#Its 420 Somewhere | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

diamonddaze01 · 2 days ago

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Bound by Blood and Fate

pairing: hong jisoo x f!reader | wc: 9.9k genre: assassin!shua, hacker!reader, red string of fate au warnings: close encounters with death, blood, weapons, injuries a/n: for @ddeonghwa-s secret cupid collab! this fic is for the wonderful @uhdrienne i hope you enjoyyy <3 // enormous thanks to @ylangelegy helping me flush this idea out and to @okiedokrie @chugging-antiseptic-dye and @chanranghaeys for beta-ing <333

check out the masterlist for the collab here!

summary: “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

Joshua always thought dying would feel quieter.

But the city roars around him: the hum of neon lights, the shriek of sirens in the distance, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. He’s lying on the ground, spine pressed against the cold, wet asphalt, staring at a sky he barely recognizes. The weight in his chest isn’t just from the bullet—it’s from the thought of you.

The red thread around his pinky is taut, glinting faintly in the chaos. It’s not supposed to fray. It’s not supposed to break. But as his vision blurs and his pulse stutters, he wonders if fate has finally run out of patience.

They say the last seven minutes of your life are a highlight reel—a 420 second long tapestry of moments unraveled, thread by thread, until only the essence of you remains. Joshua doesn’t see his childhood, or his family, or the countless lives he’s taken. All he sees is you.

And as the thread tugs, dragging him deeper into the past, he knows it’s not his life flashing before his eyes. It’s his mistakes.

420 seconds…. 419…. 418….

Joshua feels the world slipping away in pieces, the edges of his vision fading to static. The asphalt beneath him is slick and sticky, blood blooming out in slow, deliberate pulses, like an hourglass emptying grain by grain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows how this ends. He’s seen it too many times before.

His hand twitches toward the gun holstered at his side, instinct overriding logic. There’s no one left to shoot. Not now. Not anymore. But the weight of his Glock is familiar—steady in a way that his body isn’t, unlike the wavering thread tied to his finger.

The thread glints under the fractured glow of the streetlights, bright enough to mock him. Bright enough to remind him of what’s still out there, waiting. He feels it more than sees it: taut, fragile, pulling faintly in a direction he can’t follow.

Joshua forces his head to turn, every muscle in his body screaming against the effort. The pain is sharp, biting. Somewhere beyond the flicker of broken neon signs and the hum of distant sirens, he hears the faint echo of footsteps, slow and measured. They’re retreating. Whoever pulled the trigger isn’t sticking around to watch him bleed out.

Coward.

The word sears through him, but it doesn’t feel satisfying. He isn’t sure if it’s meant for them—or for himself.

The thread burns against his hand now, its crimson glow cutting through the haze like a knife. It’s not slack. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? That the connection between him and you isn’t broken. That maybe, if he can move, if he can crawl his way out of this alley, he can still get to you.

But it doesn’t tug. It doesn’t pull him toward safety. It sits there, unmoving, as if waiting. As if mocking.

The sound of the gunshot echoes again in his head, sharper this time, louder. He tries to place it—tries to grab hold of the pieces slipping through his fingers—but his thoughts fracture before he can make sense of them.

All he knows is the voice he heard before the shot. Low. Steady. Unshaken in a way that cuts deeper than the bullet ever could.

"You should’ve stayed in line."

Joshua’s breath hitches, a broken sound that’s more of a gasp than an exhale. His chest tightens, and the thread yanks hard, as if trying to rip him out of the present entirely.

The asphalt disappears. The sirens fade.

And suddenly, it’s raining again.

360 seconds…. 359…. 358….

The sound comes first, the patter of raindrops on glass, a dull rhythm that seeps into the silence of his memories. Joshua doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is—it’s etched into his mind like a scar.

A car. A stakeout. The dim glow of a streetlamp haloed by mist, barely piercing through the rain-slicked darkness. The memory is so vivid it almost feels like he’s back there, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the Glock resting in his lap, his breath fogging the window. The dull hum of a police scanner crackles from the passenger seat, and across the street, a single light flickers in the third-floor apartment of a crumbling high-rise.

That’s where you are.

He hadn’t known your name then. Not your face, not the way your voice could twist words into knives or lullabies. All he’d known was your alias—Nyx, a ghost in the wires, a shadow who’d dug too deep and found something that should’ve stayed buried.

Erebus.

Even now, Joshua feels the weight of the name, the way it sank into his chest the first time he heard it whispered by his handler. A database so encrypted, so labyrinthine, that even his organization only spoke of it in fragments. And yet you, a hacker originally hired to expose the rot of corporate corruption, had stumbled upon it like you’d tripped over a landmine.

The details were sparse then. A whistleblower had paid you to scrape dirt off the edges of one of the conglomerates tied to Joshua’s organization. You’d gone deeper than they ever intended, though, uncovering shards of Erebus—just enough to understand its value and the danger it posed.

Joshua hadn’t been sent to kill you that night. Not yet.

The organization wanted to know who you were working for. If you were working alone. And more importantly, what you’d uncovered about Erebus.

The first time he saw you, it was through the crosshairs of his rifle, the rain streaking across his scope. The building you’d chosen was a hacker’s dream—tucked away in the middle of nowhere, just off a grid dense enough to hide you for a while. He’d been told you were smart, but that didn’t quite prepare him for the sight of you, illuminated by the pale blue glow of multiple monitors.

You’d been working on something—typing so quickly it looked like you weren’t even touching the keys. There was nothing remarkable about the way you looked, and yet he couldn’t stop watching.

Joshua didn’t know it then, but he already hated how the thread around his pinky seemed to hum. He thought he’d imagined it—the faint pull, like it was tethered to something in that room, even if he couldn’t see it.

His comm crackled to life, interrupting his focus.

“Got eyes on the target?” It was Sangyeon’s voice, low and unbothered. He was in the adjacent building, watching from another angle.

“Yeah.” Joshua had kept his tone neutral, even though he hated that Sangyeon was there at all. The mission was observation. That’s what they’d told him. But he knew better than to believe in simplicity when it came to his line of work.

Across the street, you paused, tilting your head as if you could feel him watching. His hand instinctively moved to adjust the rifle, finger brushing against the trigger, but he froze when he saw what you were holding.

A USB drive. Plain. Ordinary. And yet, even from this distance, he knew what it was.

Erebus.

Your gaze flicked toward the window then, just for a moment, and though it was impossible for you to see him through the rain and shadows, Joshua swore you were looking directly at him.

“Target’s on the move,” Sangyeon’s voice came through again, sharper this time.

Joshua blinked, the spell broken. He watched as you stood, shoving the USB drive into your pocket and grabbing a bag from the floor. You glanced toward the window one last time before disappearing from view.

“Stay put,” Joshua said, already moving.

He didn’t know why he said it, or why his pulse had quickened at the thought of losing you in the rain-soaked streets. All he knew was that the thread tied to his fingers felt tighter than it ever had, and no mission briefing had prepared him for that.

The first time you spoke was the second time Joshua saw you.

He tracked you through the rain, his footsteps silent against the slick pavement. The USB drive—Erebus—burned in his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose it, but there was something more than protocol driving him forward. He told himself it was just the mission, but every step had felt heavier, weighted by that invisible thread coiling tighter with every second you stayed out of sight.

You slipped into an alley, a narrow cut of darkness between two forgotten buildings. Joshua followed, his Glock raised, the streetlight behind him casting his shadow long and sharp against the brick wall. You hadn’t flinched when he rounded the corner, gun trained on you. Instead, you turned, slow and deliberate, your expression calm, as if you’d been expecting him all along.

For a moment, there had been only the sound of the rain dripping from the eaves above, pooling around your feet.

“Well,” you said, your voice low but cutting, “they sent someone fast.”

The words hung in the air, but Joshua hadn’t responded. His aim was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, thrumming too loud in his ears. You hadn’t looked like someone running for their life. You had looked composed, calculating, almost amused.

