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blackbleedingrose · 9 months ago

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Long Lost Morningstar - Part Two

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing(s): Charlie x reader (platonic), Vaggie x reader (platonic), Charlie x Vaggie

Genre: Fluff

Warning(s): minor cursing.

Notes: This is the second installment of LLM. This one will be going more in depth in (Y/N)'s life in Heaven and her relationship with Michael and Charlie. I will also be working on another Hazbin mini series (the one I mentioned in my last post) so part three will take a little longer - so, please, bare with me.

Words: 2215

"This is one of the reasons why I wanted to meet you in the first place. . . My full name is (Y/N) Demiurgos. Daughter of Archangel Michael Demiurgos".

(Y/N) Demiugros have lived in Heaven her entire life among the archangels, seraphims, and winners (human souls who ascended into Heaven after they died).

She, herself, was a seraphim - one with very large and beautiful wings; six in total.

Her father, Michael, was one of Heaven's archangel's and one of the Seven Virtues. He was the one who had created her from stardust.

At least, those were the stories she's been told her whole life.

Though, it was strange. . .

Her father had crafted her in his likeness and yet the two couldn't be more different.

Not to say Michael was a complete stiff or was lacking any sense of humor - in fact, all of the archangels had their own strange quirks. (Y/N) loved being around them and often shared their humor.

The problem here was. . . her curiosity.

She was a naturally curious being and would often dream of things most of Heaven would frown upon - like six-winged ducks.

As a child her curiosity would sometimes get the better of her and she would try to venture beyond the archangel's castle (where she lived with Michael and the other archangels).

Of course, Michael was always there to stop her from wandering too far.

It became evident that (Y/N)'s curiosity and wonderous spirit would only get worse if he didn't stop it right there and then.

He didn't want her to end up like her real parents.

What (Y/N) didn't know was that almost everything she has ever known was a complete lie.

Or that Michael was not her real father/parent.

That title rightfully belonged to Lucifer and Lilith Morningstar.

But, of course, no one who knew ever planned on telling her; so, instead they twisted the truth.

Michael told her all about what Lucifer and Lilith had done and how the two brought evil into humanity. An act that got them a one-way dropped elevator ride straight to Hell.

Obviously leaving out the part where Lucifer and Lilith were her real parents, and instead told her they were her estranged uncle and aunt.

He had hoped telling her this would stifle her growing curiosity and wandering enough to keep her out of trouble and from ending up exactly where his twin brother and his lover had all those years ago.

It also helped that ever since Lucifer and Lilith's trial, Heaven has been cracking down on teaching their residents obedience and the consequences of straying too far.

And for a long time it worked.

(Y/N) was one of Heaven's top students and a role model seraphim to all angels alike.

On the outside she was grace, obedience, and perfection personified - just as she was taught and just as Heaven wanted.

But on the inside, she was still that curious and wonderous spirit who would secretly write her dreams in a private journal she had to hide away in a pocket dimension with her magic.

(Y/N) yearned to venture outside of Heaven and explore all the different realms to see what they had to offer. Like the ones she's read from the books in Heaven's restricted section that she may or may not break into in the dead of night (she's a sneaky little sneaker :P).

Tales of archons, unique planets, and realms with distorted human desires would fill her head - her heart yearning to one day travel to those places herself.

But for now, her life was in Heaven as a role model seraphim whose curiosity and wandering was kept in check.

. . . Until she caught wind of the Princess of Hell's meeting by her fellow seraphim, Emily, during their weekly hangout.

(Y/N) was aware Lucifer and Lilith had a child born in Hell, but she never expected her demon cousin would ever be granted permission to enter Heaven.

She couldn't help but wonder what her cousin wanted with Heaven.

Whatever it was, it was big enough to warrant a whole trial with the Head Seraphim, Sera.

Oh, no - there goes her curiosity.

(Y/N) knew her father would frown upon her interacting with the daughter of the ones who damned humanity. . . but she couldn't help it! She really wanted to meet her cousin and see what she was like.

Maybe people in Hell weren't as bad as Heaven made them out to be.

Luckily for her, Emily was quite the chatterbox and told her all about how she and Sera were going to give a tour to the Princess of Hell and her partner, the hotel they were staying at, and the exact room number.

Before she went on her way, (Y/N) managed to get one of her doting simps friends to cover for her and her duties to avoid raising suspicion.

When Emily and Sera had finished talking to Heaven's demon guests and brought them to their hotel room, (Y/N) was hidden away in the hallway waiting until they left.

As soon as she was sure Sera and Emily were gone, (Y/N) quickly rushed to the door.

She silently psyched herself up before knocking.

Charlie and Vaggie, who were skeptical to hear a knock so fast, hesitantly opened the door.

"Uh. . . Hello?".

When Charlie opened the door she definitely wasn't expecting to see a very tall angel with long blonde hair, purple eyes, red cheek circle's, and a big smile on her pale face standing outside. For a moment Charlie could have sworn she was almost looking at her mother.

"Hello! You must be Charlie and Vaggie! Emily's told me all about you - well, the only things that she knew before meeting you. Haven't had the chance to ask her about you after meeting you, but since I'm here now I might as well as you yourselves!".

(Y/N) snapped out of her trailing thoughts and rambling, "Oh, shit! My bad! I got a little carried away and forgot to introduce myself. Sorry. My name is (Y/N). I'm a seraphim. It's so nice to finally meet you!"

Charlie and Vaggie had to recover from the whiplash of the seraphim's personality and onslaught of words. Not wanting to offend her and mess up her chance before the trial, Charlie invited (Y/N) inside. (Y/N) eagerly accepted and walked into the room admiring it - she's never been in a hotel before.

"So. . . why are you here?" Vaggie asked rather rudely suspicious of why a random seraphim would go out of their way to talk to people from Hell. "Vaggie!" Charlie whisper-yelled afraid she offended a potential high authority in Heaven.

"Oh, well, I was hoping to get a chance to meet you both. When Emily told me about how the Princess of Hell wanted a meeting in Heaven about her hotel to redeem sinners, I'll admit my curiosity was peaked and I knew I had to see who you were in person".

Charlie gasped, her eyes shining, "Does this mean you think it's possible to rehabilitate demons?!". Vaggie glared at the angelic being, "Why would a seraphim care to meet people like us?".

(Y/N) gave the two a gentle smile, "Well, I tend to be a naturally curious individual - which I'm sure you can imagine isn't something Heaven is too fond of. As for redeeming sinners - I'm not sure. Personally, I would love to see souls in Hell given the chance to be redeemed and enter Heaven. Especially the ones who truly do not deserve eternal damnation. Which is why I'm excited to see how your trial ends. Hopefully you have evidence to prove your hotel works. I mean, if the Princess of Hell is willing to vouch and put in the effort on giving sinners a better chance at an afterlife in paradise, then maybe not all demons are bad after all".

Charlie and Vaggie were awestruck. Sure, Emily was really nice but (Y/N) was the first angel to actually be willing to give them a chance. Charlie had tears in her eyes, "D-Do you really believe that?". (Y/N) smiled and laid her hand on Charlie's, "I do".

Charlie and Vaggie smiled at the seraphim. It was nice to see that there was one angel here in Heaven who wasn't going to shut them down right away - someone who genuinely supported their cause.

The three chatted some more - mainly Charlie and (Y/N) with Vaggie chiming in from time to time. Now that the three got more comfortable with each other, the conversation was going a lot smoother. Despite just meeting one another, Charlie and (Y/N) felt like they've known each other for years.

"So, what do you do here in Heaven?" Charlie asked (Y/N). "Oh! Well, I sometimes help the archangels with their duties, but I mainly work in court trials", (Y/N) answered. Charlie's eyes lit up, "Court trials?".

(Y/N) immediately caught on. She shook her head, "Oh, no. Not in the actual trials; that's for the higher seraphims. In this case, Sera and Emily. I'm just a stenographer and record keeper. I help keep and maintain the court records and sometimes record the trials in person".

Vaggie raised a brow, "A seraphim as a stenographer?". (Y/N) nodded, "It's actually a very important job. . . but, I won't lie and say it was my first choice for a job. It was my father's idea. His way of keeping me busy, entertained, and out of trouble".

Charlie blinked, "Oh! Who's your father?". (Y/N) bit her lip nervous, "This is one of the reasons why I wanted to meet you in the first place. . . My full name is (Y/N) Demiurgos. Daughter of Archangel Michael Demiurgos". Charlie and Vaggie's jaws dropped.

"Archangel Michael?! A-As in my dad's twin brother?!".

(Y/N) nodded fiddling nervously with her hands. Charlie did a double take, "Woah, woah! Wait! Then doesn't that make us-" "Cousins," (Y/N) confirmed. Charlie gasped placing her hands on her cheeks, "OMG! That's amazing!". (Y/N) smiled in relief, "Yeah. I guess it is".

"Who's your mom?" Charlie asked eagerly. "Oh, I don't have one," (Y/N) said rather casually. This made Charlie and Vaggie feel a bit bad, "Oh".

(Y/N) waved her hands, "Oh, it's not like that! I've never had one! You see most angels are typically created here in Heaven using stardust, which is how my father created me. He used his likeness and the female reference of Lilith - your mother. And thus, I was born".

"Oooh - that makes so much sense! Now, I understand why you look so familiar!" Charlie smiled at her newly found relative. She couldn't believe she had a cousin in Heaven. One so kind and beautiful.

(Y/N) was relieved at how fast Charlie accepted her. She was worried she might not be too fond of having an angelic relative.

Vaggie was a bit nervous to discover that (Y/N) was the daughter of a higher ranking angel, but it quickly went away when she saw how happy her and Charlie were talking to each other.

She's only known (Y/N) for a short while, but she truly believed the seraphim had no ill intentions towards them and genuinely wanted to get to know them.

In fact, (Y/N)'s personality reminded her a little of Charlie.

(Y/N) admired her cousin for her big heart and the confidence she had in her own dreams. She was ashamed to admit she was a little envious.

