#Gang Au

[edenesth]

04. The Phantom — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Yeosang x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 20k

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

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

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

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good luck, Yeo."

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

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

Empty.

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

Just like the last time.

And the time before that.

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

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

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

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

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

"Not again."

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

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

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

But another part? That part laughed.

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

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

Who the hell was she?

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

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

And now, more than ever, he wanted to.

Not for the artefact. Not even for the mission.

But for the thrill of the chase.

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

And he liked it.

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

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

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

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

Adorable.

But that wasn't going to save him.

Not tonight.

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

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

The alarm shrieked to life.

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

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

This wasn't sabotage. Not really.

You were just… levelling the playing field.

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

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

Consider it my apology, Phantom.

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

And deep down, you knew he would.

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

It was well past midnight.

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

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

He didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Was it her again?"

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

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

Hongjoong grimaced. "And the alarm?"

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

A beat of silence passed between them.

"How bad?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hongjoong raised a brow. "You sound flattered."

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

"Uh-huh."

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

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

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

He stared at it for a long moment.

"She wants me to find her."

"You sure?"

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

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

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

Just you wait, little vixen.

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

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

This was not the place for indulgence.

You pushed open the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

"You continue to entertain him."

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

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

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

"Exactly."

He raised his glass in a toast to the flames.

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

The chase was far from over.

And you? You were just getting started.

But so was he.

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

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

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

Five white roses sat there now.

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

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

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

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

This was different.

He wasn't being distracted. He was refocused.

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

It would be his greatest triumph yet.

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

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

No roses. No lipstick. No escape.

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

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

Naturally, you had found your way in.

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

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

Your breath hitched. You knew that rhythm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. Your chest fluttered.

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

Your heart stuttered.

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

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

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

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

I won't let you down, Father.

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

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

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

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

But Yeosang wasn't watching the stage.

He was watching the crowd.

Waiting.

Anticipating.

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

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

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

Right on cue.

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

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

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

This time, he had set the trap.

And you were walking straight into it.

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

Then he saw you.

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

So it's you.

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

Click.

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

You froze.

Too late.

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

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

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

Your breath hitched—but only for a second.

He was unfairly beautiful.

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

And yet… you couldn't look away.

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

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

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

Focus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he was fast too.

Faster than you expected.

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

You were both breathing hard now. Inches apart.

"Nice trick," he muttered near your ear.

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

His fingers slipped from your skin.

You were already gone.

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

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

You were good.

But now… he was better.

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

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

This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

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

But you hadn't counted on them.

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

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

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

He didn't come alone this time.

The realisation hit like a slap across the face.

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

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

You shouldn't go back.

You couldn't go back.

But…

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

Your jaw clenched.

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

He trusted you.

He believed in you.

And you…

…You needed that belief to mean something.

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

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

Finally. The relic was finally in his hands.

Smooth. Cold. Priceless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeosang shot him a flat look.

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

"Oh, fuck off, Woo."

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

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

Anticipation.

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

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

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

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

No mask.

No smug smile.

No elaborate, dramatic entrance.

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

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

Then you spoke, voice trembling and ragged.

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

That struck him.

Harder than any blade.

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

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

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

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

That moment was all you needed.

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

A barely audible hiss. A faint click.

The sedative surged into his bloodstream.

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

Then you shoved him off.

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

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

Not at the man who had once scared you.

Not at the man who had unknowingly softened you.

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

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

Not anymore.

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

The relic.

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

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

You inhaled—

Threw—

"Duck, Woo!"

And missed.

That voice—too close, too powerful.

Then something collided with you like a freight train.

SLAM.

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

The Anchor.

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

Fuck.

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

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

Gone.

No—

Gone.

You let out a shaky breath, bitter and seething.

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

Jongho didn't smile.

His stare didn't waver.

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

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

And lucky for you, men shared a universal one.

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

That was his mistake.

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

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

You rose with the blade and spun—

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

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

Shit.

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

The Tempest.

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

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

Oh, I'm so fucked...

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

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

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

But instead—he followed you.

He couldn't explain why.

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

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

But it was your face that truly stopped Yeosang cold.

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

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

It could've been a lie.

Should've been a lie.

But his gut twisted anyway.

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

"No… let her go."

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.

He shouldn't be doing this.

Not for you.

Not after everything.

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

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

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

But in the end, none of it mattered.

Because you'd failed.

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

You didn't dare look up.

You didn't dare speak.

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

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

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

You failed the mission.

You let the Phantom get to you.

You got caught.

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

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

Too calm.

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

But that wasn't allowed.

You weren't a child anymore.

You weren't allowed to cry.

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

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

The Time Out Room wasn't just a punishment.

It was a lesson.

And no one ever came out the same.

You told yourself you could endure it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replayed it all—again.

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

And the way you had fallen into his arms.

Only to betray him.

Again.

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

He should be furious.

He was furious.

But more than that—he was confused.

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

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

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

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

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

Excuses. "She got to you."

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

Another pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resolve.

And so he returned to work.

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

Just silence. And the prize.

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

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

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

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

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

So he pushed forward.

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

He should've felt unstoppable.

He should've felt proud.

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

But there was nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not a trace.

The world felt duller without you in it.

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

By the seventh, it was starting to ache.

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

But Yeosang hadn't moved.

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

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

No one was matching him move for move.

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

He was winning.

And it never felt more like losing.

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

Could that be why you'd vanished?

Could you be… gone?

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

This wasn't grief.

This was just boredom.

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

Yes, that was it.

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

Until it wasn't.

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

A scent.

Soft, familiar. Sandalwood.

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

You.

Not a dream. Not a ghost.

Just you.

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

Because suddenly, all meaning returned.

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

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

And just like that, the game resumed.

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Yeosang was back. Or so he told himself.

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

And so had you.

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

Almost.

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

He'd let you have the win that night.

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

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

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

He never said anything. Never called it out.

But it lingered.

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

"Well?"

The word cut through the air like a blade.

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

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

"You think this is the success?"

Your breath caught.

"You know your real purpose out there."

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

The Phantom.

The untouchable.

The monk among wolves.

No vices. No weaknesses. No distractions.

Not until you.

And that had been the point.

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

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

But after that night...

The memory still stung like a healing wound.

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

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

Still, what choice did you have?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mission was working.

So why didn't it feel like winning?

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

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

Piece by piece.

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

The boss said until further notice.

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

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

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

You shut your eyes and endured.

As always.

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

Remember who you are, you told yourself.

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

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

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

Never broken.

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

It was becoming an endless cycle.

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

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

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

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

Every movement ached.

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

At least, that's what you told yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you ran.

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

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

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

Fuck me, it hurts...

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

The cost of getting it? Still bleeding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took a step closer. "Try me."

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

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

You looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another failure.

Another missed shot.

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

At least… not about the mission.

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

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

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

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

They never did.

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

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

And it worked.

It worked for years.

Until now. Until you.

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

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

Why did it feel like he was slipping?

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

"Some of us bleed for it."

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

Just like he once did.

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

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

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

And you hated every second of it.

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

And you'd walked away. You walked.

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

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

What the hell was wrong with you?

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

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

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

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

And still… he kept letting you go.

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

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

Was it pity?

You flinched.

Was it some twisted sense of mercy?

Or was he simply tired of fighting?

That one made your stomach twist the worst.

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

For you.

For you, of all people.

And it made you feel sick.

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

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

But you couldn't let that be true.

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

You'd end this. You had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't falter.

Not a flicker. Not this time.

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

He could barely believe it.

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

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

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

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

And yet tonight, everything felt... off.

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

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

What are you doing to me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No teasing remark. No smirk. No challenge.

Only silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bullshit."

You blinked. That wasn't what you expected.

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

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

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

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

Yeosang didn't chase you.

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

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

But tonight, that changed.

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

Except, you had a plan.

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

And this prize—this was the one.

The one that would rewrite your future.

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

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

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

This was it.

It had to be.

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

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

Then disposal.

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

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

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

Whether or not you ever forgave him for it.

Almost... there.

You were seconds away.

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

None of it was.

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

Every step forward had cost you something.

A sliver of flesh.

A jolt of pain.

A piece of doubt.

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

Shit.

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

And then—

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

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

You didn't turn.

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

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

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

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

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

"No. You need to stop."

You finally turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at you—no mask, no shield.

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

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

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

Forget him. I'm already this close.

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

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

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

Because he reached you in time.

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

Then the warmth. Then the blood.

"No," you whispered in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

Your vision blurred for another reason now.

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

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

But he never did. He wouldn't.

You knew it now.

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

Until Yeosang.

Until now.

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

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

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You had never run from a mission before.

Not once.

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

You didn't look back.

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

The doors blew open to the night.

And he was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Cold and deafening.

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

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

Your eyes flickered uncertainly.

Yeosang saw it.

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

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

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

Click.

Yeosang moved first.

But so did they.

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

"FREEZE!"

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

Gunfire cracked the air.

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

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

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

"Get in!" a familiar voice roared.

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

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

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

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

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

He said nothing.

You said nothing.

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

Not this time.

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

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

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

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

And then you were in the infirmary.

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

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

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

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

You didn't answer.

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

Still, nothing.

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

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

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

"I'm fine... I just—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The Captain's office was far too quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

The room fell still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence blanketed the room. No judgement.

But the heaviness was real.

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

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

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

Approval.

The mansion's back terrace was empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him, every part of you unravelling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Preparation began the very next day.

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

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

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

But Yeosang—he was your constant.

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

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

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

You led them in.

Father, I'm home.

The compound hadn't changed.

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

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

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

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

Heart pounding, you pushed forward.

And then—you saw it.

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

Your boss was there.

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

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

His voice cut through the heavy silence.

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

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

WS. White Serpents.

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

It was bait.

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

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

And now…

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

And yet, you felt like you were suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeosang.

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

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

You didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just him. Just this.

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

Together.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grin widened.

"This might just be the best one yet."

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

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

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[mjonthetrack]

real

Chapter One

Samara worked the product through her fingers, parting her son's hair with practiced precision as she braided his thick curls down into clean rows. Half listening to the chatter going on a few feet away, she focused on keeping her grip steady. Trinity was laid back in one of the plush salon chairs, letting Jenny, their homegirl-slash-nail tech, work on her acrylics. Jenny was Latina, quick with a nail file and even quicker with a smart mouth—plus she’d been in a messy little situationship with Sefa, Jey’s younger brother, for the better part of a year now.

Trinity tilted her head, eyes crinkling with amusement as she looked over at Zion. “Boy, look at you. You look just like your damn daddy—got his eyes and that big ol’ nose.”

Samara rolled her eyes, not missing a beat as she parted the next section. “Don’t say that. It’s bad enough he got his daddy’s temper.”

Zion popped his lips, looking up at her with just the right amount of attitude. “It’s not even allat, why you lyin’ on me in front of Auntie T?”

Samara glanced down at him, her tone unimpressed. “Boy, hush up and let me finish your hair before I mess up this part.”

Trinity snorted, biting back a laugh as Jenny chimed in, filing away. “Y’all hear about them drug busts over on West Fifth? Cops movin’ mad tight out there.”

The energy in the room shifted just slightly, subtle but real. All three women knew what was really up. The Fatus weren’t just some regular ol’ family. Trinity was married to Jey’s twin, Jimmy—they had two kids and knew the lifestyle down to the bone. Jenny? She stayed caught up in Sefa’s mess, and everybody in the salon knew it. But when it came to Joshua Fatu—Jey—nobody had a more complicated history with him than Samara.

She and Jey had been a thing since she was eighteen, right around when Zion was born. It had been on and off, mostly off, since then. Now at thirty, Samara was done. Done chasing him, done stressing over him, done trying to make something work with a man who only knew how to break promises and boundaries. All she wanted now was peace, her bag, and her son growing up right.

The salon door chimed and the deep voice hit before the man did.

“Yo…”

Jey stepped in like he owned the place, voice low, smooth. He clocked his son in the chair and grinned, rubbing a tatted hand over Zion’s head.

“Wassup, king? You getting braids this time, huh?”

Zion grinned despite himself, sitting a little straighter. Jey’s eyes lifted from his son to land on Samara, eyes trailing up and down, unreadable.

“You straight?” he asked, voice dipping. “No problems around here?”

Samara didn’t bother with pleasantries. She caught the look in his eyes—the same one that always lingered just a second too long—and met it with a cold stare.

“Z been waitin’ on you,” she said flatly. “Like an hour. He wanted wings and some time with his pops.”

Trinity cut her eyes at her brother-in-law, lips pursed like she wanted to say boy, please but was holding it for Zion’s sake. Everyone in the room knew what Jey was really asking. With the recent heat around their business territory, he wasn’t just checking in—he was making sure no one had come sniffing around Samara’s shop.

Samara didn’t care. Let him play protector now. She’d learned how to survive without him a long time ago.

Chapter Two

Samara stepped to the side of the front desk, reaching into her purse as Zion stood by the door lacing up his sneakers. She pulled out a neatly folded twenty and slid it into his hoodie pocket without a word.

“Get you some fries or whatever after. Don’t let your daddy blow all the money on wings,” she muttered, adjusting his collar.

Zion grinned and gave her a little side hug, lowkey excited to dip with his dad. “Thanks, Ma.”

As the boy bounced out the shop, Jey held the door for him and glanced back at her. She tilted her head toward the door, silently motioning for him to hang back for a second.

When they were out of earshot, her whole vibe changed—shoulders a little stiffer, voice a lot lower.

“You know the block hot right now,” Samara started, tone sharp and honest. “Damn near impossible tryna run a shop with young bloods actin’ wild and the cops swarmin’ like flies every other hour.”

Jey nodded once, jaw tight, but she wasn’t done. She stepped in a little closer, arms crossed, eyes locked on his.

“I don’t want Zion caught up in none of that shit,” she said, her words like clipped steel. “He twelve, Jey. He don’t ask no questions yet, but that time comin’. And when it does, I ain’t gon’ be the one lyin’ to my son about what his daddy really on.”

Jey looked like he wanted to say something slick, but she hit him with that stare—the one that had him quiet since they were nineteen.

“You always got money. Always busy. And he don’t know why his pops don’t act like other dads—don’t know why you so damn hard all the time, why you always movin’ like somebody watchin’ you.”

She took a breath, tone cooling just enough to cut deeper.

“And now I gotta deal with him givin’ my dates the side-eye and grillin’ my link-ups like he the man of the house,” she added, brows raised. “All ‘cause his pops don’t know how to let go of somethin’ he fumbled a decade ago.”

Jey didn’t flinch, but his nostrils flared. That silence he hit her with wasn’t soft—it was boiling just under the surface.

“We too old for this shit, Jey,” she finished, stepping back, grabbing her purse strap. “Get your son some damn wings and be back when you say you gon’ be. I’m not playin’ the guessing game with you no more.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, jaw clenched, hand running over his beard as he gave her that look—that unreadable, lowkey possessive one he always tried to hide.

Finally, he muttered, “Yeah. Aight.”

And with that, he turned, heading out the door with Zion trailing behind, already talking about lemon pepper versus hot.

Samara stood there, watching the door close, letting out a long breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

Chapter Three

The sun was sittin' low, casting gold over the chrome of Jey’s matte black Escalade as it rolled through the west side. Zion sat in the passenger seat, posted up with his AirPods in but only one in his ear—his quiet way of saying, yeah, I’m listening.

Jey glanced over at him, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh—tatted fingers twitchin’ like they always did when his mind was moving fast.

“You really want wings, or you tryna stall me out so you can get a milkshake too?” he asked, side-eye sharp.

Zion smirked, dimples deep just like his daddy’s. “I mean... both hit, but I’m cool either way.”

Jey let out a low chuckle, head shaking. “Lil man, you just like ya mama. Think you slick.”

Zion leaned back in the seat, twisting his fingers in one of his new braids. “She always say that about you.”

“That I’m slick?”

“That I got it from you,” he said, glancing at him. “She say I got your eyes, your mouth, and your attitude.”

“Damn,” Jey muttered under his breath with a soft laugh. “That’s the whole Fatu starter pack.”

They pulled up to their usual wing spot—hole-in-the-wall joint off Crenshaw with the best lemon pepper and the thickest-ass fries. Jey killed the engine and turned to face Zion fully before he got out.

“You straight though?” he asked, his voice dropping a notch.

Zion blinked. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jey studied him for a second, the way his son avoided his eyes just a little too long. “I heard about what went down at school. That fight you broke up.”

Zion frowned. “I ain’t do nothin’ wrong, Pops.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Silence.

Then Jey leaned over, gripping Zion’s shoulder gently. “But you gotta understand... bein’ you come with weight, Z. You carryin’ the name, and that name? It mean somethin’. Even if you ain’t asked for it.”

Zion looked down. “You talkin’ ‘bout the Fatu name?”

“Yeah. But I ain’t just talkin’ family.” Jey’s gaze was hard, but not cold. “The way folks look at you... they already got ideas. And not all of ‘em good. That’s why your mama don’t play when it come to who you around, where you at, what time.”

“I know, Pops.”

“You don’t really know, though. Not yet.”

Zion finally looked up. “So tell me.”

Jey’s jaw clenched. That boy was too damn grown sometimes. Too curious. Too sharp.

“Can’t tell you everything,” he admitted, pulling his hoodie down a little. “Not yet. Not until I know for sure you old enough to handle it without it changin’ how you see me.”

Zion gave him a look. “You act like you Batman or somethin’.”

That cracked a smile outta Jey. “Nah, lil man. Batman broke. And I don’t wear capes.”

Zion smirked. “But you be disappearin’ and showin’ up all mysterious.”

Jey laughed, head leaned back against the seat. “Alright, chill out. Go get our wings. I’ll meet you inside in a sec.”

Zion slid out the car, jogging to the front door.

Once he was gone, Jey let out a long breath, rubbing a hand down his face. His phone buzzed on the dash—unknown number. He stared at it for a second before pressing decline.

Not now. Not when he was tryna keep that tiny piece of peace he had left with his son.

He looked toward the restaurant’s entrance where Zion waited, leaning back on the brick wall like he owned the block.

Yeah. He was growing too fast.

And the world wasn’t gon’ be kind when it caught up with him.

Chapter Four (Part One):

Jey – Split Between

Jey leaned back in the seat, the sun dipping lower, shadows long across the windshield. The unknown number buzzed again. Persistent. He muttered a “fuck,” then finally picked it up.

“Ayo.”

“Shit hot right now, Uce.” It was Tima, one of his street runners. Voice sharp, nerves under pressure. “One of the West 5th youngins got bagged. Said he was runnin’ for us.”

Jey’s whole vibe shifted. The casual, father-mode he’d just been in? Gone like it never existed. His jaw locked, teeth grinding.

“Why the fuck he say our name?”

“Tryna get a lighter sentence, probably. But they already been sniffin’. Word is them feds not just watchin’ corners no more—they watching people.”