“Go ahead,” you continued, taking a single step forward, daring, reckless. The glow of the streetlight had caught in your eyes, turning them sharp and bright. “Pull the trigger. But I’ve already copied Erebus. Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”

The threat in your tone was subtle, but it was there, wrapped in defiance. You were testing him, weighing him against whatever expectations you had built in your head. And for the first time in years, Joshua’s finger hesitated on the trigger.

“Who are you working for?” he asked, his voice quiet, a sharp edge beneath the calm.

You had tilted your head, a smile ghosting across your lips—barely there, more of a challenge than an answer. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you said, and there had been something bitter, something wounded, in the way you had laughed after.

The thread coiled around his pinky had tugged sharply, and he hated it. Hated the way it pulled him toward you even when every logical part of him screamed to put a bullet in your chest.

The sound of footsteps cut through the tension—a deliberate, heavy cadence.

Sangyeon.

Joshua’s mind sharpened, instincts kicking in. He knew the second Sangyeon rounded the corner, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

Joshua acted before he could think it through. He lowered his gun, the decision instinctive, a betrayal of everything drilled into him.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, his voice cold to cover the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

You blinked, surprise flickering in your eyes for just a second before you recovered. Then, you smirked. The expression had been infuriating, and yet it had rooted him in place, as if the thread between you had knotted tighter.

“See you around, soldier,” you had said, your voice dripping with mockery and something more dangerous—promise.

Joshua hadn’t watched you leave, but he had felt it, the absence of you almost as heavy as your presence had been. He had clenched his jaw, forcing his grip to relax on the Glock. When Sangyeon appeared moments later, Joshua had already stepped out of the alley, shoulders tense.

“Lose her?” Sangyeon asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

Joshua hadn’t looked back. “No. She’ll resurface. They always do.”

But even as the words had left his mouth, Joshua couldn’t shake the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of you, the way your voice had wrapped around him like a noose. He had told himself it was just the mission. Just Erebus.

But the thread knotted on his finger had hummed, and deep down, he had known better.

300 seconds…. 299…. 298….

The third time Joshua saw you, the fluorescent lights in the cold, windowless interrogation room cast sharp, unforgiving shadows. It felt as though the world had been stripped of color and warmth, leaving only stark grays and the faint hum of tension in the air. You’d been brought here under orders—captured during a raid on one of The Syndicate’s safehouses.

He hadn’t been the one to catch you. No, it had been a lower branch of the organization, an overeager unit that had stumbled across your location by sheer luck. The details of your capture had been messy: a shattered window, a scuffle in the dark, and your wrists bound with rough rope that still left faint marks on your skin. By the time you’d arrived at their facility, you’d already outsmarted half the guards with a sly smile and a sharp tongue, making them regret underestimating you.

And now, here you were.

Joshua sat across from you, the assigned interrogator, chosen for the job by someone higher up who’d claimed he had the right temperament for extracting answers. He’d been told you were dangerous—The Syndicate’s rising star, a name whispered in intelligence reports and backroom briefings. He’d expected you to be cold, calculating, maybe even desperate.

But you were none of those things.

You sat in that metal chair, your arms tied behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin, and somehow, you still looked untouchable. A faint smirk curled at the edges of your lips, your confidence an act of rebellion all its own.

“Is this the part where you torture me for answers?” you teased, leaning back in the chair like you were perfectly at ease.

Joshua’s jaw tightened, his gaze flitting to the chains binding your wrists, then to the cut on your forehead that was still oozing blood. The sight of it filled him with a sudden, inexplicable rage. It wasn’t logical—he barely knew you beyond the file he’d been handed an hour ago. But seeing you restrained, sitting there with your arms pulled behind you as if you were a threat to be neutralized, made his chest twist with a fury he couldn’t name.

The thread tying him to you seemed heavier than ever, an unbearable weight that tugged at something deep inside him. He stayed silent, his gaze flickering down to it almost unconsciously.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. The flicker of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides—all of it gave him away.

And for the first time, your smirk faltered.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you asked softly, the amusement in your tone giving way to something sharper, quieter. “The thread. It’s fate, isn’t it?”

Joshua stiffened. His first instinct was to deny it, to scoff at the idea of threads and fate, but the burning weight on his pinky betrayed him. He stayed silent, and his silence spoke louder than words ever could.

You leaned forward, the motion deliberate, the cuffs digging into your skin as you closed the distance between you. There was a gleam in your eyes now—not of defiance, but something more dangerous. Something that made Joshua’s pulse quicken.

“Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

The question hit harder than it should have, knocking the breath from his lungs. Joshua’s throat tightened, the thread burning hotter, twisting tighter. He hated it—hated how you could cut him open with words as sharp as blades, hated the anger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. But most of all, he hated the truth in your question, the way it echoed the thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to confront.

He didn’t get the chance to respond.

The door creaked open, and Sangyeon strode in, his boots echoing sharply against the tiled floor. The cold presence of his commanding officer shattered the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Joshua rose instinctively, his body moving faster than his mind. He stepped between you and Sangyeon, his arm outstretched to block the path.

“We’re not done here,” Joshua said firmly, his voice steady even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sangyeon raised a brow, his expression colder than the room itself. “The prisoner doesn’t decide when we’re done,” he replied curtly. “She’s being transported.”

Joshua bristled. He couldn’t explain it—not to Sangyeon, not to himself. But something about this moment, about you, felt like a line he wasn’t ready to let anyone else cross. He could feel your eyes on him, steady and unyielding, burning into his back.

And for the first time in years, Joshua hesitated.

He didn’t meet your eyes when Sangyeon all but dragged you out of the interrogation room.

The transport convoy had been tense from the start. Joshua sat rigid in the lead vehicle, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You were in the back of an armored truck, hands cuffed behind you, your expression unreadable. The radio crackled with static, the air heavy with a silence that pressed on his chest like a weight. His orders had been simple: ensure the prisoner—you—made it to the facility alive.

But the moment the first gunshot rang out, everything spiraled.

The Syndicate moved like ghosts in the night, their ambush precise and ruthless. Bullets ricocheted off metal, shouts filled the air, and the stench of gunpowder clouded the chaos. Joshua leaped out of the vehicle, his weapon drawn, scanning the darkness for threats. Amid the frenzy, his gaze found you.

You stood in the middle of the chaos, unarmed, your hands still bound behind your back. And yet, you weren’t panicking. You weren’t cowering. You were watching him with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Your eyes locked with his, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow.

“Come with me,” you pleaded, your voice raw and almost lost amidst the gunfire. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding person he’d faced in the interrogation room. There was no mockery now, no edge to your words—only trust.

Joshua hesitated. His grip on his weapon faltered, the weight of his loyalty pressing against the thread on his pinky, which burned with an almost unbearable ferocity. He felt it pulling him toward you, urging him forward, and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—letting go of the lies, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of orders and betrayal. Letting himself be with you.

But the spell broke as quickly as it had been cast. Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and ran. You vanished into the shadows, slipping through the chaos like smoke.

Joshua stood frozen, the thread tugging so hard it felt like it would snap. He should have called for backup. He should have tracked you immediately. Instead, he lingered in the wreckage, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

By the time he’d made up his mind, you were long gone.

It took him hours to track you down. The thread burned hotter with every step, guiding him to a decrepit safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building leaned precariously, its windows cracked and its walls streaked with grime. He stepped inside cautiously, his weapon drawn, every muscle in his body tense.

You were waiting for him.

The safehouse smelled of damp wood and dust, the faint hum of the laptop filling the silence between you and Joshua. You leaned against the edge of the table, exhaustion etched into the lines of your face, but your eyes remained sharp, unyielding. The pistol sat within reach, a quiet reminder of the life you lived—a life Joshua should want no part of.

“Took you long enough,” you said when he finally stepped through the broken doorway, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of a street lamp outside. There was a bite to your tone, but it wavered just enough to betray the relief hiding beneath it.

Joshua hesitated. He didn’t know what he expected to find—maybe a trap, maybe nothing at all. But here you were, waiting for him like you knew the thread had left him with no choice.

He nodded toward the pistol on the table. “You expecting someone else?”

You smirked, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. But not you.”

The weight of his steps seemed heavier as he crossed the room. His presence was quiet but impossible to ignore, like a storm brewing in the distance. He stopped a few feet away, just close enough for the tension between you to spark.

