why-purpose-enti

[why-purpose-enti]

Psychopaths prefer freckles [part-2, final]

A older,(about 30)!reader x 26,(crushing on you since long)! Felix

A two shot, part two will be coming soon[in prob next 2 days].

Plot, plot with romance, final part, Long?

warning: murder,violence, sort of love at first sight, kind of broken parent-child relationship, and humor.

the final part!

Part-1

It started a day after Mimiko.

The sensation: Being followed.

You’d feel it on the way to the car, on the elevator’s closing doors, or walking into your building’s bathroom, reflexively checking under the stall even though it was empty. There was no one. But something coiled in your spine still tensed.

You were being followed. Or maybe not.

But maybe.

When Chan’s assistant told you to come to his office, you just closed your file, stood up, nodded once at Seungmin—who blinked rapidly like he wanted to say good luck—and went.

Bang Chan’s office was colder than the rest of HQ. Minimalistic. The kind of place where emotions came to die politely.

He was staring at a document when you entered, posture casual but his hands death-gripping a pen.

“You called?” you asked.

He looked up, smiling.

“Yeah. Just a regular follow-up. Have a seat.”

You didn’t. Just leaned against the doorframe.

“I’m fine.”

Chan tapped his pen once. “That’s not what I asked.”

You tilted your head.

Silence.

He smiled again, more tense this time.

“…Are you sleeping alright?”

“No.”

“Appetite?”

“...”

“You… okay with what happened?”

You blinked once.

“Which part? the murder or the uploading?”

Chan chuckled. You didn’t.

He closed the folder and set it aside. “The meetup date’s been revealed, hasn’t it?”

“30th. six days from now.”

His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the armrest. “You’re sure you’re still good to go?”

“I haven’t bled out yet, so yeah.”

You turned.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Bang. They’ll expect tailing. Stalking. Bugs. Maybe even team formations around me or anyone who goes. So no, no one else should come. Just me.”

And you left.

Outside, the mood in HQ was sticky. Like wet cotton. Everyone was tense.

Yeji leaned against the vending machine, sending a meaningful glance toward Hyunjin. He just raised his eyebrows and chewed on his straw. Seungmin stood at the end of the hallway, shuffling files, eyes flicking between the team and your back.

Somebody should talk to her.

Not me. She’ll bite.

Hyunjin, she likes you.

Bro, she almost killed me once because my phone rang during a meeting.

Eventually, they gave up trying to send a soldier into your warpath.

You? You sat at your desk, feet up, coat still on, scrolling your phone with the most dead-eyed, battered-soul expression imaginable.

Your thumb moved like it had lost hope years ago.

Yeji peeked over her monitor, wide-eyed.

"You're on nyxnet?"

You didn’t even look up. “Can’t upload a murder video and die single. That’s just lame.”

Hyunjin’s voice from a distance “You scare me”

You look at him

“I mean—I love that for you.”

You locked your phone and stared blankly at the wall.

Seungmin, though, steps forward.

“I want to come with you on D-Day.”

You raise a brow. “What?”

“I mean it. I don’t trust anyone else to cover your back.”

You study him for a moment. You sigh, shake your head, dig through your folder and hand him a form.

“Your niece’s annual function is on the 30th, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah…”

“Then go.”

You decide that your father needs to go.

Not in the way you’ve sent others off, of course. One that keeps him alive and breathing and far away from this.

Far away from you.

You hear the clatter of a spoon before you see him.

He’s hunched on the floor mat, watching the TV at a volume high enough to wake the next flat. Rice bowl balanced on one knee, the news anchor’s monotone droning into the leftover soup. You wordlessly lower yourself beside him. He glances sideways like you’re a raccoon that wandered too close.

“You sat.”

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“No” he says, suspicious.

You sit for a moment. Your dad stabs at his food like it personally wronged him, mouth chewing mid-scowl. The news flashes a grainy image from the forest. BREAKING NEWS: TREKKER DISCOVERS BRUTALLY MUTILATED BODY—SECOND THIS MONTH INVESTIGATIONS UNDERWAY

You lift your bowl and sip quietly.

Your dad, of course, must comment. That’s the man’s life mission.

“Tch. What’s happened to people these days?” he mutters, stuffing rice in. “No morals. Just chopping people like onions.”

You hum.

He continues, undeterred. “It’s the phones. And those apps. Tinder, Instabook—whatever. That’s why people are like this.”

You clench your spoon just slightly.

“They said the body was hanging upside down. Who does that? Looks like beef in a butcher’s shop. Must be some fellow with a loose screw—”

“If the upbringing goes wrong” you say quietly, your voice cutting clean through his, “then humans do turn out like that.”

He gives you another side-eye.

You don’t look at him. You just swirl your soup, eyes fixed on the steam.

“I—I was joking! Obviously! Just wanted to lighten the mood, heh.”

You say nothing. Just chew calmly.

He chews, then points at the screen. “See this? This is why I say you need to get married. Settle down. Normal people don’t have time to kill others—they're too tired from fighting with their wives!”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your take?”

“It’s true!” he declares. “You know how your mother is. You’d rather hang yourself than another person if you had to live with her for twenty-four hours.”

A pause.

You reach for the remote, mute the TV, and turn to face him fully.

“I think you should move in with her.”

He almost drops dead on the spot.

“What?!”

“Stay with her for a few months. Rebuild the bond. Like you said—married people are too tired to kill.”

He stares, stunned. “You’re joking. You’ve never even liked seeing us in the same room!”

You shrug. “Maybe you’ll tire each other out and leave me alone.”

He squints suspiciously. “Are you... planning something?”

“Always” you say.

He groans, wiping his forehead. “Your mother will murder me in my sleep. I’ll wake up with curry in my ears and a slipper lodged in my throat.”

“That’s assault, not murder” you correct.

“Same difference!”

You finish eating and rise. He watches you like you might flip the mat with him on it.

“I’ll tell her you're coming Friday” you say, already halfway to your room.

“No! Wait! At least let me die naturally!” he shouts after you. “I can change! I can improve! Let me live with you!!!”

You slam your door shut with a satisfied smirk.

Inside, your room is dim.

You toss your phone on the bed, then sigh. The screen lights up.

You hadn’t checked Felix’s chat in a while.

lix

hey sorry 😭 things have been hectic, i had to go back to my academy for alumini event the moment work was done promise i’ll make time after the event is done don’t forget me alright??

That was... four days ago, before you killed Mimiko.

You scroll up. The last few conversations were brief. Short replies. Nothing deep. You didn’t respond to that one.

You didn’t want to lie.

You didn’t want to pull him in, either.

So you left him on read.

You lock your phone.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. From the living room, your father starts a loud phone call, probably already crying to your aunt about being "sent to the battlefield" that is his wife.

You smile to yourself, bitter amusement in your chest.

[Nyxnet Notification]: Your video has reached 1,000 saves. Congratulations. Welcome to the elite tier. New folders unlocked.

The nyxnet homepage flickers in dull resolution on your screen. Your video—your video—is right at the top, above rows and rows of snuff edits and murder fancams, captioned with a font that reads:

"Efficient. Elegant. Real." Pinned by the admin.

There's a like button. There’s a comment section.

A post down below says: "New drop: virgin transport – Korea branch expanding." The accompanying image is just a warehouse. But the comments under it are what churn your stomach.

Then there’s a folder titled "Child Play" —empty. But not for long, probably.

You grimace from disgust, thumb scrolling through the feed like you're checking the weather, because that’s all this has become now. Rot in high definition.

The community is disgusting—and alive.

People have profiles on this site. Avatars. Statuses. Some post daily logs of what they wish to do. Some post domestic violence. Some review each other’s videos like it’s an award show. All of these people killed two, to get a membership, and most continue so.

And under your pinned video?

user5891: “she didn’t even flinch. look at the wrist flick. pro-level.” user2129: “dope setup. camera angle fire.” admin: [⭐ pinned your post] “a clean kill. precise. efficient. she's going places.”

You stare at that last line longer than you should.

Three days to go.

You step back into the office as if you hadn’t just spent the past few days murdering people upside-down in the woods. As if your video wasn’t currently pinned on a secret psychopath network. As if you weren’t being watched by both psychotic strangers and the man who technically signs your paychecks.

“Morning,” Hyunjin says, holding a pen in his mouth, fingers flying over the table-sized blueprint on the wall. It’s smeared with notes, circles, underlines, red arrows—chaos disguised as planning.

Yeji gives you a tight nod from the whiteboard. She’s mid-sentence, “—so we keep the cameras off until she’s out of sight. No drone. Too risky.”

You nod and drop your bag, taking your usual seat at the edge of the table.

Seungmin doesn’t look at you. He’s sulking.

He’s been sulking since the moment you insisted he take the day off for his niece’s school dance recital.

He taps his pen aggressively on his clipboard, muttering, “Hope her classmates appreciate my sacrifice.”

Hyunjin snorts, finally taking the pen out of his mouth. “We’ll send you the whole kill montage with violin music if that helps.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Minnie.”

You stretch your neck and glance at the board. The mission name—handwritten in messy black marker by Hyunjin himself—sits proudly at the top like a title card in a b-grade action film:

Operation: Whopp-the-bitch-ass-bastards.

No one’s changed it. No one dares.

“That’s official now?” you ask.

Yeji sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“Whole system’s falling apart,” Seungmin mutters.

You let them banter while your eyes scan the mission outline: you’ll drive out before sundown, in the camouflaged car, location confirmed, meet point documented, route vetted three times. And then you’re on your own—until you aren’t.

“That car’s sick, though” Hyunjin pipes in, flipping to a picture. “Pitch black. No lights, not even a brake light. Looks like the Batmobile if Bruce Wayne lived in a basement.”

“No reflective panels either,” Yeji adds. “And tinted deeper than my patience.”

“I tested it last night,” Seungmin mumbles. “Couldn’t even find the gear in the dark.”

They quiet down when Chan walks in. His expression is unreadable. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, folder in hand. The man looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

You can relate.

“I just finished the final brief with Command,” he says, placing the file on the table with a thud. “Here’s the plan.”

Everyone straightens slightly.

“You’ll tail her until she reaches the compound. Stay out of range. Once she confirms the site, signals go live. We’ll have SWAT on standby and aerial if needed.”

You nod.

“And I won’t be there” Chan adds.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll be at Command HQ with the higher-ups. Someone has to monitor the quadrant while she’s inside.”

Hyunjin frowns. “You’re not coming at all?”

Chan’s jaw ticks. “One of the higher-ups bailed. Didn’t even glance at the files. Said he had ‘prior commitments.’ Which probably means he’s golfing or getting Botox.”

You remain quiet.

Chan turns to you. “Since I won’t be there, I’m assigning someone else to ride along with the team and relay back to me.”

You blink slowly. “Who?”

“A recruit” Chan replies, carefully vague. “Someone new to this division. Been here a few years, works mostly behind the curtain. Not part of your regular rotation.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. That’s too much emphasis on ‘not your rotation’ for it to be casual.

Hyunjin leans forward. “What’s their clearance?”

“Enough” Chan says simply. “They’ll send hourly updates and stay in the car. They are not to interfere. That’s clear.”

Your head tilts, reading him. His words are tight. Clipped. Controlled.

He doesn’t trust you.

The silence stretches for a second too long.

Yeji’s eyes flick to yours. Seungmin shifts in his chair.

You smile faintly. “Fine.”

Chan watches you for a moment. “Good.”

He closes the file, then pauses. Looks at you a little longer than necessary.

D-DAY.

You arrive at the station in a dark hoodie and jeans, your face clean of expression, your posture unreadable. The duffel slung over your shoulder carries half a decade of training, several tracking devices, a phone with an encrypted uplink, a tranquilizer, two knives, a first aid kit.

Hyunjin is already waiting at the far platform, dragging a small suitcase with cartoon stickers and a pout on his lips. “Could’ve made this mission a flight. What are we, peasants?”

Yeji checks her watch. “Too obvious. Too traceable. Trains are quieter.”

You nod. The plan has shifted, and it’s not your favorite.

Originally, the target had promised to send a car to pick you up from your state—anonymously, discreetly. But the new message said: come to one of the border state-whose name you dont remember-, and they’ll find you. An unsettling shift, but unavoidable.

So now the plan was: all of you take the train. You disembark. They’ll “collect” you. Yeji and Hyunjin, along with the new recruit, will tail you using the blackout car, which had already been shipped ahead. You wouldn’t see them after the train. Just earpieces, and faith.

Chan appears like a ghost behind you—clipboard in hand, sharp in black.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says.

Behind him...

No.

No.

Your lungs hesitate.

Blonde hair. Innocent, kind face. That too-perfect smile dulled now into guilt. Hands in pockets. Not looking at you fully.

Felix.

Felix.

You don't flinch. You blink once, lips parting slightly in the faintest mockery of surprise.

“This is Felix Lee” Chan says, like this isn’t a twist of a knife. “New recruit. Joined us a few years ago. Works mostly in forensic patterning and cyber. Honest. Reliable.”

Honest.

Reliable.

Right.

You give a nod. Like your stomach doesn’t feel like it’s being scraped raw with a fork.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am” Felix says quietly, voice soft.

He’s looking at you like he knows.

And of course. Of course Chan would send someone to watch you. Of course he’s been suspicious from day one. Of course Felix, with his charm and eyes and that convenient academy schedule, had been watching you all along. Maybe even reporting. Maybe always lying.

Maybe he never liked you.

You nod at Chan, dead calm. “He’ll follow protocol?”

“Down to the last line.”

Hyunjin, oblivious, waves at Felix. “Yo! You’re the new guy? Sweet. Do you have driving anxiety?”

Felix glances at him. “No.”

“Aw, too bad. Was hoping for some drama on the curves.”

Yeji sighs. “Stop talking.”

You exhale, watching the train approach in the distance. The tracks vibrate.

You turn to the group, all business. “We go in with no contact after the station. Hyunjin, Yeji—you follow thirty minutes behind. Maintain stealth. If they change plans, I’ll signal using codes”

They nod.

Chan claps his hands once. “You’ll receive updates through Felix. He’ll be on channel three.”

Of course he will.

You adjust your backpack. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Everyone starts walking. As you’re about to step onto the train, a voice behind you says, soft—

“Y/N?”

You pause.

“Sorry. Ma’am.”

You keep walking.

Your seat is far from his—intentionally. They were booked with logic, not comfort. Scattered across the coach so no two agents were seated together.

You slide into your seat, spine straight, eyes locked on the window. Outside the platform moves like a slow, crawling insect.

You watch people go on with their lives, all while your brain flashes the pinned video of Mimiko on Nyxnet.

You look up.

Felix.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“No.”

He flinches. “Just—just a minute, please.”

You turn your head to him fully this time. “No. Are you stupid?”

He freezes.

“This carriage has cameras. Every move is monitored. You think you talking to me right now isn’t being logged?”

His lips part. He tries to say something—probably an apology. Probably some lie soaked in softness.

You cut him off. “Get back to your seat. This might ruin the entire plan.”

His throat moves as he swallows.

“Get lost. That’s an order.”

He blinks. Just once. Then nods, slowly, and walks back down the aisle, head down, silent.

You exhale, the burn rising behind your eyes. But you don't blink.

You sit up straighter. You will not let this become personal. Not now. Not with Felix Lee.

hours away from a slaughter.

The cold night wind whips against your face as you stand between the compartments, the open train doors letting in slices of dark landscape and speed. The rhythmic clattering of the wheels on the track feels like an angry lullaby—too fast to calm, too loud to forget. You’re supposed to be inside, keeping your head down, blending in.

But breathing felt like choking back there.

So here you are, standing by the edge, one hand loosely hooked around the bar, the other in your coat pocket, feeling the ache of your shoulder from the Mimiko kill still tugging at your nerves.

You close your eyes.

A footstep.

You open your eyes immediately.

He’s there again.

Felix.

You turn on instinct to step back into the train, but suddenly—

Your collar jerks back, his hand clenched tightly into the fabric, dragging you and pinning you.

“Talk to me,” he hisses, his voice nothing like the soft guilt he wore earlier. “Or I’ll push you out.”

You stare at him.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

But there's a flicker of something real in his eyes.

Desperation.

You raise your hands a little. “Fine” you mutter. “I’ll talk.”

His grip loosens immediately.

You fix your coat with a scowl, stepping beside him at the open door. Wind slashes past again. Neither of you says anything. For a long time, it’s just the train and the sound of everything moving forward. Too fast to step back.

“I get it” you finally say, quietly. “You were put on me by Chan. You tailed me. You reported to him. That was your job.”

He doesn't say anything.

“You said you were busy because of your ‘academy’—I didn’t realize it was police academy.”

You chuckle without humor.

“Guess I was too blinded by how nice you were. Good job. I would've bought it too, if I didn’t know how to profile liars.”

He turns his face toward you slightly, his hair wind-tossed and golden under the fluorescent flashes.

“That’s your version,” he says calmly. “please hear mine?”

You don’t answer. But you don’t stop him either.

So he speaks.

“I saw you for the first time six years ago” he begins, voice softer. “I was twenty.”

You glance at him sideways. He’s not smiling.

“I was out with my sister. We were just walking. Laughing, you know? It was one of those rare nights when the weather’s too good to stay indoors.”

“She was walking ahead of me. And then this guy—some absolute trash on a bike—spanked her while passing. She froze.”

He exhales hard. The memory still seems to sting.

“And I—” his jaw clenches, “I was stunned. I felt so useless. So fucking helpless.”

You stay quiet.

“I was about to run after him, but you were already there. You stepped out of nowhere, badge in one hand, yelling for him to stop. You forced him off the bike, beat the living shit out of him, with a baseball bat”

Your eyes flicker.

“I didn’t even know what to say. You didn't wait for anyone to thank you. You didn’t even ask who we were. You just cuffed him, told the local unit to pick him up, and left.”

You dont quite remember it.

Felix leans on the door rail now, both hands gripping the cold metal.

“I decided that day. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to protect people like that. I joined police training a few months after. Transferred divisions twice just to get here. I don't know if you remember, you also came to my academy as a guest instructor once....”

The sun was brutal that day. Not enough to burn, but enough to stick your shirt to your back and make the metal of the gun barrels too hot to hold for too long.

You stood near the firing range, dressed in black jeans and a shirt, sunglasses perched at the edge of your nose. Behind you, half the academy was lined up, each student stiff and silent, clenching their training rifles like nervous babies.

You were invited that day as a guest instructor—only for the advanced batch. Rumor had it the Division chief had personally called in a favor.

And someone had warned them, she doesn't smile, don't try anything funny, and for the love of God, don't mess up your first shot.

Felix was nervous, but he wasn’t the only one.

He stood near his best friend Jeongin, both trying to remain expressionless, but stealing glances at you whenever you lifted your hand or walked past.

You started the session by calling out names, one by one.

Jeongin was second in line. When he approached the target line and took the gun in hand, he tried to remember every instruction they'd been given. But he missed. By a long shot.

And you sighed.

Loudly.

"You think this is a water gun, rookie?" you said, your voice sharp, unimpressed. "You think perps stop running just because you wish they’d get scared?"

Jeongin blinked rapidly. "No, ma’am."

You rolled your eyes, took the gun from his hand without a word, and turned to him. “Hold still.”

Felix watched like it was a scene in slow motion.

You stepped behind Jeongin, adjusted his shoulder, then placed your hand on his hand, guiding the grip. "Thumb aligned. Elbow loose. Trust your stance."

You didn’t yell that time.

You whispered it.

You were calm. Focused.

And then—bang. Dead center.

Jeongin looked like he was about to faint.

“Better” you muttered, handing the gun back and patting Jeongin once on the back before calling, “Next.”

Felix stepped up. He fired. He hit the mark. Decent grouping. All logical.

You didn’t say anything.

You just nodded and moved on.

No correction. No praise. No touch.

And somehow, that bothered him more.

You didn’t speak to him that entire session.

But Felix didn’t forget. Not the sigh. Not the whisper. Not the way you touched Jeongin’s hand to correct him and never even looked at Felix twice.

After you left, Jeongin was walking around like he’d just been knighted.

Felix?

He waited until Jeongin went to the canteen and then switched their rifles.

“Hey,” Jeongin frowned when he got back. “Where’s my—wait, this isn’t mine.”

“Sure it is,” Felix said, far too fast. “You must’ve mistaken it.”

“No, mine had a scratch here near the—wait.”

Felix stared ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard.

Jeongin squinted. “You’re sick, dude.”

“Shut up and do your drills.”

“Pervert.”

“Say it again and I’ll leave your wet laundry outside.”

Jeongin mumbled a curse and walked away, and Felix quietly looked down at the rifle—at the faint fingerprint smudges near the barrel. He stared at them like they were sacred marks.

Later that evening, Jeongin was still pissed about the switch. He complained to the other boys in the dorm.

Felix didn’t care.

That was the first night he dreamt about you.

Not as an instructor.

But as something else.

Not something soft or sweet—he didn’t dare. You were someone he wanted to be like, yes. But more than that… you were someone he wanted to be seen by.

And all he got was a nod.

You were supposed to be there for three days. But the Chief liked your methods—especially the way you made three cadets cry and two of them vow to switch careers—so your stay was extended another week.

And Felix?

He celebrated.

Outwardly.

he absolutely threw his blanket in the air the moment he got back to his room. Jeongin groaned from the bunk above. “You are so weird for this woman. You’re going to make us fail psych eval.”

Felix, starry-eyed and immune to mockery, whispered, “Shut up. She’s so cool.”

You didn’t just train them. You transformed the atmosphere.

In the mornings, you taught mounted protocol to the female cadets—firm but not cold. Felix would pass the stables just to watch you help one of the girls with her footing, steadying the horse, explaining in that clipped tone of yours: “Confidence in the body transfers to confidence in the animal. Don’t hold it like a bomb. Sit like you own the world.”

At noon, you took the guys out to the hilly part of the field, where you taught them about old-school radio protocols and manual decryption of frequency-based comms. You handed out dusty walkie-talkies, some barely functioning, and showed them how to recalibrate them.

“Repeat after me,” you said, clicking your own device. “This is unit zero-zero-seven, requesting open channel. Do you copy?”

Felix copied every syllable. And every twitch of your brow.

He also started writing down your phrases in his notebook. His handwriting—already neat—became clinical. Exactly how you’d like it, he thought.

And yes.

At night, after lights out, Felix would scroll through police forums and enter vague searches into Google:

“Superintendent Y/N busan married?”

“Superintendent Y/N police gun choice? Glock 19? Beretta?”

One evening, you were making the rounds to check on their documentation logs. Felix was on a system in the corner of the IT lab. He didn’t hear your boots. Not until it was too late.

He saw your reflection in the dark screen. Swung around like a possessed crab and slammed the browser shut.

You arched a brow.

“Where’s your program log?”

“I—I—uhh…was just—”

You leaned over, typed a quick shortcut to open the recent task list. Nothing but Google searches. You stared at it.

Then stared at him.

Your gaze dropped to his name badge. “Felix, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re supposed to be running Java compilation tests.”

“...Yes, ma’am.”

You stepped back. “Get out. Run 20 laps around the ground.”

Felix jumped up, saluted by instinct, and scrambled out.

The next morning, physical training resumed. You were walking through rows of cadets—your hands behind your back, sunglasses perched low on your nose, boots crunching over dry dirt. The sun made the black of your shirt glow against your spine. Most of the other male cadets—useless hormonal idiots—tried to sneak a look at you when you turned.

Felix saw it. He hated it.

So the next time you stopped to explain the formation routine—using both arms to demonstrate arm syncs during combat response—he walked directly behind you, subtly blocking everyone else’s view of your back.

“What are you doing?” Jeongin whispered, three ranks to his right.

Felix just squinted ahead and whispered, “Security.”

When you spun to check their alignment, your shoulder passed near his. Felix didn’t breathe.

He just looked from above your shoulder, pretending to be incredibly focused on the grid layout you were sketching in the mud with a booted toe.

You ordered a running drill next. “Fifteen rows. Each five cadets. Synchronized runs. Ten laps.”

They groaned.

“I don’t care if you cry,” you said, striding in front of them like a shadow of wrath. “Run. All of you. If even one person is off-beat, everyone adds another lap.”

As they started running, Felix kept turning his head back every now and then—not to check the beat.

To make sure you were watching.

And you were. Sunglasses hiding your eyes. Clipboard under your arm.

Unmoving. Like a sentry.

He ran harder.

And Jeongin muttered under his breath, “You’ve got issues.”

Felix grinned mid-lap. “Yeah. Big ones.”

A week after you left the Busan Police Academy, life returned to normal.

Almost.

There was a strange void in the atmosphere. Like someone had turned the volume down on adrenaline. You weren’t even loud—but your silence had weight. Now, the air felt…lighter.

Felix hated it.

But what he loved—what made him literally sprint to the admin office the moment word spread—was the arrival of the Performance Report from your evaluation week.

Printed. Stamped. Signed by the Chief. Passed down with reverence like a prophecy.

Felix waited in line. Impatiently. Jeongin stood beside him, yawning.

“I swear to God if you run and lick the board again, I’m leaving you here.”

“I just wanna check something,” Felix muttered, practically vibrating.

Then the papers were up. Pinned to the glass like sacred scrolls.

He shoved past someone, ignoring the "Oi, manners!" and squinted—

"Overall Performance—Tactical & Technical (Week 2)" Instructor: Superintendent Y/N

First line. First name.

Cadet: Lee Felix. Evaluation: Tactical Improv. Fast Recovery. Clear Morals. Potential Under Pressure. Precise Shooting. Calm Decision Making. High Emotional Control. Final Note: “Exceptional application of all training parameters. He’ll make a good officer.”

REMARKS: RECOMMENDED FOR FAST TRACK CLEARANCE.

“…OH. MY. GOD” Felix whisper-screamed, clutching the wall for balance.

His jaw dropped. He turned back to Jeongin who just stared, baffled.

“YOU? Exceptional?” Jeongin sputtered. “You literally tripped on your own baton two days ago.”

“I—SHE—READ MY HEART.”

“Read your WHAT?”

Felix was grinning so hard it hurt. He stared at your writing again. The clean lines. The underline under “good officer.”

Others around him were confused too. Some frowned at his name.

“Wait, Felix? Wasn’t he…like, fine? Like average-fine?”

“He literally couldn’t load his own gun last month?”

“Did he bribe her? Did he cry?”

Felix didn’t hear any of it. He was staring at the word "exceptional" like it was engraved on his soul.

“Jeongin,” he whispered.

“…What.”

“I’m gonna frame this.”

“You’re gonna jail yourself in love.”

“Worth it.”

Felix folded the corner of the sheet like it was the edge of a love letter. That was the first time he believed—fully—that you might have noticed him.

That you might’ve seen something in him.

And that? That was the very beginning of all his madness.

“That was years before I even knew Chan” he says quietly. “I didn’t get close to you because he asked me to, in fact my job was to just check if you're doing okay as there might be threats from outside as your name and face is in that website. I was supposed to just stay far and not make contact but....”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“I got to talk to you that way, met you even.....” he says, voice barely audible over the wind.

“I got.....greedy?” He looks at you slowly, as if checking how you'd react.

You let of a small laugh.

Was this good?

"So?" you asked without looking at him, voice low but unmistakably dry. "What did you do then?"

Felix exhaled, head tilting back briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d expected the question but still needed a second to answer. He looked at you, golden hair a mess from dozing off earlier, collar slightly crumpled. You refused to fix it. Let him look human. Guilty.

"I got greedy," he said, softly. No excuses, no embellishments. Just the truth.

You hid your smile by biting down on your lip and turning your head, your eyes rolling with exaggerated disinterest. "Figures," you muttered, pushing off the wall with a sharp pivot. “Get back to your seat. You’re attracting flies.”

He blinked. "Wait. I don’t even get a kiss?"

You didn’t pause. “No.”

“Seriously? That was a confession!”

You sighed, turned halfway, and leaned in with one hand in your coat pocket. He stilled.

A quick peck on his cheek. Firm. Clean. Like a transaction.

“There,” you said flatly. “Now walk.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue but was too dazed to bother. He followed you with a quiet grin, steps matching yours lazily down the corridor until you both returned to your seats.

Just before slipping into the coach compartment, you paused. Pressed your palm lightly to the windowpane, squinting through the smudge of fingerprints and dusk-tinted scenery.

You watched the signs blur past.

“Three more hours,” you murmured.

Felix leaned in beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “To the station?”

You nodded once.

Suddenly, behind you, one of the passengers — a man slumped across a row of seats in his own world — shifted with a sharp snort, jerking violently in his sleep.

Felix flinched so hard, his hand flew to your arm and he instinctively hugged you.

You didn’t react.

You turned your face slowly to him, raising an unimpressed brow.

He backed off sheepishly, mumbling, “I thought he was—”

You raised a finger to your lips, motioning for silence. Then, exaggeratedly, you pretended to draw a pistol from your coat, aimed with two fingers toward the snoring man, and whispered, “Bang.”

Your hand recoiled with the imaginary shot, followed by a soft, dry mutter:

“Here you go.”

Felix broke into a soft chuckle. “My hero.”

You turned to leave again, ready to retreat to the quiet corner you'd claimed before, but then you felt him gently hold your elbow. You stilled.

“What now?” you asked without looking back.

He grins, and from his coat pocket, he pulls out a tiny imaginary box. Opens it with a flair. Mimes taking out a ring.

Then he goes to get down on one knee—

You grabbed him by the shoulder mid-motion.

“Don’t....” you said, firm but calm. “Be greedy.”

He blinked up at you.

“We’ll see later” you added, voice gentler this time.

Felix was already smiling as he stood back up, slipping the box shut with a soft snap and sliding it into his pocket.

You watched him walk away first, half-glowing with smugness, half-dizzy from the moment. He sat down without another word, shaking his head to himself.

You stared for a second longer, exhaled slowly, then turned on your heel and walked back to your seat with your arms still crossed.