How she wished she could act on her dreams like her little cousin; but, Heaven would never allow it. Her father always had to remind her not to stray too far, or she might end up just like her uncle and aunt. . . Fallen.

This was why she had to always keep up appearances when she was in public. No one other than those closest to her knew of the dorky, cheerful, and quirky side of her personality. To everyone else she was poised, graceful, and elegant.

When Charlie had asked her about her dreams (Y/N) told her seraphims weren't allowed to dream, or at least have dreams that would go against Heaven's rules.

Despite trying to hide how much that bothered her, Charlie and Vaggie noticed the small shift in her behavior. They felt bad for her wishing Heaven could be more open minded.

(Y/N) quickly waved it off claiming she was okay and that she was used it. She understood her father just wanted to keep her safe and out of trouble.

Soon it was time for (Y/N) to go to avoid making her father suspicious of her whereabouts.

Before she left she and Charlie shared a tight loving hug. (Y/N) wished her good luck in her trial and that she would be rooting for her.

Hearing her cousin support her dream and wish her luck made Charlie feel a lot better about the trial.

Being around (Y/N) made her feel comfortable and safe. She felt familiar, which now makes sense seeing as the two were family.

Her dad couldn't be here, so it felt good knowing there was someone in her family here in Heaven who believed in her.

With those thoughts in mind, she was ready for the trial and positive she would change Heaven's mind and prove the hotel's credibility.

. . . Too bad things sometimes don't go as we hoped.

Taglist:

@soobryu @kyo-kyo1 @miyako-night20 @charliecharlie65 @unknow-sama @myluckymoon @lbcreations-blog @moonchaos18

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin charlie #hazbin lucifer #hazbin vaggie #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lilith #hazbin hotel lilith #hazbin hotel reader insert #charlie x vaggie

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colormepurplex2 · 10 months ago

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Did It Hurt? | Flicker of Hope

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 15,057 ⚠️ Crass language, unwanted drunken advances, being drugged, blackmail, descriptions of past sexual acts, hidden desires, criminal activity, alluded to SA & potential human trafficking/disappearances, Tae has feelings he’s trying to suppress, scars/vulnerability over past incidents

Next Chapter⇾ ⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

Taehyung, 100 years into exile, somewhere in Los Angeles

“Did it hurt?”

The words barely carry over the clamor of the nightclub. But, to Taehyung, they’re as clear as if they were spoken right into his ear. It makes his lips twist in disgust. Because who actually uses that line anymore?

Taehyung flicks his eyes over the scene in front of him. It’s a Friday night, and the place is filled with gyrating bodies and thumping bass. Some frat-boy wannabe is practically crawling into the lap of the goddess—and that’s thought with the utmost respect because it’s precisely what she looks like in her sleek black minidress, vibrant auburn curls, smokey makeup, and red-bottomed heels—sitting at the bar, trying to enjoy her fruity cocktail.

The way she angles her body away from the guy and pointedly stabs the little plastic red saber from her drink into a chunk of pineapple floating on top should be sign enough for the douchebag to clearly see she’s not interested.

“Idiot,” Taehyung murmurs under his breath before bringing his whisky on the rocks to his lips and taking a measured sip. He drums his fingers on the lacquered tabletop where he’s seated at one of the hightops a few feet away. This is one of his usual haunts, a place with the perfect blend of class and an underlying taste of debauchery. It should be the ideal hunting ground, however it remains to be fruitful. Though, perhaps his luck is about to change.

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Humor me. Did it hurt?”

There is a moment of hesitation with how the woman’s shoulders hitch up, and Taehyung watches as varying emotions flick across her face before she trains it back to a neutral expression. He can read her like an open book; too bad Douchebag can’t seem to. She’ll entertain him simply to avoid confrontation and make a scene. It's supposedly a polite way to try and thwart unwanted male attention; he’s seen it far too many times before.

“Did what hurt?” comes the exasperated reply. Her lips twitch into a strained smile that’s more of a grimace which Douchebag probably mistakes for being coy. The way her body curls in on itself, and she leans away from his pawing hands, makes Taehyung grind his molars. Human men are stupid; it's no wonder he’s had such a hard time finding any redeeming opportunities in the world.

“When you fell from heaven, angel.”

And there it is. Taehyung rolls his eyes, finishing his drink. “Insipid fool, of course it hurts to fall from Heaven,” he grumbles. A burning, phantom itch crawls up his spine, a reminder of just how much it hurts. It’s a moment in time that he relives every time he closes his eyes. Which, perhaps, can be blamed for why he’s grown so callous and flippant over the years. Nightmares will do that to someone, Seraphim or not.

“Does that really work?” the woman bites out before downing the rest of her drink and shoving the empty glass away. She’s out of her seat and trying to give Douchebag a wide berth before his snail brain can even catch up with her words.

It’s comical watching him finally get it. He throws his head back and guffaws loudly before stumbling in her direction. She goes to sidestep around him but is stopped short when she bumps into a barstool someone just slid back as they stood. Douchebag crowds her against the bar, and Taehyung is tempted to intervene, but something niggles at the back of his mind; he’s curious about what she’ll do.

“You tell me, is it working, angel?”

A saccharine smile curves her lips, baring her teeth in a mockery of flirtation. Taehyung wishes he could read her as easily as he did earlier, but somehow, she’s masking her emotions and intentions to the point her form nearly blurs across his vision.

“That remains to be seen. How about you let me try?” Her words are light and airy, intentionally being falsely sweet. Douchebag’s alcohol-soaked brain doesn’t pick up on the trap he’s about to fall into. Taehyung is thrilled. “Did it hurt?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at him. “Did what hurt?” Douchebag asks, teeth sinking into his bottom lip in what he surely believes is a sexy manner, but Taehyung thinks it comes off more like he’s constipated. “Me kneeing you in the balls.”

The words accompany the action. Her right knee comes up, and all Taehyung can see from this angle is the sudden doubling over of Douchebag. He sways heavily to the side, unsteady on his feet, as the woman pushes by him, a triumphant smile half-hidden behind a hand as she disappears into the crowd.

“How clever,” Taehyung muses to himself. He spares one last glance at the man still cupping the front of his jeans before following the tug of intrigue that’s swiftly escaping on 6-inch heels. He catches sight of the woman just as she slips out the front entrance of the bar.

It’s easy to pick her out on the sidewalk. Even if it weren’t for the distinct click-clack of her shoes on the pavement, he’d be able to follow her by sheer feeling alone. It’s been decades since he’s felt someone so clearly, so viscerally. Taehyung can’t stop until his curiosity has been satiated.

The woman doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She only goes a few city blocks down before she cuts across the street, her eyes flicking both ways as she crosses to the luxury apartment building on the corner.

Taehyung catches the flash of a sleek black and red card as she passes the porter. “Evening, ma’am.” The guard gives her a nod before bringing his attention back to the sidewalk.

There can only be one place that card gains her access to—the top floor penthouse. Taehyung gives the surrounding block a cursory glance, looking for the perfect vantage point. He appraises the angle of the top floor windows before skirting around the back of the building and quickly vaulting over the security fence. If his presence raises an alarm, he’s unaware of it as no one appears to question him.

It’s typical of these kinds of places. There is plenty of security on the front side, with no open windows and no direct buildings across that will allow someone to peep in on the residence. But, on the backside, past all the lavish greenery and the immaculate tennis and basketball courts? Taehyung glances up at the zigzag of the fire escape on the building directly behind the condominium highrise. Just as he expected, all it will take is him climbing the iron platforms, and he’ll have the perfect view through the backside of the penthouse.

He begins his ascent, easily pulling himself up and over the railing of the fire escape and making quick work of the several stories until he lines himself with the one he needs. The condominium is a few floors shorter than the building he’s scaling, making it even more comical that there is so little thought put into the security back here. Anyone worth their merit could do precisely what he’s doing. It’s laughable…and alarming.

Settling in on the fire escape platform of the eighth floor, he glances around to be sure whoever is attached to this particular landing won’t stumble across him somehow. The curtains over the windows are drawn, with no lights coming from within. Taking a calming breath of the tepid night air, he dangles his feet over the edge of the platform and rests his arms on one of the support bars of the railing.

Unsurprisingly, he made it up here faster than the woman, who he presumes must have taken the elevator. He’s always been known for his speed, even more so when he’s on the prowl for something. He might have lost his wings, but he’s kept nearly everything else: speed, heightened senses, and a penchant for picking up on the emotions of others. It’s insufferable, being neither mortal nor fully immortal, but a mockery of something in between.

From his vantage point, he can only see the penthouse’s elaborate sprawl of patio, the pool, and the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire back wall. The inside is dark save for the soft blue LED lights from the sleek kitchen appliances and an under-glow along the bottom of what he assumes is a flatscreen TV on the wall.

A few minutes pass, and then Taehyung watches as the light from the upper elevator lobby spills into the space, illuminating a sliver of the grossly opulent penthouse. The woman flicks a switch on a panel on the wall by the entry, and the living space floods with bright, white light. Everything is modern, with sleek lines and glaring metal.

Confusion makes Taehyung tuck his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to connect the decadent, vivacious creature that the woman is with such a jarring and emotionless space. It doesn’t make sense. Unless…

Taehyung smiles as he watches the woman pull out a black leather billfold from where it is hidden in her cleavage. She flips it open, briefly thumbing through the thick wad of cash and the pockets dense with credit cards. Even from this distance, with his heightened vision, he can clearly make out the license behind the plastic pocket. The smiling face belongs to none other than Douchebag from the bar. She picked his pocket. Taehyung can’t help but laugh with delight.

And now Taehyung is almost sure he knows why the penthouse doesn’t look like it belongs to her. It excites him to consider the prospect of finally getting an inkling of the mysterious puzzle that this goddess has become for him. In fact, he’s reasonably certain if he waits just a little bit longer, it will be confirmed.

A noise Taehyung can’t hear must draw her attention because she shoves the wallet back into her cleavage before spinning around. The door to the penthouse swings open, revealing a well-dressed businessman with a slimy grin on his face. Taehyung hopes all the more that he’s right about his guess.

