Chapter Text
Chapter 1
New Moon
It’s just shy of ten in the evening. There are gray clouds hanging heavy and foreboding in the sky, but the fact that they obscure most of the night sky makes no difference because the light of the new moon is non-existent behind them.
Min Yoongi, known only to his black market contacts and shady business associates by the name Agust D, spares a moment to slowly roll out his right shoulder, grown numb by how long he’s been crouching in the same position, and licks his Vaseline-smeared lips. He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and shakes a bit of his raven-black fringe out of his face, refocusing his razor-sharp, foxlike eyes back into the scope a millimeter away from his face.
His legs are numb and the air is heavy and muggy under the dusty gray tarpaulin, only a tiny gap along the righthand side letting fresh air and much needed oxygen in from all the carbon dioxide he’s exhaled over the last four hours of his stakeout. Just a little bit longer, he tells himself, wiggling his hips back to life as he resettles against the now-warm fabric under him. Come on, motherfucker.
All of his movements are minute, barely noticeable—the result of a lifetime of taking advantage of his lithe form and less-than-impressive height—nothing more than what a gentle gust of wind can manage to unsettle. Nevertheless he keeps his muscles tense, finger on the trigger, always ready and waiting to take his shot. In the way of stakeouts four hours is negligible, but he’s been watching the same target for a month now and he’s itching to get this job over and done with so he can move on to the next one. Sharklike in more than just his looks, Yoongi likes to keep moving forward. Knows that movement is imperative if he wants to keep himself alive.
Ironic, given how much time his jobs of late have him sitting in the same spot just to get them done.
The watch on his wrist hums dully against his sweat-damp skin, but he doesn’t move his gaze from the crosshairs on his scope. He knows what the notification is for without having to read it, and he allows himself a small smile of victory as his target finally exits the back entrance of a building he knows as intimately as the back of his hand by now. He draws breath in with a short hiss between clenched teeth, and lets it out slowly as his finger applies pressure on the trigger. The bullet rockets from the chamber and hurtles across the space, the gun barely recoiling back into his steady shoulder.
The target disappears from his line of sight, but he knows he’s hit his mark. He’s too far away to hear the yells of surprise, the chorus of panic that he knows is swelling to a crescendo in the back alley a block down, but he pretends that he can anyway as he finally moves into action. Letting it buoy him; a sick soundtrack to his favorite part of this particular dance.
He pulls his knees up to his chest, a quick finger hooking under the gap to throw the material off of him finally, staying crouched as close as possible to the ground as practiced hands set to work dismantling his gun. It takes him less than thirty seconds to get the pieces back into the waiting foam, a feat if Yoongi would say so himself, but instead of calling the world record books he snaps his case shut, dark eyes raking over the spot he’s about to vacate to ensure that he’s leaving no other trace but the tarpaulin he’s been hiding under. He ditches that off the side of the building, not even watching as it flutters down the alley and around the corner, before he grabs the wide woolen scarf he’s used as a blanket from the grimy floor and shoves it into a black backpack. He picks up his gun case and slings the strap over his shoulder, already making a beeline for the staircase that will lead him from the rooftop to the service elevator.
75 seconds. Another sniper job like this, and he reckons he can get his pack-up time down to a minute flat.
He knows that it would take four times that much time for his target’s men to even make it down the block to his location, but that’s only if they immediately figure out where the shot had originated from. Still, Yoongi doesn’t take any chances by immediately leaving the premises, because there’s nothing more suspicious than a man with a case running away. Instead he gets off at the jazz lounge located on one of the uppermost floors, making his way through service hallways all but devoid of people at this time of night.
The manager greets him as he knocks on the office door, mild surprise on the middle-aged man’s face. “Min-ssi, you’re here early. You’re not supposed to be on until eleven.”
“No traffic,” he lies evenly, slipping fingerless leather gloves off his hands and stuffing them into the pocket of his rumpled slacks.
The man chuckles good-naturedly, and really, Yoongi would feel guilty for tricking someone like this but his conscience had keeled over and died a long time ago. The manager waves him off to the staff locker room to allow him to change out of his black t-shirt and into the requisite white button-down that Yoongi’s got folded in the depths of his pack.
By the time he’s got his bag hooked on a peg in the locker room (nothing in there now but a dirty blanket, his sweat-cooled shirt having been pitched into the garbage chute) and is undoing the locks on the main compartment of his case, barely eight minutes have passed since he’d taken his shot. Nine minutes, and he’s pulling out his keyboard and snapping it onto the stand, pulling sheet music out from the little satin pocket on the underside of the lid.
Ten minutes—these people are slow—and finally he hears the small ruckus he’s been expecting, the university student who works part-time at the front sounding flustered as men in immaculately tailored suits push past her to inspect the room.
The lounge is wrapped by floor to ceiling windows with no where to stick a gun out and shoot. That, and the fact that they aren’t even facing the right block, ensures Yoongi’s cover story. (This part of the plan had been unnecessary because there are 438 other places to hide in the building—he knows, he checked—but Yoongi likes to watch the chaos he leaves in his wake. He’s always been a sucker for a good show.)
The manager slips out from behind the bar, demanding what these men want, and Yoongi has to swallow his smile at the scene as it unfolds. One of them, and Yoongi can tell he’s inner circle from the way the cuff of his left sleeve is stained a bright red under his blazer, stammers out in broken Korean, wanting to know if there are any windows in the back offices. There aren’t, Yoongi’s made sure of that too, but he watches them with a feigned look of concern as they elbow past the poor manager to see for themselves.
He’s half-way through Monk’s Round Midnight by the time the exasperated group finally exits the lounge. Yoongi watches them through his lashes, meeting the confused and anxious gaze of the poor part-timer. He sends her a small smile of sympathy—fake, but she doesn’t need to know that—and she relaxes, flashing him a smile in return.
Once his hour is up, which he ends with Fly Me To The Moon just for the girl’s benefit, he packs up, careful to keep the hidden compartment of his case locked as he slides his keyboard back into it. He goes back into the locker room to pick up the backpack he no longer needs, and asks the girl if she’d like to go and grab a drink. He isn’t surprised when she responds in the affirmative, and Yoongi spends the next couple of hours helping her work her the rest of her tension out. (After all, it’s not like he has any reason to come back to this club and perform again—the job is done, and Yoongi is free to take a shit where he no longer has to eat.)
