#but I've always wanted to write a Hunger Games esque kind of thing and decided to combine it with serial killers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jimlingss · 4 years ago

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The Weekend Massacre

➜ Words: 19.7k

➜ Genres: 90% Angst, 10% Action?, Serial Killer!AU

➜ Summary: Receiving an invitation to a party, Jimin finds himself in a room of serial killers and a game to see who can gain the most notoriety.

➜ Warning: vomiting, toxic relationship, murder, gore, homeless abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, cults, mutilation etc. I don’t condone the actions of my characters.

cr.

[Friday, 10:00pm] Jimin grips the envelope. It’s a dark blue, glittering when he holds it up to the light and silk-like to the touch. A complete blank front, it’s without a return or delivery address. He had tossed the first envelope out, supposing it was a mistake. But then another one was sent. And another. And another. Another. Until he broke the floral red seal that was seemingly dripping off the page. It didn’t make sense to him — it was an invitation to a party on the far outskirts of the city with his name on it. He’s not sure how anyone found him. Who it was that sent this. Or what this was. Then, as if to add to his confusion, he received several phone calls. Whispers. Incoherent. In the middle of the night. Between hours of the day. Startling as it was jarring. It was as if to show these people were watching constantly, as if to tell that he shouldn’t ignore this any longer. So here Jimin was. Standing in front of a ragged wooden door with the envelope in hand, shrouded in the middle of pitch black without the moon’s luminescence. He knocks twice. The door slot slides open. Beady eyes look through. “Password?” Jimin recalls the instructions laid out for him. “Never look in the eye of the beast.” The slot slides shut and the noise of lock gears unwinding soon becomes replaced with the hinges creaking as the door widens. The hall is narrow with a set of descending stairs, a tiny bulb swinging from the moldy ceiling. The man is burly, over six feet with bulging biceps and tattoos wrapped around them. Jimin swallows hard, burdened with the stranger’s intimidating air and averts his eyes. But the man isn’t dissuaded and reaches into his pocket to hand Jimin a rectangular business card. It’s black, but golden looped letters etched into the smooth card reads welcome. Jimin isn’t sure what to do with the card and receives no explanation. The man simply moves ahead. “Follow me.” Jimin complies wordlessly, stuffing the card into his pocket, suffocating the many questions he has in his throat. The man leads him down the rickety stairs, knocks on a steel door that opens with another stranger behind it and then past yet another door. It opens to a room of thumping music and neon strobe lights that Jimin’s eyes have yet to adjust to. But the man doesn’t walk into the room, merely stepping aside. He stares at Jimin. And Jimin enters on his own. The bass is boosted, trembling the walls of the underground room in a beat he doesn’t recognize. The scent of alcohol is thick and people are dressed in lavish outfits and laughing. Jimin self-consciously grips the hem of his hoodie, feeling out of place with his jeans he threw on haphazardly. He awkwardly shuffles amongst the crowd, looking around, squinting when the pink flashing lights cast into his eyes. He’s unable to recognize the people around. There’s fifteen or twenty so, a mix of women and men— Jimin’s shoulder collides with another. “S-Sorry.” He locks eyes with the older man, thick framed glasses around kind eyes and wrinkles, a dimpled smile and blonde locks. “Don’t worry about it.” The man brushes past him. Jimin doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know where he is, for what purpose he’s come here for, why the invitation was sent to his name. He feels disoriented. Lost amongst the crowd, dizzy from the strobe lights and the high-pitched laughter closing in on him. Suffocated. He gasps for air, swinging his head around to look for a wall to lean on, a corner to seek refuge in, where he won’t be swept away by strangers. But no matter where he turns to, it seems like the darkness is encompassing him— Or at least until he catches another’s eyes. Across the room. Jimin meets your curious pupils, your quirked head, the edge of your mouth slightly pulled. You’ve been staring at him and that alone captures his attention, roots him back to the ground. You’re in a black dress with white frills that makes it look like it’s a child’s attire. And as he muses this, you’re approaching faster than he can panic. Cutting through the horde. Beelining straight to him. “You’re cute. What’s your name?” “Jimin,” he stutters out and finally blinks. “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.” Your smile expands and before he can utter your name to memory, you lean in close. “I know what you did.” Immediately, Jimin frowns. “What do you mean?” You don’t answer or at least not in the straightforward way he wishes. Instead, you chuckle and Jimin discerns a moment too late that your gaze has always been predatory. “The both of us are quite alike, you know. But haven’t you noticed? Everyone in this room is a serial killer.” “W-What?” Jimin stutters, his head whipping from side to side, from person to person as he pales. You watch him carefully with an amused expression, how his eyes are widened like a puppy’s, how his mouth has downturned. It’s funny — how he acts when he’s not any different. But the chance to ask, interrogate or escape is stolen when the music lowers and the lights dim. “Oh.” You tug on Jimin’s sleeve. “It’s starting.” He follows your line of sight to the stage at the back, a shimmering spotlight shining down and showing him where the end of the room exactly is. Yet the figure that stands there is obscure. Hidden by their black clothing, their hood, a mask on their face. The voice booms when it speaks. “Welcome all to the first Weekend Massacre!” Jimin’s reeling and his eyes travel across the room. Amidst the crowd, he finds the blonde man from earlier, another shorter man with darker hair and a taller brunette. It’s then that the realization strikes him across the face. He’s seen some of these people before. On the news. In the newspaper. “Each of you who have received an invitation have been specifically chosen to be a participant in our games.” Games? Jimin’s attention is taken back to the stage. “Forty eight hours to commit as many crimes as you can with the promise of endless notoriety and being the first victor.” He’s nauseous, afraid, petrified of what these people around him have done, what he’s gotten himself into. And he barely has half a mind when you peek at him with another smile. “Each crime will be weighed differently on a point basis. You will be able to call in at any time to know your rank and the rank of one above and below you. There are two rules. Do not kill another participant and if you are caught by the authorities, then you are suspended from participating any further. The games will officially start in an hour and end on Sunday at this same time.” “I wish you all luck. The victor is somewhere standing in this room tonight and I look forward to meeting them.” It’s a game of killing people. A competition to see who can cause the most harm. A crowd of serial killers who have committed the most heinous crimes against women and children. Jimin feels bile reaching up his throat. He’s dizzy. He can’t hear anything until there’s a crisp call of his name and curious eyes peering into his. “Jimin? Are you alright?” No. He isn’t. Not in the least bit. He wants to run, tell someone this is happening, but he wonders if anyone would even believe him and telling anyone would mean giving himself in. It would mean being tracked down by those who organized this event and the police. It’s the last thing he would want. And he has a feeling that choosing not to participate isn’t an option either. Not with what happened when he threw out all those invitations, when he tried to ignore those phone calls. They’ll find him, whoever they are, and make him play. Jimin doesn’t get a chance to make a peep. You grab both of his hands into yours, smiling sweetly and tenderly. “Don’t be scared, Jimin! How about this? I’ll take you under my wing!” He stares at you. And an answer comes to him. It might be the perfect escape, a medium between participating and not — watching from the sidelines. Would that be enough to consider that he’s taking part but without having to do such a heinous thing? Would he truly be resolved from needing to act? More importantly, Jimin doesn’t understand. All he knows is your name. There’s no reason for you to offer your protection, to let him come along. He’s just met you. “W-Why?” “Because people like me and you need to stick together, silly! You don’t look like you can survive a second! So how about it, pet? You can join me. I don’t make this offer just to anybody!” Jimin gazes at the way you hold your hand out to him.