No need to say more.

Not now.

You weren't going anywhere for the next three hours. And he knew better than to waste a second.

The train lurches and slows, mechanical screeches filling the air as the station approaches. Your fingers scroll over your phone screen, barely blinking. Messages line up in your inbox—some unimportant, some routine—but one from Seungmin catches your eye.

Seungmin: Noted.

That’s it.

Just one word. No emojis. No dot. No anything.

Typical Seungmin. You stare at the message for a long second, thumb hovering, then lock the screen without replying.

He knew what it meant. And so did you.

The station’s just outside the window now—dusty, old signage, lazy afternoon sun cutting long shadows across the platform. You know they’re not going to let you carry anything except yourself. Protocol, they said. Risk, they said. She’s the bait, they didn’t say, but you could hear it between every unspoken breath. You grab your duffle bag, packed with barely enough for a weekend and a hell of a lot of sarcasm, and hold it out behind you.

“Hold this” you mutter.

Felix—quiet, composed—takes it without a word. His hands graze yours for a moment too long, but you pretend not to notice. You step forward.

The train stops.

With a hiss, the doors part. The warm air outside hits your face instantly, humid and grimy like an unfamiliar tongue licking up your spine.

You step down.

One black boot, then the other.

Your eyes scan the crowd like you were born doing this. A boy selling tea. A girl with headphones and glitter socks. A man coughing with his whole chest. A stray dog limping between human legs.

And then—

“Y/N?”

You turn.

The man before you is tall, bald, looks like he shaves his head with a vengeance and probably works for someone who wears slippers with a cigar. Button-down shirt, dusty shoes. No smile.

“Yes?” you reply, short.

He nods. “Come.”

No introduction. No ID. No pleasantries.

You follow.

You don’t look behind you, but you know. You know Yeji and Hyunjin have already locked onto you with their eyes. That they’re at a distance—calculating, quietly moving, adjusting to the crowd like the ghosts they’ve trained to be. Somewhere behind them, Felix blends into the press of people. You don’t have to check. You just know.

The man leads you down a staircase, muttering something into a walkie-talkie hidden under his coat.

You followed the man through a cracked alley next to the station—quiet, too quiet, like the sound had been vacuumed out of the world. That sharp sixth sense you’d honed for years was screaming, your neck tingling as the shadows deepened and the street lights flickered above like they knew something you didn’t.

A black car sat parked at the alley’s end.

He opened the rear door. “Inside.”

No explanation. No name. No chance to make eye contact with anyone tailing you. You slid in.

Dark upholstery. Smelled new. Too new.

The door slammed behind you.

Three more cars. You spotted them just before the first one pulled ahead. Sleek. Silent. One in front, two behind. No lights. No plates. No sound but the faint crunch of gravel beneath their tires.

You didn’t even have time to memorize their make.

A cover drops over your head.

Black.

Tight.

Smells like gasoline and plastic and fear.

“Fuck” you think, just like that, quiet, unsaid, the syllable burning against the roof of your mouth. Your jaw clenches. Your molars grind.

Because you know what this is.

You were being diverted.

You're computing.

The route turns. And you could feel yourself being shifted to another vehicle. They were being careful to mislead any stalkers to a different location.

You count minutes like heartbeats. Seven. Ten. Thirteen. Then the car slows.

When it stops, no one speaks.

You hear boots crunch against wet dirt.

A hand grabs your arm, not gently.

You’re yanked out of the car.

cold wind punches into your neck beneath the hood, sharp and raw, and somewhere far off, you hear a dog barking. A door opens. Not the car—a building. Rusty hinges. The faint reek of stale piss and iron—a warehouse, maybe, or an abandoned storage shed.

You're marched inside. Five steps. Turn. Fifteen steps. Another turn.

Then—finally—the hood is pulled off.

Harsh yellow lights buzz overhead.

Cement floor. Steel walls. Mould-blackened corners.

And five others.

They don’t speak. They don’t move. Their faces are blurred in half-shadow, but their stillness is wrong. Militant. Controlled. Like they’re....part of the police?

Weird feeling.

The others had been dragged in too—three of them. One girl, two boys, you did not get to look at their faces.

There was a pat-down check up.

And then came him.

The door banged open and in walked a guy wearing the loudest pair of military-print sweatpants you’d ever seen. Oversized hoodie, undercut hair, face way too relaxed for the situation.

He clapped once. “Uh-uh. They’re one of us, dumbasses. What’s with the welcome-home-captivity vibe?”

The guards exchanged looks, then slowly stepped away. One of them grunted in annoyance, clearly disliking being told off by someone in joggers.

You raised a brow.

The guy’s gaze fell on you.

And his eyes lit up.

“Woo!” he let out, finger-gunning directly at your face. “It’s herrrrr.”

You instinctively tilted your chin, studying him, but he’d already walked over, casual, cocky, like he was escorting a date instead of an infiltrating undercover officer who may or may not snap his neck.

“I’m Seonghwa” he chirped. “You and those three are this year’s newest members. Congrats.”

You didn’t respond. Your jaw ticked, even as you followed the subtle pressure of his guiding hand. He was grinning, like this was a summer camp and not…whatever the hell this cult-for-criminals was.

“I’ll personally escort you to your room” he offered, like it was a kindness, though you clocked the glint in his eyes—curious, amused, impressed. “Feast’s happening soon. A gift follows.”

“A gift?” you asked, bland.

“You’ll see” he winked.

The hallway was long and windowless. Concrete walls painted black, lit by string lights and low lanterns that cast flickering shadows. San led you to a sleek door and handed you a brass key. Inside—more refined than you expected.

White walls. A plush chair. Carpet that felt clean beneath your boots. A long mirror.

Clothes?

You reached for the material slowly, checking the tags, the seams, even the lining.

The outfit, a tailored suit. White. Form-fitting. Sharp at the shoulders, cinched at the waist.

It didn’t look like you.

When you stepped out of the room, the noise hit you like static—laughs, chatter, the clinking of glasses.

The dining hall was massive. Lanterns swung from iron hooks above, and a long wooden table ran the center of the room. Candles dripped wax down into skull-shaped holders. Meat, bread, wine, and unidentifiable dishes lined the table like a royal offering.

“Aha! See her—THE STAR!” someone shouted.

You turned to see a boy lean over the table, two glasses in hand, dark hair swept back with reckless effort.

The room burst into cheers. Whooping. Applause.

You walked in, straight-backed, eyes cutting through the crowd, your white suit glowing under the firelight.

You took your seat. And they poured your wine.

You looked around at the dress code and understanding. the new ones wear white suits, old ones whatever the like.

The meat was raw.

It wasn’t served raw, but it might as well have been. You chewed it like paper, swallowed it like glass, and placed your fork down after exactly three bites. Your wine glass remained untouched, and your gaze drifted over the sea of flickering faces.

They were still laughing.

Still drinking.

Still chanting your name every once in a while. You. The star.

Across the table, seonghwa was nodding along to something a girl whispered in his ear. Something about his face still nagged at you. A familiarity… something about the edges. You kept your face unreadable, watching him casually toss grapes into his mouth.

“Yah, someone’s lookin’ fancy,” came a voice from your side.

You turned, and the chair next to you scraped back.

White suit. New guy like you. Smirk as wide as the knife you’d just mentally counted under the feast table.

Han Jisung.

You blinked once.

He blinked back. “Y/N, right? I remember you.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, casually elbowing your plate, and grinned, “No dance?”

“No” you said smoothly. “I’m taken.”

Jisung raised his eyebrows. “Really? You don’t want…”—he waved a hand down his own body—“this?”

You chuckled to blend in, shaking your head. He snorted, shrugged like he was used to rejections, and reached for the wine.

But you didn’t miss the way he looked at you. He’d recognized you, sure.

Because ten minutes later, everything changed.

The feast was cut short. seonghwa stood on a crate and whistled through his fingers.

“Rookies” he announced. “Follow me. The rest of you—bring your asses.”

The crowd moved like smoke—about 60 of them, you estimated. Most were dressed casually—loose shirts, boots, and smirks sharp enough to gut.

You were ushered to a large open chamber—grimy, ancient, something between a stadium and an execution yard. At the center was a ring, and behind it—cages.

Your stomach turned.

You spotted them instantly. The hostages.

And among them—

Hyunjin.

Blood on his temple, chained at the wrists. A child next to him—a girl, lips trembling. They were locked up, faces pale, eyes flicking between the crowds.

Fuck.

seonghwa walked back from a quiet conversation with a bald man in a sleeveless vest.

He clapped again.

“So!” he grinned. “Turns out, a few rats were sniffin’ around. Cops. We caught some in the mislead locations.”

He turned slowly to look at you all.

His voice dropped, low and venomous. “Which means… one of our precious rookies here is a little pig.”

“Now…” San motioned to the ring. “Let’s find out who. Shall we?”

And just like that, you were shoved.

You staggered into the ring, boots skidding against the sand-stained stone floor.

A box clattered open in the corner.

Knives. Eight of them.

seonghwa threw his hands up. “Kill the others. Survive. Make me proud.”

The crowd roared.

One of the other girls smirked at you, cracking her neck and sliding off her suit coat. She cracked her knuckles, sauntered toward you, all slow confidence.

You slid the knife up straight into her neck. One twist. One silence.

The cheers deafened.

You stood, blood now splattered across your white suit, breathing steady. Your knife glinted under the flames.

Jisung turned from another kill, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at you—saw the blood, the body, the ice in your eyes.

He whistled low. “Damn.”

You stepped forward, but not before turning to Hyunjin’s cage, where his head was rising, eyes squinting, recognizing you.

Shit.

Jisung rolled his shoulders. Looking hesitant if he should come at you.

You tilted your head, finger pointing from your chest down your blood-soaked front. “You don’t want this?”

He laughed. Loud. Giddy.

He was fast—faster than you expected—but predictable. His footwork left openings. You dropped low, swiped at his legs. He dodged, rolled.

You anticipated the roll. You knew the pattern.

And with a silent curse, you slammed your boot into his stomach, dragging him across the dirt, and sliced his kneecaps.

His hands shot to your waist, clawing for balance. That’s when he felt it.

The gun.

He froze.

And you saw it. Recognition bloom.

“You…” he rasped, bleeding through his teeth. “You’re the…”

Your fingers moved fast. Pulled the gun. Shoved it into his own coat pocket, slow and precise, just as his blood started to pool beneath him.

“You’re going down a dangerous path” he whispered, staring at you.

You leaned down, brushed his hair from his eyes.

“I’ve heard that,” you whispered, “since the day I took this job.”

Then—stab. Right to the throat.

He didn’t move again.

The crowd lost it.

Clapping. Screaming. A storm of adrenaline.

seonghwa leapt down from the platform, pacing toward you like a wolf. He whistled. “woahhhh, you’re strong.”

You didn’t respond.

He came closer, grinning. “But what if I say… you’re that strong because you’re a cop?”

You froze.

Then—another voice.

“Hey! This guy’s got a gun!”

All heads turned. The corpse.

seonghwa marched over, shoved Jisung’s coat open, yanked the weapon.

“Huh” he muttered. “So Jisung… was the rat.”

He walked back to you, patted your shoulder like a proud father.

“Well done, princess. You’re the only one left now.”

He turned toward the cages.

“Do the honors” he said.

Hyunjin’s door creaked open.

He stumbled forward, lip bleeding, wrists red and raw.

Your eyes met.

seonghwa leaned in. “Kill him.”

You looked at Hyunjin.

Then at seonghwa.

Your hand twitched at your side. But your eyes—your eyes didn’t blink.

Not yet.

Hyunjin stood unsteady in front of you, his knees weak, his mouth trembling. That look again. The one that said he knew you. Believed you.

And then seonghwa clapped again, too close, too loud.

“Wait, wait” he grinned, turning to the others. “Let’s not waste him just yet.”

He pointed at Hyunjin, who flinched.

“Extract info first” seonghwa said. “Maybe he knows where the other pigs are squealing.”

You gave a single nod. “Ten minutes.”

seonghwa smirked, tilting his head. “Mmm. Just ten?”

“That’s all I need,” you said, and turned toward Hyunjin.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, crack.

Your foot swept behind his knee, dropping him.

Then, before he even processed the fall, your hands grazed his shoulders and—pop.

Hyunjin let out a scream that could’ve scraped stone.

Your eyes flicked to him just once. “Sorry.”

He groaned, collapsing forward onto his good shoulder. Still conscious. Still breathing. Still not screaming anymore. That, you were grateful for.

seonghwa whistled low. “Wooooahhhh.”

He burst into a laugh.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he said, his hands on his knees, eyes bright like a child at a circus. “Shit, I’m so glad you’re here.”

He turned to the others, gesturing. “Come on, we’ll go sweep the rest of the sites, maybe those other cops are still hanging around.”

Then, over his shoulder as he walked away: “You take care of this one, sweetheart.”

And they left.

Gone. Laughter echoing off the walls.

The moment they were out of sight, you moved.

“Get up” you muttered, grabbing Hyunjin under his good arm.

He hissed but didn’t resist. You held him steady, dragging his weight as you moved fast—through the side of the ring, behind the ropes, toward the cages.

You were unlocking them one by one when the third opened.

A little girl launched forward into Hyunjin’s arms.

she sobbed, and he barely caught her with his good arm.

“Shhh” you whispered, “we need to go.”

The last cage clicked open—and he froze.

Outside, engine.

A black car rolled quietly into the shadows.

The back door creaked, and a familiar voice drawled, “You took your time.”

Hyunjin blinked, confused. “Seungmin?”

Seungmin, lounging in the driver’s seat, raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”

Hyunjin squinted. “How… how are you here?”

Seungmin scoffed. “You think she gave me a real leave? I’ve been watching since the train. she had a tracker in her mouth and put it somewhere in the building.”

Hyunjin blinked. “That’s… creative.”

“Get in before your shoulder falls off.” Seungmin snapped, unlocking the back doors.

Hyunjin and the girl climbed in as you shut the car doors beside you, checking each lock. Your body was already burning, lungs heavy with adrenaline and leftover blood.

Seungmin stared at you through the rearview mirror. “You can’t go back in. Not now. Felix and Yeji will finish this.”

You clenched your jaw. “There are more inside—”

“I know” he said. “These are orders from Chan, he's uh—angry. This part is over for you.”

Behind you, as the engine started again, the burning compound disappeared into the black of the night.

The gunfire lit up the night. You send a message through your talkie.

mislead location#2

Felix ducked behind the sandbags, jaw clenched, ears ringing. The smell of metal, mud, and gunpowder clawed at his lungs. Beside him, Yeji reloaded.

Something was wrong.

Felix’s eyes darted to the horizon, where backup should have been. Nothing. His hand flew to his walkie.

“Unit Four to Base,” he barked. “Come in. We need support. Repeat, we—”

Nothing.

Static.

Just white, empty nothing.

Felix frowned. “Yeji, are you getting through?”

She shook her head. “They’re jamming us or something. I don’t know how, but—”

Then suddenly—crack—a shot rang too close.

Felix turned, just in time to see Yeji fall to the ground—hit, but not bleeding. No blood. Not yet. Her weapon gone.

Three men surrounded her, and in seconds, they had her pinned.

“Shit!” he yelled, scrambling up—but a warning shot knocked him back. He hit the ground hard, eyes wide, breath stolen.

His walkie buzzed again.

Still static.

His pulse was deafening. His hands shook.

He remembered—

“There are ten thousand channels on standard-issue police walkies,” you said coolly, pacing. “And yet, if you don’t know how to switch frequencies, you’ll die trying to call your partner for help.”

Jeongin had yawned.

“You think criminals stay on default? Grow a brain, rookie.”

“That’s why you don’t depend on one frequency. You scan. You switch. You memorize backdoors.”

His fingers moved on muscle memory.

He clicked open the comm interface, rewired the signal band. His eyes scanned the list of side frequencies you had drilled into their heads. you even made them write it a fifty times, he wrote a hundred times.

Channel 54A. Internal reroute. Backup pulse transmission.

He locked in.

And then—

click. A voice. Her voice.

“I’m safe, Felix. Hyunjin is with me. Go in. Get the hostages.”

His throat closed for a second.

He barely managed a whisper. “Yeji…”

He sprang to his feet.

As he ran, he saw her burst free. She’d dislocated her own thumb to slide out of the cuffs. She ducked behind a truck and waved. Felix veered toward her—but she caught his arm before he could move further.

“Wait.”

He paused.

Someone stepped out.

Not just some gang leader. No. Felix’s eyes widened.

He knew that face.

That voice. That smugness.

“Wait,” Felix whispered. “Isn’t that…?”

Seonghwa.

His cheif at the police academy. The same one who always claimed he was too busy to support field ops. Who never signed approvals. Who smiled a bit too much when paperwork got ‘lost.’

Felix’s heart turned to ice. “Holy shit.”

Yeji, panting, still pressing a hand to her ribs, looked at him. “What?”

Felix’s mouth moved before his mind could catch up.

He fumbled for his comm. “Mr. Bang—Mr.Bang, confirm. this man is out higher up, yes?”

“...He is” Chan’s voice snapped. “Get me visuals, now.”

The station lights buzzed quietly.

Seonghwa, now in chains, sat in the steel interrogation room, one hand bouncing in frustration on the metal table. His face had twisted into a scowl, his composure long gone.

Across from him, Hyunjin sat in a sling, arm casted, lip split. His breathing shallow, but rage boiling in his eyes.

Next to him, Felix leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, quiet. Watching.

Hyunjin snarled first. “You talk about freedom.”

Hyunjin slammed his hand on the table, making the cuffs rattle. “You had children in cages! And you called that freedom?!”

He stood up suddenly, searching the room—like he’d forgotten something.

Felix narrowed his eyes. “What are you looking for?”

Hyunjin hissed. “Her bat.”

Felix blinked. “You mean Y/N’s—”

Hyunjin didn’t respond.

Seonghwa finally spoke, coldly. “How the hell did you catch me?”

Felix leaned forward, voice calm.

“We had someone on the inside.”

Seonghwa laughed. “Oh yeah? Who? Which of your precious cops is mad enough to kill to get in?”

Felix glanced at Hyunjin, then back at Seonghwa.

“We have a psychopath” Hyunjin said softly. “But lucky for us… she’s on our side.”

Seonghwa's smile faltered.

Felix stood.

“So maybe you should be grateful you’re in this room.”

Hyunjin turned, pushing open the door.

“Because if she was here—” he added without turning back, “—you wouldn’t have a throat left to ask questions with.”

The door shut behind them.

And in the distance—sirens rose with the dawn.

The story swept across the country like wildfire.

“Undercover Operation Exposes Human Trafficking Ring”

“Superindent police officer, Takes down international drug network”

“Police Chief Implicated in Multi-State Corruption Scandal”

your photo circulated on news channels, all grainy from a raid bodycam, half your face in focus, smudged with blood, your shoulder bruised, and that unwavering stare that made headlines label you everything from hero to machine.

You weren’t watching the news when it aired.

You were at the precinct locker room, still in that spare uniform someone had tossed to you, hair damp from the cold shower, eyes blank from the post-mission haze. Your ribs ached. Your shoulder was still out of place until Chan helped you shove it back in earlier. And your knuckles were still swollen from… you weren’t even sure who anymore.

Felix had come in and silently sat beside you.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

For a moment, you just sat there, bruised and breathing.

In the background, someone switched the TV volume up. The press was going insane.

They talked about you like you were fiction.

Some called you reckless.

Some called you a martyr.

Some wondered how deep the corruption really went.

Some wanted to give you a medal.

Felix stood at the doorway, silent. You didn’t need to talk about what happened. You both had the blood to prove it.

Back to office.

Seungmin raises his brows at you over the cubicle divider. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the way he tilts his head toward your monitor—then subtly toward the security feed on the corner screen.

You alright? it means.

You give a half-nod. Stop looking at me like that, it means back.

Hyunjin, further down the hallway, gives a short two-finger wave before going back to reviewing a set of crime scene photos with Yeji. You catch her glancing toward you, then giving Hyunjin a pointed look.

They’re whispering. You don’t need to hear them to know what they’re saying.

There she goes. Still showing up. Still working. Tainted, but here. Still cold. Still breathing.

Your identity—once just your name and credentials—now feels like a headline someone read once and forgot the facts of. Just the shape of it. Just the outline of guilt and suspicion.

You grimace.

A blink later, you’re back at your desk. The world is gray, dim through the half-light of surveillance screens and filtered windows.

But your phone buzzes.

Lix :

u look like u wanna stab someone want me to fake faint in the hallway so u can smile at something?

Your lips twitch.

You :

tempting. though watching you faint would give me anxiety not joy.

Lix :

then what would give you joy?

You stare at that message longer than you should. There’s a small part of you that wants to say you. But you don’t. You haven’t. Not yet.

So instead, you type:

You :

if you wore that stupid bomber jacket again the one that makes you look like a golden retriever attending a fashion show that might help

There’s a pause.

Lix:

first of all. rude. second of all. i’m wearing it right now. check cam 8

You open the feed. Sure enough—cam 8, warehouse corridor. Felix walks by, hands in his pockets, hair pulled back, win.

He is wearing it.

You let out a low breath, shoulders unclenching just slightly.

He knows what he’s doing.

You:

i still hate you

Lix :

liar you love me when i bring snacks

You :

you’re safe because you bring snacks and maybe because you don’t look at me like i’m broken

Lix :

bc you’re not i know what broken looks like it’s not you

You blink. The words sit heavily in your chest, warm and unwelcome, like a hand on a wound you’ve kept stitched shut.

You want to say thank you, but that feels too soft. Too much like a crack in the armor.

So instead you reply:

You :

stop flirting or i’ll actually smile and ruin my brand

Your shoulder hurts less

[why-purpose-enti]

Psychopaths prefer Freckles

A older,(about 30)!reader x 26,(crushing on you since long)! Felix

A two shot.

Plot, plot with romance.

warning: murder,violence, sort of love at first sight, kind of broken parent-child relationship, and humor.

you might feel incomplete after reading, because it's the first part!!

Also, I dont know much about police rankings so if you find any mistakes, excuse them please!

Part-2

You used to work in Busan. Superintendent of Police.

It wasn’t a quiet post. Narcotics. Missing persons. Politically sensitive cover-ups. And one particularly high-profile suicide that wasn’t a suicide.

Your record was immaculate. Your methods, not so much.

Too aggressive during interrogations. Too little sleep. Too much adrenaline. They said the sound of a metal chair dragging across tile could push you into a spiral.

You weren’t fired.

You were moved.

Now it’s Seoul. HIT(Homicide intervention team) Crime Bureau. Elite division. Air thicker with pressure than pollution. It sits five floors up like a crown on a dying city. And you’re standing at the front desk, holding your transfer letter in one hand, ignoring the whispers in your back.

“She’s the one, right? From Busan?”

“Heard she broke a guy’s jaw.”

“Didn’t they say she bit someone—”

“Shhh! Don’t look at her.”

You don’t. They don’t.

You walk through the lobby, gaze straight ahead. Like a bullet on two legs.

You stop at the heavy black door marked: BANG CHAN.

You knock. Once. Sharp.

From the other side, a warm voice calls, “Come in.”

You don’t. You sit outside.

There’s a narrow bench across the hallway, and you drop into it, elbows on your knees, hands limp between them. Your head is spinning. Your temples ache. There's a stabbing pain down your left shoulder, but that’s nothing new.

So you sit. You breathe. You wait.

The door opens.

Chan steps out, expecting movement, maybe greeting—and pauses.

You’re still sitting. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.

“Not coming in?” he asks.

You glance up at him.

“My head’s been spinning since morning,” you say simply. No dramatic sigh. No complaint. Just fact.

He hums, walks to you, and gently plucks the letter from your hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you” he says, flipping it open. “I was expecting something louder.”

You just look up at him.

He signs the document with a sleek black pen, clicks it closed, and hands the letter back. “Let’s not waste time.”

He gestures. You rise.

The main bullpen falls to a hush when you enter.

It’s not silent. It’s worse. It’s that awkward, glassy pause where people don’t want to be caught looking, but they already are. Chairs turn half-way. Files stop moving. Breath gets held.

Chan leads, you trail.

“Everyone” Chan says, voice firm but not loud, “meet your new next-in-command. Miss Y/N. She’ll be overseeing division operations with me and handling all incoming leads on violent crimes. You’ve read about her. Now you’ll work with her.”

you look.

Eyes sweep left to right. Lock on a guy who lowers his gaze quickly then on a girl. another guy’s in the corner, straightening his files like they’re military-grade.

They greet.

You nod at them, and once again at the girl who seemed to give you sparkly eyes.

Then you follow Chan again.

Your office is smaller than the one in Busan, but it’s neater. Cold walls, sealed window, standard-issue desk, steel filing cabinet, a chair that looks like it hasn’t been adjusted since 2011.

Chan opens the door.

“This’ll be you.”

You glance around.

He watches you for a beat. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You nod again. “Thank you.”

He leaves. Door clicks shut.

And just like that, you’re alone again.

You set your coat on the hook and roll your left shoulder.

That damn pain’s back. Like someone’s threading a hot wire under your skin from the blade to your bicep.

You go to the window. Open it. Let stale Seoul air flood in. The sounds are oddly comforting—distant shouting, a bus engine, a siren blip.

You sit on the cushioned office chair.

You lean back and finally open your laptop.

The shoulder ache lingers.

“burning pain in left shoulder and arm”

Google loads. First link: Possible causes: heart attack. Seek emergency medical help.

You stare at the screen.

Your eye twitches once.

“Symptoms of heart attack in women under 35.”

“Is left shoulder pain related to anxiety.”

“Covid booster side effects shoulder pain left arm dizziness + hypertension + exhaustion + rage + homicide and arson tendencies.”

Google returned no reassuring answers.

You leaned further back into the chair, wincing as the pain flared again in your shoulder.

If it was a heart attack, you figured you'd go down with your boots on. Preferably while yelling at someone.

Then came the knock.

Three raps.

You didn’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open.

Seungmin stepped in first—orderly, straight-spined, textbook posture—and Hyunjin trailed him like a cat who'd been shoved into a suit. His shoulders were loose, but his eyes kept flicking around the room. Like something might jump at him. Or worse, you might.

They sat across from you, hands neatly in their laps. The chair legs scraped against the tile.

Hyunjin’s leg started bouncing.

Tap tap tap taptap.

Seungmin cleared his throat.

“Ma’am. I’m Kim Seungmin. This is Hwang Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin gave a polite nod.

Tap tap tap.

Your eye twitched.

You waited a beat. Then looked at him directly.

“Stop bouncing your leg.”

It wasn’t shouted. Just… delivered like a bullet. Straight, fast, and no-frills.

Hyunjin froze.

As if on cue, someone dropped a metal tumbler outside the office door. The clang was so loud it made your pen jump in its holder.

Hyunjin jolted like he’d been tased.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you okay?”

“S-Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s fine” you said flatly. “Don’t repeat it.”

His leg went still. His soul? Possibly not in the room anymore.

Seungmin, to his credit, continued like he hadn’t just watched a ghost pass through his best friend.

“So, as per Mr. Bang, we’ve been briefed that you’re our immediate senior for division-level cases. Hyunjin and I usually collaborate on field-debrief and evidence flow, but we’re happy to follow your directive structure and reporting flow.”

You nodded absently. Still scrolling.

“Heart attack or pulled muscle?”

“Is sudden shoulder pain psychosomatic?”

“How many hours do you have after heart attack before you die?”

You looked up again, blinked at the two of them.

They hadn’t moved. Seungmin now looked vaguely uncomfortable. Hyunjin looked like he was preparing to be asked to dig his own grave.

“Is there anything else?”

They exchanged a look. Hyunjin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then subtly nudged Seungmin’s arm.

Seungmin sighed.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Mr. Bang decided one of us should assist you directly—for scheduling, reports, lead channelling, etc. You should’ve gotten a message.”

You picked up your phone.

New text from Chan:

assigned one. Hyunjin, needs guidance.

You looked up at them.

“Yes” you said. “I see it. Hyunjin?”

He blinked.

“Y-yes?”

“You’re my new assistant.”

His lips parted. Then closed. Then parted again.

He nodded numbly. “Okay.”

You tapped your phone screen off.

“You may leave.”

They stood quickly. Seungmin looked vaguely amused, which you didn’t like. Hyunjin looked like he was re-evaluating his life choices since birth.

As they left, you called out, almost absently:

“Hyunjin?”

He froze in the doorway.

You didn’t look up.

“You will stop bouncing that leg. Yes?”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

The door clicked shut.

You exhaled through your nose. Pain pulsed again in your shoulder.

You opened a new tab.

“Is stress enough to simulate cardiac symptoms.”

Then shut it again.

It wasn’t this cold when you first arrived.

But the city was getting colder every day. And somewhere, deep down, it felt personal. Like the cold was something that followed you. Crawled behind your spine, dug under your nails, slipped into the crack of your jaw.

Now, it was snowing.

Thin white dust covered the pavement like the crime scene was decorated for Christmas. A corpse instead of a star.

Hyunjin drove.

He hadn’t spoken the entire ride.

You didn’t complain. You hated morning conversation.

The heater in the car buzzed low, trying its best. But it was still cold as fuck. You barely moved your arms. The dull ache in your left shoulder was worse today. You clenched your jaw every time the vehicle turned, neck locking.

He stole a few glances at you as you both stepped out at the site.

It was in the older part of town—some half-shut warehouse with a rusted door. Blood marked the snow in a slow, lazy pool near the entrance.

Inside was worse.

The man had been tied up upside down, rope wounds burned into his ankles, still dangling like some morbid art installation. His neck was sliced—front and back. Brutal, but not rushed. Precise, even. There were three incisions across the torso.

Everyone stood around it like they didn’t want to be the first to speak.

You stepped closer.

Hyunjin came up beside you. Without a word, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, holding them out.

You gave him a flat look.

“No.”