By three AM he’s laying back in his bed, stuffy white shirt now smeared along the collar by bright red lipstick, the only source of light in the barely furnished room the blue glow of his phone screen as he squints at it. He checks his bank account to see if the other half of his fee has been transferred through, which it has. The corner of his kiss-swollen lips, still slick with the girl’s saliva after she’d licked off all his Vaseline, quirk upwards into a self-satisfied smirk at the sight of all the zeros. Some might consider his fees exorbitant, but then again those people probably can’t afford his services to begin with.
His phone rings, and upon sight of the name on the caller ID Yoongi doesn’t even blink before he’s answering the call.
“If you’re ass-dialing me again while you’re fucking some girl-”
“That was an accident,” the voice on the other end huffs, mock-offended. “Besides, it’s not like you didn’t enjoy the show.”
“Bastard,” Yoongi accuses fondly.
“Missed you, too, Agust,” the voice hums.
Yoongi can’t help the smile that spreads across his face any more than he can help how soft it looks. “Hey, Hope. Quiet night in?”
“When is a night ever quiet?” Hope chortles. Even over a phone call, his tone is light and playful, belying no clue as to what he really does for a living; how the man the voice belongs to can take down an entire empire within an hour. “Heard you finally finished up on that Japanese job.”
Yoongi doesn’t bother to ask how Hope’s found out so quickly. The man has eyes and ears everywhere and tabs on everyone, including him. Much like worrying over having a conscience, Yoongi’s well past the point of finding it intrusive; instead it feels like he’s got a guardian angel looking over his shoulder. At least with Hope around, he has someone to leave his weapons to, someone who will put them to good use. Steel and silver don’t look nearly as good without blood on them, after all.
“Finally being the key word,” he grunts, letting his relief bleed through. As helpful as the girl from earlier had been in helping him work off some of his excess energy, he’s still high off the kill and is glad for the conversation. “Yakuza’s losing their touch.”
“Ah, you had the benefit of having them on home turf,” Hope chides. Yoongi can hear him let out a little puff of air and a muted groan, probably stretching his back out (Yoongi imagines the man is almost always hunched over a computer screen), before he hears him crack his knuckles.
“You know that just makes them more paranoid,” Yoongi points out, grinning in the dark.
“You like the challenge,” Hope accuses, amusement making his words bounce. There’s the sound of papers rustling, a couple of clicks on a keyboard. “Look, buddy, as much as I’d like to pretend this is a leisure call…”
Yoongi lets out a silent yawn, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand as he sits up in bed. “Like you ever call me when it isn’t about business.”
“Yah,” Hope complains, but the laugh in his throat tells Yoongi that he’s taken no offense at the jab. It isn’t a lie—as fond as Yoongi is of him, Hope provides him with about 60% of his jobs. They’re friends in as much as a contracted killer can be with a man who basically has the intel market on the entire South East Asian underground cornered, but Yoongi knows that when Hope calls him past midnight, he’s got work lined up for him. “Like you ever shoot me down.”
It’s a tasteless pun, but Yoongi’s too used to Hope’s strange sense of humor to do anything but laugh. Besides, it’s not like it isn’t true, too. The jobs Hope sends his way are relatively easy and pay extremely well, mostly doing grunt work that requires more finesse than what a back-alley thug is in possession of.
“What do you have for me?” Yoongi asks, groping in the dark for his in-ear before slipping it on and transferring the call there. He gets up, undoing the buttons of his shirt, because as much as he enjoys the smell of sex, he doesn’t want to sleep in it.
“A business proposition,” Hope responds cheerily, but there’s an edge to his tone that Yoongi suspects might be fear. Over what, Yoongi isn’t sure.
What Yoongi is sure of is that Hope now has his full attention. He wills his hands back into motion, shucking the shirt off and slipping into another nondescript black one.
“I’m listening.”
“Not over the phone.”
Now Yoongi’s interested, because Hope is too meticulous to ever contact anyone over an unsecure line and too averse to the dangers of physical contact to ever need to see anyone in the flesh. It’s been five years, and Yoongi doesn’t even know what the guy looks like, let alone his real name. Five years into their Oracle-Batman schtick and all Yoongi knows is that Hope is based in Gwangju, and only then because the man slips into Jeolla satoori as often as Yoongi himself slips into his Daegu twang.
Hope takes his silence in stride. “A car will pick you up at 3PM on Sunday. Dress how you usually do, no need for a suit and tie.”
“You’re asking for a lot here, Hope,” Yoongi tells him quietly, voice pitched low in warning. Yoongi doesn’t so much as enter a room without knowing the entire building’s layout, let alone take offered transportation. He trusts Hope, has never had any reason to question the man’s motives, but it doesn’t mean he’s about to break any of the rules that keep him alive. Or that he isn’t going to move apartments the first chance he gets now that he knows Hope knows where he lives. If he has that, then it only stands to reason that he has Yoongi’s real name, too, along with god knows what other information.
To his mild surprise and annoyance, the man laughs; a deep, throaty sound that wiggles its way through Yoongi’s ribcage and sits comfortably on his sternum, warm and soothing despite the unfamiliarity of it. “Just trying to be a good host, Agust,” he chides before giving him an address in the south of Gangnam, warning him to be there at 4PM sharp.
The proffered information is a bold gesture, because Yoongi knows without having to check that the location for their meeting is in a residential neighborhood—someone’s actual home unless they’ve broken into an empty one and are squatting.
Before Yoongi can stop himself, he blurts out, “You’re in Seoul?”
“Of course I’m Seoul,” Hope says patiently. “What were you expecting, a video conference?”
The knowledge is eye for an eye, because Hope prompts him for his plate number. As needs must, Yoongi supposes, because how else will they know to let him into the gate? Yoongi rattles off the plates to his fastest café racer, still looking to impress, a BMW R nineT (purchased under an alias, of course) just in case he’ll have to make a quick getaway. It’s another rule Yoongi lives by, along with ‘keep moving’. Just in case.
“Looking forward to meeting you in the flesh, Min Yoongi,” Hope says right before he clicks off the call.
Yoongi isn’t stupid—Hope’s use of his real name is brandished as a threat. Once he gets over the shock of that, Yoongi sits on the edge of his bed, knuckles white as he laces his fingers together in his lap, wondering what the fuck he’s about to get himself into this time.