Jey looked over toward the restaurant, watching through the glass as Zion leaned on the counter, tapping at the menu screen.

“I got my son with me,” he muttered low.

“Damn. My bad, Uce. Just thought you should know.”

“You did right,” he said, rubbing at his beard. “Lay low. Keep the shit clean. If any of our drops even smell wrong, pull 'em back. Ain’t no deals goin' through till I say so.”

“Got it. You need backup?”

“Nah. I ain’t movin’ reckless.” Pause. “Not no more.”

He hung up, stared out the windshield again.

Zion was grinning at the girl behind the counter, asking for extra ranch. Jey smiled faintly. Kid didn’t even know his world wasn’t built on peace—but on pressure.

And it was getting heavier by the day.

Chapter Four (Part Two):

Samara & Trinity – Smoke in the Air

Back at the shop, Samara had her legs tucked under her in one of the velvet chairs at the front, sippin’ on her iced matcha. Her two-piece was a tan ribbed SKIMS set, a soft hoodie draped off one shoulder. Trinity sat across from her, laid back with a pink drying lamp glowing over her nails.

“You hear from Z and his daddy?” Trinity asked, glancing up.

“Jey picked him up like he said he would,” Samara said, scrolling on her phone. “Showed up in that big ass truck like he not trying to be lowkey.”

Trinity snorted. “Lowkey ain’t never been in his vocabulary.”

Samara paused. “You ever think they gon’ slow down? Like... Jimmy? You? Y’all got the family, the kids. That gangsta love vibe but chill?”

Trin tilted her head. “Girl, Jimmy loyal as hell but he still wild. I ain’t gon’ lie. Some nights I gotta remind him we got babies sleepin’ down the hall and he out here plottin’ like we in a mob movie.”

Samara laughed, but it was dry.

“I just… I get tired. Like, this whole street life shit—I ain’t in it, I never wanted to be in it. But somehow, I still feel like I’m walkin’ through it all the time. My business is on a block where cops ride by slow like they window shoppin’. Zion’s getting older. He’s askin’ questions. And Jey? He still won’t say what he do. I know, but I don’t know, and that’s the part that drives me insane.”

Trinity leaned forward a little, her tone soft. “You scared?”

Samara didn’t even blink. “Hell yeah. Not for me. For Z.”

Just then, Jenny poked her head around the corner, lips pursed. “Hey, y’all peep that chopper that’s been circling the last ten minutes?”

Trinity’s head turned. Samara stood up, walking toward the window. She pushed the curtain to the side, eyes following the faint sound of a low-hovering helicopter overhead.

She exhaled slow.

“Yeah… I feel it,” she said. “Something’s brewing.”

Chapter Five: Birds in the Sky

The sun was tucked low behind the hazy smogline, and the buzz of the city had shifted—like it was holding its breath. Samara didn’t ignore the feeling. That sixth sense that came from being too close to the fire for too long? Yeah, it was tingling loud.

She pulled out her phone with those long, coffin-shaped nails—French tips sharp like warnings. The group chat with Trinity and Jenny was poppin’ with memes and shade, but she ignored that. Hit her recent texts and tapped Jey’s name.

Samara: birds been circling around here for the last twenty minutes, it’s hot. keep him at yours. I’ll come there later. you owe me forehead.

Message sent. No emoji. No softening.

Trinity clocked the way Samara’s mouth twitched, how her jaw clenched like she was tryna grind through her own nerves. She looked up from her drying hand, one brow raised.

“Damn. That bad?”

Samara slipped the phone back in her purse and crossed one leg over the other. Her Dior slides tapped once on the floor. “I don’t even know why I give his dumb ass any type of heads up. He do what the fuck he want anyway. Always has.”

Trinity let out a soft laugh, biting her tongue. “You say that now, but if anything happen, you gon’ be the first one running through fire barefoot.”

“I ain’t saying I wouldn’t,” Samara said without missing a beat, “but he lucky I still care enough to warn him. ‘Cause if it was just about me? I’d let them Feds come knockin’ on his little red front door and call it karma.”

Trinity leaned back, nails drying under the UV lamp. “Zion the only reason you ain’t let that man drown. And I respect it.”

“I do it for Z,” Samara said, finally exhaling through her nose. “He still sees his daddy like a damn superhero. Don’t know what he really on. Don’t know that his pops ain’t just busy—he’s dangerous.”

Jenny came back from the back room with a handful of receipts and attitude. “Y’all see the neighborhood app? Talking bout there was an unmarked van outside the liquor store since noon. Bet that’s connected.”

Samara sucked her teeth. “Probably is. Cops too loud. Streets too hungry. I swear, I should’ve had a baby by a tax preparer.”

Trinity cracked up, nearly knocking her nails into the lamp. “Not a tax man!”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a 9 to 5 man,” Jenny chimed in. “He don’t got no ops, just invoices.”

Samara snorted, shaking her head. “Yeah, well, invoices ain’t make Zion’s college fund stack like it is. That’s the part that pisses me off the most—I’m mad that I benefited. Even madder that I still care.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Jey: Copy. I got him.Let me know when you sliding.Forehead stay on layaway—don’t act brand new.

Samara read it once. Rolled her eyes. Then showed Trinity, who let out a whole “girl bye” under her breath.

“You gon’ go over there tonight?” Trin asked casually.

Samara sighed, leaning back in her chair like the weight of a decade just dropped on her spine.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Not for him. For Z.”

Chapter Six: “Lil Uso?”

Jey leaned back on the velvet couch in his living room, one arm draped across the top like a throne. His chain was tucked under his plain tee, and his slides smacked softly against the tile as he watched Zion on the floor, sprawled out with a PS5 controller in hand, kicking back in full tween mode. The TV played some loud ass match—Z was multitasking, texting his friends and dominating on screen like it was light work.

“Man, you be cheating,” Jey mumbled, squinting at the screen. “Ain’t no way you gettin’ all them headshots like that.”

Zion didn’t even look up, just smirked. “Get ya weight up, old head.”

Jey raised an eyebrow, laughing under his breath. “I know you ain’t just call me old like I ain’t been whoopin’ ass since before you had teeth.”

Zion finally paused the game, stretching his arms above his head with a sigh. “Can’t help I was born to be great.”

“Uh huh,” Jey said, shaking his head. “Yo mama got you walkin’ round like a lil’ king, huh?”

Zion chuckled, then casually—too casually—dropped a bomb like it was nothing. “She got that cornball Montez dude around lately too…”

Jey’s head snapped up.

Zion kept scrolling on his phone, voice careless like he didn’t know he just hit DEFCON 1. “Ion like him. He don’t speak to me. Just be around, callin’ me ‘Lil Uso’ and shit.”

Jey’s face dropped like the vibe in the room just shifted entirely.

“‘Lil Uso?’” he repeated low, like he was tasting something bitter. “Who the fuck is Montez?”

Zion shrugged. “I don’t even know him like that. He ain’t ever ask my name. Just be around, sittin’ on the couch or in the kitchen when I come out my room.”

Jey was already leaning forward, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. That old jealous heat burned slow in his chest.

“Yo mama know he talkin’ to you like that?”

Zion shrugged again. “I ain’t said nothin’ ‘cause she seem like she been chill lately. But ion like the way he look at me. Like I’m a guest or somethin’.”

Jey’s nose flared. “A guest? In your mama’s house?”

Zion nodded, not catching the storm brewing in his father’s eyes. “Yeah. He be acting weird. Don’t dap me up, don’t ask what I like or nothin’. Just be... around.”

Jey sat back, lips pressed in a flat line. That muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Say less.”

Zion finally glanced up, sensing the shift. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Jey lied. “I’m real good. Just gotta remind ya mama who the fuck runnin’ the plays.”

Zion squinted. “She gon’ be mad if you say somethin’.”

Jey smirked, slow and dark. “She always mad at me anyway. Might as well give her a reason this time.”

Chapter Seven: “You One of Them Usos?”

Jey was pacing slow through the living room of Jimmy’s spot, fingers flexing open and closed, gold ring catching the light. His twin sat on the couch with a bottle of Don Julio between his knees, watching his brother like he’d seen this movie too many times before.

“You ever heard of some dude named Montez?” Jey asked, voice tight.

Jimmy blinked. “...Montez who?”

“Ion know. That’s the problem. Z said he been around Sam’s crib.”

Jimmy frowned. “Man, Samara ain’t said nothin’ about no dude. Trinity ain’t either.”

Jey sucked his teeth and nodded once, like that confirmed every bad thought racing through his head. “Yeah, Z said he be callin’ him ‘Lil Uso’ like he in the family or some shit.”

Sefa, who’d just walked in with a bag of Hot Cheetos and a bottle of Snapple, paused in the doorway. “Wait what? Who callin’ Z ‘Lil Uso’ that ain’t blood?”

Jey glared at the wall. “Some Montez fool.”

Sefa grimaced. “That’s wild disrespectful. You want me to find out who he is?”

Jey waved it off. “Already did a lil’ askin’. He ain’t from around the fam, not tied to none of us. Z said he drive a lowrider, like he tryna be on some old-school L.A. gangster shit.”

Jimmy snorted. “Man, not one of them."

“And he only talk different when Sam’s around,” Jey muttered, jaw clenching. “Soon as she out the room, he back on that funny energy. Tellin’ Z he ‘look like his damn daddy.’ Like he tryna mark territory or some shit.”

Jimmy shook his head. “You gon’ talk to her?”

Jey gave him a look. “You know how Sam is. Soon as I say anything, she gon’ flip and say I’m tryna control her.”

“You are,” Sefa muttered through a mouthful of chips.

“Shut yo young ass up,” Jey snapped.

Jimmy sighed and leaned back. “I mean… you do still got feelin’s for her.”

“I got respect for the mother of my child,” Jey said sharply. “And I ain’t lettin’ no random weird-ass cornball slide through like he family.”

Just then, Zion stepped in from the hallway, phone in hand. He looked at the three of them, sensing the heat in the room like static.

“You good, Pops?”

Jey turned his energy right down. “Yeah, lil’ man. You hungry?”

Zion shrugged. “Had a burger earlier.” He leaned against the wall, casual. “You talkin’ bout that Montez dude?”

Jey raised a brow. “You know that’s who I’m talkin’ about.”

Zion kissed his teeth and shook his head. “He weird. Drive that slow ass car like he in a movie or somethin’. Always switch up when Ma around. Smilin’. Acting like he read the Bible or some shit.”

Jimmy chuckled, but Sefa leaned forward. “What he say to you?”

Zion furrowed his brows. “Keeps tryna joke with me like he know me. Sayin’ stuff like, ‘you one of them Usos, huh?’ Or ‘you look like ya damn daddy.’”

Jey’s jaw ticked. “He say that to you?”

Zion nodded. “I ain’t say nothin’ to Ma though. She been tired. Running the shop, helpin’ me with homework, barely gettin’ sleep. I don’t think she noticed.”

Jey was quiet for a moment, then he stood up slow, cracking his neck.

“Yeah... well I’ma make sure she notice now.”

Chapter Eight: “Mark Colors”

It was late afternoon and the sun was dipping behind the low rooftops in Carson, tinting everything with that familiar warm glow. Jimmy was out back, leaned on the porch rail with a Newport tucked behind his ear, messing with something on his phone while Zion sat cross-legged in the patio chair next to him, hoodie on and fidgeting with the strings.

“You know,” Zion started, squinting up like he was remembering something, “dude Montez be actin’ real funny sometimes.”

Jimmy glanced over. “Funny how?”

“Like…” Zion paused, choosing his words. “Last Tuesday? Mama was late closin’ the shop, and he came to get me from school. And I was wearin’ that red Nike pullover Ma bought me, you know the one with the lil white swoosh on the chest.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jimmy nodded.

Zion pulled his hood off and looked at his uncle. “He spazzed on me. Said I needed to stop wearin’ ‘mark ass colors’ like I was tryna get pressed. I ain’t even know what he was on about. I was confused as hell.”

Jimmy turned fully toward him, brows raised.

“He say that exact shit? ‘Mark ass colors?’”

“Swear to God, unc,” Zion said, his voice serious now. “He was heated, like full-on cussin’ me out in the car. Sayin’ I need to watch what I wear and who I hang with.” Zion paused again. “And he got this tat right here—” he lifted his hand to tap just under his eye— “some lil symbol or letters. Looked like it was done in someone’s garage.”

Jimmy’s face changed, slow and deliberate. “Where y’all was at?”

“Picked me up from the school and took me to get tacos. Didn’t say nothin’ wild once Mama got there. Flipped the whole vibe. Laughin’, callin’ her ‘Queen’ and sayin’ he love how she run her shop.”

Jimmy leaned back, pulling the Newport out from behind his ear and lighting it with one flick of the lighter.

“Ayo, that man bangin’,” he muttered under his breath.

Zion tilted his head. “Huh?”

Jimmy exhaled smoke slow, watching the plumes twist into the air. “Look, lil Uso… just keep that story between me, you, and your pops for now, aight?”

Zion nodded slow. “Yeah… I just didn’t feel right sayin’ it in front of Ma. She already got too much on her plate.”

Jimmy gave a slow nod of respect. “Good lookin’. You peepin’ game like a real one. Your daddy gon’ wanna hear all this too, no cap.”

Zion leaned back, pulling his hood back over his head. “I just don’t get why Ma messin’ with him in the first place.”

Jimmy gave him a knowing look, smoke curling past his lips.

“Sometimes grown folks want peace so bad, they don’t realize they layin’ down next to chaos.”

[strangerexee]

✦ ɴᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ | chapter one: “he fine as hell.” ᴇʟɪᴀꜱ “ꜱᴛᴀᴄᴋ” ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗!𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐!𝚊𝚞 | 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜-𝚝𝚘-𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 (𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊) | 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑

Parings: Elias “stack” Moore x Black!Fem!Reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: (𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 | 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝 | 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 | 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 | 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 | 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 | 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 | 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 )

It was one of them hot-ass, Southern block parties where everybody came out fresh — twists crisp, lashes long, t-shirts tight and music loud. The pavement still held heat from the day and the air smelled like smoke, and sweat. You had on your short shorts, gold bamboo hoops, and your feet were hurting from the cute sandals you swore up and down you wouldn’t regret buying.

You was posted on the porch with a red cup full of Hennessy and your cousin Chey when the twins pulled up.

Smoke and Stack Moore.

You didn’t need nobody to say their names — you could feel it when they hit the corner. That street just got quiet for a second. Not because they was famous or anything…but because they were the kind of trouble everybody respected. The kind you don’t look at too long.

The kind you don’t look at too long. Stack had on all black — fitted tee stretching over muscle and tattoos, gray sweats hanging low, and a thick rope chain swinging like it had a mind of its own.

Smoke walked a step beside him, grill glinting, eyes cold like always.

But Stack?

Stack’s eyes landed on you.

And baby, you smiled.

You dipped your chin and sipped slow, pretending like your pulse ain’t trip over itself, pretending like your legs ain’t weaken the second y’all locked eyes.

He stared hard, too — like he was counting every gold fleck in your eyes. Like he saw past your lip gloss, past the hoops, past the good-girl act you wrapped around yourself.

And you slipped.

“He fine as hell,” you muttered to Chey under your breath. Just loud enough to blame the liquor if anybody heard.

Chey choked. “Girl —!”

Too late.

Tyree, your hot-headed, too-much-of-a-gangsta older brother, was walking up with Kash, your older brother-slash-bodyguard.

Tyree squinted. “Who fine?”

You blinked. “…the ribs.”

“Yeah,” Kash muttered, side-eyeing the twins, “say that again and see what happen.”

You said it one time. One time.

And your life ain’t been peaceful since.

See, your brothers were deep in that street shit. You wasn’t. You wanted no parts of it — hell, you ran a salon. You made girls feel pretty, lined up kids before their first day of school, did mamas’ curls before church.

You was soft life. But your blood? That was Tyree and Kash.

And the Moore twins?

They were opps.

Not “arguing on the internet” opps.

Not “we got problems” opps.

You was talking blood-on-the-sidewalk type of history. Years of tension. Men dead. Streets painted red. Your family ain’t even say their names in full. Just “them Moore boys” like they was a curse.

But still…

Still…

You looked at Stack every time you saw him.

You flirted bold when your brothers weren’t watching. Called him “trouble” with a smirk. Laughed when he said things you shouldn’t let slide. One time at a car wash pop-up, you even let him feed you a mango snow cone and sucked the juice off your thumb while holding eye contact.

“I’m not scared of you,” you’d whispered.

“Yeah, but you should be,” he said, licking his lips.

He never touched you. Never crossed a line. But he looked at you like he wanted to.

And that’s what made it worse.

Because if you touched him?

You ain’t know who’d kill who first — your brothers or his.

Back at the block party, Stack walked past, slow as ever. You felt him before you saw him. He smelled like wood smoke and something sweet. A cologne you couldn’t name.

You turned your head and —

There.

He caught your eyes again. Smiled. That little cocky tilt of his head, like he knew.

And you?

You let your eyes travel down. Chest. Waist. Print.

And back up.

You bit your lip.

He shook his head.

Tyree grabbed your shoulder like he could see sin on your face.

“Fix your face, girl.”

“I am,” you said sweetly. “You fix yours.”

The night rolled on. Music blasting. You danced with Chey, with a few boys you didn’t care about. All the while, Stack was watching. Sitting on a car hood across the lot, cooling in a black durag, legs spread, licking a lollipop like he ain’t give a damn about nobody else breathing.

Your heart raced, but you knew the rules.

You wasn’t fucking that man.

You couldn’t.

Your brothers would kill him.

And then kill you.

So you played the game.

You kept flirting.

Kept pretending.

Kept aching.

Two nights later

The block was quiet. Too quiet.

It was one of them sticky nights — when the humidity sat heavy on your skin and the streetlights buzzed like they was tired of burning. The No Love Beauty Bar sign was still glowing soft in your window as you swept the last bit of hair into the dustpan. The smell of mango oil and flat iron heat still lingered in the air, soft and familiar.

You glanced at the clock — 9:37 PM.

Late, but not unusual.

You closed the shop alone all the time. Had the routine down to a rhythm — wipe the chairs, count the cash, lock the front, leave out the back. You moved through it mindlessly, humming Summer Walker under your breath with your slides scraping the tile.

Until you saw him.

At first, it was just a shadow. A shape hunched outside your front window, head down, arms resting on knees.

Then the streetlight caught the shine of a chain.

And you froze.

You knew that silhouette. That slouch. That stillness.

Stack.

What the hell —?

You inched closer, peeking through the blinds, heart lurching straight into your throat.

He was bleeding.

T-shirt ripped near the shoulder, blood spreading like a slow leak. His arm dangled loose, and his jaw was clenched like he was holding pain between his teeth. But his eyes? They found you fast.

Like he felt you coming.