He hesitated. “It’s—it's freezing.”

“So go sit in the car” you muttered, eyes never leaving the body.

You exhaled.

Shoulder throbbing. Coat heavy. The chill slicing through your sleeves like needles.

Still, you stepped closer.

The corpse swayed a little. No wind. Just imbalance. His head hung like a wrecked chandelier. You rolled your left shoulder slowly—still stiff. Then raised both arms. Mimicking the cutting movement.

You shifted your weight onto your heels, lifted your heels off the ground, adjusting for better balance. Simulating the swing of a blade.

Then lowered your hands and muttered, mostly to yourself, “The cut’s clean on both ends. One person. Taller than me by a few inches. Maybe four.”

Hyunjin scribbled beside you, his pen moving quickly against the pad in his gloved hand.

He looked up. “Torso?”

You nodded once. Stepped forward again.

You leaned in, squatted slightly, ignoring the way your thigh protested. Reached a bare hand out slowly and touched the edge of the lowest cut. Two fingers. Careful. Barely pressure.

You stood up, brushing your hand on your coat.

“Forensics, let them.”

He nodded, writing it down.

You looked at him, face calm. Breath steaming slightly in the freezing air.

“Anything else?”

Hyunjin looked through his notes, then shook his head slightly. “Not from me. The lab team will need a bit longer to set up for blood angle analysis.”

“Then stay” you said. “Handle everything. I want every digital, chemical, and physical connection this guy had charted and cross-referenced in three days.”

He blinked. “All of it?”

You gave him a look.

He nodded.

You turned to leave, walking toward the car.

“My check-up’s scheduled in thirty” you tossed over your shoulder. “This shoulder’s fucked.”

“I’ll finish and send everything over” he called after you.

You waved a hand once, still walking. The wind caught your coat, snapping it open for a second before it settled.

Hyunjin looked down at the corpse again.

It was warmer than you.

The waiting bench outside the doctor's office was plastic and colder than concrete.

You sat on its edge, elbow propped on your knee, phone pinned between your shoulder and jaw, the screen flickering against your temple. Your other hand flexed unconsciously over your left shoulder. The ache had grown teeth.

Hyunjin’s voice filtered in, clipped and clean. “There’s no footprints, ma’am. Not a single one.”

You inhaled. “Snow?”

“Yes. It’s fresh. Probably fell last night, maybe early morning too. The surface is completely even now.”

You hummed. A sharp, thoughtful sound. Then leaned your head back against the cold glass behind you. “We’ll revisit the scene tonight. Once the sun’s down. Lights might pick up something infrared didn’t.”

“Understood.” Click. The call ended.

A second later, your phone buzzed again.

hyunjin: Forensics report. Just got the preliminaries. hyunjin: His glands are gone. Pituitary. Pancreas. Some from the chest cavity. hyunjin: Dopamine-secreting types. hyunjin: Maybe organ trade?

You typed back:

you: Glands don’t sell. No black market use. Not even for biochemistry. Too fragile.

Read.

No response from him after that.

You locked your phone and sighed, cold breath misting in front of you like steam from a bullet wound. The air here made your teeth ache.

Your name was called.

You stood, pushing open the clinic door.

The doctor’s room smelled sterile and bright. The light made your eyes twitch.

He looked up from the file.

You sat down hard on the examination stool, coat still draped over your shoulders like armor.

He glanced up.

You zoned out as he opened your chart.

He said something.

You didn’t catch it.

“Ma’am?” He looked at you again.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “I asked—any signs of zoning out lately?”

You straightened slightly. “No.”

He watched your face for a moment too long.

Then nodded anyway, wrote something down.

You saw it even upside down. “Patient in denial.”

“Tch.”

“Your father told me you’re police” he said without looking up. “High clearance?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at your file again. “Are you keeping the violence down?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your gaze dropped to his pen, and suddenly the memory pulled up like a ragged file.

Blood slicked across the table. Your palm pushing down. a hand under yours, wrist bent. You’d said “Lie again—” before it cracked.

You blinked.

The doctor was still watching you.

“Are you keeping it under control?” he asked again gently.

You’d barely said yes when your phone buzzed again.

Dad-dont-pick-up.

Your jaw ticked.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the kind of sound that usually came right before a threat. The doctor subtly adjusted the stethoscope around his neck.

You picked up.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin—” you caught yourself mid-snarl, eyes flicking toward the man seated before you, “—I’m with him. At the clinic. Stop calling.”

Then cut the line without waiting for a response.

Behind his desk, the doctor sighed. Like he had met ten versions of you just this week. Like yours was the most predictable brand of short fuse.

He scribbled again.

You leaned back, irritated now by the sound of the pen itself. “Uh my left shoulder” you said. “Burns like it’s on fire when I wake up. Gets worse during the day.”

He nodded, finally something non-psychological to sink his teeth into. “Rotator cuff strain, probably. Nothing critical. Overuse, inflammation. Keep it warm. Stretch. Take anti-inflammatories.”

He slid a prescription note toward you with the names of the pills already scrawled in neat uppercase.

Then added, almost too casually, “Ask your husband to help with physiotherapy if it gets worse.”

You stood up and snatched the paper with a sharp rustle.

“Did my father tell you I'm married?”

The doctor blinked.

You weren’t sure why that irritated you more than the rest of the conversation. Maybe it was the assumption. Maybe it was the voice in your head that whispered what if you were? what if someone actually could?

You turned toward the door, the prescription crushed slightly in your hand.

“I’m not married” you said flatly.

Behind you, he raised his eyebrows and slowly wrote something down again.

“Of course” he said. “My mistake.”

You didn’t respond.

The door clicked shut harder than necessary behind you.

You and Hyunjin walked toward the alley from the west side, streetlamps flickering above. Your collar was popped, your shoulder stiff, and you hadn’t spoken since the car ride.

Which was probably for the best.

It was when you were ten steps from the crime scene that someone bumped into you.

Full-body kind of bump. Like they weren’t paying attention, or like they were trying not to be seen.

You instinctively reached for your hip.

The man stumbled back, bowing slightly, hands up. “sorry! I didn’t see—”

Head down, and gone the next second. Melted into the crowd before you could blink.

At the taped-off site, the corpse had long been removed. The dark splotch on the ground was still visible—darker than the snow, soaking beneath the top layer. The ropes had left deep indents in the metal piping overhead where the man had been hung.

You stared at the slush under your feet. “Get this snow melted.”

Hyunjin blinked. “Ma’am?”

“The snow. Melt it. The vehicle was on sand, it snowed early in the morning, right? We melt it, maybe we catch something.”

Hyunjin raised a brow but signaled the team. “Bring the flamers.”

Within minutes, two officers returned with portable gas flamethrowers—the kind used for controlled burns or thawing roads. A hum of ignition followed.

You squinted at the heat as it began steaming away the snow.

You and Hyunjin squat to take a closer look at the snow.

A sharp blast of warmth flared at your right temple. You turned sharply.

“Hyunjin” you said through gritted teeth. “Ask that guy to stop pointing the flammer in my fucking face.”

Hyunjin turned to the officer and guestured him to move away with a scrunched nose.

The guy muttered an apology and adjusted the nozzle toward the ground properly. You exhaled. Tension pulsed in your left shoulder again.

“You hear that?” you asked, gesturing at the faint crunching noise beneath the vanishing snow. “Check that area. Left side.”

One of the officers crouched. Cleared a little more space with a small brush. There it was.

A tire mark. Deep and clean in the half-thawed mud.

Hyunjin crouched down beside it, taking a measurement with a laser tool. “Nine inches. Tread looks brand-new. Maybe just a week or two old.”

You nodded.

“Check the nearby service areas. Stores. Anyone who bought that model tire recently.”

Hyunjin straightened. “There’ll be too many.”

“Then narrow it down” you snapped, not looking at him. “Cross-reference with movement logs. People out during the snowfall window.”

He muttered a quiet “Yes, ma’am.”

You were already on your phone again.

Scrolling Tinder.

Swipe left. Left. Left. God, no. Left.

Seungmin trudged over just as you left-swiped on someone posing next to a deer statue.

He held his notepad in one gloved hand, pencil behind his ear. “Need a behavioral profile by tomorrow?”

“Midnight.”

He scribbled something, then looked up, slightly hopeful. “By the way, ma’am… I was wondering. End of the month—can I take a few days off?”

You didn’t respond, thumb still mid-swipe.

He hesitated. “My niece’s school has their annual day. She’s dancing. I promised I’d go. Just—three days?”

Your eyes lifted.

You looked at him. Stared. Tilted your head a little.

A full five seconds of dead silence.

“No.”

Hyunjin, nearby, was trying not to laugh. Seungmin’s face fell like a poorly balanced tower of shame.

You looked back at your phone.

When your father called again, you didn’t answer. He left a voice message. His tone was less annoyed this time. More… tired.

“I saw your face on the news again. Why do you always look like you haven’t slept in ten years? Eat something. And try combing your hair before going on TV. And for the love of god—date someone. Try being human.”

You didn’t reply.

But you did go on the dates he fixed up for you. The first guy’s name was Junseo. He was thirty-three. Tall. A “startup founder.” Wore a watch that looked like it cost more than his house.

He was also scrolling through Tinder on his phone during the date.

You said nothing for twenty minutes.

Then he looked up, smiled, and said:

“So like… are you more of a handcuff kind of cop? Or like, batons?”

You drained the last of your soda and said, “I prefer bone saws.”

Date #2: A guy who asked you if you'd ever arrested someone for public sex.

Date #3: Told you he lived with his friend and his mom, but “only because she’s hot and makes good kimchi.”

Date #4: Double-timing two other women, one of whom showed up during the date.

At this point, your dating life was less about romance and more about building your investigative instincts.

Left. Left. Left. Bio says “alpha male”? Left so hard your phone froze.

You didn’t know what exactly you were looking for. But you knew for damn sure what you weren’t.

The meeting room was full.

Bang Chan sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, glasses on. You were off to the side, sprawled in your chair with a paper cup of espresso and your phone still in hand.

Seungmin stood near the projector screen, clearing his throat before the next slide.

The screen changed to display a diagram of human glands. Highlighted in red: Pituitary. Adrenal. Pancreas.

“This” Seungmin said, pointing with the laser, “is the pattern we’ve been seeing. These are all dopamine-regulating or secreting glands. Not harvested in black market organ trades.”

He clicked again. A cross-section of the autopsy followed.

“So I ran the chemical trace scan from the forensics report. There was a dopamine modulator found near the incision points. One we’ve seen in certain stimulant factories—used in synthetic dopamine boosters.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “So it could be related to the drug manufacturing circuit?”

Seungmin nodded. “Yes. A new synthetic dopamine-based narcotic, maybe. We don’t know the delivery system yet. But someone’s collecting raw material.”

You were still on your phone.

Swiped left on a guy who looked like he took gym mirror selfies for a living.

Chan turned to you slowly.

“And what are you doing next?” he asked, calmly but directly.

Without looking up, you said “We’re going in the right track. Approach is ready.”

Hyunjin blinked. Seungmin paused and slowly turned to look at him.

Chan stared for a second longer.

Then leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “Alright. I’ll leave it to you.”

The room began to shift into smaller conversations. You locked your phone, stretching your arm just a bit to ease the shoulder pain. Still sore.

Seungmin came over again, notepad in hand, leaning down slightly.

“Ma’am” he said, hopeful again, “just two days at the end of the month. My niece’s dance thing.”

You didn’t even blink.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

He let out a small sound of despair and backed away, shoulders deflating.

You stared after him, then unlocked your phone again.

Hyunjin and you went to investigate the suspects narrowed you down, two were cleared off, clean. One's house was way too far for her to even know of a place as that, and another was none other than a man named Han Jisung, who was at work that day and night.

The third suspects house. Hyunjin was with the lock-guy who was figuring out the door lock to open it up, as no one was coming out and the house is seemingly empty.

You shouldn’t have gone in alone. You knew that. But something about the lined-up tires in the garage—it felt off.

The air was colder inside, bone-dry and sharp on your throat. You stepped over the oil stains and rat droppings. You squatted, eyes flickering across the three stacked tires in the corner. You reached out, fingers brushing against the edge of the bottom one.

A smear. Dark brown, almost dry. Metallic. You touched it lightly, then raised your finger to eye level.

Blood.

Your back straightened with a crack. You rolled your shoulders and coughed once—just once, sharp and dry—and turned toward the house.

“Hyunjin” You didn’t even raise your voice. He heard it anyway. “Tear the fucking door down.”

And he did, asking the man to move a bit. One solid kick to the side of the door—crack. Another to the hinge—crash. The lock snapped like a twig.

You both stepped in. Dust curled up in the air, and your boots echoed on the hardwood floor. The smell was immediate—iron and mold. The guy didn’t even pretend to be innocent.

He was there, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, arms blood-streaked. Breathing like a man halfway through a nightmare he thought was still a dream.

“No” he said. “No—I didn’t—I didn’t do anything.”

Then he started running.

You grabbed the guy mid-run by the collar, slammed him chest-first against the wall. He twisted, elbowed your ribs hard enough to make your teeth clack. But you didn’t let go. You dragged him down, your knee to his thigh, twisting his arm behind his back with a grunt. He broke loose once—but he didn’t get far.

You chased him down, your lungs burning, throat raw from the cold, and slammed him face-first into the corner table. Blood from his nose sprayed the whitewashed wall like art. His knees buckled.

Caught.

Interrogation Room.

(TW: violencE?)

The fluorescent light buzzed. You were leaning back on the chair like you had time. You didn’t, at all. But you looked like you did.

The man Joseph, was still catching his breath, lips cracked, knuckles scabbed from his earlier flailing. He refused to speak. Smirked, even, when you said evidence.

You had no patience left for performance.

“Hyunjin” you said. “Left hand. Hold it out.”

He blinked at you once. Then nodded, wordless.

Joseph flinched. “No. No, no—what the fuck are you—”

Hyunjin gripped his wrist, bracing it on the table.

You walked around. Calm. Like you were going to pour tea.

Instead, you picked up your baseball bat. You didn’t give him time to breathe before—

CRACK. Knuckle one.

CRACK. Knuckle two.

He all but screamed.

“Fuck you!”

CRACK.

Hyunjin winced.

“I’m gonna sue you, you fucking psycho—”

CRACK.

Screaming.

The fourth hit made his middle finger dislocate on the table.

You leaned in, wiped the blood on your sleeve, and whispered, “Joseph. We can stop. You know that, right?”

You placed your palm on his shoulder. He sobbed. You slid it upward, under the collarbone, to the socket.

Your fingers curved, other hand came to hold his shoulder stiff, gripped, and with a swift jerk—POP. The shoulder joint dislocated.

Joseph’s eyes rolled white. He fainted with a hoarse croak.

“…that fast?” you muttered under your breath.

Hyunjin slowly lets go of joseph's hand and wipes the blood off of his own. Seungmin’s voice came faintly through the walkie-talkie “…Bone dislocated, call paramedics”

You didn't respond.

Behind the one-way mirror, Chan flinched as he watched Joseph go limp.

“Damn” he whispered, rubbing his own shoulder with a wince. “I’m so scared of her.”

Joseph sat hunched over again, breathing hard through his teeth. His right arm was in a sling now. Nothing fancy—basic bandage job from the medics, wrapped fast so he wouldn’t have an excuse to delay the second round.

The air in the room felt like it was waiting for something.

Then you walked in. Same steady grip. Bat in hand.

Hyunjin was already inside. He glanced at you once, read your body language in a split second, and let out a quiet sigh.

“Other hand?” you asked softly. Like it was nothing.

“…Okay.”

He moved behind Joseph, gripped the left wrist this time, pressed it flat on the metal table.

Joseph tensed. “No, wait, wait—what the fuck—what the fuck, again?!”

You raised the bat. Fluid. No hesitation. No warm-up swing. Just raw, practiced movement.

“Tell me something useful” you said, “or I’ll separate this arm from the rest.”

The tip of the bat hovered over his wrist like an executioner’s blade.

Joseph started screaming again.

But it wasn’t the bat that hit.

It was the door.

SLAM.

Seungmin burst through, panting, holding up a phone like it was the holy grail.

“Wait!”

You paused. The bat stopped inches away from impact.

Seungmin shoved the phone in your face. The screen lit up with a paused frame.

“Cyber team cracked it. Joseph’s phone. External card. Hidden file.”

He hit play.

Hyunjin stepped beside you instinctively, watching with you.

The video rolled.

Shaky, low-resolution, taken by Joseph himself. Blood-blurred lens. A man hanging upside down, body spasming. Joseph’s voice, muttering, and the knife—slicing the throat from side to side while the man gurgled, twitching, going still.

The silence afterward was worse than the screams.

You stared at the screen. let a slow breath out.

Hyunjin flinched hard. One hand slowly left Joseph’s wrist.

“…Jesus Christ” he muttered. “He filmed it?”

You handed him the phone without a word.

Then you turned. Started walking out with Seungmin beside you, talking low.

“Submit this,” you said. “Motion for remand. Evidence, video, timestamps—fucking hell—submit it all before morning.”

You let go of your bat.

It hit the floor with a dull clang, rolling once and stopping.

Hyunjin bent down, picked it up, turned it over in his hands.

Then slowly… nudged the tip of the bat into Joseph’s already-bruised shoulder.

“Y’know…” Joseph hissed, crying out.

“I actually thought you were innocent.” Nudge.

“I even pitied you.” Another nudge—firmer.

“You stupid idiot. You filmed it? Are you out of your damn mind?” Joseph cursed through clenched teeth.

Hyunjin leaned close, voice flat but scolding, “You had the video all along? You couldv'e just said so.”

He shook his head.

Joseph groaned again, and Hyunjin raised the bat like he was thinking about it. Then his phone buzzed.

[Y/N Demon calling…]

“…Tch.”

He gave Joseph one last shove with the bat and walked out, dragging the phone to his ear.

Case Closed. Apparently.

You were seated at the head of the long conference table, legs crossed, phone in hand, face blank.

The others were discussing Joseph’s case. Technical terms. Cyberteam flags. Voice match confirmation. Timeline alignment. Hyunjin was using the whiteboard like a high school tutor again, drawing arrows between crime scenes and forensics.

You were swiping left on Tinder like your thumb had a personal grudge.

Too much gym. Swipe left. Mirror selfie with dead fish. Swipe left.

Nope. Swipe left.

Chan shot you a glance from across the room. You didn’t look up.

“Mm.” Chan says “Case is over. Guy confessed. Evidence is airtight. We’re done.”

Officer Yeji tossed a folder down with a dramatic thud, satisfied. Seungmin yawned. Someone else muttered about coffee. The whole room had the lazy satisfaction of a solved case.

You paused your swiping long enough to stretch your neck.

"There's no reason for Joseph to record it." you said.

Yeji blinked, smiled slightly.

Everyone was quiet for half a second.

Then seungmin chuckled. “Maybe he was proud?” “Or stupid” Hyunjin added with a shrug, stretching his arms.

You raised an eyebrow, looked back at Yeji.

She didn’t laugh. She looked thoughtful.

“I was watching the news yesterday” she started, casually, “and in Yokohama, a case popped up. Guy strung upside down, throat slit the same way. Almost identical.”

Hyunjin turned, frowning. “You think it’s connected?”

Yeji tilted her head. “Feels like it. Might be nothing. But…”

You were already standing.

“Okay. Bring the files to my office. Pull everything from Yokohama. Victim details, timestamps, weapon type. Cross it with Joseph’s known movements.”

“Got it” she said, pushing her chair back.

“Meeting’s over” you added.

Everyone started getting up.

Chan passed by and clapped your shoulder. “Good instinct,” he muttered, nodding toward Yeji. “She’s sharp. You rubbed off on her.”

“Unlikely” you replied.

He laughed and left, whistling.

You were back in your office, leaned back with your boots propped on the desk, scrolling through Tinder again like it owed you money.

Seungmin knocked once and entered without waiting.

“Ma'am,” he said. “About the leave....”

You didn’t look up. “That’s… the third time you’ve asked.”

“I know” he said. “I just like getting early approval.”

You sighed, thumb still gliding.

“About the leave?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not a no.”

“That’s not a yes either.”

He saluted mockingly and backed out.

You paused.

Squinted at the next tinder profile. You swiped left with force. “Absolutely not.”

Hyunjin trailed after you like a grumbling dog, expression twisted in theatrical betrayal.

“Seriously?” he huffed. “Yeji? Yeji brought it up?”

You kept walking, barely sparing him a glance. The overhead lights buzzed softly.

“Should I start worrying about replacement?” Hyunjin continued, hand over his chest. “Are we auditioning new sidekicks now? You didn’t even tell me—”

“You’re loud today,” you said.

“I’m emotionally wounded.”

You stopped walking, turned to him, deadpan.

“She noticed something before you did. Accept it and move.”

He blinked.

“…You wound me deeper.”

You turned again, walking toward the briefing hub.

Behind you, he kept pace like a scolded cat. Muttering.

Yeji was already standing by the shared screen, files open.

“This,” she said, tapping the screen, “is the victim from Yokohama. Mid-thirties, same strangulation pattern, same dissection line. And the pitutary gland was takes out from the head excatly the way joseph did.”

You stared at it for a beat, eyes narrowing.

It wasn’t just similar. It was a damn carbon copy.

You stepped back, rolling your shoulder again. The dull pulse flared sharp and then dulled again.

You turned to Chan, who had entered halfway through the discussion and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Ask Yokohama to send the suspect over” you said. “I want them here. Same cell, same setting. I want to watch how they react to the footage we have.”

Chan raised an eyebrow.

“That’s… not exactly simple” he said, tone even. “Yokohama is in a different country. They won’t want to give up a prime suspect just because we’re curious.”

“You’re not curious?” you asked, tilting your head.

He smiled, tired. “I am. But I’m also bureaucratic.”

“Try harder.”

He nodded, pressing his knuckles into his jaw like he was debating his own to-do list.

“We’ll try” he said. “No promises.”

You looked at him a moment longer, then gave a short nod and walked away without waiting for dismissal.

The office had begun to thin out. The hum of tension in your shoulders hadn't. It had been a long day—Hyunjin’s dramatics, Yokohama’s mess, Chan’s bureaucracy, and Yeji’s stubborn instincts. But now it was finally winding down. You leaned back in your chair, boots up on the desk, a cold cigarette pressed lazily between your lips, unlit.

Your left shoulder ached like it had its own pulse.

The sun had dipped by now, washing the precinct in a soft, golden haze—slanting through blinds, striping the floor, too soft for your taste. Still, for once, silence.

That was until—

knock knock knock

“Don’t” you warned.

Seungmin poked his head in anyway.

“Someone’s here to meet you.”

You raised an eyebrow, lazily tapping the unlit cigarette against your notepad.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“He’s not a delivery guy. Pretty, though. Ridiculously pretty. Looks like one of those skincare ads.”

You frowned. “That’s not a category of human beings.”

“It is when someone looks like that” Seungmin muttered, stepping aside with a suspicious smile. “He says he knows you. Name’s Felix.”

You stood slowly, flicked the cigarette into the bin, and walked out.

And there he was.

He stood against the far wall, hands tucked in the pockets of his soft coat, the collar popped slightly from the breeze that trickled through the cracked window. Blonde hair. Piercing, sun-drenched eyes. A face that shouldn’t have belonged inside a police department.

He looked out of place, but entirely unfazed.

When his gaze met yours, he straightened and smiled wider.

“Hey” he said, casually. “There you are.”

You stopped mid-step, narrowed your eyes. “Do I know you?”

His brows furrowed like you were the one being silly. “Why are you acting like that? We talked—yesterday? You asked me to meet you in front of your office?”

You stared, long and hard. “Talked. Where?”

His smile didn’t falter. “Seoulmate.com?”

Your world paused. Your eyes closed. You whispered “Fuck me.”

You turned on your heel and walked five steps away from him, pulled out your phone, and called the one man responsible for 98% of your headaches: your dad.

He answered in two rings.

“Hey—”

“Dad” you said calmly, “Did you log into my matrimony profile again?”

“…Huh?”

“There’s a man here who thinks we talked. He is from Seoulmate dot com.”

There was a pause.

Then your father coughed and said, “Okay, don’t be mad, but yes, I talked to someone for you. I thought your face would've scared him off, He really came—?”

You rubbed your forehead, sighing. “Tell me before you do such things!”

“It was one message! Just a little flir—he liked it!”

You hung up.

You turned back to Felix, who stood exactly where he was, with the patience of a monk and the smile of someone not surprised at all.

You walked back up to him, tilting your head. “That was my father. He was the one talking to you yesterday.”

Felix blinked, then burst into a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. Sounded like chocolate flavoured honeyed milk.

You looked him over once. Slowly. His freckles. His voice. His smile. The little glimmer of amusement in his eyes that said he wasn’t offended, just interested.

“I mean” you added, taking one slow step forward, close enough to smell his cologne clean, warm. Like rain and cinnamon. “if it had been me… I would’ve messaged too.”

You exhaled a low chuckle, surprised at yourself.

“That’s the truth” you said, meeting his gaze.

Felix grinned. “I like your honesty.”

“Hm?”

He shrugged. “It’s refreshing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall, eyes still locked on yours. “Well… why don’t we get coffee? Just a cup. If we both feel good about it, we’ll keep going. If not, we go our separate ways. No pressure.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. A small smile threatened to bloom—but you didn’t let it win. Not entirely.

“…Sure”

The place smelled like honey-soaked pastries and slow-roasted beans.

Felix sits across from you, all freckled cheeks and calm presence, like he’s completely unknown that you interrogated a murder suspect eight hours ago and threatened to break Hyunjin’s phone for pinging in a meeting.

He smells like cinnamon and winter. His coat’s too clean. You’d never trust a man that clean if he weren’t so weirdly earnest, and pretty.

After the silence settles long enough to be almost comfortable, he leans in and asks, eyes curious but soft:

“So… you’ve got a good job. Very good reputation. You look..... gorgeous. You’re honest. Why are you still single?”

You let out a breath through your nose. Then said, dead serious—

“I’m serious. Fucking—sorry—serious. You wanna know why I’m single?”

He nods, eager.

“I studied my ass off till my early twenties. Like, fuck-everyone-and-their-distraction type of studying. Law, criminology, psych, state protocols, all that academic masturbation—sorry—dedication.”

He laughs. You don't.

“And when that was done, my hormones hit peak chaos. So I had options. Too many options. Except all of them were just…” You swirl your hand like you're mixing trash in soup. “Lust-factory nonsense. Men who wanted to sleep with a cop just to have a story.”

Felix leans forward a little, chin on his knuckles, amused.

You go on. “And then I hit twenty-nine, and suddenly? Oh—you’re old. Suddenly you're not ‘hot’ anymore, you’re intimidating. Suddenly everyone’s scared you’ll ruin their life. Like I wasn’t going to do that anyway.” You smirk slightly. “And plus, I’m a woman. We don’t get to age. We expire.”

You sip your tea again, bitter, calm. “So yeah. That’s why. Fuck—sorry—fuck dating. Too much admin. Also, this world’s a shallow toilet and I'm not plunging it.”

“Sorry again. For the cussing.”

He's laughing so hard his freckles practically glowed with it. His eyes closed, his hand over his chest like he'd actually been winded.

“You’re so fucking sexy” he said through his laugh. “Sorry for my cussing. But you are.”

You tilt your head. “You trying to get slapped?”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. You shake your head, chuckling under your breath and go back to sipping your tea.

You sipped your tea. “You’re also a child.”

“I’m 26.”

You didn’t respond. Just kept drinking.

After a beat, he looked at you and said more gently, “You didn’t grow up with your mom, did you?”

You froze just slightly. The cup paused near your lips.

“How the fu—sorry—how do you know that?”

He just smiled, like he wasn’t trying to poke a wound.

“Because moms teach you how to talk properly.”

You looked away for a second. The sky was pale and gold through the glass.

“My mom was around” you said slowly. “But not there. You know?”

He nodded like he did.

“Dad was great, though. Even if he’s currently ruining my dating life by catfishing men.”

He grinned again. Something warm passed between you.

“I can teach you, if you want,” he says with a little grin. “How to talk nice. But I loove how you talk now too.”

You chuckle. And this time, it’s a real one. The warmth of the tea, the lighting, the way his freckles shift when he smiles—it’s… not terrible. Not bad at all.

You stared out the window again, eyes tracking the sky, the way the light fell over the city.

Then, without looking at him, you asked, “You free till sunset?”

Felix leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on one hand.

“free till sunrise” he said, too fast, with zero hesitation.

You turned to him, slow, with an eyebrow raised.

He gave you that warm, open, slightly mischievous smile again.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like leaving.

You two had walked through nearly every place. He insisted he wanted to show you his favorite things. Not the tourist trash. Not the curated pretty spots. But the local gems.

You didn’t mind. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. But it was… something.

A handheld streetlight-lit memory.

You watched him nervously pull at his sleeves as he showed you the dumpling vendor near the old post office—he claimed they tasted like great mistakes. Then the pier where a rusty fisherman gave you both roasted chestnuts. Then the alleyway behind a temple wall where an elderly lady sold milky white tea in small glass tumblers. You didn’t say much, but you noticed everything. Including the way his hand trembled once when he passed you your cup.

He was nervous. Around you. And you said nothing.

But he kept going. With stories. With little jokes. With real effort.

You were a little quiet, sipping slowly. Letting him fill the silence.

Your boots scuffed gently against the pavement as you stood at your front gate. Felix had walked the entire way with you, hands deep in his pockets again, face lit only by the streetlamp overhead.

“Well” he said, glancing at your door, “it’s late.”

You gave a small nod, hand resting on the gate latch.

He scratched the back of his neck, then looked up again, eyes slightly brighter. “Should we… I don’t know… go inside? Watch a movie? Chill?”

You looked at him.

“No.”

There was a short pause.

“…Alright” he said quickly. “No problem. Maybe we could just stay out here a little longer then? Talk?”