* * *
All things considered, this is not how most of Yoongi’s business meetings go. In the first place, Yoongi doesn’t do business meetings. At least, not outside of phone calls from burner phones and case briefs in encrypted files. But he reminds himself that he still owes Hope for getting his pasty ass out of Hong Kong two years ago (his hit had gone terribly wrong because Yoongi had rushed it to catch the season end of RuPaul’s Drag Race), so the least he can do is hear the man out before he makes a decision.
(For the record, he managed to get his target and come home in one piece, so he regrets nothing; it had been a great season finale.)
He idles the beamer up to the wrought iron gate, half-hidden by the blossom-heavy branches of white wisteria trees at the end of a cul de sac. If Yoongi didn’t have the address, even his scrutinizing gaze would have dismissed it as an empty lot, but his research had told him that not only is there, indeed, a house here, but that it also has a back entrance leading directly out onto a main road that bleeds into the expressway. In the way of hideouts, the place was ideal—multiple entrances, gated chaebol community, blueprints available nowhere, property titles dating so far back that you’d have to dig through a dusty back office to find them.
And Yoongi has no misconceptions that this is a hide-out. Main or back-up, he’s yet to confirm. He’s only a single man, after all, and his stake-outs of the place over the last two days have told him nothing except the fact that his is the first vehicle to idle up to the main gate within that window of time.
He eyes the CCTV camera hidden at the top left side of the gate, willing to bet money that there are at least three more he hasn’t had the time to find pointed at him, but he raises his eyebrows at it in clear challenge before pushing the outdated buzzer; non-standard—the piece of shit doesn’t even have its own camera.
The intercom buzzes static before Hope’s voice crackles to life over the connection.
“Hey, Yoongi! Right on time.”
Bullshit, Yoongi thinks, smiling despite himself under his black facemask. I’m ten minutes early.
He revs his engine in response, but Hope’s already off the intercom and the gate slides back behind the twelve-foot concrete walls lining the property. Yoongi brings his bike up the paved road, lined by rose bushes (of all the pretentious things) as it eases uphill for a good minute through perfectly-manicured lawns. The house comes into view, sitting at the top of the slope, and while Yoongi had expected it to be as old as the gate and the PA system, he’s surprised to find that it’s modern. The façade is brutalist in form; three-story gray concrete reminiscent of a military fort with tiny box windows placed at regular intervals along the front, growing in size as they climb up the blocky structure. All anyone coming from the front gate can see is that single wall, as the upper tiers would require a twenty-foot ladder to access its windows, which Yoongi is sure are fitted with bulletproof glass.
It's clear from this alone that whoever lives here is taking no chances with security.
The road leads up to an open parking area where Yoongi counts two black SUVs before it feeds into the mouth of a tunnel-like garage. Yoongi leaves his beloved beamer within reasonable distance from the double doors, painted a cheery red, that he spies from within its cavern.
He’s just gotten his helmet off when the doors are thrown open and a man steps out of them, dressed in ridiculously short swim shorts with loud tropical print, a red tennis visor on his head of chocolate brown hair and an oversized white long-sleeved shirt over his lanky form.
“There you are!” he grins, and his smile is brighter than the mid-afternoon sunshine casting Yoongi’s shadow long and thin over the herringbone pattern of the concrete paving. He idles his way over to Yoongi, movements as graceful as they are careless, and he presents a hand out for him to shake. “I’m Hope.”
Yoongi stares at his face, the man’s skin more tan than he’d expected, bearing an expression far warmer and friendlier than anyone who has anything to do with the criminal underworld has any right to be. His silly heart-shaped smile aside, Yoongi doesn’t know what he’d been imagining Hope would look like, but his mental images definitely didn’t include the flawless expanse of this man’s cheeks or the delicate slope of their nose, or the way his tiny ears fold over under the band of his visor.
The incongruity between the man’s demeanor and occupation is disorienting. Yoongi prides himself on never being caught off guard, but this is a first and he finds himself staring a second too long. Hope just laughs at the silent assessment and waggles his fingers temptingly, reminding Yoongi that he’s still waiting on the handshake. His laugh is identical to the one Yoongi had heard on the phone, so he finally takes Hope’s hand, holding the other man’s long, delicate fingers in a firm grip and giving them one firm pump; up, then down.
“I suppose you don’t need to call me that anymore, now that we’ve formally met and all.” He graces Yoongi with another grin, motioning for the slightly shorter man to follow after him into the house. “My name’s Hoseok. Jung Hoseok, but you’re welcome to keep calling me Hope if you’d like. Everyone else does,” he rambles as Yoongi trails after him into the dim entryway.
The thick concrete walls continue into the house, marble flooring a warm swirling brown, small yellow spotlights lined along both sides of a recessed gray ceiling. Bamboo plants line the path into the belly of the house, and Yoongi takes note of all of these things. Marble instead of wood, the better to clean up blood. The use of patterns to disorient the unfamiliar. Multiple sources of light in case one gets shot out. A barely-there square hidden on the wall at the end of the hallway at eyelevel, presumably hiding an automatic weapon of some sort.
It’s indulgent, over-the-top, but despite himself Yoongi has to admit that he’s impressed.
Hope, Hoseok, takes the left turn and leads him right into a spacious living room. High ceilings with glass doors take up the length of it, letting sunlight illuminate the room naturally as they simultaneously offer a view of the kidney-shaped pool and backyard. Comfortable leather couches and wingback armchairs are grouped into cozy corners, with a massive L-shaped one facing a television Yoongi hadn’t even known they sold in that size. There’s a wooden galley dining table on the left-hand side with mismatched chairs directly facing the doors leading to the pool, along with a swinging door that he assumes leads to the kitchens, but Yoongi barely has time to make note of anything else because Hoseok is coasting through the room and out the right-side doors.
Yoongi quickens his space, considering it rude to fall behind and stare, and barely pauses when he notices that the glass of the doors are bulletproof as well as he steps through them.
There’s a medium-sized deck that hadn’t been visible from the living room, walls the same gray concrete with a fire pit in the center, roaring at the moment and fitted with a grill. There’s a smaller dining table, similar to the one inside the house, along with soft-looking lounge chairs and little Moroccan lamps hanging from the exposed beams of the ceiling.