The familiarity the man has with the place says it all. He tosses a set of keys onto the table by the entryway and toes off his brown leather brogues while undoing the buttons of his brown and cream tweed jacket. The jacket gets hung up in a closet, though the man’s eyes never leave the woman standing in the open living space. Her back is to Taehyung, so he can only guess that she’s speaking to the man with how he reacts and how attentive he’s being.

A predatory smile slowly forms on the man’s face as he advances on the woman. She stands her ground, her shoulders rolling slightly back as her chin tilts up. Before the man can grab her, she deftly moves to the side and pointedly directs herself to a wet bar across the living room. The man laughs, though it is silent to Taehyung’s ears, the thick double-paned glass proving to be more than even his hearing can work through.

It plays out like a silent comedy before Taehyung: the man gabs on, gesturing animatedly with his hands, probably boasting about his latest business conquest. At the same time, the woman remains silent, pouring him a finger of scotch. What the man doesn’t notice, for all his attention being focused mainly on himself, is the small packet of powder the woman produces that ends up tipped into the scotch glass.

She turns with a false smile on her face, offering the drink to the man. He takes it with a flourish and downs all the contents in one gulp. Carelessly tossing the glass to the side, where it lands on the leather sofa, he reaches for her again, only to come up short as he stumbles. He’s on his knees before he can right himself, a look of pure bewildered confusion on his face before his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he pitches forward in a heavy heap.

Taehyung smiles, his curiosity doubling as he tries to piece together what might happen next. What started as a bit of entertainment at the bar has come full circle into a spectacular show that Taehyung is grateful he has a front-row seat to. Maybe he’s finally getting a break after nearly one hundred years of searching. Perhaps this is his path back into the Arms of Grace…or the failure that will seal his fate in the 9th Circle. He sighs, resting his chin on his forearm where it’s draped over the support bar of the railing, and waits patiently.

🤍🤍🤍

Roy Simmons is an arrogant pig; there’s no doubt about that. Even passed out the way he is with his mouth open and drool beginning to drip from the corner of his lips, he still looks every bit like an asshole, which is precisely why you’re doing what you’re doing. He’s just the next rung on a long ladder of revenge.

This is your third time coming to Roy’s place. The first was to establish contact, the second was simply to dig your claws into him a little more, and now you’re ready for the grand finale. But, it’s not like you want to be here, not really. It’s just a means to an end. Well, multiple endings. It puts a stop to creeps like Roy from hurting innocent people, but it also puts you one step closer, the final step really, to him—Lorren Bianchi, the man responsible for the death of your best friend, Danika.

She died two years ago at the hands of Bianchi. It was supposed to be a routine night, just something to earn a little extra money as Danika put herself through nursing school. She had become an escort; nothing serious, just being arm candy for rich men. But, it went sideways…really sideways when she met Lorren Bianchi. The man put a leash around Danika’s neck and never let her go. It still pains you to think about it. The only balm to ease the ache is the prospect of watching him suffer the way she did.

Roy works for Bianchi. As have all the other losers you’ve sunk your teeth into over the last two years. They’re all part of the same end game. You’re climbing your own corporate ladder of sorts; one built from blackmail and seething hate. Speaking of which, you turn back to Roy, shoving his shoulder with your heel until he rolls over onto his back.

Grabbing his wrists, you heave and jerk until you manage to drag him across the floor and into the adjoining main bedroom. This penthouse is the one he uses when he wants a night away from his wife, which is more often than not. You know he gave her an excuse tonight of working late so he’d just crash at his downtown place before coming home tomorrow morning for the weekend.

It makes you feel bad thinking about the woman who attached herself to such a despicable man and how you’ve knowingly slept with her husband. But, it’s honestly the leverage you need to take Roy down. You know they signed a hefty prenup, required by her father when they got married. The perks of coming from another well-to-do business family, you suppose. If something happens, she walks away with over half his money and holdings in the business. He would go from being in the top ten wealthiest men in the city to just another blip on the radar. Which is why you know he’ll crack; he’ll give you exactly what you want.

Maneuvering him onto the bed is nearly as tricky as it is to strip off his clothing. You think maybe you should have waited to drug him until he was already naked and on the bed, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. Finally, once you’ve gotten him positioned into the middle of the bed, his pasty, fleshy body spread eagle, you dig for the restraints you know he has installed in the posts. You tighten them around his ankles and wrists, perhaps a little tighter than they should go, but you can’t find it in you to care; let him hurt.

Because he’s a sick fuck, you know there is also video recording equipment in the closet. The asshole has an entire box full of discs labeled with not names, no, but features. Big tits, round ass, blue eyes, braids, chin dimple…the list goes on, each DVD with their own scrawl in permanent marker. You stumbled across them the second time you were here when you managed to put him into a drunken stupor to the point he passed out in the shower, leaving you to snoop.

You were looking for anything that might hold a list of his personal contacts. In the end, you found that and so much more, which is why you bumped up your finale for Mr. Simmons. The sooner you take him down, the quicker his grubby hands stay to himself, and he can’t lure in any more unsuspecting women.

Grabbing the tripod from the closet, you position your phone on the contraption, angling it to get a full view of the bed. As you stand there, assessing your work, you get a weird tingling sensation between your shoulder blades. Oddly, you feel like you’re being watched. Though, you know, being in the penthouse, that should be impossible. There is no building directly behind the condominium.

No matter how much you twitch your shoulders and tell yourself to ignore the sensation, it won't disappear. So, to humor yourself, you turn and peer out the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the back wall of the bedroom. The glass stretches across the entire backside, broken up only by the backdoor and the vertical supports between each giant pane.

All you can see is the back patio. The lip of the pool is just barely visible, highlighted by the twinkling fairy lights strung around the garden. The closest building is easily a city block and a half away, with enough room for tennis and basketball courts to separate the condominium property and the next building. It would only be possible for someone to be watching you if they had some sort of telephoto lens or something.

But that would mean Roy knew, or someone else figured it out and had been following you. Which, at this point, let them watch. You have enough evidence to bury half the city as it is. What you’re doing might be illegal; blackmailing someone is never smiled upon, you don’t think. However, you’re confident you’d get a clap on the back for a job well done instead of a clap on the wrist with a bit of metal.

Roy begins to groan and shift around on the bed. Which means it’s showtime.

You click the button to record as soon as he utters, “What the fuck?” Only it comes out half coherent and accompanied by a generous dribble of saliva down his chin. It would be just like him to look like a blubbering man-baby as he comes to. He’s whimpering between mutters, finally gaining enough coherency to realize what’s happening.

“Hello, Roy,” you say, drawing his attention to where you stand behind the tripod holding your phone.

“Ginger,” Roy sighs what he believes is your name, in relief. “Ginger, baby, what are you up to? Is this some new kink you want to try out? I have to say, I don’t know if I’m a fan.” He chuckles nervously, tugging at the restraints. “Loosen these for me, will you, baby?”

“What’s the matter, Roy, don’t like being the helpless one?”

He smirks, tugging more, trying to sit up. The ties are tight, leaving little slack for him to move much other than his central bulk. His hips flex, the flabby meat of his stomach jiggling as he wiggles around. “Okay, baby, I’ll bite. What do I gotta do to get you to take these off?”

“Do you remember what we did last weekend?” you muse softly, laying the first layer of the trap.

Roy gives you an appreciative up and down. “You mean when I shoved your face in the pillow and pounded your sassy little tail until you screamed? Or how about when I shoved my cock so far down your throat that you gagged?”

You internally roll your eyes, not wanting to break character just yet. “Sure, Roy, what else?”

“Let’s see. Oh, can’t forget how I sprayed my cum all over those pretty tits of yours before I made you rub it into your skin.” The flaccid appendage between his thighs gives a jerk. “That was probably my favorite part.”

Your skin crawls at the memory. You nearly scalded yourself in the shower once you got home, turning the water so hot it made you cry out, and the heat lingered long after. “I’m not the first, though, am I? The first you’ve done all that with, I mean.”

“Awe, Ginger, baby, all those other women meant nothing to me. You’re my favorite. Now, let me show you just how much I love that tight body of yours. Untie me.”

You step to the side of the tripod, and Roy’s eyes light up in triumph. “Hmm...I don’t think I will. Not until you give me what I want, at least.”

Roy wiggles his hips. “Come take what you want, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh, the peeling litany echoing through the room as you give in to the dark humor of the situation. “Oh, Roy, that’s hilarious. You could be a comedian.”

The smile slowly leeches from his face, and lines appear between his brows as he narrows them. “What the hell are you going on about? Untie me. Now.”

“It’s simple, Roy. The last thing I want is your wimpy dick. Once was enough and quite pitiful, I might add. Though, while we’re on the subject of sticking your dick in places, why don’t you say ‘hello’ to Miriam and explain to her why we’re even having this particular conversation?” You nod at the phone on the tripod.

He pales, sweat popping up along his receding hairline. “You’re lying.”

“Oh, how I wish I were,” you say, reciting off Miriam’s phone number to prove how much you’re not. “All I have to do is hit send, Roy, and you can kiss seventy-five percent of your assets goodbye. Prenups are a bitch, huh? If I’m not mistaken, part of it specifically says no affairs or adultery of any kind. Hell, with that, she might even try to take more than that for simply being the disgusting asshole that you are.”

His struggle stops, and you can audibly hear him swallow. “What do you want from me?” he asks, licking his trembling lips.

You reach back and turn off the recording, quickly sending it off to several different places, so you have copies just in case. You tell Roy just as much, giving him a pointed look when he tries to open his mouth to protest. “What I want is very simple, Roy,” you begin before laying it all out for him. His eyes grow wide as you explain, shaking his head in protest with each additional request until you’re almost sure tears are gathering in his eyes.

“That’s impossible,” he whispers thickly.