You yanked the door open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

His head lifted slow, and even in pain, he had the nerve to smirk.

“Hey, pretty.”

“You bleeding on my concrete, Elias.”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “Couldn’t think of nowhere else to go.”

You stood there, halfway between slamming the door or dragging him inside.

“This a setup? One of my brothers out here? You tryna get me killed?”

He laughed, but it turned into a wince.

“Baby, if I wanted to get you killed, I wouldn’t be knockin’ on your damn salon door.” He hissed, leaned back against the wall. “I just need a minute. I’ll go.”

You stared at him. Your jaw locked, nails digging into your palm.

Then you muttered, “You dumb as fuck.”

And opened the door wider.

The bell above the door jingled as you helped him in — one arm around your shoulder, the other limp, body heavy and warm and bleeding all over your damn floor.

He stumbled a little. “Damn. You strong, huh?”

“Shut up.”

You led him to the break room couch in the back, the one your girls took naps on between clients. You grabbed a towel, peroxide, and a mini first aid kit from the cabinet.

He groaned as he leaned back.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Damn, buy me dinner first?”

“Stack.”

He chuckled low, and started peeling off his shirt — slow, careful, muscles flexing with every hiss. You tried not to look. But your eyes betrayed you. They always did with him.

His body was all bruises and chocolate-brown skin, ink swirling down his ribs and over his chest. A bullet graze near the shoulder — a bit deep, but bleeding steady. You pressed the alcohol drenched towel to it hard.

“Shit —” he groaned.

“You gon’ cry?”

“You gon’ kiss it better?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed soft. Your fingers trembled slightly as you poured peroxide and wiped him clean.

Silence fell.

Except it wasn’t silence.

It was his breath. Heavy. Real.

It was the closeness — his legs spread wide, yours between them, tension so thick you could taste it.

You glanced up. His eyes were already on you.

Always were.

“You need to go,” you whispered.

“I will.”

“When?” You tilted your head.

“…Soon.”

Your hand paused against his chest. You swallowed.

“My brothers ever find out you stepped foot in here —”

“I know.”

“They’ll kill you.”

He stared at you.

“You care?”

You hesitated.

“…No.”

Stack laughed low, the sound raspier now. “You such a bad liar, pretty.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Yeah, you are,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours. “You been doin’ it. All them looks. All them little games. We both know this. You act like I don’t see you.”

“You ain’t supposed to,” you whispered.

“Oh - But I do.”

He reached up with his good hand. Brushed a curl from your cheek. Touched you like you was something delicate — like he ain’t just walk in bleeding and cursed.

Like you was the only soft thing he had left.

“You so damn pretty,” he said.

“You so damn stupid,” you whispered back.

The moment pressed, thick and dangerous.

If you leaned in, you wouldn’t stop.

If you kissed him, the line would blur forever.

So instead?

You stepped back.

“You got ten minutes. Then you’re gone.”

He leaned back on the couch with a sigh, eyes on you the whole way out.

But before you turned the corner, he said —

“Thank you, baby.”

Three nights later

You wasn’t even supposed to be there.

But Chey begged.

And your brothers were out of town, handling “business” in Atlanta.

So you slipped on a little dress, sprayed too much perfume, and told yourself you was just going out for drinks, not trouble.

That was a lie. A sweet one. A soft one.

Because the moment you stepped into Sable, that dark red-lit club two neighborhoods over, you felt him.

Before you saw him.

You felt him.

As always.

The music was up loud — bass sliding down your spine, fog machines in the corners making the lights blur soft. Your curls were piled high, your gloss was thick, and the dress you had on? Baby pink. Tight. Strapless. Short. Every curve of your body humming in the heat.

Chey handed you a shot. “To being bad bitches with no brothers in sight!”

You clinked and downed it.

That Henny kissed your soul before it burned.

You was four shots in when you saw him.

Stack.

Leaning on the wall near VIP, chain thick, teeth shining when he grinned. His eyes landed on you like he expected you to show up. Like he wanted you to. Like the club was his trap and you walked right into it.

You tried to look away.

You failed. Obviously.

You danced with Chey first, swaying slow, arms around her shoulders, letting the liquor and beat melt your worries. But every time you turned your head?

Stack. Watching.

Stack. Licking his lips.

Stack. Sipping brown liquor from a lowball glass, jaw tight, smirking.

You gave in.

You always did with him.

By the fifth drink, you made your way across the club, hips swaying on purpose, fingers grazing his waist as you passed him.

He caught your hand.

Pulled you close.

You didn’t resist.

His mouth brushed your ear. Shit, you wanted that mouth kissing all over your neck.

“You look good, pretty.”

“You owe me,” you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. “Bled all over my damn couch.”

Stack smirked. “Let me make it up to you then.”

You said nothing.

Just licked your lips and led him through the back hall like a woman on a mission.

A Storage Room…a fucking storage room - Jesus Christ.

Low lights. Locked door. Concrete floors and bass from the club thumping through the walls like a heartbeat.

Not exactly the most romantic place to fuck the man you’ve been wanting to fuck for the first time.

You pressed him against the wall and smiled up at him, heart racing, breath shallow.

“You shouldn’t be in here with me.”

“I know.”

“You the enemy.”

“So are you.”

“…You like that?”

Stack leaned down slow, face inches from yours. “I like you.”

Then his lips were on yours.

Hard. Hungry. Heavy.

Like he was starving and you were the first thing he could taste.

You moaned into his mouth and kissed him back just as bad. Your hands curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. His hands gripped your waist like he had every right to, like he forgot who your brothers were, like you weren’t forbidden fruit.

“You drunk?” he murmured against your lips.

You grinned. “A little.”

“You freaky when you drunk?”

“…Maybe.”

He groaned, lips brushing your neck. “Goddamn.”

You pushed him onto the little loveseat in the corner, climbed on his lap, thighs spreading around him like you been dreaming of this — and baby, you had.

Your lips found his again. Slow. Deep. You kissed him like he was already yours. Then slid down to his neck, lips pressing soft under his jaw, then sucking just below his ear.

Stack hissed through his teeth, low and deep. “Shit, girl…”

“You owe me,” you whispered, reminding him once more, mouth still on him.

He let his hands roam — slow, big palms smoothing over your hips, up your back, gripping you like he was scared you’d disappear.

“Say the word,” he whispered, voice rough.

You didn’t say anything.

You just kept kissing down his throat, trailing your lips lower while your fingers tangled in that chain around his neck.

His hands slid back down. One on your hip. The other…

Slipped under your dress.

It kept going.

Past the panties.

You gasped when his fingers slid through your folds — slick, slow, deep.

Stack sucked in a breath through his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tight as hell. “Damn, baby…”

You clenched around nothing, thighs twitching.

His fingers stayed there, just resting between your folds, feeling how soaked you were, how hot it was — like your body had been waiting for him.

“Drunk lil freak,” he mumbled, smirking, voice dark. “I barely touched you.”

You bit your lip.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

Stack brought his fingers up slow — wet, glistening in the dim red light — and pressed them against your bottom lip.

You parted your mouth.

He slid those same fingers right onto your tongue.

“Suck.”

And you did.

Wrapped your lips right around them, moaned low, let your tongue swirl like you was practicing for what you really wanted. You looked him dead in his eyes as you did it, cheeks hollowing just enough to make that man groan

“Shit, girl…”

He pulled his hand back and kissed you filthy — like you belonged to him, like he ain’t give a damn about your brothers, about rules, about nothing but you right here, right now.

And then?

You moved.

Lifted up, grabbed his belt, and undid it slow while still straddling him. He let you, hands gripping your hips tight, breathing like he was losing control.

When you pulled him out, your eyes widened just a little.

Because — lord.

He was thick. Dark. Heavy in your hand.

“I—”

“Yeah,” he cut in low, cocky. “You see it.”

You ain’t say nothing else. Just shifted your panties to the side and sunk down slow.

“Oh — ha, Stack —”

He groaned, head falling back.

Your hips stopped when he bottomed out.

Thick and deep. Stretching you so good.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, and your mouth fell open. “Oh my god —”

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s all you, pretty. All you.”

And then?

You started to ride.

Slow at first.

Lil rolls of your hips, his hands ‘guidin you, mouth kissing every inch of your neck. You bounced just a little — his hands grabbing your ass, pressing you down deeper.

“Stack — Stack…”

You moaned his name over and over, like a chant, like a prayer.

He cursed low, bucking up into you, matching your rhythm. “Don’t say my name like that…”

You did it again.

“Stack…”

He slapped your ass hard, gritted his teeth. “You tryna make me lose my mind in this damn club?”

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The way he filled you? Thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls like he was made to fit inside you. That type of deep stroke that made your eyes roll back. That good hood dick you always said you’d stay away from.

Too late now.

You started bouncing faster, your moans louder.

Skin slapping. Lip ‘bitin. Nails on skin.

“Fuck — fuck, girl—”

He gripped the back of your neck and kissed you hard, tongues tangling, breath shared. His other hand slid between your legs, thumb brushing your clit just right.

You jerked.

“Right there?”

“Yes — please, right there —”

“Tell me who pussy this is.”

Shit — it was his now.

You couldn’t lie.

Couldn’t fake a thing.

“Yours, Stack…it’s yours…”

He smirked.

Started stroking up into you, harder, faster, watching your body shake on top of his.

You let your head roll back.

Your moans echoed in that room — sweet, filthy sounds.

You was gone.

So gone.

And when your walls squeezed tight, trembling all over him?

He knew.

He held your waist still, let you ride it all the way out, let you come deep on him, slow and heavy, thighs shaking.

Your body was done.

You were done.

Or so you thought…

You collapsed against his chest, breathing heavy, legs weak from riding him slow, deep, and nasty. His hands gripped your waist like he owned it, face buried in your neck, both of y’all sweaty and stuck together in that small, locked storage room.

But Stack didn’t move.

Didn’t lift you off.

Didn’t let you go.

Instead?

His fingers dug in.

His lips touched your ear.

And he whispered low, voice dark and sticky:

“Nah, pretty. Keep going.”

You blinked, still panting.

“Stack—”

“I said keep going. You not done ‘til I say so.”

And baby, that’s when you knew you was in trouble.

You tried to move — hips lifting just a little — but he pulled you back down with a groan, grinding you on him slow.

“Mmmph —”

You shifted, walls fluttering from the aftershock of that orgasm still rolling through you.

He was still hard inside you. Still deep. That slow, thick stroke that reached so far you felt it in your belly.

“You got one more in you,” he muttered. “Don’t you.”

You whimpered. “I’m tryna — shit — it’s too much…”

“You can take it,” he smirked, licking into your mouth before pulling back. “You took it once, you gon’ do it again.”

He moved his hips up.

Deep.

You huffed, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.

Stack held you steady, lips brushing your jaw. “Bounce on it.”

“Say please.” You smiled lightly.

“Please, pretty.”

You obeyed.

Slow at first — hips rolling in little circles, rising and falling, his dick dragging right across that spot that made your toes curl. The overstimulation was real — too real — and every stroke made your pussy squeeze around him like it was trying to keep him inside.

“That’s it…yeah…”

He grabbed your ass, lifted you up, dropped you back down.

You moaned—loud.

“No one can fuck you like I can,” he said, voice low, possessive. “Ain’t nobody ever had you like this.”

You nodded fast, eyes fluttering shut.

“Say it.”

“You, Stack — ha — just you —”

“Damn right.”

He started moving under you now — hips thrusting up while you bounced, rhythm locking together like y’all done this before. Like your bodies knew each other.

Your second orgasm snuck up fast.

You tried to stop it — couldn’t.

“F-fuck— I’m—”

“You gon’ come again,” Stack whispered in your ear, teeth dragging down your neck. “‘Cause I said so.”

This bitch.

Your mouth fell open.

Eyes rolled.

You came hard — walls squeezing him tight, thighs shaking, moans breaking into high, breathless whimpers as he kept stroking through it.

“Shhh,” he cooed, lips at your neck. “You good?”

You nodded, laying your head on his shoulder.

You couldn’t even move.

But he was still hard. Still inside. Still fucking you slow.

And then?

He kissed your shoulder and whispered:

“Now ride me one more time, pretty…”

You whined into his chest. “Stack, I can’t—”

“Yes you can. You just scared ‘cause you know I fuck you too good.”

You clenched.

His damn voice alone had your pussy fluttering.

Then his hands slid down your spine — slow. He dragged your hips back a little, adjusted his seat under you, and pressed up from below.

Deep.

“Ohh — shit—”

“Yeah…you feel that?”

You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

Stack chuckled, low and smug, fingers curling around the fat of your ass, pulling you back until his tip was nearly out — then slamming you back down so hard you bounced.

“Ride me like you mean it, baby.”

Your hips moved on instinct.

You didn’t have no pride left. None. He took it when he made you come the first time — stole it again when he made you suck your own slick off his fingers.

Now? Now you were drunk, fucked out, but riding him like your life depended on it.

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t — Say my name.”

“Stack.”

“That’s it, baby.”

His grip got tighter, his mouth meaner — biting at your neck, licking up your throat. Your body rolled, bounced, circled on top of him. And every move? Sent his thick, heavy length dragging against that spot — that deep ache that made your walls clamp down like a fucking vice.

“Damn, you don’t stop gripping me,” he groaned. “Like your pussy know who it belong to.”

You moaned.

“Don’t go quiet now. You was real loud five minutes ago.”

“Fuck — please shut up—”

His hand went between your legs again. Brushed that swollen clit just right.

And your hips bucked.

Hard.

“Stack—Stack, wait— hollon—!”

He only chuckled.

Your whole body locked up — legs seizing, mouth falling open, a broken cry slipping past your lips as your climax hit like a freight train. Walls pulsing, heartbeat pounding, breath knocked out your chest.

You slumped forward, crying into his neck, trying to breathe.

Stack held you.

Stroked your back.

And then?

“You done?”

You nodded.

“Too bad.”

“Bitch…”

“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you.”

“STACK—” You slapped at his chest.

He laughed — deep, raspy, smug as hell — pulling out slow and watching you squirm from the sensitivity.

“Chill, baby,” he said, leaning back, dragging his hands down his face. “You damn near passed out on me. I had to say something to keep you up.”

You groaned. “You ain’t right.”

“You knew that before you brought me back here.”

You rolled your eyes — but your body was still shaking. And the air was hot, too hot. All that sweat, that steam, your legs sticky and trembling.

So you slid off the little couch and laid flat on the floor.

“Mm…this floor cold,” you mumbled, cheek pressed to the tile. “Thank God.”

Stack raised a brow. “You deadass on the floor?”

“Hell yeah, I’m on the floor.”

You spread your limbs like a starfish, toes still curled. You needed a minute. Maybe an hour.

Maybe Jesus himself.

Stack just watched you, still ‘sittin with that smug-ass look, dick hangin’ halfway hard, sweats barely pulled up.

And then it hit you.

“Wait—” You turned your head. “You ain’t even…you didn’t cum?”

He smirked. Shrugged.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“GOOD??”

He leaned his head like he wasn’t the reason your soul left your body. Like he didn’t just rearrange your organs then get up and walk off like it was nothing.

You narrowed your eyes.

“A girl ever told you she felt it in her stomach?”

Stack grinned. “Few times.”

You blinked, chest still rising and falling.

“…Well I just felt you leave my stomach.”

He barked out a laugh.

That smug-ass, hood-rich, cocky laugh that let you know he was proud of every. single. stroke.

“Yeah?” he said, licking his lips. “You welcome.”

You rolled onto your side, lips twisted. “Nasty-ass…”

He came over, crouched beside you, ran his hand down your bare thigh, real slow.

“You look good like this. Fucked out. Quiet.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You was just now.”

You glared. He kissed your cheek. You hated how much you liked it.

“Do I look okay to walk out?” you asked, sitting up slow. “Or should I just stay here till morning?”

Stack looked you up and down.

Dress wrinkled. Lip gloss gone. Hair slightly wild but somehow still pretty. Panties still askew.

He licked his lips again.

“Nah, you cute…but stay with me ten more minutes and you ain’t walkin’ nowhere.”

You sucked your teeth. “Ughhh, nigga.”

He laughed, stood up, pulled his sweats back on, adjusting himself with a wince.

You watched him, curious.

“So you really ain’t finish?”

Stack leaned over, helped you up — gentle like he hadn’t been tearing you in half couple minutes ago.

He whispered, mouth against your neck:

“Nah…I’m savin’ it.” He said pulling you dress down by the hem.

You blinked. “For who?”

He smirked.

“For when you beg me next time.”

You rolled your eyes.

"Boy bye."

Sorry yall…

Lil taglist — @deadvilesworld (ik you hurt girl...so I will apologize again - sorry) @wingedpeachjudgegiant @myfavscentislavender @remmickcherie @majorkee @authentic-girl03 @vintigepimpzinio @heauxtales @honestlyurslol @li-da-savage

[kithtaehyung]

minted (m) | myg | masterlist

series: minted (explicit) | cross-posting: ao3 | wattpad mlist: created 2024/08/08 | updated: 2024/12/09 pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader genre/rating: m (18+) ; angst , action , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. warnings: mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, this series may not be for everyone, as there will be graphic depictions of violence. warnings stated in each installment. minors dni. current word count: 31.5k mood playlist: here status: ongoing

🥢 parts 🥢

⇥ minted angst , action ; 9.4k ⇥ minted: two angst ; 9.8k ⇥ minted: three angst , smut ; 12.3k ⇥ ??? ??? ; ???

taglist: sign up here (i check every entry so read the rules!) feedback form: submit here (for silent readers/bloggers!)  other links: inbox ; masterlist

[yongility]

NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun. ──────── chapter ⵌ 1 : the boy with the bloddy knuckles.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l

𒄬 warnings: drug use mention / gang activity / fights / use of weapons / adult language / nsfw scenes / illegal activities / mentions of cheating / toxic family enviroment / addictions / manipulation / insecurities / illegal street racing / death mentions / jeno is jaehyun's brother / lots of angst.

𒄬word count: 10k.

if you want to be in the taglist, just lemme know;) enjoy!

At SM City, things were simple.

Either you were born on the North side of the city where everything was filled with luxuries, privileges, incredible status, and the newest and most expensive things in the world, or you were born on the South side, where your childhood and adolescence could never be enjoyed because you would live surrounded by illegal businesses, in which eventually you would end up being a part of even if you didn't want to.

There was no third option.

There never was, and it wasn't expected that there would be.

SM City was radiant and beautiful... as long as you were in the Kwangya area because as soon as you set foot in the Neo Zone; things turned completely dark. Things were not always like this precisely; at some point in the past, despite the notorious differences between these two areas, Kwangya and Neo Zone had a synchrony that created an almost perfect balance and kept the city in maximum beauty.

But it was impossible to keep things that way.