[Friday, 11:34pm] He fiddles with his fingers in his lap. Jimin swallows hard and steals a glance at you. You’re humming some light tune and tapping your hands against the steering wheel — the fluorescent street lights illuminating your face as you drive by before you’re brought into darkness again a second later. He’s not sure who’s the crazy one. The one who doesn’t even bat a lash after suddenly being thrusted into a murder game. Or the one who’s cognizant enough to be aware of how insane this is but is still following along anyhow. “So!” Your loud voice startles him. “We should get playing, shouldn’t we, pet?” Jimin’s tone stays timid. “What if we don’t?” The game is obscure and the realm of possibilities seems endless. Maybe the repercussions won’t be that bad if he chooses not to play. Yet at the same time, Jimin feels like he’s back at the party, placed in the crowd, shrouded in the darkness, being swept along by the tide without escape. A helpless follower. You scoff, looking at him. “And what would we do instead? Sit around and wait for someone else to be crowned the winner? How boring would that be?! I don’t think so. This is a once in a lifetime chance to compete with other killers. Why should we give it up when it’s so much fun?!” You command, “Pick someone.” “What?” Jimin’s eyes widen. He grasps his hands, feeling them shake even more. “I’ll help you kill someone, Jimin.” You smile at him. “I’ll give you the first pick.” “I...don’t know.” “It can be anyone you want! Anyone you’re upset with or you don’t like or you think makes your eyes sore!” You have a Chester's grin, eyes that twinkle in the night skyline’s lights. “Pick!” Jimin can feel the car accelerate dangerously down the empty street. And he sweats, placed under the pressure. He’s frightened of you, of your presence, how it seems like you know a million things about him, but he doesn’t know a single thing about you other than your name. It feels like you can see right through him. He wonders what crime you’ve committed. What you’ve done to be considered a serial killer. “Ji-min~,” you sing-song and he meets your eyes. “Pick already!” He glances out the window, head swirling, legs quivering. He has to choose the victim. But there’s no one he hates, no one he has malice towards, no one he wants to see dead. Out of sheer fear and compulsion, feeling the seconds ticking down and your impatience growing, Jimin bites the bullet and impulsively points straight out the windshield. “H-Him.” It was the first person he saw. A person merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. A homeless man with a parked shopping cart, digging through a garbage can. Oblivious. The car slows down at once and Jimin hears your hum. “Good choice. No one will miss someone like him!” Jimin feels nauseous. He feels queasy when the car is parked across the street, when you get out and dig into the trunk, telling him not to worry about it and how it’s actually a stolen vehicle you got your hands onto. He feels queasy when you cross the road while hugging his arm, how you approach the disheveled man casually and how the stranger looks up with a tired, worn expression yet retains a compassionate smile— “Is there somethin’ I can help you with?” “Yes. My boyfriend and I were actually wondering if we could get directions to—” And most of all, Jimin feels absolutely sick to his stomach when the homeless man innocently turns away to point to the roads, explaining the directions, and you bear a hammer from the sack you have dangling from your other arm. It’s mid-sentence. Mid blink when you reach over to smash the man’s head. Without warning, without reasoning, without hesitation. You’ve detached yourself from Jimin smoothly and slammed the head of the hammer onto the stranger’s skull. Allowing him to stumble back on the park bench, wheezing, eyes widened from shock. The sound of the cracking bones echoes. “P-Please!” The man is petrified, shaking with death setting in his eyes, gripping his head as blood pours down to his face and through his lashes. “I-I have k-kids! I have kids!” The pleading voice jarring to the ears. Jimin is horrified. You loom over the man with an impassive expression. And as the man begs with tears in his eyes, you slam the hammer on his head again, loud enough that Jimin, himself, cries out. “Stop!” You turn around, crimson splattered on your cheek. The homeless man’s no longer conscious, flopped over as his head continues to pour out blood. “What’s wrong, Jiminnie?” You loll your head to one side. But he ignores you. Jimin looks at the man. The victim he chose. Bile reaches up to his throat. Jimin collapses on his weak knees. And he throws up. Chunks of his partially digested microwavable dinner spew out as he wheezes. His stomach contracts as he coughs to the ground, face littered with loose teardrops and cold sweat. The pungent scent is sharp against the acid in his throat. Jimin wipes his mouth with the back of his quivering hand. “Oh my fucking god. W-we...we need to take him to the hospital!” “Now why would we do that, silly?” you giggle. “We need to finish him off!” You’re insane and he was insane to come along with you, for taking the invitation and going to the party, for thinking he could go along with this and be safe watching from the sidelines. “I-I’m not a killer!” Jimin sobs into his hands, unable to look at the man any longer. Jimin doesn’t know why he was picked, why he was given an invitation. They have the wrong person. And like he’s at a confession, he professes, “I’m not a serial killer!” But instead of a priest, it’s the devil itself. “And what would your family say about that, Jiminnie?” You lower yourself down to him, carding your bloodstained fingers through his soft brunette locks as he trembles. Your murmur is consoling as it is tantalizing. The silence isn’t as eerie as it should be. “I heard about it, you know. I saw it on the news. I know you did it. It takes one to know one.” “Stop.” Jimin hyperventilates between tears, shaking his head, but you don’t. “You mutilated them.” Beneath his eyelids, he sees it. The crimson coated floorboards, splattered on the yellow paisley wallpaper, on the popcorn ceiling of the living room. He covers his ears. “Stop it!” “You flushed your younger brother down the toilet.” The chaos of the entire scene projects before his eyes. The knocked over chairs, the picture frames thrown, the stench of iron in the two bedroom house heavy, the warmth of the blood. And Jimin feels the same warmth after you’ve pried his hands off of his ears and you hold his cheeks between your hands. You force him to look you in the eye. “It...it was an accident,” he sobs, the words barely stuttering out of him. “I b-blacked out. I was angry. I d-didn’t know what I was doing.” He had no control of himself. And worst of all, he never got to repent for his sins. He had an alibi — a timesheet at work that told them he was at another place at that time, yet in reality, he had forgotten to clock out. But by then, he was too much of a coward to fess up to his actions, to tell them that he was the perpetrator, to be looked at as the monster he knows he is. But somehow, even with all these facts, you don’t look at him like he is one. “Something like that is never an accident, Jiminnie,” you coo and with a sweet smile, you stand and finish the man off. The last pained grunt lingers. Jimin follows along on auto-pilot as you drag the body yourself with much effort. You bury him by the playground where the soil is softest, where in the morning, old couples and children will trample by the dirt without a single thought. It takes thirty minutes for you to get rid of it, for you to pour two bottles of water over the bench to wash the blood into the nearby gutter, to shove the shopping cart onto the road as a traffic hazard. Then, you’re grabbing Jimin’s palm, interlacing your fingers between his, staining his skin with the blood on your hands like it’s part of a ritual. You’ve imprinted the patterns of your palm on his. And then you’re pulling him along like a doll, laughing down the street in a high, in a drunken madness in spite of being sober. “You helped me kill someone, Jiminnie.” Your eyes seem to shine brighter, more excited than before. “You know what this means? It means we’re connected now! Forever and always.” It’s unsettling, but you’re right. He’s an accomplice. A bystander. A follower. No worse than you are. He let this happen. Chose the victim. Watched you do it. He allowed himself to become your pet. “I wonder how many points that gave me,” you hum with pouty lips before turning down the alley. Jimin’s not sure where you’re going but he doesn’t care to ask. As if he wasn’t susceptible to being pulled along by the crowd, he feels exceptionally inclined to follow your whims. He wonders who you are. How he feels somehow feels grounded when he looks at you, even after everything that you’ve done. “Hurry the fuck up!” There are two shadowy figures at the end of the dark alleyway the pair of you turn into. You loll your head to one side, curiosity gleaming in your irises. “I wonder what’s going on.” “T-This is all I have!” The panicked voice tears out of the stranger’s throat. “Please! Let me go!” Jimin automatically stumbles back, ready to escape to where he came from. But you lean over, interest piqued and you quicken your steps, tugging him along. “Who’s there?!” The tall brunette points his revolver towards you and you lift your hands up, stepping into the light with Jimin behind you. “What are you looking at, huh?!” You greet the man with a smile, not at all frightened with the gun being pointed at you. “Relax. I’m a part of the game too.” “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” he yells from the pit of his stomach, “Don’t tell me to relax!” Jimin’s eyes search the scene, the stranger with his pockets pulled out, wallet on the floor, shaking incessantly. The one holding him hostage and robbing him is a tall brunette with sharp features. He has a deranged look in his eye, chest rising and falling, sweat built at his hairline. He recognizes him from the party. “Taehyung, right?” you chime, “From the infamous Kim family.” “The hell do you want?!” The victim looks at Jimin and their eyes meet. The desperation and fear is tangible, and he mouths ‘help’. But then Jimin tears his eyes from the stranger, looking away. There’s nothing he can do to help him. He can barely help himself. “Nothing. We’re just passing by. Didn’t think we’d run into someone so soon, but looks fun. I’ll leave you to it then.” Taehyung glares and gestures away with his gun after a beat. You wave goodbye enthusiastically and pass by humming. Jimin follows after you, quickening his steps until the two figures become distant again. “H-How’d you know who he was?” “It’s not hard to know about the Kim family. They might all be imprisoned, but they’re famous,” you tell him as if he should know. “Even if I didn’t know about them, I would’ve, since I had to scope out my competition. I did research on everyone.” You turn to the boy with a sly smirk and your index finger pokes his chest. “Even you, Jiminnie. How do you think I know what you did? But when I read up on you, I knew I’d like you.” Your smile widens and you turn onto a suburban street. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a Bonnie and Clyde duo.” He walks with you, shrouded in the darkness while watching a flickering lamp post in the distance. You audibly play eenie, meenie, minie, moe with the houses lined on the avenue and once you land on one, you walk towards it. Jimin stalks after you. “What are you doing?” “Watch and see,” you whisper with the corners of your lips curled, twirling around to him as you walk to the front door. From the sack thrown over your shoulder, you come out with two silver pins and you show off to Jimin with your sly smile. He doesn’t expect you to pick the front lock, but he looks around and hopes no one’s watching. Within a minute, the door opens. “Nice and easy.” You skip inside like it’s your own house, but Jimin remains hesitant at the step. It takes a deep inhale before he steps through. There are shoes haphazardly thrown on the side by the closet, the entrance small. He’s led into a hall and then a living room. Enveloped in the dark, the little street lights cast in and help him find his way. Jimin’s eyes eventually stray to a shelf of frames, old wedding photos of a young couple to pictures of the family gathered around one another with enormous grins. Yet one photograph takes his attention in particular — one of a little girl in a polka dot dress, showing off her missing front tooth in a wide smile. You seem to pay no mind to the pictures. Instead, you’re leaning over to shut the open window by the armchair. The floorboards creak subtly as you creep along the walls, quietly shutting all the windows. Jimin follows along at a delayed pace, confusion written across his face. At least until you come to the stove and turn all four gas stove tops on with a smile. “What can I say? I like to get creative.” Jimin pales with the realization. You’re getting rid of an entire family with little to no effort and all you can do is silently giggle. You walk around the kitchen, up the stairs and on the way, you stop by the carbon monoxide detector to rip out the batteries from it and toss it aside. You’re methodical and careful every step of the way, always controlling the crime scene, playing it like a game of chess. Jimin’s not sure if he’s scared of you or if he admires you. The door creaks as you peer into the bedroom. He squints into the darkness over your shoulder but then you slip away to the next door. The following room is brighter. The open window is next to a street lamp outside, so Jimin can make out the princess posters pinned on the pink walls, the toy boxes shoved in the corner, and the little girl asleep soundly in her bed, covers rising and falling every so often. You don’t blink, taking three strides to reach over and shutting the window. You lock the latch. Jimin steps into the room as well, but he doesn’t see the doll on the ground. He doesn’t notice it until he accidentally kicks it aside and the thing sounds, greeting him with a deafening — “I love you!” You whirl around. His entire body freezes. The girl under the covers shuffle. She twists, turns and audibly sighs. “Mommy?” Immediately, you move. Like it’s your sheer instincts. Before Jimin can stop you, before he can call your name and tell you to spare her. You rip the pillow from underneath the girl’s head, shocking her awake, and before she can scream aloud, you press the pillow to her face. Her legs kick out, but you push your entire body weight onto her, suffocating the girl. Jimin’s knees weaken, his breath staccatos as he sees red beneath his eyes — recalling the splatter of the ceiling, of the paisley wallpaper. He should cry out, shove you off. But whenever he opens his mouth, his voice is lost. He can’t utter a word. He knows it’s too late. Stopping you would make the girl cry for her parents. They would waken. They would call the police. And he would get caught. Jimin’s too much of a coward. So he looks away.

[Saturday, 3:28am] The harsh red and blue spinning lights flash through the alley. The moment it swirls away, the scene is clouded in darkness before another shade floods inside. Seokjin releases a heavy breath, shuts his car door and strides down. He shakes away the sleepiness that still lingers after being rudely shaken awake. There wasn’t even time to get a coffee. “Detective Kim!” someone calls out. A younger man with brown doe eyes waiting for him. Seokjin wonders how he got here so soon when he wasn’t on a shift. But the new upcoming ones are always like that — ambitious and keen. Give them a few years and they’ll learn to mellow out. Or at least most of them do. He’s not so sure about Jeon Jungkook. “When’d you get here?” “Five minutes ago.” “So I suppose you’ve had enough time to take a look?” Seokjin receives gloves handed to him and puts them on. “A little.” The two of them bend over the yellow tape wrapped around the perimeter of the scene. There’s forensics in their white garbs, marking bullet casings and blood splatters, the flashes of their camera blinding to the eye. They set up their lights and the entire alley becomes illuminated. The victim is lying face up in the middle of the alleyway. His eyes are still wide open. Blood poured out in a pool and staining the pebbles. It’s splattered on the brick wall nearby. Seokjin’s brows furrow, noticing several bullet holes on the victim’s forehead. His face has been mutilated from the wound. His left shoe is also missing, but Seokjin’s eyes trail to see the leather loafer a meter away. “What’d you think?” When the older man is met with silence, he turns. Jungkook swallows hard, quiet as he stares at the corpse. Seokjin doesn’t blame him. It always takes a long time to get used to seeing dead bodies in such a way. The department might praise Jungkook for being a prodigy with the newer techniques — the whole fancy profiling spiel that Seokjin’s old mind has yet to wrap his head around. But Seokjin has one thing Jungkook lacks. Experience. Maybe that’s why the chief linked them up. They both could benefit from this partnership. “Jeon.” “Sorry.” He snaps back to it and clears his throat. “His name is Park Chanyeol. Twenty eight years old. Works in construction. He was shot in the face six times.” “Bullets?” “Point three five seven magnum. They think it’s most likely from some kind of revolver.” Seokjin hums and Jungkook continues, “His pockets are empty and his wallet is gone. It looks like an armed robbery. Most likely the victim has no connection to the perpetrator. There’s a bruise on his left cheek. He probably had a physical altercation with the perpetrator before he was shot. His knuckles are bloody, so they’re collecting DNA samples to see if it belongs to someone else. That’s most likely going to be our best bet in catching this person considering there aren’t any security cameras in this area or witnesses.” He nods and after a beat, their eyes meet again. Seokjin asks, “What else? Aside from the main facts of the case.” Jungkook inhales a deep breath. “The scene is disorganized. There’s no need to shoot someone six times. Whoever did this, not only left the body but left physical evidence. And if they have no connection to the victim, that means they did this spontaneously.” “So?” “We’re most likely looking at someone who has poor hygiene and nighttime habits. I’m guessing a man in his early twenties. Below average intelligence. His motive…..is quick financial gain and also being able to feel a sense of superiority and power.” Seokjin’s eyes narrow into the boy and his soft facial features. He’s not inclined to believe in pure speculation, but Jungkook’s proven himself right on several cases they’ve worked on together and he’s not one to disregard credit where it’s due. So, he takes his word for it. They cross the tape once more, walking back to the parked cars. The noisy static of the radios and snapshot of cameras fade into the back. “Call Baekhyun. He might want to see this for himself.” “Detective Byun is down at seventh avenue, Detective Kim.” He lifts a brow and Jungkook explains, “I heard there was a homicide case there.” “It looks like it's a busy night tonight,” Seokjin exhales, a cold cloud of air emitting from his lips. He recalls a number of police cars rushing past in the other lane while he was driving here. Jungkook gets into the passenger seat as Seokjin slides into the driver’s. “Actually, there’s multiple homicide cases being reported at the same time. More than the usual amount. It’s almost like they’re being committed at the same time.” He puts the keys into the ignition and the engine roars to life with the head beams. “Is it gang related?” “Hard to say,” the younger sharply inhales. “From what I heard, all the crime scenes are starkly different.” Seokjin frowns and casts a glance down the busy alleyway. At the same time, the DNA sample on the man’s knuckles are swabbed and bagged to be tested.