As impressive as everything has been so far, the house pales in comparison to the two men he sees bickering over the grill. One of them is wearing a ridiculous baby blue apron lined with white lace over his khaki shorts and short-sleeved collared shirt, and if Yoongi had any religious inclinations whatsoever he would describe that man’s face as angelic. Full, pert pink lips and a seamlessly curved jaw, a perfect Grecian nose and eyes crinkled from the force of his wide smile, wide shoulders that look like you could land a plane on them. The only thing that ruins the visual is that apron and the atrocious laugh that’s coming out of him, close to the squeak of dry wipers on glass.
“Yah, I told you they weren’t ready!” he chides, snapping the metal tongs in his hand at the man next to him.
The other man is darker than Hoseok, skin an impossibly even, sun-kissed brown that’s complimented by the silver shade of his hair. His eyes are slanted, catlike, and even as he sucks his long fingers between his full lips Yoongi can see the dimples on his cheeks, the way his otherwise sharp nose widens along with his sheepish smile. He towers over the angelic one, limbs long under his baggy jeans and the oversized sweatshirt he has on despite the fair weather.
“Is it my fault you’re taking too long?” silver-hair demands, fighting his smile to pout petulantly at the angel. “Aish, I’m so hungry, Jin-hyung.”
“They’ll be done in a couple of minutes! Goodness, it’s like you didn’t just eat two hours ago, Joon-ah,” the angel laughs.
“That was two entire hours ago, hyung, you can’t really blame me if-” Silver-hair blinks, leaning to look over the angel’s shoulders at Hoseok and Yoongi, the former holding in his laughter and the latter with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Definitely not your regular business meeting, Yoongi decides in his head.
“Hi!” Silver-hair moves past the angel, dimples in full-force now on his cheeks. Yoongi absently wonders if he’s ever lost anything in them. “Yah, Hope, you should have said something instead of just standing there. We’ve ruined our first impression!” he complains, throwing a glare that is in no way threatening towards the man in question. Hoseok laughs openly in his face, already walking towards the grill, and Silver-hair sighs, the very picture of ever-enduring patience before he extends a hand out to Yoongi with a sheepish smile. “Kim Namjoon. It’s an honor to meet you, Agust D.”
Yoongi shakes his hand just as firmly as he’d done with Hoseok, and tugs his facemask down to his chin to speak. “My reputation precedes me,” he murmurs lowly, unsure how to take the use of his professional name.
Namjoon just beams a smile at him, stepping to the side as the angel approaches them, his tongs now in Hoseok’s hands as he wipes his unnecessarily on his apron before shaking Yoongi’s. “Kim Seokjin,” he introduces himself, inclining his head slightly. Yoongi takes the cue to do the same, because despite the casual clothing and the friendly smile on his face, this man exudes an aura of unquestionable authority. Yoongi can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way he naturally holds his chin up with the kind of pride that’s in-born and not learned. “You can call me Jin. Are we allowed to call you Yoongi?” He turns around to Hoseok without letting go of Yoongi’s hand, directing the follow up question at the thinner man. “What are the rules here, Hope? I’m lost.”
Hoseok sends him a subtle grimace. “It’s up to him.”
Seokjin turns back to Yoongi with the question in his eyes, and Yoongi shrugs. Well-informed as he is, he has no idea who these people are supposed to be, but they seem to have offered their real names so he supposes he can return the transparency. “Yoongi is fine,” he allows. “You all know it anyway.”
“Yah!” Seokjin booms, giving Yoongi’s hand another shake before letting it go and clapping him on the shoulder. (Yoongi wants to think he doesn’t startle, so he ignores the amused smile that Hoseok flashes him from across the deck.) “See Namjoon? What did I tell you? This is the kind of professionalism we need here in Seoul!”
“One thing at a time, Jin-hyung!” Namjoon all but yelps, looking a little panicked as he glances at Yoongi’s face to read his expression. (Yoongi’s starting to get the feeling that Namjoon spends a lot of his time panicked.)
“Right,” Seokjin laughs, making his way back to the grill to take over for Hoseok. “How do you like your burgers, Yoongi-ssi?”
“Well-done?” Yoongi’s head is swimming with questions, so the answer comes out like one as well. As Hoseok motions for him to take the seat next to his at the dining table, he mentally runs through what little information he has in his head. One, that Hoseok works either with or for these men. Two, that Seokjin looks uncannily like a young Kim Il-Hun, the last known head of one of the largest jopoks in South Korea. Three, that the awkward man couldn’t possibly have inherited the oldest crime syndicate in the country. This leads to four: that no one in this room seems capable of keeping it as quiet and secretive as it’s been in the last decade.
With each fact that Yoongi tries to soothe himself with, more questions come up and he gives himself a headache. Still, he doesn’t give voice to any of his thoughts. He’s learned that you can learn a lot more by keeping your mouth shut, so he bites his tongue and waits for information to be offered to him.
As though reading his mind (or rather, the confused frown on his face), Hoseok nudges him lightly with an elbow. “We’re just waiting for someone else to arrive,” he tells him. “We’ll talk once she gets here.”
Yoongi’s ears perk up at the mention of she, because sexist as it is women are a rarity in any organization in Korea—moreso one as literally cut-throat as theirs.
“We’ll eat first,” Namjoon says, sliding onto the bench across them, Seokjin trailing behind him with a large plate laden with assorted meat, his lacy apron mercifully shed.
Seokjin stumbles through an awkward toast (“To, hmm, good business and good health!”) and they clink their mugs of chilled beer against each other’s before breaking bread—the last unspoken gesture that Yoongi needs to finally try to relax and let his guard down. After all, Hoseok hadn’t even patted him down for weapons, he’s hasn’t seen any other security apart from the CCTV system, and he’s in possession of their real names just as much as they are of his. The latter is possibly the most important, and dangerous, knowledge that he can walk out with.
Namjoon leads the conversation, mostly small talk about the weather at first, and Seokjin picks it up as he talks about the food they’re eating and how he’d prepared it. Yoongi isn’t interested, but Hoseok nods along next to him, humming appreciatively as he devours one thing after another. None of them seem to be shy or self-conscious about the situation, and as Yoongi helps himself to the burger that Seokjin is kind enough to put together for him, he wonders if they simply don’t deem him worthy of a more formal meeting, or if the whole thing is an act to lure him into a false sense of comfort and security.