“You better hope it’s not, for your own sake.” You grab your phone and turn to leave, knowing the maid will find him when she comes by to clean in the morning. “Oh, and Roy?” You glance back over your shoulder at him, “Don’t do anything stupid, like trying to find a way out of this. You deliver, or I do.” You shake your phone, waving it at him as a reminder of what you have.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

In all his years among mortals, he’s never found himself so wholly and utterly intrigued. There have been instances, especially in the early years of his exile, where he found himself hounding after anyone who even remotely seemed like a redemption opportunity. He salivated at the prospect of serving his time and swiftly regaining his wings.

Heavens Above, there was even a time when Taehyung thought perhaps if he could find a damned soul and deliver them as soon as possible, it would curry favor with his Brothers, and they would welcome him back sooner than his one-hundred prospected years. He gave up that pipe dream around the twenty-year mark.

It’s not that he’s grown to enjoy the mortal plane, not exactly. There’s just something freeing about being able to live a little and breathe deeper without worrying about stepping on toes or crossing some divine line drawn in the sand. These thoughts are kept personal, of course.

Taehyung knows if his Brothers ever caught wind of his musings and the way he’s grown to resent them over the years, they’d slam the Pearly Gates and throw away the key along with his wings, which are probably covered in dust and molting away in a corner somewhere. That phantom itch comes alive once more, lingering heat and pain web across his shoulders before he can stop it.

Directing his focus back on the woman, he watches as she saunters from the room, all haughty confidence and severity. It’s not until she’s out of sight of the pitiful man on the bed that her shoulders droop like there’s a heavy weight bearing down on them. He can see it now, something he was distracted from before; there is a haggardness around her bright eyes and a tightness around the curve of her lips.

A sensation he hasn’t felt since—well, since one hundred years ago—twists in his chest as he watches her dig through the coat closet by the door. Taehyung’s brows draw down as she pulls out a backpack and stands there staring down at it. The fact she’s lingering in the penthouse worries him. He’s unsure what she’s doing or what the bag is for. She didn’t come in with anything that he could see, no purse or clutch. Spinning on her heel, she marches back to the bedroom, startling the man on the bed. He starts to yell at her, Taehyung thinks, based on how wide his mouth opens and how red he grows in the face.

It’s comical, watching the man cut off whatever he’s saying and nearly swallow his tongue when the woman holds up her phone threateningly. Taehyung wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but he’s slowly been putting together the pieces, he believes.

She moves to the closet, stooping down to the point Taehyung can only see the red bottoms of her heels and the barest hint of the curve of her ass. He swallows hard, tucking away the tempting thought that springs up with that appraisal. Sexual deviance is what landed him where he is. It’s a fine line to walk, which he’s mostly avoided for the last hundred years.

A few moments later, she emerges from the closet, the backpack bulging. The man closes his eyes, his lips pressed into a trembling line as she moves back across the room and exits once again. This time, she doesn’t stop, swiftly making her escape through the front door.

Taehyung looks down, contemplating how long it’ll take him to descend and make it back to the front side of the building in time to catch the woman coming out. He stands up, lightly brushing his hands along his slacks, and absently smoothes his white dress shirt. He might have dressed a little more appropriately if he had known he was going on such an adventure tonight. As it is, the suede Tom Ford loafers on his feet have acquired some scuffs and unsightly stains.

Before he can lament over his shoes anymore, he quickly makes his way down the zig-zag of the fire escape. Taking his time, he traverses the condominium grounds and easily climbs back over the fence before leisurely strolling down the service alley and onto the sidewalk just as the front door swings open and the porter bids a good evening to the goddess. If the porter finds it odd she is leaving with a bag she didn’t go in with, he doesn’t mention it.

Following a dozen feet behind, Taehyung watches as the woman slings the backpack over a shoulder and takes off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Again, she doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She either lives nearby or perhaps has an ulterior motive to avoiding those places in particular.

Considering his long legs and stride, it doesn’t take much to keep up with her. The heels slow her down considerably as well, but Taehyung also realizes that she’s on the slighter side, height mostly being attributed to said shoes, it seems. It’s hard not to watch her body bounce and sway because of them, too. They cause an exaggerated sway to her hips, which already seem quite daring on their own.

Clearing his throat, he forces himself to think of something other than her hips, like what’s in that bag that was so important she chose to go back into that bedroom. Taehyung’s curiosity doesn’t need to last long as she turns down the next cross street and approaches a nondescript apartment building. There is no porter out front, just a simple iron gate in front of a quaint garden that she gains access through with a keycode.

If he were anyone else, he would miss the code completely, being several yards behind her. But he’s not anyone else; he’s Taehyung—a fallen angel complete with heightened senses, including eyesight. 1306, and he has just as much access as she does. Perhaps it should feel like a violation of her privacy, but considering what he witnessed her doing earlier, he feels it’s mildly justified. Now, to just get a little closer.

“Hello? Excuse me?” Taehyung calls out, shoving his hand in his pocket and grabbing whatever his fingers close around. He glances at his hand, noting the two rumpled one hundred dollar bills now pinched in his fingers. “I believe you dropped these just a moment ago as you crossed the street.”

Cool, calculating eyes flick over him before landing on the proffered bills. She didn’t drop them, but if anything he’s observed proves helpful, he’s reasonably sure she’ll take the bills–the bait–anyway.

Her appraising gaze settles on his eyes for a moment as if she’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s a threat before they dip to the money again. She hesitates only a second, long enough that Taehyung knows she’s far more competent than he gave her credit for. She’s cautious, which is good.

“Hm,” she softly hums. “So I did. Thank you.”

The touch of her skin against his is electric, a zing that he’s experienced a few times over the last century. It’s the feel of a soul on the brink of disaster, a subtle taste of darkness lingering around her edges. Taehyung doesn’t immediately release the bills, wanting to brand the feel of her fingers brushing alongside his for as long as possible.

“You’re welcome…” he trails off, raising his brows and tilting his chin in question.

“Ginger,” she offers, a fake smile straining her lips as she gives a sharp tug to the money, pulling it from his fingers.

The name grates, sliding over his mind like razors. A lie; of course she would give a false name. It’s poised on the tip of his tongue to call her bluff, to implore for her real name, but he knows he needs to tread lightly with this one.

“Ginger,” he repeats, the name pinching his tongue with the lie. “Charmed. I’m Taehyung, Kim,” he tacks on to see if the name might trigger something for her.

Her eyes flick over him once more, what might be mistaken as recognition flashing in their depths. “Yeah, okay. Thanks again, Taehyung. Have a good evening.”

It’s a dismissal. He knows that and can sense the unease that’s thrumming from her body, so he relents. Stepping back, he nods his head and makes to go back down the sidewalk from the direction he approached. “You, too,” he calls over his shoulder to the already empty sidewalk.

Taehyung stops just shy of the next building, listening to the telltale signs that she’s gone in. The soft snick of metal, the hushed tap of her heels over the front welcome mat, the equally quiet click of the door opening, and her murmured “fucking hell” before she steals away beyond it.

It’s easy to follow, punching in the four-digit code he observed. “Seventh floor,” Taehyung murmurs to himself as he watches the digital display above the elevator stop. It’s fitting, he thinks, considering she was just on the seventh floor of that highrise, binding that businessman to the bed. Maybe seven is her lucky number. He hopes so; he’s partial to it himself.

🤍🤍🤍

Tonight could have gone much better, but it wasn’t a complete disaster either. An easy smirk slides onto your face when you toss the two hundred dollars on the dining table. “What a fucking idiot,” you muse to yourself, proceeding to drop off your other winnings for the night. Douchebag’s wallet makes a satisfying thud on the glass surface, thick with cash and untold possibilities. “If you wanted to give up two just to say ‘hi’, I won’t complain.” Though there is something you feel you should know, something about his name almost seemed familiar.

You shrug and turn your attention to everything else. Fingering the zipper on the backpack sobers you quickly, the random encounter downstairs disappearing from your thoughts completely. The DVD collection is far less enjoyable of a prize tonight. It’s daunting to think about how long it will take to try and track down the victims. Because that’s what they are to you. Even if they knew about the recordings, which you’re certain most didn’t, it still feels like a gross violation that Roy hoarded them like sick treasures.

“So itchy,” you grump, grabbing a fistful of the stark auburn curls atop your head. With achingly slow movements, you ease the wig away. The tape and glue tug, but with a practiced hand, you finally get it off with minimal irritation. It joins the pile on the table, to be dealt with when you have more energy. Right now, all you want is a shower and your bed.

You don’t bother turning on any of the lights, intimately comfortable in your own space that you can navigate it with your eyes closed. Abandoning your heels by the table, you shrug out of the body-hugging dress, leaving it in a puddle somewhere between the living room and your bedroom, and make your way to the bathroom.

All you want to do is take a shower and fall into a near-comatose state for the next twenty-four hours while you wait for Roy to deliver. The shower part goes well; the hot water helps to relax the anxiety and tension that seem to reside permanently in your shoulders.

However, once you slip beneath the duvet and close your eyes for sleep, your body feels like it’s high-strung with electricity. Restlessness hums beneath your skin. Not wanting to spend the next several hours trying to convince your body it needs sleep, you feel around in the side drawer of your nightstand until you find what you want.

The sleeping pills go down dry; you don’t have the energy to get up and grab a glass of water. Now, to just wait for them to take effect. You fuss with the edge of the duvet, folding the fabric and rubbing it between your fingers over and over. The goosedown and satin set is one of the only luxuries you’ve allowed yourself over the last two years. It’s not that you’re punishing yourself. You just don’t want to waste extra time or energy on creature comforts when so much still needs to be done.

Your chest aches every time you stop to think about Danika. She would berate you for spending so much time focused on her rather than going out there and living your life. You just can’t help it; in many ways, you feel responsible for what happened. Sure, you didn’t make Lorren Bianchi kill her, but you might as well have delivered her right into his murderous hands.

It was your idea to sign up for the escort service, swearing it was just for fun and extra money; that surely all those movies and shows were just being dramatic for cinematic reasons. Oh, how you wish that were the case.