Being part of the North side had its advantages: wealth, privilege, extravagant parties, designer clothes, and everything anyone could want, it would be in their hands as soon as they asked for it. Did you want a trip to the other side of the world? Done. Did you want the latest Louis Vuitton outfit? Of course. Did you want the newest car? Okay. Having it was as easy as asking for it.

They only followed one rule: do not approach Neo Zone unless your life depended on it... which would never happen.

While growing up on the South side was something peculiar. It didn't matter what you dreamed of, it didn't matter your future aspirations or your talents. Just by being born in Neo Zone; your life was already prescribed.

You would end up becoming a drug dealer, a hitman, or anything that involved ilegal businesses. Those were your only options. There were no others.

Did you want to get out of Neo Zone? Yeah, good luck with that.

On the South side, bad moves, riots, and problems were so common now that residents were accustomed to it. They began to accept their life and what destiny had prepared for them, even if it wasn't what they wanted.

Your age didn't matter, nothing mattered; as soon as you turned fourteen years old, you started your initiation into the Neo Zone gang. Each person had a different initiation and they had to complete it if they wanted the support and respect of the other inhabitants of Neo Zone, if not... you would end up fighting for your life alone. Without anyone's help, without anyone's support, and ending up being a nobody.

Welcome to Neo Zone, where there is an area as bright and welcoming as day and another as cold and dark as night.

SM City was a small city, which meant there had to be at least one place where the inhabitants of Kwangya and Neo Zone had to mix and live together, and that place was none other than the high school. They shared the hallways, shared classes, the cafeteria, and that was not pleasant for either side.

Despite the always existing differences between the south side and the north side, the one thing the Mayor couldn't deny Neo Zone was education for its youth, and even though there were protests from Kwangya's parents about that abrupt mix, the mayor's idea would never change.

Because deep inside, he believed that the power of education would change his students and turn those Neo Zone vandals into good and promising individuals.

However, this opportunity served a completely different purpose for the youth of Neo Zone.

Because... What better place to do their business when it was Friday and many were looking to have a bit of fun on their weekend? It was no secret that the youth of Kwangya would take any opportunity to squander their millions of wones on some party made every new weekend. A party surrounded by the most expensive alcohol, the most relaxing and crazy drugs, and surrounded by hormonal teenagers who spent their time having sex whenever possible.

Jung Jaehyun wished that his business was different.

The boy let out a heavy sigh, frustration evident as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, quickly glancing at his friend before returning his gaze to the slender boy in front of him, who had his head bowed, hands and lips trembling and sweat drops were running down his forehead from fear.

Anyone facing Lucas Wong and Jung Jaehyun would feel fear.

"Look dude, this is the third time this week that I've come to look for you" Jaehyun said with a deep voice.

"I know, I know. It's just that..."

"I don't want to hear another lame excuse, you've given me enough of those already" he interrupted, dangerously approaching and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, clenching his fists in it "look, I'll make things clear to you; you owe money to my boss, that shit you asked for is expensive, do you get it? He gave you a week and a half to pay for it, and guess what? The deadline ended... how long ago, Lucas?"

"Five days ago" Lucas, who was standing just behind his friend with his arms crossed over his chest, answered, flexing his muscles.

"Right, five days ago" Jaehyun affirmed, then looked to the side where the boy's Tesla was parked. He huffed with a sideways smile and returned his gaze to him, shaking his head slightly. "Those drugs won't pay for themselves, and you know it. You had a deadline to give us the money, and my boss was kind enough to wait for your little delay, and guess what? He's not very happy about it" he continued explaining without releasing his grip. The boy in front of him swallowed hard and nodded. "Daeho, you're surrounded by money, how hard can it be for someone like you to pay a few wones for the drugs you enjoy so much at those damn parties you throw?" he received no response, only seeing fear in Daeho's eyes and the fact that he couldn't give a good answer was starting to bother him.

He pushed him slightly with the collar still in his hands. Jaehyun clenched his jaw, and Daehyun closed his eyes momentarily.

"Jaehyun, let him go, I think he gets it" Lucas intervened when he saw his friend's white knuckles from the tight grip and knowing that if Jaehyun's patience was pushed further, things wouldn't end well.

"Sorry, I'm really sorry" Daehyun nervously apologized.

— Being sorry won't do a shit... your car is new, isn't it?"

At Jaehyun's unexpected question, Daeho furrowed his brow and shifted his gaze to Lucas, who simply nodded, then looked back at Jaehyun and swallowed hard.

"Yes, it is."

"Hmm, I see" Jaehyun examined the car meticulously, then scoffed and looked back at Daehyun with a smirk. "It's incredible to know that you can afford a damn car that costs much, much more wones than the money you owe us."

"My... my dad paid for the car. The money... the money is from my parents" Daeho stammered "I can't ask my dad for money for drugs, he would kill me" Daeho explained, avoiding Jaehyun's gaze and receiving a stern look from him.

"You should have thought about that before asking for them, you shitty addict" Jaehyun muttered, and Lucas placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to calm him down.

"Let me talk to him" he requested, and Jaehyun, looking back at Daeho, finally released his grip, stepping back a bit, allowing his friend to continue. "Alright, Daeho, here's how it is: you owe us, your deadline ended a while ago, we've come to look for you three times already, and no matter the excuses you keep making up, you still haven't paid us. We want the money tomorrow, or the next visit won't be us, but our boss personally. And if you fear an angry Jaehyun, you should fear our boss more" he clarified while giving some not-so-gentle pats on his back.

"Tomorrow, at eight sharp, we want the money" Jaehyun announced, getting closer to the boy again.

"Tomorrow is Saturday, there's no school. Where am I supposed to give you the money?" Daeho asked, confused.

"We've looked for you several times, haven't we?" he questioned, not getting a response. "Haven't we?

"Yes."

"Good, tomorrow we have a race. Go to Neo Zone's main street and find us, we want the money with you" he requested, still smiling.

"Jaehyun..." Lucas called, and he shook his head.

"No Yukhei, we've given him many chances" he declared, approaching Daeho "Next time, you should think twice before asking us for more drugs if you won't pay on time.

Jaehyun turned around to walk away from the boy with Lucas by his side, but suddenly he stopped and chuckled. Returning to Daeho, he gave him a smile that made him even more nervous. Jaehyun looked around, making sure they were the only three people in the parking lot, and before Lucas could say or do anything, Jaehyun's fist hit Daeho's stomach, making him cough and place his hands on his abdomen, letting out groans of pain.

"Next time, don't play with us, you little brat" Jaehyun patted his back and winked.

Lucas hurried to take his friend by the arm and lead him away while muttering curses. They walked together to Jaehyun's car, and once they arrived, they got in. Lucas let out a heavy sigh as he shook his head, looking at his friend.

"I don't want to listen to you" Jaehyun spoke as he leaned back in his seat.

"We came to give him a little scare so he'd pay up, not for you to beat him up and ask for the money at tomorrow's race. Are you nuts?" Lucas asked, looking at him with disdain. "If Daeho goes to Neo Zone, they'll tear him apart, and you know it. As soon as he sets foot there, they'll know he's from Kwangya, and he won't be welcomed with flowers and claps."

"I gave him plenty of chances, and he didn't take them. Whatever happens to him next is not my problem," murmured Jaehyun as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. "Look, Lucas, I sold him the stuff, I asked the boss to give him a week and a half to pay, and now that he hasn't, the boss is getting on my nerves. He either pays or I make him pay. It's that simple."

His friend sighed and scratched his head as he looked out the window.

"At least make sure he doesn't have a rough time tomorrow."

Jaehyun scoffed. "Whatever. I couldn't care less about that rich boy"

(Y/N) opened the large door of her house, and before she could say anything, Daeho took her by the arm and started walking with her trailing behind him. (Y/N) furrowed her brows and followed the confused boy, who began to climb the stairs and she almost stumbled trying to keep up with his pace. Her cousin continued the journey, then entered her room and locked the door. (Y/N) sat on her bed, breathing heavily, and gave a disapproving look to the boy in front of her.

"Could you stop acting like a damn paranoid and tell me what's going on?"

Just over half an hour ago, when she had arrived home from school, Daeho had called her sounding a bit nervous and asking if her parents were home. (Y/N) asked for the reason for his state, but he simply replied saying that he would come to her house and explain everything in there.

And not knowing what was going on was also making her nervous.

"Okay, it may sound strange, but I really need your help," Daeho pleaded, looking at his cousin with a plea in his eyes.

She looked at him confused and tilted her head, trying to decipher the look of the boy in front of her.

"What did you do this time, Daeho?" (Y/N) asked. "I'm not going to lie to your parents again if that's what you want."

"No, that's not it," he hurriedly replied.

"Then what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms.

They had grown up together, sharing everything from an early age. Wherever Daeho did... (Y/N) would also. Did she enroll in music lessons? Well, Daeho did too. Did he want to go to a summer camp? (Y/N) did too. They did everything together, they were always there for each other, and that's why they knew each other so well, too well, and every time Daeho said he needed help, (Y/N) couldn't help but to feel anxious. Her cousin always found a way to get into trouble, and the person who was always there to get him out of trouble was none other than his dear cousin.

"Hmm," Daeho scratched his head. "I need you to lend me some money," he said almost in a whisper, but loud enough for her to hear.

(Y/N) burst out laughing, and Daeho looked at her seriously, which made her realize that her cousin was not joking, and she furrowed her brow in confusion.

Of all the things she expected her cousin to ask for, money was the last thing on her mind.

Both families were among the wealthiest in the area. Their parents, being siblings, shared the same royalties in the family company. The same company that would soon be in their hands. Their parents were known for the international business they conducted, for the galas they organized to donate money to the city, and for the luxuries everyone knew they had. Money was never a problem for the Hwang families, so why was her cousin asking her for a loan?

"Money? Isn't it easier to borrow from your parents than from me?" she asked with a smirk.

"I can't ask them for money; I exceeded the limit for this week and now I'm grounded, they blocked my bank account for two weeks" he explained with frustration.

"Well then, how much money do you need?" she asked again.

"A few wones," he replied without looking at her.

"How much is 'a few wones'?"

Daeho sighed and nervously scratched his head before looking at her again. He closed his eyes for a moment and, without opening them, he replied, "545,000 wones."

(T/N) widened her eyes and then shook her head.

"545,000 wones?" she repeated, and he nodded. "What do you need that for?"

"It doesn't matter what it's for," he hurried to say.

"Well, it matters if you're asking me for a loan," she said simply.

The girl knew he could have expensive tastes, but she didn't know how he had exceeded his weekly money limit when the week wasn't even over yet, and he still needed more money. The same money he didn't want to ask his parents for.

So no, her cousin wasn't acting normal, and that worried her. First, he called her nervously asking if he could come to her house, then he took her to his room while asking if his parents weren't home, and now he asked her for money without intending to tell her what it was for.

What trouble did you get into, Hwang Daeho?

"If you don't tell me what you need the money for, I won't lend it to you," she warned him, and seeing that she didn't get a response, she got up from her seat and stood in front of her cousin, pointing a finger at his chest. "Fine, I won't give it to you, and I'll also tell my uncle that you asked me for money."

Daeho widened his eyes and shook his head hastily, taking his cousin's hands and looking at her with pleading eyes, pouting, and speaking, "Please, don't tell Dad, I don't need a lecture right now," she looked neutral, "(Y/N), please."

"Tell me what you need the money for, I won't tell anyone, and I'll lend you as much as you need. Even more, but be honest."

He sighed for the thousandth time that day and finally relented.

"It may or may not be that I asked for drugs..."

"What?" she interrupted. "Daeho, you told me you wouldn't use anymore," she said angrily.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he said, raising his hands defensively, "but we had that party two weeks ago, and I couldn't bear to spend a whole night with my parents and all those people asking me about my future, when I don't even know if I want to keep getting up every day!"

(Y/N) knew the pressure her cousin felt about his future because she felt the same pressure. Being the next in line for an international company left many people wishing, and every chance they got, they bombarded them with the same questions about it. Making both of them wonder if they were good enough to fill the big shoes their parents would leave behind. If they were capable enough to be the leaders their parents were. They knew they had carried that weight since they were little, that their lives were already determined from the moment they were in the womb. (Y/N) knew her place and her responsibilities. She was aware that any mistake she made would affect her future. She couldn't make any mistakes, not even one, or it would be the next topic at their father's business meetings.

Just like Daeho was.

She had always been like that; upright, responsible, making sure things went as they should. Almost perfect. The pressure was even greater on her, after all, many didn't trust her just because she was a woman. They believed that really the only one who could take over the company in the future was Daeho, and that hurt her pride because she tried. Really, she did. She put all her effort into that company, even when she was still in high school and didn't have time for her university career yet. However, from an early age, she was involved in the business world, she wanted to do more and be more. Because she needed to be the pride of her family. Her father's pride. There was nothing else she wanted more.

She wished she could shut people up.

And Daeho, on the other hand, was different. All eyes were on him, expecting him to be the only leader in the future, but Daeho hated everyone's attention.

Everyone's attention except his parents.

If there was one thing different between (Y/N) and Daeho's families, it was their parents. Daeho's parents were absent. They were always away on business trips, in the office, or anywhere but home. That was part of the reason why he was so close to (Y/N); during his childhood, he spent more time with his aunt and cousin than with his own parents. And that led him to do things that would catch their attention. Daeho was known as the rebel, yet people still expected a lot from him. He always threw parties whenever his parents were away on trips in the hope that they would return soon and spend time with him. He spent money on unnecessary things so that his parents would call him when they were away, and among all his needs to get their attention, it led him to drugs.

"(Y/N), I know I said I would quit it," the boy spoke again. "But believe me, right now it's the least of my worries. I need to pay for that stuff tomorrow, and I can't ask my parents," he explained impatiently.

"God, Daeho," she sighed. "Okay, I'll give it to you," she rolled her eyes and went to her bag, opened it, took out her wallet, took all the bills she had in there, then went to her desk and took a little more from one of her boxes. "Who do you owe the money to?"

Daeho swallowed hard at the question and looked at her guiltily.

"To... Jaehyun," he murmured, and she slapped her forehead with her hand.

Jung Yoonoh, or as many knew him: Jaehyun. If someone described him in simple words, it would be: leather jackets, tattoos, cigarettes, gangs, and drug deals. If she described Jaehyun, it would be with a single word: danger.

He wasn't just a drug dealer. Jaehyun was always in fights and in bad situations. Jaehyun participated in illegal races. He was the one who showed up to first period with bruised knuckles, a split lip, and a cigarette in his mouth. He was the one teachers respected – or rather feared – and never messed with him. He was the one you wouldn't look at for more than five seconds for fear that it might bother him, and things would end badly. Jaehyun screamed danger at its finest, and that caught the attention of many people.

However, if you wanted good stuff to have a good time, to escape your worries, or simply to annoy your parents, Jaehyun was the person you should go to. It wasn't a secret that he was one of the dealers at the high school. Hell, even the principal knew. Everyone did. He and his group of friends were the people you should stay away from if you wanted to be okay, the only reason you could or should communicate with them was to make a deal. Nothing else.

Being from Neo Zone, he was the last person you wanted to associate with, and there was Daeho, buying stuff from him, then owing him money, and asking her to lend it to him.

"Of all the people you could have asked for your damn drugs and then stay in debt, did it really have to be Jaehyun?" she asked with frustration, hitting him on the head. "You could have gone to that guy Taeyong. At least he has a bit more manners," Daeho lowered his gaze, and she sighed, "Okay, take the money and promise me... promise me that you'll never buy drugs again, much less from Jaehyun," she asked.

Daeho took the money from her hands and nodded with a smirk.

His cousin really was his savior.

"When do you have to give him the money?"

"Tomorrow," he replied as he put it in his wallet, looked at his cousin, and swallowed hard. "I might have to go to..."

"Please don't say Neo Zone, please don't say Neo Zone," she begged in whispers.

"Neo Zone," Daeho said again, lowering his gaze. His cousin covered her face with her hands while shaking her head vigorously. She sighed; why did her cousin always find a way to get into trouble? Revealing her face, she walked straight to her bed, where she threw herself onto it, grabbed her pillow, and put it on her own face before letting out a frustrated scream.

Daeho sat on the small couch in the room, looking at the money in his hands while thinking about all the possible scenarios that could happen the next day.

Of all the places her cousin could go, it had to be there... it had to be Neo Zone. She imagined what could happen as soon as he set foot there, and the thought that maybe her cousin wouldn't come out of there scared her. They had never set foot there; they didn't know for sure how things were done, but it was enough to hear the rumors about that area to fear it.

Now Daeho would go and get involved there.

And she would have to do something to make sure he came out with all his limbs intact.

She removed the pillow from her face and let out a heavy sigh, got up from the bed, and sat on it. She looked at her hands for a moment and anxiously played with her fingers. She thought about the words that would come out of her mouth: would she regret saying them? Possibly, could something go wrong? Maybe, but that's who she was. She would take care of her loved ones' lives before her own, because that's (Y/N) for you.

"I... I'll go with you," she said almost in a whisper. Daeho raised his eyes extremely quickly, almost panicked, looking at his cousin. He couldn't risk her, he couldn't put her in danger.

"(Y/N), you won't go. You'll stay here; we won't even argue about this," Daeho spoke, standing up and looking at her defiantly.

"It's my money you're carrying with you; I'm involved in this, and I'll go with you because I need to know that you'll be okay," she also said, standing up.

"Listen, me going to Neo Zone is already stupid and dangerous, you going with me is even more so I don't want to put you in danger; if something happens to me? Fine, it's under my responsibility, but I couldn't bear the guilt if you get hurt."

"Daeho, I won't let you go alone. We've always done things together. If you're in trouble, I want to help you. Just like you would if it was me," she explained, raising her voice.

"(Y/N), I really don't want to argue about this. You're not going..." he was interrupted.

"In one way or another, I'll go with you. Whether you want it or not ," she finished, crossing her arms.

Daeho looked at his cousin for a moment, analyzing her face. He knew that once she had made up her mind about something, there was no turning back. She was stubborn and determined, and if she had said she would go with him, she would.

He sighed and nodded.

"Fine, but I swear to you, (Y/N), if something happens to you, I'll never forgive myself," he said sincerely.

"Don't worry about me; worry about not making me regret going with you," she replied with a small smirk.

Daeho rolled his eyes and shook his head with a small smile.

Of course, his cousin was like that.

"You'll have to wear something less conspicuous," Daehyun spoke, breaking the moment.

"What do you mean by less conspicuous?" she asked, tilting her head.

He approached his cousin and put his hands on her shoulders, then looked her straight in the eyes.

"(Y/N), you can't go dressed like a rich girl. You'll attract too much attention, and it won't be good for you," he explained.

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes and shook her head, removing her cousin's hands from her shoulders.

"And what do you suggest?l she asked sarcastically.

Daeho smirked and shrugged.

"Just wear something that doesn't look like it costed you millions" he replied.

