it to you—he’s definitely a little more than just comfortable, but he’s not gold-digging material. he never even gave mina much money; he just paid for dates, and he tells you as much.

“well, i did some digging, and that’s all she would’ve really needed you to pay for. little miss busy body had multiple streams of income,” you tell him, swiping on your phone until you’re showing him screenshots of instagram profiles. the first is siwoo’s. 

joshua would never admit it, but his curiosity got the best of him after overhearing your conversation with siwoo over the phone, and he found his profile after combing through the accounts you follow. the man’s face was tolerable enough, though not anything special to look at, in joshua’s opinion. he definitely thinks you can do a lot better. but for mina, though, he’s perfect. they’d make monstrous, ugly, little children.

“so here are my theories,” you announce. “correct me if you think i’m wrong with any of this since you know mina better.” he nods in agreement. “i think siwoo was target number one. she thought because he’s the heir to a sizable company, that he would be a good sugar daddy to land, but he was already taken by a smart, beautiful, kind, and insanely funny woman that turned out to be way too good for him.” he grins at you. “and because too many people have eyes on his finances—mommy, daddy… and me but only because i started snooping—”

joshua snorts, looking down at his lap when he thinks of the things you’re pushed to do when a man is making you feel insecure. it’s not fitting for you and he hates it.

“—he probably couldn’t give mina as much money as she was expecting. but she thought she’d keep him around in case there was ever an opportunity to go full-time with him,” you theorize. you turn your phone back to you, swiping to the next account. “minhyuk.”

joshua looks up and rolls his eyes when he sees an account full of shirtless photos of the man he met in mina’s apartment. “yeah. minhyuk.”

“he lives about 30 minutes from mina’s apartment in the opposite direction of siwoo, putting them about an hour away from each other,” you inform him.

“how the hell do you know that?”

you smile slyly. “i have my ways.” when he keeps staring at you, you roll your eyes. “his full name is on his instagram so i looked him up on linkedin and facebook, and the latter had photos of him moving into his apartment, okay? kids nowadays don’t care about internet safety; it’s not rocket science, shua. anyway,” you point back to the screenshot of his account, trying to redirect his attention, “that’s a healthy enough distance that she probably felt safe dating these two. on top of that, minhyuk is a pilot for korean airlines—did you know they can make up to 300 million won a year? absolutely rich enough to warrant mina’s attention.”

joshua has to admit that maybe he should reconsider what he thinks is rich versus what is comfortable if 300 million won was impressive to you.

“so mina snatches him up, knowing it won’t be much of a time commitment since he’ll constantly be flying all over the place,” you explain. “then, we have…” you swipe and sigh, shaking your head. “this guy.”

joshua narrows his eyes at the screen where he’s met with the account of a man he’s never seen before. he’s very tatted, with a kind face and a nice smile, and if his photos are any indication, he works out just as hard as minhyuk apparently does. 

“and who is this?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“boyfriend number three,” you say a little uncomfortably. “jeon jungkook.”

joshua grunts but says nothing, so you continue.

“before you ask how i found him, i went through all of the people mina follows on instagram, and—”

“her profile is private,” joshua points out.

“that’s what burner accounts are for,” you respond.

“she approved aggretsuko’s request to follow her…?”

you smile. “no, silly, i followed her from my believable burner. aggretsuko is more just for being able to blindly like and follow whatever and whoever i want to. i have a fake account featuring a fake person with a fake life and fake followers. she let that one follow her.”

“i should really stop questioning you. you’re obviously very capable at this whole revenge thing.”

“yeah, the sooner you do that, the faster our conversations will be. so i went through all the accounts she follows, which thankfully aren’t many because the bitch likes having a skinny mini following to follower ratio.” 

joshua shakes his head at your name-calling but fights off a smile anyway.

“i picked out every man—again, not many because she was probably mindful of them being able to see each other’s accounts—and i looked up their occupations on linkedin and if they made a good salary, they made the cut. from there, i just heavily cyberstalked them until i had no choice but to rule them out, or in jungkook’s case, until i found something incriminating.”

he doesn’t bother asking because he can see you get a kick out of explaining this to him.

“a photo of him and mina at a romantic dinner, dated a year and a half ago.”

“before me.”

you nod. “yup. jungkook is an investment banker, aka basically a bank, period, to mina. and seeing as the korean stock exchange is based in busan, he’s constantly flying between there and here for work—”

“making him another good candidate for a boyfriend since he wouldn’t demand a lot of her time.”

you nod and point at him. “exactly! which brings us to boyfriend #4.” you put your phone on the table and gesture at him. “you.”

he nods. “me.”

you tilt your head at him. “honestly, i couldn’t figure out what it was that made mina choose you.”

he scoffs. “wow.”

“no, don’t get me wrong,” you say, shaking your head calmly. “you’re a fucking catch—leagues better than any of these guys as far as i can tell.” he feels his cheeks get hot. “but that’s why i couldn’t figure it out. mina digs her claws into these rich, kinda vain, kinda power-hungry men, and then she found you, and you’re yes, rich, but also kind, sweet, caring, and all of the other good words in the dictionary.”

the heat spreading across his face grows exponentially warmer. 

“therefore, i concluded that mina chose you to be her real boyfriend.” 

joshua frowns. 

“doesn’t it make sense? she chooses guys who are either romantically unavailable or physically unavailable, so she still has all this time on her hands. the girl is evil but she’s also human so she craved an actual partner. she chose you.”

it sounds like it should be a compliment, but joshua feels even more repulsed by the idea that three just wasn’t enough for her. she really went out of her way to find him and torment him when she had more than enough to go around.

“this is the kind of greed the bible warned us about,” joshua mutters under his breath, mostly to himself. you hear it though, and the sound of your laugh immediately makes him smile back at you.

“yeah, mina is definitely a warning sign from god.”

“wish i listened.”

you give him a smile. “eh, where’s the fun in that?”

he knows you’re just trying to make him feel better but that you probably don’t believe that. he hasn’t forgotten what you were like the first night you met—how you cried and drank so miserably. still, you somehow found it in yourself to joke around like this. it makes him stop moping.

“okay,” he says, nodding and leaning forward with renewed vigor. “so she’s really good at time management. now what?”

you laugh. “she doesn’t need to be good at time management because i learned that mina doesn’t even fucking work, bro.”

the information is jarring enough that he doesn’t fully register what you call him. “what?”

“i called the company you mentioned her working for and pretended to be a recruiter calling for a reference, and they said no one by that name has ever worked there,” you report. “i think she’s making her living off her boyfriends. which is why i said that she only needed you to pay for dates. the others are funding her whole life.”

“oh my god, i hate her,” he says plainly as he thinks of all the “overtime” she had to clock in and the “business trips” she went on and the never-ending complaints about a boss that didn’t even exist. “what kind of fucking sociopath…”

you nod solemnly. “it at least makes our job easier; all we have to do is cut her from her money source.”

“the boyfriends.”

you hum affirmatively. “you and minhyuk are already done, so we just need to get siwoo and jungkook to cut her off. but now that she’s suddenly out two streams of income, i’m sure she’ll be really laying it on thick with those two to make up for it. we’ll have to be a bit creative.”

the craziest, most intrusive thought enters joshua’s head and in the next second, it’s exiting his mouth. “mingyu returns this weekend.”

you raise an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic but you don’t comment on it. “mingyu, the man you kept accusing me of being when i first messaged you?” you ask, sneering at the mere mention of his name. “that mingyu?”

he nods. “yup. there’s always been three of us: me, jeonghan, mingyu. he’s been traveling and he comes back in a few days.”

“okay… and what exactly does that have to do with ruining mina’s life?”

joshua grins, feeling excitement bubbling in his stomach. “kim mingyu, y/n, is rich. and not just comfortable—actually rich. as in rich enough for mina to drop all her boyfriends and quit scouting rich guys for the rest of her life if she had reason to think he was willing to fully support her.”

“does she not know what one of your best friends looks like…?” you question, making the most judgmental face joshua thinks he’s ever seen. he snickers.

“nope,” he says, popping the p. “mingyu’s been gone for the entirety of our relationship, traveling all over the place, so she never met him and his social media presence is equivalent to your aggretsuko account—for looking, not posting. all he does online is try to prank me.” he laughs more fully now, shaking his head at how perfect it is. “he’s a bored trust fund baby who knows how to act. he’s going to love doing this.”

your mouth drops open in awe, staying there for several seconds before you realize you haven’t said anything. “well,” you mutter, a smile very slowly beginning to spread across your face, “if you say he’s rich, then he must be absolutely rolling in it. and if he’s rolling in it—”

“then mina’s going to take the bait.”

you grin widely now, leaning forward onto the coffee table and shaking your head. “you, joshua hong, are so much more diabolical than you let on.”

he smirks. “learning from the best.”

“oh, she is so over.”

a/n: thanks for your patience! i'm afraid i will require more of it as i continue getting used to my new schedule LOL (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

if you’d like to be added to the tag list, comment here or send me an ask! if you requested to be on the list but weren’t tagged in this post or the reblog, it’s bc you don’t have an age indicator on your page. pls add that (and lmk that you did) if you want to be tagged next time.

part three teaser

"i really lost myself in this, y'know?" you whisper, head tilting up at the sky like maybe you'll find whatever it is you think you lost up there in the never-ending black. 

joshua follows your gaze. “i don’t think you lost anything. i think it’s all still there.”

“how would you know? you didn’t know who i was before siwoo changed every aspect of me and my life,” you remind him like he needs to be reminded at all. every day, he found himself thinking about what life would be like if he had met you before siwoo had. he doesn’t need the reminder.

“i know because there’s no way any part of you that’s here with me right now is because of siwoo,” he tells you confidently. “you’re so… funny and smart and confident and reliable and cool. and you want me to believe any of that is because of siwoo?”

that gets him a small smile. “careful or i’ll start to think you have a favorable opinion of me.”

he snorts. “if you don’t already think that, i’m probably not being a good enough friend.”

joshua looks down when you press your shoulder against his. the breeze blows strands of hair into your face, and he suppresses the desire to tuck them behind your ear. “you’re a great friend. probably the greatest i’ve made in my adult life.”

he nods. “you too. all of you—every version of you before, during, and after siwoo. i like them all. even the ones i never got to meet."

"you're so..." you start but never finish.

"hmm?"

"nothing," you say. "thanks."

"for?"

"saying all of those nice things."

"pfft, don't get too big-headed about it," he says, trying to play it cool. you smile. "i just can't stand the idea that you think any part of who you are today is due to an idiot like siwoo."

you sigh and rest your head against his shoulder. he has to actively try to keep his body relaxed when you do. “did you know that the name siwoo means divine intervention?”

joshua shakes his head. “i didn’t.”

“divine intervention,” you repeat, scoffing this time. “like, yeah. he definitely intervened and derailed my whole life, that’s for sure. i have no idea where the fuck ‘divine’ comes from, though.”

“are you sure you didn’t misread it and it’s actually disturbing intervention?”

you laugh and slap his arm softly. “what does joshua mean?” you ask after a few moments of silence.

“uh,” he squints as he tries to remember what his mom told him, “salvation, i think.”

you suddenly lift your head up off his shoulder and look at him, eyes narrowing a little as you very closely and openly study his face. he feels self-conscious, a feeling he seems to have gotten used to around you.

“salvation…” it sounds like you’re testing the word on your tongue. you scan his face for something he doesn’t have the composure to ask about right now. no, his composure is nowhere to be found as your gaze rakes every centimeter of every feature of his face, taking your time like you're simultaneously trying to understand him and committing him to memory. “huh" is all you say when you're done.

“what?” he asks quietly, resisting the urge to pass a hand over his face in case there’s something on it. 

“nothing,” you say, face relaxing one again. you smile a little, and even with the lessened intensity, your stare is starting to feel like it’s burning a hole right through him. “it’s just… fitting. joshua. salvation.”

and why exactly would that be fitting?

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[tiarahoarder]

“I’m going to marry your sister.”

atsumu looks at suna like he’s grown another head.

“why the hell would ya wanna do that? she’s a girl… girls are gross,” he wrinkles his nose in disgust. his ten year old friend shakes his head, staring as at the older miya who had accompanied them to the park.

“she’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world,” suna declares confidently.

atsumu snorts and bounces the volleyball he’s holding.

“my sister? nah she’s ugly like a troll,” he giggles at his insult. at thirteen, you’re too busy scrolling through your phone to even pay attention to the boys. before suna can retort, osamu is running up to the two of them and grinning in delight.

“look at this frog i caught!”

their attention is captured and suna forgets about the conversation completely.

until atsumu reminds him. suna’s best friend and best man, standing on a small platform in front of friends and family, grinning with a microphone in hand.

“sunarin here must’ve been a’ prophet or somethin’. because one day he walked up to me all confident and says ‘i’m gonna marry your sister’… and he did just what he said he was gonna do.”

the audience, including you, laughs. you look at suna, eyes crinkling, smiling widely. he smiles back, thinking that you’re still the most beautiful girl in the world.

“rin, y/n’s a suna now, but she’ll always be a miya at heart.”

the crowd awes and suna looks to see his new in-laws sniffling.

“which means, ‘samu and i are gonna give you hell for the rest of your life and worse if ya ever hurt her.”

you snort, reaching over and lacing your fingers with your new husband. he grins, squeezing them gently.

they all know they have nothing to worry about. there had never been anyone else, only you. no other crushes or dates, no one else could ever imagine himself holding hands with.

he brought your palm up to his lips, brushing along the knuckles softly.

“i love you mrs. suna,” he whispers and on the inside, he knows his ten year old self is bursting with joy, even though it took him twelve years, he finally got to call you his.

“and i love you, mr. suna.”

[tiarahoarder]

can i request prompt 11 with mingyu, please? 🫶🏻

mingyu + “if i kiss you, will you stop pouting?”

warnings: fluff !! cutie pouty gyu ☹️☹️🤍🤍🤍🤍 an: has anyone else been non stop listening to if you leave me ??? i cant stop… if you relate, pls read my other svt tenth anniversary fics too much and journey mercies !!!

“gyuie, baby.. please don’t be dramatic right now..” you sigh, standing in front of him. he’s a few feet away, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with an obnoxious pout on right now.

“i’m not being dramatic..” he pauses to sigh and kick his foot, looking up at the sky, “i just wish my girlfriend liked my taste in drinks, and not…” he makes sure to give a really nasty face before he continues, “minghao’s…”

it takes everything in you not to laugh, so with a bitten lip you run up to him and hold his arms. “mingyu, i promise i love your taste in drinks so, so much, okay?” his pout stays, and almost gets bigger, like he’s expecting more. “..but you do get the same thing every time! i already know what it tastes like! and hao’s looked so good, i had to taste it, okay? but i’ll never ever pick him over you. you’re my favorite, always, you know that.”

your hands find their way to his cheeks, and despite his stubborn efforts he leans into your touch so desperately, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your thumbs gliding against his skin. you allow yourself to giggle, but the moment you do, he’s back to sulking.

“you put your mouth on his straw..” he says, grumbling.

“because he’s like our brother, gyu. don’t be silly.” you reply, knowing damn well he wouldn’t have batted an eye if the circumstances were different. yet he stays firm, refusing eye contact and your affections that he had just accepted two seconds ago. “my mouth touches more of you than it ever will him.” you see him start to fight a smirk, yet he doesn’t budge. “maybe i can show you? if i kiss you, will you stop pouting?”

he immediately perks up, almost like a puppy, smiling and nodding his head wildly. you don’t even get to prepare yourself before he grabs you by the face, forcing you on your tiptoes to connect your lips. he’s still smiling even while he presses millions of kisses to not only your lips but the rest of your face. clearly he’s been sated, if you couldn’t tell by the way he beams as he skips the entire way home, cheering about how much better he is than minghao (as if he cared). as much of an annoying man child as he is, it still manages to charm you in some way, and you can’t help but laugh as you follow him down the street.

1 to 13 🏷️ @markkiatocafe @ateez-atiny380

[tiarahoarder]

The fanmeet had been your idea.

A spontaneous moment between schedules in the morning - a few fans had gathered upon noticing Seventeen’s car, and with a quick nod from the manager, the group decided to spend a few minutes greeting them. It wasn’t official, just quick photos and autographs, kind words shared between idols and the fans who supported them day and night.

The interactions were sweet, an energy booster before you started the gruelling schedules of the day.

With every smile and wave, you were able to clearly see the faces of every one of them that jumped with excitement. One in particular -

You kneeled down slightly, catching an interaction with a younger fan who screamed when you greeted her.

That was, when your eyes flicked to the crowd behind.

At first, it was instinct - an odd flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

Then you saw him.

Cap low, mask pulled up, and the phone in his hand flipped with the screen facing the floor.

It was pointed up.

Dangerously close to the hem of a fan's skirt - the young girl you were just talking to.

Your blood ran cold.

You didn’t think - only moved.

Your hand shot out like lightning, clamping down on the man’s wrist.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you barked, lips between your teeth as you scowled.

The surrounding fans gasped, confusion and alarm rippling through the crowd. The fan he was targeting turned in wide-eyed panic, only just realizing what was happening.

The man’s body stiffened. He yanked hard.

You didn’t let go, only pulling back harder.

Your fingers tightened like a vice around his arm. The phone was still in his hand, the screen clearly open on camera mode, his motive now apparent.

“You must be crazy,” you snapped. “let the phone go, now.”

He struggled harder, violently this time, drawing more attention. You braced your legs and held on, but he was taller, stronger, panicked.

With a final shove, you stumbled backward - bottom slamming into the pavement as your grip finally tore the phone away from his hand.

He didn’t look back.

He ran.

Security was already on their heels, however, shouting as they tore after him through the crowd.

You were left breathless on the ground, the phone clutched to your chest like it was toxic. Your hands trembled as the fans erupted around her, both in fear and fury.

“Hey!” a familiar voice shouted. “What the-”

The members burst through the crowd - Seungcheol in front, his voice low and deadly. Mingyu right behind him, eyes already scanning your body for injuries. Jeonghan crouched down next to you in seconds, picking you up.

“Are you hurt?” Seungcheol asked urgently.

“I’m fine,” you managed, your throat tight. “It was- That bastard had his camera under her skirt!”

You immediately turned to the fan, who was crying softly now, surrounded by other girls trying to comfort her. “Are you okay?” you asked, shifting forward to wipe away her tears.

The fan nodded tearfully, reaching out to grip her hand. “You…thank you. I didn’t even notice…”

You exhaled shakily, glad that she was okay. "Listen to me, none of that was your fault, alright?"

She nodded, pouting.

Joshua moved in beside you, gently taking the phone from your grip. “Let us handle the footage,” he murmured. “You did the right thing.”

“You could’ve gotten seriously hurt!” Hoshi’s voice was high with worry. “You should’ve called us!”

“I couldn’t just stand there and watch,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “She was our fan. She’s our responsibility too.”

Jeonghan put an arm around your shoulder to pull you away from the crowd. “You did good. Really good. Brave. But don’t ever scare us like that again, okay?”

Seungcheol stood and turned toward the staff, his voice suddenly hard. “We need stricter crowd control from now on. This isn’t happening again.”

As the security team returned with the suspect in custody and local police were called, the fanmeet wrapped up quickly.

The fans chanted your name as you bowed deeply in apology for the commotion - and gratitude for their safety.

That night, Seventeen trended globally.

Not for a new release, or an award, or a viral fancam.

But for the moment their member, you, threw yourself into danger to protect a stranger in the crowd.

And none of them would ever forget it.

--

bite-sized piece into the aftermath!

[tiarahoarder]

Love

Summary - The one where you love teasing him.

Tags: Seungcheol x f.reader, fluff

Warnings: uhm heavy details on his inner thoughts

Word Count: 1.2k

A's Note: Hope you like it anon! It was so hard to write where they can't touch freely.

Seungcheol is fortunate enough to experience love, in several forms as they come. Parental love has taught him the beauty of sacrifice. His teenage years have taught him the beauty of falling head first and getting his heart split open, but now he chalks it off as a lesson on the inner workings of relationships. 

But now, at the age of thirty, you have rewritten the definition of love for him. If he has to end this as a lesson in love, he swears he would seize to exist. As simple as that. 

He glances over his shoulder at you, standing near the stage, talking with one of his colleagues. Your hands gesturing as you explain something, the smile never leaving your lips, and the proud feeling prominent across your features. And just like that, his attention fizzles out from his boss praising for his hard work and how deserving he is for the award. 

His insides are slowly melting, eyes on you, dressed prettily in the black dress he got you, earrings dangling with each movement of yours, laughing while throwing your head back, his favorite thing in the entire world. His eyebrows twitch at the person who made you laugh, a little jealous that it isn’t him. He forgives hearing the melodic sound of your laughter. And he is back to melting. 

As if just the existence of you isn’t enough to drive him crazy, you sneak a glance at him. The proud smile on your lips just widens, meeting his gaze, and he feels his heart skip a beat. Is this why people go to war for love? And lose their minds? If he has to fight his way to you, he knows that he will single-handedly win the war, and claim you as his, again and again. 

Seungcheol’s hands stretch and form a fist, restraining the urgency in him to curl the stray lock of hair perfectly falling on your face behind your ear, delicately trace your skin all along, appreciating it just the way a flower feels, soft and delicate, and so so you. If only, if only. 

He wouldn’t. He doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, he knows how uncomfortable you feel when someone touches you, especially in a public setting. As much as he would die happily to just feel the brush of your fingers, he is willing, even if it’s painful, to let you come to him on your own. 

Excusing himself from his boss, he makes his way to you, a small smile on his lips, and a tiny little hop in his steps if someone looks carefully. Finally he will get to breathe. He falls in step next to you, bowing his head to his colleague in greeting. You straighten up, beaming at him, and maybe igniting the desire to be the best employee again and again, if only he could get that proud smile from you. 