[Saturday, 7:58am] You cackle, leaning on the arm of the armchair with your legs thrown over the other. Even though Jimin was against entering the house again, you weren’t dissuaded by the lingering traces of carbon monoxide. The open window nearby is enough to air out the area and what better place is there to hide out than a definitely empty home. It gave you a chance to steal more comfortable clothes, rid of your dress and burn it too. “Nearly two hours ago, a suspect has been arrested in the second degree murder of Park Chanyeol whose body was found in the alley between Third Street and Canons Boulveard.” You’re seated on the armchair like it’s your throne as Jimin stands on your right side, less like a loyal guard dog and more of a scared puppy who’s not sure what to do. But he’s endearing like that. “Nineteen year old Kim Taehyung, the youngest member of the notorious Kim family, has been charged with second degree murder, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery and illegal possession of a firearm—” You laugh as you watch Taehyung on screen cuffed and led out of the car. He’s screaming at the reporters while his lawyer at his side tries to cover his face, but to no avail. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since the game started and he’s already caught red-handed. In all honesty, you’re a bit disappointed. It’s pleasant to have less competition, but you thought Taehyung would put up more of a fight than that. Well….you suppose this is the consequence of being as reckless as he is. “Breaking news that we just received.” The screen flashes to the news anchor. “We believe a bomb has been detonated at the city hall. That happened within the last two minutes, major evacuations are now taking place. Police have still yet to confirm the number of casualties or if this is the act done by a terrorist organization. Stay with us. The scene is now live.” Your brow quirks. Jimin stumbles forward. His hands tremble, expression stunned. The news channel gives a helicopter view of city hall, the smoke plumes rising in the air, the chaos on the road with firetrucks and police cars rushing into the scene. “Is this…” “A part of the game?” You throw your legs off, feet touching the carpet as your back straightens. It’s not time to be sitting back anymore. “Probably. I’m guessing this is Min’s work.” When Jimin remains confused, you smile and explain, “Min Yoongi. He’s a guy who likes doing flashy stuff like this. Don’t be too impressed, pet. He might have a high fatality rate, but it draws too much attention for my tastes. It makes the cops go cuckoo to find him.” You stand up and stretch your limbs over your head, groaning as you do so. Finally — there’s some real motivation. The game’s definitely more fun with characters like Yoongi. “Time to go, Jiminnie.” Your grin is enormous and your eyes gleam. “We can’t just sit back and let someone else win, can we?”

[Saturday, 10:03am] Even from the distance, the smoky air still permeates through his mask. The scene is largely cleaned up. Just a few hours ago, there were victims crying outside and tens of fire trucks parked on the curb, first responders at the scene rescuing those stranded inside and carrying out the bodies. The site is still somewhat chaotic, yellow tape lining the perimeter, debris and remaining rubble scattered all over the steps and the road; the shadows of the atrocity committed not long ago. “In all my years of work, can’t say I’ve ever seen something like this.” After closing the Kim case in record time, Seokjin only had an hour of sleep before he was abruptly called here. But it’s not just him. All investigators were pulled and dozens of homicide cases have been pushed aside in view of this event. “How many casualties?” “Twenty so far.” “So far?” Jungkook nods solemnly. “They’re pulling out more bodies from the rubble.” Seokjin sighs, feeling his dark circles deepen in its lilac shade. A moment later, he catches a familiar figure approaching from his peripheral vision. Someone with a sharp jawline, darkened hair and a five o’clock shadow around his mouth. Said man appears even more exhausted than Seokjin is, as if he’s aged an additional ten years. He’s not at all like the strapping, energetic friend he had at the academy all those years ago. Seokjin manages a smile to the all too familiar Chief of Police. “It’s not often I see you out on the field anymore. I always thought you would get a stroke in that office chair of yours.” “Sometimes the time calls for it, Jin. I can’t always sit back with my hands clean.” “And here I thought you forgot what it’s like to get down and dirty.” “Sir,” Jungkook greets Hoseok, lowering his head just an inch out of respect. Hoseok nods. “You must be the new profiler that was transferred over. I believe we met once.” “At the gala.” “Yes. How have you been managing? I’ve been hearing great things about you.” “I’ve been doing alright. Just trying my best.” “He’s keen,” Seokjin says and Hoseok’s lips curl, knowing full well how he feels about keeners. “Good. Maybe that’ll inspire you to be less grumpy.” He scoffs and ignores him. “What do you have for me?” In spite of the difference in their positions, their friendship allows them to be casual with one another. After all, they started at the same time and it was Hoseok who chose to climb the ladder and make his way to the top. Seokjin, on the other hand, has never been one for bureaucracy. Many find his brash way of speaking displeasing, and it’s not what he signed up for either. “The bomb was sent in a thin package.” The file folder is passed to him as they walk. Seokjin flips it open and studies the photograph of the dollar sign symbol carved into a metal piece, the signature trademark. “So it’s the Unabomber copycat?” “I don’t know if I’d go as far as to call him a copycat.” “Then he’s at least a more advanced version.” Seokjin flips through the report. “It seems like he’s more sophisticated. Are you planning on setting up a task force to find the guy?” “I don’t know yet.” Hoseok drags a hand over his face. “I have a few investigators in mind that I might assign.” “But not us?” “We’re full hands on deck. I’d rather have my most efficient detectives on standby in case something else happens which I have a feeling it just might.” Hoseok’s cautious, always saving his best cards. “In the last twelve hours, crime in the city has spiked to two hundred percent, but there are no connections at all to any of them. I want you to look into it and see if you have any theories. As for this case, the bombing of city hall, I just wanted to hear your thoughts.” Seokjin hums and turns to the younger man who’s been listening in. “What do you think, Jungkook?” It takes a second to collect his thoughts. Then, Jungkook’s doe eyes lift, unwavering. “Whoever did this, they left little evidence to work with. The origins of the package can’t be tracked either. So not only did they make the explosive themselves, they controlled every step of it.” “Above average intelligence.” Jungkook nods. “And most likely an outcast of society. In the past, this bomber targeted high members of society. And of all the places they could’ve sent it to, they chose city hall this time. Not to mention, his trademark is peculiar. It’s not any initials, it’s a symbol. The dollar sign. I think this person has an ideological motive.” “Then he’ll most likely be in contact with the police or news outlets soon to spread whatever message he has,” Seokjin adds. “Most likely. I think we’re looking at someone organized and nonsocial, someone who lives alone and follows the news closely.” Hoseok smiles. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

[Saturday, 12:01pm] “Where are we going?” Jimin struggles to keep up with your determined strides. “Winning the game isn’t just about who kills more, Jiminnie,” you teach him with a sly smile. “You also have to strategize how to take down your competitors.” The pair of you step up the driveway to the door and you hold the doorbell down with your index finger for an extended amount of time. Then, you knock thrice. There’s silence. “Who’s house is this?” “His name is Kim Namjoon. He’s a big competitor.” Jimin’s head whips towards you. “We’re at his house?!” You grin. “Pretty sure. What’s the issue?” He opens his mouth, but no words are uttered. Jimin can’t wrap his mind around how he’s on a serial killer’s doorstep, how you’ve knocked on it, expecting it to open. “How do you even know this is his?” “I told you. I did my research on everyone, Jiminnie. And don’t worry. If this is really his place, he’ll let us in. It’s not like he can leave us on his porch.” You turn around to wave enthusiastically at an elderly neighbour walking her dog. You’re clinically insane — Jimin’s sure of it. But even if you come off as deranged, it’s apparent you’ve thought things through, that you’ve strategized every step. He wonders if that’s why he feels a sense of calm, why it always feels like Jimin’s rooted in the ground when he sees you. There’s a shift at the door and you look towards the peephole with a massive smile. The door cracks open. There’s an older man in his forties, thick framed glasses around kind eyes and wrinkles, a dimpled smile and blonde locks. They recognize each other from the party. “What are you doing here?” “Seeking refuge obviously,” you sing-song. “Can we come in or what?” Namjoon’s glare turns menacing. His pupils are blown, eyes bulging from their sockets as his mouth lopsides. The facade of the friendly neighbour crumbles instantaneously and Jimin instinctively shuffles back in intimidation and fear. But then the door widens a moment later. “Ugh.” You step aside from the large puddle of blood on the floorboards. Jimin’s eyes expand. The streaks of the crimson fluid are pulled towards a closed door meters away as if a body was dragged. “Clean that up, will you?” Jimin’s knees shake, but he follows after you, stepping aside and slipping into the house. The door is slammed shut. You’re humming, looking at all the decor of the cozy abode. “Nice house. I like the green drapes.” “What do you want?” Namjoon stalks after the two of you. “If you’re looking for someone so you can be a trio, I’ll have to refuse. I don’t work well with others and I don’t like anyone interfering with my business.” “That’s disappointing. I’ll just take breakfast then.” You round the corner, plopping down on the wooden chair by the small dining table. “Have anything good to eat? I’m starving!” The man glares. You prop your elbow on the table, pouting at him. “Just let us hide out for a while and we’ll leave. Promise.” “You should’ve done this somewhere else,” he warns, yet turns towards his kitchen. Jimin releases his held breath from his tense body and comes to sit next to you. He leans in close to whisper, “What are you planning?” “You’ve never poked a bear before, Jiminnie? It’s all part of the fun. Relax,” you coax him with a crooked smile. Jimin doesn’t know but it’s because of him that you’re even able to pull this stunt off. He has this permanently scared look on his face, his features etched with fear and regret. It’s endearing, but because of that, Namjoon is sincerely fooled into thinking that you came here as a last resort to escape from prying eyes and just to have a meal. Jimin has the ability to disarm. And if it wasn’t for him, Namjoon would never believe you. You look around at the fake flowers in the vase, the nature calendar on the wall, the table without a smudge. Then your eyes trail to a thick pile of photos across the table and you lurch over to grab the stack. You hum. Jimin pales. “Is that….” “Yep.” Jimin immediately looks away. It’s dark pictures of dismembered bodies, naked and tied up women caught in the camera’s yellow flash, and women who are just walking on the street, unaware that they’re being stalked and captured from afar. But each photograph is meticulously labeled with a date and name, sometimes with a phone number at the back. Namjoon’s one of those types who like to call the family of victims just to taunt them, to record conversations he has with victims to play it back for them. Even for your standards, you know he’s sick. Your study session is interrupted by a meow. An orange tabby cat with narrowed pupils jumps onto the table and then suddenly, the pictures are being snatched out of your hands. Namjoon’s jaw is clamped, teeth gritted together. He plops down a plate of baked pastries and jams, and quickly collects the stack of photographs. “That’s not yours to look at.” “Sorry.” You loll your head to one side. “Got curious.” There’s an ear-piercing, muffled scream that makes Jimin flinch — a bloodcurdling ‘help’ echoing along the walls. It’s coming from the basement. You whirl your head back to your host. “Shouldn’t you go take care of that?” “Don’t touch anything,” Namjoon warns in a low voice and steps away. You grab the croissant and your teeth tear into it. Your other hand reaches for the cat and the animal allows you to scratch underneath its chin. Its tail curls and it hops off the table. “Y/N.” For the first time, Jimin calls you by your name and you turn to him. He’s timidly eating his cream cheese pastry with strawberry jam and you reach over with your sleeve to wipe the corner of his mouth free from crumbs. “Yes?” “Would...you ever kill me?” He wonders what it would be like if you considered him a competitor. Or if he wasn’t competing at all, if he could be your victim. Part of him wants to trust you just because it’s easier that way. To be a follower. Hold zero responsibilities. Make no decisions. But he’s not sure if he should allow himself to. Jimin still has yet to figure out how much he should lean on you and believe in your methods. He doesn’t want to win and you know it too. All he wants is to just be kept safe from the organizers of the event, from the other serial killers, from the police. And it looks like as long as he follows you, everything will work in both of your favours. “Why would I, silly?” Your smile softens. “It would be too much of a waste if I did.” It’s not long after the breakfast shenanigans at Kim Namjoon’s house that you make your exit with a ‘see you later’ and slip back onto the suburban street undetected. The older man is happy to have you gone, but if he knew what was up your sleeve, he wouldn’t feel that way. “A-Are y-you sure this is a good idea?” Jimin’s shaking again, wide-eyed as he grips the phone in the red phone booth. You’re forcing him to make the call purely because it’s too cute to see him sweat under the pressure. “There aren’t any rules against being a snitch, Jiminnie.” You grin. “And since when did serial killers follow any rules or moral conducts in the first place?”