“They’ll kill you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to worry.

You laughed, bitter and tired, the sound almost foreign in the stillness. “And you’re here to, what? Warn me? That’s rich. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to turn myself in?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. You didn’t need him to answer; the hesitation in his silence was enough.

“You’re swimming in dangerous waters,” he said finally, his tone quieter now, less an accusation and more a reluctant observation.

“Then teach me how to stay afloat,” you shot back, meeting his gaze head-on.

The words hung between you, heavier than the air in the room. His eyes flicked over your face, cataloging the shadows beneath your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone, the cut just above your eyebrow. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the cut. You flinched, inhaling sharply like the touch burned you.

He pulled his hand back as if scalded, the thread on his pinky burning like it had come alive, searing his skin with every beat of his heart. The pull was unbearable now, as if fate itself had decided to wrap its unyielding fingers around his throat.

“Fate’s a cruel mistress,” you murmured, almost to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

Before he could reply, your hand was on his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw with a softness that shouldn’t have belonged in this world of violence and lies. He froze, caught between instinct and the undeniable gravity pulling him toward you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice steady even as your eyes searched his face. “You don’t have to keep fighting against it.”

Joshua’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch. Just for a moment. Your hand was warm against his skin, grounding him in a way he couldn’t understand but didn’t dare question.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said quietly, his words faltering as his gaze dropped to the thread burning bright red between you.

“I know enough,” you replied.

It wasn’t a confession. Not exactly. But it was enough to make his resolve splinter.

He stepped back, the moment breaking like glass. The room felt colder without you in reach, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. Joshua turned toward the door, his jaw tight, his hands trembling with something he didn’t want to name.

When he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back at the table. The pistol still sat where you’d left it, untouched.

“If they come for you, run,” he said without turning to face you. “Don’t wait for me.”

You didn’t respond, but when the door closed behind him, the pistol remained exactly where it was.

He was sure he would never see you again.

240 seconds… 239… 238…

Months slipped by, but the weight of you never did.

Joshua buried himself in missions, but each one left him more fractured than the last. The Organization sent him from one corner of the world to another—extracting assets from hostile territories, infiltrating Syndicate bases, and dismantling black-market operations. The missions were a blur of violence and precision. A high-stakes extraction in Prague left him dangling from a helicopter over the Vltava River. In Istanbul, he spent weeks undercover in a Syndicate safehouse, passing information to the Organization while pretending to be one of them. In Bogotá, a firefight in a crumbling warehouse left his shoulder grazed by a bullet, the heat of it a reminder that he wasn’t invincible.

You, meanwhile, had gone dark. No trail, no whispers of your whereabouts. He told himself it was for the best, that this was what survival looked like. But the truth twisted inside him like a knife: he wanted to find you, even if it meant breaking everything he’d built.

So in every city, in every crowd, he found himself scanning faces for yours. It wasn’t just habit—it was compulsion. He looked for you in reflections, in the muted buzz of computer screens during late-night debriefings. It was irrational, foolish, and entirely unavoidable. You had taken root somewhere deep inside him, and no matter how many miles he traveled or how many agents he eliminated, you remained.

You were in the quiet moments between missions, in the brief silences before sleep claimed him. In the hum of static on his comms, he thought he heard your voice. And in the shadows, he sometimes swore he saw the outline of your figure, only to blink and find you gone. When the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion crept in, he caught himself tracing the thread on his wrist—the one that connected him to you. He hated it. He hated you. He hated himself for not hating you enough.

When he saw you again, it wasn’t planned. He told himself that, over and over, like a mantra meant to absolve him of guilt.

The café was crowded, its warmth a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. He’d come in for a quick reprieve, seeking caffeine and anonymity. But there you were, sitting by the window with your laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. The light from the screen cast a faint glow on your face, and he stopped in his tracks.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His heart thundered in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to turn around and walk away. But his feet refused to listen.

You noticed him before he could decide. Your eyes flicked up from the screen, narrowing slightly in recognition before your lips curved into a smirk. You stood and approached, your movements so casual it made his stomach twist.

“Following me now?” you asked, sliding into the chair across from him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I should be,” he admitted, his voice low.

Your laugh was soft, disbelieving. “You’ve got other things to worry about, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But you have a habit of making yourself hard to ignore.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.”

The edge that usually laced your conversations was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate. The café buzzed around you, but the noise faded as you fell into a rhythm, a shared bubble that felt fragile and fleeting.

You talked about nothing and everything. You mentioned a book you’d been reading—something about espionage, fittingly—and he countered with a story about a mission that reminded him of it. You argued over music, his disdain for synth-pop clashing with your guilty admiration for it.

“Places you’ve never been?” he asked at one point, watching as your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your coffee cup.

“Japan,” you said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see Kyoto in the fall. The colors, the temples… it feels like a dream.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d hate the humidity.”

“And you’d hate the crowds,” you shot back, grinning.

It was dangerous, this fragile intimacy. Joshua felt it with every word, every moment that passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to someone like this, like the world outside didn’t exist.

When his hand accidentally brushed against yours, the thread ignited, searing into his skin with a heat that made him pull away too quickly. You noticed, your gaze flickering between your own hand and his, but you didn’t comment.

He was about to say something—he didn’t know what—when his instincts screamed at him.

Syndicate operatives. Their movements were too deliberate, their eyes scanning the room too carefully. Joshua’s hand went to his Glock, hidden beneath his jacket, and his body tensed.

“Get down,” he said under his breath, but you were already aware.

The fight was quick and brutal. He moved like a ghost, his Glock barking twice before the café erupted into chaos. People screamed and scrambled as tables overturned, coffee spilling like blood. Two agents fell, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds, and Joshua didn’t give the others a chance.

By the time the last operative dropped, the café was eerily silent, save for the panicked whispers of bystanders.

You stared at him, your chest heaving.

“You just killed Syndicate agents,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” he said, his voice tight. He reached for your wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “We need to go. Now.”

The rain outside was relentless, soaking you both as you ran. He didn’t let go of your wrist, and you didn’t pull away. The thread between you felt like a live wire, sparking with every step.

210 seconds… 209… 208…

The motel room was a piss-poor excuse for shelter - it was suffocatingly small, air thick with the dampness of your rain-soaked clothes. Joshua’s hair clung to his forehead, water rolling down his sharp jawline. He paced the room like a caged animal, his movements sharp with anger.

“You’re too reckless,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the still air. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? What you’re risking?”

You crossed your arms, defiant despite the chill that had seeped into your bones. “I know exactly what I’m playing with. This flash drive? Erebus? It has the names of every agent in your Organization. Every. Single. One.”

His jaw tightened, and he stopped pacing to glare at you. “The Syndicate isn’t just some petty operation. Erebus has everything—data on every agent in the Organization, their families, their locations. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out you have that?”

“What they’ll do to me?” you shot back. “What about what they’ve done to everyone on that list? I’m not just going to stand by and let them—”

“This isn’t some noble crusade!” he interrupted, his voice rising. “This is suicide.”

“And what’s your solution? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Turn me over? Let the Organization do what they want with me while the Syndicate kills every last one of you?”

The argument escalated, voices overlapping, words cutting deep. But beneath the anger, there was something else—fear. Fear of losing, of breaking, of being undone.

When Joshua finally stopped pacing, you realized how close he had gotten. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his breaths, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though he were holding himself back.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low and strained. “If they catch you, they won’t just kill you. They’ll make you wish they had. And I can’t—” He cut himself off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Can’t what?” you demanded, your voice softer now but no less insistent.

His nails cut into the meat of his palm. The thread tugged, searing against his skin as he exhaled defeatedly.

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice raw and quiet.

“Why?” you demanded, refusing to look away.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up to your eyes. “Because if you stay, I won’t let you go.”

The air between you was heavy, suffocating. Neither of you moved, but the tension pulled taut, the thread between you burning like fire against his skin.

And then it snapped.

He kissed you like a man unraveling, his mouth desperate and unrelenting against yours. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though proximity could fix whatever was broken inside him. You melted into him, matching his hunger with your own, your fingers tangling in the soaked fabric of his shirt.