You laugh at the joke his colleague throws about a simp or something. He couldn’t quite grasp it from the overwhelming feeling of your arm brushing against his. His lips part as air rushes out of him, as if saying it can’t find space in him that’s filled with you, you, you. You hold onto his bicep, he dies, and pout at him, “hungry,” you grumble once you get the privacy from people. 

He holds the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes, internally screaming when your hand slowly slides from his bicep to his arm. 

You drop your hand from him, “Cheol, are you okay?” 

Seungcheol peers down on you, you must have taken a step closer to him while he is fighting for his life. The slow flutter of your eyelashes, and the dark eyes that are attentively watching him, and the slow part of your moist lips has his own mirroring them. Your eyes flicker to his lips, staying in on a second, and back to his eyes, sparing him from the early death. 

It’s in times like these he wishes so ardently that you would be comfortable with touch. So he can hold you, tug you into him and kiss you senselessly. If anything he realised early on that more than in words he is proficient in expressing his love through touch. But for you he would learn the language of you, and speak it. 

“I’m good.” He answers, pocketing his hands before he can control himself. “Should we grab dinner?” 

You beam at him, radiating as if the sun just came at night, especially for him, to shine light on his dark life. You are nodding like a kid excited for ice cream, and it’s then Seungcheol knows he would do anything for you. 

“Let’s go.” He fists his hand inside his pockets, nails biting into his palms. “I heard they have your favorite.”

He leads you to the dining room, giving polite smiles to his colleagues, and smiling whenever they congratulate him. 

“My favorite meal is right here tho.” You mutter under your breath. 

Seungcheol’s nod to his colleague stops midway, his feet stop working. His colleague asks if something’s wrong and he has enough semblance to shake his head and bid bye to them. You turn around, your hair pulled to the side, revealing your back. The reason why this dress is his favorite is because of the strings on the back of it. The moment he sees it, he knows you will look divine in it. Like now. 

“What’s wrong, Cheol?” you blink, innocently. 

He groans, into his hands. He is all in to make you feel comfortable and safe, but he is dying to restrain himself. Especially when you so innocently blurt out things that drive him to hell and back. 

“You,” he stepped into your personal space for the first time in the entire evening, he even let you come and hug him after he came down the stage accepting the award, “are a little devil.” 

You frown, his words catching you off guard. Then it clicks, he sees it in your eyes widening and the slow curl of your lips. You must be remembering  one of his confessions a few nights back, you two just reeling from the high, and the words spilling out of him on how much he wants to hold you, consistently, reverently and obsessively. You laughed it off, the same throwing your head back enjoying his pain and maybe having a little too much fun. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You turn away, resuming your walk to the dining room. 

He grumbles under his breath, following you. You grab a plate and hand it over to him and before you grab yours, you hold his arm stopping from getting food. He looks at you quizzically. 

“Did I say that I’m proud of you?” You ask, he nods slowly, gazes at your hand on his. You tiptoe, your entire body brushing against his arm, “I’m proud of you, baby.” You kiss his cheek. 

You catch the plate from his hands before it can fall. You giggle at his awestruck expression and gasp seeing the imprint of your lipstick on his cheek. “I got lipstick on you.” 

You grab a tissue but he stops you. “Please finish your dinner. We need to go home. Please.” 

You throw your head back, laughing. And Seungcheol watches you, as if he just got resurrected back to life. 

[tiarahoarder]

Silly Lil Boyfriend Texts With Seungkwan💕

Fluff, crack, reader being in love with Hoshi platonically

Full masterlist

Seventeen masterlist (ver1) (ver2)

Enjoy, sinners ;)

Love, Bunny🐇

////////////////////////////////////

• S.coups • Jeonghan • Joshua • Jun • Hoshi • Wonwoo • Woozi • DK • Mingyu • The8 • Vernon • Dino •

[tiarahoarder]

#WifeHimUp!

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

Joshua x fem!Reader. — one shot-smau.

𖤐 Thought it was harmless to post a pic of a stranger you found cute? Well, he saw it.

[tiarahoarder]

Only the Dead Get Standing Ovations | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Detective!Choi Seungcheol x Detective!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 23,459 words (crazy, I know-) Reading Time: 1 hr 30-ish mins

Genre: Crime Thriller | Romance | Psychological Mystery

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Forced Partners | Protective Male Lead | Mutual Pining | Slow Burn

Warnings: Graphic violence, serial murders, blood/gore, psychological manipulation, PTSD themes, language, obsessive behavior, death mentions. MINORS STAY AWAY.

Synopsis: When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Note : For the girlies who love slow-burn tension, protective men who don’t know how to express feelings unless death is involved, and a female lead who isn’t afraid to pull the trigger—this is for you. She’s his match in every way. His enemy, his partner… and maybe his only weakness.

--

The very air of Seoul, a city typically a symphony of kinetic energy and relentless ambition, had begun to thicken with something far more sinister than its usual summer humidity. For a month now, an insidious dread had been slowly suffocating its vibrant pulse. Two murders, eerily precise in their execution and chillingly similar in their macabre presentation, had been reported. Each victim, found in a disturbingly artful pose, was accompanied by a cryptic, handwritten note and an unsettling, crudely carved wooden mask, a blank stare frozen on its expressionless face. The pattern was undeniable, yet baffling. The police force, usually a bastion of unwavering efficiency, found itself stalled, its usual methodical pace disrupted by the sheer, unsettling artistry of the crimes. The killer, or perhaps a team, operated with a chilling precision, a tactical brilliance that mocked conventional investigative methods. This unnerving sophistication, this calculated, almost theatrical signature, had pushed the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency to its limits.

It was this very deadlock that led Captain Kim, a man whose face was usually etched with the weariness of decades in law enforcement, but now showed a hint of genuine desperation, to make a decision he knew would be met with an explosive clash of personalities. He stood before the two most brilliant, yet utterly incompatible, minds in his precinct. On one side, Detective Choi Seungcheol, a man whose reputation for solitary, almost reclusive brilliance preceded him. His sharp intellect was undeniable, his methods meticulous, but his demeanor was perpetually guarded, his eyes often carrying a distant, analytical gleam. On the other, Detective Y/N, equally gifted, equally incisive, but with a fiery streak of independence and an uncanny intuition that sometimes bordered on the prophetic. You and he did not merely "not get along"; you actively, spectacularly, and consistently disliked each other. Your antagonism was legendary, a simmering rivalry forged not out of personal animosity, but out of an infuriating, almost mirror-image equality. You had both attended the prestigious Seoul University of Criminology, each a prodigious talent in your own right. Your academic careers had been a relentless, neck-and-neck race, culminating in an unprecedented tie for "Best Student of the Year"—a shared triumph that, far from fostering camaraderie, had only solidified your mutual, competitive disdain. He couldn't bear your presence, a fact he rarely bothered to conceal, and you, in turn, found his stoic confidence, his occasional cutting remarks, and his general air of superiority utterly insufferable. You never trusted him, a feeling that had only intensified with every forced interaction since your university days.

Now, Captain Kim’s booming voice, laced with a weariness that cut through the tension, delivered the unwelcome news. "You two," he stated, his gaze sweeping from Seungcheol’s rigid posture to your own defiant stance, "are on this case. Together. These tactics, these plans, these methods… they’re too complex, too nuanced. I believe only the two of you possess the unique, albeit clashing, minds required to crack this." The words hung in the air, a mutual sentence of professional purgatory, a shared nightmare that neither of you had signed up for. The implications settled like a heavy cloak: the serial killer was operating with a level of psychological depth and strategic planning that demanded the combined, albeit begrudging, brilliance of the city’s two top, and most adversarial, detectives.

Just hours after that fraught meeting, the city unveiled its latest, most gruesome horror, a macabre performance staged for an unwitting audience. The call had come in just as the first hesitant rays of dawn touched the city’s skyline, painting the grey concrete in hues of bruised purple and pale gold. You arrived on scene to find the flickering blue and red lights of emergency vehicles already painting the grimy facade of the abandoned Grand Theatre. The building itself, once a beacon of entertainment, now loomed like a forgotten mausoleum, its ornate entrance marred by graffiti, its windows like vacant, staring eyes. Inside, the scene was a grotesque tableau. A body, meticulously arranged, its limbs unnaturally wired like a grotesque puppet on strings, hung suspended in the cavernous, dust-mote-filled silence of the main stage.

The stage lights, usually dormant, seemed to have been rigged to cast a single, haunting spotlight on the victim, highlighting the horrific spectacle. A cracked, wooden mask, identical to those found at the previous crime scenes, obscured its face, a chilling void where a human expression should have been. The scene was meticulous, almost theatrical in its gruesome artistry, a silent, damning indictment of a killer with a flair for the dramatic. A profound shiver, cold and unwelcome, ran down your spine as your eyes landed on the quote carved deeply and deliberately into the victim's forehead: “She didn’t know her role.”

The silence of the theatre, usually filled with the echoes of past performances and forgotten applause, was amplified by the sheer horror of the discovery. Every creak of the old floorboards, every gust of wind through the broken windows, seemed to carry a whispered accusation, a chilling sense of being watched. The entire city was shaken; the media ran rampant with wild theories, speculating endlessly, and the cop/detective parliament found itself in an unprecedented state of panic, demanding answers the force simply didn't have. All the police had to go on, the only tangible proof the killer seemed to leave, was that unsettling wooden mask. Everything else was meticulously, frustratingly, absent.

Seungcheol was already there, a rigid silhouette against the faint light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, his back to you as he surveyed the grotesque tableau. You could practically feel his distaste for your presence radiating from him, a tangible force in the cold, dusty air, even before he turned slightly, his eyes narrowing, catching your gaze with an almost imperceptible flick of his head. "Well, Y/N," he drawled, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, "looks like we're stuck. Again. In a damn theatre, of all places." His tone implied that your presence somehow made the situation even more absurd.

"Don't worry, Seungcheol," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion, professional stress, and your innate irritation at his very existence. "I can handle being stuck with a brick wall. Just try not to get in my way, or stand there looking… stoic and superior. Some of us actually work on cases, you know."

He ignored your jab, his attention already back on the body, his gloved hands beginning their meticulous examination, his mind undoubtedly cataloging every minute detail. "No signs of forced entry. No visible struggle. The scene is disturbingly clean, almost sterile. This wasn’t a spontaneous act of violence. This was… planned. Every single aspect. Every wire, every angle of suspension. It’s almost surgical in its precision." His voice was analytical, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the horrifying display before them. "The previous victims, the same calculated approach. No haphazardness, no frenzy."

You circled the suspended body slowly, your mind already racing, your instincts screaming, connecting the nascent dots, ignoring the tremor that ran through you as you noted the intricate wiring around the victim's limbs. "The previous victims… similar staging, similar masks, similar cryptic notes. This isn't just about a murder, Seungcheol. This is a performance. A grotesque, meticulously directed show for an unseen audience." You took in the empty seats, the silent stage, the single spotlight. "He's not just killing them; he's presenting them."

"A performance for who?" he scoffed, his gloved fingers meticulously tracing the lines of tension on the wires, examining the ligature marks. "A deranged artist with a flair for the dramatic? A frustrated playwright finally getting his audience?" He clearly found your dramatic interpretation a little too… theatrical, a little too close to the speculative side of things for his logical, fact-driven mind. "We're dealing with a killer, Y/N, not a theatre critic."

"No," you countered, your voice gaining conviction as a wild yet strangely fitting theory began to coalesce in your mind, a sudden flash of insight amidst the horror, like a spotlight illuminating a hidden corner. "This isn't an artist; it's a director. Someone utterly obsessed with control, with guiding the narrative of his own twisted play. He’s not just killing people; he’s ‘casting’ them. And these victims? They’re his reluctant cast members, forced into roles they never auditioned for, roles they clearly ‘didn’t know.’" You gestured around the vast, empty theatre, encompassing the silent rows of seats and the vast, dark wings. "He’s using this space as his stage, his backdrop. He sees life as a play, and he’s the one holding the script, orchestrating every scene, every 'act.' And these notes? They’re his personal, scathing reviews of their ‘performances,’ his ‘stage directions’ to the audience, telling us how they failed their ‘roles.’ And the masks? They’re more than just props; they’re deeply symbolic. Perhaps to hide the true identity of his victims from the audience, or more chillingly, to symbolize how he sees them – as interchangeable players, faceless and devoid of individual identity in his twisted, grand production. He’s not killing people; he’s taking them off the stage. The chances might be less, yes, far from the most probable, but what if he's not just killing people, but 'casting' them? What if these are all 'failed' actors, or people who didn't 'play their part' in some earlier, unknown ‘production’? Perhaps an actual play that flopped, or a group of people who betrayed someone. He’s correcting their ‘bad acting,’ as he perceives it, forcing them into a final, fatal role." You looked at the wired limbs. "He's making them puppets in his grand, horrifying finale."

He just stared at you, his silence more unnerving than his usual arguments. His gaze, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. You braced yourself for the inevitable rebuttal, the logical dismantling of your theory, the scathing critique that usually followed your more unconventional insights. But it never came. He simply turned back to the body, a new intensity in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment that your theory, however outlandish, held a disturbing resonance. The only proof they had was this unsettling wooden mask, and your theory, however unlikely, offered a lens through which to examine everything else.

Later that afternoon, back at the precinct, the air in Captain Kim’s cramped office was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the palpable frustration of a case spiraling out of control. Other detectives, their faces grim and defeated, sat around the worn conference table. You presented your theory, detailing the chilling parallels you saw between the current string of crimes and a twisted theatrical production, painting the killer as a malevolent "Director." You felt the skepticism in the room, the hushed whispers of your colleagues, their eyes darting to Seungcheol, expecting him to deliver the final, logical blow to your "imaginative" idea. Instead, to your profound shock, he supported it. He didn't just passively agree; he actively defended your reasoning, lending it the weight of his own calculated intellect, adding layers of logical deduction that bolstered your more intuitive leaps.

“While it’s undeniably unconventional, Captain,” Seungcheol stated, his voice steady and authoritative, effectively silencing the murmurs of doubt from other detectives gathered around the table, “Detective Y/N’s theory of a ‘director’ rather than a mere serial killer, while speculative, aligns remarkably well with the pervasive theatrical elements of these crime scenes. The meticulous staging of the bodies, the ‘roles’ carved into the victims’ flesh, the specific wording of the notes, the distinct wooden masks… it all strongly suggests a mind preoccupied with a narrative, with a perverse sense of dramatic structure. It gives us a new framework to consider, a potential motive beyond simple random violence or a personal vendetta. It’s a leap, but one worth taking, given the complete lack of other viable leads. The pattern suggests a level of premeditation and an underlying message that a simple 'artist' or random killer wouldn't typically possess.” He even went so far as to elaborate, "The 'she didn't know her role' could imply a deep-seated grievance, an adherence to a specific script the killer believes these victims deviated from. It connects the victim directly to the killer's narrative, elevating them from mere casualties to characters in his 'play.'"

You felt a reluctant, almost forced "thank you" escape your lips as you left the captain's office, the word barely audible, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of your gaze towards him. The tension between you was still a palpable, prickly third presence, a static charge in the air, a silent hum of competitive energy. Yet, for a fleeting, unsettling moment, a sliver of grudging, professional respect had edged its way in, a tentative acknowledgment of shared intellect and a surprisingly complementary approach. You had anticipated his scorn, but instead, you received his unexpected, almost clinical, defense. It was a bizarre development, adding another confusing layer to your already strained relationship.

Back at the theatre, now that you had Captain Kim's begrudging blessing to pursue your joint theory, you and Seungcheol returned to the scene, each moving with a focused intensity that bordered on obsessive. The puzzle deepened, growing more twisted with every passing moment. You meticulously re-examined every inch of the stage, the wings, the backstage corridors, the dusty dressing rooms, and even the exterior, including the back gate and alleyways. Despite the elaborate staging and the gruesome nature of the murder, there wasn't a single trace of blood anywhere – not on the stage, not in the wings, not in the dusty dressing rooms, not even at the back gate where a body of this size would undoubtedly have been moved into the building. The victim’s body, suspended above you, was visibly leaking, a slow, steady seep of crimson staining the fabric beneath, yet the entire theatre was pristine, unnervingly clean, as if no violence had ever marred its aged grandeur.

How could a human possibly carry a bleeding body without dropping any blood at all? It defied logic, defied physics, creating another chilling layer to the enigma. You exchanged a look with Seungcheol, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the impossible. This wasn't just clean; it was surgically, impossibly clean. It implied a level of control, of planning, that was almost supernatural. And the note… “She didn’t know her role.” The initial reports had confirmed the girl wasn’t an actor at this particular theatre, or any theatre for that matter. Or was she?

Had she been involved in some amateur production? Had she been cast in some personal drama the killer had concocted? The questions hung heavy in the air, echoing the unsettling silence of the abandoned stage, a silent, chilling challenge from a killer who seemed to mock your every step, daring you to understand his twisted play. The wooden mask, the only tangible evidence, seemed to stare back at you, holding its secrets close. The hunt, you knew, had just begun.

--

The first horrifying act of the "Director" had concluded, leaving the city in a state of suspended terror and two mismatched detectives at a reluctant stalemate. The immediate aftermath of the theatre discovery had been a flurry of activity, forensic teams swarming the scene, every potential shred of evidence meticulously cataloged, however scarce. But the core of the puzzle remained maddeningly elusive. The victim, the girl found suspended like a grotesque puppet, was quickly identified.

Initial reports poured in, painting a picture of a young woman named Ji-eun, who had only recently moved to Seoul, barely a week prior. She had arrived with aspirations, her dreams tied to the vibrant theatrical scene, preparing to begin an acting course at a small, independent theatre not far from where her body was found. The timeline was grim: she had gone missing since Sunday, her disappearance initially dismissed as the typical fading act of a new arrival getting lost in the city's labyrinthine anonymity. Her body was discovered on Wednesday, a horrifying three-day window of unknown terror.

Seungcheol, ever the pragmatist, had immediately gravitated towards a more conventional line of inquiry. While he had begrudgingly acknowledged your "director" theory in front of Captain Kim, his analytical mind still sought a simpler, more personal motive. He believed that the theatrical staging might be a distraction, a smokescreen for a murder rooted in a personal vendetta, a jealous rival, a jilted lover, or a debt gone wrong. He spent hours, days, buried under a mountain of Ji-eun's personal history: her phone records, social media accounts, financial transactions, a sparse list of contacts in Seoul, her family history back in her hometown.

His office, usually a beacon of sterile order, became a chaotic landscape of printouts and notepads. He was looking for any crack in her life that could explain the violence, any personal grievance that might have escalated into such a theatrical and brutal end. He meticulously cross-referenced names, addresses, and any fleeting connections, convinced that if he just dug deep enough, the true, human motive would surface, proving his initial instincts correct and disproving your more outlandish, 'performance'-centric theory. He was utterly convinced this was a one-off, a deeply personal murder, not the work of a serial killer on a city-wide spree.

He was about to be proven devastatingly, horribly wrong.

The fluorescent hum of the precinct office felt particularly oppressive that afternoon, heavy with the stale scent of coffee and unspoken tension. You had been sifting through similar data, but with a different lens, trying to find commonalities between Ji-eun and the previous two victims, no matter how disparate their backgrounds seemed. Your own leads were equally cold, equally frustrating. The phone rang, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet. You answered, your voice crisp, and listened, your expression slowly draining of color. Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk, a silent understanding passing between you. He paused mid-sentence, a pen hovering over a file, sensing the shift in the air, the sudden, cold dread that radiated from you. You hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence. Your face was grim, a mask of cold certainty.

"The church," you stated, your voice low, cutting through the silence of the office, "another body. We need to go. Now."

The scene at the historic Gwanghwamun Church was even more disturbing than the theatre. If the first victim was a puppet, this one was a twisted, blasphemous marionette of faith. The second victim, a man in his late fifties, was strung up like a praying marionette, suspended from the towering rafters of the nave, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in eternal supplication. But the grotesque details told a different story.

His knees had been meticulously shattered, not cleanly broken, but mangled, as if deliberately destroyed to prevent him from ever truly kneeling. His mouth, distended and unnatural, was grotesquely filled with hardened wax, sealing his final prayers or screams within him. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old wood, a cloying sweetness that made your stomach clench. Outside, the usual throngs of tourists and worshippers were held back by a hastily erected police tape, their horrified murmurs a low hum against the distant city sounds.

Seungcheol, despite his initial professional detachment, was visibly disturbed. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his gloved hands as he pulled on a mask, his movements precise but uncharacteristically quick. He was the first to step inside the crime scene, past the uniformed officers, his trained eyes immediately scanning, dissecting, absorbing every horrifying detail. The subtle disturbance in his usual composure didn’t go unnoticed by you.

He moved around the suspended body, a silent, grim silhouette against the stained-glass windows, inspecting the ropes, the mangled knees, the wax-filled mouth, his mind already racing to connect this new nightmare to the last. The sheer depravity of it, the intimate violation of a sacred space, seemed to shake even his formidable composure. He didn’t utter a word, but his silence was louder than any scream.

Your gaze, meanwhile, swept the periphery, your instincts guiding you away from the immediate horror of the body itself. You knew the killer was theatrical, that he left messages. Your eyes scanned the shadowed corners, the dimly lit alcoves, the high ledges. And then, a glint. Small, almost imperceptible, tucked away in a shadowed recess near a confessional booth, barely visible against the dark wood. A tiny, almost insignificant flicker of light. You moved towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Hidden, cleverly disguised against the ornate carvings, was a miniature camera, its lens still pointed directly at the scene. He had filmed the entire thing. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you. This wasn't just about killing; it was about documentation, about forcing an audience to bear witness.