(Y/N) looked at her cousin incredulously and sighed.

What was she getting herself into now?

(Y/N) took a quick look at the large mirror in her room and observed the clothes she had put on. Nothing extravagant, nothing expensive, nothing that screamed her social status. If she could keep a low profile, she would, and she hoped it would work.

She didn't know how to feel. Fear and nerves were running through her body and could be seen reflected in her eyes; her hands were sweating, and she had to wipe them on her pants, letting out a long, heavy sigh, trying to erase all the negative thoughts that came to her mind.

Would something happen to Daeho and her while they were in Neo Zone? She hoped not; she hoped they would just hand over the money and leave that place as soon as they could.

She grabbed her bag with her belongings inside and left her room as quietly as possible. She walked almost on tiptoe along the long hallway, passing her parents' room with great care and approaching the stairs. She checked the time on her wristwatch; it was seven thirty in the evening. The way to Neo Zone would take them about fifteen minutes, and hopefully, they would be there by the agreed time.

She cursed Jaehyun with all her being for getting them into this, but she cursed her own cousin even more for getting involved in these situations.

She began to descend the stairs, one by one and carefully. Her cousin was at the main entrance of the house, waiting for her, and the last thing she wanted right now was to run into one of her parents.

And it seemed that was exactly what she asked for.

"(Y/N)," her mother's voice was heard behind her from afar. "Where are you going?"

The girl closed her eyes for a brief moment and cursed under her breath. She adjusted her posture and turned around to see her mom leaning on the second-floor railing.

"Um, I'm going out with Daeho," she replied, moving her head slightly.

"Oh, has Daeho come?" her mother asked.

"Hmm yes, he's waiting for me outside," she replied.

"Well, where are you and Daeho going?" her mother asked again, this time getting closer to her daughter, descending the stairs and stopping before her.

(Y/N) swallowed hard. Lying to Daehyun's parents when he got into trouble was easy... lying to her own parents was something different. Very different. She tried not to move her hands anxiously as she always did, a movement that everyone in her family knew, something that betrayed her every time something happened.

She clenched one of her fists at her sides to avoid doing it and cleared her throat.

"Daeho said something about seeing a new movie and then going out to dinner. You know that my uncles are traveling this week, and you know how lonely Dae feels when they're not around," (Y/N) murmured the last part.

Her mother looked at her from above and squinted her eyes for a few seconds, then smiled as she nodded. She raised her hand and brought it to her daughter's cheek to stroke it slowly, causing her to hold her breath.

"Of course, dear. Keep your cousin company, offer to spend the night here so he doesn't feel lonely until your uncles arrive," she said, then pushed one of her hair strands behind her ear. She then gave her daughter a quick once-over and wrinkled her nose a bit. "Poor choice of clothing, dear. Too casual. Remember who you are; you can't go around like that... looking like a homeless. What will our associates say if they see you like this?" She put her hand on the girl's shoulder, feeling the fabric's material and wrinkled her nose.

(T/N) fought with herself not to roll her eyes right there and push her mother's hand away abruptly. She hated it when her mother told her what to do, what to wear, or what to say. She hated the phrase she always used against her, "remember who you are." It made her feel so small, as if her status or her way of acting were more special than what she thought. Than her own thoughts.

"Of course, mother," she replied simply, as she always did. No matter how many times she tried to gather the courage and say everything she felt... it never worked. Her mother's gaze would always manage to intimidate her, and she was tired of it.

She turned around to continue her way and walked through the entire place from the stairs to the main door. She left her house after a while, crossed the main yard until she reached the entrance. She greeted the security men with a simple nod, and they opened the doors for her to finally exit. Her cousin's Tesla was in front of her; as she got in, she saw Daeho tapping lightly on the steering wheel with one of his fingers.

"Why did you take so long?" Daeho asked impatiently.

"My mother stopped me as I was leaving my room," she replied, taking a deep breath.

Her cousin didn't reply; instead, he started the car and drove off. None of them spoke throughout the journey, possibly because of the anxiety it caused them. The city looked increasingly different as they approached the Neo Zone area. The streets were now darker and lonelier; (Y/N) could feel her chest pounding strongly. Her hands were sweating, and she felt a slight pressure on her chest.

May nothing go wrong tonight.

She shifted her gaze forward and finally could see the lights of Neo Zone in the distance. A few more minutes, and they would enter what would determine whether they would continue to live or not.

Was she being dramatic? It was just a part of the city. It couldn't be as bad as they painted it, right? Maybe everything they had heard from their parents or older people about that place was just an exaggeration.

Right?

She didn't even notice it. She didn't even feel when her cousin's car stopped. Daeho let out a sigh and lightly tapped the steering wheel in frustration.

"Well, we arrived on time," her cousin murmured, (Y/N) nodded, and they both got out of the car.

A few meters away from them, they could see a bunch of people. Some drinking, others smoking, others dancing, and others having passionate sessions with others. The music volume was loud, too loud for a public place. However, the car engines could be heard over it. Loud and clean. (Y/N) remembered Daeho mentioning that there would be a race... one that surely wouldn't be legal.

Daeho stood beside her, and they looked at each other. He nodded slightly, and together they began to blend in with the crowd. For a moment, they thought they had gone unnoticed. It seemed that many people were busy with their own business to even notice them.

Or so they thought.

(Y/N) stayed close to her cousin, who was leading the way for both of them. She bumped into some people from time to time, but none bothered to turn and look at them. It wasn't until Daeho felt a hand on his chest stopping him and causing (Y/N) stopped abruptly, colliding with her cousin's body.

"Oh, well," a deep voice spoke. "Who are you?" asked the broad-shouldered man. His arm muscles were large and with a particular tattoo. The Neo Zone one.

The girl swallowed fearfully and stayed behind her cousin.

Great. Just great.

"Excuse us," Daehyun spoke, trying to keep walking, but again the man stopped him.

"I hadn't seen you around here before," the man spoke again. "I repeat, who are you?"

(T/N) looked around, now seeing more people cornering them. The difference between them could be noticed. It was clear that neither she nor Daehyun fit in there. It was clear they weren't part of Neo Zone.

That had been a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Someone took her by the arm and separated her a bit from her cousin. They did the same with him. Placing him right in front of the big man, who impatiently awaited an answer.

"Aren't you the Hwangs?" someone asked from afar. Upon hearing her last name, (Y/N) turned her head to see who had spoken, seeing one of her schoolmates among the crowd.

She forgot that several people there attended the same school.

"Oh, the Hwangs?" the man questioned. "As the kids of Hwang Inc’s owners?”

Before anyone could even say anything. The crowd parted, and the tall figures of Jung Jaehyun along with Lucas Wong appeared. Jaehyun stood between the man and Daeho and smiled slightly, patting him on the shoulder.

"Calm down, Hanseok. They're with me," Jaehyun said firmly. He turned to look over his shoulder at the Hwang cousins and clicked his tongue.

"Hmm," the man, now known as Hanseok, looked at each boy and then at Jaehyun. "What are you doing associating with someone from Kwangya?" Hanseok approached the girl, and before he could get too close to her body, Jaehyun stopped him by placing his hand on his chest and Lucas slipping in front of her.

"Business," the boy replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take him... take them to the boss," Jaehyun stopped looking at Hanseok and changed his gaze to the Hwang cousins. "Let's go."

Neither Daeho nor (Y/N) uttered a word. They both followed Jaehyun and Lucas, who were heading towards what seemed to be a garage, which was surrounded by cars and was dimly lit. (Y/N) swallowed hard and kept walking. Thanks to Hanseok, all eyes were on them. They could feel each of them staring at their bodies, watching them meticulously. Waiting for a wrong move to pounce on them and tear them apart.

The air was tense, and Jaehyun knew it.

Now he was having second thoughts about bringing Daeho here.

But screw it. Daeho had let him down. He owed money to his boss, and his boss was being a painful nuisance in his balls.

He glanced back to see the Hwang cousins; Daeho walking cautiously and (Y/N) behind him trying to look calm, although she actually looked like a scared little mouse.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. The idea was to bring only one Hwang. Just Daeho, why did he bring his cousin along? Something wouldn't end well tonight.

“I don’t remember telling you that you could bring someone with you” Jaehyun said without looking back at them. “The deal was only you coming, not your cousin as well” they both could hear the anger in his voice”

And before Daeho could answer, she spoke “I tagged myself along” (Y/N) said. “It wasn’t Daeho’s idea”

“I thought someone like you would know better” he gave them a side smile and scoff”.

Lucas stood beside him, and both stopped when they reached the entrance of the garage. Two of his boss's bodyguards were guarding it and looked at them with superiority.

"Cheol Uk, the boss is waiting for us," Jaehyun explained, looking neutral.

"Only two people can enter," Cheol Uk replied nonchalantly. Jaehyun and Lucas looked at each other, and the former sighed. He nodded and turned to the Hwang cousins with no expression on his face.

"You brought the money with you, right?" he asked Daeho, who nodded eagerly. Jaehyun clicked his tongue and looked at Cheol Uk. "The boy and I will enter."

Daeho quickly turned to look at his cousin, and she could see a bit of panic in his eyes at the thought of leaving her alone, but she straightened up and smiled slightly, mouthing a "I'll be fine."

"Lucas will stay with her," Jaehyun told Daeho, who turned to look at the mentioned.

"I'll take care of her," he assured, approaching the girl and nodding at her.

Jaehyun gave Daeho a little push, and they both approached the entrance even more, the bodyguards inspected Daeho, making sure he didn't have any weapons with him, and once they saw he was clean, they allowed them to enter.

(Y/N) swallowed when she saw her cousin's body disappear through the entrance.

Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.

She felt Lucas Wong's presence beside her. Both standing side by side, saying nothing, and the atmosphere was weird. (Y/N) began to play with her fingers unknowingly and moved one of her feet slightly. Lucas looked everywhere except at the girl. He didn't know what to say because the situation wasn't really the best. His boss was angry, and he knew what his boss was like when he was in that state, so he didn't want to make (Y/N) panic right there because he wouldn't know how to calm her down.

It had been a bad idea of Daeho to bring her here.

The brunette straightened her back and with a little curiosity, she looked around. The night had completely fallen by then, the full moon reflected on them, and the lights of the city and the place created a contrast. The music could still be heard even from where they were. And from there, in her position, she could be a perfect spectator of what that scenario was.

The car engines roared, the girls in mini skirts stood in the middle of the highway to announce the start of the race. The young people, who were also (Y/N)'s classmates, drank effusively as they moved their bodies to the rhythm of the music. Some had a cigarette between their lips, others brought their nostrils to what seemed to be a key and inhaled strongly from it, and their eyes widened when the substance was inside them.

Lucas let out a sigh that (Y/N) could perfectly hear, looking at him, she noticed how the boy put his hand in his jacket pocket and from there took out a small bag and some papers to roll. He placed the substance on the paper and rolled it carefully, then after a moment, brought it to his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply, furrowing his brow slightly, and slowly released the smoke from his lungs, causing it to reach the girl, who coughed when she smelled the smell of that substance reach her nostrils.

"Do you participate?" she asked, trying to break the ice.

"In what?"

"In the races."

"Sometimes," Lucas replied. "Not right now because I'm fixing my car, the last race didn't end well," he continued.

"Oh..."

"Jaehyun does it," the boy said as he took another drag of his cigarette, then offered it to the girl, who quickly declined. "He's one of the best in the area."

"Is it fun?... racing like that?" she questioned, looking at the highway.

"Yes, it is," he replied simply, bringing the cigarette to his lips, sucking slightly, and holding the smoke in his lungs. "It's really a stress reliever, and it's even more fun when you get the final prize," he released the smoke, and this time, he didn't receive a response from the girl, but she remained silent and continued to watch the show in front of her.

A few minutes passed... (Y/N) lost track of time, but it really seemed like many minutes had passed, but finally, the garage door opened, and she looked up with shining eyes to see her cousin. However, she found only Jaehyun arriving at the place. (Y/N) frowned and looked behind Jaehyun's shoulder, searching for Daehyun, but the door closed, and he never came out.

A pressure in her chest became present, and she walked to the door to try to open it, but she was stopped by Cheol Uk himself. She tapped her chest a bit to let her go. Mumbling a couple of nonsensical things and kicking before feeling the pressure of a hand on her arm, holding her back. Cheol Uk sure had strength and was beginning to hurt her arm.

Where's Daeho? Where's Daeho? Where's Daeho?

If something happened to Daeho, she wouldn't know what to do. She wouldn't know how to react.

She didn't know at what point, but someone’s hands took her from behind and separated her from Cheol Uk. They moved her away from the door a bit, and then she slightly felt her feet touch the ground. She couldn't focus on what was happening.

(Y/N) always used to worry, and maybe that was her weakness. Thinking that something could happen to one of her loved ones drove her crazy in every imaginable way, and now there was Daeho, on his own, inside a garage with some mobsters. What if it ended badly? What if he got shot? What if he got stabbed?

"(Y/N)," she heard a voice calling her, and after shaking her head, her attention focused on the boy in front of her. On Jaehyun. Who looked at her with one of his eyebrows raised and without any emotion on his face.

"Where's Daeho? Why didn't he come with you?" she asked hurriedly.

Jaehyun glanced quickly at Lucas and then returned his gaze to the girl.

"My boss wanted to talk to him alone," he explained.

"Why?"

"He owed money, his deadline expired almost a week ago. It wasn't just a few wones he owed, and my boss wanted to make a few things clear to him," he explained again, staying neutral.

She swallowed and then squeezed her eyes shut.

It was now or never.

She had never imagined in her life trying to do business with someone from Neo Zone, much less with someone like Jaehyun, but as they said somewhere, "desperate times call for desperate measures." So there she was, on a Saturday night at an illegal race, with her cousin inside a garage with other mobsters, Jung Jaehyun in front of her, and her hands sweating like they had never done before.

So, to protect her cousin from future problems, she would have to do it.

"Jaehyun?" she called softly. Jaehyun looked up at that, his name, his nickname, sounded so different coming from the lips of that girl that it almost sent a chill down his spine. How weird that felt. "Can I talk to you?" she asked, and Jaehyun looked at her with confusion, then glanced at Lucas, who was in a similar state, and nodded. (Y/N) cleared her throat and smiled sideways. "Alone."

Again, a look of confusion crossed his face, and he glanced at his best friend, who was already moving away from both of them. He looked at the girl and noticed how she lightly played with her fingers. Then, she followed his gaze and immediately stopped her hand movements, embarrassed and feeling her cheeks heat up a bit.

"What do you need?" he asked, looking into her eyes, and before she could say a word, he spoke again. "I won't sell you drugs if that's what you want."

(Y/N) frowned and quickly shook her head.

"Hey! I'm not Daeho, I don't put that stuff in my body, and that definitely wasn't what I wanted to talk about," she replied, pointing at him with one of her fingers.

Jaehyun thought she looked cute with her annoyed face.

"Well, then enlighten me," he asked with a sideways smile.

She cleared her throat again and unconsciously started playing with her fingers again.

Yes, that was definitely a tic.

"I... wanted to ask you something," she murmured, and when she didn't receive a response from the boy, she continued. "Could you... could you stop selling to Daeho?" she asked without looking him in the eyes. Why couldn't she meet his gaze?

He chuckled softly and then received a glare from her.

"Oh, are you serious?"

Jaehyun looked at her in surprise for a few seconds. He observed every detail about her. From her slightly furrowed eyebrows to her lips that were almost pouting. Then to her hands that played with each other, and then to her clothes, which were very different from what he usually saw her wearing at school. This was more casual; it didn't scream 'look at me, I'm the heir to a billion-dollar company.' This felt more like her, it suited her very well.

But he shouldn't get distracted. Especially not by someone like Hwang (T/N). So he scoffed and gave her a sarcastic smile.

"I'm sorry, Angel, but business are business. I can't stop selling to Daeho just because you ask me to. He's my client, after all, not you" he said, crossing his arms.

"You know my name, Yoonoh," she snapped, mirroring Jaehyun's movement and crossing her arms.

"You know not everyone is allowed to call me Yoonoh," he approached her with a furious look.

His name was something different. Only his family and very close friends called him that, and no one outside that circle could or should call him that. It just wasn't allowed.

So now she was coming and doing it?

"Don't sell anything to Daeho," she asked again, this time with firmness.

"Business. Are. Business," he repeated, emphasizing each word.

"Let's negotiate then," (Y/N) challenged. "How much money do you want?" Without hesitation, Jaehyun burst into laughter and shook his head slightly, making the girl look at him with annoyance and clench her jaw.

Was Jung Jaehyun really laughing at her? Who did he think he was?

"Angel, things don't work like that," Jaehyun teased, running his tongue over his lips. "You won't just come here and tell me what to do or not do, who to sell my shit to and who not to. That's just how things are," he explained with some gestures.

"Listen, Yoonoh," she placed her index finger on the boy's chest and tried to push him, although it was in vain. Jaehyun was stronger and managed to stay in place, not even moving an inch. Jaehyun lowered his gaze a bit to see her eyes and narrowed them, but at that moment, it didn't intimidate her. "Daeho promised not to use again, but I know him. As soon as his parents leave the city again and he feels lonely, he'll come looking for you to buy more stuff. One of the times he did, it ended badly. They punish him every two weeks because he's overspending, and I don't want him to be late with his payment again, because now he's there," she pointed to the garage. "With your boss, who's angry, and I don't know what he's capable of. Daeho has changed a bit since he started using. I'm afraid it might become an addiction and end badly. He lost weight. He's sleeping less. I don't want his habits to change and harm him. If my uncles find out about this, they're capable of anything, even sending him away until he changes those thoughts," she sighed and moved away from Jaehyun a bit. "Daeho is like a brother to me. We've always been together, and I'm afraid something will happen to him, either because of an addiction, a late payment, or whatever. I promised myself I would always take care of him, but I'm failing, and if I can do something to change that now, I will. Just... just stop selling to him."

She murmured the last part, and after a few seconds, she looked into Jaehyun's eyes, hoping to find a response in them, but she saw nothing. Not even an emotion. Nothing. They were flat. Empty.

Why did she think that was a good idea?

Everyone thought that the great Jung Jaehyun had no weaknesses. Or at least that's what he always showed. That was his facade. A tough guy, a dealer who had been through so much that nothing scared him. That was his life, or at least that's what others believed. His body was covered in scars, possible results of the many fights he had had throughout his life. His character was cold, a result of all the hard things he had been through. Of everything that being and belonging to Neo Zone meant.

Of everything that being Jung Jaehyun meant.

Of course, he wouldn't accept the deal with (Y/N) just because of her sentimentalism.

Of course not.

"Ugh, forget it. I shouldn't have even thought about asking you that," (Y/N) murmured as she walked away from him and let out a small sarcastic laugh. Had she forgotten who the boy in front of her was?