Time blurred after that. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain pounding against the windows the only reminder that it hadn’t stopped spinning.

By the time dawn broke, the room was silent save for the faint sound of your breathing. Joshua stood by the door, fully dressed, his back turned to you. He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the rain, but the thread knotted around his finger burned brighter than ever, searing his skin with a pain he refused to acknowledge.

You woke to find the bed empty and the USB drive still clutched in your hand. He was gone, but the faint imprint of his touch lingered—on your skin, in your chest, and in the hollow ache he left behind.

180 seconds… 179… 178…

The present clawed its way back to him in sharp, agonizing bursts as Joshua lay sprawled on the rain-slick asphalt. Pain tore through his side, hot and searing, every breath shallow and wet. The alley spun in shades of black and gray, the rain streaking his face like tears he’d never shed. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and warm against the cold, uncaring ground.

And yet, it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed him.

It was the mistakes—the ghosts of every choice that had led him here.

They unraveled in his mind, one by one, sharp-edged memories that wouldn’t let him rest. The mission in Berlin: Joshua had been too slow, a fraction of a second of hesitation that had cost his partner a bullet to the leg. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, the way his partner’s shout of pain cut through the chaos, and the look of betrayal that followed. He’d apologized—of course he had—but in their line of work, an apology wasn’t enough. The Organization didn’t care about remorse; they cared about results.

Then Madrid. Joshua had miscalculated the Syndicate’s response time, thinking he had ten minutes when he only had five. The extraction had turned into a massacre, the Syndicate responding with brutal efficiency. Civilians—people with nothing to do with their mission—had been caught in the crossfire. Joshua had stayed up that night, staring at his trembling hands, the smell of blood still clinging to him. He hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t dared to, but the faces of the innocent haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Seoul had been worse. The Syndicate asset had been within his grasp, mere feet away, but Joshua had underestimated their desperation. They’d slipped through his fingers with a single, calculated move, leaving him standing in an empty apartment with nothing to show for weeks of planning. He’d reported the failure with a steady voice, but inside, he felt the crushing weight of disappointment—the Organization’s and his own.

He could name every mistake, every failure, each one etched into his mind like a scar. And yet none of them—none of them—compared to the monumental fuck-up that had shattered everything.

Telling Sangyeon about the thread.

140 seconds… 139… 138…

It had been during a debrief, just days after the café incident. Joshua had killed two Syndicate operatives in broad daylight to protect you. The aftermath had been a whirlwind of blood and chaos, and somehow, through it all, he’d managed to get you to safety. He swore up and down he hadn’t seen you since.

But the Organization demanded answers.

He could still see the stark room where it happened, its fluorescent lights humming overhead. Sangyeon sat across from him, his expression cold and unreadable. The air between them was heavy with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

“You killed two Syndicate agents,” Sangyeon said, his tone sharp, cutting. “In public.”

“They were going to kill her,” Joshua had replied evenly, refusing to flinch under Sangyeon’s glare.

“Her.” The word lingered, dripping with accusation. “Nyx.”

“She’s not a target,” Joshua said, his jaw tight.

“No,” Sangyeon agreed. “She’s a liability. She holds the very thing that could kill us all.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Joshua could’ve deflected, could’ve buried the truth like he had so many times before. But the thread burned against his fingers, the weight of it too much to bear.

“It’s not just her,” Joshua said, his voice low. “It’s... the thread.”

Sangyeon’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

“The thread,” Joshua repeated, leaning forward. “It’s real. It’s... fate. It connects us.”

For the first time, Sangyeon faltered, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker. He leaned back in his chair, the lines of his face hardening. “You’re saying you’re tied to her. That you’re bound to her.”

Joshua nodded once, the motion stiff. “It doesn’t change anything. I’ve kept my work separate—”

“It changes everything,” Sangyeon snapped, slamming a hand on the table. “You’ve compromised yourself. You’ve compromised us.”

“I haven’t,” Joshua shot back, his voice rising. “I’d never betray the Organization.”

But Sangyeon’s laughter was cold and cruel, a sound that made Joshua’s stomach twist. “You already have,” Sangyeon said.

And then he reached into his jacket, pulling out a Glock. He placed it on the table with a slow, deliberate motion, the click of metal against wood reverberating in Joshua’s ears.

“Prove it,” Sangyeon said, his voice unnervingly calm. He gestured to the gun, his eyes piercing. “Prove your loyalty right now.”

Joshua froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air too thick to breathe.

“Kill her,” Sangyeon said, his tone colder than ice. “If the thread is nothing, if fate is meaningless, then prove it. Take the gun. End it.”

The words sliced through Joshua like a blade. His hand hovered over the weapon, trembling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to move.

His mind betrayed him, flashing with images of you—your defiance, your laughter, the rare moments of vulnerability you’d shared. He thought of the thread on his finger, burning with a purpose he couldn’t deny.

“No,” Joshua said finally, his voice breaking.

Sangyeon’s jaw tightened, his disappointment a palpable weight. “I knew it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re weak.”

Now, lying on the asphalt, Joshua clenched his jaw, the memory of Sangyeon’s words echoing in his head.

“You’re weak.”

The thread pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of the one thing he could never sever, no matter how much he tried. Rain soaked through his clothes, his blood washing away in rivulets, but he clung to the memory of you.

The only thing he’d ever chosen over the Organization.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a ragged breath lost to the storm.

120 seconds… 119… 118…

It took him days to find you again. The string tugged him south, sharper and more insistent than it had ever been before. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in three days, that his ribs ached from a Syndicate operative’s well-placed kick, or that Sangyeon had started leaving bodies in his wake just to bait him. None of it mattered. The thread knew where you were, and Joshua had learned—finally, painfully—to trust it.

He found you in a dingy motel room in Bangkok, the kind of place where the sheets were stained and the walls were peeling, the fan overhead spinning lazily against the heat. The sight of you hit him like a punch to the gut. You were alive, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a laptop open, a half-eaten bowl of noodles on the nightstand. Relief surged through him so violently that he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself.

The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, there was silence—just the sound of the rain pattering against the cracked window and the faint hum of the overhead fan.

Then you moved.

Your hand flew to the gun on the nightstand, your instincts honed from years of survival. Joshua's hands shot up, palms open in surrender. “It’s me,” he said quickly, his voice low and soothing.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the grip, before your eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t still be in Bangkok,” he retorted, his words sharper than intended. “Do you have any idea how close they are?”

You glared at him, your expression hardening as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Close enough that you’ve led them straight to me?”

It was a low blow, but Joshua swallowed the sting. He stepped closer, shaking the rain from his jacket. “I didn’t lead them here. I came because I—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “I came because you need to leave. Now.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, your glare hardened. “Big talk from someone who left me in a shitty motel room.”

“I did it to protect you,” he countered, his voice breaking on the last word.

The argument spiraled quickly, your voices rising to fill the tiny room.

“You think I don’t know how to handle myself?” you snapped, your body tense, ready for a fight.

“Handle yourself? You’re a walking target, and you know it!” he fired back, his voice rising. “They’ll drag you back in chains if they don’t kill you outright.”

“And what’s your brilliant plan, huh? To swoop in and save me like you always do?”

“I’m trying to save us both!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with anger, and then shoved him, hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Joshua!”

He stumbled back a step, more stunned by the fury in your voice than the force of the push. But when you tried to step past him, he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You yanked your arm free, your eyes blazing. “You don’t own me.”

“I never said I did,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “But damn it, I—” He paused, running a hand through his soaked hair, struggling for words. “I can’t stand the thought of them getting their hands on you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, but when he reached out to touch your arm, you didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “This thread, this... connection. But I know that every time I think of you in pain, it kills me. And the thought of you in their clutches…” He shook his head, his hand tightening around your arm. “It makes me want to tear the world apart. So please, for once, just run.”

90 seconds… 89… 88…

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, and the room fell into silence.

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, before tilting your head. “Run where?”

“Anywhere,” he pleaded. “I’ll keep them off your trail. Just... go. Disappear.”

Your gaze softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might relent. But then you asked quietly, “And what about you, soldier? Will you come with me?”