Back in your shared office, the silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft whir of the computer tower. The camera, carefully extracted and tagged as evidence, was now connected, its internal memory being downloaded. The raw footage began to play, filling the screen with grainy, horrific clarity. Ji-eun, the first victim, had been alone on the stage. This new victim, a man, was struggling, praying, his desperate movements growing weaker. The screams, muffled by the wax in his mouth, were still agonizingly clear. The sickening sounds of struggle, the glint of blood, the methodical, chilling precision of the killer as he worked – it was all there, laid bare.

You watched it once. And again. And again. Each time, your eyes scanned for the slightest detail, a flicker of something missed, a hidden reflection, a tell-tale shadow. The killer remained frustratingly out of frame for the most part, a disembodied force, a presence rather than a person. The angle of the camera was deliberate, chosen to maximize the terror of the victim's plight while preserving the killer's anonymity. The tension in the small office was suffocating. Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation, closing his eyes briefly as a specific moment replayed on the screen, his mind struggling to process the sheer depravity. The killer, in the grainy footage, moved closer to the victim, his arm extending into the frame for a brief moment as he meticulously pinned a note to the victim’s chest.

It was a fleeting glimpse, perhaps only a second, but your trained eyes caught it. Your breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that made Seungcheol open his eyes, startled. "Seungcheol!" you exclaimed, pointing frantically at the screen, your finger practically jabbing the monitor. "There! His arm! On the outer area, just as he pins the note to the victim's chest. A distinct burnt patch… it looks like a birthmark. On his left arm!"

He snapped his eyes open, his gaze immediately darting to where your finger pointed. He rewound the footage, frame by excruciating frame, pausing at the exact second you indicated. A sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment of your keen observation. The detail was minute, easily missed in the chaos of the scene, but undeniable once pointed out. It wasn’t a scar; it was too irregular, too organic. A birthmark. A unique identifier. Hope, cold and fragile, sparked in the room.

His gaze hardened, a new determination setting in. Without a word, he immediately pulled out the history papers of both victims, spreading them across the desk. Ji-eun's sparse background, the second victim's equally unremarkable life. This had to be the joint link, the connection that had eluded them, the invisible thread that tied these disparate souls together into the killer's twisted narrative.

He started cross-referencing their personal histories, their professional lives, their social circles, not just for a personal motive now, but for any possible overlap, any shared experience, any common thread that could lead them to a single individual with a distinct birthmark. The chilling realization settled over both of you: this killer was far more messed up, far more dangerous, more strategically deranged than they had initially imagined. He was not just killing; he was carefully selecting, choreographing, documenting.

The hours blurred into an overnight paper trail, fueled by stale coffee and the mounting pressure from Captain Kim. Sleep was a distant, unreachable luxury. The small office became your claustrophobic world, filled with the flickering glow of computer screens, the rustle of paper, and the oppressive weight of your shared burden. The argument, when it finally erupted, was inevitable, a predictable explosion born from exhaustion, stress, and the inherent friction between your personalities.

"We're going in circles, Seungcheol!" you snapped, slamming a file shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet room. Your voice was strained, your temper fraying. "We have the footage, the victims, the masks, the methods, now even a distinguishing mark, but nothing concrete on him! We have a birthmark, but no name, no face!"

"And what do you propose, Y/N?" he retorted, his voice dangerously low, edged with his own deep exhaustion and a growing frustration that mirrored your own. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "A magic trick? A psychic vision? This isn't a show, this isn't a performance for us! It’s a murder investigation, and we're dealing with a ghost who leaves behind meticulously curated scenes but no tangible footprint!"

"It's clearly a show for him!" you shot back, rising from your chair to pace the small office, your movements agitated. "The 'acts,' the 'performances' he references in those notes, the way he orchestrates these scenes! It's all part of his twisted narrative, his obsession, and we're stuck here, desperately trying to understand the script when we don't even know the prologue! And you, with your focus on 'personal motives,' wasted valuable time!"

"And what about your 'director' theory, Y/N?" he countered, his voice dangerously quiet now, filled with a biting sarcasm. "How’s that working out for us now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance'? You said the chances were low, but you stood by it. Well, it's not giving us a name now, is it?"

The words stung, igniting a familiar spark of anger, resentment, and a strange, vulnerable hurt within you. You stopped pacing, turning to face him, your chest heaving with barely suppressed fury. "And your 'personal vendetta' theory? How's that working out for you now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance' that you now grudgingly admit to? We're no closer to finding him!"

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and the raw tension of shared stress. You stood, chests heaving, eyes locked in a furious battle of wills, a silent war waged in the heart of the police station. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion that was almost palpable. The argument had drained the last vestiges of your energy, leaving only a heavy silence, punctuated by your ragged breaths.

Your gazes, once sharp with defiance, softened, then lingered. A moment stretched, held too long in the quiet hum of the office, the unspoken tension of shared stress, overwhelming pressure, and an unwilling, yet undeniably potent, partnership hanging heavy between you. It was more than just professional frustration; it was the raw, human toll of staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder, with the one person you were least prepared to acknowledge as an equal, or even as something more. The night, thick and starless outside, seemed to press in on the small room, holding its breath.

-----

Two weeks bled into nothing. Two weeks of relentless, soul-crushing work since the horror at the Gwanghwamun Church, and yet, the case remained as elusive as smoke. The precinct hummed with a desperate, unproductive energy, every lead dissolving into a dead end, every forensic analysis yielding no new revelation. The burnt patch, the birthmark on the killer’s arm, was a frustrating phantom, a distinct detail that remained maddeningly unattached to any known individual.

You and Seungcheol had chased down every remote possibility, sifted through databases of reported burn victims, scanned security footage from the vicinity of the church, but the Director remained a ghost, his chilling performance echoing in your minds with no clear identity. The tension from your argument in the office still lingered between you, a palpable, unspoken barrier. It hadn’t exploded again, but it hadn’t dissipated either; it was a tight, invisible wire you both navigated, working with it rather than through it, a constant hum beneath the surface of your strained collaboration. The exhaustion was a living entity, heavy in your bones, blurring the edges of your vision, making every thought feel like pushing through thick mud.

You had been hunched over the cold steel of your desk, eyes glazing over a cascade of digital files, for what felt like an eternity. The fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous lullaby of despair. Your head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against your temples. The figures on the screen began to swim, blurring into an indistinguishable mass of data.

Your stomach, hollow and protesting, let out a pathetic growl. You finally pushed away from your chair, the screech of metal on linoleum a jarring sound in the quiet office. You stretched, your muscles screaming in protest, feeling the stiffness that had set in after countless hours of immobility. The windows showed the first faint blush of dawn, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of soft grey and pale pink. Six in the morning. You had been here all night, again.

"Cheol," you mumbled, your voice raspy, a mere whisper in the vast, empty office. He was still at his desk, his formidable concentration unbroken, a profile etched in grim determination. You could see the subtle slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rubbed his temple, betraying his own profound exhaustion. "I need food. My brain's turning to mush. We've been here all night. Do you want to grab something to eat? The CVS is probably open."

He grunted, a noncommittal sound, not looking up from the documents scattered across his desk. "I'm not hungry. You go."

Right on cue, as if betraying his stoic facade, his stomach let out a loud, indignant rumble, echoing through the silent office like a clap of thunder. He froze, his hand still hovering over a file, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You couldn't help it. A small, tired giggle escaped your lips, a fragile bubble of humor in the oppressive atmosphere. It was a genuine sound, unexpected from you in his presence, and it seemed to crack the rigid shell around him. He slowly pushed back his chair, the wheels grating softly, avoiding your amused gaze. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare moment of vulnerability. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the last two weeks, he rose and strode out of the office, feigning indifference, and you followed, the lingering giggle still threatening to escape.

The CVS store was only a few blocks away, nestled in the main, bustling artery of Seoul. Even at this early hour, a few vendors were beginning to set up, their low voices a distant murmur. The walk was silent, the hum of the city a low backdrop to your shared fatigue, the morning air crisp and cool against your faces. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not yet. It was still heavy with the remnants of past arguments, with the unspoken burden of the case, and the strange, unwilling proximity that had been forced upon you. You kept a cautious distance, aware of his presence beside you, acutely aware of the space that still existed, a testament to your long-standing rivalry.

As you approached the convenience store, the bright neon glow of its sign a beacon in the pre-dawn light, a chilling sight stopped you both dead in your tracks. On the other side of the road, on a deserted sidewalk, lay another body. A stark, horrifying tableau presented itself on the cold pavement.

This was the third victim since y'll took the case. A young woman, later identified as a politician’s daughter, was found posed disturbingly in a public square at sunrise, her lifeless form arranged with a grotesque, almost artistic precision. The details were stomach-churning: her lungs, meticulously removed post-mortem, were not just placed, but arranged like macabre roses on her lap, a final, horrifying flourish from the killer. The scene was devoid of chaos, an eerie stillness that spoke of deliberate, unhurried action.

But it was the note, carefully pinned to her clothing, that sent a cold, agonizing shiver down your spine, colder than the morning air. Your name, stark and undeniable, stared back at you: “Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?” The words were a direct address, a personal challenge, pulling you from the role of investigator into the terrifying spotlight of the victim. This wasn't a warning; it was an invitation to his next performance, and you were the unwilling star.

The wooden mask was there again, sitting eerily beside the body, its blank eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul. But this time, unlike the church scene, there was no camera, no evidence of filming, no obvious trace of his presence beyond the note and the mask. He was adapting, changing his stage directions.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his face hardening into a mask of grim resolve. He hadn't needed to read the note aloud; your gasp, your sudden rigidity, had told him everything. His gaze flickered from the note to you, then back to the mask, then to the vast, indifferent city around you. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Y/N was a risk. A profound, protective instinct, raw and unbidden, surged through him, eclipsing every past animosity. The killer might go for you next. The Director was no longer an abstract entity; he was a direct threat, specifically targeting you.

That entire day unfolded under the shadow of this chilling realization. Seungcheol’s protective instincts, usually buried beneath layers of professional detachment, were on full display. He refused to let you out of his sight. When it was time for you to go home and freshen up, he insisted on driving you, the car ride permeated by a tense silence. He waited in the living room while you quickly showered and changed, his presence a heavy, unwavering anchor in your apartment. He then drove you straight back to the office, ensuring you weren't alone for a single moment, not even for the short commute. Only after you were safely back at your desk did he finally return to his own place to freshen up, returning within the hour, his eyes constantly tracking your movements.

You worked together, side-by-side, a silent, almost desperate efficiency guiding your actions. You tried to stay strong, to project the image of the unshakeable detective, but the words on that note echoed in your mind, a chilling mantra. You found yourself spacing out, your gaze unfocused, your thoughts drifting to the terrifying implication of being the killer's next target. Every time your concentration wavered, Seungcheol, with an almost uncanny awareness, would subtly shift, his presence a quiet anchor, his gaze a silent vigil, making sure you didn't leave his sight, making sure you didn't slip too far into the terrifying abyss of fear. He’d push a file closer, offer a quiet observation, anything to pull you back to the task, to keep you grounded.

The night deepened, wrapping the city in a cold, anxious blanket. The office was quiet again, most of the other detectives having retreated, leaving only you and Seungcheol amidst the dim glow of computer screens. The exhaustion was absolute, but the fear was sharper, more immediate. You still felt the tremor in your hands, the faint vibration that ran through your core. Seungcheol, having packed up his own things, gestured for you to do the same.

"This guy’s getting too close, Y/N," he said, his voice low, a rough rumble that seemed to vibrate with suppressed tension. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were shadowed with a concern that was almost palpable. "Let me drive you home. Let me stay." It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet, firm declaration.

You hesitated. Every fiber of your being, every ingrained instinct for self-reliance and the desperate need to maintain your professional distance, screamed to refuse. To push him away. To insist you were fine. But the cold dread in your stomach, the image of your name on that note, the raw, visceral terror of being watched, overridden your stubborn pride. You knew. You knew, with a certainty that was both humiliating and profoundly unsettling, that it wasn't safe for you. Not tonight. Not after this. The words died on your tongue, replaced by a barely perceptible nod. "Fine," you murmured, the word a reluctant admission of vulnerability, "just… fine."

He parked in front of your apartment building, the familiar facade offering little comfort. Inside, he moved with a quiet, methodical efficiency. He locked every door, every window, testing them twice. Then, to your surprise, he began to subtly "set stuff around" – a chair angled just so against the door, a stack of books on the windowsill, mundane objects strategically placed to make noise if anyone tried to enter. It was a simple, old-school detective trick, a primal way to create an alarm system, and it spoke volumes about his deep-seated unease, his primal need to protect. You watched him, your fear a tangible weight in the air. You were visibly shaken, your body trembling with a fine tremor that you couldn't quite control. You knew you had signed up for this life, for the risks, for the nightmares. You knew you had to stay strong, and you were trying. Every ounce of your being was dedicated to holding yourself together, to not break down.

He finished his silent work, the apartment now a fortress, however flimsy against a determined killer. He turned to you, his gaze soft, surprisingly tender, devoid of judgment. He didn’t say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes, didn't try to reason with your fear. He simply reached out, pulling you gently into his arms. For the first time, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no pushing away. His embrace was firm, comforting, a silent, solid anchor in the terrifying storm that raged within you. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart, a stark contrast to your own frantic rhythm. In that quiet, terrifying night, surrounded by the unspoken threat outside, Seungcheol just held you. And for the very first time, the two of you didn't push each other away. You just leaned into the warmth, into the unexpected, raw comfort of his presence, seeking solace in the one person who understood the terrifying reality you now faced.

-----

The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into a month, an indistinguishable stretch of relentless work and a strange, forced intimacy. The chilling note, "Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?" had fundamentally altered the dynamics between you and Seungcheol. The grudging professional respect, born from shared peril, had deepened into an unspoken agreement of constant vigilance. He was always there. Sometimes, exhausted beyond measure, you found yourself waking in his bed, the morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds. Other times, he would crash at your apartment, his presence a silent, reassuring anchor in the suffocating dread. Always together. The city breathed a collective sigh of relief as a full month, and then another week, passed without a new murder report. But for you and Seungcheol, this silence was not peace; it was fishy, a deceptive calm before an inevitable, more terrifying storm. The Director was merely orchestrating a long intermission, a strategic pause before his next, grander act.

You stirred from a deep, dreamless sleep, the unfamiliar weight of an arm locked around you. Seungcheol. He was still deep in slumber beside you, his breathing soft and even, his face, usually so taut with concentration, softened by sleep. Despite your lingering, deeply ingrained aversion to him, a flicker of warmth, an unsettling sense of comfort, spread through you. You still told yourself you hated him, despised him, that your rivalry was as fierce as ever. But in the quiet intimacy of his apartment, after weeks of shared terror and sleepless nights, you were undeniably, profoundly glad for his unwavering presence. He was a shield, an unexpected bulwark against the rising tide of fear.

Carefully, meticulously, you began to slip out from under his arm, your movements as silent and practiced as a shadow. You shifted your weight, easing your leg from beneath his, then slowly, painstakingly, lifted his arm from your waist. He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, a soft sound, and you froze, your heart seizing. But he didn't stir further. Once free, you replaced your body with a pillow, tucking it gently against him, a silent, almost tender gesture that surprised even yourself. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, its screen glowing dimly in the pre-dawn light.

Your fingers instinctively navigated to the video file. The footage from the Gwanghwamun Church. The second victim, the praying marionette. You replayed it, your eyes scanning, your mind still searching for the invisible thread, the missed detail. The grainy images flickered across the screen: the suspended body, the killer's fleeting appearance, the chilling moment he pinned the note. You watched the killer's arm, the distinctive burnt patch, hoping for a clearer glimpse, a new angle. And then, as the killer moved slightly, just before he pinned the note, your gaze drifted past his arm, past the victim, to the background. The background. It looked… terrifyingly similar. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool morning air snaked down your spine. Your breath hitched. You’d been there before. Once. Years ago, with a colleague during a mundane, forgotten investigation. It was the underground base of the Premium Theater. A forgotten, derelict space back then, filled with dust and cobwebs, devoid of any hint of life. But now, it was imprinted on the killer's video.

You looked over at Seungcheol again. He was still asleep, a deep, exhausted sleep he hadn't known in weeks, dark smudges under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights. He looked vulnerable, peaceful. You didn't want to disturb him, didn't want to break that rare moment of reprieve. You had to go. Alone.

You dressed quickly, pulling on the first practical clothes you could find, your movements swift and decisive. The urgency propelled you forward, an insistent whisper in your mind. Before you left, another strange, almost involuntary impulse guided your hand. You leaned down, hovering over him, then softly, tentatively, pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was fleeting, barely a touch, but the gesture itself was profound. Why did you care about HIM? You hated him… you despised him. The thoughts swirled, a chaotic storm in your mind, battling against the undeniable, quiet warmth that had settled in your chest. You pushed those confusing, contradictory thoughts away, shoved them deep down, and walked out the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silent apartment.

The underground space beneath the Premium Theater was exactly as you remembered it – dark, damp, and smelling of decay and forgotten dreams. But it was also horrifyingly transformed. The dust had been disturbed, the silence replaced by an unsettling aura. The walls, once bare concrete, were now lined with photos of the victims, each one meticulously arranged, posed like macabre rehearsals. Ji-eun, the first victim, a ghostly ballerina. The man from the church, a silent, suffering saint. The politician's daughter, a broken, beautiful sculpture. Each tableau a chilling re-enactment, captured in unsettling detail. And then, your breath hitched, a gasp caught in your throat. Among the gruesome collection, a photo of you. Posed in a way that mimicked the other victims, starkly stood out, a terrifying prophecy. He had been watching you. Watching your every move, planning your "role" in his twisted play.

Your gaze fell upon a stack of leather-bound journals. The killer’s journal. You pulled on your gloves, making sure to be meticulously careful, aware that every surface could hold a clue, a fingerprint, a strand of hair. You opened one. His handwriting was precise, almost elegant, but the words were a descent into madness. He called himself “The Director.” His entries detailed his "castings," his "rehearsals," his "performances." And then, a line that made your blood run cold, confirming your worst fears about your inclusion: “Detective Y/N, you remind me of Act I.” You were not merely a witness; you were part of his narrative, a recurring character from his past. You quickly snapped photos of the journal entries, of the photos on the walls, making sure to capture every detail.

As you moved around, your detective's eye scanning for any physical evidence, you noticed something else, something equally unsettling: no blood. Just like the first scene at the theatre, just like the church, there wasn't a single drop anywhere on the floor, on the walls, no staining, no residue. It was impossibly clean, defying the gruesome nature of the crimes. How was he doing this? Was he moving the bodies after they bled out? Or was there a ritual, a method, that prevented any spillage at the final staging? The question gnawed at you, amplifying the sense of unreality.

You were crouched, examining a collection of carefully labeled props, when a sudden, jarring sound echoed through the underground space. The heavy metallic clang of the access door being violently shoved open. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Seungcheol. His face was a mask of unadulterated fury, his eyes blazing, a dangerous storm brewing behind them. He took one look at you, alone in the killer’s lair, and surged forward. Before you could even utter a sound, he grabbed your arm, his grip like a vice, and practically dragged you out of the theatre’s underground base, his movements swift and brutal. He didn't slow, didn't release his grip until he had you in the backseat of his car, shoving you in with a force that left you momentarily breathless. He slammed the door shut, rounded the car, and got into the driver’s seat, slamming that door too. The engine roared to life, and he drove straight to the office, the tires squealing as he pulled away from the curb.

The car ride was silent, a suffocating silence more terrifying than any shouting. You tried to explain, to tell him what you'd found, the photos on the walls, the journal, your own picture. "Seungcheol, I found his journal! He calls himself–"

"Shut it, Y/N," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut you off mid-sentence. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You tried again, a desperate urgency in your voice. "But Seungcheol, my picture! He's been watching me, he called me 'Act I'–"

This time, he didn't bother with words. He merely flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, his eyes burning with an intensity you had never witnessed before. It was a single, furious glare, but it was enough. It sliced through your words, through your bravado, through your very will to speak. You had never seen him so angry, so utterly consumed by a cold, terrifying rage. The glare was enough to shut you up, your throat closing, your words dying, leaving only the frantic beat of your heart.

He parked the car haphazardly outside the precinct, not bothering to find a proper spot. He strode in, his movements stiff and purposeful, ignoring everyone who greeted him, the other detectives and uniformed officers quickly parting ways as they sensed the dark cloud hanging over him. You followed him, feeling the curious, slightly alarmed stares of your colleagues, mumbling apologies on his behalf as you walked into your shared office. He didn't even bother to turn around, his back to you, rigid with fury.

"Seungch–" you began again, desperate to explain, to make him understand that your solo venture had yielded crucial information.

He didn't even bother to let you finish. Before you could take another step, he spun around, his face a mask of incandescent rage, and you were suddenly, violently, pinned to the wall. His hands were on either side of your head, bracing against the cold plaster, effectively trapping you. His body was close, too close, vibrating with suppressed fury. He exploded, his voice a low, furious growl that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Y/N?! What the hell were you thinking?! You went in without backup! Without telling anyone! You could have walked into a damn trap! He’s looking for you, he's targeting you, and you just waltz in there like a sacrificial lamb?! Do you have a death wish?!" His grip on your chin was firm, almost bruising, forcing your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze burned into yours, a desperate, raw anger. "Don't you ever go without a fucking backup, Y/N!"

You nodded, wide-eyed, shocked by the sheer intensity of his anger, by the raw fear that laced his voice. The force of his words, the desperation in his eyes, rendered you speechless. He held your chin for another long moment, his chest heaving, his anger slowly, visibly deflating, replaced by a profound weariness he let go of your chin. His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath ragged, a desperate sigh escaping him. And then, the confession, raw and unbidden, slipped out, a broken whisper that seemed to echo in the sudden, heavy silence of the office. “I can’t do this case if you’re not breathing, Y/N….”