Not a single day goes by that you don’t think about how much you wish it were just an exaggeration. The icing on the cake, though? Lorren was supposed to be your client. But you got your schedule mixed up and overbooked yourself that night. Danika said she could use the extra cash and volunteered to take the commitment.

Everything changed after that. Lorren poured thousands of dollars into wining and dining Danika over the next few months. She slowly started to pull away, spending time with him even outside the allotted dates scheduled with the service.

Then, one day, you woke up, and she hadn’t returned to your shared apartment. It was excruciating waiting an entire twenty-four hours before calling the cops and an even worse week waiting for them to do something. They never did. It wasn’t until a month after you first reported her missing that something happened. Her body was found, floating down the Los Angeles River just outside Burbank. Strangled, tossed out with the trash.

You’ll never forget being called in to identify her remains. Danika had no family, just you. Her parents moved to the States from Russia when she was just a few years old. They both passed the summer before sophomore year in high school, putting her in the foster system. You met her freshman year of college. She was your dorm mate and started off so quiet and reserved. Little did you know she was just trying not to fall apart on the inside.

One night, you came in late from a cram session in the library to find her crying, sitting in the middle of the floor with faded family photos arrayed around her. She tried to apologize and beg off talking, but you slowly coaxed her into opening up. You had been inseparable ever since.

It’s not fair. She was far too young and had so much more to give in life. Graduation was just around the corner when it all came crumbling down. You try to summon the memory of her laugh, just to have something to cling to, but it’s muted as your thoughts grow fuzzy. The memories fade, and the pain and ache from the loss of Danika washed away on a pill-laden sleep.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

It’s been two hours since you–his goddess–disappeared upstairs. He doesn’t stop to think about how he’s already considering you to be his; it just feels right. And who is he to question that? Taehyung has long since stopped sending up prayers; they are never answered anyway. However, for some reason, he finds himself taking a moment to center himself, which consists of a quick mutterance of peace. It’ll have to do.

There are four units on the seventh floor. But it’s easy enough to guess which belongs to you. Two of the doors are decorated in full-blown holiday decor, bright colors and themed welcome mats. He doesn’t have to know you deeply to understand that’s not your style. The last two are more similar. Though, the closer he looks, the more evident it is which unit is yours, considering the ‘BYOB, bring your own babes’ welcome mat situated in front of one. For some reason, he doesn’t think that’s quite your style, either. The far more plain, yet inviting, ‘welcome’ is his guess.

The lock on the door is easy to pick. There is no security, no cameras or electronic keypads, which would ruffle his feathers—if he still had them. He’ll have to address that later, once he’s established himself within your life somehow.

The door to your apartment opens on silent hinges once he slides the small set of tools back into his wallet. They’re something he took to carrying around after locking himself out of his own place one too many times. A key is so easily lost, such a small, tedious, and fumbly little thing; even tucked in his wallet, it would often fall out.

Taehyung doesn’t have friends, per se, so it’s not like he can let someone hang on to a spare for him. He used to luxuriate in the solitude, spending countless hours sequestered behind closed doors as a means to reflect on his actions and seek repentance. Now, though, he realizes he’s grown quite lonely—no time like the present to change that.

Closing the door just as softly behind him, he toes off his shoes and takes in the space around him. He can tell instantly that he was right in this being your place, it smells of you. It’s not as lavish or garishly expensive as the penthouse was, but it’s also relatively devoid of personality. There is no permanence to the place. Very minimal, and as if you could easily pick up one moment and be gone without a thought of much effort.

So, you’re a runner. Or some close equivalent. That could prove troublesome for him if you decide to pick up and move off now that whatever game you were playing with the sleazeball from the penthouse seems to be done. He’s not sure how easy it would be for him to track you. So, he now wonders, is there anything else keeping you here? He hopes to find the answer to that somewhere among your scant things.

It doesn’t take long to browse through the kitchen and the living room. There are only a few dishes in the cabinets, nothing fancy, just the basics. There is a sofa in the living room and a small flatscreen TV sitting on the floor. The thin layer of dust sitting on the remote lets him know you don’t spend your free time keeping up with the latest TV drama.

The space is minimally furnished, but there is still a class to it. It’s a newer building, and the living area is expansive compared to most places in the city proper. The dining table sits between the kitchen and living room, holding the only items that seem to be remotely interesting.

Taehyung recognizes the backpack and the billfold. Derrek Lanier, a fitting name for Douchebag. He sets the wallet back down, going for the bag next. It’s filled with DVD cases; the matte covers all sporting white stickers with handwritten titles. However, titles are a loose interpretation of what these seem to be. The labels all just list physical features instead of proper names. Taehyung almost wishes he had visited the penthouse after you left. This isn’t painting a pretty picture for the guy.

Before his anger can get the best of him and make him abandon this in favor of doing just that, his eye catches on a pile of red fluffy curls sitting behind the backpack. He fingers a ringlet, holding back a chuckle when he realizes it’s a wig. It's a very fine, quality wig. He’s pleasantly surprised. What other astounding things do you have waiting for him? He’s even more eager to get to your bedroom now.

The hardwood floor is cold under his socked feet as they whisper down the hall. There are three doors, two closed and one ajar. Peeking into the open door, he gives the bathroom a once over. It’s clean, smelling lightly of floral body wash with an underlying burn of bleach.

Taking his chance on the first closed door, he slowly turns the knob and pushes it open. The room beyond is empty, completely devoid of furniture or belongings. The air feels stale, like the room is never used, perhaps even forgotten. He’s just about to turn and close the door when he notices that the closet door of the room is not closed all the way.

Perhaps it's his curiosity about why the door is open when no one is clearly using this room, or maybe it’s a sixth sense Taehyung has that draws him to it. But he gnaws his bottom lip for a moment before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He approaches the closet tentatively, readying himself for disappointment.

The click of the light switch sounds muted in comparison to the gasp he emits when light floods the small space of the closet. If he weren’t so distracted, he might have cursed himself for being so careless like that.

“Hells Fire,” he whispers, taking in the four walls completely covered in pictures, sticky notes, and sheets of paper.

It’s like something straight out of a crime show. He’s wiled away enough hours consuming that kind of brain rot to know. The only thing missing is the red yarn stretching between push pins connecting the scatter of photos.

It’s a murder board. That much is clear, though. Some of the images have red Xs drawn on them. Looking close enough, he recognizes some of the faces—well-to-do businessmen, just like the one from tonight. There are a few scanner copies of autopsy reports and some X-ray photos, though none look masculine. As far as he’s aware, none of these men have died. They’re all still very much alive and still very wealthy.

So, maybe not a murder board…but what?

Pulling out his phone, Taehyung takes a few photos of the display, hoping to be able to spend more time deciphering it when he’s not sneaking around your apartment with the risk of getting caught.

A small cardboard box sits in a corner. Taehyung peels back one of the flaps, peeking inside. There are two pictures, both in frames, a small wooden jewelry box, and a deflated Valentine balloon still attached to the plastic stick.

Grabbing one of the frames, Taehyung squints at the grainy, dated photo. It’s of a man and a woman, the sepia tones indicating its age. There is some water damage along the edges, as if the image were saved from a damp space before being put into the simple black frame.

The other frame is more stylish, reminiscent of the 90s, with rainbow flowers and smiley faces around the rim. He recognizes one of the two girls in the picture. At least, he believes it’s a younger version of you. The girl has the same eyes, if more full of life, and the same mouth, just less severe.

The girls are laughing, arms wrapped around each other as they face the camera. Taehyung can’t help but smile as he looks at it. Their joy infectious even through a snapshot like this. He brushes a finger over your smile before letting his digit swipe over the platinum blond hair of the other girl. Her twinkling blue eyes pour into the camera, holding a vibrancy that speaks of a careless and loving attitude.

A line forms between Taehyung's brows. The longer he looks at the photo, the more it sparks a recollection. Straightening from where he was crouching down beside the box, he holds up the picture and looks from it to the wall and back again–searching.

Dread, a cold trickle, seeps down his spine when he realizes why the girl looks familiar. Looking closer, he compares the black and white photocopy from the autopsy report to the smiling blonde in the frame. It’s easier to connect the dots now. Clearly, something happened to this girl—Danika Petrov, according to the report—and you’re out for revenge of some sort.

Shaking his head, Taehyung takes a quick shot of the photo in his hand before returning it to the box and turning out the light. He’s learned a lot, far more than he thought he would. There’s a lot to mull over. But first, he has one more place he wishes to explore before he leaves.

Taehyung is extra quiet as he eases the door open to your bedroom. It’s just as devoid of things as everywhere else. Your bed sits against one wall, centered between two heavily curtained windows. The mound in the middle of the bed calls to him. But, first things first, a look around so he doesn’t miss anything with the distraction.

There is no bathroom attached, just a walk-in closet that holds scant clothing and shoes. The single bedside table has a phone, lamp, and a white pill bottle sitting on it. Upon closer inspection, Taehyung sees that the bottle is sleeping pills. It makes him curious about what kind of nightmares you have in order to need assistance sleeping. With everything he’s seen so far, he doesn’t have to imagine much.

Easing open the small drawer on the nightstand, he smiles in triumph. Peeking out under the corner of some miscellaneous items, a blank notepad, pen, hair ties, tweezers, and a tube of lip balm, he sees the edge of a passport. Delicately extracting the tiny book, he flips it open and beholds the most coveted information he could have hoped to find.

There, displayed before him, is all your information. Your legal name–well, that is unless this is a fake, and at which, if it is, then Taehyung has to admit it’s a damn good fake–date of birth, birthplace, it’s all the basics he needs.

Movement on the bed beside him makes him freeze, not even daring to breathe as you roll over and unconsciously push the duvet down around your waist. You sleep in the nude. Of course you do. Taehyung swallows thickly, eyes glued to your sleeping form. It’s like you’re begging him to screw this up, to make a mistake.