When Namjoon has his fill, he wipes those long, delicate fingers of his (they look like a pianist’s; Yoongi wonders if he plays an instrument) on a paper napkin before pushing away from the table, excusing himself for a post-meal cigarette. Yoongi takes the last bite of his food before following suit. If they want to play at informal, then he’s going to cave and have a smoke in their home. He needs it, if only for something to fiddle with in his anxious hands.
He waves off the light that Namjoon offers him when he joins the taller man all the way at the other end of the backyard, taking a seat on the recliner next to his, shaded under a white canvas parasol next to the pool.
“I don’t even smoke,” Namjoon admits after a few long seconds. He smiles that sheepish smile of his, glancing sidelong at Yoongi, who hides his smirk. He’s a shit, he admits it; he’s a shit who loves how unsettled people get over his silence. He’s been here all of 45 minutes, and this guy’s already offering him personal information. “I have asthma. I just like how the smoke looks.”
“So watch,” Yoongi comments. “Smoking will kill you.”
Namjoon’s eyes widen a fraction at him before his face settles back into a neutral expression. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’m sure you know all about that.”
Yoongi can’t help it; he snorts. He snorts because this entire situation is ridiculous and he’s sharing a much-needed cigarette with someone who doesn’t even smoke, and the non-smoker in question’s just made a jab at his occupation. Before he knows it Namjoon is laughing under his breath as well, which prompts one of Yoongi’s rare smiles—full, stretching across his perpetually-pinched face as it shows off his top row of teeth and gums.
“I have no fuckin’ clue what I’m doing here,” Yoongi admits ruefully once Namjoon’s laughter has died down. He shakes his head and takes a drag, careful to blow the smoke away from the asthmatic who’s abandoned his own cigarette in the pink crystal ashtray on the wooden table between them, content, it seems, to watch Yoongi’s for the time being.
Namjoon seems unbothered by Yoongi’s statement. “We’re just waiting for someone,” he says, echoing Hoseok’s earlier reassurance.
And Yoongi wants to take it as reassurance, but he’s starting to wonder just who this woman is and how important she must be to keep a group of people waiting—if he should take it in stride or allow himself to feel as nervous as he really is. Yoongi doesn’t know what Namjoon does (he’d entertain the idea that the Kims are related but their looks are too dissimilar for it), but he’s pretty sure that Seokjin is someone important. Hoseok is the head of an intelligence network whose range and influence Yoongi can’t even begin to fathom, and Yoongi himself is one of the best hitmen this side of region. Their time has pretty hefty price tag attached to it, and yet here they all are, sitting around waiting for her.
As Yoongi kills his cigarette butt in the ashtray, mentally debating if he should just leave and reschedule for some other time, he sees Hoseok walk back out onto the deck. He hadn’t noticed him leave, talking as he’d been with Namjoon, but he returns with a woman in tow, and she’s… well, not what Yoongi had expected.
(He wonders how many more times he’s going to have his expectations dashed before the end of the day.)
Whatever decisive authority Yoongi had felt lacking from Seokjin’s too-warm countenance is obviously present in her, and Yoongi suspects that the two are related, going by the fact that they share the same coloring and deep-set, monolidded eyes; the way they carry themselves, backs ramrod straight like they’ve been trained to walk with books balanced on their heads for half their lives, like they belong in every room they enter. Unfortunately the similarities end there. Their noses are different; where Seokjin’s slopes gently, almost kindly, hers is strong and prominent. Her lips aren’t as full, her jawline stronger, and as she turns and meets Yoongi’s analytical gaze from across the yard, he finds that her eyes have none of the kindness that’s all-too obvious in Seokjin’s.
Yoongi’s seen pictures of black holes, and like hell if her eyes don’t look exactly the same. Like they eat up any and all light that touches them.
“Come on,” Namjoon says, the otherwise smooth pull of his words sounding frayed and nervous around the edges. Why, Yoongi thinks he might understand. “Time to meet the queen.”
Yoongi swallows his apprehension and stuffs his pack of cigarettes back into the pocket of his jacket. He follows the taller man back to the deck, where Namjoon greets the newcomer with a kiss on the cheek. She returns his watery smile with a brief one of her own before she runs a hand through her asymmetrically-cut black bob, the pin-straight strands of it falling immediately back into place. She lets out a small, barely-there sigh that sounds more genuinely tired than it is put upon, before she turns to Yoongi.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Min-ssi,” she says, words clearly enunciated with the same accent as Seokjin’s, banishing any of Yoongi’s leftover doubts that the two are directly related. “My name is Kim Seokjae. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Yoongi takes her hand, proud of the way his doesn’t shake, and he has to hide his surprise that her grip is stronger than any of the other men.
Her mouth twists at his lack of a response, and Yoongi thinks he sees something close to amusement dance in her eyes before the emotion is shuttered off. She leads the way back to the dining table, taking her seat to the left of Seokjin as she gives him a kiss on the temple.
Yoongi and Hoseok settle back into their previous places, Yoongi watching Seokjae as non-descriptly as he can.
“A drink, noona?” Namjoon offers, hovering by the small bar in the center of the space.
“Cider, Namjoon. Thank you.”
There’s a definite edge of tiredness in her voice, and now that Yoongi’s caught it he feels a lot better. He doesn’t meet a lot of intimidating women in his line of work, so sitting in the awaited presence of this one is unsettling, to say the least. All of the other men in the room seem to defer to her, like girasoli turning to face the sun.
“What have you discussed so far?” Seokjae directs the question towards Hoseok, who instantly sits up a little straighter with her focus on him.
“Nothing so far, Jae-noona. We wanted to wait until you got here.”
Her eyebrows twitch, but all she does is accept the open bottle that Namjoon passes her and takes a sip. Namjoon crosses the table to sit on Yoongi’s other side, and Yoongi tenses immediately, unappreciative of how he’s being boxed in.
“Another beer for our guest please, Namjoon,” Seokjae prompts, Yoongi’s discomfort seemingly noted.
Namjoon acquiesces, even though his ass has barely had time to warm the seat.