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. All the anger, the rivalry, the professional distance, seemed to melt away, leaving only a startling vulnerability. His admission, stark and painful, spoke of a fear far deeper than any professional concern. Your hand, almost instinctively, reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, your touch gentle, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion he had just laid bare. The moment hung there, thick with unspoken feelings, with the sudden, terrifying realization of what his words truly meant, what your connection had become.

BACK TO WORK.

The unspoken command hung in the air, a necessary return to the grim reality. You pulled away slightly, gently, your hand still lingering on his head for a moment before dropping. Your eyes met, a shared understanding passing between you that bypassed words. The moment of raw vulnerability had passed, but something fundamental had shifted.

You began to speak, your voice steadier now, recounting everything you saw in the underground theatre. "He calls himself 'The Director.' The walls are lined with pictures of the victims, posed like rehearsals. And my picture, Seungcheol. He has a picture of me, posed like them. And in his journal… he wrote that I 'remind him of Act I.'" You showed him the photos you’d taken on your phone, the eerie tableaux, the chilling journal entries. "And there was no blood, Seungcheol. Just like the theatre. No blood at all in the entire space."

You were back at work, the cases and evidence spread out before you, the computer screens casting their pale glow over your faces. The facts, grim and undeniable, were laid bare. But the feelings between you two were anything but orderly. They were a messy, tangled knot of fear, anger, grudging respect, and a newly acknowledged, terrifying tenderness. The boundaries had blurred, irrevocably. The Director's play had just taken an unexpected, deeply personal turn for both of you.

The weeks that followed the chilling encounter in the Premium Theater’s underground base, and Seungcheol’s raw, unexpected confession, had been a tense, volatile truce. The boundaries between you had irrevocably blurred, replaced by a complex tapestry of professional obligation, shared fear, and a nascent, terrifying tenderness that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. The Director’s chilling game, however, had gone quiet. A full month and a week had passed without a new murder, a lull that felt less like peace and more like the ominous silence before a storm. You and Seungcheol had worked relentlessly, poring over every detail of the killer’s journal, every photo, every piece of fragmented evidence, trying to decipher his twisted "Acts" and his personal connection to your past. The silence was unnerving, an agonizing wait for the curtain to rise on his next, unpredictable performance.

That night, the quiet was shattered. Not by a phone call to a distant crime scene, but by a frantic, breathless shout from just outside the precinct. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth, a cruel twist of the knife. The killer hadn't chosen a remote, theatrical stage this time; he had chosen the very doorstep of law enforcement.

A fourth victim was found, not dead, but left alive—barely. He lay crumpled in the narrow alleyway directly behind the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency building, a grim, defiant tableau just steps from the very heart of the investigation. The air was thick with the scent of fear and something metallic. You and Seungcheol were among the first officers to reach him, pushing through the stunned onlookers and uniformed police. He was a man in his late twenties, his body contorted in a way that suggested agonizing torture, yet his eyes, wide with terror, still held a flicker of life. He was bleeding, heavily, from multiple lacerations, but it was his posture, his hands reaching out as if grasping for a lifeline, that spoke of a deep, psychological torment. He was a survivor, a witness, and therefore, an immediate, invaluable, and terrifying lead.

You dropped to your knees beside him, Seungcheol mirroring your action, both of you keenly aware of the urgency, the fragile thread of life clinging to the man. Your medical training kicked in instinctively; you assessed his breathing, his pulse, the worst of the wounds. "Paramedics! Now!" Seungcheol's voice, usually so controlled, was sharp with urgency. As a medic worked to stabilize the man, your eyes locked onto his face, desperate for any information. His lips moved, barely, a faint rasp against the harsh whisper of the night air. You leaned closer, straining to hear, your ear almost touching his trembling mouth. He was trying to speak, desperate to convey a message before the darkness claimed him.

He whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified gasp, each syllable a monumental effort, “He… he said… I was off-script…”

The words were barely audible, but they hit you with the force of a physical blow. "Off-script." The Director. This was his language, his lexicon of terror. Seungcheol, leaning in from the other side, heard it too. His eyes, already grim, darkened further. The message was clear, chillingly so: this victim had failed the Director’s expectations, had deviated from his meticulously planned performance. He was a testament to the killer's escalating cruelty, a live message meant to terrorize not just the city, but you.

Back in a hastily secured interview room at the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. The paramedics had done their best, but the victim's condition was critical, his life hanging by a thread. He was delirious, his body wracked with pain and shock. He mumbled incoherently, fragments of terror, but his whispered message, "off-script," resonated with unnerving clarity in your minds.

You and Seungcheol stood, leaning against a cold metal table, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the lingering coppery tang of blood. The sheer audacity of the killer, leaving a victim barely alive right behind police headquarters, was a slap in the face, a direct challenge.

"He's escalating," you stated, your voice low, your gaze fixed on the closed door behind which the survivor lay. Your mind was racing, trying to process this new, terrifying development. "Leaving him alive… it's not a mistake. It's a statement. A deliberate choice."

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. "A message to us. To the entire department. To you." His eyes flickered to yours, the unspoken weight of the last note, your name, hanging between you. "He's getting bolder. More confident."

"Sloppier, maybe?" you countered, running a hand through your hair, a nervous habit. "Taking more risks? Leaving a live witness? That's a huge gamble, even for him. Or is it a calculated risk? A way to prove his superiority, to show he can do anything, even under our noses?" You paced a few steps, the arguments forming in your head. "If he leaves a live witness, it means he's either incredibly arrogant, or he thinks the message itself is more important than the risk of being caught."

"Arrogance, certainly," Seungcheol murmured, his gaze distant, processing. "But perhaps not sloppiness in the way we usually perceive it. This isn't a slip-up; it's an escalation of his 'performance.' He’s not just killing his ‘actors’ anymore; he’s now publicly humiliating them, making an example of them. He’s pushing the boundaries, testing us, taunting us. He wants us to see his work, to hear his message directly. It feeds his ego, his 'Director' complex."

You stopped pacing, nodding slowly. "So, the 'off-script' line isn't just about the victim's failure; it's about our failure too. He's telling us we're not following his script. He knows we're close, or he thinks we're close enough to understand his twisted meaning. He's turning up the heat."

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the interview room. A nurse's frantic cry. The door burst open, and a junior officer stumbled out, his face ashen, gagging. You and Seungcheol exchanged a look of pure dread.

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step towards the room, a horrifying, visceral sound erupted from within – a sudden, wet gurgle, followed by a sickening thud. Then, silence. A terrible silence.

You and Seungcheol reached the doorway simultaneously, pushing past the frozen officers. The scene inside was a nightmare. The survivor, in a desperate, final act, had seized a piece of broken equipment – a medical clamp, a discarded shard of something – and had plunged it into his own throat. He lay on the floor, convulsing for a brief, agonizing moment. And then, he stilled.

The worst part: the sudden, violent surge of blood. It erupted from his throat, a thick, dark geyser that sprayed outwards, a horrifying crimson arc against the sterile off-white walls. Both you and Seungcheol, standing closest, were caught directly in its path. The hot, sticky liquid splattered across your faces, your clothes, your hands. It dripped from your hair, ran down your cheeks, stinging your eyes. The metallic tang filled your nostrils, overwhelming everything else.

The shock was absolute, primal. The sight of a life, so recently clinging to a fragile thread, extinguished so brutally, so deliberately, and the sickening sensation of the victim’s own blood soaking into your skin, left you reeling. The air was thick with the silent screams of the traumatized junior officers, the hushed whispers of horror from the paramedics, and the profound, gut-wrenching despair that permeated the room.

That brutal, self-inflicted act, the blood still wet on your faces, left Seungcheol and you, and indeed the entire department, fully, utterly disturbed. It was a violation not just of the victim, but of every single person who witnessed it. The weight of it was suffocating. The killer had managed to reach inside their very sanctuary, their place of supposed safety, and orchestrate a final, devastating act of despair, turning their only live witness into another casualty, another ghost.

The Captain’s office was a cold, sterile box, the polished table reflecting your grim faces. Captain Kim sat opposite you, his expression a tight mask of disapproval and deep frustration. The news of the survivor's suicide, the bloodbath in the interview room, had spread like wildfire through the department, eroding morale and confidence. His gaze was sharp, accusatory, landing heavily on both you and Seungcheol.

"This is unacceptable," he stated, his voice low, but vibrating with barely suppressed fury. "A live witness, murdered inside our own building, under our own watch. This is a complete failure, Detectives. A catastrophic failure." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "I put my faith in you two. I chose you despite your… historical differences, because I believed you were the only ones who could crack this psychopath. But now…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, the full weight of his disappointment pressing down on you both. Then, he delivered the ultimatum, his voice steely, devoid of any leniency. "If you don't find this killer, if you don't bring him in, and soon, I will have no choice. I will be forced to give this case to someone else. Regardless of your past achievements, regardless of your so-called 'unique insights.' This cannot continue. The city is in a panic, the media is demanding answers, and we are losing control."

You and Seungcheol stood side by side, heads bowed, silent. There was nothing to say. No excuses, no deflections. The shame, the frustration, the deep, abiding failure to protect the victim, weighed heavily on both your shoulders. You simply nodded, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the immense pressure, the ticking clock. The case, your careers, perhaps even your lives, now hung in the balance.

The city felt colder that night, heavier, burdened by the day’s horrors. You were back at your apartment, the silence inside a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed the precinct. The first thing you did was strip off your blood-splattered clothes, the sticky, cold feel of it on your skin making your stomach lurch. You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you, scrubbing frantically, trying to wash away not just the blood, but the memory, the chill of it seeping into your very bones. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, but the phantom touch of that final, horrifying spray lingered.

You emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, feeling raw, exposed, and utterly, profoundly exhausted. The tremor you had felt earlier was now a full-blown shake, your hands trembling uncontrollably, your knees threatening to buckle. You walked into the living room, intending to find some clean clothes, but froze. Seungcheol was there. He had let himself in, probably with the spare key you’d given him weeks ago, an unspoken agreement in the face of the killer’s targeting of you. He was sitting on your sofa, still in his blood-stained clothes, staring blankly ahead, his face pale and drawn, his own shock palpable.

He must have heard you. He turned, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes immediately catching the uncontrolled trembling in your hands, the pallor of your skin, the vulnerability in your stance. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you, his expression softening from its earlier, grim mask. He slowly pushed himself up from the sofa, his movements stiff, and walked towards you.

Without a word, he reached out, gently taking your shaking hands in his. His grip was firm, warm, a stark contrast to your own icy fingers. Your hands were still visibly trembling, the tremor echoing throughout your body. He held them, not trying to stop the shaking, but simply offering a steady anchor. His eyes, dark with shared trauma, met yours.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, barely above a whisper. It was an unexpected kindness, a profound understanding that cut through all the layers of your professional rivalry, all the years of competition. He wasn’t asking you to be the unshakeable detective, the impenetrable mind. He was simply acknowledging your pain, your fear, your humanity. He was telling you it was okay to break, just for a moment, in his presence. The words were a balm, a quiet permission to simply feel the terror that had been building inside you.

You didn't answer, couldn't. You just looked at him, your eyes wide, unshed tears blurring your vision. He held your gaze, his own eyes mirroring the exhaustion, the horror, the deep weariness. The tremor in your hands slowly, imperceptibly, lessened, not because the fear was gone, but because you were no longer fighting to hide it.

That night, the cold reality of the case, the horrifying image of the survivor's last act, pressed down on you both. The argument with the Captain, the chilling ultimatum – it all converged into an unbearable weight. You lay together in your bed, not speaking, the silence a shared understanding of profound trauma. He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around you, and you instinctively curled into him, burying your face against his chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady rhythm, a comforting counterpoint to the racing pulse in your own ears. He smelled faintly of the hospital, of blood, and something uniquely Seungcheol even after the shower – his scent maybe his perfume or whatever it was, despite everything, had become strangely comforting. He had become comforting. And you knew you were falling.

You didn't fight it, didn't question it. You simply clung to the warmth, the solid presence beside you. His fingers gently stroked your hair, a soft, soothing gesture. Neither of you said anything about the shift, the collapse of your long-standing animosity. The exhaustion was too deep, the shared trauma too raw. For the first time, you didn't feel alone against the creeping dread of the Director. You didn't push each other away. Instead, you found a strange, desperate solace in the close proximity, the quiet comfort of shared fear and unspoken longing. Cradled in his arms, you both finally succumbed to sleep, finding a fragile peace in the darkness, side by side. The Director's game had indeed escalated, but so had the bond between the two detectives tasked with stopping him.

The fragile peace found in each other's arms, a desperate solace against the terror of the man who had killed himself, and was brutally short-lived. The shared warmth, the quiet comfort, evaporated with the first rays of the dawn, replaced by a cold dread that clung to your skin. You woke before Seungcheol, the weight of his arm still a familiar anchor around you, but your mind was already racing, the recent horror of the survivor’s suicide burning vividly behind your eyelids. The Captain’s ultimatum, his icy disapproval, echoed in your thoughts. You knew the clock was ticking, not just on the case, but on your very involvement.

You disentangled yourself from his embrace, carefully, so as not to disturb his heavy sleep. He had barely rested in weeks again, and even this brief reprieve felt stolen, precious. You moved silently through the apartment, the early morning quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city beginning to stir. The lingering metallic tang of blood seemed to cling to everything, a phantom scent that wouldn't wash away.

You were halfway through preparing a rushed, lukewarm coffee, trying to gather your thoughts before the onslaught of another grueling day, when the call came. It wasn’t a precinct alert, not a general broadcast. It was a direct call to your secured line, bypassing the usual channels, hinting at an urgency, a personal gravity that made your blood run cold even before you answered. You picked up, your voice tight, sensing the shift in the universe around you. The voice on the other end was clipped, strained, an officer you knew well, but whose tone was now laced with an almost disbelieving horror.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stripping the air from your lungs. Fifth murder. The victim's name, whispered grimly, resonated through the phone, vibrating in your bones. Retired Detective Lee Chang-min. Your mind reeled. Detective Lee. Not just any retired detective. He was a legend, a mentor to so many, a towering figure in the police academy. But more than that, he was Seungcheol’s old mentor. The man who had guided his first steps in the force, who had championed his quiet brilliance, who had been a surrogate father figure in his formative years. The one person Seungcheol spoke of with uncharacteristic warmth, a rare glimpse into the fiercely guarded corners of his heart.

A choked sound escaped your throat. You didn’t even think. You just ran. Ran to the bedroom, throwing open the door. Seungcheol was still asleep, a peaceful, unsuspecting silhouette against the pale light. You reached for him, shaking his shoulder roughly, the words tumbling out of you in a strangled gasp. "Seungcheol! Wake up! It's… it’s Detective Lee. He’s… he’s gone. Murdered."

His eyes snapped open, a sudden, disoriented clarity in their depths. For a moment, he didn't comprehend, his mind still clouded by sleep. But then, the raw, unvarnished horror on your face, the tremor in your voice, slowly registered. He bolted upright, his mind catching up to the devastating truth. "No. No, it can't be. Lee-sunbaenim?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief.

You nodded, tears already stinging your own eyes, a profound empathy overwhelming you. You had seen the worst of humanity in this job, but this was different. This was personal, a direct, cruel blow aimed squarely at him. The Director wasn't just killing actors; he was destroying the support system of those trying to stop him.

The crime scene was a muted horror, a stark contrast to the theatrical flamboyance of the previous ones. It was Lee’s small, unassuming apartment, quiet, almost reverent in its stillness, save for the hushed, grim movements of the forensic team. The body lay on the worn rug of his living room, no wires, no grand suspension, but a chilling intimacy in the setting. It felt less like a stage and more like a final, private execution.

Seungcheol broke down. He saw his mentor, lying there, lifeless, and a guttural cry tore from his throat. It was raw, unadulterated grief, a sound of pure agony that you rarely heard from anyone, least of all from the perpetually controlled Choi Seungcheol. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, oblivious to the other officers, oblivious to everything but the crushing weight of his loss. His face was contorted, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with a fury so profound it seemed to vibrate the very air. He buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with violent sobs, each one a testament to the depth of his bond with the man who lay before him.

You didn't hesitate. You dropped to your knees beside him, wrapping your arms around his shaking frame. He was rigid at first, resisting, his body taut with pain and disbelief. But you held him tighter, pulling him against you, letting him lean into your embrace. You felt his body shake, the tremors transferring to you, mixing with your own rising anguish. You held him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, meaningless reassurances, offering what little comfort you could against the overwhelming tide of his despair. His tears soaked your shoulder, hot and relentless. He clung to you, his grip desperate, as if you were the only anchor left in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis. For the first time, all walls between you crumbled, replaced by the raw, undeniable humanity of shared grief and desperate need. You were no longer just colleagues; you were two shattered souls clinging to each other in the face of unspeakable horror.

A detective, grim-faced, approached, holding a small, folded piece of paper. The killer’s signature. You gently disentangled yourself from Seungcheol, who remained slumped against the wall, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths. The officer handed you the note. It was personal, chillingly so. Addressed directly to Seungcheol, a cruel mockery of the mentor’s legacy: “He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.” It was a direct declaration of war, a promise to dismantle Seungcheol, piece by painful piece, starting with the very foundations of his training, his identity. The Director was not just avenging; he was indoctrinating, claiming Seungcheol as his next, most crucial, character.

The rest of the morning was a blur of interviews, forensics, and the numbing efficiency of police procedure. Seungcheol remained largely unresponsive, a hollow shell. He answered questions mechanically, his eyes distant, his grief a heavy shroud around him. You handled the rest, directing the teams, coordinating the search for new leads, all while keeping a constant, watchful eye on him. You felt the raw edge of your own emotions, but you pushed them down, focusing on the task, on being strong for him, even as your own heart ached with a profound sense of injustice.

As the afternoon wore on, a different kind of dread began to settle. You realized Seungcheol was gone. He had simply disappeared from the precinct, slipping away unnoticed in the controlled chaos. A cold knot formed in your stomach. You overheard a hushed conversation between two junior officers near the coffee machine. "…think he went to that place again. The one near Gangnam…"

A terrible certainty washed over you. That place. You knew exactly which one. The club. The same one he'd frequented since your university days, a dark, pulsing escape from the pressures of life, where he would drown his sorrows in anonymity and cheap whiskey. He hadn't been there in months, not since the case began, not since… since your forced proximity. But now, with the devastating loss of his mentor, you knew he would seek oblivion there. The memory of his vulnerability earlier, his shattered composure, filled you with a desperate urgency. This wasn't just about finding a missing detective; it was about saving a man on the brink.

The club was exactly as you remembered it – dark, loud, reeking of stale beer and desperation. The pulsing bass vibrated through the floor, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet despair you carried. You pushed through the throngs of dancing bodies, your eyes scanning the dim corners, the crowded bar. And there he was. Slumped at a secluded booth, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, his tie askew, his usually immaculate hair falling across his forehead. His eyes, when he finally looked up at you, were bloodshot, unfocused, clouded by alcohol and raw, incandescent pain.

You walked straight up to him, your expression grim. "Seungcheol. We're leaving. Now."

He squinted at you, a slow, drunken smile spreading across his face, devoid of mirth. "Y/N? My knight in shining… well, something. Came to rescue the damsel in distress, eh?" His voice was slurred, laced with a bitter sarcasm that cut deep.

"Don't be an idiot," you said, reaching for his arm. "You're coming home. You're drunk. You're not stable."

He pulled his arm away, his eyes suddenly flashing with a dangerous anger, fueled by grief and liquor. "Stable? Stable?! My mentor is dead, Y/N! Murdered! By that bastard! And you want me to be stable?! What kind of machine do you think I am?!"

You grabbed his arm again, firmer this time. "A detective. And a human being who needs to mourn, but not like this. Not here." You began to pull him up, but he resisted, a surprising strength in his drunken state.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, pushing you away with unexpected force. He stumbled, almost falling, but caught himself, bracing against the table. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a raw, profound despair. "He taught me everything, Y/N. Everything! And I couldn't protect him. The Director… he's just playing with us. He's right. He taught me wrong. I'm a failure." His voice broke on the last word, choked with self-loathing.

You stared at him, your heart aching with a pain that wasn't entirely your own. The grief, the self-recrimination, the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability in his eyes was overwhelming. He wasn't the impenetrable Seungcheol you knew. He was a broken man, exposed and raw.

"You are not a failure, Seungcheol," you said, your voice low, trying to reach through the drunken haze, through the wall of his despair. "This isn't on you. This is on him. And we will get him."

He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that held no humor. "Will we? He's rewriting me, Y/N. He said so. 'I'll rewrite you.' And he's starting with erasing everyone I care about." His gaze sharpened, locking onto yours, fueled by alcohol and a desperate, confused longing. "Maybe… maybe this is what he wants. To break me down. To make me… like him."

The tension in the booth was suffocating. He leaned in, his face close to yours, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath. His eyes, usually so clear and controlled, were wild, a desperate fire burning within their depths. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "what it's like… to lose everything. To feel so helpless. So… alone."

And then, fueled by grief, by alcohol, by the raw, unspoken longing that had been building between you for weeks, the tension exploded into a rough, breathless kiss. His lips crashed down on yours, desperate, uninhibited, tasting of whiskey and tears. It was a chaotic, almost violent embrace, born of despair and a desperate need for connection. He pulled you closer, his hands grasping your face, his fingers tangling in your hair, deepening the kiss, pouring all his anguish into it.

For a moment, you responded, lost in the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it, the desperate heat, the raw emotion. It was primal, visceral, a moment divorced from logic or consequence. But then, a cold clarity cut through the haze. This wasn't him. Not truly. This was his grief, his drunken emotions, his shattering pain seeking an outlet, a comfort, any comfort. This was not the confession of a clear mind, not the delicate blossoming of a conscious choice. This was regret, shame, and unspoken longing, warped by alcohol and overwhelming trauma. You knew. You knew this might be his drunk emotions, and acting on them now would only deepen the regret for both of you later.