70 seconds… 69… 68…

The nickname hit him like a blow, dredging up memories of whispered conversations in coffee shops and fleeting touches, of a time when things had been simpler. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, the word a vow.

You nodded, swallowing hard, and moved to open the door.

That’s when you both saw him.

Sangyeon.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, but his expression was anything but relaxed. His eyes were cold, calculating, as they flicked from you to Joshua. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

Joshua’s heart sank.

60 seconds… 59… 58…

The rain came down in sheets, each drop striking your skin like tiny needles. Sangyeon’s voice echoed behind you as he shouted orders to his men, his tone sharp and commanding. He was close—too close. The three of you had been darting through the maze of alleys and narrow streets, but every turn seemed to bring his shadow closer. Joshua’s grip on your wrist tightened as he pulled you along, his pace relentless despite the exhaustion that clung to both of you. “We can’t outrun him forever,” you panted, glancing over your shoulder. The sight of Sangyeon’s silhouette closing in made your stomach twist.

Joshua didn’t respond, his jaw set in determination. His eyes darted around, scanning for an escape route. Finally, he spotted a low wall covered in ivy and debris, just high enough to give Sangyeon trouble but not impossible for the two of you.

“This way,” Joshua muttered, pulling you sharply to the left.

You reached the wall first, your breath hitching as you realized what he intended. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you hissed.

“No time to argue,” Joshua snapped. He bent slightly, locking his fingers together into a makeshift foothold. “Up.”

You hesitated, but the sound of Sangyeon’s boots splashing through the puddles behind you left no room for debate. Gritting your teeth, you stepped into Joshua’s hands, using his strength to launch yourself up and over the wall. You landed awkwardly on the other side, the USB clutched protectively in your hand.

Joshua scrambled up after you, his movements less fluid but just as urgent. As soon as he hit the ground, he grabbed your arm again, tugging you forward. “Keep moving,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

The two of you ran, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways, but Sangyeon was like a wolf on the hunt, his presence a constant pressure on your backs. You could hear him yelling into his radio, summoning reinforcements.

Joshua’s steps faltered as he realized the inevitable: there was no escaping Sangyeon together. His lungs burned, every breath a knife in his chest, but he pushed through the pain, his mind racing.

45 seconds… 44… 43…

“Stop!” he suddenly barked, pulling you to a halt.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice rising in panic. “He’s right behind us!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rivulets of rain carving paths down his cheeks.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, even as his eyes searched yours desperately. “I know, but listen to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped you cold.

“I need you to run,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back. No matter what you hear, just keep running.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping his jacket. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he insisted, his thumbs brushing the rain from your cheeks. “I’ll find you, I swear. But if Sangyeon catches you…” He trailed off, his voice choking on the thought.

Your lips parted, words hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let you speak. Instead, he kissed you.

33 seconds… 32… 31…

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—this was the kind of kiss born of desperation, of finality. His lips crashed against yours with an urgency that left you breathless, his hands sliding to the back of your neck to hold you close. The rain slicked your skin, mingling with the tears you didn’t realize you’d shed.

His kiss was everything he couldn’t say.

I’ll protect you. I’ll find you. I’ll love you, one day. When we have time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could protest, he shoved you away. “Go!”

For once, you listened.

You stumbled, your heart twisting as his hand slipped from yours. For once, you listened. You turned and ran, clutching the USB to your chest, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Joshua stayed frozen, watching until you disappeared into the darkness. Then he turned, his hand dropping to the knife at his side as Sangyeon stepped into the alley.

25 seconds… 24… 23…

“Well,” Sangyeon drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “I didn’t think you’d stoop this low, Joshua. Running off with her? Betraying everything for—what, love?”

Joshua didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he lunged.

The fight was brutal from the start.

Joshua lunged first, catching Sangyeon off guard with a shoulder tackle that slammed him into the wall. But Sangyeon recovered quickly, driving his elbow into Joshua’s ribs with enough force to make him stagger.

“Still as reckless as ever,” Sangyeon sneered, dodging a wild swing and countering with a sharp punch to Joshua’s jaw.

Joshua spat blood, his eyes blazing as he charged again. This time, he feinted left and struck right, his fist connecting with Sangyeon’s temple. The blow sent Sangyeon reeling, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he kicked out, catching Joshua’s knee and sending him to the ground.

Sangyeon didn’t waste a second. He grabbed Joshua by the collar, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall.

“You’d throw everything away for her?” he hissed, his breath hot against Joshua’s face.

Joshua snarled, shoving him back with all his strength. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

Sangyeon’s laugh was cold, cruel. “Oh, I know enough. And when I bring her in, I’ll make sure she’s in chains. You can watch every second of it.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Joshua froze, his blood turning to ice.

20 seconds… 19… 18…

That moment of hesitation cost him.

Sangyeon drove his fist into Joshua’s stomach, doubling him over, and then swept his legs out from under him. Joshua hit the ground hard, the asphalt tearing at his skin.

Before he could recover, Sangyeon pulled out his gun.

The muzzle flash lit up the rain.

10...Joshua's eyes fluttered open, barely. The pain—the sharp, blinding agony in his chest—wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, almost peaceful. His body felt weightless, as if the rain had washed him clean of everything, even his senses. So this is it, he thought. This is where it ends.

9...Out of the corner of his vision, the red thread glimmered faintly against the darkness, slick with rain but unbroken. He had forgotten about it until now, a lifeline he hadn’t dared to hope for. It felt absurd, this fragile thing tethering him to someone in a moment like this. And yet, without fully understanding why, he reached for it. His fingers were trembling, weak, but they managed to curl around the string.

And then, he tugged.

8...The thread pulsed, faint and distant, like a heartbeat far away. Joshua blinked through the haze clouding his vision, confusion prickling at the edges of his fading mind. Was it always this warm? The rain poured harder, soaking him to the bone, yet the thread seemed to thrum with something else entirely—something alive. He could feel it pulling back, gentle but insistent.

7...Images began to flicker in his mind - a life that he so desperately wished to be his: your laugh echoing on a summer night, your hand in his as you pulled him through a crowd, the softness of your gaze when you thought he wasn’t looking. Each one burned brighter than the last, brighter than the rain-soaked world around him.

6...He heard it then—footsteps. They were frantic, splashing through puddles, growing louder with every heartbeat. His grip on the thread tightened instinctively, the pulse of it quickening in response.

Was it you?

5...“Joshua!”

Your voice cut through the storm, raw and desperate. His heart lurched at the sound, even as his body refused to move. It was you—he knew it was you. He wanted to call out, to tell you to stop, to stay back. But no words came.

4...The thread flared, glowing like fire, as your hand found his face. The warmth of your touch spread through him, chasing away the cold, the darkness, the fear. It was grounding, anchoring him to the world he thought he was leaving behind.

3...“Joshua,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. He felt the hot sting of your tears against his skin, mingling with the rain. “You need to fight. Do you hear me? You need to fight!”

His lips parted, but no sound escaped. He wanted to say your name, to tell you he was trying. He wanted to tell you everything.

2...“Soldier!” you screamed, your voice fierce and trembling all at once. “Wake up!”

Something inside him stirred—an ember reigniting. The thread between you burned white-hot, a tether he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. Not now. Not like this.

1...Joshua felt your hand shake against his face, your tears slipping over his lips as they parted slightly. He wanted to answer, wanted to give you something—anything—but his body betrayed him. The warmth of your hand began to fade, the glow of the thread flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He tried to move, to hold onto you, but everything felt heavy, as if the earth itself had decided to bury him in its arms. Your sobs were the last thing he heard clearly, breaking apart with a rawness that pierced deeper than the bullet ever could.

“Joshua,” you choked out one last time, his name a plea, a prayer, a demand.

But the world was already gone.

Joshua’s eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lights above blinding him for a moment. The world is blurry at first, a smear of color and sound, like he’s waking from some fevered dream. He doesn’t feel the weight of pain anymore. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything, save for a subtle warmth spreading across his palm.

The thread.