“Min Yoongi, alias Agust D.” Niceties out of the way, the woman is quick to get to business, the index finger of her right hand picking at the paper label on her drink as though she’s flipping through an imagined file. “Born on March 9th in Daegu, but moved to Seoul at the tender age of sixteen and, if I’m not mistaken, learned everything he knows from the two years he spent with the Hwan Song Sung Pa.” She leans forward, and she’s got a small smile dancing on her lips but Yoongi knows well enough that the last thing he should take the expression as is friendly. “Tell me, did you leave because you didn’t want to get the tattoo?”
Taken aback by the question, Yoongi doesn’t even notice the beer that Namjoon passes him, or that the man takes the seat on Seokjin’s right side this time. He opens his mouth, unsure how to answer the question or how to react to the information about himself presented. It’s a threat, Yoongi knows; she’s letting him know that she knows all there is to know about him, and Yoongi’s not in possession of any cards to use against her on that front. Yoongi glances at Hoseok, hoping he’ll step in, but he’s got his eyes trained onto the wooden grain of the tabletop, hand loose around his own bottle of beer.
Granted, Yoongi hasn’t played this game in a while but it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how. “I don’t like needles,” he manages to say. An eye for an eye. It’s clear that he’s going to have to field their questions before he’ll get any answers to his own.
Seokjin laughs and coughs quickly to hide it, but Seokjae grins openly, canines bared.
“You’re going to have to get over that if you accept our proposal,” she says, and the cryptic response answers a slew of Yoongi’s questions as much as it raises more of them. “How familiar are you with the Ssang Yong Pa, Min-ssi?”
Yoongi pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek, unsure where this line of questioning is heading, something about Seokjin and Seokjae’s likeness warning him that he needs to choose his next words carefully. “Despite being one of the oldest in Korea, their network was never as extensive as the Chil Sung Pa, though I suppose it’s more to do with the bosses not wanting to get their hands as dirty than it was them not wanting to play nice internationally. No ties to drug running or human trafficking, business restricted to protection, weapons, entertainment and laundering. The last known head was Kim Il-Hun, who headed the attempt to take over H.S.S. Mob’s territory, and rumor has it that he died in a counter-attack more than a decade ago. The guy was secretive as hell, closely guarded for reasons as obvious as they are unknown, so no one knows if he left an heir or if the Ssang Yong Pa simply went up in smoke along with him.”
Silence hangs heavy and loaded at his words, but Hoseok breaks it with a heart-shaped grin. “Told you he was good.”
Seokjae chuckles, and she cocks her head at him. “And do you think the Ssang Yong Pa is gone, Min-ssi?”
Yoongi’s heart stops in his chest and cold fear spreads over his body at the connotations hidden under the sharp edges of the woman’s smile. The subtle insinuation that he could be sitting with members of a long-defunct jopok that used to be one of the most influential and powerful in South Korea is too impossible, too improbable to fathom, if only for the very same reasons that he’s just rattled off. The very idea of it is ridiculous—the Ssang Yong Pa has been quiet for the last decade and a half, but given that none of them look any older than Yoongi himself, he considers the possibility that they had been too young at the time to step into their father’s shoes?
Yoongi’s headache from earlier returns full force, his mind reeling.
Instead of addressing the flabbergasted look on his face, Seokjae smiles and slips off her black leather jacket, letting it fall behind her as she rests an elbow on the table. And there, there, is the answer to about half of Yoongi’s questions, writ clearly in the harsh black lines of the dragon tattooed around her upper left arm; scales dripping the fresh red of blood, its neck stretched over and around the back of her shoulder, head resting on the left side of her chest. A motherfucking dragon, the signature of any member of the Ssang Yong Pa.
The sight of it makes Yoongi’s breath, still short after his cigarette, catch in his throat.
Seokjin grins widely, the movement of him undoing the first two buttons of his shirt enough to direct Yoongi’s disbelieving gaze onto him. The fabric still obscures most of it, but Seokjin reveals enough skin to show him his own tattoo of two deep purple dragons meeting on his broad chest, their noses touching right under the divot of his collarbone.
At this, Yoongi’s lungs all but seize in his chest.
He must have ‘sucker for punishment’ written somewhere on his face, because Namjoon offers him a dimpled smile, thick lips stretching tight over his teeth as he lifts the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, the electric blue scales of the dragon on his forearm a stark contrast against his skin. Without needing another prompt, Yoongi turns to Hoseok, who’s already got his left sleeve pulled up, displaying the dragon on his own forearm. Identical to all of theirs, except yellow in coloring.
“The Ssang Yong Pa is very much alive and well, Yoongi,” Hoseok laughs, but the sound of it is devoid of any real mirth.
And Yoongi, well, Yoongi doesn’t have words for how dumbfounded he is at the revelation. His hand wraps around his drink and he guzzles half of it down, partly to ease the dryness in his mouth and partly to buy himself time to wrap his head around the knowledge that he’s sitting with the heirs apparent to Kim Il-Hun’s throne, the marks of their affiliation bared for him to see and scrutinize.
Yoongi has no idea what he’s doing here, but he really, really wants out.
“You’ve been working for us for years, Min-ssi,” Seokjae hums, and the amused look on her face makes Yoongi’s skin crawl.
Years, she says. These people have been had their eye on him for fucking years, playing a long game that has probably been in place since the very first job Hope had offered him. Out of all the active hitmen offering their services in the network, all of the foot soldiers that a jopok as strong as the Ssang Yong Pa must have to do work like that for them, Hope had chosen to keep sending jobs to him. He wonders if all of his jobs have come from the Ssang Yong Pa under different fronts, keeping him in the dark the entire time. Hoseok is more than capable of the manipulation, and Yoongi can’t believe that he’s only seeing through it now.
He isn’t sure if he wants another beer or to hit himself over the head with his half-empty bottle for taking so long to wise up to their existence.
“Why me?” he demands, narrowing his eyes at Seokjae.
To his surprise it’s Namjoon who fields the question. He’s otherwise been useless throughout the entire afternoon, but the fact that he speaks now makes Yoongi wonder what his role is in the organization. With the Ssang Yong Pa, the placement and color of their tattoos is indicative of their status within it. Seokjin is clearly the head—he’s got the double dragons colored bruise-purple for royalty—and Seokjae has hers on her left bicep. As Seokjin’s blood relative, she’s probably his left hand. Hoseok’s is on his left forearm, leading Yoongi to think that he functions directly under Seokjae, while Namjoon probably acts as consigliere to Seokjin’s right—a man (or woman, he reminds himself) who isn’t here.