With a sudden, decisive surge of strength, you pushed him off. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, confused, the daze of alcohol mixing with a dawning realization of what he had done. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began, leaving behind a profound silence, thick with shame and unspoken words. His face, still flushed from the alcohol, was now etched with a raw, mortified regret.

You stared at each other across the small booth, the pulsating music of the club a distant, meaningless thrum. The unspoken longing that had simmered between you for so long, now brutally exposed in that rough, breathless moment, hung in the air, heavy and painful.

You finally broke the silence, your voice tight, strained. "We're leaving." Your tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. You grabbed his arm again, this time he didn't resist. He allowed you to half-drag, half-support him out of the chaotic club, into the cool, biting night air.

The car ride back to your apartment was a suffocating silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, replaying the scene, the kiss, the raw exposure. You pulled into your building's parking lot, the familiar space offering no comfort. You helped him stumble into your apartment, guiding him towards the sofa. He mumbled something, a broken apology, but you didn't acknowledge it. You simply helped him lie down, throwing a blanket over him, and turned away.

That night, the bed felt cold, empty, a vast expanse of loneliness. You slept on the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort. The memory of his lips on yours, rough and desperate, was branded onto your mind, a bitter reminder of a boundary crossed, of emotions unleashed in a moment of utter vulnerability and despair. The shame was suffocating, the regret profound. You couldn't sleep, your mind replaying the scene, the stark realization that you were teetering on a precipice, not just with the case, but with the man sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, on your sofa. The Director's game was not only about victims; it was about unraveling the minds of those trying to stop him, twisting their emotions, and throwing them into chaos. And in that moment, he had succeeded, leaving behind not just a dead mentor, but a shattered, complicated dynamic between the only two people who could stop him.

-----

The first light of dawn, pale and hesitant, crept through the blinds of your living room, illuminating the quiet aftermath of a night steeped in raw grief and unsettling intimacy. You had spent the night on the couch, the worn fabric offering little comfort, but the distance felt necessary, a fragile barrier against the emotional wreckage of the previous evening. The memory of Seungcheol’s desperate kiss, fueled by despair and alcohol, still burned on your lips, a bitter brand. The shame, the regret, the sudden, brutal exposure of a longing you had both fiercely suppressed, hung heavy in the air.

You heard a stirring from the sofa. Seungcheol. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable awkwardness, the unspoken weight of what had transpired. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements stiff, almost hesitant. The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced, but the wild, desperate fire that had consumed them hours earlier had been extinguished, replaced by a dull ache, a profound weariness. He was sober now, or at least, significantly more so, and the clarity seemed to bring with it a wave of fresh mortification.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the room, finally landing on you. His eyes held a mixture of deep shame, lingering pain, and something akin to quiet desperation. He pushed himself off the sofa, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish animal. He stopped a few feet from you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture reflecting a hesitant vulnerability you rarely saw.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, rough, a testament to the tears and the alcohol of the night before. He swallowed, visibly struggling to find the right words, to navigate the immense chasm that had opened between you. “About last night… I… I’m so sorry. I was… I was out of line. I was drunk, I was grieving, and I… I lost control. It shouldn’t have happened. I deeply, deeply apologize.” The words were strained, heartfelt, laced with a raw regret that pierced through your own guarded defenses. He didn't offer excuses, didn't try to blame the alcohol entirely; he simply accepted responsibility, a rare and profound gesture from the usually unyielding Seungcheol. He looked directly at you, his gaze unwavering despite the shame, waiting for your response, for your condemnation.

You looked back at him, your own heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Anger, frustration, embarrassment… but also a strange, unexpected pang of empathy. You saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the self-loathing. It wasn't just remorse for the kiss; it was a profound apology for his entire collapse, for exposing his deepest vulnerability. You knew his words were sincere, that he was trying to mend something irrevocably broken.

“It’s… it’s fine, Seungcheol,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. But a part of you couldn't bear to add to his already crushing burden. “We both… we were both pushed to the edge. It was a moment of… weakness. For both of us.” You didn't acknowledge the shared longing, the raw attraction that had been momentarily unleashed. You focused on the trauma, the stress, the exhaustion, the only acceptable explanations for such a breach of your carefully constructed walls.

He nodded slowly, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him, as if a great weight had been lifted, however momentarily. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the lingering fatigue and despair. He was still reeling from his mentor’s death, from the Director’s chilling message, and from his own humiliating fall from control. But now, he was way more stable, the raw edges of his grief softened by a night of uneasy sleep, and perhaps, by your reluctant forgiveness.

He walked over to the armchair, slumping into it, his shoulders still hunched. You moved to the kitchen, resuming your task of making coffee, the mundane act a welcome distraction. The silence stretched, uncomfortable but less volatile than before. Then, he spoke, his voice low, almost contemplative, laced with a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within you.

He began to tell you about his mentor, Detective Lee Chang-min. He spoke about him not just as a superior officer, but as a genuine friend, a guiding light who had seen something in a young, introverted Seungcheol that others had missed. “Lee-sunbaenim,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, but clearer now, no longer slurred by alcohol, “he treated me like a son, Y/N. Not just a student. He… he saw me. He didn’t just teach me procedures; he taught me how to think, how to see the patterns others couldn’t. He taught me how to trust my instincts, even when they went against the grain.” His gaze drifted to a distant point, lost in memory. “He was the one who encouraged me to pursue the criminal psychology specialization, even when everyone else said it was ‘too theoretical’ for police work. He said it was about understanding the ‘why,’ not just the ‘what.’ He said true justice meant dissecting the mind of the perpetrator, not just catching them. He stood by me, defended me, when I made my first big mistakes. He never judged. He only guided.”

He continued, his voice wavering occasionally, painting a vivid picture of the man he had lost. “He used to take me fishing on his days off, even though I hated fishing. Just to talk. To listen. He helped me through my toughest times at the academy, through family struggles. He believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. He was a rock, Y/N. Unshakeable. And now… now he’s gone. Because of him. Because of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, the grief returning in a fresh, sharp wave. “And that note… ‘He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.’ It’s like he’s trying to erase everything Lee-sunbaenim gave me. To corrupt his memory. To break me down piece by piece. He’s taking everything, Y/N. Everything.” His fists clenched, a raw, silent fury battling with the profound sorrow.

You listened carefully, silently, letting him vent, letting the raw grief pour out of him. You didn't interrupt, didn't offer empty platitudes. You simply sat, your own mug of coffee cooling in your hands, offering the silent, unwavering presence he needed. You watched the pain etched on his face, the slow, agonizing process of him grappling with a loss so profound it threatened to shatter his very foundation. For the first time, you saw past the rivalry, past the stoicism, to the deeply human core of him. And in that quiet space, your understanding of Seungcheol deepened, evolving beyond the confines of competition and mutual dislike. You saw his humanity, his vulnerability, and a quiet, fierce empathy blossomed in your own heart.

The morning bled into afternoon, then evening, a relentless cycle of work. The grief remained, a heavy shroud, but it no longer paralyzed him. Driven by a grim determination, fueled by a desire for vengeance for Lee-sunbaenim, Seungcheol threw himself into the case with an almost frightening intensity. You worked alongside him, matching his furious pace, sifting through mountains of old papers, archived police reports, newspaper clippings, anything that might connect the victims. He pulled every dusty box from the precinct archives, every neglected cold case file, convinced that if the Director was so meticulously "rewriting" his past, then his past had to be hidden somewhere in the city's forgotten records. You ordered every digital archive of Seoul's cultural events from the last decade, every theater production, every concert, every play – successful or failed.

It was late, the precinct office almost deserted again, save for the two of you and the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were both slumped over separate desks, surrounded by mountains of paper, discarded coffee cups, and the stale smell of desperation. Seungcheol, with a frustrated groan, pushed aside a pile of unrelated files. His fingers, numb from hours of flipping through pages, brushed against a dusty, unassuming folder at the bottom of the stack. It was a thin, old file, labeled simply: "Seongsan Arts Center - Incident Report - 20XX." Something about the date, the name, nagged at him. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He opened it, and as his eyes scanned the faded print, his body stiffened. A sudden, sharp intake of breath. He was no longer slumped; he was ramrod straight, his eyes wide, fixed on the page. “Y/N,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a profound shock, a terrible realization. “Y/N, I found the one.”

You looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice. You watched as he pulled out a faded program, a stack of cast lists, and a series of police reports from within the folder. He laid them out on the desk, his hands trembling slightly.

A new clue emerged, chilling and undeniable. His finger traced names on the cast list, then moved to the victim profiles you had pinned to the wall. “Ji-eun… she was listed as an understudy, though the program says ‘chorus member.’ The church victim… he was the stage manager. The politician’s daughter… her father was a major investor, pushing for the production.” His voice gained a desperate urgency, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a horrifying inevitability. “Lee-sunbaenim… he was assigned to the initial complaints about the production, the financial irregularities, the on-set accidents.”

He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mix of horror and triumph. “Every victim,” he stated, his voice hushed, “every single one of them, had a connection to this. To a failed local play from four years ago—The Crimson Mask. All of them were either in it, or intimately involved in its spectacular shutdown.”

The realization hit you like a thunderclap, echoing your own earlier, wild theory, but now grounded in concrete evidence. The Director. This wasn't just about random "roles"; it was about specific, predefined roles in a long-forgotten tragedy. You realized with a sickening clarity: the killer is avenging something from that production’s cancellation. The play, The Crimson Mask, had been notoriously troubled: accusations of fraud, a leading actor injured on set, unexplained delays, spiraling budgets, and ultimately, a spectacular, very public cancellation just days before its grand opening. It had been a scandal that briefly dominated local headlines, then faded into obscurity. But for someone, it was still a live wound, festering, demanding retribution. The Director’s notes, his theatrical staging, his “acts” and “performances”—it all suddenly made horrifying sense. This wasn't a serial killer; it was a ghost, haunting the memories of a failed artistic endeavor, exacting a terrible price for a forgotten slight.

The exhaustion that had weighed you down for weeks suddenly evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The link. The motive. The path to the killer. You and Seungcheol, now a single, driven unit, began to sift through the newly discovered documents with furious intensity. Every name, every incident report, every piece of forgotten gossip, now held a terrifying new significance. You started cross-referencing names from the play’s production with any reported incidents, any disappearances, any disgruntled individuals from that time. You meticulously built a new timeline, charting the rise and spectacular fall of The Crimson Mask, hoping to identify anyone with a motive, anyone who might harbor such a deep, burning resentment for its cancellation. The blurred birthmark from the church video now felt like a desperate plea for identification, a singular mark on a vengeful phantom.

You were deep in the new rabbit hole, the office buzzing with your renewed energy, when your phone rang again. A private number, withheld. You hesitated, glancing at Seungcheol, who was now pulling up old police records related to the Seongsan Arts Center incident. He nodded, gesturing for you to answer. You picked up, your voice crisp despite the underlying tension.

“Detective Y/N,” a woman’s voice said, soft but firm, with a slight, almost imperceptible accent that wasn’t local. “My name is Lee Min-jun. I’m Detective Lee Chang-min’s daughter. I understand you’re handling his… case. I’d like to speak with you.”

A cold prickle of suspicion immediately ran down your spine. It was suspicious. Highly suspicious. You knew Lee Chang-min’s daughter. You had met her briefly years ago. She was an accomplished architect, based in Rome, Italy, according to his last update. She was definitely not in Seoul. The subtle accent, while perhaps a result of living abroad, was just enough to raise a flag. This wasn't a distraught daughter calling from a grief-stricken flight. This felt… off. Too calm. Too precise.

Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk. He had heard your end of the conversation, caught the subtle change in your expression. He was already reaching for his sidearm, his hand hovering over it, his body tensing, his gaze fixed on you. He picked up his own phone, dialing a silent, internal number, preparing for a trace.

“Ms. Lee,” you said, keeping your voice steady, injecting just enough formality to mask your growing alarm. “Thank you for calling. I’m so sorry for your loss. Where are you calling from?”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle on the other end, devoid of humor. “Oh, I’m… closer than you think, Detective Y/N. Much, much closer. I just need to speak with you. Urgently. Alone. There are things about my father, about this ‘Director’… things I can only tell you in person.” She named a specific, secluded café, tucked away in an old, quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, known for its antique charm and discreet corners. A perfect place for a private, deadly meeting.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. This could be the killer itself. A trap, meticulously laid, designed to lure you out, vulnerable and alone. The Director’s message to Seungcheol: “I’ll rewrite you.” What better way to rewrite him than to take the one person he was desperately trying to protect? This was personal bait, and you were the one being reeled in.

You spoke into the phone, keeping your voice even. “I understand, Ms. Lee. I can meet you there. But it might take me a little while to get away. Give me twenty minutes.” You were buying time, letting Seungcheol set up a perimeter, gather backup.

You ended the call, your hand trembling slightly as you placed the receiver back in its cradle. Seungcheol was already on the internal line, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, describing the location, giving orders, his eyes never leaving yours. He had heard enough. He was already reaching for his jacket, pulling his weapon. He didn't need to ask if you were going alone. He knew the risk, knew the potential for a trap. He was already planning how to shadow you, how to keep you safe. He stays in reach. Closer than anyone, the one person who would break every protocol to ensure you walked away from this. The Director’s stage was set, and you were about to step into his deadliest act yet.

The twenty minutes you had bought felt like an eternity, a slow-motion countdown to an unknown horror. The address provided by “Lee Min-jun” led to a cluster of deserted warehouses on the forgotten industrial outskirts of Seoul, a landscape of crumbling brick and rusting metal. It was the perfect stage for the Director, isolated and grim, far from the bustling heart of the city. You drove there, every nerve ending screaming, every instinct on high alert. You knew it was a trap. You felt it. But the lure of the information, the desperate hope that this might be the breakthrough, compelled you forward.

Seungcheol had been a phantom presence from the moment you left the precinct. You hadn't seen his car, but you knew he was there, a shadow in your rearview mirror, a guardian angel you begrudgingly relied upon. His instructions, relayed in terse, urgent whispers over your comms, were precise: "Maintain speed. No sudden stops. I'm three blocks back, heading your way. Backup is five minutes out. Don't go in alone, Y/N. I mean it." The last words were a low growl, a direct echo of his fury in the theatre's underground base. You knew he meant it. You just also knew you couldn't wait.

You parked your unmarked car a block away from the designated warehouse, pulling into the shadow of a crumbling, abandoned factory building. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and forgotten industry. A cold wind, carrying the ghosts of long-dead machinery, whipped around you. The warehouse itself loomed, a vast, decaying monument to neglect, its windows shattered like vacant eyes. It looked exactly like the kind of place where a director of death would stage his most personal act. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

You checked your sidearm, the familiar weight a small comfort in your trembling hand. You wore a covert comms earpiece, feeling Seungcheol’s distant, watchful presence, an invisible lifeline. He would be close. He had to be. You took a deep, shaky breath, pushing down the rising tide of fear. You were a detective. This was your job. But the thought of your name on that note, the chilling prophecy of your "role," made your skin crawl. You were the bait.

Stepping out of the car, you moved with practiced caution, your footsteps muffled on the cracked asphalt. The warehouse seemed to swallow the light, its vast interior a gaping maw of shadows. You crept towards a gaping hole where a loading bay door once stood, the rusted remnants like broken teeth. The silence inside was oppressive, heavy, broken only by the drip of water and the distant rattle of metal. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, morphing into imagined threats. You moved slowly, methodically, your eyes scanning, your senses heightened, straining for any sign of movement, any breath, any sound. The cold prickle of unease intensified, a growing certainty that you were not alone.

And then, he was there.

A blur of motion from your peripheral vision, a sudden, swift lunge from the darkest corner. You had barely a split second to react, your detective instincts screaming. A figure, cloaked in black, emerging from the deep shadows of the warehouse. Not Lee Min-jun, the architect from Rome. This was the Director. His movements were swift, calculated, terrifyingly efficient. Before you could even raise your weapon, before you could articulate a single syllable, he was on you. His arm, strong and unyielding, clamped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, unyielding chest. A thick, coarse hand, gloved, clamped over your mouth, stifling your cry. The scent of dust and something metallic, something vaguely like old stage grease, filled your nostrils. He was disturbingly close, his breath warm against your ear. You felt the cold, hard press of something against your side – a knife.

Your heart exploded in your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over you, paralyzing you for a split second. This was it. This was the "role" he had promised. Your body reacted instinctively, violently. You thrashed, kicked, elbowed backwards with all your might, trying to dislodge his grip, to break free. His hold was iron, unyielding. He pulled you back, further into the deepening gloom of the warehouse, away from the distant opening, away from any potential light, away from…

A guttural growl, low and dangerous, ripped through the silence of the warehouse. Not your own. Not the Director's. It was Seungcheol.

He arrived. Not a second later, not a breath out of sync. Just as the Director began to drag you deeper into the shadows, just as the cold edge of the knife pressed a little harder against your side, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the entrance of the warehouse, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Seungcheol. He had seen the struggle, timed his intervention with a precision that bordered on miraculous. He hadn't bothered with formalities, hadn't waited for backup. He had burst through the entrance, gun drawn, firing a warning shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. And then, with a desperate, almost feral roar, he acted. He killed the lights.

The warehouse plunged into immediate, absolute darkness. The sudden transition was disorienting, a violent assault on your senses. The Director’s grip faltered for a mere instant, a moment of confusion in the chaos. That was all you needed. You twisted, elbowed him hard in the stomach, and pulled frantically against his weakening hold. He grunted, a sound of frustrated surprise, and you felt his grip finally break. You stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty floor, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear filling your mouth.

The next few seconds were a terrifying symphony of sounds: Seungcheol’s rapid footsteps, the click-clack of his gun being reloaded, his urgent, shouted commands – "Y/N! Are you okay?! Stay down!" – and the frantic, retreating scuffle of the Director. You heard the sounds of shattering glass, the scraping of metal, as the killer scrambled to escape into the pre-dawn night, vanishing as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. The brief, chaotic battle was over. The killer escaped, but you were safe.

You lay on the cold concrete, trembling, your lungs burning, struggling to regain control of your breathing. The phantom sensation of the knife at your side, the rough hand over your mouth, lingered like a physical wound. The adrenaline surged through your veins, leaving you nauseous and dizzy. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, trying to orient yourself in the oppressive darkness.

Then, Seungcheol was there. His footsteps were heavy, urgent, closing in on you. You heard the click of his tactical flashlight, and a narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, momentarily blinding you before it settled on your face. His eyes, in the harsh glare, were wide, filled with a raw, desperate fear that eclipsed everything else. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately sweeping over your body, checking for injuries, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. "Y/N? Are you hurt? Are you hit?" His voice was hoarse, thick with barely suppressed panic.

You shook your head, still gasping for air, your throat raw. "No. No, I'm okay. He… he just had a knife. He didn't use it." You pointed vaguely into the darkness where the killer had vanished. "He went that way. Towards the back alley."

He didn't pursue. Not yet. His priority was you. He pulled you up, his arm steady around your waist, helping you to your feet. You leaned into him, suddenly weak in the knees, the terrifying reality of how close you had come hitting you with full force. Backup sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, closer. They had made it. Just a little too late.

That night, after the chaos of the crime scene had been processed, the statements taken, and the lingering dread had settled like a heavy fog, Seungcheol drove you both back to his place. The car ride was steeped in a profound, unsettling silence. The usual witty retorts, the simmering arguments, the barbed comments that usually filled the space between you were absent. There was only the quiet hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard lights, and the crushing weight of the near-abduction. Your body thrummed with residual adrenaline, and the image of the Director’s cloaked figure lunging from the shadows replayed endlessly in your mind. Seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw clenched, his profile grim. He glanced at you occasionally, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, filled with an unreadable mix of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher. The air between you crackled with unspoken words, with raw, unacknowledged emotions that had nowhere to go, no safe space to land.

You arrived at his apartment, the building feeling like a fortress against the unseen terrors of the city. He unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden quiet, and you stepped inside, the oppressive silence following you. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the familiar, minimalist living space. Neither of you spoke. You moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance, shedding your jacket, leaving it slumped on a chair. The scent of him, faint but familiar, was surprisingly grounding.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click final. He didn't move immediately towards you. He remained by the door, his back to you, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into fists. He was processing, reliving the moment he burst through that door, the sight of you in the killer’s grasp. The agony of that near-miss, the terror of almost losing you, was etched into every rigid line of his body.

Finally, he turned. His face was pale, drawn, his eyes shadowed, but clear. There was no anger now, only a profound, almost desperate vulnerability that stripped him bare. He walked towards you slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze locked onto yours, raw and unblinking.

Seungcheol confessed. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, thick with unshed tears and a pain so deep it resonated in your very soul. It was a broken whisper, a stark admission that tore through the last vestiges of his carefully constructed composure. “Y/N,” he began, his voice barely audible, “when I saw him… when I saw him grab you… when I thought he was going to take you, just like the others…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, struggling to control the tremor in his voice. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide, haunted by the image. “My blood went cold. My entire world… it just narrowed to that moment. To getting you out.”

He took a shaky breath, his confession pouring out of him, raw and unvarnished, stripped of all pretense. “I swear to God, Y/N, in that moment, all I could think was… I would rather. I would rather take his place. I would rather die. I would rather take the killer’s place than see you hurt again.” The words were a desperate plea, a confession of fear so profound it was almost a physical ache in the air between you. He wasn't just saying he'd protect you; he was saying he'd sacrifice himself, willingly, without a second thought. It was the most selfless, terrifyingly vulnerable admission he had ever made, revealing a depth of feeling that stunned you into silence. The implications were staggering, monumental. He feared for your safety more than his own life, more than any case, more than anything.