You tilted your head, slow. “No.”

This time, he laughed. But it was dry. Tight. His hands went back into his pockets and he looked away.

“Guess I misread it” he murmured. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

He turned, took a step.

Your hand shot out and gripped the back of his coat.

He stopped.

You pulled him, just lightly.

“Where you goin’?” you asked, voice low.

He paused. Looked over his shoulder. You hadn’t moved much—just enough to hold him there, to keep the night from ending too quickly.

Felix turned slowly. Stepped forward. You didn’t step back.

His right hand lifted and settled against the metal gate just beside your waist, firm, steady. The other braced up near your head, bending it so his elbow rested beside your head and his face was too close, thumb tapping a nervous rhythm once before going still.

His smile faded, and you could hear his heart beat louder and faster.

“Why are you confusing me?” he whispered.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just let your expression rest somewhere between amusement and cruelty, just a little curve of lip like a secret he wasn’t allowed to know.

He bit his lower lip like he was restraining something. Like he wanted to ask permission he already knew wouldn’t be granted. Not yet.

The restraint was erotic.

He leaned in, closer than before. Close enough that his nose almost brushed yours, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek like a secret. His lips parted, and for a split second, you actually considered leaning into it too.

And then—

“YOOOO!”

A shout cracked through the silence like a drunk crowbar.

Both your heads turned.

A man, half-stumbling, shirt hanging open like a broken curtain, gawked at the two of you from the other end of the street. Hair wild. Beer bottle swinging. Eyes wide with drunk wonder.

“A pretty girl by your side, What’s cookin’ at 2 AM, brother?!”

Felix blinked, groaned, and took a step back, turned around to look at the man, obviously frustrated at the kill-switch. You, however, didn’t move. You just narrowed your eyes at the drunk, as your line of sight became clear with felix moving aside, recognition sparking.

The man paused mid-sway.

“Shit, that’s her! That cop! The psycho one!!”

He stumbles backward, yelps, and bolts down the alley like the ghosts of his crimes are still clinging to your bootprint in his ribs.

Felix glanced back at you. “What was that about?”

You cracked your knuckles and dusted your jacket like nothing happened. “Beat the shit outta him last week. He tried harassing a schoolgirl.”

Felix stared. “…Respectfully? That’s kinda hot.”

You tilted your head lazily, lips curling. “You got a type, baby?”

He chuckled, easing back into your space again.

You repeat the drunk’s words in a tone that dripped with flirt. “2am, A pretty girl by your side, huh? What’s cookin’?”

His laugh spilled out, full and golden, like you’d just punched the sun into his chest. He stepped back in—again—hands on the gate like before, pinning you but never touching.

Then his eyes darkened with something more curious. “So… others usually run away from you like this?”

Your smile was slow.

“Yeah” you breathed, “except you.”

His eyes flickered, lips parted. His jaw flexed again like he was holding back a grin—or a groan.

“Good” he said, leaning even closer.

Your breath caught.

“I’m not planning on running anytime soon.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

You sighed, slow and heavy with teasing as you muttered “Okay, fine.”

You shifted your weight forward—just a little—chin tilting up, lips parted by the smallest margin. Just enough to answer everything unsaid in the space between.

He leaned in too.

The tension was molten now—pulsing between your chests, coiled at your neck. You were nearly there, your lips barely brushing, the breath shared—

When suddenly his fingers gently lifted to your chin.

Two fingers.

And he stopped you.

Softly.

Held your face still.

Then, with the faintest smirk, he whispered against your lips, “We’ve just met today.”

You blinked.

“…Don't be greeeeedy.”

A sharp, stunned laugh punched out of you. A single bark of genuine amusement, head tilting back slightly as your hands dropped to your sides.

“Asshole” you muttered, but your grin was too wide to mean it.

He grinned too, stepping back, letting the cool night rush back into the space his body had filled. He lifted both hands like he was done negotiating with a wild animal.

“We’re good?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“We’re great,” he said, grinning like a man who’d just won something. “For real.”

You crossed your arms. “Seal the deal?”

He nodded. “Seal the deal.”

“Goodbye?”

“Goodbye.”

You turned to go, one foot already past the gate when he called out, “Hey!”

You looked over your shoulder.

He winked.

And just like that—disappeared down the street.

The house was dim and quiet, just the soft clack-clack of keys echoing from the living room.

You walked in slowly, shrugging off your jacket with a tired breath, when your eyes landed on your father hunched over his old laptop, glasses slipping down his nose, squinting at the screen like it had personally offended him.

You narrowed your eyes.

He didn’t notice you yet, too focused on what looked like a… form.

And then you saw the heading.

Seoulmate.com

You froze mid-step.

Your father, in his most confident arial bold, was 'updating' your matrimony profile description.

1.Very soft-spoken 2.High family values 4.No health problems 5.Calm and composed, patient

You stared.

“‘Very soft-spoken’?” you muttered under your breath. “The hell?”

A wave of embarrassment slammed into you like a train. Felix had read this. He probably thought you were a whole buddhist monk, and his opinion definetly changed after he met you.

You turned to walk past, hoping to pretend none of this ever happened. But your dad looked up, bright-eyed and suspiciously smug.

“You seem very happy” he said, adjusting his glasses and stretching like he hadn’t just finished assassinating your personality.

You gestured at him silently. A quick zipping motion across your lips, paired with a deadly stare.

He snorted. “What? I’m just saying—”

You raised your hand like a warning sign.

He chuckled under his breath as you escaped into your room.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You sank into the chair, flipped open your laptop, and immediately opened the case files from Yokohama. Three more similar murders abroad. You leaned in, jaw set, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Work. That would help you forget.

You didn’t even hear the footsteps until,

Your door slammed open.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look. Just calmly tilted the screen of your laptop toward yourself and away from the door, voice flat as a winter wind.

“Do you not know how to knock before entering?”

Your dad squinted from the doorway, eyes dramatic. “How long will you keep watching porn?”

You looked at him like he just came back from the dead. “What the fuc—”

“Seriously” he said, walking in. “You’re gonna end up alone once I die!”

You turned, slowly, face blank, tone drier than the desert.

“All this love” you said, “where was it when you left me to be raised by that fridge of a woman for years?”

He winced like you stabbed him in the kidney. “Oh-ho, look who’s still stuck in her teenage trauma. Haven’t you heard of forgiveness, Miss cool??”

You stared him down. “Get out.”

He made no move to leave.

“I saw him, by the way” he added casually, backing away with his signature mischief. “That guy at the gate?”

You didn’t react.

But he was already cackling. The door shut behind him with a click.

You sighed. Browsed another line of evidence.

Then quietly, against your will your mouth twitched. Just a little.

09:07 AM | Interrogation Room – HQ

You didn’t like mornings. But today was different.

The air in the interrogation wing was stiff. Thicker than usual. Like it knew something wasn’t right.

Your boots echoed as you walked down the corridor, shoulder still sore from the previous night. You adjusted your coat, barely acknowledging the junior officers who stood aside as you passed. They knew better than to interrupt you mid-thought.

Inside interrogation room B, behind a solid steel desk, sat Mimiko—shoulders squared, back straight, hands folded neatly over her lap.

She looked young. Mid-twenties maybe. Shorter than you by a good few inches, but her presence wasn’t small.

Apparantly, she had confessed the moment she was brought in. No hesitation. No shaking voice. Just…truth.

“Yes, I killed him.”

No theatrics. No motive. No resistance.

Hyunjin had tried checking for her affiliations. No social media presence. No travel overlaps. No phone call logs connected to Joseph. Absolutely no link.

Which made the confession feel less like guilt and more like… sacrifice.

You stood at the two-way mirror, staring through the one-way glass into her blank eyes.

Behind you, Chan let out a slow breath, eyeing you as if he's not sure what he's saying is true. “She’s probably the calmest damn killer I’ve seen in years.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes were locked on hers, even through the glass, you could see her hands twitch. Your gut was gnawing at you.

“Joseph’s awake?” you asked.

“Vitals stabilized. Conscious. Still being a piece of shit” Seungmin’s voice crackled through the hallway comms.

You nodded. “Bring them both in.”

09:14 AM | Interrogation Room A – Dual Setup

The room was colder than usual, probably a glitch in the building’s ancient ventilation.

Mimiko sat in her original chair, spine still ruler-straight.

Joseph, pale and bandaged, was wheeled in by Seungmin with a dramatic, annoyed grunt. “I’m fine. You don’t need to treat me like a goddamn corpse.”

“You’ll be one if you don’t sit down and shut up” Seungmin replied sweetly, patting his shoulder just a little too hard.

Joseph winced and muttered a curse.

You entered behind them, slow, deliberate steps. Bat in your hand. Hyunjin shut the door behind you with a gentle click.

He leaned against the doorframe like muscle in a noir film, but you could feel his focus radiating off him like static.

Joseph turned toward you, eyes narrowing. “This again? What now?”

You said nothing.

Instead, you turned your gaze to Mimiko. She stared straight ahead, unmoving. Almost bored.

Joseph looked at her. Then back at you. “Wait. Who’s she?”

Mimiko didn’t even blink.

You watched. Carefully. Every breath, every twitch. Nothing.

They didn’t know each other. You were almost sure of it. But still… something connected them. Something outside the lines. Bigger.

“Name” you said softly, staring at Mimiko.

“Mimiko.”

“Why’d you do it?”

No answer.

You turned to Joseph.

He scoffed. “I don’t know this psycho.”

But you could see his eyes were trying to piece something together. His hands were starting to shake.

Ah. There it is.

You placed your bat down with a dull thud on the metal table.

Mimiko looked at it once.

Joseph stared at it like it might bite him.

Chan watches behind the two-way mirror, arms crossed, a toothpick resting in his cheek. Seungmin is calmly checking vitals and documenting pressure levels—his mouth a tight line. Hyunjin stands by the door, holding your favorite rusted hammer wrapped in cloth. You’d had a flair for antique violence.

You stretch your left shoulder once. It hurts—dull and tired—but you carry on, slowly rolling it back into place, expression unreadable.

“I know everything.”

Hyunjin shifts slightly. Seungmin pauses writing.

Mimiko looks at you with a blank face, as if your words bounce off her skin.

“I'm sure you've heard of the name, dopamine trade?”

Joseph flinches. Eyes twitch. Shoulders tighten.

Joseph and Mimiko share eye contact for a few seconds, his eyebrows twich a bit.

You lean closer to Mimiko, gently, so damn gently, placing your fingers over her shoulder. Feeling the shape of her ball and socket joint. Your hands curl along her collarbone, putting deliberate pressure at the cap. Her heartbeat's fast.

Joseph jerks back, eyes wide—expecting the crack, the pop, the unbearable—

But you don’t.

You simply hum, casual, bringing your hands back on the table as your fingers tap in slow succession.

“You both did well” you say softly. “Mimiko, very neat, well done. Joseph…” you glance at him, “....you messed up.”

“What?” Mimiko finally speaks.

“I did not!” Joseph snaps, leaning forward, restrained hands shaking slightly.

“Mmm” you hum again, swinging a boot slowly under the table. “Cut at the wrong spot. Missed an organ.”

Joseph barks, “No! I did it right!”

Mimiko turns to him, sharply. “She said you missed the organ!”

“It was according to the rules!” Joseph protests again, desperate, loud.

You slowly lower your eyelids. Drumming your fingers in a slow rhythm against the table. “Rules, rules” you mutter, half amused.

Mimiko frowns. “How do you miss the organs? It’s clearly mentioned on the web—”

She stops. Eyes widening slightly, head shaking in small no-no-no's to joseph who's still going on.

Joseph, still behind the curve, slams his fists on the table. “No! I took the exact steps as listed on the website!”

You raise both hands.

“Website, website” you mutter, louder now, tone rising with restrained glee.

And then they both go silent.

Mimiko’s pupils dilate.

Joseph looks at her. Then at you.

Seungmin, now by the wall, subtly speaks into his walkie. “Cyber team, prepare trace.”

Hyunjin has already scribbled in his notes—scratched quick circles around the word dark web.

You crack your neck. Walk up. The cold iron of the bat in Hyunjin’s hands meets yours again. He doesn’t need to be told. He steps back, solemnly, eyes flicking to Chan beyond the mirror.

Mimiko doesn't scream when you dislocate her shoulder.

She only grunts. Head snaps sideways, jaw clenched. The pain is sharp and white and total—but she takes it. Tough little creature.

You lower yourself to her level and whisper, “Don’t make me do more.”

She doesn’t answer. So you drop lower and yank her knee sideways. Pop. It gives way with an ugly, wet sound.

This time, she screams. Seungmin immediately walks out to call the paramedics.

And still, you’re not done. Not until you lean forward and dig your thumb into the already dislocated knee.

“You’ll walk again” you promise softly. “But I won’t stop until you crawl first. Name. Of. The. Site.”

Mimiko bites down, blood along her lip. Her chest rises, falls. Her restraint is good. Too good. You admire that.

But it breaks.

“Nyxnet” she hisses. “It’s called Nyxnet.”

Behind the mirror, Chan nods. The cyber team moves. Track initiated.

You stand.

“You really should’ve held out longer” you murmur.

Hyunjin steps up beside you, holding his notes. He glances at the blood streaked on your hands and the way Mimiko is now half-conscious.

“Do you ever worry you might enjoy this too much?” he whispers.

You shrug. “I don’t. Do you?”

He grins. “Nope.”

Seungmin returns, medics trailing in. As they begin checking Mimiko’s vitals and bracing her knee, you toss the bat back to Hyunjin, who fumbles a bit—catching it with a lopsided grin.

You say nothing, just turn to leave. They know the rhythm now.

It takes nearly a week.

The cyber team works in shifts, eyes bloodshot from staring too long into cryptic scripts and onion-layered encryptions. Hyunjin camps beside the screens at times, chewing pens and jotting fragmented notes with slanted handwriting. Seungmin goes back and forth between legal advisors and forensic units. The tension is thick, but quiet—everyone feels it, that slow descent into something far uglier than the surface murders suggested.

You, on the other hand, sleep a little, smoke a little, think a lot.

By the end of day six, the picture forms.

Nyxnet isn’t just a site. It’s a community. A glorified, curated social media where people who’ve passed some invisible threshold of humanity come together, and share tips. Footage. Feedback. Some even leave comments in bright little emojis under mutilation videos, like they’re giving out baking advice.

The worst part?

To join, truly the site demands a toll.

Two murders. Identical method. Specific cuts. Victims must be hung upside down, drained, neck sliced across a very particular arc, and glands taken for examination. Only then does the gate open. Only then are you eligible, to become a member of the group and go to annual meetings with them.

And now it makes sense, why the video was recorded. Why both Joseph and Mimiko followed the same choreo. They weren’t just killing. They were auditioning.

“Three hundred and sixty-two” the Yeji mutters, pointing to the blinking dots mapped on the screen. “That’s how many bounce points the servers are going through. Across twenty-three countries. They have videos of everything. Rape, domestic abuse, V—virgin trafficking, and uh—more.”

Chan says nothing. Just stares. Eyes like steel, lips drawn tight.

You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, letting it all sink in. You’ve known this level of rot exists. But seeing it laid out like an intricate ecosystem of depravity makes it more real.

Hyunjin turns to you, arms crossed. “We can’t get in without an account.”

“No shit” you mutter, staring at the screen. “Even if we made a dummy one, it won’t work. They use a blacklisted facial ID matrix.”

“Means?” Seungmin asks.

You tilt your head. “Means it has to be real. Human face. With a trackable kill history.”

Silence.

The word real sinks in.

Chan shifts, turns slightly toward you, studying you.

Hyunjin clears his throat. “You saying you want to make one?”

You push off the wall. Walk slowly to the center of the room.

“I’m saying it’s the only way.”

Hyunjin scoffs, just once. Seungmin glances at Chan. Chan doesn’t look away from you.

“And what face do you plan to use?” he finally asks.

You stare. “Mine?”

Chan exhales. “You do realize, this isn’t like going undercover in a drug cartel. This is documented forever. Once your image is in that circle, it’s there for good. No redaction. No immunity. It’ll follow you till you die.”

You nod.

“And” he continues, quieter now, “this isn’t a usual risk. This is annihilation risk. And this…” He pauses. “This feels personal.”

You meet his eyes then. Dark meets darker.

“What’s so personal that you’re willing to stain your own identity just to get in?”

You stare for a long second, before your voice cuts in—sharp, even.

“Criminals, Mr. Bang, should either be 6ft underground or behind bars, they should never be left outside without behavioral correction. One doesn’t need to be personally affected to feel that way.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

Just breathes out slow. And nods once.

You walk past him without another word.

Hyunjin watches you leave the cyber cell, bat over his shoulder, footsteps like a ticking clock.

In the corner of the surveillance room, Chan finally speaks, almost to himself.

“I always knew she came in with unfinished business.”

But he doesn’t elaborate.

And no one else dares to ask.

It gets approved.

Not quickly. Not easily.

Forms were filed under certain classes. Justified homicide under clauses, the one with the fine print about behavioral correction programs. It goes above Chan. Way above. But it comes back with a heavy stamp and a heavier warning: Use it only if there’s no other route.

You, of course, had never looked for another.

Your profile is created that evening. Y/N. Your face, real. Eyes blank. Expression unreadable. A barely perceptible smirk on your lips, and your ID verified within six hours.

Six.

That's all it took to walk into hell.

Your poor victims were: joseph and Mimiko.

The shoot is scheduled two nights later.

Forest, far off the city. So far out that the wind smells unfamiliar, and the silence isn’t polite it’s thick, like it’s holding its breath.

Chan insists on being there. He never said it aloud, but you could feel it. A sort of accountability. If your face was going to be smeared into the deepest layer of the net, the least he could do was witness it.

Yeji came too. Not her jurisdiction. But she stood at the edge of the trees like a soldier. Seungmin handled the logistics, parked the van, cleared the trail. And Hyunjin carried the equipment, set up the camera, and refused to look you in the eye.

Joseph was gagged and drugged just enough to be manageable. Not unconscious. Just woozy. Still human enough to beg with his eyes.

You don’t allow yourself to think. you tie his ankles to the thick branch above and let his body hang limp, upside down.

Not when you make the first incision, exactly like the stupid tutorial showed on the network. Smooth. Slow. Let the blood fall naturally. No shaking.

Hyunjin turns around, jaw locked so hard it’s audibly clicking. Yeji’s expression is unreadable, save for the slight tremble in her thumbs. Chan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.

You slice the neck open. Joseph writhes. Your expression never changes.

Seungmin ensures the footage only shows your face and his. No background chatter. No reflections. No slips.

You end the video at the precise moment his eyes go still.

The video is uploaded under the username: Y/N_0723.

Within thirty minutes, three likes, and one comment: “Perfect arc. Respect.”

It’s done.

Next morning, you’re sitting behind your desk with a fresh cup of black coffee, scrolling through some report on imported synthetics, when a young trekker walks into the precinct.

Fresh-faced, shirt half-buttoned, breathless. Eyes wide with youthful panic.

“Ma’am” he tells the woman there “I… I was hiking near the Glenrise woods. And I—I think I saw a body. Hanging. Upside down. Looked—looked dead, ma’am.”

You step into the room just as the report is being jotted down.

Hyunjin leans on the back wall, arms crossed, looking at the ceiling.

You blink once.

“Alright” you say gently, nodding. “We’ll send someone to check. Thank you for reporting this.”

The boy’s still stuttering. “It was—it was all bloodied, ma’am. And the throat—”

“Thank you” seungmin cuts in, firm. “We’ll take it from here.”

They escort him out.

The second he leaves, Yeji’s already setting the destruction protocol. The forest is cleaned, wiped, and covered with a fake warning about a “dangerous bear sighting.” Standard playbook. Hyunjin confirms nothing was left behind.

You sip your coffee. Burn your tongue a little.

None of you say a word, and begin investigating like it was actually a murder no one knew of.

It had to be solo this time.

Too many variables in the field, and even Chan didn’t want to test fate twice. Mimiko’s death needed to be quick, efficient, enough to not give your team back in there a heart attack. The fewer the eyes, the tighter the secret. And this time, it was just you, the girl, the camera, and the open forest.

You drove to the edge of the woods, deep enough that the GPS got confused and started asking if you were safe. Mimiko was gagged and barely conscious in the backseat, wrists tied, ankles shackled, body jerking a little with every bump in the dirt road.

Your left shoulder had started throbbing halfway through the trip. The pain was sharp, localized ball and socket screaming every time you held the steering wheel too tightly. You gritted your teeth. It flared again as you parked under a cluster of half-dead trees, their shadows long and toothy.

You dragged Mimiko out by the ropes, ignoring her muffled grunts. She was lighter than Joseph. Quieter too.

You tied her ankles up, flipped her over, and hung her from a thick, crooked tree limb. Her face was red, eyes dazed.

And then you stepped back, rolled your shoulder, and winced hard as the joint crackled.

"Fucking hell" you muttered and collapsed on the dry ground. "Give me five minutes, you brat. My skeleton's throwing a tantrum."

You pulled out your phone and opened a bookmarked video: "Why Your Shoulder Pain Isn’t Healing | Chronic Pain Explained."

A soft-spoken woman in gymwear appeared onscreen.

"Now, if the pain persists for more than 3 months, it may not just be an injury. It could be a nerve entrapment issue, or a rotator cuff imbalance. You may also want to consider stress as a primary trigger..."

"Yeah, I’m stressed alright" you mumbled, watching the buffer wheel spin slowly.

The video paused again. Loaded 2 seconds. Froze. Then—

Ad: Buy the All-New Smart LED Water Bottle—Monitor Your Health with Every Sip!

Ad: Feeling Lazy? Get Keto Snacks Delivered!

Ad: "STRAY KIDS sing for you tonight—exclusive! now streaming..."

You stared at the screen. You got angry.

You had a bad habbit. When angry you need to vent out or your soul starts taking creative liberty in other activities. You can't think straight. You don't want that now, do you? You have to follow the choreo now.

Then at Mimiko, who was beginning to stir and wriggle like a caught fish.

Then at the phone again. well, shit.

"...fuck you."

You hit dial on customer care.

A voice clicked in. “Hello, welcome to Connectcell, this is Han Jisung speaking. How may I assist you today?”

You stood up, walking back to the car to get your blade, cradling your shoulder as you did.

“Han. Jisung. Tell me something, is this actually a 5G connection or are you guys lying?”

He chuckled nervously. “Uh—ma’am? I’m sorry for any inconvenience, I can check your signal strength right now—”

“No, no, listen, Han Jisung” you snapped, pulling open your trunk to set up the tripod with your backup phone. “The ads are running fine. smooth as butter. So clearly, the network works. So why the hell does my actual content buffer every three seconds like it's dying?”

“Ma’am… background loading can sometimes prioritize certain—uh—"

You cut him off, walking back toward Mimiko, who was now conscious, upside down, and shaking.

“Fix the damn signal in the next three minutes, Jisung. The girl is dying here.”

“…Sorry, ma’am, what?”

You dropped your voice. “I’m putting a girl upside down and murdering her. Why?”

overworked, and brain-partially loading Jisung laughed wholeheartedly. “Haha—ma’am, you're funny—”

“If the internet doesn't work, she dies without camera angles, Jisung. That's just sad.”

“…We’ll refresh the tower signals, ma’am” he says, still laughing.

Mimiko’s muffled sobs got louder.

Exactly one minute later, the video resumed smoothly. The nice shoulder lady continued speaking.

"Sometimes, pain becomes part of our identity. But it doesn’t have to be. Let go of the trauma you’re holding inside your muscles..."

And then, without breaking eye contact with Mimiko, you dragged the blade across her neck in one clean arc. Her blood painted the dry roots below. Her last breath came out like a shiver. You didn’t flinch.

Camera was rolling.

You went back, waved a short goodbye to the lens, and ended the recording with blood still dripping from your gloves.

The phone beeped.

Recording saved.

You took another ten minutes to wipe the area.

Cleared your tire tracks with your boots.

Sprinkled some dry leaves over blood spots.

Wiped down the trunk handle and checked your gloves for fingerprints twice. Mimiko's body would be discovered later—by someone innocent.

You drove back to the city.

That evening, you passed the recording phone to Yeji without a word. She didn't ask questions. Just connected it to the secure laptop, uploaded it to the website via incognito dark-net layers, and waited.

The upload finished.

A notification blinked on the screen:

WELCOME TO THE DARK WORLD

Below it:

Annual Meet opens in 8 days. Location: To be revealed.

You exhaled slowly. Then leaned back in the chair.

But your shoulder felt slightly better now.

Maybe chronic pain wasn’t about bones after all.

Maybe it was about never knowing when the next video would be you.

[why-purpose-enti]

You know what? Her favourite colour? Oh nahh uhh dawg, i know how she loves her coffee, what her favourite pizzas toppings are, how high she loves her heels, her favourite lip gloss shade including the number, how hot she likes her showers, and what she craves at every specific situation and time. Don’t teach me.

[why-purpose-enti]

Minimum Three

The soft light of morning spilled through the curtains, warming the bed where you lay tangled with Minho. His arm was snug around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You stirred slightly, and his hold tightened reflexively, as if even in his half-asleep state, he couldn’t bear to let you go. You’d woken up minutes ago, the dull ache in your lower abdomen making itself known like a low, nagging hum. You shift slightly, your back pressing into his chest, and he grumbles a low, sleepy protest, pulling you closer.

“Morning,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin with the word.

“Morning,” you replied.

Before you could say more, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your neck. His lips moved lazily, trailing along your skin as though he couldn’t resist the temptation of each inch.

“Minho,” you whispered, half-laughing.

“Hmm?” he hummed, but his mouth never stopped. He kissed the spot beneath your ear, then down the side of your neck, his fingers grazing your waist where his hand rested.

“Can’t you just say good morning like a normal person?” you teased, your voice soft.

“I did,” he murmured, his lips brushing the words against your collarbone now. “You’re the one who makes me do all this extra work.”

You laughed, a small sound that was quickly swallowed by his next kiss, this one just above your heart. His hand slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your stomach as he moved lower, his lips warm against your skin.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your jawline, his free hand sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt to rest warm and comforting against your waist. “Let me spoil you a little.”

“Minho…” you started again, your fingers threading through his hair as he continued his descent.

“What?” he murmured between kisses, his voice low and teasing.

“I’m on my period.” you said softly, catching his head gently in your hands.

He froze for a second, his lips hovering just above your navel. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at you, his expression a mix of mild disappointment and curiosity. “Really?”

You nodded, your cheeks warm under his gaze.

He blinked once, and then his lips twitched into a smirk. “That’s inconvenient,” he said, tilting his head as if considering something deeply. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to your stomach. “But I could always make it go away.”

You furrowed your brows, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Kids,” he replied simply, his smirk widening as he continued to kiss his way back up your body.

“Min,” you murmur, your fingers tangling in his hair, but he doesn’t stop.

“I just wanna take care of my wife,” he says against your skin, his voice a mix of mischief and tenderness.

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and when they did, your face went hot.

His laughter was rich and low, his breath brushing your skin as he rested his head against your stomach. He kissed you there, too, just for good measure. He steadies your hip when you move a bit, cramps.

“That bad?” he asks softly, his lips moving against your skin.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, sinking your hand further into his hair.

“I told you not to eat all that spicy food last night,” he chides gently, though his tone is teasing.

You glare at him,“You’re the one who made it,” you remind him, narrowing your eyes.

He laughs, low and throaty, a little apologetic, the sound vibrating against your back. “Touché.”

“You leave for the military next year,” you say softly, your fingers idly combing through his hair.

He hums, a quiet acknowledgment, but his face remains buried against your waist.

You bite your lip, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “I heard South Korean men don’t have to serve if they have three kids.”

He stared at you for a moment longer before his smirk returned. Without warning, he rolled onto his back, then pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion. His hands settled on your hips, holding you in place as he looked up at you, his gaze playful but intense.

“Three kids in one year?” he repeated, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. His thumbs brushed slow, teasing strokes over your waist. “Not practical. But…” He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “We could try for triplets.”

*

“Baby,” you said again, a little breathless this time.

“Hmm?” He hummed against your skin, his hands tightening gently on your waist.

“Three kids…” You hesitated, the thought suddenly lighter, almost playful. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, his brow lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “Three kids minimum, right? Triplets, as you said.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. His hands slid to your hips, gripping them firmly as he moved you gently against him. “You’re really committed to this plan, huh?”

“Just saying,” you teased, your smile softening as his laughter faded into a hum of contentment.

He leaned up, capturing your lips in another kiss, slow and lingering this time. “Fine,” he murmured against your mouth. “Triplets it is.”

[why-purpose-enti]

Infertile & Expecting [Final]

Part-1, Please judge after reading fully!

The moment your shoes hit the cool tile floor of the hotel lobby, you were 90% sunshine and 10% “What the hell are we doing?”

Hyunjin looked like a model off duty — a bit too cool for someone about to commit several federal emotional crimes. Hair tied in a lazy half-bun, sunglasses still on even though you were inside, dragging his suitcase with one hand and balancing a churro in the other.

“Did you have to buy a churro the second we landed?” you muttered, eyeing the cinnamon-sugar crime against travel hygiene.

“Florida airport churros are sacred. Do not disrespect.” He chomped with full eye contact. “Besides, we’re about to lie to two full sets of parents. I need sugar to fight guilt.”

By the time you reached the hotel room — courtesy of Hyunjin’s company, aka the one good consequence of his ridiculously symmetrical face — you were both tired and buzzing from the fact that this was it. Lie Week. Guilt Fest 2025. Operation: God Forgive Us.

You dropped your bags, Hyunjin flopped onto the bed like a man defeated by air travel and moral ambiguity.

“Okay,” you said, cracking your knuckles like a mafia boss with a to-do list. “The plan.”

“WE HAVE A PLAN!”

“WE’RE LYING TO OUR FAMILIES WITH A PLAN!”