The faint pulse against his skin is all it takes to bring him fully back to reality. It burns, but in a way that makes him feel alive—makes him feel like he didn’t just escape death. Like he’s been given another chance.

He turns his head slowly, wincing at the movement, and there you are. You’re slumped in a chair next to the bed, your head resting against the edge. Your fingers are intertwined with his, holding on to him with the kind of tenderness that feels unreal. His heart beats faster, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. Is this real?

He squeezes your hand instinctively, half because he’s convinced he’s dreaming and half because he’s sure he’s entirely undeserving of this second chance.

The moment his fingers tighten, you stir. Your eyes flicker open, disoriented at first. Then you meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moves. It’s like time itself is holding its breath.

But then, without warning, you lunge forward, your hand flying out to smack him across the face with a force he didn’t know you had in you.

“If you ever,” you hiss, your voice low and threatening, your eyes sharp with something that could easily pass for murderous rage, “do some stupid shit like that again, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

Joshua blinks, stunned into silence for a moment. He half expects you to break down in tears, but instead, you're breathing hard, your face flushed with fury.

A chuckle escapes him, soft at first, but it grows, shaking his chest, almost delirious with the relief that floods him. The laughter feels like freedom. Like the sun breaking through clouds. And that’s when you breathe out, your body visibly relaxing. You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply, as if letting go of a breath you’d been holding for far too long.

Then, without missing a beat, you smile—wide, so wide, that Joshua is certain the sun couldn’t compete. It’s pure, unbridled joy, the kind of smile he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever.

You lean down, kissing him softly, the kiss tender and sweet, as if he’s fragile, as if the world could break him again at any moment.

“Welcome back, soldier,” you breathe against his lips, your voice warm with affection.

He smiles faintly, the corners of his lips curling up. "Where are we?" he asks softly, his voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

“Some hospital in Bangkok,” you say, your hand sliding to his cheek, gently cupping it as you meet his eyes. “Pretty sure I scared the staff half to death when I dragged you in here.”

He laughs quietly, his body still too sore to do much else. “I’m sure you did.” He pauses, something lingering between you both. He studies the way the light from the window catches the strands of your hair, the way you seem so alive, so full of strength despite everything. "What do we do now?"

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you pull out a set of passports from your bag, holding them out to him. The photos are undeniably of the two of you, but the names... they’re someone else’s. The last names match.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving up in a teasing smile. “Are we brother and sister?” he asks, his voice light.

You smack him again, but it’s gentler this time, laced with affection. “If you want to keep joking, I’ll slap you again,” you warn, but there’s a warmth in your eyes.

“Then what do you say, soldier?" you ask with a grin. "Wanna see Kyoto in the fall?"

Joshua leans back, chuckling, despite the sore ache in his body. "I told you, you’d hate the humidity."

"And you'd hate the crowds," you tease right back. "But is that a yes?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he hums against your lips, the sound full of quiet amusement. He pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer.

Later, after a few quiet hours, once you’ve crawled into bed beside him, Joshua’s hand rests against your waist, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The heart monitor is the only sound in the room, its rhythmic beeping the only proof that he’s still here, still alive.

“You asked me once,” Joshua says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If my fate felt like a noose.”

You nod slowly, tracing the outline of his hand with your fingers. “And? Does it?”

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he turns his head, looking at you with a quiet intensity. “No,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “It feels like life.”

You don’t speak right away, letting the words sink in, letting them settle between you like an unspoken truth. Then you smile, a soft, knowing smile, and kiss him once more, gentle and full of promise.

And as you close your eyes in the silence of the room, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting up slowly, a reminder that time, even after everything, keeps moving forward.

1... 2... 3...

tagging: @ottersmind @blvenote @kyeomsworld @cookiearmy @armycarat2612 @rjea @xylatox @flwrshwa

@christinewithluv @headlockimnida @letwiiparkjay @cherr-y-eji @codeinbelle @baguette-atiny @whoa-jo @noiceoofed

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totowlff · 2 years ago

Text

somewhere in the haze

➝ when your race for generational talent came to an end, you didn't expect to be so shaken. however, you also did not expect to be supported precisely by your great rival

➝ word count: 4,4k

➝ warnings: mentions of health problems

➝ author’s note: i don't even remember the last time i wrote a one-shot, but this one made me particularly happy. hope you like it.

Sitting at the dark marble-colored bar, you stared at the aperol spritz you'd ordered, the slice of orange floating amongst the slivers of ice that still lingered at the bottom of the glass. You typically didn’t make a habit of drinking, especially by yourself, the night before a Formula 2 feature race.

However, you felt like you deserved a drink or two, especially after the insanity of the last few months.

You downed what was left in your drink and signaled to the bartender for another. The man nodded, whisking your glass, with its lone orange slice, away. You stared at the veins of the marble bar top, losing your gaze in the faint white veins running through the stone as the image of a young boy’s face filled your mind. His dark eyes were filled with tears, and his lower lip was trembling.

“You said they would accept me,” he repeated in your head.

— Y/N? — a familiar voice asked behind you.

You sighed deeply. Of course he was here. Why would he be anywhere else in the damned city aside from this exact hotel bar?

You glanced to your side and found a tall man looking at you with a serious expression on his face. It was just like that afternoon a few months ago, in that cramped garage in the Italian countryside.

The sky was gray and depressing that day, but the environment at the track was electric.

You were in Lonato del Garda for two days already, following the ROK Cup International Final 2018, one of the main karting competitions in Italy. It brought together more than 420 drivers from 21 countries, all looking for a chance in the world of motorsport. Something you could offer them.

The prancing horse embroidered on your jacket was proof of that. You worked for Scuderia Ferrari, and your job with the team was scouting talented up-and-coming drivers for the Ferrari Driver Academy. Judging by the eight laps you’d just watched, you found one, and a good one.

As you walked through the garages, looking for the number 633 in the columns, you mentally reviewed the information you had gotten about the boy by talking to other people who were there.

His name was Andrea, but everyone called him by his middle name, Kimi. His father, Marco, was a driver as well, and was extremely passionate about the sport, to the point of having founded a team with the family surname. Kimi had been racing around Europe for three years, winning championships and drawing attention for his impressive results, as well as his mature and extremely intelligent racing style.

“He’s exactly what I want”, you thought, as you strolled into the garage marked with his number. You expected to find the boy with his father and his mechanics, but to your surprise - and not a pleasant surprise - there was a tall man standing next to Kimi’s cart, his hands resting on the equipment.

— Your overtake on the third lap was fantastic — you heard that familiar voice say, with its deep and distinct accent. “Damn you”, you said mentally, as you approached the three.

— Indeed it was — you said, forcing your face into a pleasant smile.

The three of them looked up at you, each with a different expression. While Kimi and his dad looked excited to see you, the man clearly looked annoyed.

— Y/N, what a surprise to see you here — Toto Wolff said, dryly.

— Don't act like you don't expect me to be here, Wolff. You know I'm always on the lookout at these competitions — you replied in the same tone, while approaching the boy — Besides, I was told there was a boy with the name of a champion running around here. You must be Kimi, right?

The boy smiled.

— Yes, that’s me.

— I'm Y/N Y/L/N, nice to meet you — you replied, holding out your hand to shake his.

— Are you from Ferrari? — he asked, his brown eyes glued to the prancing horse on your jacket.

— Yes, I'm with the Ferrari Driver Academy. As you may know, I’m always looking for drivers that can be developed within our program, as we did with Jules Bianchi, Sergio Perez, Lance Stroll and, more recently, Charles Leclerc.

— Never mind that none of them drive for Ferrari at the moment — Toto said from behind you, his voice dry and detached

— We are not looking for talent just to feed our team, Toto, but the whole category and the sport as a whole. Better than some teams that claim to have a driver academy and haven't actually recruited any drivers yet — you spat, glancing back over your shoulder. You could see his jaw clench — But Ferrari has already nurtured the careers of several drivers in all steps of the feeder series, through Formula 1. And I would love to have someone like you, Kimi.

— Good evening, Wolff.

— Didn't expect to find you here — Toto said, sitting in the stool next to yours.

— You know I always come to watch the feeder series races, Toto.