“You know how the H.S.S. Mob works,” Namjoon points out, bringing Yoongi’s thoughts back to the clusterfuck at hand. “You were mentored by Son Changseop, who was a distant cousin but still upper echelon, and we know that he was grooming you to become more than just muscle or a runner.”
All of it is true; Changseop’s plans for him had been the real reason Yoongi had left the Mob to begin with. The man’s blood relations had opened doors within the organization that Yoongi otherwise would never have been privy to at so young an age. He isn’t even surprised that Hoseok has somehow found out this information, or that it’s now being used against him. Fuck, now that he’s having this conversation he’s surprised no one else has tried to strong-arm him into giving up his knowledge.
More gears shift in his head at the thought, and a couple new pieces in the puzzle fall into place. They haven’t just been tricking him into working for them without really working for them—they’ve also been protecting him from other players.
Yoongi’s been blindsided and manipulated, and to say that he doesn’t appreciate it would be the understatement of the century.
The bastard formerly known as his only friend in the industry turns to him with another megawatt smile. Just the sight of it makes Yoongi’s face hurt, and it also makes him want to punch the guy. “Basically, we need you to help us take down the Hwan Song Sung Pa.”
“All of you are fuckin’ nuts if you think I’m coming near this with a ten-foot pole,” Yoongi deadpans, his fist clenching into the ripped fabric of his jeans under the table. “You realize that the goddamn Mob has ties and treaties with some of the biggest groups in the region, don’t you? You can’t waltz back into Seoul after all this time and expect them to just hand their territory over because what? You’re going to ask really nicely?”
Seokjae chuckles at his impertinence, smirking at the murderous glare Yoongi gives her for it. “Do you really think any of us would be in Seoul if we weren’t ready to make a move? And I was told you were smart,” she tuts, resting her chin on the back of her hand and smiling at him patronizingly.
“You’ve been trimming down members from Chinese triads, Japanese Yakuza and the Comando Vermelho, as well as smaller players from the rest of the region for us for the last five years, Min-ssi,” Namjoon says, smiling like he thinks he’s being helpful. Yoongi’s hand just tightens around his drink, allowing them to unravel their ploy as his mind runs a mile a minute, absorbing the information. “Thanks to you, we’ve weakened their hold on Seoul since they moved operations from Suwon, and their partners are already renegotiating terms because they think it isn’t safe to work with them anymore.”
“We’ve had Gwangju back under our thumb for the last three years without anyone even suspecting us,” Hoseok adds, barely looking up from his phone as he’s now typing rapidly into it. “And we’ve got pocket clusters taking the Chil Sung Pa down one neighborhood at a time-”
“Busan’s already ours,” Seokjae cuts in, and Hoseok looks up at her, eyes wide in surprise.
“JM managed to get them to agree?” Namjoon pipes up, leaning over Seokjin to look at her. Yoongi makes careful note of the name, filing it away as Seokjin’s probable right hand if he’s taking on a jopok as formidable as the Chil Sung Pa.
Seokjae just nods, not bothering to turn and meet Namjoon’s expectant gaze. “I got the call from Jeon Daehyeon in the car on the way here.”
Namjoon lets out a low, impressed whistle, and he settles back into his chair while Hoseok returns his attention to his phone with renewed frenzy. “We’ve got the south,” he hums contentedly, eyes staring vacantly at a spot on the wall behind Yoongi and Hoseok. “When Seoul falls, the north will be ours, too.”
“When you put it like that it sounds like we’re in Game of Thones,” Seokjin tells him, lips curling into a smile. “Do you think we can get a throne made?” he asks, turning to his sister. Yoongi really hopes he’s kidding.
“It doesn’t go with the house’s aesthetics,” Seokjae scolds, rolling her eyes at him before fixing them back on Yoongi.
“Congratulations,” Yoongi says gruffly, unable to stop himself from blinking against Seokjae’s unwavering stare. “You guys seem to have your shit handled, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t deem myself necessary in your plans.”
“Oh but you are!” Seokjin says excitedly, leaning forward with his palms pressed against the edge of the table. He looks like a goddamn puppy instead of the heir to a fucking mob empire, and Yoongi decides that he liked Seokjin much better when he was rambling about food. “We need your brain, Yoongi-ssi. We need you to tell us where to hit them so they won’t be able to get back up again. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“You?” Yoongi challenges, unable to stop himself from raising an eyebrow.
Instead of looking insulted, Seokjin just grins, and it’s just dangerous enough to have Yoongi snapping his jaw shut with a painful snap, leaning into his chair and away from the intensity of it. “If you’re afraid of the Mob finding out that you’re turning on them, don’t,” Seokjin says, pushing away from the edge of the table, his eyes glinting with promise. “We handle our own, and we take care of our family.”
He says it with such assurance, such authority, that Yoongi almost wants to believe him.
“Your hits have no signature, but we can promise you that they won’t get the chance to counterattack once we strike,” Namjoon reassures from Seokjin’s side.
Yoongi lifts a hand up to palm tiredly at his face. At this point he doesn’t care about showing them any signs of weakness—he just wants all of them to disappear. He doesn’t even bother reacting to the insinuation that he’s scared because it’s 100% true, and he drowns the thought by chugging the rest of his beer.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Hoseok says gently, resting a hand on Yoongi’s. Yoongi stares down at Hoseok’s tattoo, the head of the yellow dragon on his arm resting on the back of his wrist, before Yoongi pulls his own hand out from under it.
“What, exactly, are you offering me in return for this insanity?” Yoongi asks, making sure to direct the question to Seokjae. Seokjin may be the head, but Seokjae seems to be the sensible one between the siblings (even if she is a patronizing bitch). Yoongi wants them to make their offer so he can be specific when he shoots them down.
“A position as general,” she responds, her expression giving away nothing. “We can take down the Mob with or without you, but if you help us we’ll give you management over Chil Sung Pa territory, or the Mob’s if you want it.”
“I don’t,” Yoongi replies, just as flatly.
It’s a generous offer, even within an inner circle so young. Yoongi knows how formidable the Ssang Yong Pa had been in its heyday; if these people could manage to resurrect even a fraction of that, which they’ve clearly done if they’ve restored the Jeolla region and made the Chil Sun Pa bend the knee, then Yoongi’s looking at becoming a made man before his 30th birthday.