“WE’RE GOING TO MARRY EACH OTHER ON A TOURIST ISLAND!”

You jumped and screamed so much that a knock came from the next room. “Please keep it down!” someone yelled.

The sun was soft and golden on their backs as they rolled down Florida highways, singing off-key to old-school K-pop and questionable American pop-punk like they were on a pre-wedding honeymoon — except it was all pretend. The windows were down, the breeze smelled like the ocean, and Hyunjin kept reaching over to squeeze your thigh every time you laughed a little too hard.

You had both changed into your “beach-chic almost-wedding-but-not-quite” fits — he in a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up and a smile that could crash economies, and you in a loose off-white sundress you found at a random boutique, with Hyunjin’s leather coat lazily flung over your shoulders like you owned him. (Which you kinda did.)

Everything was… weirdly perfect. Until you turned the final curve and saw it.

The massive rusted GATES CLOSED sign hanging like a joke from God.

“…No,” Hyunjin said, slowing the rental car. “No, no, no. This isn’t—what?”

You both hopped out and jogged to the entrance, trying to reason with the two security guards lounging near the barrier. The taller one looked deeply uninterested, sipping from a thermos like he was paid to ignore romantic delusions.

“Off-season,” he grunted. “No access till May.”

“But we came from Korea—”

“And…?”

Defeated, you trudged back to the car, Hyunjin following with both his hands in his hair.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you were sitting in a deserted beachside park, shoes in sand, hearts in your throats. The light had turned that aching pre-sunset orange, the kind that made everything feel more dramatic.

Hyunjin sat beside you, fiddling with the little velvet ring box — opening it, closing it. Opening it. Clicking it shut. Like he was trying to time a decision with his heartbeat.

You sat in silence, his coat still wrapped around you like a security blanket. It smelled like him. Of all the cities in the world, this was the one you’d chosen to lie for love. And now, the gates of fate were literally shut.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” you murmured, voice soft. “Maybe God’s telling us to stop this.”

Hyunjin sighed deeply, resting his head back against the bench. The breeze messed his hair, but his expression stayed unreadable.

“If we stop now” he said, voice low, “we’ll lose the only chance we have. The only lie we’ve got left to be together. I don’t care if it’s a stupid lie. I’ll take stupid over losing you.”

You looked down at your hands. You remember the night you told your sister everything.

Your sister stared for a long time.

Then she set down the tiny romper she’d been folding, turned fully toward you, and let out a soft sigh. “First of all,” she said, her voice low but warm, “you’re taking opportunity of my situation.”

Your shoulders sagged with guilt.

But she reached for your hand and squeezed it. “Leave it. I don’t mind, Y/N. If that gets you what you want... I really don’t.”

Your lips trembled.

“But” she continued, her voice breaking just slightly now, “you’re telling the family you’re pregnant.” She paused.

“You know… the first time a woman finds out she’s pregnant, telling your parents, your husband, realising it yourself… it’s such a beautiful thing, Y/N. You’ll miss that happiness. You’ll never get it back.”

You blinked hard, but your tears spilled anyway.

“Even if it’s a lie” she said, wiping under your eyes gently with her thumbs, “even if you say it now… you can’t take those words back.”

She looked at you then, properly.

“Is he even worth all this?” she asked quietly.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

You just nodded. Slowly. With all the weight of your heart behind it. Your face was blotched, nose red, and you looked like a child again.

She reached out, pulled you into her arms, and whispered into your hair,

“Then you better not let go of him.”

Everything was so dumb. So far. So broken and terrifying and… weirdly beautiful.

Then, all at once, you shifted closer to him on the bench. Close enough to feel the heat of his shoulder. Close enough to rest your hand over his. He stopped clicking the ring box.

You turned to him and whispered, steady as a cliff edge, “Let’s call our parents, Hyunjin.”

Announcement from the heavens: Y/N and Hyunjin are officially about to lie to their respective parents.

“Hello, dad?”

“Hello, mom.....”

You were already done.

It was dark now—Florida’s humid breeze brushing softly over your face as you sat hunched on the same park bench where the plan was made. The phone sat beside you like a crime weapon. Your knees were pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them. You could still hear the 15 seconds of silence ringing in your ears. Ten of those seconds weren’t even breathing. Just stillness. A storm waiting to explode.

You watched Hyunjin from afar—pacing under the glow of the hotel’s entrance lights, phone to his ear. He looked… calm. Strangely calm. One hand in his pocket, his shoulders squared like he was just confirming a delivery. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but your heart was thumping like it wanted to escape your body.

Then, just like that, he hung up.

He walked toward you, slowly. No drama. No gasping. No Shakespearean cries. He plopped down beside you, exhaled like a sigh had been building in him for years, and leaned back on his palms.

You didn’t say anything. You were too deep inside your own head, running through imaginary court scenes of family betrayal.

So he spoke first. His voice was soft, almost teasing.

“You look like someone who just hacked into NASA and didn’t find any aliens.”

You blinked out of your trance.

“I called my mom,” you muttered, your voice brittle, “She… she cut the call.”

He turned his head toward you.

You nodded. “The whole call lasted fifteen seconds. Ten of those seconds, she said nothing. Then she just said—come back, angrily. And hung up.”

Hyunjin let out a whistle, low and long. “Damn.”

You rubbed your face.

Then he added, “My dad… he listened.”

You looked at him, surprised. “What?”

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “He just… listened. Patiently. Didn’t say a word. I kept talking like a madman—explaining the whole thing, giving background, timeline, tone shifts, drama, for some reason.”

“Still—nothing,” he said. “So I… just cut the call myself.”

You both sat in silence for a second.

You, holding guilt like a ticking bomb.

Hyunjin, holding your hand like he still believed in the universe.

The lies were told.

And now, the clock had started.

The flight home was mostly quiet, except for Hyunjin's constant fidgeting. His leg bounced. He cracked his knuckles. He chewed gum like it was a stress exercise. Meanwhile, you stared at the airplane window, not seeing anything past your own pounding anxiety.

The moment the plane landed, Hyunjin turned to you and shoved a neatly folded piece of paper into your hands.

“Read it after we land. But not before. Or I’ll cry and embarrass myself” he said, serious.

You blinked at him, confused. “What is it?”

He adjusted his beanie, grabbed your suitcase and his. “Just instructions. For survival. Like... a combat briefing but more pathetic.”

You stared at the paper in your hand, your heart twisting. He handed you your bag and said softly, “Keep it in mind. You go first. I’ll follow after ten minutes. Go on.”

You hesitated, but nodded. You turned away, holding the paper tightly in your palm as you walked towards Arrivals.

Exactly ten minutes later, Hyunjin walked toward the same exit, chewing his lip. His steps were slower now, nerves catching up with him.

But as he neared the terminal doors, he stopped.

Nobody was there.

Well, correction: someone was.

A hand suddenly patted his shoulder. He turned sharply.

It was you.

In your hoodie, carrying your suitcase, and looking just as confused.

Hyunjin blinked. “Heeeeyyy… What are you doing here? Where’s your parents?”

You shrugged with a sheepish smile. “They didn’t come. Probably pissed.”

Hyunjin snorted—trying to soften the blow. “Damn. That’s harsh.”

You smacked his arm. “Your parents didn’t come either.”

He scoffed. “Nah. They probably took the other exit or something.”

You shook your head. “They’re not there. I checked.”

The laughter in his chest stalled. Hyunjin stared ahead in silence.

You reached into your hoodie pocket and opened the paper he'd given you, unfolding it with a rustle.

Reading aloud, you began:

“Your mom will be crying. Your dad will be angry. Your sister will give you those stupid gestures about ‘the situation’… the moment you see them—this was your first course of action, huh?”

You looked at him, deadpan, and stuffed the note into his hand. “What do we do now, Nostradamus?”

Hyunjin scratched his head, embarrassed. “Well… I was kinda banking on that prediction being right.”

Without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, small sized bottle drink. He placed it into your hand like it was an apology from the universe.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled faintly and shoved it into your hoodie pocket.

Both of you walked outside and hailed a taxi.

Two cabs pulled up.

You and Hyunjin looked at each other, silently agreeing to take one together. No explanations needed.

Inside the cab, he gave the driver his address. You followed and gave yours right after.

Hyunjin’s house was the first stop.

The tension hadn’t left yet.

Hyunjin’s neighborhood crept into view through the cab window. He was still holding your hand — tightly. Tighter with every passing second.

His thumb fidgeted against your knuckles like he was decoding Morse code with anxiety. You could feel it in his breath. The way his knee bounced. The way his eyes kept darting from the driver’s mirror to the window.

“Calm down,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “Keep calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. What if th—no, no—breathe…”

You blinked and looked out the window.

His house was on your side, visible now in the distance.

Except… something was very off.

You rolled the window down and slapped his shoulder.

“Hyun.”

“What” he muttered, not even looking.

“There’s… there’s a tent at your entrance.”

That got him.

He blinked once. Then twice. Then full-on panicked.

“WHAT KIND OF TENT” he blurted, as he literally climbed over your lap like a lizard escaping a cage, sticking his whole damn upper body out the window.

From afar, a cream-colored ceremonial tent stood outside his house, draped over the entrance with gold embellishments. You could spot chairs. People in traditional hanbok. Something that definitely looked like a buffet line.

He sat back into the car, pale as chalk, biting his nails.

“Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.”

You stared.

He turned to you, eyes wide and haunted. “Do you think I killed my heart-patient grandma?”

“Wait—your grandma is a heart patient?!”

“Yessss--I’m gonna be arrested for emotional murder—”

You shoved him. Hard.

The cab came to a stop.

“Get out,” you said, dragging his suitcase from between your legs and pushing it toward him.

He clung to your sleeve like a toddler. “Don’t make me go, baby. They’re gonna sacrifice me to the fertility gods.”

“Hyunjin, out.” you said.

He whined.

But eventually, he climbed out, pouting.

He shuffled to the car boot, grabbed his suitcase like it was a coffin, and turned back one last time.

You were already peeking through the window, eyes squinted in worry, watching him.

He gave you a pathetic little wave. The ‘pray for me’ type.

You waved back.

The cab started reversing, turning to head toward your address.

Through the rear window, you could still see him standing at the gate. Staring at the tent like it was the portal to hell.

you didn't know what was inside that tent.

But you knew this for sure.

Whatever it was, Hyunjin was definitely underdressed for it.

The second Hyunjin stepped through the front gate, suitcase in hand, his uncle pounced like a well-trained guard dog.

“Ah, our world traveler returns!” Uncle beamed, arms open. “Crossed the oceans, conquered demons, and came back with news, hm?”

Hyunjin blinked. “Where’s Grandma? Is she okay?”

“Perfectly fine!” the man said, pulling him inside. “She’s in the kitchen making your favourite stew. Said something about ‘cooking for the boy who crossed the waters!’”

Hyunjin nearly collapsed in relief. So the tent wasn't a funeral thing. Thank God.

“Thanks, Uncle,” he muttered, dragging the suitcase inside.

That’s when little Jinwoo, his uncle’s devil spawn, popped his head out from the corner and went, “Hyunggggg! Can I take your old bike?”

“Sure,” Hyunjin nodded, distracted.

Jinwoo zoomed out to the garage like his soul depended on it.

Seconds later…

“Eww! What is THIS?!” Jinwoo’s screech echoed through the neighborhood. “Hyunjin-hyung, this rusty piece of garbage?! You used to ride THIS?!”

Hyunjin sighed and shuffled inside, ignoring the insult to his youth. But his eyes darted around. Still no sign of his dad.

His mom was in the hallway though.

She looked… off. Sad. Almost like she’d aged three years in the one week he’d been gone.

“Go take a bath, son” she said quietly.

“…Okay,” he muttered, suspicion already bubbling.

When he got back, towel on his head, he found Jinwoo playing with the suitcase like it was a spaceship, zooooooming it around the hallway and occasionally spinning it like a beyblade.

Hyunjin picked up his phone and called you while drying his hair.

you answered immediately.

“Yah, you—” you paused. “…Wait. Wait, wait, Hyunjin.”

“What?”

“I just got down from the taxi, okay? The driver gave me the suitcase—but this isn’t my suitcase.”

“…What?”

“THIS IS YOUR SUITCASE. THERE’S A PHOTO OF YOUR FAMILY’S GOD TAPED TO IT—YOU TOOK MINE.”

Hyunjin’s soul exited his body.

His eyes snapped to Jinwoo still zooooming the suitcase across the floor like it owed him money.

“JINWOO!” Hyunjin screamed, grabbing the phone away from his ear, squatting down and holding your suitcase away from him.

“STOP ZOOMING MY LIFE.”

Jinwoo looked up. “HYUNG! YOU DIDNT BRING ME CHOCOLATE?”

“To HELL with your chocolate!”

The kid let out a dramatic gasp and scampered off yelling curse words that were banned in schools.

Hyunjin brought the phone back. “I’m so sorry—”

Click.

You’d cut the call.

Hyunjin groaned, dragging the suitcase toward his room. His mom followed in silence, watching him with a sad look.

He set the suitcase down in the corner and turned to her, trying to put on his best ‘son-who-has-life-under-control’ face.

“It’s so unfortunate…” she whispered, eyes glassy. “That you’re… infertile, son.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah… very… tragic. May my sperm rest in peace.”

She sniffled.

Then he frowned. “Wait. Why is everything moving so fast? Why the tent? Why are all the relatives here?”

His mom dabbed her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “Your dad went to Master Jido’s house. He’ll be back soon. He’s going to announce it to the whole family after dinner.”

Hyunjin’s brain short-circuited.

“He’s gonna WHAT?!”

“It’s important that everyone knows—”

“MOM,” he wailed, “I DID NOT WIN A NATIONAL AWARD, THAT YOU'LL TELL EVERYONE. OH MY GOD—”

He dashed out of the room, racing past cousins and rice cookers, straight to the dining table where his uncle was gobbling down dumplings.

“Uncle! I need your bike!”

“No can do” he said, chewing. “Your dad told me not to let you ride it, apparantly it's bad for your manliness.”

Hyunjin stared, shocked, betrayed.

Then his eyes landed on Jinwoo.

Still outside.

Still with that rusty excuse of a bicycle.

Pumping the tire.

“Move.”

Jinwoo blinked. “What? But this is—”

“I SAID MOVE.”

Jinwoo kicked the bicycle as Hyunjin got on it.

And then, ladies and gentlemen, like a warrior in a tragedy, Hyunjin mounted his childhood bike and cycled off like his fertility depended on it.

Next stop: Master Jido’s house.

At your house.

The taxi barely rolled to a stop before your mom was already at the gate, arms folded, eyes sharp as a blade. You stepped out, suitcase in hand—except it wasn’t yours. You realized too late it was Hyunjin’s, but your mom noticed.

“Koreans?” she asked, voice quiet in a way that chilled your bones.

You nodded, barely.

Her hand lifted, and your heart froze—but it never landed. “I’d hit my daughter if she did wrong,” she said, her voice trembling now, but with fury. “And my daughter knows not to do this wrong.”

She turned sharply and stormed into the house. You followed quietly, head low. Your sister was on the couch, her round belly visible even beneath the oversized shawl. She offered you a sheepish smile, gentle, knowing.

You tried to give her a look, say something, but your mother was already digging through the drawers with angry hands. She turned around, pregnancy test in hand.

“Take it.”

“Mom—” your sister began, rising to her feet.

“Don’t you interfere” your mom snapped. “You already did enough.”

You swallowed and nodded, gripping the test and walking into the bathroom with trembling hands.

I’m done for mom gave a prego test, you texted Hyunjin as you shut the door behind you.

Almost immediately, his reply came.

Hyunjin: I predicted this. Use the drink I gave you. Hoodie pocket. It’s made to trigger positive.

You stared at the tiny sized bottle, pulling it out like it was some kind of divine relic. The label was torn. Nothing on it suggested anything miraculous, except… well, this was Hyunjin we were talking about.

You followed his instructions, hands shaking.

Two lines.

You exhaled. A long, shivering sigh.

You walked back out and handed the test to your mother without a word. She took it, glanced down, and walked away—silent. She didn’t even look at you.

You stood there, breathing heavy. The silence crushed your ears.

And then warm hands wrapped around yours. Your sister pulled you in gently, belly pressed against your side, arms encircling your shoulder as you finally cried.

“It’s gonna be okay” she whispered.

The wind howled in his ears as Hyunjin pedaled with all the fury of a doomed man.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he picked it up without slowing down. “Yes, Mom?!”

“Hyunjin, come back—your dad’s back already.”

Hyunjin groaned, “WHAT. The dinner isn’t over yet, right?”

A pause. Then her voice turned panicked, hushed but tense. “Come back fast. Your father’s calling everyone to your room—he’s going to announce it now, he's saying dinner later”

He nearly dropped the phone. “MOM. YOUR HUSBAND IS GOING TO BE THE END OF ME.”

“I know, I know—what do I do?!”

“Tell him I got into an accident! A big one! Like—like I’m bleeding and unconscious. Please!”

There was a beat of silence. “How can I--Okay. I’ll try.”

Hyunjin sighed, still cycling madly, trying to turn the damn rusty pink bicycle around. The front basket wobbled, then clanged to the ground, rolling across the street with a metallic screech.

“Fuck” he hissed, abandoning it entirely. He clumsily jerked the bike around, phone still clutched in one hand, when the back tire slipped on a patch of gravel—

And the next thing he knew, he was face-down on the pavement.

Pain bloomed in his knee and arm like fire. Blood. Scraped skin. His elbow stung raw. He winced and rolled over, eyes squinting at the streetlights above. “Great” he muttered, voice tight. “So now I really got into an accident.”

—

Meanwhile, back at the house.

His mom rushed to the hallway, still on the call with him. “Hyunjin, he’s locking the door! He’s locking the door!”

“Stop him! Say anything!” Hyunjin hissed from the ground, biting his lip as he sat up slowly, gravel embedded in his skin.

Inside the house, his father stood tall in Hyunjin’s room, the suitcase—her suitcase, unknowingly packed with god knows what—propped proudly against the door.

“My son” his father began, voice solemn, “has a disease—”

BANG.

The door flung open violently. The suitcase toppled over, landing with a loud thud. The zipper burst slightly from the impact, the contents shifting, dangerously close to spilling out.

“What are you doing?” his mother said, breathless.

“I’m having a serious discussion with our family—”

“Well, I have a serious problem—your son just got into an actual accident, not a social one!”

At that moment, every pair of elder eyes widened, including his uncle’s, who had paused mid-rice-bite.

“Accident?” his father repeated, brows drawn.

“Yes! On his way here!”

The room erupted in murmurs, someone mentioning calling an ambulance. People rushing out, Jinwoo, accidentally on a rush, tripped over the suitcase, It fell open.

Back on the street, Hyunjin sat on the curb, bloodied, wheezing, and muttering to himself.

“WHY ARE THEY IN MY ROOM. I swear to god, if they open that suitcase—if they open that suitcase and find those—”

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N: Hyunjin. Please tell me you still have my suitcase. Because there are things in there that not even death can explain.

Hyunjin, still bleeding from his elbow and gripping his phone like it held the meaning of life, replied with trembling fingers.

Hyunjin: I think your victorias secret is about to be a family legacy.

And with that, he buried his face into his hands, sighing in despair.

When Hyunjin finally limped back home, bruised and bloodied from his heroic bike stunt gone wrong, ignoring Jinwoo's cries of how his new bike got ruined, the living room was unnaturally quiet. Too quiet. His uncle, the one with a permanent smirk and a suspiciously large collection of religious charms, looked at him like he was some kind of walking scandal.

“It’s okay, son” he said solemnly. “You do have a disease. But don’t worry. You’ll get better.”

Hyunjin’s heart dropped. No. No, no, no, no, no—

He stumbled past everyone, ignoring the whispers, beelining straight to his mom. “Did he tell them?” he hissed under his breath. “Mom, did Dad actually tell them all that—”

She raised a palm. “Sit. Down.”

“But—!”

“Sit. Down. Now.”

He obeyed, dragging his wounded body toward his room like a war veteran. When he opened the door, his soul left his body.

His dad was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room. Right in front of the suitcase.

Your suitcase.

And half of your innerwear was very publicly decorating the floor.

Hyunjin gasped like a scandalized Victorian maiden and lunged forward. “D-Dad, that’s not mine—I mean, obviously, it’s not mine! That—it must’ve opened by mistake—there was a crash—and I—!”

He slammed the suitcase shut, hugging it like a bomb. But it was too late. His father was holding something even worse than lace.

A polaroid.

Of you.

Wearing his hoodie. Smiling. The one from the beach, where he was kissing your forehead like you were his whole world.

He cleared his throat. “That girl. That girl I told you about. The one who said she’d marry me even if she knew—uh, that. That I couldn’t—um. Yeah.”

His father blinked. Confused. “What are you talking about?”

Hyunjin froze.

“…Dad. I told you this already. When I was in Florida.”

“You called me in Florida and said you were infertile. I remember I held the phone to my heart out of grief.”

Hyunjin’s jaw dropped. “dad. Phones are for talking. Not for hugging them!”

“Well, you should’ve called back!”

Before they could argue more, his mom stormed in with the first-aid box and pulled him by the ear.

“Sit down” she ordered again, this time in mother mode. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

So he sat, sulking like a punished cat while she dabbed at his wounds, and his father folded his arms. “Tell us now!whats the issue? All of it. What’s going on?”

Hyunjin gulped. “O-Okay…”

He tells his side of the story(or lie).

“You wrapped yourself around her like a vine the moment a stranger told you she liked you?”

“No, dad!” he snapped, but then softened. “…I knew her. From childhood.”

His father narrowed his eyes.

“I-I always liked her” Hyunjin added in a small voice.

“And? Is she Korean?”

Hyunjin paused.

His dad leaned forward.

Hyunjin swallowed hard. “…N-no.”

His father reeled back like someone had tased him. “SHE’S NOT KOREAN?!”

Hyunjin winced. His mom almost dropped the cotton swab. His uncle choked on his soju from the living room.

Then the final blow came. “Why did you even get your fertility checked?!”

“It was a company check-up, dad! For the project in Florida! It was mandatory!”

“Get up. We’re going to the hospital. Right now. I’m not trusting anything unless a Korean doctor says it.”

That’s how he ended up panicking in the bathroom.

He locked the door, sat on the closed toilet lid, pulled out his phone, and dialed you with shaking fingers.

You picked up on the second ring. “Baby?”

“Baby,” he whispered urgently, “we’re dead. He’s taking me to the hospital now. I’m gonna be exposed. This is the end of me. I’ll never eat kimchi in peace again.”

You were silent for a moment, then you sighed. “Hyune, breathe. I knew this might happen.”

“YOU KNEW?”

“Yes, Which is why I’m texting you an address right now.”

Ping.

A message popped up. [Name of shady hospital]

“The doctor there” you added calmly, “is the biggest pushover I’ve ever met. I bribed him so many times. You’ll be fine.”

“…I love you.”

You said, voice soft through the speaker, “I love you too, loser.”

“Wait—what if the doctor flips? What if he tells them I’m healthy?”

“Hyunjin, he’ll say what you want if you pay him and compliment his beard. Trust me.”

“…So all I have to do is lie to my dad, forge medical results, and flirt with a man twice my age?”

“Yes.”

Hyunjin smiled, finally, despite the blood still drying on his elbow. “Yah… Y/N-ah?”

“Hmm?”

Hyunjin exhaled and stared at the mirror.

“Ride or die?” he asked softly.

“Ride or die.” you replied.

And somewhere, outside the bathroom, his dad was already revving the car.

The hospital waiting room was cold, quiet, and sterile — not at all the kind of place you'd expect to hold such a big secret.

Hyunjin sat there, legs jittering, hands clenched together in his lap, refusing to look up. The air-conditioning was on full blast, but he was sweating through his t-shirt like it was midsummer. Beside him sat his father, tense and silent, eyes fixed on the row of motivational posters about prostate exams.

“Mr. Hwang?” A voice rumbled, deep as a canyon, smooth like black coffee with a kick of whiskey.

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. He didn’t lift his head. But his stomach flipped.

“Could I please ask the guardian to step outside for a moment? It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.”

His father's brows furrowed, offended at first. But he stood, gave Hyunjin a pat on the shoulder and shuffled out.

A pause.

Then, for the first time, Hyunjin looked up.

His jaw dropped. His whole face lit up like Christmas morning.

“lix?!” he gasped, blinking like he couldn’t believe it.

Felix was in a white coat, medical ID badge clipped onto his chest, but his blonde roots were already growing out, and his earring sparkled in the overhead lights like sin in a church.

Felix grinned, dimples and all. “Wassup, bro?, long time no see?”

Hyunjin nearly cried on the spot. Thank heavens.

“Don’t worry” Felix said, his voice dropping into a comforting murmur. “Y/N told me everything. I gotchu. I already submitted the fake report last night—nobody’s gonna question it. Honorary infertile king.”

Hyunjin collapsed back into his seat like a deflated balloon, hand dragging down his face.

“You’re a goddamn legend” he whispered, genuinely in awe.

Felix smirked. “Don’t I know it?”

A few minutes later, Hyunjin’s father was called back in.

Felix was perfectly professional, deep voice activated again.

“Yes, Mr. Hwang. We’ve confirmed the results. Unfortunately, your son’s fertility is… compromised. It may be impossible for him to biologically father children.”

His dad didn’t say anything. He just nodded, mouth tight, hands trembling slightly.

The ride home was too quiet.

Hyunjin sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He could see his own faint reflection in the glass — a liar. A fraud. A son who just made his father think his entire family line was ending with him.

From the backseat came the soft sound of sniffling. At first Hyunjin ignored it.

But then—

His dad broke.

sobs, muffled in the crook of his elbow. Hyunjin turned, watching in stunned silence as the strongest man he knew cried into a tissue, face crumpled with heartbreak.

Guilt crawled up Hyunjin’s spine like fire ants.

That night, you and Hyunjin facetimed with your backs to the wall, barely speaking.

Until finally you cracked first.

“I saw the way my dad looked at me,” you whispered. Your voice was already wobbly, thick with tears. “Like I’m some… characterless girl.”

Hyunjin blinked fast, staring at the screen, hating the way your nose scrunched when you cried.

he said. “I ruined us. It was my idea. Ever since I was a kid, I always thought lying would fix things. I'm sorry. We probably shouldn't have. You only did this ‘cause I panicked.”

“Yeah, and I said yes!” you sobbed, swiping your sleeve across your eyes. “And now my family thinks I’m pregnant and your dad thinks your dick’s broken—”

“Technically, Felix said compromised—”

You laughed, a snotty, wet kind of laugh.

He smiled. Softly. Sadly.

Then you heard shuffling and suddenly he was lying in bed, holding the phone above his face.

“You’re not characterless” he whispered. “You’ve got more character than anyone I know. You know that, right? this is just a lie.”

You let your eyes close. Silent tears trickled down your cheeks.

“And your dad?” you whispered.

Hyunjin sighed. “He… cried in the car.”

You winced.

“Like full-on backseat breakdown. You don’t even know. I’ve never felt so evil in my life. I might go to hell.”

“You are going to hell” you muttered.

He chuckled.

You sniffled. “Save me a seat?”

“Front row,” he said.

And somehow, between your shame and his guilt and all the lies blooming like flowers you didn’t plant, the two of you fell asleep on call — screen glowing dim, breaths syncing, guilt fading for just a little while.

Because in this ridiculous, messed up plan of yours, the one honest thing that remained…

Was each other.

2 days later.

📱 LEE MINHO: “Report to the office. Now.”

That’s it. No punctuation. No smiley. Not even a damn period. Just pure doom.

Hyunjin stormed into the building wearing the boldest war attire known to mankind:

A plain white t-shirt

A black blazer (to try and look normal)

And blue hanbok baji pants, flaring like royal silk clouds around his legs

The kind that billowed with every step like he was on his way to dethrone someone. Which, to be fair, he probably was.

The intern at the front desk dropped her coffee. The stylist in the hallway paused mid-scroll on her phone. One of the window wipers muttered, “What in the historical drama is happening?”

But Hyunjin had no time for peasants.

“What. Are. You. Staring. At?” he said, eyes blazing, shoulders squared.

“These pants are better than your entire personality. MOVE.”

The hallway cleared like Moses parting the Red Sea.

He didn’t even knock.

He kicked open Minho’s office door like he was ready to throw hands and rice cakes.

Minho, who had been mid-spin in his black swivel chair, paused dramatically. His head tilted. His gaze dropped.

Then rose.

“...What,” Minho said, blinking once. Then again.

“What’s it?” Hyunjin snapped, arms crossed. “Why’d you call me here?”

Minho just blinked harder. “You look like a prince who got lost on the way to the sageuk filming set.”

Hyunjin huffed. “It’s tradition” he snapped. “Any man in my house who’s crossed waters has to wear these for three days.”

There was a heavy silence.

Minho blinked a third time. “That’s the dumbest—fine. I’ll take it.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“So why are you back?” he asked flatly. “The seminar’s two days from now. In Florida. Why are you here?”

“I’m not going” Hyunjin said, jaw set.

Minho gave a dry laugh. “There’s no one else to do it.”

“Then cancel it. The water there didn’t suit me.”

“I’m not cancelling a paid seminar in fucking florida, because you suddenly hate water.”

He scoffed. “You stayed there for a week.”

“And I used that week to rest. Because the water didn’t suit me.”

Minho leaned back in his chair, arms folded now, one eyebrow twitching like it was possessed. “Mr. Hwang is so worried about his delicate water allergies he took a rest in Florida, huh.”

Hyunjin raised his chin. “So what?”

“I’m booking your ticket. You’re going back.”

“I can’t” Hyunjin said, fists landing on the table.

The room went quiet.

Minho flinched mentally. That tone — the “don’t push me, hyung, I’m two seconds from breaking this keyboard in half” tone — wasn’t normal.