— I was talking about this hotel, Y/N. You always stay where the rest of Ferrari stays, don’t you?

— They ran out of rooms — you muttered, nodding to the bartender as he placed your second Aperol spritz in front of you. You took a sip, and squeezed the orange slice into the drink.

— So you decided to stay here?

— Yes, Toto. Does that bother you? — you sneered.

— Not at all, Y/N — he replied — If I’m being honest, I actually prefer your presence to that of most other people’s.

His words had you looking at him with pursed lips. He was wearing a denim shirt and cream-colored dress pants. His hair was a bit mussed. He had a playful smile on his face that somehow never failed to make you feel strangely lighter.

— If Christian saw us talking like this, he’d be jealous. You know that, right?

— I hope so — Toto murmured, before waving to the bartender and ordering a beer — But I don’t care. If I could get away with it, I'd run him over with my car at the first opportunity.

— Wouldn’t we all — you muttered, before taking another sip of your drink. When the bartender set his beer in front of him, he took a generous gulp, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between you, as both of you were undoubtedly thinking about the month before.

Especially after everything that had happened.

Sitting in the Antonelli family’s living room, you knew you had won. Kimi was sitting next to you on the sofa, showing some newspaper clippings and photos, while Marco told more about his son's participation in karting competitions around Italy.

— His first real competition was the Easykart International Grand Final in 2015, at the Circuito de Lignano. Kimi won almost two seconds ahead of second place, it was fantastic.

— That was the day I knew for sure that I didn't want to stop racing — the boy said, smiling.

— And I hope you don't, Kimi — you replied, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder — You're very talented, one of the most talented boys I've ever seen.

— Toto said the same thing the last time we met — the boy said, smiling — He said that I have the potential to drive in Formula 1 someday.

The mention of Toto made you tense up, a wan smile tugging at your lips.

— I usually say that Toto doesn't know what he's talking about, but this time I'll have to agree with him. You really do.

A gleam of hope appeared in Kimi’s eyes.

— Kimi, dear, can you put these things away? — Marco asked. However, when you looked at Kimi’s father, you realized what his intention was.

— Yes, dad — he replied as he got up to take the photos back to where the family kept them. The silence lasted for a few seconds, the sound of some children's television program drifting into the room, making the silence even more tense.

— My son is very excited — Kimi's father finally said — He only knows how to talk about your interest, how he might be on the verge of becoming a Ferrari driver…

— That's excellent, Marco — you replied, smiling.

— But I can’t help being a bit worried, Y/N.

You swallowed hard.

— Worried?

The man in the armchair took a deep breath.

— We are reaching a point in Kimi's career where he needs to step up into a higher category. He wants to go into single-seaters, like Formula Renault or Formula 4, and I fully support him, and want that for him, too.

He didn't have to say another word for you to know what the problem was. Despite having a privileged and much more comfortable condition than that of many other boys, the Antonelli family was not wealthy to the point of being able to fund Kimi’s racing career themselves, especially in a category much more expensive than karts.

It seemed strange, as Marco had a racing team, and Kimi already had some sponsor backing, but nothing of that was able to guarantee that he would be racing in the following years, especially in the category he wanted.

— I know, Marco.

— I want to offer a sure thing to my son, so that he can dedicate himself to his racing career without having to worry about running out of money and having to drop out of a series mid-season. To have the backing of Ferrari would be amazing…

You smiled.

— Will be amazing, you mean. It will be.

Toto took another sip of his beer.

— I guess you heard the news, huh? — he said softly.

— What news?

He was silent for a few seconds.

— We reached an agreement with Kimi.

You raised the glass to your lips, taking a generous sip of your drink.

— Congratulations — you muttered, trying to disguise your frustration.

— For what?

— You won.

He put the beer bottle down and turned to you, one eyebrow raised.

— Won what?

You huffed in frustration.

— Won the battle. Our fight for Kimi.

— Y/N…

— It's fine to celebrate your victory, Toto. You’ve signed a generational talent, the future of motorsport. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop bragging about having managed to sign him. I probably would have spent the rest of my career reminding you of it.

— Y/N, you know I was already resigned to the idea of not having him in our program.

— Were you?

— Yes. I thought it was a long shot, truly.

You sneered.

— You've got to be kidding.

— I’m serious — he said, his face set in a serious expression — I knew I was going to lose. I could have offered to fully fund his entire career myself, but I knew it wouldn't matter if you made him an offer.

— I…

— Having your attention means having Ferrari's attention, and what Italian kid wouldn't want to drive for Ferrari?

You looked back at your glass, the squeezed-out sliver of orange bobbing along the top of your drink. He wasn't wrong.

— I had already started talking to the family of another boy who was in the same championship with Kimi that weekend — Toto continued — Until you called me, Y/N. You begged me to sign with him, to take him. I… Thought it was strange, but I’m not ungrateful, but I’ve been meaning to ask… Why?

The question brought another memory back, something churning in your stomach.

Kimi's eyes sparkled as she stared at the screen that was just above the red reception desk. Looking at the images of the celebration of Sebastian Vettel's last victory, in Belgium, the previous year. Kimi was probably imagining himself in the German driver's shoes, winning trophies in those legendary red overalls. You were imagining the same thing as you went to greet him

— Good morning, Kimi! — you said happily — How are you?

— I’m fine, Y/N, looking forward to seeing everything — he replied, as his father smiled at you.

— We appreciate your invitation, Y/N, it was very generous of you to invite us to Maranello — Marco said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

— It was the least I could do for our future academy driver. Shall we start with a little tour?

You guided the boy and his father through the Gestione Sportiva, pleased with the absolute enchantment on Kimi’s face. He seemed interested in every aspect of the factory, asking questions and revealing a bit of his own familiarity with it all, considering he had grown up around racing cars.

However, you were most looking forward to showing him the simulator. All of the academy drivers used it, including the team’s Formula 1 drivers.Something told you he would love to try it himself, and after a few conversations with the simulation engineers, you got the go-ahead for him to do a few laps himself.

As you told him this, Kimi’s face broke into a broad smile.

— Are you serious? Like, really?

— Of course, do you think I would joke about such a thing?

— This is amazing! Thank you, Y/N — he exclaimed, giving you a hug. You reciprocated almost immediately. Your heart felt warm and full.

During your time negotiating with Kimi and his family, you couldn’t help but develop a fondness for him. It was something simple and sincere, similar to the affection you felt for the other drivers at the academy, who you were proud to call “my boys”. And you were sure that Kimi would be part of that little family that you had formed inside Ferrari.

With a generic overalls and a helmet provided by the simulation engineers, the boy sat in the cockpit in silence, while the virtual version of Monza was set up for him to do a few laps.

— Charles broke the record for this track — Ash muttered, as he typed something on the computer.

— What was his time?

— 1:20'05'' — he replied, starting the simulation.

Seeing Kimi’s speed in a kart was already impressive, but you were astonished seeing the ease with which he piloted the single-seater, even if it was just a simulacrum. It didn't take the boy long to adjust to the buttons and controls on the steering wheel and to do several quick laps, the surroundings of the circuit becoming a blur on the screen, as he accelerated through the curves.

— Fuck…

— What? — you asked, noticing Ash's surprise as he stared at his workstation.

— That’s not possible — he continued to type something into the computer, before looking at you, wide-eyed — He’s beaten Charles’ time.

You downed the rest of the drink in front of you. The memory of the boy's expression in front of you was too painful, even more so considering that you were the one who caused it.

— Well, he needed a place where he could develop— you answered, without looking at him — And Mercedes was the only place he could go.

— But…

— I took him to Maranello, back in February, with his father — you continued, your eyes fixed on your hands — He was so happy, Toto, so excited. I showed them everything I could, even the simulator. Did you know that he beat the lap time record at Monza?

— Who’s time did he break?

— Charles — you said, smiling wanly — Ash, the engineer who operates the simulator, was shocked, but I knew he could do it. It was fate. We had to get him for Ferrari, there was no other team, but… when it came time to put pen to paper, it all went wrong.