But Jung Jaehyun did have weaknesses. Deep down inside him. Amidst everything he presented to the world, they existed, and although no one might know them, they lived with him; and Jeno, his little brother, was one of his weaknesses. He had spent his whole life trying to take care of his brother, trying to prevent him from ending up like him. Trying to keep him away from anything that could hurt him, and if taking on a great responsibility within Neo Zone, even if he hated it, to take care of him, it was necessary... he would do it.

His family would always come first.

Then, the image of a Sicheng came to his mind, causing his throat to dry up and his eyes to close for a moment. Listening to (Y/N) talk about her cousin and how she felt the responsibility for him fell on her somehow shook him. Maybe there was something similar between them.

Something small but significant.

He sighed, debating internally.

“Do you want to negotiate? Then let's negotiate” his voice came out thick and a bit hoarse, (Y/N) turned slightly, surprised by the words that had come out of Jaehyun's mouth. “So, what do you have to offer me?” he prompted, raising his eyebrows.

(Y/N) moved her bag hanging from one of her arms to the front and began searching for her wallet. When she opened it, she remembered something: she didn't have any cash with her.

“Hmm, I don't have cash, but we can go to a nearby ATM and I can give you whatever you want” she said hurriedly, then Jaehyun laughed.

“So, you're offering me money, angel?”

“Well, yes, what do you need?”

Jaehyun made a pensive gesture and placed one of his hands on his chin. Then he looked at the girl and smiled slightly.

“Are you doing well in school?” he asked. Of course, she was doing well in school; she was the top of her class. (Y/N) nodded without understanding. “Alright, do my homework for the rest of the year.”

She frowned and looked at him incredulously.

“Of all the things you could ask for, you want... me... to do your homework?” she asked, confused.

“Look, I'm not doing well in some classes, and the principal warned me that if I didn't improve or maintain my grades, I'd have to drop out. And do you know what that means? That's right, no school, no clients. No clients, no money. No money, angry boss. Do you understand what I'm saying?” he asked, and she nodded “so do my homework, give me your notes, and let's make a deal.”

“You want my notes too?” she asked incredulously “besides, wouldn't it be easier if I gave you money? With whatever you ask from me, you could surely quit working. You wouldn't have to sell drugs anymore.”

Jaehyun scoffed and shook his head. “Do you really think it's that simple?”

“I mean… yes” she replied simply “I give you money, then you won't have to work on your own and stop selling. See? We both win” she said triumphantly.

However, he laughed. “Things don't work like that here, sweet cheeks. It's not just selling and that's it, there are other things, and things aren't that simple. Maybe where you live, it is. But not here. I can't just quit the business like that.”

(Y/N) sighed and looked into Jaehyun's eyes, trying to find something in them. Can't quit the business? She was sure that if Jaehyun was smart enough and asked for enough money, he could survive a few months without needing to continue his drug deliveries and without getting into trouble. So why would he pass up an opportunity like this?

“Jaehyun, just give me a number and I'll write you a check.”

“It's not just about the money for me!” he exclaimed annoyed “look, I'm not here for this... it's not something you'll understand, and it's not something I'll bother explaining to you. It was nice talking to you, Hwang, but I don't want your money” Jaehyun finished, turning around and walking away from the girl without saying anything else.

She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath.

“Wait... do you want my notes and for me to do your homework?”

He smiled slightly and turned around to face her again. Looking at her cynically.

“And a coffee every Monday, like those rich kids drink you have… Oh! And also, if I ever ask you for something, you'll have to do it” Jaehyun spoke playfully.

“What? Will I be your maid or something?”

“Deal?”

“Jaehyun...”

“Deal?” he emphasized this time, raising one of his eyebrows and giving her a hard look. Extending one of his hands, and she looked at him hesitantly.

Was it really necessary to shake hands?

Moreover, of all the things she could give him; money, clothes, jewelry... damn, she could even buy him a plane ticket to an island and a free vacation if she wanted to... did he decide that she would do his homework for the rest of the year, in addition to treating her like his servant whenever he pleased?

Jaehyun sure was interesting.

“Is there any catch?” she asked hesitantly, looking at the boy's hand.

“Take it or leave it. I can continue selling to your cousin, it’s up to you if you want to close the deal or not” he shrugged. (Y/N) gave him one last look and without saying anything else, she took Jaehyun's hand in hers and shook it.

“Deal” she murmured, looking at him directly.

Jaehyun gave her a sideways smile while still shaking her hand and nodded cynically. (Y/N) swallowed hard and quickly let go of the boy's hand.

She hoped he would keep his word, because as soon as he broke it, she would forget who he was, and she herself would kick his ass if necessary.

“It was nice doing business with you, Hwang (Y/N).”

Hopefully, she wouldn't regret doing business with Jung Jaehyun.

What could go wrong?

“You know that Daeho can go to any other dealer, right? I'm not the only one he can call” he questioned a bit obviously.

“I know” she replied, letting out a sigh “You take care of making your part of the deal, and I'll take care of the rest” he looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you know that you also can't go around offering deals or money to other dealers just because your cousin keeps getting into trouble?”

“I know, Jaehyun! I know..”

“The deal I made with you has been innocent. Believe me, another dealer won't ask you for homework and class notes. They'll take advantage of your vulnerability” Jaehyun commented “I'm just saying, be careful with who you talk to and who you get involved with. This is not your zone, you had never set foot here before, you have no idea how things are handled in business here, and nobody... nobody will spare a thought for your little story of the protective cousin who wants to save her cousin from an overdose.”

“You did it though” (Y/N) retorted defiantly.

Jaehyun sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumbs: “Look, I'll stop selling to Daehyun because I keep my word, but you can't make every dealer in Neo Zone do the same. Much less by offering deals to anyone who crosses your path, because money won't be the only thing they'll ask for in return” he continued, this time looking her up and down, making her feel small under his intense gaze. (Y/N) bit her cheek inwardly and then cleared her throat.

“I can take care of myself, thanks for your concern, Yoonoh” she replied with a fake smile.

“I'm not concerned” Jaehyun responded with a smile as he turned around “And (Y/N)?” he saw her over his shoulder “don't call me Yoonoh again. Good luck with your mission of taking care of your cousin as if he is a child, you can leave or stay, maybe you want to see me run.”

When Jaehyun was far enough from her sight, the garage door opened and a Daeho was pushed by Cheol Uk, until his cousin fell to the ground, letting out a groan and placing his hand on his abdomen as he writhed in pain, causing (Y/N) to run towards him with panic evident on her face. She knelt beside him and took his face to examine it, identifying the bruise on his cheek, the cuts on his eyebrow and lip, and the blood running from the latter.

Daeho smiled slightly and after coughing, spoke weakly: “The debt has been paid”.

You're an idiot, Hwang Daeho.

a/n: taglist is open! thank you for reading! wait 4 the next chapter! I’m a sucker for cliche stuff so as soon as this fic popped in my mind I had to write it down, english isn’t my first language tho.

next part

[texssins]

SWEET LIKE DRAWING PINS ART DURING PRIDE MONTH? DUH.

If you're down to read #reed900 in a #gangAU where #gavinreed meets Nines who's not scared to love him in his dangerous world because HE'S A MENACE TOO then you should check it out vol 1 on ao3!!

READ HERE:

[seventhcallisto]

GIOM m.

꒦꒷ ✦ pairings: yandere! mafialeaders! matz x afab!reader (poly) hinted other yandere! members x reader.

꒷꒦ ✦ rating: 18+ !

꒦꒷ ✦ genre: ateez (hongjoong & seonghwa). toxic relationships. yandere. action. gangs + mafia. coercion. quick pining. smut.

꒷꒦ ✦ warnings: yanderes, obsessive/possessive behavior, mafia, violence, fighting, death, weapons, death, kidnapping, eventual and explicit smut.

° 。 ⋆༺MA♱Z༻⋆ 。 °

1 — a promise is a swear 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Kim Hongjoong.

Park Seonghwa.

This is a mini series! (Mini) as in shorter chapters for easier writing on my part. Everything happens quickly too. Stay tuned!

None - if not all of it - is proofread, nor is this an accurate representation to the idols themselves, this is completely fiction and a work made by ©️ seventhcallisto here on tumblr. Please do not repost, copy, or plagiarize my works.

color banners : @rookthornesartistry

reblog banner : @benkeibear

[cotl-flower-crown]

Can I pet Leshy and be okay?

Yes :3

[edenesth]

By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

"N-No, please! Spare me! I was wrong! I swear I'll never do it again!" The man's voice cracked as he grovelled on the damp ground, tears carving paths through the grime on his face. His trembling hands offered up the tiny diamond he'd been foolish enough to steal—his last-ditch effort to appease the eight figures towering over him like shadows of death.

He'd heard the whispers, the warnings: Never cross the Black Pirates. Never touch what belongs to them. Never even think of betrayal. Yet greed had blinded him. Now, staring into their cold, merciless eyes, he knew his regret was far too late.

The leader of the gang stepped forward, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilted his head, studying the pitiful man like a cat sizing up a doomed mouse. "Didn't I ask you to screen these rats better?" he drawled, casting a sideways glance at the eldest among them before shifting his focus back to their prey. "No time to waste. Finish him."

A low chuckle echoed through the tension-filled night as the gang's usual executioner, a broad-shouldered figure clad in his signature fur coat, stepped forward, his grin as sharp as the blade in his hand.

"Sorry, buddy," he mused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "This will be the night you take your final breath—by order of the Black fuckin' Pirates."

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Watching the harrowing scene from a distance stood a figure with crossed arms, his voice low as he muttered to his right-hand, "Every man has a weakness. Find the Black Pirates', and we'll knock them off their high horses."

"And if they have none, sir?"

The figure's lips curled into a dark smile. "Then we'll make sure they do."

Pairing(s): gang members!ateez x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Summary: One by one, the Black Pirates uncover their greatest weakness. But when the cracks begin to show, will they stand firm or let their vulnerabilities bring their empire to its knees?

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

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

A/N: Credits to the wonderful @sundaybossanova for giving me the idea of something Peaky Blinders inspired. Thank you so much and ily💖

**Dearest readers, please note that all chapters are interconnected. You're advised to read them in order.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong

‣ The Captain

The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Seonghwa

‣ The Gentleman

The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.

Yunho

‣ The Enforcer

The towering enforcer of the Black Pirates, both disarming and deadly—his easy charm capable of winning over enemies, while his legendary fury dominates the battlefield. But his unbreakable facade begins to crack when he meets a psychologist during a mission—someone who can see through his carefully crafted mask, just as he can see through hers. Beneath her confident exterior lies a frightened soul lost in a dark world, and for the first time, he finds himself compelled to protect someone in a way he never expected.

Yeosang

‣ The Phantom

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

San

‣ The Tempest [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' most unpredictable force is a whirlwind of fiery passion and unbridled energy—always the first to leap into action when chaos erupts. But his world tilts when he stumbles upon a woman who, unlike his victims who always begged to live, is on the brink of ending her own life. Upon discovering she's terminally ill, he finds himself gripped by an unfamiliar and urgent desire to save her, igniting a battle within himself unlike anything he's ever faced.

Mingi

‣ The Firestarter [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' wild card is notorious for his fiery temper and even more explosive schemes—a dangerous yet irresistibly charming presence. But his confidence takes a hit when one of his near-disastrous plans is salvaged by an unlikely passerby: a composed and resourceful former aristocrat, exiled and stripped of her wealth, now navigating the world's harsh realities. Her icy demeanour and unshakable poise captivate him, leaving the ever-impulsive man unexpectedly drawn to her.

Wooyoung

‣ The Charmer [Coming soon]

The Black Pirates' negotiator and master of distractions is renowned for his confidence and flirtatious charm, which can sway almost anyone. But his ego is severely wounded when he encounters the loyal bodyguard of a high-profile target, someone completely immune to his usual tricks, during a high-stakes mission. Frustrated by his failure yet captivated by her unwavering resolve, he finds himself unable to stay away, drawn to the challenge—and to her—in ways he never expected.

Jongho

‣ The Anchor [Coming soon]

The steadfast foundation of the Black Pirates is renowned for his unfaltering strength and calm under pressure. As the gang's moral compass and protector, he's always put duty above all else. But when a rival gang's attack threatens the life of their kind-hearted hired doctor, he begins to realise that his priorities extend beyond just his brothers. Torn between his loyalty to the gang and his growing feelings for her, he faces an agonising choice: protect his family or save her.

Voila, my loves! As promised, I finally managed to come up with a little something for this comeback teehee. I hope you're as excited about this as I am! Truthfully, I just returned from a 10-day trip in Shanghai and am back to work on Monday already - which means I might not be able to write much until the following weekend but I will do my best to get the parts out ASAP!

Super excited to hear your thoughts on the concept! Do let me know which member's summary enticed you the most!✨ and of course, just leave a comment if you'd like to be tagged for when the parts are released!

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

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

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

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @bethelighthalazia @tsunchani

All Rights Reserved © edenesth

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR OTHERWISE REPURPOSE ANY OF THE WORK HERE.

[oobbbear]

I may or may not have made another thembo y/n that is so blunt it took them forever to realize their feelings for their future partners and the au itself is extremely self indulgent there’s zero plot going on whatsoever I don’t even know what I am doing-

The au is about tattoo artist yn and coffee shop owner sunmoon please give me name suggestions ><🙏

[strangerexee]

(5) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

A/N: lmk if I forgot you in the TAGLISTTTT

Friday had felt like a movie.

You slid over to his house in leggings, lashes, and with a bag packed like it was a field trip—shower things, clothes for a couple days, a lil ‘just in case’ lingerie set…

Ain’t nobody say you was stayin’ the weekend butttt also ain’t nobody say you couldn’t.

And he let you in without a blink.

Kissed your cheek when you stepped in.

Took your bag like it belonged there.

Put it in corner you probably would leave there the next time you spent the night.

“Back again?” he teased.

“Back always,” you grinned, stepping out of your shoes.

Y’all been vibin’ for a good while.

Loungin’ in the living room, feet in his lap, random episodes of whatever playin’ on the TV.

He cooked again Friday night — stir fry this time, okay chef — and y’all ain’t do nothin’ but eat, laugh, and fall asleep halfway through a movie.

Now it’s Saturday night…

…and this man…lord…this man.

“Where you goin’ dressed like that?”

You had asked it real chill when he came out the room in black jeans and a fresh tee, chains hangin’ just right. Cologne hittin’ from the hallway.

“Out with Stack,” he said, leanin’ down to kiss your temple. “Won’t be long.”

You gave him the squinty side-eye.

“How long is not long?”

He smirked.

“Few hours.”

Mmm hmm.

You ain’t trip. Just made a lil face, rolled over on the couch when tried to touch you, and let him go.

But you was watching the time.

An hour passed. Then another.

You ate leftover takeout.

Scrolled on instagram.

Tried to start a show but ended up fallin’ asleep mid-episode.

You was cozy as hell in his tee, bonnet on, face washed, stretched out in his bed like it was yours.

And when you woke up?

He still wasn’t home.

So naturally…

You FaceTimed him.

And babyyyy.

When that screen popped up?

You was lookin’ at chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. Smoke. Some lil LED light tryna change the mood.

He was reclined on some couch, phone low like it was sittin’ on his chest. Eyes low. Shirt halfway up his stomach.

Big, thick ass blunt between his fingers.

“Yoooooo,” Stack’s voice came from behind the screen. “Is that her??”

Smoke tilted the camera slightly and Stack leaned in, grinning like a devil.

“Hiiiii baby mamaaaa,” Stack said in that ghetto ass singsong tone, throwin’ up a peace sign.

You blinked. “Boy bye.”

Smoke was smirkin’. All slow and sticky-eyed.

“Why you look like that?” he asked, voice hoarse from smokin’.

You frowned at him.

“Because you said you was gon’ be back a lil while ago. It’s almost midnight.”

He squinted like he just realized what time it was.

Then smiled wider.

“You miss me?”

You sucked your teeth.

“Answer the question.”

He laughed, real low and lazy, smoke curling from his mouth as he hit the blunt again.

“I’ma be there in thirty minutes, chill.”

Stack was screamin’ in the background, talkin’ to somebody, then suddenly popped back in frame.

“You tryna get pregnant or what?” he cackled.

“STACK—”

“Let me talk to her real quick,” Stack said, snatching the phone. “He be tryna play it cool but he always checkin’ his phone for your name, don’t let him fool you—”

Then it fumbled back to Smoke, who looked like he was too high to even argue.

“Stack drunk,” he mumbled.

You leaned closer to the camera. “You high.”

He grinned.

“You horny?”

Your whole face dropped. “WHAT?”

He licked his lips, all slow. “I said—”

“I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID, RELAX.”

Stack and them was dyin’ in the back.

You covered your face, wheezing.

“Y’all are embarrassing. Y’all need to go to hell.”

Smoke just laughed, then looked dead at the screen with them low eyes.

“Go lay down. I’ma be there in thirty. Maybe twenty.”

You squinted.

“Don’t come home on no weird high shit. I’m wearin’ your shirt and everything.”

He bit his lip at that.

“Bet.”

Then he hung up.

You flopped back in his bed.

Face warm. Heart beatin’ a lil fast. Still lowkey flattered and fake annoyed at the same time.

Now you just had to wait.

And he better not take forty-five minutes…

The last time you looked at the clock it was 12:46am.

You’d been trying to stay up. Really.

Was on YouTube with your eyes fighting for their life and your bonnet hangin’ on by a thread.

You even put one of his hoodies on top of the shirt you stole — cocooned in that big boy scent, just a lil pissed, just a lil turned on still from that dumbass FaceTime call.

And you fell asleep all curled up, thighs tucked together tight like you didn’t know what he was comin’ home to do.

And then…

POP.

You JERKED awake, eyes flarin’ open, body tensing like somebody tried to break in.

Only to hear the deep ass chuckle right behind your ear.

“Nah, don’t get to flinchin’ now.”

He’d slapped the shit out your ass. It started burning a bit from how hard he slapped it.

Woke you up out your sleep.

Real disrespectful. Real unnecessary.

You was finna swing and everything ‘til you felt his chain brush your neck from behind.

“You hit me like I owed you money.”

“You do,” he mumbled, voice all raspy from the weed and the night. “Interest been accruin’ since I left.” He rubbed the spot on your ass.

You turned over and he was standin’ there, shirt halfway off, jeans unbuttoned. Eyes low, gold grill catchin’ the light.

Face a little flushed. Smellin’ like smoke and Hennessy and the kind of sin you don’t come back from.

“Boy. It is one o’clock. In the morning.”

“And you still up.” He smirked, leanin’ down to kiss your cheek. “That mean you was waitin’.”

You rolled your eyes. “You woke me up.”

He laughed again and grabbed your thigh, lifted it up high to his hip like he was about to climb on you.

Started kissin’ up your jaw, your neck, pressin’ himself all into you.

Then next thing you knew?