Biting his tongue until he tastes the tang of blood, he tears his gaze away from your pebbling nipples and deftly replaces the passport, making his escape back into your living room. He’s breathing hard, heart beating erratically in his chest. The front of his trousers is tight, uncomfortable, as he battles against his baser desires.

You’d think being a holy being would mean he had better control over these things. Apparently, Angels–even fallen ones–are just as culpable of unholy thoughts as humans—guilt twists in his chest. It’s things like this that are what landed him here, to begin with.

Shoving aside the intruding thoughts and feelings, he smoothes a hand down the front of his dress shirt before shoving his feet back into his shoes. Now, he has an idea of who you are and what your game is. He just needs to figure out how to make himself a part of it—starting with finding out more about Danika; she seems to be central to your motivations, and now she’s part of his.

🤍🤍🤍

It’s disconcerting to wake up and feel like someone has invaded your space. Yet, nothing is amiss no matter where you look or how hard you try to find something. It’s similar to what you felt last night in Roy’s penthouse, that itch between your shoulder blades like someone had eyes on you, except now it feels like they’re beneath your skin; just a breath away.

Chalking it up to a bad trip with the sleeping pills, you carry on with your day. You have a lot to do and little time to accomplish it.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite vigilante. To what do I owe this pleasure, Ging?” Ryan’s sleep-rough voice crackles through the line of the burner phone you’re using.

“Morning, Ry. Put the pot on. I’ll be over in a few. Got something for you to sink your teeth into.”

Before he can respond, you disconnect the call, knowing he’ll be far too curious to turn you away when you show up at his door. Ryan Weller is as close to a friend as you’ve got these days. He’s been a good guy to you over the years, always treated you like a little sister, the same as he treated Danika. They were fostered together after her parents passed. When she died, you were all each other had left of her, a sort of pseudo lifeline to Danika—you both refuse to let go.

It only takes twenty minutes to walk to Ryan’s place. You pull on some jeans and a t-shirt, grab the backpack and wallet, and lock up on your way out. As your key slides out of the knob, you can’t help but stop and brush your thumb over the smooth brass handle. It looks the same as it always has…except, does it feel looser? You jiggle the knob and then shake your head, puffing out your cheeks. Your paranoia must be getting the best of you.

Slinging the backpack over your shoulder, you hit the call button for the elevator. The street is bustling, just a typical Saturday morning for this area. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, but after Danika, you needed to get away from the apartment you shared but also wanted to situate yourself closer to the wolves you’d be hunting.

Ryan lives in the area by choice, having moved there almost a year before Danika was lost. He’s not the typical well-to-do-business guy, but he makes plenty of money as a private investigator. Or, at least, that’s what the placard on his door says he is. Considering what he does for you, you know it’s not all on the books or legal, which is just fine by you.

You don’t bother knocking, knowing Ryan will have unlocked the door for you already. His space is open-concept, all the rooms–sans the bath and bedrooms–bleeding together. The windows along the back wall are open, letting in a flood of daylight that dapples the space in warmth. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand. “What do we have this time?”

Dropping the backpack on the floor beside the dining table, you gesture at his laptop that’s already sitting open on the surface and set the wallet beside it. “Some money for you, for starters. And this,” you nudge the bag with your foot, “has videos of about a dozen girls I’d like you to try and track down using your magic machine.”

“Magic machine?” he asks, raising a bright strawberry-blond eyebrow.

Ryan is conventionally attractive, with natural russet highlights feathered through his wheat-colored hair and charming moss-green eyes, with a straight aristocratic nose sitting above perfect bow-shaped lips. If he were anyone other than who he is, he might have been someone you’d pursue. As it is, though, the thought of Ryan like that gives you the ick. He looks like a model; his grey sweats and a crimson jersey knit top belong in some Abercrombie ad for loungewear.

“Coffee first,” you whine, making grabby hands toward the cup he’s holding. “Then I’ll explain.”

Ryan laughs, handing off the cup and grabbing another for himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the only reason you ever come by to visit is for my coffee and to ask favors.” His tone is light, joking…but it hits a little too close to an uncomfortable truth. You can’t remember the last time you bothered to ask Ryan about something not Danika-related.

“I know,” you whisper, letting the guilt wash over you. “I’m sorry. It’s just, we’re so close…I’m so close to Bianchi, Ry. I’m so close I can’t stop now. I can’t risk losing momentum. I have to strike while it’s hot, and right now, it’s like the surface of the sun.”

That sobers him, his easy smile slipping from his face—you hate to see it go, the guilt festering even further in your heart, but you can’t let it show, not when it’s imperative you don’t crumble yet.

“Tell me what you need,” he implores, settling at the table where his laptop sits. “Where do we start?”

“Facial recognition is probably best,” you explain, thankful for the transition into more comfortable territory; the one without messy emotions.

Several hours and cups of coffee later, Ryan gets his first break. He sits back in his chair, fingers laced together on top of his head, his green eyes looking bleaker. “It’s not good, Ging, not good at all.” Even though he knows your real name, he still humors you with the persona you’ve adopted for your revenge plan.

“Tell me.”

Ryan sighs, dropping his hands into his lap. “I ran some cross-references just to be sure, but all these girls”—he nods toward the backpack now sitting on the table, disc cases spilling from the opening—“are missing. Every single one. Some of these are a decade old, cold cases at the bottom of some detective's desk at this point.”

The fact Roy Simmons is a monster isn’t a surprise to you. But the news still makes your blood boil. It makes you want to return to Roy’s penthouse and get a little creative with a knife instead of just holding blackmail over his head.

You swallow past the bile in your throat. “Send it. Let him rot.”

Ryan has a contact at the FBI, someone he trusts implicitly—someone who doesn’t know about you and doesn’t ask questions when Ryan dumps some evidence in his lap, either.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. “Simmons needs to get his, sure. But aren’t you worried it might alert Bianchi to the fact someone is getting close to him? Especially after what happened with Hurst.”

Sazi Hurst was your target before Roy. He found himself in FBI handcuffs after you told Ryan he could send all the information you scrounged up on him, and it almost cost you your first date with Roy; he was so paranoid after one of his biggest business venture partners ended up in custody, singing like a canary.

You hate the conflicting feelings waging war in your mind right now. The desire to see justice served and give these girls’ families peace weighs heavily against your own need to see this whole thing through to the end, with no mistakes made.

Finally, you relent, “You’re right. Fuck. Okay, give me until the end of next week.”

“You think you’ll get to him that soon?” Ryan gives you a wide-eyed stare, lips parting in surprise.

“As long as Roy gives me what I need. He has until midnight tonight,” you say, glancing at your phone for the time. Just a handful of hours to go. “Oh, did you get my little surprise last night?”

Ryan’s nose wrinkles as he makes a disgusted sound in his throat. “You mean the gross video of the naked pig on the bed? Yeah. I got it alright.”

You nod, satisfied for now. You stand from the table, drop your empty mug off in the sink, and head toward the door. “I’m going to go take care of some stuff.” By that, you mean wallow in a little bit of self-pity before the other shoe drops tonight. “If I don’t get what I need, you’ll take care of it?”

That sweet smile flashes on Ryan’s face once again. “Of course, I will. We’re in this together, Ging. And not even just because of Dani, but because I care about you, too, okay? Be careful out there. Call me if you need me.”

You let that linger between you, choosing not to respond to his kindness. It could be the nerves and how high-strung you are right now, but you know it’s deeper than that. It’s far too dangerous to get so close to someone again, even if it’s Ryan. Keeping him at arms-length when it comes to things of the heart is easier, safer…better that way.

Back on the sidewalk, you decide to stop by your apartment before going on the prowl. Pulling out your phone, you check one of the many fake social media profiles you’ve created to keep tabs on your targets. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a few precious hours to prepare before initiating phase number one of your final mission.

You move on autopilot, letting yourself be swept away by the normalcy of everything around you. The rest of your day is a blur. You’re not even sure what you spent your time doing. It doesn’t matter now; however, all you’re focused on is what’s before you: a closet full of things that will make the perfect disguise tonight.

Two hours later, you find yourself dressed to the nines, wig firmly in place, and a forced smile on your face as you approach the frosted glass door to Liquid Inferno, the city's hottest, most exclusive nightclub. Pulling out the fake golden access card that Ryan made for you, you flash it at the bouncer. The door swings open without so much as a questioning word.

Thumping bass vibrates through the soles of your heels as you zig-zag your way through the pulsing crowd—strobes of different colors flash, the whole place coated in thick neons thanks to the overhead blacklights. The coral mini dress you decided to wear takes on the brightness of a pink highlighter.

What you really want to do right now is head to the bar and order a drink, but you know that’s just the nerves setting in. Instead, you angle your path toward the darkened VIP area on the second floor.

A set of brutish-looking men stand at the bottom of the stairs. The one closest to you gives you a once-over before asking, “Looking to climb into the lap of a king, princess?”

You grit your teeth to keep from snarling at him in response. “Something like that,” you say, letting your words dripping saccharine sweetness as you bat your lashes.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no one is allowed up without a pass.” The other bouncer leers at you, blatantly eyeing your cleavage and the curve of your ass.

You fish into the top of your dress, intentionally shifting around your tits. “Oh, you mean one of these?” you ask, pinching the black VIP card, that you’re glad you had the forethought to nab from Roy’s place, between your thumb and forefinger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the second guy whistles appreciatively. “Looks like she’s good to go, Mike.”

Mike turns his glare on his counterpart. “I know all VIPs, and she isn’t one.” His focus swings back to you, looking slightly more murderous this time. “Where’d you get it?”

One false move or misspoken word, and you can kiss this chance goodbye, you know that. So, treading carefully, you choose your words in hopes they’ll believe the semi-lie, “Roy Simmons. He gave me his card and told me to meet him here.” You turn the card so the thick, black lettering of Roy’s last name can be seen on the back.

“Roy didn’t mention giving his card to a floozy,” Mike grunts.

You hold up your hands, the card's shiny surface catching in the strobing lights. “I’m just trying to do as I was told.” You enunciate the word ‘told’, layering on extra meaning to it.