[Saturday, 6:00pm] Jungkook scrubs his hands. Once his skin is free of soap, he turns off the tap and braces himself against the porcelain sink. He exhales staggeringly. He’s seen stuff like this before — made to listen to countless interviews and interrogations, watched tons of videos. It was all a part of his training. But it’s different when it’s not through a screen and when he’s sitting on a cushy chair behind a desk. It’s different when he’s the one apprehending the criminal and collecting the evidence with his own hands. Jungkook swallows hard and goes for more soap, trying to rid himself of the disgust he feels. Kim Namjoon was taken in not even a half hour ago. Luckily, it’s an airtight case. At least with the stack of photos Jungkook found and the two victims barely alive in his basement that was sent away on ambulances. The man might remain silent, but the evidence is insurmountable. Jungkook turns the tap off, wipes his hands with paper towels, discards it in the trash and walks out of the bathroom. He puts on a stoic expression. He has a job to do. He was assigned this case when they’re short-handed with other detectives and officers, so there’s no choice but to detach himself and be professional. He finds his partner in his office, seated in his chair and fiddling with a rectangular card. “Detective Kim?” Seokjin looks up. “They found this on Kim Namjoon when they were booking him in.” It’s black, but golden looped letters etched into the smooth card reads welcome. Seokjin flips it over but there’s nothing else on the card. “Kim Taehyung had the exact same one,” the older man reveals on an exhale and that immediately piques Jungkook’s attention who cocks a brow. “Then they know each other. Or at least, they’re connected somehow. If this isn’t gang-related then is it possible that Namjoon knows the Kim family somehow?” “It doesn’t seem likely. The Kim family is high profile. They wouldn’t have anything to do with a middle class man in his forties living in the suburbs.” Seokjin leans back, scrutinizing the black card and the golden letters. He thinks about the big picture. “But what if this was indeed organized? But by different criminals banding together.” Their eyes meet. “Like they picked a date to have a massacre.” Jungkook frowns. It’s improbable — an almost outlandish theory. The logistics of it seem too difficult to be feasible. How would a bunch of serial killers with no connection whatsoever be able to meet, arrange and agree on something doing something like that? And for what reason? Yet that would serve to explain how crime has escalated so drastically in the city within the past day, how there seems to be homicides happening on every single corner. Jungkook’s train of thoughts crash when Seokjin tosses the card on his desk and sighs, “Have they traced who gave the tip yet?” “It’s from a phone booth on the corner of Westminster lane.” “I didn’t know people still used phone booths,” he muses, threading his hands together. “There weren’t any security cameras, but there was one down the road by a jewelry store. They caught two figures there at the same time the call was made.” Jungkook moves a file folder on his cluttered desk forward and the older man finally flips it open. It’s a fuzzy black and white shot of the camera. He’s barely able to make out the two distinct shapes next to one another. But Seokjin’s unable to study it for long when his cellphone starts blaring. He sighs and picks it up. “What is it?” Seokjin’s silent for a long while and then he hums that he’ll be right there before hanging up. That’s never a good sign, so Jungkook braces himself as Seokjin stands and grabs his coat. “A family was just found dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. They suspect there’s foul play.”

[Saturday, 6:00pm] The curdling shriek tears through Jimin’s eardrums. He shrinks back, shutting his eyes as tight as he can until they hurt. He doesn’t allow a sliver of light to come through. He can’t look. He won’t. Even when he knows that right in front of him, you’re choking an old grandma, pinning her to the floor, your grip loose enough so she can still scream. After a long moment, there’s silence and he hyperventilates. “You can look now, Jiminnie. I’m not finished but you can still look.” “No.” He shakes his head furiously, curled into a fetal position. He won’t risk it. So he stays where he is, against the wall, on the floral carpet on the floor. Jimin hears your sigh and then there are footsteps. What follows is the noise of fabric tearing, threads being roughly pulled. He hitches his breath and automatically flinches when he feels you behind him, your warm breath against his neck. “Relax. I got you a blindfold.” You delicately wrap the black cloth around his eyes. And you tie it into a pretty bow behind his head while humming a light tune. Jimin’s fingers brush against the silky material. He hesitates but trusts you enough to finally peel back his lids. He encounters the comfortable darkness. “You don’t need to look if you don’t want to,” you chime and he feels your presence fade away from his backside. He exhales, loosening the tension in his body. But he still doesn’t understand. Jimin can’t comprehend how you can be so accommodating and thoughtful to him one moment and the next, your eyes are cold to others. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I want to and it’s fun.” Your giggle tinkles. “Don’t you think so, pet? To have someone at your complete mercy. To see the fear in their eyes and hear them beg.” With his vision gone, his other senses are in overdrive. Jimin perceives the sharp scent of iron in his nose, tastes the sultry air, and hears rustling. He catches the way you’re panting, how each breath seems heavy from your lungs. “Lots of people do it for different reasons. For sexual pleasure, the thrill, for their beliefs, or even because they get angry like you do,” you state nonchalantly and he flinches. “There doesn’t need to always be a complicated reason. You can do it out of sheer spite even.” For the next minute, it goes eerily quiet. Jimin doesn’t know if you’re gone, if you’ve left the room, or if you’ve abandoned him entirely. His arms lift up into the air, batting at the empty space. He’s about to call your name, but then hears your footsteps. “All done!” you sing-song. You reach behind him, undoing the ties and the blindfold slips off. There isn’t a body in sight. Jimin’s met with your smile.

[Saturday, 7:48pm] “What is happening is very unfortunate and our hearts reach out to all the families of these victims. These senseless crimes will not go unpunished. The terror these criminals have inflicted on the population will not dissuade this country from seeking justice. I have called upon the best personnel who will be involved in these criminal investigations. We ask that during this process all people take caution and stay inside. And I ask that people send their thoughts and prayers…” Jimin’s focus on the President’s press conference happening in the corner television fades as you start singing to the country music playing overhead. He turns his attention to you. His expression must be impressed on how you know all the lyrics since you lean in with a grin. “I love this song.” He never took you to be much of a country music lover. The retro diner is cozy, a long counter with stools, classic red booths and yellow lights. It’s as if time has stopped in this place and the emptiness only adds to the eerie atmosphere. The waitress with a half white apron and dress comes out and places two plates on the table. “Here’s your regular stack of pancakes with a side of fruit and bacon, and the strawberry avalanche french toast.” You smile. “Thanks.” The woman nods with a “you’re welcome” and returns to the back. Jimin doesn’t have much of an appetite. But he tries his best to stomach the food, cutting through the bread and piercing it with the fork. You, on the other hand, visibly blanch at the sliced strawberries, banana and oranges on your plate and one by one, you transfer them over to his. The corner of Jimin’s mouth twitches. “You don’t like fruit?” “Not really. I only like grapes.” You grab the maple syrup and Jimin watches with his bugged-out eyes how you nearly empty half the canister. By the time you’re satisfied, your pancakes are drowning in the syrup. Yet you grin happily, excited as you cut into them. You fill your cheeks and Jimin lets his entire smile slip. “I’m guessing you like pancakes.” “I love them.” Your knife scrapes the plate as you saw down into the fluffy texture. You muse, “I never got to eat them much as a kid.” “What did you eat then?” “A lot of vegetables, fermented food, canned stuff,” you say while chewing in your cheek. Jimin pushes the strawberries around on his plate for a moment before his eyes lift and his voice lowers. “When...did you start killing people, Y/N?” “I don’t know. Ever since I was born, I guess,” you deadpan. And after he stares at you for an extended period of time, you elaborate, “I grew up in a cult. Anyone who disobeyed or did bad things was killed. It’s normal.” You shrug. “I don’t know why people make such a big deal about it. People are okay with killing pigs and cows to eat, but not humans.” It’s jarring to hear and it makes it hard to swallow down his food. “Well, it’s different.” “Is it?” you ask. “We’re all animals. Having exceptions seems hypocritical. Plus, some people deserve to die, right? That’s why the death penalty exist.” It’s an odd sense of logic. But what’s even stranger is that he can discern where you’re coming from. “Why do some people deserve to die more than others? Just because of their actions?” You cut into your pancakes. “If the government kills someone, that’s somehow okay. But if I kill someone, then that’s bad. Who decided that?” “The world is full of contradictions.” You swallow a mouthful. “At the end of the day, aren’t laws just made by people trying to govern and control other people? Burning witches at the stake used to be legal, you know.” Jimin’s unable to keep his gaze away from you. If it wasn’t against the law, he wouldn’t be so scared of getting caught. He wouldn’t have had to spend the last year constantly looking over his shoulder and afraid of sirens. But if it wasn’t against the law, would he even be sitting with you right now and having this conversation? The games wouldn’t exist. There would be no reason to come up with something like the Weekend Massacre. Then again, it’s because they didn’t catch him that he could be sitting here at this time. The flawed system made up by people to regulate others failed to accomplish their goal. You finish the pancakes in a flash and somehow, Jimin finds the strength to finish his too. Once he’s done, he pushes it aside and your eyes gleam. “Ready?” “For what?” “Running, silly.” You grab his hand across the table, stand and yank him out from his seat. “Have you never dined and dashed before?” You start running before he can protest. Jimin hears the shout and curses of the waitress from behind as you shove the door open and it bangs against the wall with the golden bell up top. You’re giggling, sprinting as fast as you can, ducking and moving between the crowd. Jimin struggles to keep up but he widens his pace and quickly matches your speed. He steals a glimpse of you, catching the fleeting moment of the wind twirling through your hair, the way your eyes are crinkled with your playfully devious smile, how your expression is innocent as you’re committing such a juvenile crime. Hands held, Jimin interlaces his fingers with yours. You turn your head, locking your eyes with his, and softening your gaze. “People like us need to stick together, Jiminnie. We’ll always be marginalized for what we do.” You’re right. He’s been living like an outcast out of fear, and if people knew the crimes he’s committed, he would be casted away either way. But the realization sinks into Jimin — you’re the first and probably the only person who wouldn’t look at him any differently for what he’s done. You don’t treat him like he’s a monster. Even when he’s scared of himself, you aren’t. His hand holding yours tightens.