Toto remained silent, his fingers tracing the star on the beer bottle. Maybe he wasn't sure what to say at that moment, maybe it was a silent invitation to keep talking, so that’s what you did

— I had scheduled a meeting with Maurizio so we could finalize the last details of his academy contract. He already knew everything about Kimi, I had already spoken about him more than the other drivers in our program — you said, a pained smile on your face — He even told me that he was looking forward to meeting him and…

Suddenly, your eyes filled with tears of frustration, your lower lip trembling. It was as if all the feelings you had been building up inside you had found a way to escape, revealing all your anger and guilt for what had happened in the boardroom.

— We sat down with Maurizio and he started a whole speech about how he'd seen videos and numbers and had listened to me ramble on about him for hours and was really curious to meet him — you continued — After a few minutes of conversation, I asked if we had a proposal ready to present to them and Maurizio said no, because the academy would not sign Kimi.

— But you said…

— Maurizio said he was impressed, that his numbers were good and that he believed in his potential, but that Kimi was too young. He didn't want to invest in the development of a kid who wasn’t even in single-seaters yet, and the academy didn’t take on drivers that were still in karting. He just dumped Kimi, Toto — you said quietly, working up the courage to look at him.

Toto’s expression was soft, almost as if he was acknowledging that this was hurting you deeply. Then, in a move you weren’t expecting, Toto leaned over and wrapped his arms around you, in a tender and sincere hug. It made you cry even more, because he was approaching a facet of yourself that you didn’t show most people.

— You know that doesn't mean you're a bad professional, right? — you heard him say softly, close to your ear — Things don't always work out and that's okay.

Then you looked up at him.

— It’s not so much that they didn’t work out for me, Toto — you said, sniffling — It's that they didn’t work out for Kimi.

You felt dizzy as you accompanied Marco and Kimi to the reception area of the Gestione. Maurizio had never even hinted that he wouldn’t take Kimi into the academy, quite the contrary. He’d gotten your hopes up, which caused you to get Kimi’s hopes up in turn. Hearing Maurizio say he wasn't interested in signing Kimi was like being jolted from a sound sleep by being doused in a bucket of ice water. What made things even worse was that Kimi had ceased talks with other driver academies and other potential sponsors. Ferrari was what had mattered, and Ferrari simply let him go.

— Well, that wasn't the end I envisioned for our day — you started, only to be interrupted by Kimi.

— Why did you say that?

— Say what?

— Why did you say you wanted me, Y/N? — he asked. He sounded upset. The way he looked at you made something inside his chest sink.

— Because we wanted you, Kimi. I talked to Maurizio, he showed interest, he was willing, I don't know what happened — you started stuttering, your nerves getting the better of you.

— I thought you wanted to support me, that you wanted to be part of my future…

— I do, Kimi…

— Then why did you lie!? — he yelled. It made you shiver. You imagined this would look strange from the outside, a 12-year-old boy yelling at someone old enough to be his mother — You said they would accept me, I believed you!

— Son, please — Marco said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

— Kimi, I'm sorry, I didn't know what he was going to say — the look in his eyes made you stop talking. His eyes were full of tears, his jaw set. He didn't want to cry, but at the same time, it was like he was making every effort not to break down. Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked towards the revolving door that led to the street, without looking back.

— Sorry about that, Y/N — Marco said quickly, his eyes glued to the boy as he walked towards the parking lot — I understand your reasons, but at the same time, I can't help but feel sad to see my son like that. You know how it is for a parent, right?

The last sentence made you freeze. You didn't know how it was for a parent. You didn’t have kids. “It’s not like I’ll ever know”, you thought as the boy's father said goodbye and left you behind.

— So, you called me — Toto murmured, his eyes locked with yours.

— For some time now, I've seen these kids as more than just talent. A lot of them come to Europe alone in search of their own dreams and leave their families behind, and don’t have anyone they can count on, other than their academies and teams. When I say I see the academy drivers as my boys, it's because I mean it. I see them as my family, a part of me — you hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if you should finish your thought, but you did anyway — Like the children I'll never have.

— Don't you want to be a mother?

— It's not a question of wanting to. It's a matter of not being able to.

Another awkward silence followed, filled by the ambient conversations in the bar. Even still, it was like you’d lobbed a grenade and you were waiting for the explosion. However, Toto didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out and brushed a lock of your hair that was falling over your eye with a strange tenderness. It was strange, considering your relationship was professional, but antagonistic, but you didn’t shy away.

— You can’t have kids?

— No.

— I'm sorry — he said softly — I'm really sorry.

Toto's expression was laden with sincerity. The way his brows were furrowed and his eyes locked with yours were ample proof that, in the midst of all your silly jockeying for talent in the motorsport world, he was a kind, caring man. And that scared you a little.

— I'll survive — you said, wiping your face and pulling away from him.

— But if it makes you suffer — he began.

— That's not what makes me suffer — you snapped.

— Y/N, you just told me that you see the academy drivers as your children because you can't have any, clearly this is a psychological response to your suffering…

You looked at him, with a serious expression.

— Are you my therapist now?

— I'm just stating the obvious here.

Your eyes went back to your empty glass. You traced the drops of condensation on the outside with your fingers as you considered his words. There was nothing to say, especially when you knew he was right. However, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of giving him another win, especially when he had already won so much from you these last few months.

You caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another Aperol spritz, neither you or Toto saying anything until another glass was placed in front of you. There was something depressing about crying to your professional rival in a bar, but then again, there wasn't much to do. These feelings had been inside of you so long that they flooded out as soon as someone asked.

— What now?

— What? — you asked, before taking a sip of your drink.

— What will you do?

— Honestly? I don't know. After what Maurizio did to me and Kimi, it just feels like I’ve been betrayed. I don’t even want to look Maurizio in the eye right now.

Toto looked at you, looking surprised.

— Is that why you’re not in the same hotel as the rest of your team? — he asked, earning a raised eyebrow in response — I should have known something was wrong.

— I’ve just gotten the feeling lately that my input isn’t… valued. But at the same time, I don't really know what to do.

— Why don't you get out of there?

— And where would I go, Toto? — you asked. In the end, that was the big question. It wouldn’t be easy to leave Ferrari, from a bureaucratic point of view. They might whine about your years of service to the team and try and guilt you into staying, or even offer you a big pay raise. But in the end, you could walk away. But then what?

— Well, Mercedes needs an academy director — he muttered. His voice was strangely casual as he picked up his beer and took another sip.

— Are you offering me a job?

— No — Toto said, a smile on his face — It’s just an observation. I’ve tried to get everything set up, but now that we have an academy in earnest, I can't dedicate myself to it the way I'd like to, because of my other obligations. I would need someone to do it and I would want someone with responsibility, intelligence, experience, and the love for what they do

— That sounds a lot like a job offer, you know that, right?

— Would you accept it if it were?

— Well — you said, but hesitated. There was one crucial detail: the first driver supported by the Mercedes driver academy was Kimi, and you doubted the boy would ever want to see you again — I don't know. I think your new driver wouldn't want to see me there…

— Kimi and his father know that you were the one who referred him to me — he said.

Your eyes widened.

— They know?

— Yes. And I believe they were very happy about it. You didn't fail him, Y/N, or destroy his dream. You gave him a chance, even if it meant he was going to a rival academy. And personally, I find that admirable.

— Is that something you would admire in an academy director?

— I appreciate the human aspect of people, Y/N. And you, despite usually being a moody thorn in my side, are a good person. That’s what I admire about you.

You felt a warmth growing in your chest. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. You downed the rest of your drink in one go before getting up from the stool you were sitting on.

— Where are you going?

— To my room, I have a race to watch tomorrow — you replied, arranging your bag over your shoulder.

— You didn't answer me about my offer — he said, leaning an elbow on the bar.

— You said it wasn't a job offer, Wolff.

— What if it is, Y/L/N?

— I'm going to need to think about this — you said, trying not to smile.

— Want to have dinner with me tomorrow to talk about it?

You raised an eyebrow.

— Is that you asking me on a date?

— Maybe.

— Christian will be jealous.

He gave you a smirk.

— I hope so — Toto replied — So, do you accept?

You squeezed the handle of your bag.

— At seven, here?

— Perfect.

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