It’s a generous offer, and Yoongi’s given them an honest answer. He also doesn’t see the need to elaborate further. He’s been eyed for grooming once before, but even early on Yoongi had known that he didn’t want any of that headache. Some men wanted power, prestige, but he wasn’t one of them. He was good at killing people, and for the most part he enjoyed his job, but all Yoongi wanted was a ton of money and to go down with dignity. Working as an independent hitman paid well and allowed him to let other people clean up the messes he left in his wake, which was why he never allowed himself to be tied to any single jopok.
Until now, that is. God damn the Ssang Yong Pa and their fucking shadows.
“Head our security,” Seokjin suggests. “Train our men.”
Seokjin’s said a lot of out of this world things within a very short amount of time, so Yoongi’s knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss what he says now. But the heir looks serious and no one else at the table reacts to the situation, so Yoongi runs his tongue over his teeth, considering it. If he’s being honest he hadn’t really thought much into the future, choosing to take life one job at a time. But if they’re offering him an early retirement and a way to keep his hands busy doing something he actually enjoys…
He shakes his head free of the thought. Joining them would be just as bad as going back to the Mob. A gang was a gang was a gang, no matter how far-reaching or well-organized, and Yoongi had fought his way out of that life a long time ago.
“Let me guess. You don’t want to do that either?” Seokjae says, seeming to follow his thoughts as she leans back in her chair. She drums the blunt ends of her black-painted nails on the tabletop, her eyes considering Yoongi like he’s a specimen under a microscope.
“You know our plans,” Hoseok says seriously. “You could go to the Mob tonight and tell them our plans, but I can assure you that they no longer have the resources to take us on. You could also say no to us and spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, worrying when we’ll tie up your loose end.”
“Or you could just accept our offer,” Seokjin adds, grinning brightly to lighten the heavy mood. Yoongi appreciates the effort, but it does nothing to soothe the threat that Hoseok has just ever-so-calmly delivered.
“Take this job and we’ll pay you enough that you can buy an island and live there for the rest of your life,” Seokjae sighs, waving a hand dismissively. “The Ssang Yong Pa is a lifetime commitment, a choice. We won’t force you it any more than we can force you into taking this job at all.”
Yoongi’s eyes narrow at her. The way to Seokjin’s heart is obviously food, Namjoon’s probably something shiny, and Hoseok likely anything under the sun, but Yoongi? The way to his heart is money. “How much are we talking here?”
Her mouth twitches into an amused smile, and she digs her phone out of her pocket to check something on it before responding. “10 billion won.”
Yoongi takes half a second to let his eyelids flutter shut, subconsciously licking his lips at the thought.
“Half now, half when we have the heads of the Mob decorating our front lawn,” Seokjae continues, oblivious to the multitude of fantasies running though Yoongi’s brain.
“Gross,” Seokjin says under his breath, making a face, and it makes Yoongi snap out of his reverie, thinking the statement is directed at him somehow. Yoongi squints at Seokjin, but it’s clear that he’s referring to the latter half of Seokjae’s statement. The lack of a reaction to the staggering amount of his own family’s money that’s just been offered makes Yoongi wonder just how many resources and businesses the Ssang Yong Pa as accumulated without anyone catching on.
Because Yoongi makes bank. He makes hella bank, but 10 billion fucking won wouldn’t just buy Yoongi an island—hell, could probably buy a small country with that money. Granted, probably one with a sub-200,000 population, but still.
“She wouldn’t really pitch their heads on the lawn,” Namjoon reassures him. Then his head snaps up and he blinks at Hoseok. “Would she?”
Hoseok’s mouth turns into a little upside-down triangle, and he shrugs. Seokjae just grins that weird grin of hers, sharp as a piece of broken glass, and Jesus Christ, Yoongi’s going to need a neck brace for the amount of whiplash these people are subjecting him to. He’s never met people crazier than he is, but they definitely take the cake. Hell, they take the entire fucking bakery.
“We’ll give you a week to think about it,” Seokjae tells him, rising to her feet. “I believe we’ve already taken more than enough of your time.”
It’s an abrupt dismissal and an anti-climactic ending to what has thus far been an extremely loaded discussion, but the rest of the men take it in stride and follow suit. Except Yoongi, that is, because he watches the siblings saunter back into the living room before he finally rises from the table, mentally cataloguing the differences in their expressions. Namjoon looks pensive, Hoseok still distracted on his phone like the conversation was barely a blip on his radar, and Seokjin looks completely unbothered, like he hasn’t just eagerly offered Yoongi far more than his information is worth. And Seokjae, the most curious out of all of them, seems to have forgotten about Yoongi entirely, all traces of her earlier tiredness gone as she buzzes with the need to be somewhere else.
Yoongi’s confused. He needs about five more beers and the week they’re offering him just to process.
After another round of handshakes and muted “nice to meet you”s (Seokjae only bothering with the niceties out of politeness before she disappears down a dimly lit hallway), Seokjin and Namjoon climb up the staircase spiraling staircase fitted to the back of the room. Fittingly, Hoseok is the one who walks him out, slipping his phone back into the pocket of his shorts, silent as they trek through the quiet house. Yoongi doesn’t fail to notice that Hoseok slips his sleeve back down over his tattoo the second he pushes open the front doors.
“We’ll contact you in a week,” Hoseok says when they reach Yoongi’s parked motorcycle, its chrome edges glinting golden in the setting sun. Yoongi squints, realizing that he’s only spent a couple of hours here but is so emotionally exhausted from it that it feels like he’s been at it for days. “Or you can just drop by whenever you decide. Just make sure to use the same bike so security doesn’t shoot you on the spot,” he adds lightly, his grin back in place. He claps a hand to Yoongi’s shoulder, making him fumble with the straps of his helmet. “I do hope you decide to take the job, Yoongi,” he admits. “I know we caught you off guard, but you’d make a great addition to the team.”
“Caught off guard” is an understatement, Yoongi thinks wryly, but he doesn’t say so out loud. Instead he swings his leg over the seat and revs his engine to life. Hoseok watches him go, disappearing past the treeline as he sightlessly toggles the controls on his phone to open the gate for him.
Yoongi speeds off, quite literally into the sunset.