[Saturday, 9:07pm] Seokjin hasn’t slept. He doesn’t think he’ll get the chance to tonight. There’s no time to when he was being called left, right and center. There are crime scenes behind dumpsters, on the fifth level of a downtown apartment, murderers on every corner of the city. Every officer off duty and on duty have been called, spread thin throughout, and with every hour, there seems to be more and more murders. It’s impossible that this is done by one person or even by five. But Seokjin doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t experienced something like this before — this massacre. He leans back into the uncomfortable chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. Seokjin studies the black card with golden letters etched into it, the word welcome catching the light. If this was indeed an organized massacre, then how and who? How could this many killers come together and be this organized? Who is behind it and orchestrating it? And why? Could it be for fame alone? For chaos? It feels like it’s all part of some sick game. “Jin, you wanted to talk to me?” He’s snapped out of his thoughts by his old friend unlocking his office. Hoseok is disoriented and exhausted, coat hanging off of his arm, briefcase swinging in his hand. He doesn’t look like he’s had the chance to sleep either. Seokjin stands from his seat, having waited for the man, and he follows him into his office. It’s monotone except for the dog figurine on top of the file cabinet and the many awards and certificates framed in a line on the wall. They offered this office to Seokjin once. He refused. He’s starting to think he shouldn’t have. Seokjin shuts the door behind him. With the blinds still opened, he witnesses some officers rush past. Hoseok throws his briefcase onto his desk and collapses into his chair. “Did you take a look at the monoxide poisoning case?” “I have, but there aren’t any leads yet. The extended family’s not looking to do autopsies.” “Give them some time.” Hoseok rolls up his sleeves. “They might change their minds. What did you want to talk to me about?” Seokjin leans forward, palms flat on the wooden oak of the desk. “I think we should call a citywide lock down.” For the first time, Hoseok appears alert again. His posture straightens. “What?” “We need to tell people to stay inside, Hoseok. That’s the best way to protect them.” “The best way to protect them is to be out there on the street.” “And that’s what we’ve been doing.” His index finger juts against the file folders piling up. “This is getting out of hand and you know it.” But Hoseok merely shakes his head. “It would never bode well.” “We can’t have people running out on the street to get killed,” he spits. Jung Hoseok stands and the two of them come face to face. “A lockdown would only increase hysteria. This is the time to keep people calm. Mass panic won’t help anyone.” “People dying won’t help anyone either.” “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” Hoseok shouts, red in the face, anger overwhelming exhaustion. Someone outside the windows halts before quickening their pace. “You do your job and I’ll do mine!” Seokjin’s jaw ticks. He feels frustration’s urge to launch himself forward, shake the man until he’s heard. But instead, he steps back and swallows hard. “Fine.” He’s powerless to Hoseok’s authority and he can sense it — neither of them are willing to budge. “I’ll take my leave then.” As Seokjin shuts the door, Hoseok collapses into his chair again with a sigh. “Is everything alright?” Jungkook’s stopped in the hall, doe eyes rounded. Seokjin nods. He doesn’t dwell on the subject. “How did the interrogation with Kim Taehyung go?” “It was unsuccessful. He refused to talk without his family lawyer.” He’s not surprised. “They’re about to start on Kim Namjoon, right?”

[Saturday, 9:33pm] Jungkook hesitates, left hand on the steel knob. But then he takes a deep breath and opens it. The room is small, brightly lit, a rectangular table on one side of the cream wall with uncomfortable chairs adjacent to each other. One of them is occupied with a glasses-clad, blonde man. He’s dressed in jeans and a flannel, sitting straight, eyes following Jungkook. “Hello, you must be Kim Namjoon.” The corner of his mouth politely quirks. “I’m officer Jeon Jungkook. It’s nice to meet you.” Jungkook’s open hand is refused. Namjoon never shakes it. He simply stares at him. Yet the detective is undeterred and his smile remains, although it never reaches his eyes. He takes a seat and places the file folder on the table. He mimics Namjoon’s posture and leans forward to be closer to the man. “I believe you know why you’re here.” It’s quiet. “We’ve been looking into several cases of missing women and they’ve all been traced to your house, Namjoon. We found the photos as well and two witnesses are still alive. I’m here because I want to know why you did this. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want to understand you.” Namjoon stays silent. His eyes cold. Expression blank. It’s not looking good. “Look, I’m here to help you, Namjoon. We’re beyond denial. Silence won’t help you anymore. It would be better for you to come forward and let me know what’s going on. It’s not like a person wakes up one day and decides they’re going to kill someone. If it’s something in your childhood or if it’s because these women have wronged you somehow then I want to know, so I can help you.” A minute passes, but the forty-year old man refuses to utter a single syllable. Jungkook flips open the file folder. There’s the black business card on top of the paperwork, the golden letters looped into the word welcome. He picks it up and shows him. “What is this?” There’s not a single peep. “Can you tell me where you got it from, Namjoon? Do you know who gave this to you?” Jungkook continues, “It was on Kim Taehyung as well and unless you want to be responsible for his crimes on top of yours, then I think it’s best if you tell me how the two of you are connected with one another. I know this isn’t normal. The both of you are from very different backgrounds. You don’t know him personally, do you?” Jungkook is steadfast, searching the man’s expression for some sort of clue. But Namjoon is motionless, unresponsive, as if he’s prepared himself for this situation before. The man has no intentions on revealing a single thing — he plans to make it as difficult as possible. Jungkook concedes this time and switches his tactics. He puts the card down and flips to the back of the folder. There’s a flash photograph of a corpse without their arms. Jungkook swallows hard upon looking at it and then slides it across the table. “Do you know who this is?” There’s silence. Namjoon looks right at Jungkook. “This is Lee Wendy. She’s a mother of a five-year old boy.” He exhales in staccatos. “You stalked her, didn’t you, Namjoon? We have the pictures you took when she was grocery shopping and when she was taking out the garbage.” There’s a pause. “After you took her, you called her family and told them…that...she cries out for her son a lot, right?” Jungkook drops his hands into his lap, trying to hide the shakiness of them. Yet he forces his voice to remain steady with the picture of Wendy still on the table. “Why did you do this?” “You knew all of their names, didn’t you? And you followed each of them for weeks.” “Have you ever—” The older man finally speaks up in a baritone, nearly startling the young officer. But finally Namjoon’s listless eyes aren’t glazed over. Instead, they’re looking straight into Jungkook’s pupils, ogling deep into his soul. “—felt drawn into someone so much that you felt an itch to do it.” His voice doesn’t come. Jungkook’s pinned to his spot, scrutinized by the monster’s fixated, terrifying gaze that’s a mere inch away. The same eyes that had looked upon countless women. That lured them into his home. Chained them in his basement around the water pipes. Torn into their bones with the hacksaws— Jungkook stands. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t take it. “If you’ll excuse me,” he manages to mutter. He staggers out. And once the door shuts, Jungkook braces himself with his hands on his knees, wheezing. From the adjacent room, Seokjin emerges in alarm. The others in the room look out at him. “Jeon! Are you alright? You were getting somewhere!” Jungkook shakes his head. “I-I’m sorry. I just...her photo was right there and I...I—” “Hey. It’s alright.” There are firm pats on the back, a comforting squeeze at his shoulder. “We can get someone else in there.” Jungkook tries to straighten himself out, but his professional facade has crumbled. He’s ashamed as he is nauseated. “I really tried, Detective Kim.” “And you did good,” Seokjin reassures. “You got him talking, even if it was just a sentence. Better than any of us could. He’ll crack sooner or later.” Jungkook takes deep breaths and nods. But before any of them have a chance to say much else, an officer runs towards them with panic-stricken over her face. It’s not a good sign. “There’s been another bombing.”

[Saturday, 11:19pm] He picks up the black handle of the payphone. The dial tone is monotonous on the other end and he carefully slips the nickels into the slot. “Five four six,” you read off the numbers you scribbled on your wrist with permanent marker and Jimin follows, pressing the number pad. He was innocent when he asked you earlier how you knew the number, but it wasn’t a big secret. If Jimin didn’t come late to the party, he would’ve had a better grasp on what the games are about, the details and the how-to’s. He might’ve been able to meet a few others as well. But it was fine by you. He doesn’t need to know anything or anyone when he knows you. After you read the string of numbers, he stays quiet. After a moment, you hear the muffled voice on the other end. Jimin glances at you. “I’m calling on behalf of Y/N.” Thirty seconds pass and then he’s hanging up. You look expectedly at him, lashes batting, bright smile spreading into your cheeks. “So?” “You’re in second place,” Jimin informs, swallowing hard to deliver the news. “Behind Yoongi. There’s a person behind you by two.” “And Yoongi?” “He’s ahead by ten. There are nine others left in the game.” You sigh, backside hitting the brick wall of the seedy strip mall. It’s not terrible, but not as good as your estimations. “We need to step up our game if we want to win, Jiminnie.” His confused and curious expression reminds you of a puppy. Jimin’s too cute, especially when he follows after you when you walk off. He’s always trailing your shadow, one step behind your heel. You can’t help turning around just to take a peek at him. “Y/N.” “Hmm?” Jimin’s brows are furrowed, pouty lips lopsided, voice tender and quiet in the night. “Do you know who started this game?” “I don’t.” You face the dark road dimly illuminated by the streetlamps again. Before the games, you did a lot of personal research, but you were never quite able to dig that deep. “People like you and I probably, or people who just want to watch the world burn. Or maybe…” “Maybe?” “People who don’t like the current police force and want to overthrow it.” It’s plausible. A theory you never really thought about, but it sounds good. You shift over your shoulder with a glimmer in your eye. “What better way to mess with an institution than by throwing it into absolute chaos? And what better chaos is there than a bunch of criminals running rampant in the city?” Jimin has that conflicted look on his face like he’s not sure if he should believe you. But you’re not even sure if you should believe yourself. It’s been a long time since you could differentiate between your own lies and truths. Your bad habit of running your mouth and saying whatever you want, whatever comes to mind, has long engrained itself into your behaviour. “What’s the prize for doing all this? I mean, what’s in it for everyone else?” “Notoriety, of course,” you giggle at Jimin’s naivety. “Don’t you want to be remembered as the first ever champion, pet? Come on, stop asking so many questions and hurting your head with it.” You grab his hand, pulling him along while you laugh. Jimin stumbles after you but catches up. You’ve noticed — Jimin doesn’t seem so hesitant or scared of you anymore. And it’s a change you welcome happily. This is a partnership after all and it’s not right if he’s frightened of you. The pair of you careen in the middle of the road as you sing songs from musicals you’ve never seen, disrupting the peace and quiet. And when you turn to him, Jimin’s smiling tenderly at you, in a way you’ve never witnessed before. “Have you ever thought of giving this up, Y/N?” he asks a little later. “Have you ever thought of trying to live a normal life?” You’re not sure why he’s asking something so useless or what even constitutes a normal life. But any semblance of doing anything different than what you are now seems entirely unnecessary. There’s no reason to when you’re enjoying it so much. When this is who you are. “Why would I?”