His admission hit you with the force of a tidal wave. All your carefully constructed walls, the years of competitive rivalry, the lingering distrust, the recent awkwardness – they shattered. His words were raw, primal, stripping away everything but the terrifying truth of his feelings, and by extension, your own. You saw the agonizing fear, the desperate, protective love, blazing in his eyes.

You didn’t think. You didn't intellectualize. You didn't pull away. Instead, driven by an equally desperate, raw instinct, you surged forward. Your hands, trembling slightly, clamped onto the lapels of his shirt, pulling him towards you with a force born of overwhelming emotion. His face, still etched with raw confession, was suddenly inches from yours. Your eyes, wide and blazing, locked with his.

“Then push me away,” you whispered, your voice fierce, trembling with a mixture of terror and defiance, a desperate plea and a challenge. “Push me away if you don’t like this. Push me away if you don’t feel it too. Because I can’t… I can’t do this alone anymore.” The words were a dare, an invitation to a precipice you both stood on, terrified but unable to retreat. You were laying your own vulnerability bare, mirroring his, demanding a response, an acknowledgment of the terrifying, undeniable connection that had forged itself in the fires of shared trauma.

He didn't push you away. He didn't hesitate. His eyes, wide and filled with a sudden, answering fire, dropped to your lips. In that moment, all the unspoken longing, all the suppressed attraction, all the shared terror and desperate need, exploded.

The kiss was raw. It was desperate. It was utterly consuming. His mouth descended on yours with a fierce hunger, a primal urgency that left you breathless. His hands, no longer clenched, found your waist, pulling you against him, crushing your bodies together, eliminating every last inch of space between you. It was a torrent of pent-up emotion, a release of weeks of tension, of fear, of silent longing. It was the kiss of two people who had stared death in the face and, in doing so, had finally seen each other, truly seen each other, for the first time.

It was also soft, a tender counterpoint to the wild hunger. His lips moved against yours with a surprising gentleness amidst the ferocity, a quiet acknowledgment of the vulnerability, the profound connection that was forming. His fingers tightened at your waist, holding you impossibly close, as if afraid that if he let go, you would simply vanish.

You responded with equal intensity, your hands rising, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still. Your lips moved in sync with his, a desperate dance of fear and burgeoning love. You were both terrified of what you felt, of the monumental shift, of the implications this would have on your already complicated lives, on the very fabric of your professional existence. This wasn't just a physical act; it was a devastating emotional confession, a complete surrender to the terrifying truth that had been building between you.

But neither of you stopped it this time. There was no alcohol to blame, no exhaustion to excuse the lapse. This was real. This was a choice. And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of his apartment, illuminated only by the faint city lights filtering through the blinds, you both chose to fall. He didn't push you away. He held you closer, his body molding against yours, a silent promise, a desperate comfort, a terrifying, beautiful beginning. The world outside, with its Director and his chilling plays, faded into insignificance. For now, there was only the two of you, lost in the overwhelming, undeniable current of your shared vulnerability, and the sudden, breathtaking reality of what you felt for each other.

The first light of dawn, tinged with a fragile, almost hopeful pink, barely touched the windows of Seungcheol’s apartment. You were already awake, the events of the previous night — the near-abduction, his desperate confession, and the raw, uninhibited kiss that had followed — replaying in your mind like a fever dream. The tenderness of his embrace still lingered, a phantom warmth that both comforted and terrified you. You were no longer just colleagues, not even just rivals. The boundaries had dissolved, replaced by a profound, undeniable connection forged in the crucible of shared trauma and raw, burgeoning emotion. But the case remained, a dark shadow hanging over this fragile new intimacy. The Director was still out there, and he was getting bolder, more personal.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Seungcheol, who was still deeply asleep beside you. He had finally found a true, exhausted respite, and you couldn't bring yourself to break it. Your mind, however, was already racing, furiously assembling the fragments of what you knew, what you had learned from the Director's journal, what he desired. Control. Performance. A final, grand spectacle. A plan, dangerous and audacious, began to form in your mind. A trap. The only way to catch a madman obsessed with orchestration was to give him a stage, and then, to flip the script.

You moved silently into the living room, grabbing a notepad and pen. The faint glow of the city lights outside provided just enough illumination. You began to sketch, to write, to diagram, your thoughts flowing freely, unchecked by the usual caution. The Director considered you "Act I" – a character from his past, essential to his narrative. He wanted to "rewrite" Seungcheol. He played on theatrical themes. He craved control, but perhaps, in his arrogance, he could be controlled.

An hour later, Seungcheol stirred. You heard the creak of the bed, then the soft padding of his bare feet on the floor. He walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair endearingly disheveled. He stopped short when he saw you, hunched over the notepad, the determined set of your shoulders, the frantic energy emanating from you. He looked from your intense face to the scribbled notes, then back to you, a question in his eyes, a dawning realization of your focus.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a faint awkwardness lingering from the night’s overwhelming events, yet beneath it, a new, almost tender possessiveness in his gaze.

You looked up, a manic gleam in your eyes. The plan was crystallizing, demanding to be voiced. “Morning. I have an idea. A… dangerous one.” You pushed the notepad towards him, tapping a finger on your intricate diagram. “He’s obsessed with control, right? With his ‘performance.’ He sees us as characters. He wants to rewrite you. He wants a grand finale.”

Seungcheol leaned over, his brow furrowed as he read your notes, the lines of exhaustion still etched around his eyes, but now tinged with sharp intelligence. Your plan was bold, terrifyingly so. It involved luring the Director out into the open, using his own obsessions against him. It was a high-stakes gamble, risking everything.

As he absorbed the details, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up at you, a silent question passing between you. He knew what you were suggesting, implicitly. He knew the risk. And then, slowly, a grim resolve settled over his features.

“I’ll be the bait,” he said, his voice quiet, firm, utterly resolved. The words hung in the air, a devastating pronouncement. You had considered it, of course, but pushed it away as too dangerous, too personal. Yet, his logic, even in this terrifying proposal, was impeccable. “It makes sense,” he continued, almost dispassionately, as if discussing another detective’s fate. “He sees me as the ‘flawed hero’ from that original play. I was the male lead, after all. He wants to ‘rewrite’ me, to correct my role, to make me part of his ultimate production. I’m the logical choice for his grand finale. He’ll come for me.”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t want him to do it. The thought of him, alone, exposed, walking into the killer’s trap, sent a spear of pure terror through you. The idea, once an abstract possibility in your planning, now materialized into a horrifying reality. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. All the raw emotion from the night before, the desperate fear of losing him, surged to the surface.

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat, your voice thin with desperate fear. You reached out, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into his bicep. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, cheol. He’s unpredictable. He’s obsessed. He’ll hurt you. He’ll kill you. In the most fucked up way possible-” Your voice rose, bordering on a plea. “We can find another way. We can use a decoy, someone else. This isn’t… this isn’t necessary!” You clung to his arm, your eyes wide with desperate entreaty. “Please, cheol. Don’t do this. I can’t… I can’t lose you.” The words, raw and unbidden, tumbled out, laying bare the depth of your fear, the terrifying realization of how much he had come to mean to you. The very thought of him in the Director’s hands, of him becoming another victim in this twisted play, was unbearable.

He looked down at your hands, then back into your eyes, his gaze steady, unwavering, despite the obvious pain and apprehension flickering within their depths. He gently covered your hand with his own, his thumb stroking your knuckles, a comforting gesture that belied the terrifying decision he had just made. His voice was soft, laced with a quiet, heartbreaking resolve. “If it means protecting you, Y/N,” he said, his gaze holding yours, unflinching, “I’ll take the stage.” It was a silent vow, a terrifying declaration of love and sacrifice, echoing his confession from the previous night, solidifying it into an undeniable truth. He would offer himself, willingly, if it meant keeping you safe. His own life, his own pain, was secondary to your survival.

You choked back a sob, tears stinging your eyes. There was no arguing with that kind of resolve, that level of selflessness. He had made his decision, and his stubbornness, usually a source of irritation, was now a heartbreaking testament to his devotion. He was willing to become the Director's final act, if it meant ending the play.

The meeting with Captain Kim was tense, the air thick with unspoken anxieties. You and Seungcheol stood side-by-side, a united front, but the strain was visible on both your faces. You had laid out the entire plan: the lure, the staging, the precise timing of the backup. You explained how the Director's obsession with Seungcheol as the "flawed hero" from The Crimson Mask could be manipulated, how his need for a final, grand performance would draw him out. The Captain listened, his face grim, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his desk.

“This is… an extreme risk, Detectives,” Captain Kim stated, his voice tight. “Putting a detective in harm’s way, intentionally using him as bait… this could cost someone their life. Let alone, Detective Choi’s.” His gaze was fixed on Seungcheol, a mixture of paternal concern and professional apprehension in his eyes. He knew Seungcheol was invaluable, a rising star. The thought of losing him, especially in such a calculated maneuver, was clearly agonizing. He had trusted you both with the case, but this… this pushed the boundaries of every protocol, every acceptable risk.

The Captain questioned Seungcheol directly. “Detective Choi,” he said, his voice firm, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. “Do you truly want to do this? Are you absolutely certain about this plan? Are you willing to walk into a trap that could be your last?”

Seungcheol met the Captain’s gaze, his own eyes clear, resolute. He didn't look at you, didn't seek your approval or your protest. This decision was his alone. He squared his shoulders, his voice calm, unwavering, filled with a quiet conviction that echoed through the room. “I trust her, sir. I trust her more than myself.” The words were simple, profound, a testament to the absolute faith he now placed in you, in your plan, in your ability to bring him back. It was a startling declaration, publicly acknowledging the depth of his reliance, his dependence on you, the woman he had once despised.

The Captain’s gaze shifted to you, a new intensity in his eyes, searching your face for any sign of uncertainty, any hint of recklessness. He saw only grim determination, a fierce resolve that mirrored Seungcheol’s own. He saw the same unwavering trust, the silent promise.

You stepped forward slightly, your voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument. “I won’t let him die, sir.” Your declaration was fierce, a vow forged in the fire of fear and a desperate, burgeoning love. It was a promise to the Captain, to the department, but most profoundly, to Seungcheol himself. You would bring him back. You would not allow the Director to claim him.

The Captain sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of his entire career. He looked from you to Seungcheol, then back again, seeing the unbreakable bond, the unspoken commitment that radiated from you both. He saw not just two detectives, but two people utterly, irrevocably intertwined, bound by a shared purpose and a terrifying, personal stake. He knew, intuitively, that there was no dissuading either of you. He finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, a reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, “alright. I’ll approve it. But every single unit, every man, every resource, will be at your disposal. Set up the backup exactly the way you need it, Detective Y/N. Every contingency. Don’t leave anything to chance.”

Relief washed over you, cold and sharp, immediately replaced by a surge of renewed focus. The plan was in motion. The trap was set. The stage was being prepared for the Director’s final performance. You worked tirelessly for the next few days, meticulously planning every detail. The location, chosen to evoke a sense of theatrical grandeur and isolation, was an abandoned opera house on the city's outskirts, its decaying beauty a fitting backdrop for the Director's macabre art. You studied the blueprints, coordinated with SWAT teams, arranged for surveillance, drone coverage, every escape route sealed, every entry point monitored. Seungcheol, his resolve unwavering, trained with the precision of a soldier, preparing for his role as the bait. He practiced signals, evasive maneuvers, every possible scenario. The weight of his impending sacrifice, his terrifying gamble, hung heavy in the air, a silent, constant presence between you. But beneath the fear, beneath the professional intensity, lay a deeper, more profound connection, a shared destiny that would either lead to triumph, or to an unimaginable tragedy. The final act was upon you.

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with anticipation, a ghostly silence preceding the final act of a twisted play. Days of meticulous planning had culminated in this moment. The grandeur of the decaying theater, with its velvet-draped boxes and peeling gold leaf, was an ideal stage for the Director's twisted obsession with performance. Every detail had been considered, every contingency mapped out, every escape route covered. The city’s best tactical units were positioned, invisible in the surrounding darkness, waiting for your signal. The Captain, despite his lingering apprehension, had given his full support, his trust in you and Seungcheol absolute.

Your plan hinged on the Director’s insatiable ego, his desperate need for control and recognition. You had carefully orchestrated a lure designed to be irresistible to him. Anonymous, cryptic invitations, crafted with phrases lifted directly from his journal – “A final performance,” “The grand unveiling,” “A rewritten destiny” – were disseminated through the dark web channels he was known to frequent. You created a buzz, a digital whisper campaign hinting at a secret, exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime show featuring the very detective who had dared to defy him. The bait was Seungcheol himself, framed as the “flawed hero” finally stepping into his true role under the Director's guidance. The trap was meticulously set, an intricate web of digital and physical cues designed to appeal directly to his grandiose delusions.

And he walked right in. Just like you wanted.

The first sign was a flicker on the surveillance monitors. A solitary figure, cloaked in black, moving with an eerie familiarity, slipped through a pre-identified access point at the back of the opera house. No alarms triggered, no sensors tripped – a testament to his uncanny stealth. He moved like a phantom, utterly confident in his dominion over this stage. The comms crackled in your ear, low and urgent. "Director confirmed. Entering perimeter."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. You were positioned in a makeshift command center, set up in a dusty box seat high above the stage, overlooking the vast, empty auditorium. Seungcheol was already in position, a solitary figure illuminated by a single, carefully placed spotlight at center stage. He stood there, a beacon in the cavernous space, a bait for a monster. The comms between you and him were open, a fragile, direct lifeline.

“He’s here, Seungcheol,” you whispered into your mic, your voice tight with apprehension. “He just entered the main hall.”

“Understood,” his voice was calm, steady, devoid of the fear that was twisting your gut. A professional, playing his part. “Curtain’s up.”

The next few minutes were agonizing. You watched on the thermal imaging, seeing the Director’s heat signature move slowly, deliberately, towards the stage. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring the moment, preparing for his grand entrance. You saw him emerge from the shadows backstage, his black cloak billowing slightly as he stepped onto the stage, facing Seungcheol. He held something in his hand, something long and glinting.

Seungcheol was taken mid-operation. It was a crucial part of the plan. You watched as the Director moved, with surprising speed, to overpower Seungcheol. A brief struggle, perfectly choreographed, designed to appear convincing without putting Seungcheol in actual immediate danger – though the line was terrifyingly thin. The Director struck, and Seungcheol went down, seemingly unconscious, just as planned. The Director then dragged his seemingly lifeless form deeper onto the stage, towards a pre-set pulley system, an old, rusty mechanism designed for theatrical backdrops.

The Director straightened, his masked face turning to Seungcheol, who lay seemingly inert. "A true hero's fall, Detective Choi," the Director's voice echoed, cold and clear in the vast space, carrying an almost theatrical cadence. "A fitting end for the flawed protagonist." He then stepped over Seungcheol's body, moving towards the ropes.

But Seungcheol, despite his feigned unconsciousness, was listening, his mind already working, dissecting the Director’s words. He had to know. "Why?" Seungcheol's voice, though weak, cut through the silence, surprising the Director. "Why all of this? The murders, the 'roles,' the suffering… Why, Director? What twisted motive could drive this madness?" His voice was laced with an anger that was slowly rising, battling against the pain of his mentor's death.

The Director paused, turning slowly back to Seungcheol, a chilling smile evident even behind the mask. "Why? Because they failed. They destroyed my vision. They didn't understand their roles, Detective. They butchered the script! They cancelled my play! They deserved to be rewritten, to play their final, true parts under my direction. And you, Detective, you allowed it. You failed to see the truth. You failed to save them. You failed your mentor, just as he failed me." His voice rose, filled with a manic, self-righteous fury. "Now, you will understand. You will feel what it means to be truly directed. To have your destiny dictated." He reached for the rope again, his hands moving with renewed purpose.

“He’s got him,” a voice crackled in your ear from the tactical team. “Moving to secure.”

“Negative!” you snapped, your voice sharp with command, overriding their impulse. This wasn’t just a capture; it was the final act of his play. “Hold your positions. This is part of the plan. He’s going to move him.”

Your gaze was fixed on the screen, your heart leaping into your throat. You knew what was coming. The Director’s next move. His “final performance.”

“Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a mere whisper, came through your earpiece, strained but audible. “He’s… he’s going for the ropes. The old fly system. He’s going to hang me.”

The words sent a cold spear of pure terror through you. You had anticipated it, of course. Planned for it. But hearing it, the grim reality of it, was sickening. This was the moment.

The Director was indeed at the old pulley system, beginning to meticulously prepare the ropes. He looked up, his masked face turning towards the empty audience, as if addressing his unseen patrons. You could almost feel his perverse satisfaction, his triumph. He was savoring this, his grandest, most personal act.

“He’s setting up the noose, Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a little weaker now, came through. “He’s talking… about the ‘flawed hero’s final curtain.’ His voice is right… I can almost see the birthmark.”

Your hand automatically went to your own ear, pressing against the comms earpiece. It wasn’t just for listening; it was for tracking. Weeks ago, knowing the Director’s obsession with control and his desire to disappear without a trace, you had insisted on a radical, almost crazy contingency. After the Director started targeting you directly, after Seungcheol had volunteered for this, you had taken a drastic, unauthorized step. One night, while he slept, exhausted from training, you had gently, painstakingly, inserted a minuscule location chip into a molar on his back tooth, securing it with a dental adhesive you had acquired through… unconventional means. It was barely the size of a grain of rice, undetectable by conventional means, and broadcasting a silent, constant signal only you could track on your encrypted device. It was a secret you had kept from him, from everyone, knowing he would never agree to such an invasive measure. But you couldn't risk him disappearing, couldn’t risk not finding him in the chaos of the trap. It was your desperate, silent promise that you would find him. And now, that chip was your only guide.

Your eyes darted to the small, specialized tracker nestled in your palm, its single red dot blinking steadily, its signal unwavering. It led directly to Seungcheol, now a helpless figure on the stage. The Director was wrapping the final loops of rope, pulling it taut, preparing to suspend him. There was no more time.

“He’s almost ready,” Seungcheol’s voice, tight with strain, resonated in your ear. “Y/N… now.”

“Team 2, team 1, team 3, on my mark!” you barked into the comms, your voice clear, sharp, cutting through the fear. “Engage on my signal! Do not fire unless absolutely necessary!”

You didn’t wait for backup to flood the stage. You moved. Your training, your instincts, every raw emotion you had suppressed, exploded into action. You burst from the box seat, not through the controlled entry points the tactical teams were using, but directly, impulsively, launching yourself from the balcony, a desperate, almost reckless leap that would make any commanding officer furious. You landed hard on the stage floor, rolling, coming up in a crouch, your sidearm already drawn, pointed directly at the black-cloaked figure of the Director.

You broke in.

The Director spun, startled by your sudden, impossible appearance. His masked face snapped towards you, a moment of genuine surprise in his calculated performance. He dropped the rope, pulling out a gleaming, wickedly sharp knife from within his cloak, its blade catching the single spotlight.

You didn't hesitate. You squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed, loud and precise. It struck the Director in the leg, just above the knee. He gasped, a guttural cry of pain, stumbling backward, his body spasming from the impact. A dark stain bloomed on his black trousers.

But despite the searing pain, despite the blood immediately blooming on his leg, he didn't fall. His eyes, even through the mask, seemed to burn with an insane fury. He snarled, a bestial sound, and with a terrifying, impossible surge of adrenaline, he lunged at you, his knife a silver blur, aiming for your chest.

The final fight was brutal, chaotic, a desperate ballet of life and death on the dusty stage. Gun. Knife. Blood. He moved with a frightening, almost supernatural speed, his knowledge of the stage, of its hidden passages and shadows, giving him an advantage even with his injury. You dodged, his knife missing your ribs by mere inches, the air hissing where it passed. You fired another shot, aiming for his shoulder, but he twisted, the bullet embedding itself in the wooden floorboards with a splintering thud. The knife flashed again, cutting across your arm, a sharp, searing pain as your sleeve tore and warm blood welled up. You hissed, pressing against the wound, but you didn't break focus.

He came at you again, swinging the knife in a wide, desperate arc. You parried with your gun, the metallic clang echoing, the impact jarring your arm. You saw a flash of his left arm, the distinctive burnt patch clear even in the dim light, confirming his identity, confirming the nightmare, confirming the monster was finally within your reach. You fought with a ferocity born of pure vengeance and desperate self-preservation. He was bleeding from his leg, his movements hampered, but his madness made him relentless, unpredictable.

You found an opening. As he lunged again, you anticipated his move, twisting sharply, bringing your gun up. You fired, not to kill, but to incapacitate. A shot to his knife-wielding hand, a sickening crack of bone. He screamed, dropping the weapon, clutching his mangled hand. Another shot, tearing through his other arm, rendering it useless. Then, a shot to his remaining good leg, and another, and another, aiming precisely, not for the kill, but to shatter his ability to move. You emptied your magazine into his limbs, each shot a deliberate act of dismantling his control, his movement, his ability to ever stand or direct again.

He collapsed, a broken heap on the stage, screaming, whimpering, his body a twisted mess of shattered bone and bleeding wounds. He couldn't move. He was alive, barely, but utterly, completely incapacitated.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol, recovering from the initial blow, had been stirring, groaning, his eyes fluttering open. He was now fully awake, watching the brutal, one-sided fight, witnessing your terrifying efficiency, your unwavering resolve.

You stumbled towards him, dropping your now-empty gun. You tore at the rope that was still around his throat, frantically loosening it, pulling it away. You freed him. He gasped, clutching his throat, his face pale, but his eyes were open, clear, filled with a profound shock and an overwhelming relief. He coughed, drawing ragged breaths into his burning lungs.