Minho cleared his throat. “Do you… need an hour?”

Hyunjin stared. “...Yes.”

The silence between Minho and Hyunjin was sharp enough to slice the kimchi on the next table.

Minho sighed and finally leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles like he was preparing for some CEO-level diplomacy.

Just as he opened his mouth to order, the waiter returned, awkward and weary from carrying both trays and trauma.

“Sir, your order?” he asked Minho, eyeing Hyunjin’s baji cautiously, like it might develop sentience and attack him, as Hyunjin glares back.

Minho began politely, “I’ll have a chicke—”

“Get him some veg dumplings.” Hyunjin snapped, cutting across him like a sword through pork belly.

The waiter froze.

Minho blinked. “I was gonna get—”

“VEG. Dumplings” Hyunjin repeated, glaring at the menu like it owed him child support.

“I can't eat non-veg for a while so not in front of me,”

The waiter scribbled quickly, scared to make eye contact. Then, to Hyunjin, he asked meekly,

“Hot water for you, the usual, sir?”

Hyunjin slowly turned to him, face completely deadpan.

“Yeah. Bring me some shampoo too. I’ll take a bath in the corner.”

Minho burst out coughing.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he said, raising a hand like a peace offering. Then to the waiter, “Just... bring him some veg dumplings too. Extra dipping sauce.”

The waiter bowed and practically sprinted away like his life depended on it.

Minho exhaled and glanced across the table at Hyunjin, who looked like he’d walked out of a 200 BCE revenge saga.

“Look” Minho started carefully, like one wrong word might send chopsticks flying. “I get the cultural thing. You crossed waters. Your family’s strict. Stuff like that—it matters. It’s okay.”

Hyunjin’s fingers tapped the edge of the table.

“Hyung…” he said, voice flat. “You’re pitying me too early.”

Minho tilted his head.

And that’s when Hyunjin told him.

Everything.

Minho’s jaw slowly dropped like a bag of rice.

When Hyunjin finished, he took a breath. Finally looked at his hyung.

Minho just blinked.

“So I’ve been lied to,” he muttered.

Hyunjin nodded once.

Minho stared at the table. “...I gave Jisung leave because I thought his grandma died.”

Silence.

“And I kept Changbin’s leave open because you were supposed to handle Florida.”

Silence again.

Minho sat back and exhaled long and low.

“...So I’ve been lied to.”

He repeated it like he was processing a math equation. No shouting. No dramatic storm-off.

Just that stunned expression of someone who ordered beef stew and got served raw betrayal in dumpling wrappers.

Hyunjin had gone quiet again. He kept muttering something under his breath, eyes locked on the table.

“Two days. Two days. To ruin a life…”

Minho tilted his head, sipping his water with caution. “What happened two days ago?”

Hyunjin finally exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. He looked up.

“That same guy. Joseph.”

Minho blinked. “The American one?”

“Yeah. He said... he had no issue marrying her, even if she was pregnant with someone else’s child.”

Minho slowly set his glass down. “…What.”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitched in irritation. “Exactly.”

Minho squinted. “Is he a good man or a weird man?”

“Both?” Hyunjin threw up his hands, then leaned in. “I met him in person. Tried talking it out. Man to man. Right? Then this guy—this bold, insane guy says—‘See man, she thought you were handsome, went a bit far with you, doesn’t mean she likes you, okay? And I don’t really mind. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll not discriminate your kid from mine. You can come every weekend to meet your daughter or son. I have absolutely no issues, okay?’”

Minho stared like he’d just witnessed a crime.

“I—Hyung—I tried arguing more,” Hyunjin continued, exasperated. “Tried making him understand she’s not some person he can just play savior for. But then he goes: ‘Tell me one thing that proves she likes you.’”

He slapped the table lightly.

Minho raised a brow. “...And?”

“I got angry. I told him—” Hyunjin rubbed his temples. “I told him she’s not pregnant.”

Minho froze.

Hyunjin whispered, “Then he was convinced. And left.”

Minho opened his mouth. “You—Hyunjin—you ruined the whole fucking plan.”

“I know.”

“She’ll be mad at you forever for that.”

“I know!” Hyunjin nearly yelled, slumping back in defeat.

“And she is. She got mad at me immediately. Said I destroyed everything.”

Minho groaned and slid his palm down his face. “Of course she did. You made the whole operation collapse like cheap scaffolding.”

“But wait.” Hyunjin lifted a finger. “It gets worse.”

“How.”

“Joseph went to her house,” he said darkly. “Told them about the ‘rumor.’ Said it was just something he heard. Said he just wanted to confirm. Apparently asked her to swear on her mother and say whether she was pregnant.”

Minho’s mouth dropped again.

“She told me all of this herself” Hyunjin muttered. “Her dad overheard. Stopped him right there. Told him to break off the marriage. Said misunderstandings like this weren’t right for the family.”

Minho leaned back, staring.

There was a pause. A thick, wordless pause.

“...Okay,” Minho finally said. “I mean. That’s a good thing, right? Their marriage broke off.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stayed tense. “But what if he tells them I’m the one who told him? It’ll be a mess, hyung. A real one.”

Minho waved his hand. “Chill. That’s a bridge you’ll burn when you get to it.”

Just then, the waiter returned, tray in hand, tip-toeing like he was entering a lion’s den.

“Sorry, man,” Hyunjin muttered, a little embarrassed.

The waiter smiled faintly. “It’s fine, sir. It’s a sad story.”

Hyunjin managed a half-smile, just a twitch of the mouth.

But then—disaster.

The waiter gently put the plates down and said with tragic, misplaced wisdom:

“But, sir… I think you should’ve talked to her dad first.”

Hyunjin blinked.

Minho blinked.

The room temperature dropped five degrees.

Hyunjin’s hand subtly moved toward the butter knife.

His jaw locked. His eyes went red.

And just as he picked up the knife—

Minho grabbed his wrist. “Hyunjin.”

“LET ME—”

“NO. We do not throw cutlery at service staff!”

“GET. LOST” Hyunjin barked at the waiter, who yelped and disappeared so fast you'd think he was teleported.

Minho looked back at Hyunjin. “You need a therapist.”

The waiter had fled like a man chased by ghosts. Minho exhaled and sat back, flicking his chopsticks open.

Then he looked sideways at Hyunjin.

“…You know,” he said slowly, “the waiter was right.”

Hyunjin squinted at him. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Then why didn’t you—?”

“I did,” Hyunjin cut him off, dramatic as ever. “Took her dad to a super crowded restaurant. Packed to the brim. People even standing and eating, like some black market for noodles.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay… and?”

“And I sat him down, looked him in the eyes, and said, ‘ Sir, I know you are very angry at me. there are many people here. If you want to hit me, I won’t stop you. You’ll feel satisfied, and they’ll all witness my public humiliation.’”

Minho’s eyes widened, excited look in his eyes. He was leaning forward like a kid at storytime.

“Did he hit you?” He asked, while tapping his foot.

“No.”

Minho gasped happily. “Did he punch you?”

“No, hyung—he just looked at me for ten seconds.”

“And then?!”

“…Then he left.”

Minho sat back like a balloon deflating. “Tch. Sad life, huh?”

Hyunjin stabbed another dumpling with angst. “Don’t remind me.”

Minho picked up a dumpling, inspecting it. “So what now? Everything seems pretty… sorted? The marriage broke. The truth didn’t come out. You’re not dead.”

Hyunjin paused. Put his chopsticks down. Looked at Minho. His voice lowered.

“She—Y/N—the love of my life, said that…”

Minho looked up mid-bite.

“She said that because her father trusted her so much… because he broke the marriage off thinking Joseph was wrong to doubt her… she’s decided—he must never know that she wasn’t pregnant.”

Minho frowned. “…Huh?”

Hyunjin’s gaze was dead serious. “Which means she should get pregnant. For real.”

Minho choked on his dumpling.

“Wait—wait—before marriage? You’re planning—?!”

“No, hyung! We’re just… thinking.”

Minho was wheezing. “What do you mean, thinking?? That’s not a group project. That’s a life-altering multi-generational decision—!”

Hyunjin waved him off, red ears and all. “We’re being careful!”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what. Eat. Please. Shut your romantic generator for two minutes and eat.”

Hyunjin pouted and took a bite.

The parent meeting.

Rain taps against the windshield. The world outside is grey. Inside the car, you and Hyunjin sit—he’s biting his nails, you’re chewing your lower lip, both of you barely breathing.

Hyunjin's back to jeans. You hold the phone between you both. The call is on speaker, tucked into the car’s dashboard shelf, glowing like it’s about to explode with tension.

“They’re here,” your sister murmurs through the phone. “Everyone just sat down.”

Hyunjin swallows hard. “Did you remind your dad not to bring up the pregnancy?”

“I begged him not to bring up anything that starts with ‘P’.”

You glance at him. “Did you remind your dad to be soft?”

Hyunjin nods quickly. “I even told him to be heart touching.”

You sigh. “Please God. Please let this not turn into a war.”

Inside the Café — Through the your sister's phone, she took to keep you informed

Small talk starts. Stiff. Measured.

Your father: “So… your son is a model, is he?”

Hyunjin’s dad: “Yes. And your daughter is… artistic.”

Your mom murmurs a quiet “thank you.”

Hyunjin’s mom chuckles awkwardly. “She must be… strong-willed.”

Your dad: “She is honest and good.”

Silence.

Then.

Hyunjin’s father clears his throat. “We’re glad this marriage is happening. Though… it’s not exactly ideal.”

You freeze.

Hyunjin grabs your hand in a death grip.

His father continues. “No girl in our family would ever… go to such lengths. But it’s fine now.”

Silence. Thick. Slapping.

Your father’s voice is ice-cold. “Excuse me?”

“I—”

“What did you say about my daughter?”

“I meant it in a good way, no one would marry my son if they knew this, she's—”

“You think she’s what? Dishonourable? Because your son couldn’t control the narrative, you blame my girl?”

You try to yell into the phone but it’s not your place anymore. You’re just the kid, sitting outside, in the rain.

You look over to Hyunjin who looked horrified and he said-

“WHAT DID HE JUST SAY”

Voices rise. Chairs shift.

Your sister tries to mediate. “Please let’s not raise voices—”

Hyunjin’s dad: “I only meant we are traditional, madam. That’s all—”

Your dad: “And I am not? Do you know the shame this caused us? You want tradition? Then teach your son not to get involved in such tricks!”

Your sister.

“I—I think—”

Water hits the tiled floor. Panic. Her voice—choking and shocked—“My water just broke—!”

Everything flips in a second.

Hospital Room – Two Hours Later

You sit outside the labor room with Hyunjin. His mom is inside. Your mom too. Everyone’s clothes are still damp. No one is arguing.

Your father walks up to Hyunjin’s dad with two coffee cups. Holds one out. Neither says anything for a second.

Then:

“If you weren't here....” your father says.

Hyunjin’s father smiles a little. “And your daughter… she’s stronger than any man I know. That was what I wanted to say.”

And that was that.

You and Hyunjin walk back to the car in silence. Rain still lingers in the clouds, but doesn’t fall.

“So… that’s how our families got close?” you whisper.

Hyunjin snorts. “Through a scandal, a breakdown, and your sister’s baby kicking open diplomacy.”

You laugh. But tears prick your eyes too.

“I thought everything would fall apart today,” you admit.

He looks at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Me too.”

“But they accepted it.”

“They did.”

You stop walking. “Do you think… we’ll be happy?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. Then he wraps his fingers around yours.

“With you? Even if we’re poor, jobless, and have seven kids—I’d still be happy.”

You blink up at him. “Seven?”

“Okay, okay, two.”

You both laugh.

But your chest is full. Heavy. Hopeful.

You never thought this would end in a hospital waiting room. That his father would panic, grab your sister, and carry her to the cab himself. That they'd all wait outside that labor room like one single family.

Maybe it's the rain.

Or maybe it’s finally starting to make sense.

You kick your feet up on the coffee table, a jar of Nutella in one hand and a very suspicious-looking cucumber in the other.

Your sister walks in, nose wrinkling at the mess. “That’s not… how you’re supposed to eat that.”

You shrug, mouth full. “I’m creating new food laws.”

She laughs. “You’re literally just faking cravings so you can vomit. You know that’s not how pregnancy works, right?”

You wipe your mouth dramatically. “It’s called ‘method acting.’”

She groans.

But you have no choice. You have to keep up the lie. Vomiting helps with authenticity. If your mother sees you looking not puking, she’s going to get suspicious.

“Pass the soy sauce” you say.

“Why? What are you dipping—” She sees the banana on your plate. “Oh my god. You're a criminal, gimme some.” she waddled towards you.

Meanwhile, Hyunjin is having the best morning of his life.

He does a mini dance in the elevator on his way up to the office. Sends you a "mwah 😘" selfie captioned: “another day of making money for my fake baby”

Minho raises an eyebrow when Hyunjin bursts into the office looking like sunshine.

“You seem unnaturally chirpy” he says, peering at him suspiciously. “You high on prenatal vitamins or what?”

“I’m just happy, hyung!” Hyunjin grins. “Your boy is gonna be a dad!”

“You’re literally not, and can't?”

Hyunjin points dramatically. “Not yet.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Anyway. I cancelled the Florida project.”

“You’re cancelling it?” Hyunjin blinks. “But it was your dream project.”

“Yeah” Minho says, leaning back. “But you left me no choice, and I had a near-death experience last week where I was stuck in an elevator with two finance bros. Made me rethink everything.”

Hyunjin snorts. “Glad you saw the light, hyung.”

Everything feels perfect.

Until.

Jisung walks in.

Quiet. Eyes not quite focused. He avoids every good morning, walks past every desk, and locks himself in his office without a word.

Hyunjin frowns.

“That’s weird,” he mutters, knocking gently on Jisung’s door. “Hey, bro. Thought you were on leave?”

Jisung’s voice is low. “I… came back early.”

Hyunjin walks in. “But you had five days left—”

“My grandma died.” Jisung says suddenly, not looking at him.

The smile falls right off Hyunjin’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have made you—”

“It’s not your fault.” Jisung breathes heavily. “I just…. I lied and said she died, and then… she actually did. This morning. Peacefully. But still.”

Hyunjin’s heart twists.

“I’m so sorry, Jisung-ah…”

Jisung just nods, eyes still glassy. “I just feel sick about it. Needed to be around noise today. Not thoughts. Thats why I'm here.”

Hyunjin doesn’t push.

Jisung gives him a small nod, then turns his chair around, back facing him. A silent request for space.

Hyunjin walks out of the office quietly, his earlier glow dimmed. Guilt creeps into his gut like fog. He hated lying for this exact reason—how could something fake affect something so real?

His steps slow in the hallway, hands deep in his pockets, when—

His phone rings.

💌 WIFEYYY ❤️ is calling…

His lips twitch.

He answers. “Hey, baby.”

"Hyun—my mom is taking me to the hospital for a check-up. I'm literally outside the hospital now, this doctor is my mom's friend. We’re fucked."

Your hands are shaking as you hang up the call.

You don't even realize it until your mother gently grabs your wrist, her expression laced with concern. "Y/N, what’s wrong? You said you’ve been to check-ups before, right?"

You nod.

But not like this.

Not with a real doctor. Not with someone who could destroy everything in minutes.

“I’ve only gone to private clinics with Hyunjin before,” you say weakly, clutching your phone like it’s oxygen. “Not like this.”

The hospital doors feel like the gates of judgment. And you’re walking right into them, with your mom’s friend—the friendly OBGYN—waiting to greet you, already preparing to call your bluff.

You try calling Hyunjin back.

No answer.

So you take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and walk into hell.

His heart stutters.

He doesn’t even grab his coat as he rushes to Minho’s office.

“Hyung! I need your car! I need—I need to get somewhere now!”

“What? What happened?”

“She’s at a hospital. Her mom’s friend is a doctor. She's gonna find out she’s not actually pregnant. We’re so screwed—”

“Holy shit—”

“I don’t have time!” Hyunjin yells, already running.

He races to the street, unlocks Minho’s car, throws himself behind the wheel.

Then sees the address you texted.

It’s over an hour away. With traffic. In the rain.

His hands slam the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, SHIT—”

And then, his phone rings. Dad.

He almost doesn’t pick up. He wishes he didn’t.

“Hello—?”

“YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT.”

“Her father called me. Told me to arrange the marriage quickly. She's pregnant, it seems?” His father’s voice is practically vibrating with rage.

Hyunjin can barely breathe.

“I’m coming home” his father seethes. “You better be there.”

His mother lets him in.

“You ruined that girl’s life,” she says softly. “Her family’s dignity. And you lied to us. You told us you were infertile, Hyunjin.”

He tries to explain, hands rising, voice cracking.

“Please… please just let me—”

But his father cuts him off.

“I would rather cope with the fact that you were actually infertile, Hyunjin. At least then, it wouldn’t mean I raised a liar.”

He leaves.

Slams the door behind him.

And all the noise in the world vanishes into silence.

His mother stands in the middle of the hallway, shoulders sagged, tears tracing the curve of her face.

Hyunjin moves closer. “mom…”

“I gave you everything,” she whispers. “I let you choose. I trusted you. Do you know how hard it was to convince your dad that love marriages are okay?”

“Please” he begs, voice hoarse. “It’s not what it looks like—”

She turns to him.

Eyes rimmed with disappointment.

Soft. But sharp.

“Where did I go wrong while raising you?”

Hyunjin looks at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

No answer.

Because he doesn’t know.

Because maybe she didn’t.

Maybe he just broke under pressure.

Maybe it was always destined to fall apart.

And now?

Now the woman he loves is alone in a hospital. Now his parents are ashamed. Now, every lie he told to protect the future, might’ve just destroyed it.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Hyunjin sits on the sidewalk outside his building, soaked from the rain, phone clenched so tightly in his palm that his knuckles are white. Minho had texted a dozen times. His mom hadn’t spoken a word since that question—“Where did I go wrong?”—and now the sky looked like it was about to cave in.

He looks down at his phone again.

No texts from you.

No calls.

No updates.

Which only means one thing.

It’s done. They know. You’re not pregnant. The lie is exposed. And the marriage? Dead.

His hand covers his mouth as his eyes begin to burn.

You’ll probably never speak to him again. Your parents will never forgive him. His parents already haven't.

He lost everyone—everyone—over a lie he tried to protect you with.

He swipes his screen open one more time.

Still nothing.

So, desperate for even a final goodbye, he calls you.

And you… pick up.

“Y/N—”

“Hyun,” you breathe, your voice barely audible.

There’s something strange in your tone.

Like shock. Or fear. Or something beyond words.

“I—I have to tell you something.”

His heart drops.

He doesn’t think he can handle more. “Y/N, listen… I’m sorry. I’m really—”

“The test… came out positive.”

Hyunjin goes still.

The wind stops. The rain sounds like white noise. And his brain blanks completely.

“…What?”

“I’m pregnant” you whisper.

A beat passes.

Then two.

Hyunjin lets out a short, broken laugh, one that sounds nothing like joy. “No. No, don’t say stuff like that. It’s already bad enough, Y/N. Don’t try to make me—”

“I’m serious” you say.

And then—

Ping.

You send him a photo.

A crumpled scan of your report.

And there it is. In black and white. HCG POSITIVE. Confirmed. Pregnant.

His head starts spinning. “What the hell—what the actual—”

“We didn’t—” you choke, “I've never—Hyunjin, we never even did anything. Right? Not fully. We just—Hyun, do you trust me?”

You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.

So does he.

“Do you trust me?” you whisper again.

Hyunjin stares down at the report, mind flashing back to every moment with you.

No, you never crossed that line. You both always pulled away. The most intimate thing you'd done were heated kisses, touches, stolen moments—but nothing that could’ve led to this. You wanted to wait till marriage, and he respected that.

Nothing that explained a pregnancy.

And yet…

Here it is. Here you are. And you’re crying. Because you’re scared. Because this doesn’t make sense. Because now, even you don’t understand what’s happening.

Hyunjin swallows.

His voice cracks when he says, “I trust you.”

And he does.

God, he does.

More than anything.

But this… this was beyond logic. Beyond timing. Beyond every safety line you’d both sworn to stay behind.

“How could this happen?” he asks, brokenly. “Y/N, how—how the fuck is this happening?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “My mom was right there, Hyun. She saw it all. She hugged me and cried. She said she was so proud of me for being responsible and brave. And I just stood there. I stood there, watching everyone believe something I didn't even believe myself.”

His chest caves in.

You continue, quietly, through shallow breaths. “I thought maybe it was a lab mistake. Or maybe the test glitched. But I felt it, Hyun. When she hugged me. I felt like I was lying. Even though I didn’t. Even though we didn’t…”

You pause. Then ask again, shakier now, “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Hyunjin whispers. “I do. Always.”

Then silence.

Heavy, painful silence.

Until you finally say, “Then you have to believe me when I say I don’t know what the hell is going on. But it’s real, Hyun. And I’m scared.”

Tears slip down his cheeks.

His phone trembles in his hand.

And suddenly, none of the lies matter. None of the plans. None of the family rage or the shattered image.

All that matters is you.

You, scared. You, alone. You, growing something inside you that you never asked for. Something that you never planned. Something you don’t understand.

Hyunjin’s lips part, barely holding back a sob. “I’m coming to you.”

“You can’t—”

“I’m coming,” he insists. “Even if I have to walk. Even if mine disown me. Even if this makes no goddamn sense—I’m coming. Because you shouldn’t be alone for this.”

You breathe in sharply on the other end of the line.

“I’m at home” you whisper. “I asked her to take me back.”

And Hyunjin?

He runs.

Runs through the rain with his phone still pressed to his ear, heart thundering, past traffic and time and logic and fear.

Because somehow, you're pregnant, and you need him.

Now more than ever.

Your mom greets him like always. Your dad even offers him a small nod. Your sister is laughing with her husband on the couch, someone’s cooking something in the kitchen, and the lights are all on, warm and golden like it’s just another night.

And yet… you’re the only one sitting still. Silent. Spine straight, hands pressed against your lap like you’re holding yourself together. You don’t say hi when Hyunjin walks in. You just look at him.

Like you’ve been waiting for only him.

He walks toward you, slowly, cautiously, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And the second he’s close enough, you speak, voice low, desperate—

“Hyun… is it okay?”

He crouches in front of you, his eyes searching yours.

“Do you trust me?” you ask again, breath trembling.

You’re not crying. Not visibly. But he can see it—the panic behind your lashes, the tight grip of your knuckles, the broken rhythm of your breath that you’re trying so hard to keep hidden.

He smiles, gently. “You’ve asked me that five times already.”

“I’ll ask again,” you say, like it’s the only thing anchoring you. “Do you trust me?”

And he nods, so sure, so soft, it hurts to look at him.

“I do” he says. “I trust you. I trust you more than I trust anything else right now.”

Your throat wobbles.

“And is it okay?” you whisper. “That this… this happened? Even though it doesn’t make sense?”

He reaches out then, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you up, into him, and holding you tight enough to quiet every shaking piece of your body. You gasp softly as your feet leave the ground—

Because he spins you.

Just once.

Just fast enough for your feet to dangle, for your head to dip forward against his shoulder, for the room to tilt and tilt and then stop.

Your fingers fist his hoodie.

You breathe in the familiar scent of him, grounding.

And he pulls back only a little, just enough to look at your stunned expression, cheeks pink, lips parted.

Then he smiles again, a little crooked, a little helpless. A little like a man falling headfirst into something terrifying—and choosing it anyway.

“Even if you’re the next virgin mary,” Hyunjin says, “I’ll still marry you.”

Your breath catches. Your heart stutters. Your lips part.

And he leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to your mouth.

It’s gentle.

Like a promise sealed under skin.

A kiss that says I know nothing makes sense right now—but I’m not going anywhere.

A week passes.

A week of silence and questions, of tentative laughter and phone calls late into the night. Your parents have calmed. So have his. It's not like they had much of a choice.

You were going to marry anyway.

Hyunjin’s dad, once furious, now only sighs when he sees him, rubbing his temple and muttering, “Whatever’s happened has happened.” His mother hugs you when you visit, even puts a protective hand over your back when walking you out. And yours? Your mother won’t stop cooking for you, asking what you’re craving, like she’s suddenly remembered every love she ever had for you all at once.

And Hyunjin? He’s quieter now. Not in a bad way.

He’s just watching you more. Carefully. Like he's always taking note.

You’ve caught him whispering to your belly once. Just once.

You weren’t even sure he knew you saw him—but he’d knelt in front of you while you slept on the couch, placed a warm palm just above your navel and whispered:

“Hi… I don’t know what you are yet, but… please don’t scare her. She’s just figuring out how to breathe again.”

You didn’t cry. But you couldn’t sleep after that either.

And now, a week later, everything feels so bizarrely calm that it’s almost unnatural.

Your entire family is gathered at Hyunjin’s house for dinner—his parents, yours, your sister and her husband, even Minho("My fucking car"), who always somehow finds a way to sneak in, acting like a bored cousin who lives nearby.

It’s the “official” meeting. For marriage prep. The elders sit at the long dining table, discussing traditions, ceremony customs, whether it should be a temple or a hall, and whether you’ll wear red or ivory. Your sister keeps making fun of you from the other side, texting you under the table.

“You’re going to look like a baloon in all that fabric.”

You’re smiling. You're pretending.

But truth is?

You feel off.

Your fingers tremble a little when you reach for water. Your lips are dry no matter how many times you sip. Your head’s been heavy since this morning, and you thought it would pass, but it didn’t. You’ve barely eaten—your stomach’s been in knots.

You think maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or the fact that you’ve been lying to your parents for so long that now that they’re being kind to you again—it’s crushing. Like you don’t deserve any of this.

So you laugh along. Sit beside Hyunjin. Everyone's talking, the noise is warm and overlapping.

And then, your mom says something about wedding rings. She’s excited. She brings out this tiny box with a pair of gold bands—just a sample she wanted to show you.

You smile. Nod. Try to reach across the table to take it from her hand.

And then the world shifts sideways.

A loud ringing floods your ears. You blink, slowly, once—twice— And then the entire room fades to black.

Hyunjin doesn’t even see it happen—he feels it.

One second, you're beside him, your hand reaching out. The next, your chair scrapes sharply, your shoulder slumps, and your entire body folds.

He catches you just in time.

“Y/N?!”

There’s chaos. Screaming. Chairs pushed back. Your mother drops the box of rings. Hyunjin’s mom stands up, panicking. His father’s already on the phone, calling for a car.

You're unconscious in his arms.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Hyunjin mutters, slapping your cheek gently. “What the hell—baby, please—Y/N, wake up. Please wake up.”

You don’t.

It’s raining by the time they reach the hospital.

You’re asleep. Somewhere inside that sterile, humming hospital ward, your body’s resting after everything it’s endured. But the storm isn’t over. Not yet. Not outside.

Hyunjin, scared, tells everyone the truth.

Because out there, just past the glass doors, your sister is standing with swollen eyes and her arms wrapped tight around herself. She looks at everyone—your parents, Hyunjin, Minho, Hyunjin’s parents—and says the one thing no one else had the strength to say.

“If he hadn’t lied” your sister says, voice cracking, “if he didn’t say all that crap—about the pregnancy, the infertility, all those dumb plans—they would’ve never taken her for a full check-up. She would’ve never known.”

Everyone goes still.

And you aren’t there to see it, but your name might as well have echoed through the silence. Not from anyone’s mouth. Just in the air. Like your existence, your health, your body, was suddenly not just yours anymore—but a shared weight.

Minho stands beside Hyunjin, lips pressed together, quietly observing your parents as they struggle to process what they’ve just heard. What Hyunjin just confessed. Everything. From the start.

Your fake pregnancy. His fake infertility. Joseph. The lie, the cover-up, the mistake that somehow led to a horrifying truth.

Dysgerminoma. The tumor that made every test say you were pregnant. The thing growing inside your ovary that you never, ever would’ve known about unless this entire disaster happened.

You’re asleep now—but out there, the people who love you are falling apart.

Hyunjin’s dad arrives last, stepping in like he has all the answers, and calls Hyunjin aside.

“So nothing happened, right?” he says quietly. “She’s not pregnant. apparantly she’s probably going to be infertile. So there’s no point continuing this. Just wish her well and let it go.”

Hyunjin looks like someone punched him without touching him.

“Dad…”

But the older man walks away before he can finish. Walks like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.

Minho watches it all happen, jaw tight, eyes flicking between father and son. Then he gently asks, “Want me to drop them off?”

Hyunjin doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no either. He just closes his eyes for a second like he’s been holding his breath too long.

“Please, hyung,” he finally says. “I need to talk to her parents.”

And then Minho does what he always does—steps in calmly, respectfully, and leads Hyunjin’s parents away, leaving just your family on the bench outside your room, 110.

Your mother looks tired. Your father is sitting still like someone pressed pause on him.

Hyunjin walks over, and kneels beside your dad.

Your father looks down at him, quiet. Expecting words. Maybe ready to hear them. Maybe not.

But Hyunjin speaks anyway.

“Y/N is…” His voice cracks almost immediately. He clears his throat, wipes under his nose, and keeps going. “She’s not the type to give up. Even when everything else does. When people do. When fate does. She’s… she’s—sir, when we were kids, she never judged me.”

Your dad's brows crease faintly.

“Not for my broken English. Not for riding a girls’ bicycle when all the other boys laughed at me. She—she was the only person who made those worthless rituals, those ceremonies, all those expectations—feel okay. Like maybe I wasn’t stupid for believing in something.”

He sniffles, glancing down.

“I think I’ve been stuck in that phase ever since. Because nothing—nothing in my life—ever felt that good again. Except when she was in it.”

Your mother’s eyes begin to water.

He looks up at them both, lips trembling but steadying his breath.

“I told my manager this story. At my job interview. I told him about her. About how I work hard because someone like her exists. That’s what I said.”