[Sunday, 6:21am] It’s a sick and twisted game. Jimin picks and you kill. It’s eenie, meenie, minie, moe with the worst consequences, where he chooses the victims at their face value — lone, drunk gangsters making a ruckus, the old man trying to convince an intoxicated woman to come along with him, the girl that seems to be harassing her classmate. He doesn’t know their name or their story, but he tries not to think about it. Jimin doesn’t dwell as he makes his choice. And as you follow through with his decision, he never once looks. He can’t. Not when he’s blindfolded himself and can only catch the noises. The begging. The screaming. The crying. The squealing. The silence that follows. “You can look now—” is the only cue from you that allows him to slip off the black blindfold and not to have to witness the victims looking at him, pleading with their eyes, blaming his passivity. Most of the time, you’ve moved the body out of the way. Rolled up in a carpet to be abandoned, buried, thrown into the river, or bagged and ready to be burnt. Or even simply laying in their bed as if they died of natural causes. You know how to control the crime scene — every trace and clue has its own purpose, to distract, to mask. You don’t even so much as leave a hair behind. But this time, none of that is the case. The corpse of the man lays in front of him and Jimin tries to find his voice again. “W-Why is the body convulsing? What did you do?” You kick the stranger’s leg and after a moment, it stops moving. You shrug. “I found pills in the medicine cabinet. I made him take it all and covered his mouth with my hand so he wouldn’t try to spit it out.” Jimin looks at you. And you flash a smile. “Changing up the method makes it harder for the police to capture us. Plus, isn’t it more fun that way?” “How….a-are you going to dispose of the body?” You hum, tapping your chin as if you’re picking from a long list inside your head. Then your eyes suddenly light with amusement and you lean closer to him, irises twinkle with the first crack of dawn’s light. “What if we dumped it in front of the police station?”

[Sunday, 6:48am] Jimin’s driving this time and he’s sweating bullets with the corpse in the backseat. He constantly ducks his head when a police car drives by and he looks in the rear-view mirror more often than out the windshield. It’s endearing to watch. He won’t relax even if you tell him to, so you do his part for him. Your feet are propped up on the dash, window rolled down to feel the breeze as you hum to the tunes of the radio. Jimin really shouldn’t act so suspicious unless he has something to be sorry for. Everyone likes to talk about how valuable human lives are until their own interests get in the way — polluting the environment, refusing refugees, entering wars for economics. They’re so, so hypocritical. “There it is!” You sit straight and Jimin’s breaths become laboured as he parks across the road on the curb. The precinct is an old cream brick, sitting right on the corner with the flag on the side of the building. You grin. “Let’s go!” “Y/N, I...I-I don’t think this is a good idea—” But there’s nothing to worry about, not when your faces are covered with your hoods and the stolen sunglasses. Jimin really needs to live a little. Everything you do is a calculated risk and this just happens to be on the higher end, but it’s fun that way. He really needs to learn that caution should only be practiced in moderation or else he’ll spend the rest of his life quivering in fear. You get out of the car before Jimin can finish. His eyes widen and he’s forced to follow after you. You round the stolen vehicle and pop open the passenger side of the door. “If we’re doing this, we need to do it quickly.” The edges of your lips quirk. “Help me out, pet.” You grab the man’s ankle and Jimin fumbles before grabbing the other. He winces and looks away. But the both of you pull with all your might. The skull cracks as it lands onto the concrete. Limbs tangled. Body dumped. You slam the door shut and run. Jimin slides back into the driver’s seat as you take shotgun again. He shifts the gears into drive, pumping the gas hard as you cackle. The precinct is left in the dust. “Oh my god.” Jimin exhales. “I can’t believe we just did that. We...w-we just dumped a body in front of the police station!” “I know!” You grin, riding on the rush of exhilaration. It was done right under their noses without them even noticing. “I knew you could do it, Jiminnie!” As Jimin drives back to the house to swap cars again, the sun rises over the horizon. It pierces its golden light into the lightening blue sky, the air feeling crisp this morning. You know there’s a lot in store for the rest of the day — in just a few hours, you might be crowned the champion. “Jimin! Stop the car for a second!” You tap him on his arm and alarm takes over his expression. The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, wheels marking the asphalt. Luckily, there’s no one on the road to rear-end him, but you don’t dwell on the fact. You undo your seat belt and climb out. Jimin watches with his hands on the steering wheel as you rush to the phone booth on the corner of the street. You roll the loose change you have from your pocket into the slot. And you dial 911. It rings only once before a woman’s calm voice comes alive on the other line. “911, what is your emergency?” You’re still catching your breath from the excitement of it all. “I killed them, you know. I did it.” “W-What?” The dispatcher's voice is pitched and you smirk. “Who did you kill?” “Enjoy that body I left. Good luck catching me.” You drop the handset while laughing, leaving it dangling on its wire. The echoing voice of the woman with her helpless — “Hello? Hello?” — fades as you walk away. It’s always a joy to mess with them. You get back into the car and Jimin whisks you away.

[Sunday, 9:14am] Seokjin is being driven crazy and he knows it. Between caffeine stops and the piles of file folders growing on his desk, his head throbbing was worsening. But there’s no room to complain, not when the other officers and detectives in the department have their hands full as well. Several other criminals have been caught, charged, interrogated within the past day. All with the same black card reading welcome. Yet most of the crimes left to tackle remain unsolved. Namely the Capital Bomber, as they started calling him, and whoever left the tip. Or rather, the taunt. The body of Choi Soobin was dumped in front of the station two hours earlier — the two shapeless figures were seen on the security cameras — the victim’s car was being driven and then somehow returned to his home in perfect condition without a fingerprint to dust for. And that mocking voice provoked everyone. It came from a phone booth again. But it was a woman’s voice this time. “Detective Kim.” Seokjin looks up from his desk. The young man’s hair is in a disarray — it looks like he followed Seokjin’s instructions to get some shut eye on the couch in the break room. There’s no point in working oneself to exhaustion and inhibiting cognitive function. He would’ve slept too if the multiple cases on his plate didn’t keep him up. “I know we’re not officially on the task force, but there’s been some new developments with the charity bombing.” “What is it?” Seokjin urges him to step forward and Jungkook hands him the folder. Inside, there are close photographs of some penciled scribbles on pieces of metal. “This was found inside one of the parts of the bomb. It looks like notes of some kind. The lab’s still doing their analysis, but we might be able to match it with someone.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “They always slip up at some point.” “I took a look at the list of suspects as well.” “And what did you make of it?” “These three particularly stand out,” Jungkook says and Seokjin flips the page. He encounters a brunette with big eyes. “His name is Boo Seungkwan. He’s twenty five. Single. Living alone. No family alive. He has a background in physics. But oddly enough, he’s been unemployed for the past five years. He had been convicted of animal cruelty a while back and has been on the down-low ever since.” “Sounds isolated.” Seokjin nods. “Worth looking into.” “The next person is Mark Tuan. Thirty. Immigrated here back in o six. Divorced two years ago with one daughter who’s five. He’s a mathematics professor but he’s been on a sabbatical for over a year now. His sister called in and said he thinks the bomber might be him because of some conversation they had.” He hums, staring at the picture for a moment before he flips the page. Seokjin finds a darker hair man with a tender face and sleepy eyes. He skims over the information provided as Jungkook elaborates, “He’s Min Yoongi. He’s thirty two. Single. Lives alone. His older brother works in accounting, but they seem estranged. He spent three months in a youth detention center once, but somehow managed to pick himself back up and graduated from Yale ten years ago with a Master’s degree in biochemistry. But strangely, he never worked a day in his life. I can’t seem to find an address on him either.” “What was he in the detention center for?” “Trying to burn his school down.” “That’ll definitely get you in there,” Seokjin exhales in surprise. “It was a particularly bad case too, so they never sealed the records of it.” Somehow, Seokjin feels less exhausted now that there was a direction in the case. He muses how beneficial it is to have such a capable partner, to have someone to depend on. Seokjin feels a tinge of guilt for denying the young profiler all those months ago. “Good work, Jeon.” Jungkook’s timid smile disappears as quickly as it comes. “I still haven’t drawn up any suspects for the carbon monoxide family case or the duo responsible for the phone booth calls.” “We still have some time, so don’t beat yourself over it,” he notes. “I’ve been looking into it myself. I don’t know if this is a purposeful pattern or just a coincidence, but have you realized one similarity between all the crimes being committed in the past two days, Jeon?” Jungkook’s brows furrow and he shakes his head. “What is it?” “They’re all people who have done this before. They’re experienced criminals.” Criminals that have never been caught, that are responsible for dozens of cold cases. None of them are first-time offenders. From Kim Taehyung to Kim Namjoon, and the three others that were caught red-handed by other detectives. Even the Capital Bomber has set bombs before, albeit on a smaller scale. It’s clear — this isn’t the first time for any of them. The look on Jungkook’s face confirms Seokjin’s theory and tells him this new detail isn’t unfounded. “So I’ve been looking into the suspects of unsolved cases and older crimes. As for the poison monoxide case, no matter how many times I look at it, it appears like it’s done by one person. But for some reason, I can’t shake off the idea that it was done by two.” It’s just a hunch that keeps plaguing Seokjin’s head. A thought comes across Jungkook’s mind. In the past day, there’s two particular people that have come up twice now. “You don’t think….the carbon monoxide case has any connection to the phone booth duo, right?” “I don’t know,” the older detective admits honestly. There's no point in just sitting around speculating. He gets up and grabs his coat. “Well, we should take a quick visit to all the bombing suspects first and foremost. The other cases can wait for now.” There’s not enough to incriminate anyone or build a solid case, but it’s better than nothing.

[Sunday, 2:53pm] He feels a tap on his shoulder. A quiet call of his name. “Jimin.” It’s soothing, a comfort seldom found and one he has always yearned for, even as a child. So he savours it, the notes of his name spoken on gentle lips— “Jimin.” He can’t resist floating in the darkness. It’s too hard to open his eyes. To face reality. But then the shaking becomes insistent. “Jimin, wake up. Stop sleeping.” Taken out from his slumber, the world is fuzzy as he blearily blinks awake. The sunlight is blinding and his limbs ache, body folded to the side as he slept in the passenger seat of the car. You’re in the driver’s and you look at him with a blank expression. Jimin holds back a yawn and his voice is groggy when he asks, “What’s wrong?” “I have an idea.” That’s what you told him. And then, he was crossing the road in the seedy part of town by a strip. Face covered, hood up, hands dug into his pocket. “We only have a few more hours before the results are out.” The people behind the stand didn’t speak the same language as he did. They looked at him skeptically with his suspicious attire — even the children nearby were staring. But he still managed to purchase the fireworks. “We need to drag the lion out of its den.” You praised him when he got back into the car and Jimin had to admit to himself that it felt good. It feels good to listen to you, for you to look at him so proudly. He’s happy when you are. “So what are you planning?” “We’re going to frame Yoongi, of course.” The pair of you stopped by a gas station for a cardboard box and some duct tape — it felt like you two were making crafts in the car. But soon, he was gripping the package under his arm while walking up the stairs, brushing past the dozens of strangers during the rush. “Drop the package at the city center train station. Go as close to a crowd as you can.” He was here. The intercom making announcements was noisy over top the many conversations of students and families, businessmen and women getting back from late lunches. It becomes even more clamorous with the jingle signaling the train’s arrival, the whir of the doors opening. No one notices him. Not in the bustle. Jimin’s shoved roughly aside when he slows. There aren’t any apologies, no glances over the shoulders. It’s always like this — those who can’t keep up are pushed behind. “I don’t think I can do this, Y/N.” “Why not? We’re not harming anyone, silly. We just want to scare them.” Jimin takes a deep breath, steals a glimpse of the clock and slides the lighter from his pocket. He lights the end that sticks out of a hole in the corner. And once it catches the flame, he drops it and turns around. “Don’t you trust me?” He walks away, blending into the crowd with his hood up and his eyes covered. When he’s at the stairs, the explosion is deafening above the noise and the petrified screams echo behind him.