A knowing smile curves on the nameless douchebag's lips. “Sounds like Roy to me,” he chuckles, elbowing Mike lightly in the ribs. “Let her up so she doesn’t get in trouble, huh, Mike? Wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like her getting spanked for being a bad girl.”

Mike doesn’t laugh with his partner. He just stares at you with a challenging gleam in his eyes. Finally, he relents, stepping back and snatching the hook that’s holding the velvet rope across the bottom of the stairs.

“First sign of trouble from you, princess, and you’re out on your ass. Got me?”

You give him a subtle nod, demurely dropping your chin as you pass and hurry up the stairs. Cold sweat beads along the nape of your neck, and you feel like you might pass out. There is a small alcove at the top of the stairs, just before the floor opens up to the VIP lounge, and you duck inside to catch your breath.

The side seam of your dress buzzes. You nearly bust the stitching in your haste to pull out your phone. A message from Ryan flashes on the screen.

Let’s have bacon in the morning.

It’s code. Roy Simmons quickly earned the moniker ‘The Pig’, and Ryan has been joking about wanting to eat bacon ever since you put that leg of the plan into motion. Having bacon in the morning means Roy has provided you with what you wanted. Which is perfect; one more loop in the rope you hope to have Bianchi with.

Being here tonight might be a mistake, now that you’re taking a moment to think it through. What you should really be doing is going home and digging through everything Simmons gave up. Yet—you peek out from the alcove, scanning the VIP area—you’re far too close to give up this chance.

You’re generally not so reckless. Getting this close is making you sloppy, you decide, and you can’t have that. Taking a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back and remind yourself why you’re doing this and that you can’t make a mistake—not now, before stepping out of the alcove and into the den of wolves.

Testing the waters tonight can’t hurt…much.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Following you has been all too easy for Taehyung. His body doesn’t need sleep, so instead of retreating back to his own apartment, he stationed himself outside of yours. It was a surprise to see you leaving so early this morning but an even bigger surprise to see you looking so decidedly normal. You weren’t wearing any fancy clothes, the wig, or painted up with rouge like you had been the night before—yet, you’re still the image of a goddess to him.

Taehyung has decided he likes you more when you’re just being you, not when you’re playing what is obviously a character part. It’s a clever rouse. He’ll grant you that. You’re good; he would have been none the wiser had he not let himself into your space last night.

You were moving fast, and Taehyung nearly lost you a few times as you worked your way toward another apartment building. It was like striking gold when Taehyung could repeat his trick from the night before, scaling the backside of the adjacent building. Only this time, the windows were open, and he could hear everything you and Ryan were discussing.

It’s been a long time since Taehyung tasted the bitter tang of jealousy. It’s a very unbecoming emotion for someone of his stature. Yet, watching how that blond Adonis fawned over you and how comfortable you seemed around him made Taehyung want to chew through the metal railing of the fire escape he was on. He hated seeing you together.

Now, though, you’re alone. Or as alone as someone can be in a packed VIP area of a nightclub. Taehyung can taste the nervousness coming off of you in waves. He can feel the erratic thump of your heart from where he’s standing in the shadows a few feet away.

Getting past Dumb and Dumber at the bottom of the stairs was comical; all it took was a whispered name, and they let him up without even asking for a card. He might not have any friends, but Taehyung has plenty of connections in this city. It would be wild if he didn’t, considering he’s been prowling these same streets for a hundred years now. Not many people know his face, but plenty know his name.

You look like a newborn fawn tiptoeing through a pack of wild, rabid wolves, eyes wide and lush lips parted as you edge yourself closer to the back of the space. He knows where you’re going; he’s just not sure why. The conversation he overheard between you and Ryan was enough to fill in some of the puzzle pieces concerning your venture. He also spent the majority of the night surfing the web on his phone and scrounging up everything he could on you, Danika, and whatever connection you might have to the man you’re now fast approaching.

Lorren Bianchi—world renowned flesh and drug trader kingpin—is sitting in a dimly lit booth, surrounded by a few scantily clad women holding champagne glasses and half a dozen muscle-thick bodyguards who aren’t bothering to cover up the pistols hooked to their belts.

Taehyung knows who Bianchi is and has spoken with him a handful of times as well. He’s never liked the oily fucker, far too pretentious and corrupt for Taehyung. It clicks then, and Taehyung curses himself for being a fool and not seeing it sooner. The box with the sentimental items you have tossed into the closet of the spare room, the smiling, beautiful blond girl with you in the photo—Danika. It all makes sense now, and if Taehyung doesn’t do something, you’re going to find yourself in someone else's cherished box in a closet.

🤍🤍🤍

You’re so focused on picking your way through the crowd, eyes honed in on the one man you’ve been gnashing at the bit to draw blood from, that you miss the man closing in through your periphery until you walk solidly into his chest. You blink a few times, dragging your focus up a narrow chest covered in a white button-up until you meet familiar golden-brown eyes.

“Ginger, what a surprise.”

A surprise is one way to describe it. However, surprises are far too close to being coincidences to you, and you stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. Consider it a product of the deep distrust you’ve developed over the years. Running into the same man twice in less than twenty-four hours should be immediate alarm bells for you…yet, surprisingly, they remain silent.

“Sorry, can’t talk right now,” you mumble, intending to skirt around the guy and be on your way without further interaction. But he follows your step, blocking your way yet again. It’s hard to tell if it’s intentional or if he was stepping aside at the same time as you were.

He laughs, a warm, rumbling note that makes you look up just to make sure it’s really coming from him. “I’m sorry.” He moves to the side, gesturing with his arm toward the darkened back corner. The look in his eye is unreadable, making it hard to judge his intentions, but you’re not going to balk at the opportunity to get away, paranoia a thick collar slipping around your throat.

If you weren’t so on edge, you might give up your endeavor for the night and take the opportunity to slip a hook into this odd man. It would be easy enough, another chance to practice before the big take down. You’d be honest in saying you could use a bit more practice, if the way your hands shake is any indication.

But, no matter how hard you contemplate that idea, it won’t stick. There’s something about the man that screams innocent, which is also probably why your alarm bells refuse to ring. A man like that doesn’t deserve your torment, so you continue, not sparing him another glance.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping past him.

A hand on your arm brings you up short, though. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Your gaze cuts to the man—Taehyung—before flicking down to the slender fingers wrapped around your upper arm. His palm is warm against your skin, contrasting with the chill from the AC blasting overhead.

“What?”

Taehyung flicks his eyes toward where Lorren is sitting. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“All men are dangerous,” you snap.

Taehyung searches your eyes, for what you’re not sure, but whatever he sees there must disappoint him because his lips form a thin line, and he gives a subtle shake of his head. “I hate that that’s your reality.” He glances back toward the table where Bianchi is sitting. “Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you along to an empty seat a few feet away.

“What are you—Oh!” Your protest cuts off as Taehyung slumps into the vacant seat and drags you onto his lap. “What the hell!?”

“Calm down, or you’re going to draw attention to us.” Taehyung pulls you back against his chest, angling his head around yours so his words ghost over your ear, “Humor me a little, won’t you? Tell me what you see.”

“What I see?”

Slender fingers graze underneath your chin before hooking against it and tilting your head. For anyone else, it must look like Taehyung is whispering sweet nothings in your ear, plying you with his big hands. Every part of him that touches you is warm and inviting. But, you can’t let yourself get caught up in that.

Your eyes catch on the far table once more. Bianchi is laughing at something, his head thrown back and his mouth hanging open, though the sound doesn’t carry to you. You’re here for a reason, and you’re not going to let some bozo you ran into last night stop you.

Shifting around on his lap, you try to brace your heels on the floor to gain leverage, but Taehyung bands an arm around your hips and clears his throat. “Stop that, and before you ask, yes, I know him, and no, I don’t care for him. Now, look closely. Tell me what you perceive about the people around him. Tell me why if you would have approached that table tonight, it would have been short-lived and you’d be sorely disappointed that you wasted your chance.”

You lick your lips, willing your racing heart to calm down so you can focus. You know you should be scrambling off his lap, yelling obscenities, and cursing him for being a creep. Only, he’s, in fact, not being one. The only thing that’s disturbing is the fact that he somehow knows you’re here for Bianchi. A man who is nothing more than a stranger who gave up two hundred dollars last night is now acting like he knows all your dirty little secrets.

“How do you know that’s what I was going to do? Maybe I’m just here trying to have a good time, and you’ve gone and ruined it.”

“You’re easier to read than you think. Now, tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, you refocus on the table. Lorren is sitting in the middle, two girls on one side and one on the other. All blond, very young, petite with large eyes and lips. They could be triplets for all you can discern between the three of them. Everything you know about Bianchi flashes through your mind as you try to connect the dots. Of course, you should have seen it before. “Blond. He likes blondes. Fuck,” you mutter. There is a soft sound of approval from Taehyung, a low hum that vibrates through his chest. “Now, should I let you go make a fool of yourself, or would you like to hear what I have to offer?”

“Why are you even here? Have you been following me?”

Taehyung grunts as you begin to wiggle in earnest in his lap. “It’s not like that,” he says.

Now, the alarm bells do start to ring because that’s as good as saying ‘yes’. “Let me go.”

“I will, on one condition.” You twist in his lap, ready to lash out at him, but he catches your upraised palm and urges, “Let me help you with whatever you’re trying to do.”

“No, fuck you, jackass,” you hiss, trying to jerk your hand from his grip. “Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow, and a smirk crooks up the corner of his mouth. It’s the first time his angelic demeanor has taken on a dark note, and you’re not sure if you like it or not. “Do you really think screaming will make any of these snakes come running to your aid?”

You swallow hard against the truth of that. A woman screaming is probably as common as a millionaire snorting coke in this place. Which judging by the tray covered in lines of white powder you can see on a table to your left, you’d wager the odds aren’t in your favor.