And then, quieter, almost ashamed:

“She’s told me, you know? That I’ve been important to her. That I mattered. But she’s not like me. She doesn’t stay stuck in time. She keeps going. She’s always going to surpass anything… even this.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, stands slowly, tears still glistening in the corner of his lashes.

“This won’t stop her. She won't let it. So we shouldn’t give up either. Right?”

He finally meets your father's gaze again.

“Pregnancy is a choice. Not a compulsion.”

No one says a word.

Hyunjin apologizes in a voice so gentle it barely touches the air, and turns.

And there they are.

His parents are mid-argument, his mother’s voice sharp, his father’s voice low and angry. But they stop the moment they see him rushing toward them, breathless and red-eyed.

Minho is already in the driver’s seat, waiting.

“Get in,” his father says stiffly.

Hyunjin does.

The car is silent. Tense. Like a truth just finished screaming and left the echoes behind.

No one speaks.

The car finally pulls into the driveway.

Minho’s arm is wrapped tight around Hyunjin’s shoulders, holding him as your boy breaks—quietly, breathlessly—tears finally slipping down his cheeks after holding them in too long. He wipes at them with the sleeve of his hoodie, but Minho doesn’t say a word. He just keeps his arm around him like an anchor.

Inside, Hyunjin's mother is fighting alone.

One against two.

“Are you even listening to yourselves?” she yells, voice shaking not out of fear—but fury. “You’re telling me tradition is more important than my son’s happiness?”

“It’s not that—” his father starts, but she doesn’t let him.

“No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s different this time because she might not be able to have children. Because when it was your own child, a few days ago, who you believed was infertile, you were willing to get them married. You expected them to be understanding. Because having children is a choice. Because that’s what humanity looks like, isn’t it? She was a self sacrificing angel?”

Hyunjin’s grandmother opens her mouth to speak, but she turns on her too.

“But when it’s the girl? Now it’s a disgrace? Now he can’t do the same thing you thought she was ready to do? A crime? A mistake that can’t be accepted?”

“Tradition—” his father says again, weaker now.

“Oh, I’m done being quiet,” she snaps, walking toward the boys.

She grabs Hyunjin by the arm and then Minho by the wrist, yanking him upright with determined strength.

“Take him to the hospital,” she says. “He’s staying there until she’s better. He’ll be by her side, like he should be. And he will marry her. Do you hear me?”

She pushes them both toward the door.

Hyunjin turns at the threshold and hugs her—tight, long, full of tears and wordless gratitude.

“I love you, mom” he whispers into her shoulder.

She holds him just as tightly, brushing his hair back. “Then go.”

He runs to the car, barefoot halfway down the driveway, Minho already opening the door, and they drive.

Meanwhile, in the hospital, your family sits outside your room.

The mood has shifted.

You’re still inside, asleep, heart steady but slow. Recovering.

Your mom sighs. “In today’s world, how many boys say what he did?” she glances at your father. “‘Pregnancy is a choice, not a compulsion’?”

Your father doesn’t speak. He just… nods.

Right then, the sliding doors open—and Hyunjin bursts in, breathless, messy hair, shoes half-tied.

He’s searching like a man gone mad.

Your father stands and gently touches his shoulder.

“She was shifted to room 201” he says, softly.

Hyunjin's eyes widen. “Thank you, sir.”

Minho stays back, and begins casually telling your parents about his Florida feat.

You’re awake.

And when he enters, chest heaving, eyes searching, you already know.

You’re sitting up in the hospital bed, in a light blue uniform that drowns your figure, an IV in one arm, and a million things unsaid in your eyes.

He stares at you.

Then slowly, you say—quiet, but steady, “Hyun…”

He walks to you, stops right in front of the bed.

You glance down at yourself. “How do I look?” you ask, trying to smile. “Good?”

Hyunjin squints at the uniform, nose wrinkling. “They didn’t have a better color?”

“Green.”

He snorts, wiping his eyes quickly. “Oh—this is so much better.”

You laugh, soft. A tiny one.

There’s a pause.

A silence between you so deep it feels like the air is listening.

Then your voice again—smaller. Realer.

“Hyun…”

You look up at him, eyes brimming.

“Will you marry me?”

Hyunjin smiles. It’s tired, aching, but real.

He leans down, grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, where his heartbeat is thunder.

“You tell me” he whispers. “You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

And you know he means it.

May, Amelia Island.

The breeze at Amelia Island is salty-sweet as it catches the veil still clipped loosely into your hair. You’re sitting barefoot with your legs tucked underneath you, wedding dress billowed around like a cloud, on the soft sand that’s seen more stories than it could ever tell. Hyunjin is next to you, shoes kicked off, black wedding suit unbuttoned and wrinkled from dancing and hugging too many people. His tie is looped around his wrist now, like a bracelet he forgot to take off.

He looks at you, all soft and squishy-eyed, like the way people look at baby animals in slow-motion videos.

You’re not even speaking, just resting your head on his shoulder as the Atlantic plays lullabies behind you.

“Baby, I was the one who gave the card” he blurts.

You blink. “…Huh?”

He turns fully toward you, pulling his knees up like a kid telling a scary campfire secret.

“That card. The one that got you so obsessed with this island...”

You look at him, completely silent.

He scratches his cheek, looking at you. “It was me.”

Your lips twitch.

“I know.”

He freezes. “What—”

You burst out laughing. “I knew all along.”

Hyunjin blinks at you. “Wait. How?”

“It was obvious.”

You sit up straighter, shifting your dress so it doesn’t fly into the sand. The layers fluff up like whipped cream as you plant your hands on your hips.

“I should tell you something too.”

He tilts his head, half admiring, half curious.

“Remember Carla?”

He nods slowly, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yeah, you said she was the first female photographer, and the first picture she took was of this island…”

“Well, Carla was actually my math teacher from fifth grade. She used to chew on chalk and forget my name.”

Hyunjin stares at you. “What.”

You grin wider. “The picture thing? Made it up. I wanted to see if you'd believe me.”

Hyunjin's mouth falls open in complete betrayal. “…What.”

“That was the day I decided I wanted to marry you” you say, smug.

He just… stares. “So you’re telling me I’ve spent years thinking I gave you a poetic, historically accurate, niche-romantic postcard—”

“And instead you were falling for a girl who lied to you about a lady with chalk in her mouth,” you sing.

His jaw drops. “My whole LIFE has been a LIE.”

You’re already standing up, backing away slowly, laughing, holding up your gown.

He’s still sitting in stunned silence.

“I’M SERIOUS—CARLA WAS MY TRIG TEACHER—”

You’re already laughing too hard to stand straight when he bolts up.

“Y/N! COME BACK HERE!”

You run.

Down the shore, veil flying, wedding dress lifted as your bare feet slap against the wet sand. He’s right behind you, suit jacket flapping open, breathless from laughter and disbelief.

“WHO EVEN LIES ABOUT A PHOTOGRAPHER—?!”

“ME! I DO! GET USED TO IT, YOU’RE MARRIED TO ME NOW!”

“You scammed me!”

“You married the scam!”

He nearly grabs your waist and you twist just in time, shrieking as you both tumble into the sand, breathless and dizzy and tangled in lace and limbs.

And there, in the golden blush of an Amelia Island sunset, he looks down at you—sand in his hair, shirt sticking to his chest, ring on his finger—and smiles like he’s got everything he’s ever prayed for, all at once.

“You know,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Even if Carla wasn’t a photographer…”

“Hm?”

“You still changed my world by existing.” You kiss, The kind of kiss where time falls asleep for a second.

Somewhere in Florida, weeks later, it’s raining cats and dogs.

He's going through fuzzy handcuffs for experimenting, when his phone rings. Hyunjin answers.

He squints out the window, takes a deep breath, and says loudly, obnoxiously— “I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd!!”

Jisung, who called, almost cries.

Dreams do come true. Even for weird ad models with strange accents.

End.

[why-purpose-enti]

reblog if desi

(just for an approx estimation of no of desis on tumblr)

[why-purpose-enti]

Infertile & Expecting

for: my fav @minniebbang

I hope you like this!

Paring: Hyunjin x Reader.

JYP wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Seoul’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs — Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.

The CEO of AWs was Minho. Terrifying in his management style — pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.

Jisung was the editor sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.

Hyunjin was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Changbin handled business talks but today, he wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.

Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.

Minho, slid a folder across the table to Jisung. “You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Hyunjin are here today, and you already know…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew. If earth split open and Hyunjin fell in, Minho might ask for receipts before helping.

Jisung blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”

Two hours later, Jisung was editing a banner of Hyunjin standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.

Suddenly, the door creaked.

Hyunjin.

Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauted, and served on a plate with grass.

“Can I have… one hour?”

Jisung blinked once. “What?”

“One hour. Just one. Please.”

“…why?”

“Just… come. I’ll pay.”

They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Hyunjin didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.

“I want to go to the US.”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“And… if you decline the offer, since Changbin-hyung is out, I’ll be next in line. Minho-hyung won’t have a choice.”

“...Why should I give that up?”

Hyunjin’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.

He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.

Then launched forward.

"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. Seoul National, USC, NYU, some went to san francisco—I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”

You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Han Jisung. Just ONE!!"

He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly, “I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”

Jisung’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”

Hyunjin blinked. “No?”

“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”

Hyunjin’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.

And he whisper-screamed, desperate, The rarest word in his vocabulary.

“PLEASE.”

The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Jisung’s all-expenses-paid trip to florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.

Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.

Hyunjin had entered full pestering mode. Like Jisung’s success was a war crime.

He started small — delivering Jisung’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Jisung-ah” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Jisung did not own a tripod bag. So Hyunjin bought him one.

By Friday, Jisung had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.

“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”

Hyunjin stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”

“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”

Jisung squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”

“No.” Sigh.

“My dad,” Hyunjin began, “is deeply religious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ religious.”

Jisung blinked.

“My mom too. And my grandma — don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘sin magnet.’ Anyway, this one shaman my dad adores — some guy named Master Jido or Judo or something — apparently saw my face in a rice bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”

“A rice bowl?”

“Yeah, and since then, my dad’s convinced I shouldn’t cross the Korean Peninsula. He cancelled my trip to Japan in high school, he deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Korea will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”

Jisung stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”

“I WISH,” Hyunjin cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”

Jisung squnted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Hyunjin, you think I’m that dumb?” Jisung asked.

There was silence. Then—

“Because...Mr. Lee only listens to you,” Hyunjin blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandma died, and boom — you’re free.”

Jisung paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandma died?”

Hyunjin grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to fiji for your mental well-being.”

Jisung yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”

But Hyunjin wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Minho once declared “imported Italian” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.

“PLEASE!”

Jisung sighed.

“Enough diversions and lying.” Jisung snapped, getting up.

“I WASN'T LYING!”

“okay, half lying.”

Hyunjin pulled out a small blue notebook.

Opened it.

Then… lifted it up.

And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty brown eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.

“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair — that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”

Hyunjin let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him — one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than hydropower. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.

“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”

He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:

“There was a girl.”

Jisung blinked.

“A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.

“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreigh transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girls one, was parked next to hers and—”

“Wait.” Jisung frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”

Hyunjin looked mortified. “…The shaman. He said the top tube on boys cycles was dangerous for my family lineage.”

Jisung snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro WHAT.”

“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”

Jisung was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”

“Yes!” Hyunjin cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”

Wheezing, Jisung wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”

Hyunjin glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. she didnt laugh even when i told her.”

“She and I became…accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything — just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”

Jisung tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”

“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’” Hyunjin scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”

Jisung winced. “Smooth.”

“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”

Jisung, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”

“I never told her I wrote it” Hyunjin admitted.

A pause.

Jisung squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”

Hyunjin waved his hand. “Let me finish.”

Jisung looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Hyunjin.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”

Hyunjin sipped the last of his drink slowly.

Looked out the window.

And grinned.

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Jisung could only describe as unearned confidence.

“I already took care of it.”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”

Hyunjin simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.

“Clarity” Jisung said. “Give it. Now.”

In the JYP Building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was — the shaman’s daughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.

She worked in HR, or maybe Legal — Hyunjin hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.

He’d found his window.

Hyunjin stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.

He called.

Ring. Ring.

Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The very Shaman. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.

Hyunjin’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.

“Hello, Master Jido. This is Hwang Hyunjin. Your favorite client's son.”

“Oh, it’s Hyunjin! What is it, son?”

“I just had a little doubt,” Hyunjin said, sweetly.

“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”

Hyunjin’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “If I kidnap your daughter…”

“…Eh?”

“…And elope with her…”

“WHAT?”

“…Then marry her…”

“Are you—”

“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”

The silence on the line grew nuclear.

“…Then, Shaman-nim,” Hyunjin asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughters, or yours?”

“What do you want.”

Jisung stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”

“Gently intimidated,” Hyunjin corrected.

“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”

“Wasn’t fake in the moment” Hyunjin said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”

Jisung just stared.

“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles” Hyunjin said.

“Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”

“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”

“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”

“…What does that even mean—”

Hyunjin suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award. “San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”

The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.

Jisung sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”

You were thirteen when you landed in Korea, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Seoul was from anything familiar — your school, your grandma, the small room in Florida that always smelled like oranges.

Your dad had one rule: “No Korean boys.”

You blinked. He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom.

“They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and prostitution.” You nodded. Not because you believed it — but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.

You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Korean: "Hello" and "I don't understand."

The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Felix, who looked like he’d been born with bubble tea in his hand. Korean-Australian, bleach-blond, and soft-spoken, he spoke Korean in scattered syllables and English with an accent that made teachers squint and classmates swoon.

You and Felix became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.

Then there was Hyunjin.

The Korean boy who looked like he walked off a shampoo ad — with his floppy fringe and moody aura, and that stupid girls’ bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.

He tried to speak to you.

Often.

“Hi. Me am… Hyunjin… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”

You and Felix burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.

Hyunjin, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. you like me."

“No,” Felix wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”

“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Hyunjin declared, without understanding a thing.

“My English is very… constipation.” “I feel you, I have many… hormone today.” “This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”

“Today is Constipation Day in Korea!” and what not.

You and Felix lost it every single time.

You never corrected him. Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.

Felix would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering:

“Popsex. He really said popsex.”

But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.

The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.

He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.

The cover was of an island. Amelia Island. Inside, written in broken English:

“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”

You didn’t smile.

Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.

The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:

You: “Did you leave this?”

Hyunjin: “What? Me? This??” (Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.) “This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”

you told him you liked it very much. that for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.

“No dating Korean boys” Your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching Korean dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”

You’d just nodded.

He didn’t know about Hyunjin. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.

Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card — anonymous but obvious — you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.

So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.

Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.

You never saw Hyunjin after that.

Your sister was the golden one.

She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.

So when she came to you — eyes big and trembling — and said

“Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Korean. You know how Dad’ll be.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it — that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.

You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.

Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading — but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.

“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have Y/N, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”

You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.

But you didn’t say anything.

You smiled. A small one. A polite one.

You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.

The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.

Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.

“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”

You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you — sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.

Then the baby didn’t cry.

And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.

They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes. Then he was gone.

The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.

Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.

“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”

And your sister just stood there. Frozen. One hand still resting on the tiny urn in her arms.

They never recovered.

You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.

And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.

Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.

“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”

You didn’t respond because she's right.

Years later, you’re still in Korea. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.

But something in you had started to twitch.

A thread pulling tight.

It stirred when you saw your sister's hands shake over her tea.

It stirred loudest when you saw Hyunjin again — in that photo. The boy who once said “goose pinples” with his whole chest. Who looked at you like you were a language he wanted to learn.

It started with a hand graze.

James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.

He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”

You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.

And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.

He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to—he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.

He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.

But when you finally told him—quietly, anxiously—that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.

“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”

You frowned. Not because he was wrong—but because that month already sounded like an escape route.

Still, you nodded.

You always wanted to believe the best of people.

One month turned into two. Then four.

He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.

2 years later.

Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.

“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Studied in Delhi. MBA. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”

You stared at the picture, you knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to—it was the sudden realization of what this meant.

He thought you were ready for marriage.

“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”

You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.

It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.

“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”

There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.

Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.

“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry.

“Don’t take it for granted.”

“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”

He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.

He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.

“Go” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”

You smiled.

But your eyes had guilt.

Packing didn’t take long.

Neither did the goodbyes.

You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.

Then came the early morning of departure.

The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.

“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.

You told her everything last night.

You nod and stop.

Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”

You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake.

Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did—waiting, quiet, gentle.

“Please” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”

And that was all.

You picked up your bag again.

And walked through the doors.

You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile—metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.

And then you saw it.

A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.

You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.

You didn’t even want to care.

You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.

A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.

You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.

And then you saw him.

Long legs stretched out.

Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself.

And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.

You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.

He didn’t even notice you—he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.

Your brows twitched.

You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.

But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.

And his face lit up like he wasn’t twenty-four years old but actually five.

A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then—because he had no self-preservation instinct—shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.

He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.

“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”

You blinked.

Squinted.

And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.

“Hwang Hyunjin!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”

“I told you I was inside—!”

“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”

“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”

You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”

You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”

“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby, Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”

You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”

“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”

You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.

He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.

“Milady,” he said in a terrible British accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”

“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.

He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”

“…Are you high?”

“I took two mints. Close enough.”

You started laughing despite yourself.

You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood—how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.

And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.

“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”

Hyunjin gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition banana milk—!”

You walked ahead, shaking your head.

And behind you, suitcase rolling, Hyunjin trailed after you with that same stupid smile—already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.

This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?

Flashback.

Hyunjin barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.

“Hwang Hyunjin. Office. Now.”

His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Minho never calls. Minho appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.

He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong—was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?

No time to wonder. He walked in.

Minho sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Minho. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet—deadly in its own way.

“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Minho said, without even looking up.

Hyunjin blinked. “...Okay?”

Minho leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.” He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”

“Exactly,” Minho said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”

He stared straight into Hyunjin’s soul.

“Who should be the model?”

And in that moment… Hyunjin knew he was absolutely screwed.

Minho never asks for opinions. Which meant—he already had someone in mind. And he was called here, which meant—it was him.

An intrusive image assaulted his brain: A massive banner over a subway station. Hyunjin. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.

“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Jisung,” he blurted. “Han Jisung’s got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a K-drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”

“Hyunjin,” Minho said flatly. “You’ll do it.”

“No—no no no,” Hyunjin stammered, waving his hands. “Minho-hyung, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites demons. My mom said—”

Minho didn’t even blink.

He turned to his monitor.

“Do it or resign.”

There it was. Classic Minho. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.

Hyunjin stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.

He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.

“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.

Minho didn’t glance up. “Take it.”

“Your time, sir,” Hyunjin added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.

Minho finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.

“What now?”

The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.

Minho sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.

Hyunjin sits like a man who is the warzone.

The waiter approaches with a notepad.

Minho: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.” Hyunjin: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”

The waiter blinks. Looks at Hyunjin. Then at Minho. Then back at Hyunjin, silently judging his life choices.

“Hot… water?” “Yes. Plain. Hot.” “Lemon?” “No. I’m not here to feel joy.”

The waiter backs away slowly.

Minho sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”

Hyunjin takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.

“Sir. I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”

Minho: “Uh huh.”

“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girls cycle.”

Minho freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.

“We were 13—”

Minho cuts in, deadpan:

“Yeah. I know. You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah.”

Hyunjin freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”

Minho sips his water now, mocking.

“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”

Hyunjin seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.

Then:

“There’s… more, sir. But I’ll have to go with the flow—”

Minho cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.

“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”

Hyunjin mutters under his breath:

“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”

Minho: “What?”

Hyunjin (straightening): “Nothing. So—what happened was…”

He breathes in deep. Eyes down.

Minho looks pained.

“one night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, hyung. Our giraffes.”

“You had giraffes?”

“We once watched a giraffe documentary together in the office pantry. That was OUR moment.”

Minho slows down. Just a little.

“And she was dating a guy who was a small time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite”

Minho paused eating. “What”

“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at Canon messaged me to check if I died.”

Minho tosses his chopsticks down.

“Hyunjin. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your dad bought you a pink one. Are you the son of JYP that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”

Hyunjin looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”

“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”

“Sir—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”

“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”

Hyunjin looks like a dying goldfish.

“But hyung—sir—I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”

“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”

He stands. Leaves.

Hyunjin sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.

The waiter brings the bill.

Hyunjin also starts to get up, following Minho… when—

“Hyunjin,” Minho calls without turning.

“Pay the bill.”

He disappears around the corner.

Hyunjin opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.

“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”

The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.

Hyunjin stands in the middle of it.

Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER™” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.

He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.

The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.

His hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Minho said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.

He adjusts his collar. Winces.

The fabric itchy. The zipper mocking him. Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams,

“You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”

Hyunjin mutters under his breath, eyes down.

“Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”

And then—

“...Hyunjin?”

A voice.

A very specific voice.

He freezes.

Not like, subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest.

His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.

And there she is.

HER. The girl. The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking. The one who never judged him during his Girl Cycle™. The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.

She’s standing there—slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest.

She’s dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, she looks like the goddess of Febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.

And then—

CLICK.

Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights.

They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.

Hyunjin flinches as it hits him in the face—full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes.

Because hers are on him. Just her eyes. On just him.

And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone—

Even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship—

Even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop—

All he can think is:

“Damn. I’m in love again.”

And this time, worse than before.

A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Hyunjin starts piecing things together.

She’s not just standing around. She’s not observing. She’s holding a camera.

No. No. No, no, no—

“Y/N,” Minho’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”

Green mat.

Green mat.

Green mat.

Hyunjin’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain Breeze Blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.”

He doesn't even know what that means.

She’s behind the camera. Adjusting the lens.

Professional. Focused. The way she bites the inside of her cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.

He’s smiling in the photos.

But only his teeth are participating.

The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.

Click. Click. Click.

He poses. She shoots. They don’t say a word.

Until— It’s over.

Minho walks up, grabs the camera from her hands casually, scrolls through the display.

He stops at a photo of Hyunjin holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.

“Good job,” Minho mutters.

Hyunjin exhales.

“Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Minho looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Not to you,” Minho says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”

Hyunjin wilts.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.

It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.

You’re not sure how you ended up here.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building—like it remembered you both still had things to say.

Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot.

Like he was trying not to look at you. Like looking might hurt. Like not looking already was.

You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.

He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His curls are messier. Looser. The way you remember them from last year’s winter, when he used to post black-and-white mirror selfies captioned with song lyrics and emotionally concerning emojis.

You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.

“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.

You shrug.

“You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face.

“Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”

You laugh a little.

Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.

There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking.

Now it just hums.

“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”

You nod. Slowly.

But he notices. You don’t say yes.

And he doesn’t press.

Because he knows you.

The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.

He’s doing it now.

Looking away.

Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.

“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”

You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously.

“What, are you stalking me now?”

“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, going red. “I just saw it.”

“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.

He groans.

“I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”

You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly.

“Yeah. We broke up.”

“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”

Your lips quirk.

“He cheated on me.”

That wipes the color from his face in less than a second.

He stiffens.

Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. Eyes darkening like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.

“Hyunjin,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”

“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”

“Tempting.”

“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”

You laugh again—softly. Only a little.

But his eyes flick up instantly.

And then, suddenly—he goes dramatic.

He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.

“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this?You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”

You nod slowly, amused.

“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.”

His eyes widen for emphasis.

“And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”

He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven the theory of relativity.

“That. That’s what your breakup is.”

You stare.

He waits.

You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now.

“I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”

You blink again.

And then— You snort.

And then you actually laugh.

Hyunjin freezes. Mouth parting slightly.

“Wait. Did you just laugh?”

He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light.

“Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! Go green, baby, let’s save the planet!”

You roll your eyes, still laughing.

“Sit down, idiot.”

“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis with your solar power.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late.

He sees it.

And for a second, he just stares.

Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.

The room is packed.

Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Minho paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.

Hyunjin’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone.

Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.

Your text thread. Your name. Sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.

He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.

Hyunjin:

where are you you weren’t at the shoot you didn’t reply this morning are you okay is minho making you quit blink twice if you need rescuing

Three dots pop up.

Then:

You:

Going to a friend’s wedding! Wanna come?

His thumb freezes.

Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.

Hyunjin:

I’M COMING I’M COMING OMG

Then GASP.

An actual, audible gasp in the dead quiet room.

Minho pauses his monologue mid-sentence. Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.

Hyunjin is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news.

“No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint.

“I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”

He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Minho stares at him, completely unmoved.

“You’re not even crying.”

Hyunjin forces a high-pitched sob.

“NOW I AM.”

Minho doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans.

“Go.”

Hyunjin immediately drops the act, grins.

“Thanks, boss!! Love you!”

He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.

Minho sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much.

“Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”

The sun’s dipping low, painting gold on the windshield. The soft hum of the AC fills the silence.

He’s in the passenger seat, hoodie slightly wrinkled, hair a little messy from air playing with it five minutes ago. His bag’s in his lap, untouched.

Your cars parked right outside his house, engine off, not saying a word.

Neither of you are.

Until suddenly you reach across the console and hold his hand.

Hyunjin blinks.

Looks down at your fingers.

Then up at you.

You’re serious.

Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly as you ask—

“Will you marry me?”

He freezes like someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is you.

“Wait—wait. Hold on. What.”

You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand.

“You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”

He stares. Then swallows.

Then stares some more.

And finally, very softly:

“You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.

Only the horror is… His father.

Hyunjin sighs dramatically into the void.

“Appa’s going to kill me.”

His eyes widen.

“No—worse. He’ll disown me. Then resurrect me just to kill me again.”

He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.

“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humour.”

“I’m dating everything my father prayed against during family offerings.”

He throws the blanket over his face.

You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan.

It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers. Neither do you.

“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”

You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.

“I’m marrying a Korean guy. A model. An AD model.”

You sit up.

They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling.

Then simultaneously:

“Maybe we should elope.”

Beat.

“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”

“So would my dad. With a shaman.”

You’re already there when Hyunjin shows up.

You're pacing.

Hands shaking.

Mind spinning.

He sees you from across the street—crosses quickly, no goofy wave today.

You're chewing your lip. Hard.

"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"

You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er.

“Why did you call me here?”

“plan” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”

You squint.

He opens the door. You walk in with him—reluctantly.

Small booth. Two cups between you—one coffee, one untouched hot water.

You're silent. Hyunjin keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets.

Then:

“Let’s elope.”

You stare at him.

Like stare stare.

As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”

“Are you actually serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Hyunjin—my parents—”

You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons.

“Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”

Hyunjin’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly.

“Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”

“What?”

“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”

“Oh my god—”

“As if my father’s ever looked at me and thought: wow, my son’s going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! He once told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”

You blink.

“Turnip?”

“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”

You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly.

“I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”

You begin walking away—heels clicking, exit in sight.

And then—

Hyunjin stands too.

Loud.

Passionate.

Chaotic.

“THAT’S WHY GANDHI SAID!”

Everyone turns. You freeze mid-step.

Turn back slowly.

“…What did Gandhi say?”

He blinks.

Raises his finger again like he’s summoning wisdom from the heavens.

“He said: ‘If you ask me everything—what the fuck will you do, you shithead!’”

Pin-drop silence.

A waiter spills a fork in the corner. A kid starts crying.

You stare at him.

Hyunjin’s chest is rising. He looks like a revolutionary who forgot the script.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Gandhi said that?”

“Absolutely,” he lies confidently.

Your lips twitch.

You fight it. But it’s coming.

And then—it breaks. You laugh.

Covering your mouth. But laughing.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“And you’re the dumbass who proposed to me in your car.”

“…Touche”

You sigh, walking back to him, rubbing your temples.

“So what do we do, Gandhi?”

“Let’s go home for now”

It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour—still, almost forgiving.

You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.

But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket.

You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it—he can feel it.

“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”

You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest.

He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”

You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue—but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your dad—my mom—my sister—”

“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”

You nod slowly against his chest.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”

You shove his chest, laughing for real this time.

“You’re so full of it.”

He tightens his grip on you.

“Full of love, actually.”

“Jinnie”

“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”

Your fingers are lazily tangled in Hyunjin’s hair.

The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Hyunjin’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep—smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.

You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other.

Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.

“I’m pregnant again.”

You blink.

“Wow”

“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”

You glance down at Hyunjin’s messy hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”

You snort softly.

“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”

You freeze.

“…who?”

“Joseph.”

“…who the hell is Joseph?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”

Your heart rate spikes.

“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. Y/N, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”

“What the fu—”

“BYE! Love you!”

Click.

The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror.

A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you.

You shake Hyunjin by the shoulder—gently at first.

“Hyunjin.”

He groans sleepily.

You slap his arm.

“Hyunjin.”

“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine”

You yank the pillow out from under his head.

He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.

“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”

You grab his face.

“My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”

He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once.

“…who the fuck is Joseph?”

“EXACTLY.”

You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find.

Hyunjin finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.

“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”

THE PLAN.

You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Hyunjin’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.

You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes.

He finally speaks.

“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”

You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Hyunjin.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”

He stays quiet, waiting.

You lift your head, eyes watery.

“My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”

A tear escapes without permission.

“I’m the worst person alive.”

He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours.

“Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie be saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”

You laugh through your tears.

He pulls you gently into his arms.

“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”

You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes.

“I don’t want to lose you either.”

A pause.

Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”

You don’t reply for a long time.

He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.

“I’m in love with you” he says.

He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”

Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”

“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”

“But we’re doing it anyway?”

He nods, forehead resting against yours.

“Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”

You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging.

Messily. Painfully.

But with him.

You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scarier. And Amelia island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.

“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”

He grinned.

And hence……

To jisung:

“Can I have… one hour?”

Jisung blinked once. “What?”

“One hour. Just one. Please.”

“…why?”

“Just… come. I’ll pay.”

To your dad:

“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”

You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.

It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.

“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”

Part-2, final!

[why-purpose-enti]

Truce.