[Sunday, 4:23pm] “Maybe he decided to change it up,” someone says. Seokjin is hunched over the screen, watching the footage of the man dropping the box and then turning abruptly on his heel before disappearing. Moments later, the orange explosion takes up the entire screen. Three were left injured. Seokjin plays the clip again. “It’s too sloppily done,” he mutters, turning over his shoulder to glance at his partner. He knows that Jungkook agrees. But what’s even stranger is that the figure of the man is eerily similar to the fuzzy one at the phone booth. Seokjin wonders if this is a set up. If so, why? “You don’t think this is the Capital Bomber?” Hoseok asks. “It can’t be,” Jungkook speaks up to bolster Seokjin’s professional opinion. “Up until now, he used explosive bombs. This was five fireworks stuffed together and the package it was put in is completely different to what it usually is. No one needed to open it either.” “So you think there’s a copycat?” Detective Byun stands from his seat, sighing heavily. He drags a hand over his face, shoulders slumped and posture tense. “Maybe it was a failed package,” Captain Chou suggests, reading the room. A few others nod along. “Or maybe he decided to change his techniques.” “Why would he?” Jungkook’s voice pitches up in growing frustration, startling a few officers and the sergeant standing by him. They’re turning a blind eye to logic just because it’s easier that way. “This is someone who’s come up with sophisticated explosives that have killed tens of people! Why would he resort to using illegal fireworks?!” Captain Chou whips her head towards him. “Are you shouting at me, officer Jeon?” “Jungkook.” Seokjin squeezes at his shoulder and the younger shifts. Their eyes meet and Seokjin steps forward to redirect the attention back onto him. “I agree with him. There’s too many disparities for this to be the Capital Bomber. He wouldn’t have done something like this. It looks more like a poor attempt to pretend to be him.” “How will the people react when they find out there’re copycats now?” Detective Byun collapses in his seat. “And we haven’t even caught the real one yet.” It goes quiet around the room. The Chief of Police clears his throat. “Do you have solid evidence this is a copycat?” Hoseok is looking at both him and Jungkook. Seokjin’s jaw clenches when he knows where he’s getting at. The answer is ultimately— “No.” “Then it’s still entirely possible that this could be the work of the real Capital Bomber.” Anger flares in Jungkook’s eyes. “Sir.” Little can be said when someone knocks on the conference room doors and an assistant enters, whispering into Hoseok’s ear. Said man stands a moment later. “The press conference is starting. We’ll resume the meeting afterwards. Try your best to follow this lead.” When he leaves, everyone settles down. The murmur of conversations spark throughout the room in between fatigued sighs and Jungkook turns to Seokjin with irritation. “Detective Kim,” he unintentionally whines, like a child to a father. “This is obviously not him.” “I know you’re upset, but control yourself, Jeon.” His own anger is palpable, but knowing someone is on his side helps his sanity. “It won’t help our case if we can’t remain calm.” Suddenly, a woman bursts into the room. All heads turn and she hyperventilates, “S-Someone claiming to be the bomber is on a call with the dispatcher.” Chaos follows. “What?!” Seokjin rushes forward, his facade of composure amplified. “Can you put us through?” It takes seconds before the deep baritone is fuzzy over the speakers around the room. He’s shouting. “—wasn’t me!” “Sir, please stay calm. Where are you?” “Listen here.” The rumbling timbre is menacing, each syllable punctuated with animosity. “I want them to know that it wasn’t me. They’re saying it’s me.” The dispatcher on the line is amiable. “Who’s saying it’s you, sir?” “Everyone.” Heavy breaths pant. “It’s all over the news. But I would never do something so stupid to soil my message. Everything I have done up to this point has been crafted to perfection. It’s been masterpieces after masterpieces. But this….this is a distraction! How dare they try to copy my method—” “Trace the call,” Seokjin commands. “It’s already happening,” they inform.

[Sunday, 8:20pm] It took four hours — tracking, planning, putting it in action. And the efforts have paid off. Min Yoongi is caught, arrested, and charged. He was the Capital Bomber, the one who killed and maimed so many, who caused terror on the streets and panic through the people. Now, he’s safely behind bars and the whole department is celebrating. Seokjin can hear it through the walls. But it’s not right. There are too many missing puzzle pieces. Crucial fragments that aren’t part of the story. Until the last second of the interrogation, he denied any affiliation to the explosion of the train station and with every breath, he denounced such an act. Then who was it? And why now? Min Yoongi is a cautious criminal, an intellectual with a message of anti-capitalism to send to the world. He knows how to target the right people, how to make the media talk about him. But for him to contact the police directly from sheer fury, for his temper to flare beyond his rationale — whoever was behind the attack of the station played Min Yoongi. They knew that mimicking him so poorly would rile him up. They knew it would tarnish his message. And they knew that his message was the most important part of his actions. Yoongi would be scrambling to separate himself from stupidity. To clear his name. And he did. Whoever did this set him up. But Seokjin doesn’t know the reason for it. He doesn’t have even an inkling as to who it could actually be and why. It always feels like he’s three steps behind. Seokjin knocks on the door lightly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Hoseok is busy organizing his files, stacking them neatly into piles. When he looks up at the sound, he smiles meekly. “Shouldn’t you be out there celebrating with the rest of them?” “Shouldn’t you be?” Hoseok’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t tell the rest of them, but I was planning to sneak out of here within the next ten minutes. I haven’t gone home in two days and all I want is a shower and some shut eye.” “I won’t tell them,” Seokjin assures. “We all deserve some rest, especially after the last few nights. But god knows we’ll have to be here tomorrow at nine sharp.” The man smiles and grabs his coat. “You should take a vacation day, Jin. I know you have a ton of them saved up. I don’t want the department to force you to take leave.” In spite of their civil exterior, the air still hangs tense with the last argument that erupted right here. “But that’s no fun. What would I do at home?” “Always the workaholic,” Hoseok muses and the next words are full of implication— “You should take it easy.” His stare lasts a fraction longer than normal. And Seokjin knows his old friend long enough to recognize what he’s implying. But he’s not so willing to give in. “A break doesn’t actually sound so bad. When I’m back, I could look at the station bombing with fresh eyes.” The smiles fall, silence strained. “It’s over, Jin. The bomber’s been arrested.” “Not all of them.” Not the phone booth duo, not the carbon monoxide poisoning case. There are still a lot of crimes to be solved, questions to be answered. It isn’t time to be celebrating. “For all we know, he’s responsible for the station bombing.” “Then why does he keep denying it?” The detective steps forward. “He was happy to take credit for the rest of them. City hall, the charity event, the one on—” “Seokjin.” His entire name said firmly aloud. When their eyes meet, Seokjin is caught off guard — Hoseok’s is listless. Defeated. “I’m not going to have a job after this.” His voice catches in his throat and his brows furrow a moment later. “What do you mean?” The man looks at him without trying to impose his authority, without the professional demeanour that took years to craft. It’s human to human. Hoseok is frank with him. “Someone has to take the fall for how things turned out this weekend. For letting so many people die and failing to do our jobs. We might’ve caught him, but it was still too slow for them. You know how the media and the politicians are. My name is going to be dragged through the mud for how inefficiently the department ran.” “But why does it have to be you? We can fight this—” Hoseok shakes his head. “It’s useless.” “Why are you giving up?!” Anger surges through Seokjin but all Hoseok can do is muster a smile. “If I resign, I can still get a severance pay. Enough to last me a long time. It’s better than if any of you took the fall,” he says and quietness simmers throughout the private office. “We did the best job that we could, Seokjin. We caught him and a bunch others. We’ve done our part. They’re serial killers who will be locked behind bars forever. But this needs to end somewhere.” He continues— “Do you think whoever replaces me will let you continue this?” Not much is said after that. Not when Seokjin can’t gather any defenses or further arguments. Not when Hoseok takes his briefcase, exchanges a sad smile and flicks off the lights of his office to drown the walls in darkness. Seokjin slips out when he starts feeling suffocated. He leaves the office and escapes outside, in favour of leaning on the brick at the back of the precinct where there are rats scurrying by the dumpsters. He lights the cigarette he swiped from Baekhyun’s desk and brings it to his lips. Seokjin hasn’t smoked in years. He muses that a break does sound nice. The steel doors creak and Seokjin turns his head. He least expects to see the dark-haired young officer with doe eyes. “Detective Kim?” “Shouldn’t you be inside?” “I just wanted some fresh air.” The door swings shut while Seokjin taps the ash off of the cigarette bud. “You were having fun, weren’t you?” He manages a small smile. “Looked like that girl had some plans for you tonight. She works in the dispatch department, right? What’s her name again?” “Yoo Jeongyeon.” With the single incandescent light on the wall, the blush on Jungkook’s cheeks is visible. “She’s alright.” “There’s no policy against workplace romance, you know. You might hear it from the others, but all you have to do is take it up with HR.” Jungkook gives a disgruntled hum, not furthering the subject. Seokjin watches the smoke curl. “Actually, I wanted to come out here to tell you that I was looking into the list of suspects for the station bombing. I think I’ve narrowed it down, so—” “This is the best we could do, Jungkook,” Seokjin interrupts and sighs out a puff of smoke. He drops what’s left of the cigarette onto the ground and the toe of his shoe snubs it out. “Pardon?” “They’re not going to let us continue investigating the case, Jeon.” He turns to him. It's painful to see the disappointment on his face because Seokjin’s sure he has a mirror image on his. “They’re going to replace Jung Hoseok. And even if they didn’t, he wouldn’t let us continue. They want it to end.” They want to pretend that all the loose ends are wrapped up, that Min Yoongi was the last. Of course they would. It’s the picture perfect finale. The main criminal is caught after the string of others. No one wants to imagine that there’s more. “This is it?” “This is it.” “But what if they strike again?” Jungkook persists. “We’re just going to let them go free?!” “Then we’ll have to treat it like a whole separate incident and not part of this weekend massacre.” He opens his mouth — speechless, frustrated, disappointed. If there’s one thing Jungkook lacks, it’s experience. And with experience, he’ll come to know these emotions well. Being a part of the system doesn’t necessarily mean fighting crime and striving for justice. It’s much less righteous than that. The two of them stand side by side, watching dusk set into night as all the events in the past forty eight hours sink into their shoulders. It’s not until the older, worn detective speaks up that the silence is shattered. “What did you think about the phone booth duo?” There’s a beat and then Jungkook answers. “I was considering the theory you brought up.” “That they’re responsible for the monoxide poisoning case?” He nods. “And that maybe they were responsible for the station bombing too.” Seokjin’s brow quirk. The figure on the footage certainly resembled the fuzzy shape of the security camera. “So?” “None of the crimes are excessively violent. They’re unobtrusive and all the victims don’t have any connections to each other. It’s likely they didn’t plan who to kill but planned how they would do it.” The corner of Seokjin’s mouth curls while he watches as Jungkook’s eyes light up again, his mind at work. It’s relieving to know that the future has an intelligent boy in its midst. “The crime scene wasn’t messy. It was organized. Even Choi Soobin’s car was spotless and they were seen driving it on camera. Not to mention the house. It shows self-control.” “They were prepared,” Seokjin affirms. Jungkook nods. “And they used restraints. Whoever did it is competent. Likely to be above average intelligence and probably has some kind of education. They have to be healthy enough to carry a body to a car too.” He continues on his profiling, “They most likely alternated between walking and driving between each crime scene. They follow the news, taunt the police. They probably have nonsocial habits.” “Then what about the power dynamic of the duo? It was a male voice who gave the tip and the female voice who taunted us, remember? Do you think it was the male who did these acts and the female who’s the accomplice?” Jungkook shakes his head. “I don’t think so. That’s what I thought at the beginning, but then I listened to the recordings again and again, and for some reason, the male who gave the tip sounded...scared. While the female, it sounded like she was enjoying taunting us.” The older detective hums. It’s an interesting thought. Jungkook arrives at the end of his analysis. Having nothing left to say, he turns to his partner. “What do you think, Detective Kim?” Seokjin’s head knocks back on the wall as he considers the facts. But truth be told, he already has a theory of his own. “If the pattern still holds, then the phone booth duo are experienced criminals. They likely have some kind of history, some criminal background. They knew what they were doing.” Jungkook knows by the way he’s talking that he has an idea. “You were looking into the suspects of unsolved cases, right?” “I was.” “What did you find?” “L/N Y/N.” By the look on Jungkook’s face, it’s an unfamiliar name to him. “She was the only daughter of a cult leader. They were out in the middle of nowhere and called themselves the Seventh Sect. They murdered disobedient followers, women, children, the usual. She would’ve experienced emotional abuse as a child growing up in a place like that. She was educated though. Homeschooled. Got her GED.” Jungkook speculates, “So she’s likely to be socially competent.” “Probably on some level.” He pauses. “The entire cult was wiped out six years ago.” Jungkook turns his head and Seokjin can feel his stare piercing into his profile. “Most of them died by rat poisoning. The leader was ruled dead by suffocation and the others by carbon monoxide poisoning.” There’s a pattern that resembles the most recent cases and the realization makes Jungkook’s eyes widen. He’s sure now more than ever they have the person. “Funny enough, the only daughter of the cult leader disappeared. They couldn’t find her body. So they ruled her dead after a few months and that’s what everyone assumed.” Until now. “But maybe she isn’t.” It’s a theory, conjecture that would never be accepted by the general attorney or even the department. It’s circumstantial evidence at the end of the day. Yet deep down, Jungkook and Seokjin know what the truth is. It feels like they’ve solved the case together, albeit all in hypotheticals. “Then what about her accomplice?” Jungkook eagerly asks. “Do you know who he is?” “That’s where I have the most trouble,” Seokjin admits with a sigh. “All we know is that he’s about five foot eight, average physique, dark hair. Likely to be of Asian descent. And he most likely has self-control too.” “But I don't have any ideas on who he could be.” Seokjin looked hard enough that his eyes still sting and his brain throbs. All the people he considered fell through with one qualification or another. “I don’t know how much involvement he had. If he was strung along. Or if he orchestrated it.” “He probably orchestrated it,” Jungkook guesses, “It makes sense if Y/N was the one who did the killings, then it would make sense if he was the one who manipulated her and planned it all. He’s the mastermind. The one who came up with the idea for framing Min Yoongi, who wanted to leave the tip for Kim Namjoon, and who made Y/N taunt us. He used her like a puppet.” He hums. It’s all possible. “Maybe he’s someone from the Seventh Sect,” Jungkook offers. But Seokjin knows it’s all just hunches built on top of hunches. There’s no point in playing this game and naming potential criminals. There’s nothing they can do when they’re just standing at the back of the precinct as the rest of the department celebrates inside. It’s worthless when they’re unable to pursue their leads, follow through with their investigations. It’s merely another day of letting criminals go free. “Maybe.”