“Please,” you try for your best impression of desperation. “Please, let me go. You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you know,” Taehyung whispers in response before standing, bringing you up with him, and dragging you toward the top of the stairs. You try to twist and protest, but his hand is like a vice around your wrist, and your pleas go unanswered.

It takes little time for Taehyung to haul you through the crowd. It’s like the surge of bodies part around him, making the escape smooth and seamless. The air outside is light and crisp compared to how suffocating it was inside; you hadn’t even noticed until now that you can take your first real, deep breath since you went in.

“Who the fuck even are you?” you snarl, finally jerking yourself free from Taehyung’s grip, though that might have more to do with him letting you pull yourself free than anything.

The look on his face is unreadable for a moment before a placating smile spreads across his lips. “I’m just someone with your best interest in mind and who is trying to help.”

“I already said I don’t need your help.” You make to step around him and head back inside. Even if your chances of introducing yourself to Bianchi tonight won’t go as planned, you can still do some more recon, and gather more information—but those slender fingers find themselves cuffing your wrist all over again. He drops his grip on you when it seems he’s certain you’re not going to try and run again.

“Look, just hear me out, and if you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll provide you with the proper look and introduce you to Lorren Bianchi myself.” That earns him a narrow look filled with suspicion.

You look around, contemplating whether or not this man is full of shit or not. If you agree to hear him out, you might miss out on your opportunity to get closer to Bianchi tonight. But if he’s telling the truth, you might not need to do all the legwork anyway.

Taehyung looks hopeful as he waits for your response, bouncing ever so lightly on his toes, hands clasped in front of him. There is still that unmistakable sense of innocence about him, even though he just bodily dragged you from inside the club and somehow has a personal connection to Bianchi.

Ryan would urge you not to move so quickly tonight. He might also balk at the idea of you entertaining a stranger who seems to sneakily know more than he should…but which would earn you the most ire? Ryan would definitely find out about your attempt with Bianchi tonight, but he might not necessarily have to find out about Taehyung. Maybe you can play both fields.

You tug your phone from the inner seam on your dress and shoot off a text to Ryan, asking him to send you everything he can on Taehyung Kim and how he might be connected to Bianchi and to be quick about it. You add please to the end of your text, hoping you seem less demanding in your request.

“You have thirty minutes. If I’m not impressed, you introduce me, or I’ll make you wish you’d kept your two hundred dollars.” You give him a pointed look, the ruse from last night taking on a whole new meaning now. Clearly he was trying to make a connection to you and is now taking it a step further.

Taehyung holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. Deal. Follow me.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to ask any more questions. You have to skip a few steps, your heels clicking against the sidewalk, to catch up with him as his long strides carry him away from the club.

You’re taken aback, thinking he’d surely lead you to some apartment or a hotel, somewhere there is a mild bit of privacy. Though an empty park wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, it does afford you the privacy.

“Start talking,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. You set a thirty-minute timer on your phone already and have it clutched in your hand so you can feel it vibrating either from time running out or with any messages from Ryan.

Taehyung’s back is to you, his attention directed somewhere overhead. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“What?” you ask, confused, feeling like you’re being whiplashed by the sudden change in conversation.

He glances at you over his shoulder, and you’re stuck by just how gorgeous he is, bathed in the soft glow from the lamps lining the walkway through the park. “The sky, it’s beautiful.”

“Um, yeah, sure.” You’re honestly not certain of the last time you took the time to actually look up at the sky and admire it. Living in the city, the light pollution and dirty air doesn’t really have an appeal anyway.

“Look,” he says, nodding back in the direction he was looking in before.

You sigh, irritated, but if he wants to waste part of his thirty minutes looking up at the smog-filled sky, who are you to—your thoughts trail off as you finally gaze up. The moon hangs full and low in the sky. You can see a smattering of stars as if they’re demanding to be seen despite the blazing city lights. It takes your breath away for a moment, grounding you in a different reality, one not filled with plots of revenge and loneliness.

Dragging your attention away from the sight and to the man so nonchalantly standing there, wasting his time, you say. “Your time is running out.”

“I’m not from here.” His words come as a whisper, barely carrying to you from over his shoulder. “The view is so different here, no matter how many times I look up, it’s never the same.”

“So, you’re from some other city. What’s that got to do with any of this? Is that how you know Bianchi?”

Taehyung turns, giving you his full attention. You feel bared to him, somehow. As if his eyes are taking stock of your every sin and folly. “I’m not from some other city. I’m not from here,” he emphasizes the word, drawing it out intentionally slow.

“I don’t have time for riddles,” you grunt, growing more irritated by the second. You should have known this was a waste of time. Your phone buzzes in your hand, and a wash of relief swells inside you. Ryan is just in time to confirm this is a complete waste.

Why are you asking about him?

Please don’t tell me you’re wanting to target him. Don’t be an idiot, Ging.

Seriously? You’re not going to answer me? Fine.

There are a few texts that are several minutes old. You must have been so distracted you missed your phone vibrating with them. A flood of new texts come in as you’re reading.

He’s one of the good ones. There’s a link to a website attached. You click on it and scan the opening page. ‘Kim Taehyung, Billionaire With No Billions’ is the headline. The article is filled with statistics and data showing that every cent Taehyung earns with any of his business ventures goes toward charity or medical research.

He’s a literal saint. Like, there isn’t a single mark against this guy. Targeting him would be doing the devil’s work. His connection to Bianchi seems to be one of rivalry. He’s the one who stopped Bianchi from opening up that one casino, you know, the one that was going to serve as an underground skin trade, but the evidence magically disappeared before his court hearing?

So that’s why Taehyung is familiar to you. You didn’t pay much attention to the casino thing, just kept tabs on it in passing in hopes it could lead you to gathering another connection to Bianchi.

Thanks. You hit send, thumb out of the timer you set, and tuck your phone away back into your dress.

“Ready to hear what I have to say now?”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck. Mild embarrassment is a bitter taste in the back of your throat as you feel thoroughly chastised even though he’s not speaking to you in a demeaning way.

“I’m listening.”

“Perhaps where I’m from is not important, not that you’d believe me anyway. So, perhaps the best place to start is acknowledging that I know what you’re going through. I’ve experienced what you’re experiencing, the pain and grief of losing someone you love.”

It’s like a white-hot dagger to the heart, a mix of indignation and sympathy. “You might think you do, but I don’t know.”

“I was punished for loving someone, they were taken from me, and I was… ostracized. I’ll never be the same. I still”—he rolls his shoulders and winces—”ache.”

His words are cryptic, but you’re fairly certain they’re only the surface of his experience, as there is evident pain laced within his whispered confession.

Slowly, his slender fingers nimbly work at the ivory buttons along the front of his shirt. One by one, they reveal the subtlest hint of flesh. The lighting that wreathed him in a halo glow just a moment ago now casts his features in stark relief as he moves closer to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself vulnerable to you, in hopes of earning some of your trust.” With painfully slow movements, Taehyung turns and shrugs down the top of his dress shirt. It’s confusing, at first, trying to decipher what you’re seeing in the dim lighting. Ripples and bumps form two narrow swaths to either side of his spine, just within his shoulder blades; scars, jagged ones, made of tight, shiny ridges. The placement, the mirrored precision…it almost, almost looks like he had wings ripped from his back. “Not ripped,” he murmurs and you realize you spoke your thought aloud. “They were shorn from my body by my Brother Michael.”

“Your brother did this to you?!” you ask incredulously.

“Brothers,” he emphasizes. “But, only one wielded the blade.”

You balk at him, unable to comprehend how someone could do this to another human being. Before you can think better of it, you brush a light finger over one of the ridges. Taehyung shudders so intensely under your touch, that you’re afraid you might have hurt him. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, snatching your hand back.

He clears his throat. “Nothing to apologize for. It’s just that, well, I haven’t been touched by another being in a very, very long time. I had almost forgotten what it felt like, a tender touch like that.”

“You shouldn’t have suffered at the hands of your brothers.”

“Water under the bridge at this point,” Taehyung sighs, pulling his shirt back up and redoing the buttons as he turns to face you once more. “I know what you’re trying to do with Bianchi, and even if you manage to get close enough to him, you’re not going to be able to go through with it. You can’t kill him.”

“I can and I will,” you state fiercely. “I have to.”

Taehyung gives you a sad smile. “There’s too much good in your heart. You’ll hesitate, and then he’ll turn the tables. He’ll give you the same fate as your friend.”

“You don’t know anything about her!” you shout, wincing at your own outburst as your words echo through the park and startle some birds out of a nearby tree.

“I know that you love her. I know that you’re on a path of revenge for her. A path that is going to lead you to an eternity of damnation even if you do succeed. Please, let me help you. I promise Bianchi will suffer for what he has done, but we have to do it the right way.”

“And what exactly would you consider the right way?” Anger eats at your eyes, making them burn with tears you refuse to shed.

Looking deep into your eyes, Taehyung explains, “If you kill him, that’s the end of it. But, if you tear down his empire, make him lose everything, brick by brick…he’ll endure a lifetime of suffering, which, to a man like him, is far crueler of a punishment than bringing his miserable life to an end. He’ll probably do it himself by the time we’re done with him.”

“Why is it, exactly, that you want to help me again?”

“I’ve dealt with Bianchi on a few occasions. Unfortunately, he rubs elbows with a lot of the same people that I do. I suppose money doesn’t care if someone is a good person or not.” Taehyung fits his hands into his pockets, leaning back on one heel in a relaxed manner as his eyes flick over your features. “I’ve never had the right justification for bringing him down. He’s always managed to slip between my fingers. Now, though, you’re presenting me with the perfect opportunity, the perfect justified means to take him down once and for all...and well, if it means I can save you, then I’ll take that, too.”

The fact this man seems to care about you, care about Danika, doesn’t seem all that unusual. His eyes are open and full of warmth, so welcoming and completely unalarming in their charm and sincerity. You can’t help but accept. “What do you propose we do? Where do we start?”

That seems to put a little pep back into Taehyung’s demeanor. “Simple, of course. We start where it will hurt him most, his bank account.”

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