Chess Player! Seungmin x Chess Player! Reader

warning: none, I guess. Inform me if there is.

prompt: "Go away". He said, gripping her tighter.

for @stayinlimbo

Chess Player! Seungmin x Chess Player! Reader

warning: none, I guess. Inform me if there is.

prompt: "Go away". He said, gripping her tighter.

for @stayinlimbo

Seungmin's hands hovered over the chessboard, trembling ever so slightly, as his mind raced, desperately searching for a move that could change everything, save him from the humiliation he was about to face again. He replayed the possibilities in his head, but none of them offered salvation. Deep down, he already knew — he had lost.

Again.

You sat across from him, calm and composed, your expression unreadable as always. The contrast between your serene demeanor and the storm brewing inside him made his frustration feel like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. His fingers twitched as he moved his final piece, a resigned flick of his wrist, setting himself up for inevitable defeat.

You didn’t waste any time. Your hands moved with precision, almost methodical, as you slid your queen into position.

Checkmate.

The word rang out in his head, louder than the murmurs of the onlookers gathered around the table, louder than the rapid pounding of his heart in his ears. He stared at the board, his eyes locked on the pieces, tracing the path that had led him here, again, to the same crushing defeat. Defeated. Outwitted. Outdone.

"Good game," you said, your voice even, polite, offering your hand to him with the same grace and formality as always. To you, it was another win, another well-played match. But to Seungmin, it was so much more — a glaring reminder of how far he had fallen, how the once unshakable confidence he had in his abilities had crumbled piece by piece, match by match.

He took your hand, but the grip was brief, distant, as cold as the sinking feeling settling in his chest. His eyes remained fixed on the chessboard, refusing to meet yours, refusing to acknowledge the quiet triumph in them. “Whatever,” he muttered, barely audible but laced with venom, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. The words felt bitter on his tongue, a defense mechanism, an attempt to hide the burning sense of inadequacy swirling inside him.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this loss wasn’t just another game. It was a reflection of something deeper, something he had been trying to suppress for years — the fear that he was no longer the person he once was, that he was falling behind in more ways than just chess.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even your fault. But right now, in the midst of the swirling emotions he couldn’t quite control, you felt like the easiest person to blame.

How could he let this happen?

Seungmin’s thoughts spiraled as he replayed the loss over and over in his mind, each time more agonizing than the last. How could he, the Seungmin who had been better than you at everything when you were kids, fall so far behind? His chest ached with a gnawing bitterness, the sharp sting of defeat cutting deeper than it ever had before. You were the one who had struggled to keep up with him back then — academically, socially, in every competition, Seungmin had always been the one ahead. He had been the prodigy, the golden boy, the one everyone looked up to.

And now? Now, you outshined him in the very thing that mattered most to him. Chess. His pride, his identity.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Growing up, Seungmin had prided himself on being the best, the one others envied. He was the top of every class, the one who took home trophies while you watched from the sidelines. He used to catch glimpses of your frustrated expressions, the way you’d grit your teeth and bite back disappointment after each loss. He could remember how you’d stay up late, practicing endlessly, trying to bridge the gap between you two — but it had always been there. He was always one step ahead, and he never doubted that it would stay that way.

But somehow, over the years, the dynamic had shifted. Slowly, subtly, without him even realizing it at first. Your moves grew sharper, your strategies more sophisticated, and suddenly, you weren’t struggling to keep up anymore. No — now, you were surpassing him, outwitting him in ways he hadn’t seen coming. Seungmin couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened, couldn’t figure out the exact moment when you had overtaken him. All he knew was that you had, and it burned.

Each loss had chipped away at his confidence, each checkmate a reminder of how the roles had reversed. What had once been his domain, his safe space, now felt like a battleground where he was constantly on the defensive, constantly trying to claw his way back to the top but never quite making it. And you… you were calm, collected, always so composed, as if these matches meant nothing more to you than a friendly competition. But to him? To him, each loss was another crack in the armor he had built around himself, another reminder that the Seungmin he used to be was slipping away.

The sound of quiet murmurs in the background faded as his mind spiraled deeper. His eyes were still locked on the chessboard, the final position of the pieces mocking him. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the room — his friends, his family, his parents. His dad, who had always been his biggest supporter, who had taught him how to play when he was just a kid. He could practically hear his father’s voice in his head, echoing all those years of encouragement, telling him that he was special, that he had a natural talent. And now, all that talent felt wasted, slipping through his fingers as easily as the matches he kept losing to you.

Seungmin’s mind drifted back to those childhood days, memories of you both hunched over a chessboard, the sound of the pieces clacking against the wood as he explained strategies to you, giving you pointers. Back then, it had been easy. He’d been better. Always better. But now, sitting across from you felt like sitting across from a different person — a person who had outgrown him.

How had it come to this?

He could still feel the pressure of his father’s presence in the room, the quiet intensity in his mother’s gaze. She wasn’t one to show disappointment outwardly, but he could sense it, buried under her well-practiced smile. They had always been proud of him, always believed in him, and he hated the idea that they might be watching him now with pity or worse — disappointment. His friends, too, sat in the audience. They had always cheered him on, always joked about how unbeatable Seungmin was at chess. But that wasn’t true anymore, and with every match he lost, it became harder to shake the feeling that he was letting them all down.

Seungmin felt a bitter knot twist in his gut as he thought about you — how, in those early days, he had relished the way you’d ask him for help, the way you’d watch him in awe when he effortlessly beat everyone else. He had been the one you looked up to. But now, when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who had worked tirelessly, overcome every obstacle, and become something greater than he had ever imagined. And that terrified him. You weren’t supposed to surpass him. You weren’t supposed to be better.

The thought twisted the knife deeper.

How had you done it? How had you, the one who used to lag behind, the one who used to look to him for guidance, managed to pull ahead? It didn’t make sense. But the truth was there, staring him in the face with every move you made. Every flawless checkmate. Every calm, unbothered expression. You had outgrown him, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

Without another word, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor as he pushed it back, though he fought the urge to slam it. His body was rigid, every muscle tense, coiled, as if the slightest provocation would make him snap. He had to leave. Now.

As Seungmin turned to walk away, the weight of not just the loss but the eyes watching him from the audience settled heavily on his shoulders. His friends were there — they had been cheering him on, hyping him up before the match like they always did. They had believed in him. It felt suffocating.

He walked away from the chessboard, his footsteps heavy, each one radiating frustration. He could feel the eyes of the spectators boring into him, their silent judgments like daggers at his back. Every glance felt like an accusation, feeding the pressure building inside him, an unstoppable wave that threatened to engulf him entirely.

Seungmin’s breath quickened as he made his way out of the room, his heart hammering against his ribcage. He could still see the chessboard in his mind, the final arrangement of pieces burned into his memory.

He hated how his mind kept replaying the match, how he kept seeing the board in his head, each move a painful reminder of his shortcomings. He hated the way his friends would try to comfort him afterward, offering meaningless platitudes that only made him feel worse. But most of all, he hated the gnawing realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the person he thought he was.

And for that, he resented you, even if deep down, he knew none of it was your fault.

The door to the women’s bathroom swung open with a loud creak, without thought, but Seungmin didn’t care. He didn’t even register the sign. His thoughts were too chaotic, too loud, drowning out everything but the deafening pulse of frustration in his veins. He just needed to escape — from the room, from the prying eyes, from the gnawing sense of failure that was threatening to crush him from the inside out. He needed to breathe, needed a moment where he didn’t feel like he was drowning in the expectations he’d built for himself, the expectations everyone had for him.

Leaning over the sink, Seungmin gripped its edge with trembling hands, his knuckles turning white from the force. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, the tension in his chest tightening with each inhale. He stared down at the faucet, unblinking, as if focusing on that one small detail might still his racing thoughts. But it didn’t. Nothing could. His mind was a whirlwind of memories, a barrage of cruel reminders that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted it — he wasn’t the best anymore.

He had always been the best. At everything.

The title had been his since childhood. The smart one, the talented one, the one everyone relied on to win, to figure things out, to lead. And he had worn that title like armor, letting it define him, letting it protect him from the insecurities he buried deep beneath the surface. It had been easy, back then, when winning came naturally, when success was expected and failure wasn’t even a possibility in his mind.

But now? Now, everything had changed.

His chest heaved as the memories hit him, one after another, relentless in their cruelty. He remembered every competition, every academic achievement, every moment when people had looked at him with admiration, with respect. And he remembered you, too. You, who had always been there — not at his side, but just a few steps behind, trying to catch up. You had been the underdog, always chasing him, always striving to reach his level but never quite making it.

Until now.

Now the roles had reversed. You were the one standing at the top, and it was killing him.

Seungmin squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the sink even tighter as if it could anchor him in the present, keep him from spiraling any further. But it didn’t work. The image of your calm, composed face as you delivered that final checkmate was seared into his mind. He could still feel the sting of your polite “Good game,” the way your hand had extended across the board, offering a handshake as if it were just another match to you.

But to him, it wasn’t just another match. It was another loss, another failure, another crack in the carefully constructed image of himself he had spent years building. And the cracks were growing, widening with every defeat, threatening to shatter him completely.

How had you done it? How had you, the one who used to struggle to keep up, managed to surpass him? He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He had always been better — smarter, faster, more skilled. That had been the natural order of things. And now, everything was upside down. You were better than him, and no matter how much he wanted to deny it, the truth was right there, staring him in the face with every match he lost.

Tears burned in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, trying to push them down. He couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. But it was too late. The years of pressure, of constantly trying to be perfect, were crushing him.

The door creaked open, and his heart stopped. He didn’t bother turning around.

“Seungmin?” Your voice was soft, cautious, but he could hear the concern in it. “What are you doing in the girls' bathroom?”

He blinked, realizing where he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “I just needed to get away.”

You stepped closer, your shoes barely making a sound against the tiles, but he could feel your presence beside him. He didn’t want you to see him like this. The ever-confident, ever-calm Seungmin, broken and slouched against a sink, struggling to hold himself together.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice gentle but steady. You weren’t prying, but you weren’t leaving either. And that made it worse.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue. And for some reason, that silence broke him even more. Maybe it was the weight of all those years of expectations, or maybe it was the years of rivalry between the two of you, but something inside him cracked open, spilling everything he had tried so hard to hide.

“I hate this,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I hate losing to you. I hate that I’m not the best anymore. I used to be at the top. I used to be the one who won every time, who everyone looked up to. But now, it’s like… it’s like I don’t even matter anymore.” His hands clenched into fists, the emotions he’d kept buried for so long finally surfacing. “No one cares about me unless I’m winning.”

You watched him quietly, your eyes softening as his words hung in the air.

“I put so much pressure on myself,” Seungmin continued, his voice cracking with each word. “And I can’t— I can’t take it anymore. Everyone expects me to be perfect, but I can’t be. I can’t even win a stupid chess match against you.” His breath hitched, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling.

You took a step closer, and before he could react, you reached out and hugged him. His body stiffened at the contact, his pride screaming at him to pull away, but the warmth of your embrace was something he didn’t know he needed until now.

“Go away,” he mumbled weakly, but even as he said it, his arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding on tighter. He hated it — hated that you were being kind to him, hated that he was the one falling apart. But at the same time, he needed this. He needed you.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, your voice soft and steady. “You think I’ve had it easy?” you asked, your words gentle but firm. “Do you know how hard it was for me when we were kids? Watching you succeed at everything, always being better than me? I was frustrated with you, Seungmin. I looked up to you, but I also resented how perfect you were. I worked so hard just to try and catch up with you.”

He froze, the weight of your words sinking in. He had never thought about it that way before. All those years, he had been so focused on maintaining his place at the top that he never realized how much you struggled to keep up.

“But things change,” you continued, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time. And even if you lose sometimes, that doesn’t mean you’re any less than what you were. It just means we’re both growing.”

Seungmin blinked, his eyes watery as he stared at you. “But… I can’t stand losing to you. It feels like I’ve failed.”

You shook your head gently, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “You haven’t failed. Not to me. You’ve always been someone I admired, Seungmin. Not because you were perfect, but because you pushed me to be better. And even now, losing doesn’t make you any less of the person I know.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The weight of your words hung in the air between you, the years of rivalry and frustration finally giving way to something deeper, something more human.

There was a knock on the door, breaking the moment. You cursed softly under your breath, glancing at Seungmin. “Hide in a stall,” you whispered urgently.

Seungmin scrambled into the nearest stall as you unlocked the door. The woman standing outside gave you a questioning look.

“Sorry, I accidentally locked it,” you said, offering an apologetic smile.

The woman gave a curt nod and left. Once you were sure she was gone, you let Seungmin out of the stall. He looked a little embarrassed, but there was a quiet relief in his eyes.

“Let’s get out of here,” you whispered, and the two of you sneaked out of the bathroom.

As you walked down the hallway together, there was a new silence between you. Not the awkward, competitive tension that had always existed before, but something more peaceful. A truce.

“Thank you,” Seungmin said softly after a while, his voice almost hesitant. “For… for not leaving.”

You smiled. “You would’ve done the same for me.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, his expression unreadable for a moment as the silence stretched between you. Then, before you could fully process what was happening, Seungmin leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. His lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss, the touch so gentle it felt almost like a question — hesitant, unsure, but filled with something deeper than the rivalry that had always defined your relationship.

It wasn’t rushed or fueled by the fiery tension that often lingered between you during your matches. There was no sense of urgency or frustration. Instead, it was slow, tender, like an unspoken understanding passing between you — an acknowledgment of everything unsaid, of the years spent trying to outdo one another, and the weight of expectations that had always loomed in the background. His hand moved to the side of your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as if he were afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You stood still, the world around you fading into nothing but the soft press of his lips against yours. The years of competition, the bitterness, the frustrations — all of it seemed to melt away in that single, quiet moment. There was no winner or loser here, no checkmate, no scoreboard. Just the two of you, standing just outside of the women’s bathroom, sharing a kiss that felt more like a truce than anything else.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath still a little shaky. His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a softness you hadn’t seen before. There was no trace of the prideful, competitive Seungmin that had stormed out of the chess room moments ago. In that moment, he was vulnerable, raw, stripped of all the armor he had spent years building.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the sincerity in it was unmistakable. He wasn’t just apologizing for the kiss — he was apologizing for everything. For the way he had let his pride come between you, for the way he had pushed you away with his bitterness, for the way he had made this rivalry mean more than it ever should have.

And in that quiet moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

When he pulled back, he looked embarrassed again, but you just smiled.

A week later, you found yourself sitting across from Seungmin at another chessboard, the familiar setup between you, but something felt different. The tension that had once hung heavy in the air was gone, replaced by a lightness neither of you had felt in a long time. The crowd around you buzzed with anticipation, eager to see the outcome of yet another match between the two of you. But this time, it wasn’t about victory or defeat, not in the same way it used to be.

You made your final move, placing your knight with precision. Checkmate.

Seungmin’s eyes flicked down to the board, taking in the arrangement of the pieces. But instead of the usual storm of frustration or disappointment, he just sat there for a moment, his gaze soft, contemplative. Then, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Well,” he said with a quiet chuckle, “looks like you win again.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair, savoring the familiar feeling of victory. “Get used to it,” you teased, but there was no bite in your words, only playful banter.

Seungmin laughed, shaking his head as he pushed his chair back and stood. “Maybe I should,” he said, still smiling, though there was no bitterness in his voice. No resentment. He had finally accepted it — that sometimes, losing wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Especially when it came to you.

“Let’s analyze the match,” he suggested, his tone relaxed, as if he genuinely wanted to learn from it, not just out of obligation but out of a shared desire to grow, together.

As you stood, he offered you his hand, just like he always did. But this time, when you took it, he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled you closer, the crowd fading into the background as his arms wrapped around you in a warm, easy hug. There was no frustration in his embrace, no trace of the simmering anger that used to bubble just beneath the surface after every loss.

Just warmth.

[why-purpose-enti]

Idiot.

request-

Okay, it's actually inspired by 'something never changes' from frozen 👉👈 I imagined Hyunjin as Kristoff(😭) and he was pondering how to explain how in love he is with her(although they were together). Since it is a day before the kingdom's annual dinner, the reader is busy with the preparation and he always misses his chance to tell her. So, he talked to his puppy about that.

I'll leave the ending to you 🫢 You can change anything if you want 🕺. Have fun writing it!

requested by- @minniebbang

I had fun writing it!

…

It had started bright and early in the dining hall, where she was overseeing the arrangement of the banquet tables. The grand space was alive with activity, sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting a golden glow on the polished floors. She was a vision of focus and determination, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she directed a team of servants to perfect the table settings. Every detail mattered to her, from the alignment of the silverware to the precise angle of the centerpiece flowers.

Hyunjin lingered in the doorway for a moment, the velvet box clutched in his sweaty palm. His heart was pounding against his ribs, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of anticipation. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times—no, a thousand. The words were simple enough: "I know things are busy, but there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Will you marry me?" Simple. Straightforward. Foolproof.

At least, that was the plan.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the bustling room, his boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. "Hey," he said softly as he sidled up beside her, hoping to catch her in a rare quiet moment.

"Just a second," she replied, not looking up as she meticulously adjusted a napkin. Her brow furrowed slightly, her focus absolute.

Hyunjin waited patiently. And then, less patiently. He glanced around, fidgeting with the box in his hand, feeling the velvet grow damp from his nervous grip. The chatter of servants, the clinking of plates, and the rustle of fabric as they moved past him filled the room. He shifted from one foot to the other, running through his mental script one more time.

Finally, she turned to him, a tired but genuine smile softening her features. "Okay, what’s up?"

This was it. His moment. His opening.

But just as Hyunjin opened his mouth to speak, a deafening crash echoed through the hall. Both their heads snapped toward the sound. One of the servants had tripped, sending a tray of goblets tumbling to the ground. The sharp shatter of glass silenced the room for a heartbeat before chaos resumed.

"Oh no," she gasped, her eyes widening. Without hesitation, she darted toward the mess, her hands already motioning for others to help. "I’m so sorry, Hyunjin. Can we talk later?"

"But I—" His voice caught, the carefully rehearsed words slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers.

"I’ll find you, okay?" she called over her shoulder, her tone distracted but warm. She was already crouched beside the servant, murmuring reassurances and delegating the clean-up.

Hyunjin stood frozen, the ring box still burning a hole in his palm. Around him, the dining hall buzzed with activity, but he felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. His carefully planned moment, his foolproof proposal, had evaporated before it could even begin.

With a heavy sigh, he slipped the box back into his pocket, glancing at her one last time as she moved with her usual grace and command, entirely in her element. For now, he’d wait. He had to. But his chest tightened as a thought struck him—what if later never came?

Determined, Hyunjin tried again a few hours later in the kitchen.

"Hey," he said, leaning casually against the counter.

She glanced at him briefly. "Don’t touch anything."

"I wasn’t going to!" he protested.

"Good," she said, returning to her work.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to—"

Before he could finish, Kkami, who had snuck into the kitchen unnoticed, leapt onto the counter and landed in a bowl of powdered sugar.

"Kkami!" she yelped, scooping up the now-white chihuahua.

Hyunjin grabbed a towel, his heart sinking as she wiped the dog clean. "I didn’t mean for that to happen—"

"It’s fine," she interrupted with a strained smile. "But maybe keep him out of the kitchen?"

"Yeah," he muttered as she handed him the sugar-dusted pup.

"And Hyunjin?" she added, already turning back to her cake. "We’ll talk later, okay?"

By mid-afternoon, Hyunjin was getting desperate. He caught her in the ballroom, where she was supervising the hanging of the velvet curtains.

"Princess!" he called, jogging over to her.

She turned, looking flustered but pleased to see him. "Hyunjin! What’s up?"

This was it. No interruptions. No disasters. Just him and her.

"I, uh, I’ve been wanting to ask you something," he said, stepping closer.

"Of course," she replied, giving him her full attention.

Hyunjin reached into his pocket for the ring. His heart raced. This was it. This was finally—

"HYUNJIN, NO!"

A worker’s shout startled him just as the ladder behind him wobbled precariously. Without thinking, Hyunjin lunged to catch it. Instead, the ladder caught him, knocking him over and sending a cascade of fabric down on top of both him and her.

When they emerged from the pile of curtains, her hair was sticking up in every direction, and Hyunjin looked like a ghost in velvet drapes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, biting back a laugh as she fixed her hair.

"I’m fine," he mumbled, pulling the fabric off himself.

She shook her head, smiling in that exasperated way she always did when he got into trouble. "We’ll talk later, alright?"

The next time Hyunjin saw her, she was in the study, surrounded by a mountain of papers. She was reviewing the guest list with the royal advisor, her brow furrowed as she debated seating arrangements. Hyunjin lingered near the doorway, clutching the ring box like a lifeline.

He waited until the advisor stepped out for a moment before he cleared his throat. "Hey, can we talk?"

She glanced up, her face softening. "Hyunjin, not now. The guest list is a mess, and if I don’t fix it, there’ll be nobles sitting next to people they hate."

"It’ll only take a minute," he urged, stepping closer. "I’ve been trying all day to—"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Hyunjin, I can’t. Not now."

His chest tightened. He hadn’t planned on blurting it out, but the words slipped past his lips anyway. "You’re more important than all of this."

She froze, her pen hovering over the parchment. Slowly, she turned to look at him, her expression unreadable.

"Are you saying I don’t care about what’s important?" she asked quietly.

Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. "What? No! That’s not what I—"

"Because if that’s what you think," she continued, her voice growing sharper, "then maybe you don’t understand how much pressure I’m under."

"Princess, please," he tried to explain, reaching for her hand, but she pulled away.

"I can’t deal with this right now," she said, shaking her head. "I have too much to do." She grabbed the guest list and walked past him, her shoulders tense with disappointment.

Hyunjin was left standing there, the ring box growing heavier in his pocket.

Desperate to make things right, Hyunjin found her later that evening in the ballroom, directing a team of workers as they adjusted the massive chandeliers.

He marched up to her, determined to clear the air. "Princess, we need to talk."

She barely glanced at him, her focus on the workers above. "Hyunjin, can it wait? The lighting is all wrong, and if we don’t fix it—"

"It can’t wait," he interrupted, stepping in front of her. "I need you to hear me out. Earlier, when I said you were more important—"

"I know, Hyunjin," she said, her tone clipped. "You think I’m putting all of this above you."

"No, that’s not it!" he exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. "You are important to me. You’re everything to me. I’m just terrible at explaining—"

Before he could finish, a loud clang echoed through the room as one of the workers accidentally dropped a wrench. She spun around, rushing to check on the commotion.

"Are you okay?" she called to the worker, her attention completely pulled away from Hyunjin.

He stood there helplessly, his heart sinking as she addressed the workers and began giving orders again. When she finally turned back to him, she looked tired and strained.

"Hyunjin, I can’t do this right now," she said softly, her voice tinged with disappointment. "We’ll talk later, okay?"

And once again, she walked away before he could explain.

By the time he caught up to her again, she was in the courtyard, overseeing the delivery of decorations. Hyunjin approached cautiously, unsure if he was walking into another disaster.

"Princess," he started hesitantly.

She turned to him, her exhaustion evident. "Hyunjin, what is it?"

"I just…" He faltered, struggling to find the right words. "I don’t want you to think I don’t understand how hard you’re working. I do. I just wish I could—"

"Wish what?" she interrupted, her tone sharper than intended. "That I wasn’t so busy? That I wasn’t—" She hesitated, frowning. "That I wasn’t me?"

"What? No!" he said quickly, alarmed.

"Because if that’s how you feel," she continued, crossing her arms, "then maybe we need to rethink this whole thing."

Hyunjin’s heart stopped. "Wait, what?! That’s not what I meant at all!"

But she was already shaking her head, her disappointment clear. "I don’t have time for this, Hyunjin. Not now."

And with that, she walked away again, leaving him standing in the courtyard, utterly defeated

…

Hyunjin sat slumped against a haystack in the stables, his golden hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. In his lap sat Kkami, a tiny chihuahua who looked far too smug for someone his size.

"Kkami," he sighed, tilting his head back dramatically. "I’m doomed. DOOMED."

Kkami, ever loyal but hopelessly unhelpful, barked once.

"I’ve been trying to propose to her all day!" Hyunjin groaned. "But every time, something goes wrong. It’s like the universe wants me to fail." He grabbed the puppy by its little front paws and held it up. "What am I doing wrong, huh? Is it me? Do I look like a guy who can’t propose properly?"

Kkami licked his nose in response.

"Great," Hyunjin muttered. "Even you think I’m hopeless."

"I swear, Kkami," Hyunjin sighed, letting his head fall back against the hay. "I’ve tried everything. She’s impossible to pin down today."

Kkami tilted his head, his big round eyes brimming with judgment.

Hyunjin pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don’t look at me like that. You wouldn’t do any better. You don’t even have words."

Kkami barked once, sharply.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. She’s busy." Hyunjin rubbed his face with his hands, groaning dramatically. "But does she have to be this busy?”

"I think she hates me."

Kkami barked in protest, wagging his tail.

"Okay, maybe not hates," Hyunjin conceded. "But she definitely thinks I’m an idiot."

The chihuahua tilted his head as if to say, And she’s wrong?

Hyunjin groaned, flopping onto his back. "I just wanted to ask her to marry me. How did it turn into this?"

Kkami huffed and nuzzled into his lap, as if to say, You’re pathetic, but I’m here for you.

"Thanks, buddy," Hyunjin muttered.

The door creaked open, and Hyunjin bolted upright, his heart racing. She stood there, her expression softer now, though the day’s stress still lingered in her eyes.

"Hyunjin," she said gently, stepping inside, "what’s going on?"

He blinked at her, then at Kkami, who barked as if to say, Go on.

Taking a deep breath, Hyunjin stood up and reached into his pocket. "There’s something I’ve been trying to ask you all day," he said, his voice steady despite his nerves. "And I keep messing it up, but I need you to know…"

He dropped to one knee, holding out the velvet box.

"Will you marry me?"

For a moment, she just stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a radiant smile.

"Hyunjin," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes, "you’ve been driving me crazy all day. But yes. Yes, I’ll marry you."

And as she pulled him into a hug, Kkami barked triumphantly, as if he’d known all along how it would end.

The moment she said yes, the air seemed to shift. Hyunjin was still kneeling, holding the ring, his heart racing in disbelief. Her smile was soft, her cheeks flushed from both exhaustion and joy.

"You—" he stammered, blinking up at her. "You said yes?"

She laughed lightly, pulling him to his feet. "I said yes, you dork."

Hyunjin didn’t wait another second. He cupped her face in his hands, his forehead leaning against hers as if grounding himself in the moment. "You have no idea how badly I wanted this," he murmured.

"I think I have some idea," she teased, eyes sparkling.

He chuckled, his voice low and warm. "No, you don’t." And before she could respond, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was soft yet filled with every ounce of love he’d been bottling up. She melted into him, her arms winding around his neck, and for a moment, everything—the misunderstandings, the chaos, the busy day—faded away.

When they finally pulled apart, her nose brushed against his. "I think that was worth waiting for," she whispered, smiling.

He grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Only the beginning."

as the castle buzzed with the final preparations for the dinner, she found herself slipping into Hyunjin’s cozy little house near the stables.

"This is highly unorthodox for a princess," she said, her tone playful as she looked around. The house wasn’t big, but it was warm and inviting, with Hyunjin’s sketches pinned haphazardly to the walls and Kkami’s tiny bed tucked into the corner.

Hyunjin set down a kettle on the stove and turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, and staying here because your castle is ‘too noisy’ is perfectly normal?"

"Perfectly," she said with a dramatic flourish, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto his bed. It was small, clearly meant for one person, but she didn’t seem to care.

Hyunjin stood there for a moment, watching her with a mix of amusement and awe. She looked so at home, lying there in his space, as if she belonged there.

"What?" she asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "Just… I can’t believe this is real."

She patted the bed beside her. "Come here, Mr.Idiot”

They lay side by side in the tiny bed, her head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped securely around her. Kkami had hopped up at some point, curling up near their feet. The warmth of the moment made it feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

"So," she began, her voice soft, "about what happened today…."

Hyunjin groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Don’t remind me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more of an idiot in my life."

She laughed, poking his side. "Oh, you were definitely an idiot. But I’m listening."

He sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before starting. "Okay, first, the rose garden. When I said ‘things would’ve been better in a different situation,’ I meant if you weren’t so busy. Not—"

"Not a different person," she finished for him, her tone teasing.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, groaning again. "And then the guest list thing. I didn’t mean you were putting everything above me. I just wanted to say you shouldn’t overwork yourself."

She hummed thoughtfully, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. "You’re terrible at phrasing things."

"I know," he said, his voice sheepish. "And the ballroom? When you thought I meant you weren’t enough? That one hurt, Princess. You’re more than enough. You’re everything."

Her teasing expression softened at that, and she tilted her head up to look at him. "You’re really bad at communicating, you know that?"

"Trust me, I know," he muttered.

She smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. "But you’re also pretty amazing. And I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else, even if you are a little hopeless sometimes."

He grinned against her lips, pulling her closer. "Hopelessly in love with you."

She rolled her eyes, laughing as she settled back against him. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

Kkami barked softly in agreement, and they both laughed, the tension of the day melting away as they drifted off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s arms.

[why-purpose-enti]

All the posts of my account and fics were deleted, so if anyone finds my fics, please send me so I can reblog here and others(and me) can read them

I will also continue writing

[why-purpose-enti]

HE IS MY PRINCESS WAHHHHHHHHHHHH SUCH AN ANNOYING LOSER BOY WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[why-purpose-enti]

Who watched HIT 3? I need someone to rant about it..

[why-purpose-enti]

Ya’ll.

What if Oda touched Dazai to nullify his ability to see a few seconds into the future? So that he wouldn’t have to see how Dazai would react to his death? He took off the bandages on his face to touch his skin properly?