[Sunday 9:36pm] You’re about to be crowned the victor. Everything you’ve calculated played right into your hand and now all the efforts are going to be paid off. Jimin’s holding your hand as the two of you walk down the desolate road on the outskirts of town. The entrance to the underground area was just over the horizon. He would’ve driven instead of abandoning the car and walking, but you had convinced him the walk to victory is a lot better. Plus the weather was too nice to not take advantage of it and Jimin has to agree. The breeze is whisking against his cheeks, the sliver of the moonlight guiding your way, and he feels warm with you beside him. Especially with you happily humming. Jimin’s grown to quite like your voice. He could hear it forever if you’d let him. “After we win, I’ll treat you to whatever you want, Jiminnie. We can have all kinds of desserts if you want, how does that sound?” His cheeks are rounded with his grin. “Okay.” “Only okay?” You turn, pouting at him. “I’m giving you a gift here! Shouldn’t you show more appreciation?” He laughs. “Fine, I love it, alright?” You scoff playfully. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you.” Jimin grins to himself. The quietness away from the city is serene. He can’t hear the engines of cars or the noisy conversations of strangers — he doesn’t feel left behind. In this place, there’s only the hitch of your breaths, the synchronized footsteps, and every thought of his amplified to a thousand. “What are you planning to do afterwards, Y/N?” he asks after a moment. Jimin wonders if you’ll let him come with you. The pair of you could go to a place far away from here, where it’s just as quiet. Where he won’t have to worry. Where you both can leave all of this behind and no one could ever find him. It would be the perfect end. “I don’t know yet.” You spin to face him with another brilliant smile. “Maybe prepare.” He squeezes your hand. Forever with you sounds like all he wants. “For what?” “To play again next year, silly.” Jimin’s steps slow. The vision of going somewhere far away, of leaving it all behind, shatters just as quickly as it manifested itself inside his mind. The realization comes crashing down to him — there’s no end. “What?” “The games are annual, Jiminnie. Did you forget? I’m going to have to keep my title. If you follow me, I’ll even get you second place in no time!” There’s no end. “The two of us need to stick together.” There’s no end in sight. The past two days will repeat itself for the rest of his life. He’s stuck to you. Jimin halts on his heel and you turn your head with a frown. Your lips part as if you’re about to ask him what’s wrong, but you’re interrupted by the roar of a car. Attention taken, your eyes light up as you squint past the head beams piercing through the darkness coming closer and closer. “Look! I don’t think they’re a part of the games. How about we go for one more, Jiminnie?” Before he can say a word, you’ve left him behind — flagging down the vehicle, standing in the middle of the road. And the car screeches to a stop. It’s a young woman sitting in the driver seat alone. She looks at you and Jimin, but it’s hard to see him when he’s standing in the dark. The stranger rolls down the window as you round the car. “Are you alright? Do you need a lift?” He hears the stranger ask, oblivious to how her compassion is a demise. “No, it’s alright. My husband and I have a farm right around here. We were just taking a walk.” Before she can express her bewilderment, you beat her to the punch. “I just wanted to tell you that I think you have a flat tire.” “Oh my god! Really?!” Jimin flinches when he hears the seat belt come off. He looks up to see her get out of her car. “It’s over here,” you indicate. Then he hears a thump, a cry, a snicker. Jimin rounds the vehicle to see the young woman on the floor, her head bleeding as you grasp the pen from your pocket in your left hand. You stab her crown again with it, digging the tip into the skin and bone. The stranger shrieks in agony. “Y/N.” “N-no, p-pl-please.” The stranger is crawling away, fingernails scratching the asphalt. “Pl-please. I’m….sorr...y.” “Put on your blindfold, pet.” You smile at him and when he remains motionless, feet rooted into the roadside, you close the distance in three strides. You reach into his hoodie pocket for the strip of black cloth. All he sees is your smile before you’ve covered his eyes, tied the blindfold around with a bow at the back. “I’ll tell you when you can look.” Jimin hears the crunch of the pebbles as you walk away. This will never end. He hears the woman’s cries become panicked, breaths quick in hyperventilation. This will never end. He hears her screech and it reverberates in his eardrums. “P-Please!” This will never end. It will never be enough for you. He will never be enough for you. “S-Stop….s-som..eone!” Jimin’s hands reach up. He tugs down his blindfold. It flutters into his palm. It’s so easy — he barely had to graze it. Jimin takes one step towards your bent backside and as he does so, he reaches down, taking the jagged rock on the side of the road. It fits into his hand perfectly. He takes another stride and holds his breath. In the heat of the moment, Jimin swings his arm. The rock slams against the side of your head. You fall to the ground, gripping the wound, the in-between of your fingertips holding blood. “J-Jimin?” you whimper, eyes enlarged. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jimin never once looks away. He keeps his pupils trained on you, eyes bulged, not wasting a blink. While you’re still down, he gets on top of you, pinning your body to the concrete. He swings back again as you cry his name. “—imin.” He will never be enough for you. Why? Why?! After all he’s done! The blood splatters onto his cheek, his expression impassive as you sob. He remembers. The crimson coated floorboards, splattered on the yellow paisley wallpaper, on the popcorn ceiling of the living room. “Ji—…” The knocked over chairs, the picture frames thrown, the stench of iron in the two bedroom house heavy, the warmth of the blood. The same warmth he feels now sticking to his skin. He had no control of himself then. He was so angry. It was the heat of the moment. His mother spat on him for not giving her his money to buy her cigarettes, his father threatened to divorce her again and his younger brother stood by and just cried. They always liked him more than they liked him. Maybe that’s why Jimin dismembered his arms. Jimin might’ve blacked out then, he might’ve regretted when he came to his senses, but you were right. It wasn’t just an accident. And he most certainly has control of himself now. “J..i..m..in.” You’ve wrapped your hand around his wrist, but there isn’t any strength left of you. Jimin’s deranged when he swings. The image of running away with you cracks. He swings again. The vision of the peaceful and quiet life with you he’s yearned for splinters. He swings once more and there are no more calls of his name. The dream he had of you bursts. He’s maddened. Overwhelmed in the shade of crimson. You would never fulfill his delusion or even try to. And he would’ve been trapped, stuck by your side or become your enemy, forced to relieve this fearful nightmare over and over again. Your skull is cracked, eyes rolled to the back of your head, the whites of your eyes red. Streams of tears stain both sides of your cheeks. But Jimin never once looks away. Not until you’ve taken your last breath. Then, he’s finally free. Jimin tosses the rock dented by your head aside. He looks off at the distance where your last victim is still alive, slowly crawling away by her fingernails without ever glancing back. She’s still breathing to see the next day. He turns away from her, stumbling into the head beams of the car. His shadow is casted on the ground until it fades away. Jimin leaves behind the only person who would ever understand and accept him. The person he would never be enough for. … He knocks twice. The door slot slides open. Beady eyes look through. Jimin mutters the password and the door opens a moment later. The man standing by doesn’t comment even when he’s dripping in your blood. It’s a blur, the music playing, the bustle of the after-party, the way the others ironically move out of the way as if they’ve never seen blood before. Jimin’s no longer pushed aside. He wishes he could kill everyone here. Soon it all stops. The lights dim in favour of a shimmering spotlight on stage. He feels the person’s eyes on him with everyone else's, hears the clearing of a throat, listens to the useless congratulations and acknowledgment of efforts. Then, the announcement is made. It doesn’t make any sense. Yet, Jimin finds himself climbing the stairs, standing right on stage in the spotlight, being awarded some heavy metal like he just saved someone’s life. He looks into the eyes of the representative and exhales, “I killed Y/N.” “Yes, you did.” He says it like it's some kind of honour. “And for that, you took on all her kills.” “Isn’t it against the rules?” Jimin deadpans. It’s strange — he can’t really feel anything anymore. “Since when did serial killers follow rules?” the stranger jests. “Plus, isn’t it more interesting this way?” “Congratulations!” He turns towards the faceless audience a beat later. “The winner of the first annual Weekend Massacre is Park Jimin!”

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin angst #jimin scenario #this idea's been sitting in my files since 2017 #just never had the balls to write it lol #but I've always wanted to write a Hunger Games esque kind of thing and decided to combine it with serial killers #anyway I didn't want to romanticize killing in any way so I tried not to hold back.

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