You was on top.

“You want somethin’ so bad,” he said, voice low, breath hot as his hands slid up your hoodie. “Come take it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Take it, baby.” he said again. “Ride me.”

And that’s how you ended up straddlin’ him, still sleepy-eyed, bonnet gone, tryna get it together as he leaned back on the headboard, arms behind his head like he was watchin’ the show.

You lifted your hips slow, dragged him in even slower.

He hissed through his teeth, eyes clenching shut, tongue pokin’ the corner of his mouth.

You bit your bottom lip.

Started movin’, workin’ it like he ain’t just come home three hours late.

Bouncin’ a lil faster, leanin’ back for leverage. The hoodie you had on ridin’ up over your ass, thighs burnin’ already.

You was moanin’ soft.

Tryna keep the rhythm.

Tryna not let your knees give out.

He was so damn thick, the stretch makin’ you dizzy.

“Fuck,” he grunted, hands goin’ to your hips finally. “Just like that — damn, you tryna make me come already?”

You smirked, breathless.

“You talk all that shit, now you foldin’?”

He bit his lip hard, grabbed the back of your neck, and pulled you down into a nasty ass kiss — teeth clashing, tongue heavy, breath hot.

Then he leaned back again.

“Stop.”

You froze, hips mid-roll.

“…huh?”

He looked you dead in the face, jaw clenched.

Voice serious.

“I said stop. You movin’ like you tryna win.”

You blinked again.

“I am??”

He leaned up just slightly, whispered low in your ear, “You wanna make me come, you gon’ have to earn that shit. Now come here —”

You still sittin’ there straddlin’ him, lips parted, brows furrowed like — sir?

You just gave him three minutes of your finest choreography. You damn near caught the holy ghost on that dick.

And this man got the nerve to tell you to stop.

Now he got one hand wrapped around your thigh, the other holdin’ your lower back, pullin’ you down, bringin’ you back, slidin’ you onto him slow like he finna run this now.

“Lemme do it my way.”

His voice all rough and sleepy, thick from the liquor and late hour.

Eyes half-lidded but focused, locked in like you the only thing in his world.

You couldn’t breathe for a second, ‘cause the way he filled you? Had you clenchin’ all over again.

He tilted his head to the side and smirked just a lil. “That’s what I thought.”

Now you tryin’ to ride again, but he’s not lettin’ you bounce.

He’s holdin’ your hips in place, grindin’ you down into him, movin’ you the way he want.

Slow. Deep. Pressure in every roll.

You swear you can feel everything.

The heat. The weight. The way he pulses thick inside you with every tiny lil moan that slips past your lips.

Your head falls forward against his chest and he laughs, low and cocky.

“Yeahhh, that’s what I wanted,” he mutters, thumb draggin’ up your spine under the hoodie.

“I don’t need all that fast shit. Let me feel you.”

You whimper.

Like a real whimper.

He lifts your chin, makes you look at him while you grind on him like you tryna make a baby.

You feel so full. So slow-drunk on the way he’s movin’ you, the way he knows what he’s doin’.

“You miss me?” he asks, like it’s not obvious.

Like your pussy didn’t answer that the moment he slapped your ass.

“Yeah,” you mumble, eyes glossy.

“Miss me like this?”

You nod quick, grindin’ harder, and he sucks his teeth.

“Say it.”

“I missed you like this.”

He smirks. “I know.”

Then he’s kissin’ you.

Hard.

One hand on the back of your head, tongue slidin’ deep into your mouth.

Other hand grippin’ your ass, pushin’ you down on him deeper.

You swear he hit a spot that made your whole body lock up.

You moanin’ into his mouth.

Shakin’ from how thick and deep he’s inside you.

Fingernails diggin’ into his shoulders, hoodie startin’ to stick to your back from sweat.

His lips break away from yours and go straight for your neck — you already know.

Kissin’ that spot under your ear, suckin’ on your pulse point, leavin’ a wet trail down your shoulder while you grind on him like you forgot how to stop.

And when you do try to lift up, finally try to bounce again?

He groan low, grips your waist tight, and mutters:

“Nah. Don’t run now.”

“I’m not tryna run —“

And he start movin’ his hips —

Up into you.

Controlled.

Deep.

He takin’ over now.

You can’t even ride no more — he fuckin’ you from under, thick strokes that got your toes curlin’ and your forehead sweatin’.

Eyes rollin’ and lips tremblin’ and you swear he hittin’ your soul.

“Who this pussy belong to?” he asks, voice dark.

“You,” you gasp.

“Say it again.”

“It’s yours — it’s yours, Elijah f-fuck —”

Next thing you knew — flip.

Whole body turned over like you was on a damn rotisserie.

He had you on your stomach, ass up, legs parted just a lil, still slippery from the first round.

You barely even processed the motion and this man was lining it back up.

He slid back in slow — so slow you clenched up on instinct.

You could feel every thick inch stretchin’ you open all over again.

“Mhmm,” he muttered under his breath. “Yeah, you still got it f’sho.”

You didn’t even respond. Couldn’t.

You were too busy gripping the pillow like it owed you money.

First he went slow.

Real deep. Real calculated.

Like he was tryin’ to memorize your shit.

Pushing in alllll the way — till his pelvis kissed your ass —

Then pullin’ out real deliberate, leavin’ just the tip in before doin’ it all over again.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Had your mouth open, but nothin’ was comin’ out. Just gasps. Lil shaky whines.

Then suddenly — like he changed his mind mid-stroke —

SMACK.

Hand landed hard on your ass, made you jolt, and then he picked up the pace.

Started pounding it, grip lockin’ down on both your shoulders like he was tryin’ to anchor himself.

Like you was runnin’ and he wasn’t lettin’ you go nowhere.

“Ain’t tell you to go like that,” he muttered, low and gritty, fuckin’ you through his own breathlessness. “Shit feel too damn good.”

You cried out something soft, probably ‘fuck,’ probably ‘please,’ probably your own name ‘cause you forgot his in the moment.

Didn’t matter.

He was locked in.

Elijah—well, “Smoke,” technically—you still don’t even know his full name.

But what you do know is he love him some backshots.

He worship that view.

Be behind you talkin’ to himself like ‘damn she thick.’

Takin’ long strokes just so he can watch it jiggle back on him.

Holding your ass open with both thumbs, spitting just a lil to keep it sloppy, whisperin’ shit like:

“This the part I missed the most.”

“Could nut just off this view, swear to God.”

“You was sleepin’ pretty earlier. Bet you ain’t think I’d fuck the rest of the night out you.”

He leaned over you now, chest grazin’ your back, lips brushing your ear —

“You finna come again?”

You nodded, whined, damn near cried.

Then he bit down on your shoulder, just a lil, like he was tryna remind you who’s shit this is.

“Good,” he whispered, grindin’ into you deep, finishin’ you off with strokes so raw and filthy, you felt your whole body go limp.

Legs tremblin’.

Pussy clenching hard like you tryna keep him in.

You gushed, loud and messy — like your body was spillin’ over from the pressure.

When he finally pulled out?

He was breathing heavy. Forehead glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just ran laps.

You barely got your bearings.

Still facedown in the sheets, tryin’ to remember your own damn name, when you felt him tug you up — strong ass arms slid under yours and pulled.

Next thing you know, your back hit the headboard and he was kneelin’ in front of you on the mattress, cock already hard again like he ain’t just fuck the soul outta you a minute ago.

He kissed you first, slow and messy — still breathing heavy — and his hand slid down to grip your jaw real soft before he whispered:

“You good?”

You nodded, but only glared up at the man.

You already knew what time it was.

He shifted forward on his knees, one hand guiding your face down, the other gripping the headboard behind you for balance.

“Put that pretty mouth to work,” he said low, tapping the thick tip against your bottom lip. “You got it.”

You looked up at him all slow, mouth already watering, lips partin’ soft as hell —

He slid in easy, let you suck just the tip at first, then eased deeper…hand cradling your jaw, thumb rubbing the hinge of it.

Deeper…

And he moaned — actually moaned — head falling back just a little, abs tight, the kind of sound that made you clench around nothing.

You didn’t even care that your jaw was starting to ache.

Didn’t care your lashes were stickin’ together from the lil tears in your eyes.

All you knew was his hand was resting real firm on the crown of your head now, not forcing, just guiding, and you wanted to give him exactly what he needed.

Then…he started movin’.

Real slow at first.

Pushin’ his hips forward while he kept his grip on the headboard — and suddenly it wasn’t just head, it was a full-on face-fucking.

Your headboard knockin’ lightly behind you from the pressure, your throat stretched wide, lips glossy and spit-slick, and he lookin’ down like:

“Mmm, that’s it. Look at me. Don’t look away.”

You glared up through your lashes, jaw sore, throat burning — but you didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

You was in too deep — literally.

He kept it slow at first, hips grindin’ into your mouth like he was fuckin’ your throat the same way he fuck your pussy —

But then he started gettin’ bold.

Picked up the pace a little, started rockin’ into your mouth with a rhythm that had your whole head movin’ against the headboard —

Bump. Bump. Bump.

Like he was tryin’ to put your tonsils on sick leave.

Every now and then he’d pause, pull back and tap his tip against your tongue — watchin’ the spit fall from your lips to your chest —then slide back in all slow with a breathy, “That’s my girl…”

At one point?

He laced his fingers in your curls, held your head steady, and said with the softest lil grunt —

“I’ma cum if you keep doin’ that shit.” Then added with a smirk, “You want it?”

You nodded. Couldn’t even speak.

He let go of the headboard to use both hands on your head now, thrustin’ real slow and deep, jaw clenched tight, abs flexed as he fucked into your mouth like he was damn near in love.

His breathing turned to groans.

His thighs started tremblin’.

And finally — finally — he gave a rough groan and buried himself deep, chest stuttering as he came down your throat.

You swallowed every drop.

Because…obviously.

Afterwards?

He leaned forward, kissed you slow, wiped your chin, whispered against your lips like:

“You gon’ be the death of me.”

And you just smiled.

You barely caught your breath before he leaned back, lashes low and tipsy smirk tugging at his lips — eyes dragging over you like he was tryna savor you all over again.

Still flushed from that mouthwork he just got. Still kneeling on the bed in just his damn chain and a glistening trail down his abs.

That’s when he said it — voice all raspy and deep like he ain’t just moan your name a second ago.

“Let me eat it next…”

He bit his lip a little. “C’mon. Sit it right here.”

You blinked. “What?”

He tapped his chest, then slid both hands down his stomach slow as hell, eyes never leavin’ yours.

“Sit. On. My. Face.”

Chile.

You ain’t even get a full thought off before he grabbed your thighs, pulled you up like you was light as air, and laid back against the pillows — one arm under your ass, the other spreading your legs like he already knew the script.

“You scared?” he teased, that smirk still sittin’ pretty even with his head on the damn mattress.

And you? Tipsy off his energy now.

You climbed over him slow, shaky thighs hovering, hands braced on the headboard — and when you finally lowered down, you barely touched his lips before he grabbed your hips and pulled you all the way down like:

“Mm-mm. I said sit.”

BABYYYY.

He devoured you.

No warning. No easing into it. Just straight tongue work like he was starvin’ for it.

Mouth wide open, lips partin’ soft before he flattened his tongue and licked one long, slow stripe through your folds — and then he locked in.

Eyes closed.

Low groans vibrating right through you.

He had your thighs trembling in under thirty seconds and his grip on you? Lord. Possessive. Firm. Like he wanted the weight of you on his face.

You looked down at him, eyes glossy, and he just groaned against you like he was the one getting off. Grippin’ your ass, guiding your hips to ride his mouth like you was a lil toy.

“That’s it… keep goin’,” he muttered into you, lips wet and chin gleamin’. “Tastes so fuckin’ good…”

He ate you like he meant it. Like it was the last meal and you the last girl on earth.

Tongue fuckin’ into you, lips suckin’ your clit, switchin’ it up every time your breath caught just to keep you beggin’. You was grindin’ without even meanin’ to — rockin’ into his face while your hands clawed at the headboard, back archin’, moans comin’ out all high and helpless.

Then —

He hit you with the combo.

Two thick fingers slid in while he sucked your clit — and that was it.

You came so hard your whole body stiffened, legs tryna close on his head and he just hummed, held you open and kept going.

“Uh uh. Let me get that other one.”

You was breathless. Sweaty. Legs weak.

And he still had the nerve to pull you down closer, lickin’ you slow like he was tryna memorize the taste.

“Damn, mama…you gon’ kill me with this.”

You slid off him eventually, thighs shakin’, face buried in the sheets — and he just laid there lookin’ smug, mouth glistening, hand on your lower back like yeahhh, I did that.

You tried to move.

Key word: Tried.

But all you managed was a whisper: “You a munch.”

He smirked wider, leaned over and kissed the back of your thigh. Then both your ass cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, voice deep and sleepy now. “And?”

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor

[write-here-n-now]

"one, absolute...final time"

⤷ C.(s) Ni-Ki x Reader ⤷ WC. 536

⤷ Part of: "the dangerous games we play"

∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘∘

You didn’t need to pick up the call to know who was gracing you at 4:27 a.m in the morning. Cancelling the call you set your phone on the night table, rubbing your eyes awake from sleep with your free hand. After laying there for a few moments to decide if it was worth it to go, you reluctantly decide to get up even though you really wanted to stay lying down.

“RIKI!” you grumble, throwing off your blanket and pushing yourself to get out and get dressed. One of these days you would let him rot in that jail cell for ruining your sleep.

It took you no time to reach the station, stomping each step out the car and towards the station but composing your scowl into a neutral expression before walking into the station.

Before you can even speak to the detectives, your eyes spot Ni-Ki who has his face down, slumping forward with his back against he wall of the holding cell, long hair covering his face. 

“Officers, please release my client,” you state to no particular officer or detective, all of them already with their attention fixed at your presence.

Upon hearing your voice, Ni-ki turns his head, meeting your eyes. The hopeful excitement in his expression dulling as you send a glare his way, before moving to sit down and get his bail.

Knowing Ni-Ki there was usually nothing to get seriously charged or be jailed without any bail, and you were correct—arrested for public nuisance and disturbance.

10 minutes later, Ni-Ki sits beside you, listening to the detective scold him for his actions and him nodding and promising to be more careful next time, agreeing to some community service and no fine.

“Yes.” Yes, I know.” “It won’t happen again sir.” “I’m sorry about my actions.” “I’ll do better..” “Yes.”

The sky begins to lighten as the two of you step outside the station walking towards the car, the only sounds, your shoes and Ni-Ki’s jacket ruffling as he quietly shuffles behind you. 

You unlock the doors ready to hop in, only for Ni-Ki’s long arms to wrap around you pulling you back into his chest.

Luckily there is no one around to witness the scene so you let the embrace linger.

“Y/N i’m really so-,” he begins, voice low almost a whisper next to your ear.

“...yes I know you’re sorry Ni-Ki,” You sigh, not truly upset,  just…tired to be back in the same situation.

“No, I really mean it.” He argues, arms tightening just a bit. “I’ll fix up my act…you won’t get another call from the station.”

He’s genuinely pitiful when you turn around to face him, tired and sad eyes cast downward. 

“You owe me for my missed sleep” you joke, hoping he gets that things are ok between you two.

Meeting your eyes, he feels a little lighter, relieved that he didn’t mess up everything once again.

Cupping your hand to his cheek, this time you guide him into a hug. The two of you stay there a little while longer, the relative quietness of the secluded parking lot and early morning seeping the calmness into you two.

“Home?”

“..yes please.”

❉ | Taglist: @yunthejin | ❉

[disgracefulthings]

Bingqiu Modern Day Gang AU where...

...Shen Yuan is transmigrated into a world where he is part of a Chinese gang, and as one of its most ruthless members, Shen Qingqiu. However, Shen Yuan does a bad job of playing the role he's in because he's too nice. When he goes to collect 'protection' money from businesses, he makes sure to ask if they are being protected well and if they are in need of anything. When he is sent to collect some loans, he extends due dates and helps the person with budgeting. When he needs to take care of a rival gang in their turf, he asks them to politely leave and most of the rival gang falls in love and agrees right away (the few who do not fall for his charm end up being dragged or knocked out by their own gang).

Eventually he meets the leader of the most dangerous gang, Luo Binghe. Luo Binghe was once part of Shen Yuan's current gang, but he was left to die after a shootout with another gang by Shen Qingqiu, his mentor. Shen Yuan is unaware of their shared past, and Luo Binghe has been confused by the rumors of a sweet Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe confronts his old mentor hoping to get some answers about his change (and probably also get some revenge while he's at it), when he is greeted by Shen Yuan handing a street kid some money to help his ailing mother, and when he turns towards Luo Binghe he gives him the sweetest smile. All plans of revenge fly out the window and Luo Binghe now wants to change careers from gang member to Shen Qingqiu's wife.

Soon enough Shen Yuan's gang ends up turning into a legitimate business because they noticed that Shen Yuan gets sad when they hurt people, and they can't have that! They're wary of Luo Binghe following him everywhere, but they allow it because he keeps Shen Yuan safe (until he makes his intentions clear to romance him, then it's war where everyone at once tries to become Shen Yuan's wife).

Shen Yuan grows attached to the community as the story goes on, and by the end he is happy that he is able to keep the people he cares about safe and happy

(and maybe a minor Moshang subplot where Shang Qinghua handles the financials of Shen Yuan's gang, while spying on it and reporting to Mobei-Jun, Luo Binghe's second in command. Mobei-Jun falls in love and decides to protect the weakest gang member he has ever met, while Shang Qinghua is intimidated by but also horny for Mobei-Jun)

[yongility]

NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun.

──────── epilogue: in another life—and this one too.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l

𒄬 warnings none. this is the peace all of you were waiting for. this is pure fluff, no more angst. read chapter 10 before this. 𒄬 word count: 2.8k

Calgary, Canada.

Life was nothing more than the sum of the choices you made.

And while Jaehyun regretted most of the choices that had led him down the darkest paths, he was grateful for the one he had made three years ago.

Sooman was dead.

The night of the exchange had turned into a battlefield—gang members against police, bullets flying, screams tearing through the air, desperate prayers lost in the chaos.

And in the end, it had taken only one bullet to Sooman’s chest to bring his empire crumbling down.

Neo Zone had fallen with him.

Even though the streets were still dangerous, crime had dropped significantly. Without Sooman pulling the strings, and with most of Neo Zone’s key players locked away, the shadows that once ruled the city had started to fade.

And Jaehyun?

Jaehyun had died that night too.

At least, that’s what the world believed.

By the time the dust settled, when the bodies were being identified and the surviving criminals were being processed into the prison system—Jaehyun was nowhere to be found.

Rumors spread like wildfire.

Jung Jaehyun was dead.

And in many ways, that was the truth.

The night of the exchange had been both an ending and a beginning.