The Director, a broken figure bleeding on the stage, slowly lifted his head, his voice a ragged, desperate rasp. He was blabbering nonsense, his voice filled with a mad, defeated fury. “You… you can’t end me! This isn’t over! I’ll find you! I’ll end you, Y/N! In hell! I’ll end you there! This… this is just the beginning of your real torment!” He coughed, a gurgling sound, blood bubbling at the corner of his masked mouth, but his eyes, blazing with an insane light, were fixed on you. “I’ll torture you there! Every single day! I’ll make you beg for the final curtain!”

You looked at him, a cold, dark satisfaction settling in your chest. You walked slowly towards him, your footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent theater. You stood over his broken form, your gaze unwavering, devoid of pity. “In hell?” you scoffed, your voice low, laced with a chilling, defiant sarcasm. You knelt, leaning close, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, filled with a promise that was more terrifying than any threat he could conjure. “You can’t even get up, you pathetic excuse for a Director. And even in hell,” you snarled, your voice gaining a terrifying intensity, “I will track you down. And I will kill you again. And again. And again.”

The tactical teams burst onto the stage then, their weapons raised, their comms barking, their flashlights sweeping the scene. They froze, witnessing the raw, visceral intensity of the moment.

You looked at Seungcheol, who was now pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide, fixed on you, a profound understanding and a dawning, terrifying realization in their depths. You reached out, your hand, still slightly trembling from the adrenaline, cupping his face. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, leaving a faint smear of the Director's blood. You looked straight into his eyes, a silent conversation passing between you, a shared vow, a love forged in the deepest darkness. He understood. He saw the cold fury in your eyes, the unwavering resolve, the desperate need for absolute finality.

His gaze searched yours, a question, an acceptance. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement, giving you his silent permission, his complete trust.

With a profound, devastating certainty, you retrieved your gun, its weight familiar and deadly in your hand. The magazine was empty from incapacitating the Director. But you had another. Without breaking eye contact with Seungcheol, you smoothly ejected the empty clip, inserting a fresh one. The click was loud, decisive, in the sudden, utter silence of the opera house.

Your gaze drifted from Seungcheol’s face, to the broken, blabbering figure of the Director, now muttering incoherent threats. You raised the gun. With a chilling, unwavering intensity, you emptied your bullets, one after another, into the killer’s head and chest. A series of brutal, definitive shots. Each one a final judgment. Each one a liberation. His body convulsed one last time, then fell completely, finally still. His mad play was irrevocably, utterly ended.

The last shot echoed, long and drawn out, then silence. Heavy, thick, blood-soaked silence. The only sound was your ragged breathing, and the shocked gasps of the tactical team.

Seungcheol, now sitting up, still weak, watched you, his eyes filled with a complex mix of understanding, awe, and a fierce, possessive pride. He coughed, then a faint, tired smile touched his lips, a ghost of his usual smirk. His voice was hoarse, but clear, filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Still just as good at it. They called you tigress back then in uni. Still are, just my tigress now.”

You lowered the empty gun, the adrenaline slowly draining from your body, leaving you feeling profoundly weary, but strangely, utterly free. You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, a profound love shining through the trauma, through the blood, through the echoes of the nightmare. “Glad to know,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your own tears finally falling, hot and free. “I love you more.”

With that, you leaned in, and kissed him. A real kiss. No longer desperate, no longer confused, no longer tainted by fear or alcohol. It was a kiss of triumph, of survival, of a fierce, enduring love that had found its way through the darkest of times. The sirens wailed louder, the flashlights of the tactical teams swept across the stage, but in that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, standing amidst the wreckage of a nightmare, finally, truly, together.

The end.

Author’s Note: If you made it to the end, thank you. I know this wasn’t an easy ride — the murders were gruesome, the emotions sharp, and the romance? Messy in all the right ways. Writing this story was like performing a dissection: peeling back layers of rivalry, grief, obsession, and love. Seungcheol and Y/N didn’t fall for each other easily — and they weren’t supposed to. But in all the blood and chaos, they still found something human. Because sometimes, the sharpest minds carry the softest hearts. And sometimes, the one who’d kill for you…is also the one who’d die for you.

— Katha <33

[tiarahoarder]

[tiarahoarder]

HBD MY HUSBAND!

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

𖤐 Husband!Hoshi x Reader

𖤐 cute sleepy hoshi help i love him, pure fluff, happy birthday hoshi 🐯💕

𖤐 English is not my first language, so there might be small mistakes. This is a work of fiction and has no connection to real events or people. Just a fan sharing love with other fans ♡

It was the first birthday Soonyoung celebrated as your husband, and of course, you wanted to make it even more special. Your smile grew as you wrote on the mini cake you had woken up earlier than the birds to make for him. The phrase read: “HBD MY HUSBAND" and you even tried to draw a cute little tiger – though it definitely didn’t look like one.

“It's the effort that counts, right?” you whispered to yourself, stepping back to admire your masterpiece and not noticing a very sleepy Soonyoung rubbing his eyes as he tried to figure out why you were awake this early.

“Babe, what are you doing up so early?” His voice startled you, making you jump and scream unintentionally, which scared him too. He stepped closer, looking around as if expecting to see what had scared you. “Did you see something?”

“Soonyoung! Don’t scare me like that!” you exclaimed, breathing deeply as you looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re supposed to be asleep!”

“You’re supposed to be asleep too — in our bed, next to me!” he whined, finally noticing the cake on the table behind you, along with a big tiger-shaped balloon. His eyes softened. “Oh.”

“You’re not supposed to see this! It’s a surprise!” you said, trying to push him away, but he just hugged you gently. “Go back to sleep. This is just a dream!” you mumbled against his chest, making him chuckle.

“If this is a dream, I don’t ever wanna wake up,” he said, smiling so wide his eyes nearly disappeared. “What did you write?”

He led you to the table for a closer look and let out a soft gasp before turning to you again. “Can you say it out loud?” he asked, pointing at the cake.

You giggled, picking up the cake and holding it in front of him. “Happy birthday to my husband.” Your eyes met, and he gave you a soft kiss, his eyes shining with happiness.

“Thank you, baby. This is already the best birthday ever,” he said sincerely. “But... I’m not sure what this is.” You looked down at the cake, a bit confused, until you noticed he was pointing at your failed tiger.

“It’s clearly a tiger.” His eyes widened as he covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. You narrowed your eyes. He took a deep breath and smiled.

“It’s beautiful, babe.” You couldn’t hold it anymore and burst into laughter, with him joining in.

“I love you.” He says looking at you.

“I love you too.” you replied, giving him another peck on the lips. "Happy birthday."

[tiarahoarder]

Dumb reasons why I'd date svt. Pt 2.

Warnings: none.

Yuin's note: I wanted to do a second part of this to celebrate this blog firts anniversary ♥ This is shitposting-oriented so don't take it to serious.

Seungcheol: I’m a sucker for Scoups face moles and I’m serious here guys, I find them so cute. I’m begging Pledis to stop using so much makeup so I can keep falling in love with him. Also, have you seen his smile?? I.am.going.feral.

Jeonghan: Having an androgynous-looking boyfriend would be the best thing ever like I’m not even dating a person, I’m dating a real-life angel. Bonus points to the fact that I think he’s the type who takes naps as a date idea, and I love taking naps.

Joshua: As a baker myself, I’d like to know how it feels to date somebody who also likes it too. Wanting to bake with Joshua and singing along to random songs is probably my darkest secret.

Jun: A guy with a bunch of moles on his face will always be my weakness. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

Hoshi: A full-of-energy partner is probably what a girl with iron deficiency and low stamina needs in her life.

Wonwoo: As long as Wonwoo is a shy gamer boy who loves photography and likes compliments, he’s going to have a girl who would do anything for him. Bonus points to his smiling eyes because it has its own fandom (I’m the fandom).

Woozi: Last time I said anything and I’m not taking back my choice. 

Minghao: I’ve been finding myself sighing for him way too much these days, so basically is a “I accept all terms” lmao.

Mingyu: I'll get straight to the point: I love eating and he loves to cook. Plus, would I be happy dating an extrovert guy with tanned skin? HELL YEAH.

Dokyeom: Just give me the papers that says I’m his wife. I’d marry this man without looking at the fine print of the contract.

Seungkwan: Spilling the tea with him while eating dinner would be a very hilarious experience I’d like to experience in this lifetime. His charisma speaks for itself.

Vernon: It’ll be way just too funny going on a date and just vernoning for a long time. 

Dino: I need to be with this guy and make him laugh every single day of his life because I’d date him just for that, I swear I can cry of happiness and love when he’s laughing.

[tiarahoarder]

Part Two: Hiding in Plain Sight

Masterlist | Part 1

Seventeen’s chaotic camaraderie, Y/N, the group’s 14th member, navigates a hidden romance with Joshua amidst their hectic schedules. Balancing playful group dynamics, subtle affection, and the pressure of secrecy, their close bond faces challenges from teasing members and unspoken tensions. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Angst, Humor

The van ride back to the dorm was loud, filled with the members’ drunken laughter and slurred stories, but a heavy silence hung between Y/N and Joshua. He sat by the window, earbuds in, staring into the dark Seoul streets like they held answers. Y/N, wedged between a giggling DK and a half-asleep Woozi, kept her eyes on her lap, her stomach churning. Jeonghan’s little game had hit harder than she’d expected.

When they stumbled into the dorm, the members were a mess—Mingyu tripped over a shoe, giggling, while Seungkwan tried to serenade Hoshi with a butchered ballad. Joshua, though, was a different kind of quiet. He kicked off his shoes, muttered a vague “Night” to no one in particular, and headed straight for his room without so much as glancing at Y/N.

She caught Jeonghan’s eye as he slung his jacket over a chair, her glare sharp enough to cut. Look what you’ve done. He just grinned, stepping close to drape an arm around her shoulders, his voice a teasing whisper. “Good luck with sulky, jealous Joshua,” he said, laughing softly before slipping away to his own room, leaving her standing in the dim living room.

The dorm slowly quieted, the chaos giving way to snores and the occasional creak of a bed. Y/N changed into her pajamas—an oversized hoodie and soft shorts—then sank onto the couch, scrolling aimlessly on her phone to kill time. She needed to make sure the members were out cold before sneaking to Joshua’s room. Her chest felt tight, replaying his coldness, the way he’d shut her out. Joshua was never mad—not like this. Even when she was stubborn or pushed his patience, he’d always meet her with a smile or a gentle nudge. This felt different, and she hated it.

After an hour, when the dorm was silent, she padded down the hall, her socks muffling her steps. Joshua’s door was cracked open, a sliver of moonlight spilling out. She slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. He was lying on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes closed, but Y/N knew him too well—his breathing was too even, too deliberate.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she crossed the room. She climbed onto the bed, settling beside him, her arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation. “Shua, come on.”

He didn’t move, his body tense under her touch. A sigh escaped him, long and heavy, and when he spoke, his voice was low, edged with something raw. “Why don’t you go sleep? Gotta rest up for your big date tomorrow, right?”

Y/N pulled back just enough to see his face, her heart sinking at the tightness in his jaw. She pouted, nudging his chest gently. “You know I didn’t mean any of that,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I only played along with Jeonghan because if I didn’t, the guys would’ve started asking questions. Like, ‘Why’s Y/N so weird about this?’ It could’ve made them suspicious, Shua. I was just… protecting us.”

Joshua’s eyes stayed closed, but his hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for her but wouldn’t let himself. “Protecting us,” he echoed, the words flat. “Funny how that ends up with you agreeing to meet some guy. And the members eating it up, thinking you’re single.”

She frowned, sitting up slightly, her fingers tightening on his shirt. “Joshua, stop. You know you’re the only one I love. Like, only you. That whole thing was a stupid act. I’d never actually go on a date with anyone else.”

He finally opened his eyes, meeting hers in the dim light. They were softer now, but still guarded, searching her face. “Then why can’t we just tell them, Y/N?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less intense. “The members—they’d get it. They’d probably throw us a damn party. They’re our family. But it’s been years, and we’re still sneaking around, and now they’re out there trying to set you up because they think you’re free to date whoever.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, the familiar argument settling heavy between them. She dropped her gaze, her fingers tracing small circles on his chest to ground herself. “I know,” she admitted, her voice small. “I want to tell them, I swear. Just… not now. It’s the comeback, and everyone’s stressed, and what if it changes things? What if they start treating us differently, or think we’re not focused?”

Joshua sighed again, his hand finally moving to cover hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “You always say that,” he said, not accusing, just tired. “‘Not now.’ But it’s been three years, Y/N. I’m tired of watching you pretend I’m just another member. I’m tired of feeling like I have to hide how much I—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his eyes flicking away.

Her heart twisted. She hated this—hated seeing him hurt, hated that she was the reason. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to his, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Shua. I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to feel like that. I just… I got scared. But I promise, we’ll tell them soon. When the timing’s better. Okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, his hand tightening on hers. She could feel the conflict in him—the patient, steady Joshua who’d always given her space, warring with the part that just wanted to be seen with her. Finally, he exhaled, pulling her closer until she was tucked against his chest, his arms wrapping around her fully.

“Okay,” he murmured, but there was a weight to it, like he wasn’t sure how many more “okays” he had left. “But I’m holding you to that promise.”

She nodded against him, her pout deepening as she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the familiar warmth of him. “I hate when you’re mad at me,” she mumbled, her voice muffled. “You’re never mad. It’s weird. I don’t like it.”

A soft laugh escaped him, the first crack in his armor. “I’m not mad,” he said, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head. “Just… frustrated. I don’t want to share you, even if it’s fake.”

“You’re not sharing me,” she said fiercely, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I’m yours. Always. Jeonghan’s stupid friend can kick rocks.”

That pulled a real smile from him, small but genuine, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to scare him off.”

She giggled, the tension easing as she snuggled back into him, her arms tightening around his waist. “You? Scary? Please. You’d probably just charm him into leaving politely.”

“Don’t test me,” he teased, his voice lighter now, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.

They lay like that for a while, the dorm silent around them, the earlier fight dissolving into the quiet. Y/N felt her eyes growing heavy, the warmth of his embrace pulling her toward sleep. She hated fighting with him—hated how it made her chest ache, how it reminded her that even Joshua’s patience had limits. But here, curled up with him, she could pretend for a little longer that it was just them, no secrets, no games.

As her breathing slowed, Joshua’s hand stilled in her hair, his voice a soft murmur against her temple. “I love you,” he said, so quiet it was almost lost to the dark.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, already half-asleep, her arms still wrapped around him like she could keep the world out forever.

But in the back of her mind, Jeonghan’s smirk lingered, a reminder that their secret wasn’t as safe as it used to be. And Joshua’s words—“not now”—echoed, a promise she wasn’t sure how much longer she could delay.

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

The dorm had been a pressure cooker for days, the air thick with unspoken tension. Jeonghan’s restaurant stunt had left a mark, and though Y/N had smoothed things over with Joshua that night, the cracks were still there. She’d promised to tell the members—soon—but “soon” felt like a moving target, and Joshua’s patience was wearing thin. Jeonghan, ever the menace, wasn’t done stirring the pot.

His next scheme came during a rare break in their schedule. The group was lounging in the practice room, sprawled across the floor, debating dinner plans. Y/N was curled up on a bench, scrolling through her phone, while Joshua sat nearby, strumming his guitar absentmindedly. To the members, it was business as usual—until Jeonghan struck.

“Hey, Y/N,” he called, his voice deceptively casual as he leaned against the mirror. “My friend texted me again. You know, the one who’s dying to meet you? He’s free tomorrow night. I told him you’re game for coffee.”

Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. Not again. “Jeonghan, I didn’t—”

“Wait, hold up!” Seungkwan cut in, sitting up from his spot on the floor, eyes wide with glee. “This guy’s still in the picture? Y/N, you didn’t tell us you were actually into it!”

“I’m not,” she said quickly, her voice sharp, but the members were already piling on.

“Come on, give him a chance!” Hoshi chimed in, grinning. “Jeonghan wouldn’t set you up with a dud. Right, Hannie?”

Jeonghan smirked, his gaze flicking to Joshua, who’d stopped strumming, his fingers frozen on the strings. “Oh, he’s a catch,” Jeonghan said smoothly. “I showed him your latest stage pics, Y/N. Man’s smitten. Said you’re exactly his type.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She shot Jeonghan a glare—you’re dead—but the damage was done. Joshua’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the guitar like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Cool,” he muttered, barely audible, but the word carried a chill that Y/N felt across the room.

“Shua, it’s not—” she started, but Mingyu steamrolled over her, oblivious.

“Yo, we need details! What’s this guy do? Is he, like, a CEO? A model?” Mingyu asked, leaning forward. “Y/N’s gotta aim high, you know.”

“He’s just a friend,” Y/N snapped, her voice louder than intended, trying to shut it down. “And I’m not meeting him, so drop it.”

The members groaned, teasing her for “playing hard to get,” but Joshua didn’t say a word. He set the guitar down, stood, and walked out without looking back, the door clicking shut behind him. The room fell quiet for a split second, the others exchanging confused glances.

“What’s up with him?” Vernon asked, scratching his head.

Jeonghan shrugged, his smirk barely hidden. “Guess he’s not feeling it today.”

Y/N’s glare could’ve burned a hole through him. “I need some air,” she muttered, grabbing her jacket and heading for the door, her heart pounding with guilt and frustration.

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

For the next two days, Joshua was a ghost. He didn’t ignore Y/N outright—that would’ve been too obvious—but he was distant, his warmth replaced by a polite, untouchable wall. In the dorm, he’d answer her questions with clipped “Yeah” or “Fine” his eyes never meeting hers. At practice, he stayed on the opposite side of the room, focusing on choreo with an intensity that shut her out. Y/N felt every dodged glance like a jab, her chest tightening with the weight of it.

She tried to catch him alone, lingering after meals or hovering near his room, but he’d slip away, mumbling about calls or errands. The worst part was how he masked it—still joking with the members, still his usual self to everyone else. Only Y/N saw the cold edge, the hurt he buried under his smile.

Jeonghan noticed, of course. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes followed them, sharp and calculating, waiting for the next crack.

That night, the group decided to hit a nearby diner for a late dinner, craving a break from dorm food. The vibe was off, though—Joshua had been holed up in his room all day, his door shut tight. Seungcheol knocked once, calling, “Shua, you coming?” but got a muffled “Not tonight” in response. The members exchanged looks but didn’t push, sensing his mood.

Y/N was on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, scrolling through her phone but not really seeing it. Hoshi flopped beside her, nudging her arm. “Y/N, come eat with us! You can’t just mope here all night.”

“I’m not moping,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Just… not feeling great. You guys go ahead.”

“You sure?” Seungcheol asked, frowning. “We can bring you something back.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said, waving them off. “Have fun.”

Jeonghan lingered by the door, his gaze flicking between Y/N and Joshua’s closed room. He didn’t smirk this time—just gave her a small, almost apologetic nod before herding the others out. “Let’s move, people. I’m starving,” he said, his voice light but deliberate, giving Y/N and Joshua the space he knew they needed.

The dorm fell silent, the kind of quiet that pressed against Y/N’s ears. She stayed on the couch, her phone forgotten in her lap, replaying Jeonghan’s stunt and Joshua’s reaction. She hated this—hated how her fear had pushed him away, hated how Jeonghan’s games had made it worse. But bursting into Joshua’s room felt wrong; he needed time to cool off. So she waited, the clock ticking past an hour, then two.

Finally, the door to Joshua’s room creaked open. He stepped out, hoodie pulled up, heading for the kitchen without a word. Y/N’s heart jumped, but he didn’t look her way, his steps deliberate as he grabbed a glass from the cabinet.

She couldn’t take it anymore. “Shua,” she said, her voice soft but cutting through the silence. “Can we talk?”

He paused, his back to her, filling the glass with water. “What’s there to talk about?” His tone was flat, colder than she’d ever heard, and it stung like a slap.

“You’re mad at me,” she said, standing but staying by the couch, giving him space. “And I get it. Jeonghan was out of line, and I messed up by playing along again. But I didn’t mean it. You know that.”

He turned then, leaning against the counter, his eyes dark with something raw—hurt, anger, exhaustion. “Do I?” he asked, setting the glass down harder than necessary. “Because it’s the same thing every time, Y/N. You say you’ll tell them, but you don’t. You let them think you’re free to date whoever, and I’m just… what? Supposed to smile and go along with it?”

“I’m trying to protect us!” she said, her voice rising, desperate. “If I’d shut Jeonghan down too hard, they’d start asking why. They’d dig, Shua. You know how they are. I didn’t want them figuring it out like that.”

“Protect us?” He laughed, but it was bitter, empty. “You’re protecting you. I’ve been ready to tell them for years. I’d shout it from the damn rooftop if you’d let me. But you keep saying ‘not now,’ and I’m done hearing it. I’m done watching you pretend I’m nothing to you.”

Her breath caught, tears pricking her eyes. “You’re everything to me,” she said, stepping closer, her voice breaking. “You know that. I’m just scared, okay? Scared it’ll change things with the group, with the fans, with everything we’ve worked for.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I love you, Y/N. More than anything. But I can’t keep doing this—hiding like we’re some dirty secret. I can’t keep watching them try to set you up because you won’t let me be yours out loud.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears spilling now, her hands trembling. “I’m so sorry, Shua. I’ll tell them. I swear, when they get back tonight, I’ll do it. No more waiting.”

He looked at her, his anger softening but not gone, like a fire burned down to embers. “You’ve said that before,” he said quietly, and the weight of it crushed her. He turned, heading back toward his room. “I need space.”

“Joshua, please,” she called, following him, her voice desperate. “Don’t walk away. I mean it this time. I’ll tell them. I’ll—”

He stopped in the doorway, his back still to her, and for a moment, she thought he’d keep going. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping, and turned to face her. “You really mean it?” he asked, his voice softer now, searching her face.

“Yes,” she said, stepping closer, her hands reaching for his. “I’m done hiding. I want them to know. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

His eyes held hers, conflicted but softening, his love for her winning out over the hurt. He let her take his hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles like a reflex. “Okay,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “But if you don’t, Y/N… I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

She nodded, tears still falling, and before she could overthink it, she leaned up, kissing him softly, an apology and a promise rolled into one. “I love you,” she murmured against his lips. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

Joshua hesitated, then deepened the kiss, his hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer. It was slow, intense, all the anger and longing pouring out until they were breathless. When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, his voice low. “I love you too. Always.”

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the dorm’s silence a cocoon around them. Y/N’s heart raced, but for the first time in days, it felt lighter. They’d tell the members tonight. No more games, no more secrets.

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

An hour later, the members were wrapping up at the diner, their table a mess of empty plates and soju bottles. Seungcheol leaned back, stretching. “We should grab takeout for Shua and Y/N,” he said, flagging down a waiter. “They’re probably starving.”

“Yeah, Joshua’s been off all day,” Wonwoo noted, frowning. “He was locked in his room like he’s plotting a heist or something.”

“Maybe he’s just tired,” DK said, but his tone was uncertain. “Or… I dunno, mad? He’s never this quiet.”

Seungkwan nudged Jeonghan, who’d been unusually subdued, sipping his drink in silence. “You’re quiet too, Hannie. What’s up? You know something?”

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, but he shook his head, his expression carefully neutral. “Me? Nah. Just enjoying the food.” Inside, he felt a twinge of guilt—his scheme had pushed Joshua harder than he’d meant, and Y/N’s glare still burned in his memory. But he kept his mouth shut, letting the moment play out.

They paid, grabbed takeout, and headed back, the walk filled with Hoshi’s loud retelling of a fan meet story. When they reached the dorm, Seungkwan fumbled with the key, juggling the takeout bags. “If Joshua’s still grumpy, I’m eating his share,” he joked, pushing the door open.

The sight inside stopped them dead.

Joshua and Y/N were on the couch, tangled in a kiss that was anything but subtle. Her hands were in his hair, his arms around her waist, and they were so lost in each other they didn’t hear the door. Seungkwan’s takeout bag hit the floor with a thud, sauce packets spilling. Hoshi, mid-giggle, choked on air, his jaw dropping. The others froze, a collective gasp sucking the air out of the room.

Joshua saw them first, his eyes snapping open over Y/N’s shoulder. He pulled back, pushing her gently, his face flaming. “Y/N—”

She kissed him again, oblivious, chasing his lips with a whine. “Shua, why’d you—” He pushed her back a little harder, and she turned, pouting, ready to complain—until her eyes landed on the twelve members staring like they’d seen a ghost.

Her face went beet red, her mouth falling open. “Oh my God,” she squeaked, scrambling to stand, but her foot caught on a cushion, and she nearly faceplanted. Joshua grabbed her arm, steadying her, his own cheeks crimson but his lips twitching like he might laugh.

Hoshi broke the silence, jumping like he’d won the lottery. “OH MY GOSH, YOU TWO ARE KISSING! THIS IS WHY! THIS IS WHY!” He pointed wildly, spinning to the others. “I KNEW SOMETHING WAS UP!”

“You knew nothing!” Seungkwan shouted, clutching his chest like he’d been betrayed. “WHY DIDN’T I SEE THIS? WHY?”

“Hold up, hold up!” Mingyu yelled, waving his arms like a referee. “How long has this been going on? Y/N, you were gonna date Jeonghan’s friend yesterday!”

“I was not!” Y/N snapped, mortified, hiding half behind Joshua, who was biting back a grin despite himself. “That was a joke! I’m—ugh, this is so embarrassing!”

Dino’s eyes were saucers. “You were making out in our living room! I’m traumatized! I need therapy!”

“Oh, grow up,” Vernon said, but he was grinning, shaking his head. “Honestly, I’m just mad I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

Seungcheol crossed his arms, smirking. “So, what, you two have been sneaking around this whole time? Under our noses?”

Joshua cleared his throat, finally finding his voice, his arm sliding around Y/N’s waist protectively. “Yeah, uh… for a while. Three years, actually.”

“THREE YEARS?” DK screeched, clutching Hoshi for support. “THREE? YEARS? I’VE BEEN LIVING A LIE!”

The room erupted, questions flying like confetti. “How’d you keep it secret?” “When did this start?” “Does this mean you’re, like, together together?”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in Joshua’s shoulder, her voice muffled. “You’re all so loud! I’m dying here!”

Then Woozi’s eyes narrowed, landing on Jeonghan, who was leaning against the wall, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “Wait a minute. Jeonghan, you’re not freaking out. Why aren’t you freaking out?”

The group turned on him like hawks, realization dawning. “OH, YOU KNEW?” Mingyu bellowed, pointing accusingly. “YOU KNEW AND DIDN’T TELL US?”

Jeonghan raised his hands, laughing. “What can I say? I’m Yoon Jeonghan for a reason.” His smug shrug only fueled their outrage, the members shouting over each other.

Y/N snapped out of her embarrassment, pointing at Jeonghan like she was ready to fight. “YOU! THIS IS YOUR FAULT, YOU MENACE!” she yelled, stepping forward. “You and your stupid fake-date schemes! You pushed us into this!”

Jeonghan just grinned, strolling over to ruffle her hair, unfazed. “You’re welcome,” he said, winking. “At least now you don’t have to hide.” He turned to Joshua, tapping his shoulder. “Congrats, man. Good luck with this interrogation.”

Joshua laughed, the tension from earlier melting away, his arm tightening around Y/N. “Thanks, I think.”

The members descended into chaos, dragging chairs into a circle like they were starting a tribunal. Seungkwan plopped down, crossing his arms. “Okay, spill! From the beginning! When did you two start sneaking around?”

“And why didn’t you trust us?” Wonwoo added, mock-hurt. “We’re your family!”

Y/N groaned, sinking onto the couch, still red-faced. “It wasn’t about trust! I just… ugh, you guys would’ve teased us to death!”

“And we’re not doing that now?” Hoshi cackled, dodging as she swatted at him.

Joshua, grinning, pulled her closer, his voice warm. “Alright, alright. It started predebut, honestly. We just… clicked. Didn’t want to mess with the group vibe, so we kept it quiet.”

“Quiet?!” DK shouted. “You were sucking face in our dorm! That’s not quiet!”

Y/N squealed, hiding her face in her hands. “I wasn’t sucking face! Oh my God, kill me now!”

“You kinda were,” Joshua teased, laughing when she shoved him. “What? It’s true!”

The members roared, some cheering, others fake-gagging. “Get a room!” Dino yelled, only for Mingyu to smirk and add, “Oh, wait, they already did!”

Y/N grabbed a cushion, hurling it at him. “You’re all the worst!” she shouted, but her smile betrayed her, the relief of being out in the open washing away her embarrassment.

Jeonghan watched it all, his guilt from earlier fading. He’d pushed too far, maybe, but it’d worked out. He caught Joshua’s eye, giving a small nod. Joshua nodded back, a silent we’re good.

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

Later, when the members finally calmed down, Y/N dragged Joshua to her room, slamming the door to drown out the renewed teasing. “They saw me kissing you like a desperate idiot,” she groaned, glaring at him as he leaned against her desk, laughing. “And you’re just laughing?”

“I mean, yeah,” he said, grinning, stepping closer to pull her into a hug. “You don’t have to hide how clingy you are anymore. It’s kinda cute.”

She pouted, shoving his chest lightly. “I’m not clingy. And I’m still mad at you for laughing. I looked like a tomato out there!”

“My favorite tomato,” he teased, kissing her nose. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad they know. No more sneaking.”

She sighed, melting into him, her arms looping around his neck. “Yeah, okay. But if they keep teasing me, I’m blaming you and Jeonghan.”

“Deal,” he said, tilting her chin up for another kiss, softer this time, the chaos outside forgotten.

Behind the door, Hoshi’s voice rang out, muffled but gleeful. “Yo, they’re probably kissing again!”

“Let’s barge in!” Seungkwan suggested, only for Seungcheol to yell, “Leave them alone, you animals!”

Y/N pulled back, groaning. “We’re never living this down, are we?”

Joshua just laughed, holding her tighter. “Nope. But I wouldn’t trade it.”

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

The dorm was a battlefield of snacks and banter, Seventeen sprawled across the living room for a rare movie night. Popcorn bowls were precariously balanced, and Seungkwan was already arguing with DK over who got to pick the film. Y/N, though, had zero interest in the debate. She was tucked into Joshua’s side on the couch, her legs draped over his lap, one arm looped around his neck as she played with the collar of his hoodie.

“You look so cute like this,” she murmured, her voice low but shameless, her lips brushing his ear just enough to make him shiver. “Comfy Shua is my favorite Shua.”

Joshua grinned, his hand resting on her knee, thumb tracing lazy circles. “Oh, yeah?” he teased, tilting his head to meet her eyes, his own sparkling with mischief. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’ve got me trapped here.”

“Trapped and loving it,” she shot back, leaning in to peck his cheek, quick and bold, not caring who saw. Her heart fluttered at how easy it was now—no overthinking, no glancing over her shoulder. Just them, out in the open, and she was eating it up.

The members, however, were less enchanted. Mingyu groaned from the floor, tossing a popcorn kernel at them. “Can you two not be so gross for, like, five minutes? I’m trying to enjoy my snack here!”

“Jealousy’s not a good look, Gyu,” Y/N called, sticking out her tongue before snuggling closer to Joshua, who laughed, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her even nearer.

“I’m not jealous,” Mingyu huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying, Joshua used to be our friend before you turned him into your personal teddy bear!”

“He’s still your friend,” Y/N said, grinning wickedly. “Just… my teddy bear first.”

Joshua choked on a laugh, his cheeks pink but clearly loving every second of her boldness. “I’m not complaining,” he said, winking at her, and she giggled, poking his dimple.

Their bubble was interrupted by Hoshi, who bounded into the room with his usual chaotic energy, eyeing the couch like a predator. “Yo, Shua, my man!” he declared, making a beeline for the empty spot next to Joshua. “Scoot over, I’m claiming my bro time!”

Y/N’s head whipped around, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Oh, no you don’t,” she snapped, planting a hand on Joshua’s shoulder to block Hoshi’s path. “This is my spot, Kwon Soonyoung. Back off.”

Hoshi froze, blinking dramatically. “Your spot? Since when is Joshua’s side your spot?”

“Since I said so,” Y/N retorted, leaning forward, her voice dripping with mock menace. “Find another seat, tiger boy, or we’re throwing hands.”

The room erupted, the members hooting and laughing as Hoshi clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Tiger boy?! That’s cold, Y/N! I just wanna sit with my buddy!”

“Your buddy’s taken,” she said, smirking, then patted Joshua’s chest for emphasis. “Right, Shua?”

Joshua, barely holding it together, nodded, his grin wide. “She’s kinda got a point, Hosh. This spot’s reserved.”

“Betrayal!” Hoshi wailed, flopping onto the floor next to Vernon, who was snickering. “Fine, keep your clingy girlfriend. I’ll just bond with Vernon’s vibes instead.”

“Good luck with that,” Vernon deadpanned, shoving Hoshi’s head off his shoulder. “Your vibes are chaotic.”

Y/N stuck her tongue out at Hoshi, then turned back to Joshua, her smile softening as she leaned up to kiss his jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re too handsome tonight,” she whispered, loud enough for him to hear but flirty enough to make his ears redden. “How am I supposed to focus on this dumb movie?”

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured back, his voice low and warm, his hand sliding to her lower back, fingers grazing just under her hoodie. “But I’m not mad about it.”

Seungkwan gagged dramatically from across the room. “Okay, enough! You’re making my popcorn taste like regret! Can we watch the movie or what?”

“You’re just mad ‘cause Shua’s getting more action than you,” Y/N teased, dodging a cushion Seungkwan lobbed her way.“Rude!” Seungkwan shouted, but he was laughing, the others piling on with their own jabs.

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

The next week, during a magazine photoshoot, Y/N’s clinginess hit new heights. The set was buzzing—lights, cameras, staff darting around as Seventeen posed in sleek, coordinated outfits. Joshua stood under a spotlight, adjusting his jacket, his hair styled just messy enough to look effortlessly perfect. Y/N, waiting for her turn, couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Shua,” she called, sidling up as the photographer adjusted settings. “You’re out here looking way too good. Like, rude levels of handsome. How’s a girl supposed to cope?”

He turned, his smile slow and flirty, leaning closer so only she could hear. “You’re one to talk,” he said, eyeing her outfit—fitted blazer, skirt hugging her just right. “I’m barely surviving over here.”

She giggled, bold as ever now, and stretched up on her toes to kiss him, quick but soft, right there on set. “That’s for being too cute,” she said, winking as she pulled back.

A stylist nearby froze, clearly unsure whether to pretend she hadn’t seen, but Joshua just laughed, his hand brushing hers before she stepped away. “You’re trouble,” he called after her, but his eyes said he loved every second of it.

Hoshi, who’d been posing nearby, caught the whole thing and groaned. “Y/N, can you not steal Joshua for two seconds? I need him for my concept!”

“Your concept’s fine without him,” she shot back, sticking out her tongue. “Go flirt with a camera or something.”

“I’m wounded!” Hoshi gasped, clutching his heart, but he was grinning, already plotting revenge. “Just wait, I’m stealing his seat at lunch.”

“Try it and you’re sitting on the floor,” Y/N warned, her glare playful but fierce, making the others nearby crack up.

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

By the weekend, the members were staging a full-on revolt. At the dorm, Joshua was trying to teach Dino a new guitar chord in the living room, but Y/N had other plans. She plopped onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, effectively halting the lesson. “Hi,” she said, all sugar and spice, kissing his cheek. “You’re too cute when you’re focused. Had to interrupt.”

Dino threw his hands up, exasperated. “Y/N, I’m trying to learn here! Can you not hog him for, like, one hour?”

“Nope,” she said, grinning, snuggling deeper into Joshua’s lap, who was laughing too hard to help. “He’s mine now. Get your own Shua.”

“There’s only one, unfortunately,” Joshua teased, his arms sliding around her waist, clearly thrilled by her boldness. “And I’m pretty happy where I am.”

“Gross,” Dino muttered, tossing a pillow at them, which Y/N caught and hugged like a trophy.

The door swung open, and Seungcheol walked in, freezing at the sight. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “Y/N, let the man breathe! We need Joshua for game night, and you’re, like, glued to him!”

“He’s breathing just fine,” Y/N said, smirking, then leaned up to kiss Joshua’s nose, slow and dramatic, just to mess with them. “Right, babe?”

“Better than ever,” Joshua agreed, his grin wide, planting a quick kiss on her temple for good measure.

Seungcheol fake-gagged, turning to the others piling in behind him. “Someone get her off him! I’m calling an intervention!”

Hoshi saw his chance, diving for the couch with a war cry. “Operation Save Joshua begins now!” He grabbed Y/N’s arm, tugging like he was pulling her from quicksand. “Come on, let’s free our bro!”

Y/N yelped, clinging to Joshua like a koala. “Get your paws off, Soonyoung! This is my spot!”

“Your spot’s gonna be the hallway if you don’t share!” Hoshi shot back, laughing as he tugged harder, turning it into a full-on wrestling match.

Joshua was no help, doubled over laughing as Y/N and Hoshi bickered, her arms locked around his neck. “You two are ridiculous,” he managed, but his eyes were soft, drinking in Y/N’s playful grin. He’d waited years for this—her unfiltered affection, no walls, no secrets—and every second felt like a gift.

Woozi, watching from the sidelines, shook his head. “I give up. They’re unstoppable. Someone get me noise-canceling headphones.”

“Or a barf bag,” Seungkwan added, dodging as Y/N flung a cushion at him.

Jeonghan strolled in last, smirking at the chaos he’d indirectly unleashed. “Look at you lovebirds, making everyone sick,” he teased, winking at Y/N. “Worth it, though, right?”

Y/N paused her tug-of-war with Hoshi, her smile softening as she looked at Joshua, who squeezed her hand, his eyes saying everything. “Yeah,” she said, voice quieter but bright. “Totally worth it.”

Then she turned, glaring at Hoshi, who was still trying to wedge between them. “But you’re still not stealing my spot, hamster!”

“Challenge accepted!” Hoshi roared, diving back in, and the room dissolved into laughter, Joshua pulling Y/N closer through it all, happier than he’d ever been.

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

an: Joshua is sososo handsome, and I hate it! I can’t even look at his pictures for too long, because I feel like I’m going to melt.

[tiarahoarder]

Money Cat.

[tiarahoarder]

bitches had a lot to say about scoups’ cute little tummy in the thunder mcountdown performance and it pissed me off, especially because i know for a fact that it affected him a lot since he immediately announced that he was starting a diet. i love his tummy so much and it breaks my heart seeing that he feels insecure about it. so, here is a bit of an appreciation for coups and his little tummy❤️

(pairing: bf! scoups x f!reader)

tw! negative views on body!

the moment he stepped foot inside your shared apartment, you could see that something was wrong with your cheollie.

he had this troubled frown glued to his face, lips set in a sad pout as he quietly took off his shoes and jacket.

when you tried greeting him somewhat enthusiastically, he weirdly turned you down, instead of kissing your lips like he always does, his lips landed on your cheek, before he quietly excuses himself to take a shower.

which is even weirder, because cheol always eats first before he takes a shower. he always says that he feels bad that he keeps you waiting so much, preventing you from eating the dinner because you don’t like eating alone.

so, for him to turn down dinner, to barely say anything to you, to immediately cut himself out of the world by going to the bathroom?

you knew that something bad has happened.

carefully listening against the door, you waited until you heard the water turn off, giving him another minute to dry off and put something on.

you two had so much trust in each other that cheol didn’t even blink when the doors opened, your head peaking inside.

the scene in front of you broke your heart.

cheol, in his beautiful and buff form, was silently standing in front of a mirror, eyes filled with annoyance and…hatred clearly focused on one thing.

his belly.

unsure hands hovered above the said tummy kind or like he was so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even bring himself to touch you.

you eyebrows immediately furrowed in pain, almost like it was his own pain that you were feeling inside your body.

quietly walking in and shutting the door, you walked over to him, his broad body covering your whole body, making you unable to see yourself in the reflection.

you loved that so much-that he was so soft, big, buff and strong. his body, just like his soul, was hardness covered with a layer of softness. you loved hugging him because it always felt like you had your own personal teddy bear to cuddle with.

although you may not be able to read minds, you can tell what cheol is thinking about.

and just like you predicted, he quietly says with a voice full of disgust “don’t look at me please. i look…so disgusting.”

deciding to ignore his words, your arms wrap themselves around his waist, head securely resting on his back between his shoulder blades. you inhale his fresh scent as you close your eyes.

ever so slowly, you touch his tummy with flat hands, softly rubbing it up and down in comfort.

with a serious voice you question him.

“do you know why i love you so much?”

cheol stays quiet.

you decide to continue.

“you have the softest soul ever. although you always try to stay strong for other’s, you never hid the fact how gentle your soul is. from the very beginning, you let me see your bad, fearful and broken pieces. i knew from there on, that your heart is made of glass-it’s enough to use only small amount of force for it to break.”

you feel cheol swallow under your cheek.

“so, i know how easy other people’s opinions affect you. i know that if it’s something you already dislike about yourself, and they say something bad about that part of you, that you will immediately start hating yourself.”

you pause for a second to swallow before you continue.

“what i don’t get is how anyone-you included-could hate any part of you when you are the most beautiful man ever? you…you are so kind, protective of the people you love. you always face everything with fierceness, even when you yourself are scared of it. not only are you beautiful from the inside, but you, exactly as you are right now, are just as beautiful from the outside.”

cheol feels a something heavy stop in his throat, his eyes that are looking back at him in the mirror now filled with unshed tears.

“your body is so beautiful, baby. it’s strong…firm in a way that it makes you feel…reliable. almost as if i am protected simply because you are so strong. but it’s also wrapped with a layer of…softness. which isn’t a bad thing. it just makes cuddling and kissing it that much more enjoyable. this little tummy? that’s my favourite part of you. wanna know why?”

you see cheol nod his head as he uses one of his hands to wipe away the tears, deeply sniffling as he does so.

you use your hold on his tummy to slowly turn him around, his red eyes looking at you brokenly.

pushing away his hands, you wipe away his tears, smiling gently as you end your words.

“because that tummy exists because of me. because you let me take care of you. because i make sure to feed you well. that tummy that you were just thinking of getting rid of? that’s my love coming to the surface.”

cheol closes his eyes, shoulders shaking as he cries quietly.

even quieter than you have been talking just now, you gently yet firmly ask him.

“do you want to get rid of my love then?”

shaking his head ‘no’, he finally-finally-lets a son out, strong arms wrapping around your body as he lets his head hide in your neck, wetness smearing against your skin as his tears keep on falling.

as you rub his back in comfort, you promise to yourself one thing.

i will never allow him to feel or think about himself like this ever again. not when he’s the most perfect person to have ever existed.

[tiarahoarder]

campus crush!joshua | joshua hong smau one shot

pairing: campus crush!joshua x gn!reader

tags: university au, strangers to whateverthisis to whatevertheyarenow, jeonghan mention

request: Hi lovely! Can I request something with Campus Crush, Joshua? 🤭

summary: cute guy you see around on campus is in your class. you do a duo presentation together. that's it. that's the plot.

join my taglist here ! |

taglist: @enchantedlaufeyson @christinewithluv @jihoonsbbygirl @theidontknowmehn @choco-scoups @gyuhao365 @jades-archive

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