Starting over was harder than he ever imagined. A new city, new faces, a new life. Everything that had once defined him was gone, and for a long time, he wasn’t sure if he was meant to exist without it.

The first year was brutal.

Especially the first few months.

Jeno was a mess. He refused to speak to Jaehyun, refused to leave the house they had been placed in. He was drowning in grief and anger, haunted by the past he never had a choice in.

It wasn’t until Baekhyun intervened that things changed.

Under witness protection, the Jung family was not allowed to have any contact with their old life. But Baekhyun—who had held Jaehyun in his arms when he was seconds away from death—knew he couldn’t just leave them alone. He pulled whatever strings he could, bending rules that were never meant to be bent, just to be the one person who could keep that connection alive.

And so, Baekhyun told them the truth.

About Sooman. About Jaehyun’s father. About the accident that ruined Winwin’s life.

The truth shattered Jeno.

But it also set him free.

It took time—months of silent dinners, tense conversations, and Jaehyun carrying the weight of Jeno’s resentment without complaint—but eventually, Jeno accepted it. And on a quiet night, after far too many nights of pretending he didn’t care, Jeno broke down, sobbing as he apologized.

And just like that, their bond, fractured and fragile, began to heal.

The second year was different.

They were no longer just trying to survive. They were learning to live.

Their new home no longer felt like a prison. The stares of strangers no longer felt like judgment. The ghosts that once clung to them were beginning to fade.

They were free.

And then, there was Winwin.

Jaehyun had spent years carrying the guilt of what had happened to him. The accident. The coma. The stolen future.

But in their second year, something changed. Winwin made progress.

With the help of new doctors and a rehabilitation center, he spoke for the first time in years.

By the third month of that year, his voice, once lost, returned.

By the fifth month, he took his first steps since the accident.

And by the time the second year ended, Winwin wasn’t just recovering—he was laughing again.

And the best part?

Jaehyun was there for all of it.

The third year brought peace.

The kind of peace Jaehyun never thought he would find.

For the first time, he wasn’t drowning in his past. He wasn’t trapped in the cycle of guilt and regret that had consumed him for so long.

He was healing.

He had learned that the past wasn’t something he could erase. It was something he had to carry. But that weight didn’t have to define him.

Even his tattoos—the ink that once felt like a death sentence—became something else.

In the beginning, he hated them.

The first year, he wanted them gone. He wanted to rip them off his skin, to burn away the reminders of everything he had done, everything he had been.

But by the third year, he saw them differently.

They weren’t chains anymore.

They were proof that he had survived.

Once, they had meant there was no way out.

Now, they were a reminder that there always was—as long as you chose the right path when the moment came.

There were things in life you could walk away from.

People spent their whole lives running—escaping from their past, their mistakes, the ghosts that clung to their shadows. Jaehyun had spent years believing he could outrun his own, that time and distance would eventually blur the edges of everything he had lost.

But there were some things that never faded.

Some things that time refused to erase.

And three years later, he realized that no matter how far he had come, no matter how much he had rebuilt—one thought remained constant.

(Y/N).

Jaehyun had sworn he wouldn’t look back. That night at the warehouse had been the end of one life and the beginning of another. He had fought for this, for a clean slate, for the chance to breathe without the weight of Neo Zone pressing on his chest.

But even after all this time, there were moments—quiet, unsuspecting moments—where she would slip through the cracks of his mind. He could go days, weeks, even months convincing himself he had let go.

And then a song would play. A familiar scent would drift through the air. The city lights would flicker just right.

And suddenly, he was back there again.

Three years ago, Baekhyun had told him what happened to her.

The night of the exchange, the night he had nearly died, she had disappeared too. Gone from SM City.

And for a long time, that was enough to keep him frozen.

If she was building a new life, if she was trying to move on—he had no right to pull her back into a past she had barely escaped from.

So he let her go.

But not a single day in those three years had passed without thinking of her.

The scent of warm spices filled the house, the faint aroma of cinnamon and cardamom lingering in the air. It was late afternoon, and the sky outside was beginning to darken, the golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows, casting soft shadows against the wooden floors.

Jaehyun sighed as he stepped inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the cold.

“I’m home,” he called out, voice low but steady, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over him.

From the hallway, a figure appeared, leaning slightly on a cane.

Winwin.

Jaehyun smiled despite himself. His friend was moving better these days—his steps steadier, his balance stronger.

“Your mom and Jeno went to the market to get stuff for dinner,” Winwin said, his tone easy, familiar. He made his way closer, pulling Jaehyun into a brief but firm hug, the kind that spoke of quiet resilience, of the battles they had fought and survived.

Jaehyun clapped him on the shoulder before moving toward the couch. They both sank into it with matching sighs, the air between them comfortable in a way it hadn’t been in years.

“How was therapy today?” Jaehyun asked, glancing at Winwin’s cane.

Winwin exhaled, rolling his neck slightly. “Better. I’m still stuck with this thing for a while longer, but it’s better than not being able to walk at all.” He chuckled, a quiet, genuine sound.

Jaehyun smirked, nodding. “Definitely better.”

Winwin tilted his head. “What about you? How was work?”

Jaehyun leaned back against the cushions, rubbing a hand over his face. “Couple of jobs. Nothing crazy. Though I had this one car come in today that I have no idea how it’s still running. It’s a damn wreck.”

Winwin grinned. “That’s good though, right? Means more work for you.”

Jaehyun huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

A real job. A legitimate one.

It still felt strange sometimes.

For years, Jaehyun had lived in a world where the only way to survive was to take, to fight, to bleed. But here, in this quiet city, he had found something different.

Working at the mechanic shop wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. And after everything, that was enough.

He had spent too many years with oil and grease on his hands for all the wrong reasons— street illegal racing. Now, he had earned the right to build something with them.

“You’ve got time off coming up soon, don’t you?” Winwin asked, watching him carefully.

Jaehyun nodded, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Yeah, in a month or so. My boss says work should slow down a bit, so I can take a break.”

Silence settled between them, the sound of the television humming in the background, filling the space between words left unsaid.

And then—

“I think it’s time you look for her.”

The words were soft, barely above a whisper, but they hit Jaehyun like a freight train.

His breath hitched. His chest tightened.

Winwin wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed on the television screen, but Jaehyun could see the weight behind his words, the careful way he had chosen them.

Jaehyun swallowed, forcing his voice to stay even. “Win, don’t—”

“You never stopped thinking about her,” Winwin cut in, his tone gentle but firm. “Not once.”

Jaehyun clenched his jaw, fingers curling into his palms.

Because it was true.

There were things from the past you could bury.

Mistakes. Memories. Regrets.

But love was never one of them.

Three Years Later Connecticut, USA

Jaehyun never thought he’d say that a cop had become one of his closest friends.

But somewhere between saving his life, dragging him out of the hell he was drowning in, and checking in on him like an older brother who refused to leave him alone—Baekhyun had managed to become exactly that.

So when Jaehyun asked him for a favor, something that was technically out of his jurisdiction, he had expected resistance. Expected a lecture, maybe even a flat-out no.

What he hadn’t expected was Baekhyun sighing, rubbing the bridge of his nose like Jaehyun had just asked him to commit a felony, and muttering, “You better not make me regret this.”

It took a few weeks—just enough time for Jaehyun’s vacation to start—but Baekhyun had done it. Had put everything in place, made the necessary calls, pulled whatever strings he could.

And now, standing in the middle of a quiet street in Connecticut, Jaehyun felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He had spent three years convincing himself he had lost her. Three years trying to live with the ghost of her touch, her voice, her love.

And now, he was here.

Here to see if the universe was willing to give him one last chance.

Jaehyun had imagined this moment a thousand times.

And in every version, he was prepared for it.

He had prepared himself for her indifference. He had prepared himself for her anger. He had prepared himself for the possibility that she had moved on.

But nothing—not the endless nights spent yearning for her, not the weight of three years apart, not even the prayers whispered into the dark when he swore he didn’t believe in miracles anymore—could have prepared him for this.

For her.

The campus was lively despite the early evening air settling over the city. Students strolled past, their conversations blending into the background hum of normalcy, of a life Jaehyun had never been part of.

But his world was silent.

Because at the end of the path, standing on the steps of a grand old university building, was her.

(Y/N).

He could barely recognize her.

Not because she looked different—no, she was still the same girl who had haunted his dreams, the same girl who had made him feel something even before he realized he was capable of it.

But because she was free.

She wasn’t the girl trapped in SM City, suffocating under the weight of expectations she never asked for. She wasn’t the girl desperately trying to hold together a life that was unraveling at the seams.

She was radiant— and so heartbreakingly beautiful that it made his chest ache

The evening sun cast a golden glow on her skin, her hair catching the light just right. She was speaking to someone, her laughter drifting through the air like music. And for a moment, Jaehyun couldn’t move.

Because how the hell was he supposed to walk up to her when she had done exactly what he always wanted for her?

She had moved on.

Jaehyun swallowed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He had played out this moment in his head a thousand times. Had rehearsed what he would say, how he would explain, how he would tell her that not a single day had passed without her name pressed against his ribs like a prayer.

But now that she was standing in front of him, just a few feet away, all he could do was stand there, frozen in the agony of uncertainty.

What if she didn’t want to see him?

What if she had forgotten him?

What if she had healed, and he was nothing more than an old wound she didn’t want to reopen?

But then—

She turned.

And her eyes met his.

For a second, nothing happened.

The world stood still.

Jaehyun wasn’t sure if he was still breathing.

But then her lips parted, and he saw her eyes—those same eyes he had dreamt about for three years, the eyes that had once held every secret part of him— widened. The way her entire body reacted to the sight of him. The way her fingers trembled, the way her chest rose and fell a little too quickly.

And for one agonizing second, neither of them moved.

The world stretched impossibly wide between them.

And then, without warning—

She ran.

Straight toward him.

Jaehyun barely had time to react, breath knocked from his lungs as her arms wrapped around him, her body colliding against his with a force that felt like a lifetime of longing compressed into a single second.

And suddenly, he was eighteen again.

Holding her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

(Y/N) was crying—sobbing against his shoulder, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt like she was afraid he would disappear if she let go. And Jaehyun—Jaehyun was shaking.

Because after all these years, after all the distance, after all the pain—he had found his way back to her.

His arms tightened around her, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing her in, grounding himself in the reality that this was real.

She was real.

She was here.

“I—” Her voice broke as she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his like she was trying to understand if he was truly standing in front of her. “I thought— I thought you—”

Jaehyun exhaled shakily, brushing his fingers against her cheek, his heart breaking at the way she leaned into his touch like she had been starving for it.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

(Y/N) sucked in a breath, her hands moving to cup his face, her thumbs tracing over his jaw like she couldn’t believe he was real.

“I tried to call you,” she choked out. “That night. When I found out I was leaving. I tried, but you never—”

Jaehyun’s heart clenched. “I never got them.”

Her lips quivered.

“Jaehyun…”

A pause. A second of hesitation, of uncertainty.

Then, Jaehyun let out a soft breath, his fingers brushing through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with the gentlest touch.

“It’s Yoonoh now,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched.

(Y/N) hadn’t heard that name in years. And the last time she had, he had begged her not to call him that—had told her that Jaehyun was all he had left.

But now… now he was choosing it.

Choosing to be himself again. Choosing her.

Tears welled in her eyes, overflowing before she could stop them. Her lips trembled, a choked laugh escaping her as she buried her face in his chest, gripping onto him as if the weight of his words had made her legs give out.

Jaehyun—Yoonoh—smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, his arms pulling her impossibly closer.

“Angel,” he whispered.

A sob broke from her throat.

He had never stopped calling her that.

Even now, after all this time, after everything, she was still his Angel.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her hands still cradling his face.

“You came back.”

Jaehyun swallowed, his voice raw. “I never stopped looking for you.” His lips found the top of her head, pressing a lingering, shaky kiss into her hair, his fingers trailing up and down her back. "I left. Sooman it's down. I'm not part of Neo Zone anymore. I have a new life— there's nothing helding me down anymore."

Her lips trembled. “And now?”

His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down her cheek.

“Now?” He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Now I’m here to say that I love you. That I have always love you..”

And when their lips met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a homecoming. It was every unsaid word, every missed moment, every aching, desperate wish they had ever whispered into the dark, answered in a single breath.

It was the universe setting itself right.

It was the answer to every prayer they had ever whispered in the silence.

They had spent years running.

But in the end, they had always been meant to find their way back.

And this time, Yoonoh wasn’t going to let go.

a/n: NOT PROOFEAD! Yes! I finally give you fluff. And you know what? They both healed. So that's all that matters. So yeah, this is the end of I like me better when i'm with you. I'm thinking about add bonus scenes like time-stamps or headcanons, but i'm not sure... but for now that's the end. I'd love to know what you think about the whole series so far. Thank you for giving this story a chance. I'm sorry about the slow-burn and the push-pull and push dynamics but i really love drama. I'm so grateful to get to this point.

taglist: @peachfulnight @gojoscumslut @bluedbliss @dear-97 @girlwholovespreppyattire @hana-off-icial @cigarettesafterjae @bts-iris @dojaejung @methneo @kriizztin @mrsuhnshine @pieddpiperr @completelyjae @kanekisheart @daegalismybiasinnct @spicyryujin@dear-97

idk why some of the tags just don’t work out!but we still gonna see each other later or tomorrow for the epilogue!

Feel free to send any asks here if you want!

[texssins]

TO BE LOVED BY THE SUN

I didn't forget it was Valentine's day yesterday k

if you wanna read "Sweet like drawing pins" a book for #reed900 you'll find scenes where Nines loses his mind over Gavin who's definitely not a gang leader that warns him about loving him but lol

LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55567600

Piece's name is "To be loved by the sun" Artist: Dafna Winchester Story: Sweet like drawing pins - free on ao3 - vol 1 full on patreon already!!

[cotl-flower-crown]

So @oneofthosenightbees brought a fanfic idea to me and we both agreed that it would fit well in gang au, so here we go, meet gang au Monch! I'm just gonna copy and paste what I wrote in discord and hope it makes sense. (Let me know if I should put up some content warnings)

Mmmm let's see, Monch would probably be one of the citizens of the Faith City who grew up in there her whole life. She used to love the city and she wanted to help it get better the best way she could, so she joined the police forces and eventually was promoted to the position of a detective. Not long after gaining that position Shamura and their siblings started to thrive in their domains and Monch picked up on that. They appear suddenly and begin to shape the city for the better and at the same time a mysterious organisation let itself known to do a bunch of shady business in the city. Monch managed to discover that Shamura and the rest are behind the organisation and she confronts them. Heket and Leshy are ready to kill her, but Shamura pulls her into a discussion. Yes, they are very deep into the organised crime in the city, but at the same time the Faith City have never been doing this well, so is it really something that should be stopped? Doesn't that justifies the means if it's for the better? Whatever Shamura tells Monch, it really messes with her perception of good and evil, but she doesn't back out. She attempts to bring this to the chief police, but they tell her to drop it. In fact if she won't, then they will make her drop it. The best next solution is to take it even higher, outside of the city, but then she's sent a message. A very brutal message. I'm not sure about specifics, but I'm thinking that she was framed into murder by Shamura's goons together with the police, which completely ruined her reputation and she had to hide. With ruined name and a wanted poster nobody would believe her, so dejected, bitter and hopeless she decided to stay in hiding, developing an alcohol addiction in the process. Until a few years later she's sent a message from Lambert, who "hopes" that she might help him "get rid of the evil corrupting the city" and "bring justice for his late family and people like him".

Her and Lambert meet and at this point it's not really a common knowledge that Lambert as a CEO and "owner" of his cleaning company has anything to do with the Red Crowns outside of the gang. So she doesn't really have a reason to not believe Lambert when he tells her how much this city "means" to him and how much he wishes to be able to get rid of the crime infestation, so he and many others can walk the streets feeling safe. But he's just a businessman, he doesn't know how to fight the crime. But maybe she can help him? She was a detective once after all... She sees a little bit of herself in Lambert's act and it sparks a little bit of hope in her once more, to be able to clear her name and bring the city back to it's original glory (which probably never was to begin with). They figured out that the best way to lessen Shamura's influence, is by cutting off their business partners (looking at gRenn rn) and later expose their crimes. Lambert allows her to help him get out the good word for him to the people of interest by working from the shadows. Meanwhile she also does her own research on what's really going on in the city and she warns Lambert about the Red Crowns and how he should stay away from them. She would find all the evidence needed to get police's attention and bring it straight to Lambert, because he's a good man with influence, right? The police will listen to him for sure! While that's going on, she find some loose ends that don't seem to make sense with what Lambert is telling her. Which means that there's either some miscommunications on her part, or Lambert is lying to her. But why Lambert would lie to her? He's a good man, there's no way that he would lie to her, right? They're partners, friends even! It's probably something she got wrong, she tends to do that lately with her issues...

And then she finally sees it. Lambert interacting with Narinder, whom she discovered is the leader of the Red Crowns. Hell, it's almost like they're lovers... but that can't be right! Maybe he doesn't know that Narinder is their enemy? Maybe Narinder manipulated him? So she finally confronts Lambert. And Lambert's mask finally cracks. He laughs, as he was wondering just how long it would take her to figure this out. But it doesn't click with her just yet, huh? Damn, for a detective in her past, she's really shitty at connecting the dots. And the loose ends finally tie together in a fine knot. She wasn't wrong all this time. He was lying to her after all. She wanted to believe so hard in good in people that she didn't notice the blatant snake that was right in front of her. She wanted to believe in the good cause so badly that she didn't realise that she's been working with a wolf in sheep's clothing all this time. He never cared for the good of the city, he's just... He's just like them. And she helped him. It all feels like a nightmare. Except this is worse, because she cannot wake up from it. She couldn't believe how naive she was, how stupid and useless she was to trust Lambert. It is all useless, isn't it? There is no way to save this city. There will always appear another Shamura, another Lambert, who will turn this place into a deeper and deeper pit full of vipers. There is no hope for this place. There is no hope for her... "So what is going to happen now?" she asks "Will you try to kill me? To ruin my reputation once more, like they did? Do whatever you can to assure that your position is safe?" Lambert smiles. "No, I think the damage was already done. Wouldn't you agree?" he says in a silky soft voice that cuts her deeply, as she silently glares at him "No, you've been a great asset to my team and I think it's only fair that you're compensated accordingly for your hard work"

A praise and a reward cut somehow so, so much deeper than if he just stabbed her in the heart right then and there. Because that meant that he treated her as an ally. She did help him after all. How does that make her any better than him? She silently got up and left Lambert behind. The last words he spoke to her was "I appreciate your help, bestie. I'll see you around." with a stiffed giggle. She almost puked at those words. And that was the last time Lambert have heard from her. Who knows what happened, maybe she left the city, maybe she locked herself away, maybe something worse... Lambert wouldn't know or care either way.

The End.