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Kim Dokja gets his first taste of blood at twelve.
In another life, things might’ve been different. In another life, his mother would’ve taken the fall for his actions and he would’ve let her, blocking out the memory until even he believed it.
In this life, when his father starts threatening them, Kim Dokja takes the knife he’s holding and turns it back on him without a second thought. As he watches the life drain from his father’s body, Dokja’s blood sings, and he knows the power he feels flooding through him isn’t quite normal.
In this life, when he kills, the magic that’s been lying dormant under his skin wakes— and the whole world changes.
He used to tell himself that the first kill had been an accident, but that argument hadn’t held for long. As he grew into his magic, it became easier and easier to tell who the horrible people in the world were. Dokja used this knowledge to his advantage, honing his skills until he became untraceable, until he was confident enough to share his work.
At 23, he becomes famous.
The scenes he leaves behind are puzzle pieces. It’s not enough to simply take out the scum of the world one by one and hide in the shadows— Kim Dokja is no hero. Despite the service he knows he’s doing, there’s too much thrill at seeing the blood he spills to be one. And so he leaves clues, instead.
He knows he’s got the police conflicted. There’s no kindness to the way he strings guts and gore about. The evidence of his victim’s crimes is left strewn around. Dokja is called a monster by some, a savior by others. The Demon King of Salvation they call him, and he secretly grows to like it.
The facade is easy to keep for the next few years. Dokja opens a quiet cafe-bookstore hybrid in the middle of a busy city, somewhere inconspicuous and unassuming. He is sweet to everyone who enters, especially those who he can sense something supernatural in, and becomes well known for being able to find a perfect book for each patron who visits. People start to joke that he can read minds, and he’ll laugh it off but the better truth is this: Kim Dokja is a witch. Sensitive to blood magic, the pulse of a heart unknowingly being monitored is the most truthful thing there is.
He might’ve been able to keep this up for the rest of his life if it hadn’t been for the new detective that was brought in.
Detective Yoo Joonghyuk is handsome. He can be gruff and blunt, but he’s polite enough when he needs to be. In another life, Kim Dokja would’ve blindly fallen in love with him. In this life, when Dokja looks at Yoo Joonghyuk all he can see is a predator. He hasn’t made it this far unnoticed by jumping into the hands of authority, and he won’t be fooled by a pretty face to start doing it now.
Still, Dokja can play a part well. “Detective,” he coos as Yoo Joonghyuk enters the cafe exactly five minutes after opening, the same as he’s been doing every morning for the past few months. There’s a still-warm coffee waiting for him at his usual table, and today Dokja has left a corny romance book next to it. Joonghyuk’s never bothered to pick up any of the books he leaves, but maybe one of these days Dokja will get him.
Joonghyuk nods at him slowly, traces of sleep making him sluggish. Dokja finds it charming.
A man of routine, Joonghyuk takes out a newspaper from his coat pocket, setting it down on the table before turning to his coffee. Half drunk, the coffee is abandoned in favour of the paper. This is usually the part of the morning where Dokja teases him for being an old man, preferring paper over technology, but when his eyes catch the front page his mouth dries.
The Demon King of Salvation Strikes Again? the paper proposes, and Dokja can do nothing but blink once, twice—
There’s no way.
“I thought the killings had stopped?” He keeps his voice even, throwing a little bit of fear in for good measure.
Not that his act goes noticed— Yoo Joonghyuk closes the paper to look at what the opening headline is and then hums. "They must've started again."
There's not many things Dokja knows about Yoo Joonghyuk. He knows the way Joonghyuk likes his coffee, and that despite not being a morning person he's still up early enough to be the first person in Dokja's shop. He knows that Joonghyuk doesn't care for romance or sci-fi or even mysteries, despite being a detective.
He knows that Yoo Joonghyuk has transferred to their city to hunt him down.
He's the reason Kim Dokja hasn't killed in months.
"How are they so sure it's the Demon King?" Dokja asks.
For a few moments Joonghyuk just stares at him, dark eyes taking in his face until Dokja starts to feel squeamish. The moment breaks when Joonghyuk holds out his paper, and Dokja takes it carefully, trying not to betray his nerves.
If Dokja didn't know any better, he might've been fooled. The pictures don't show much, just the identity of the man that had been found. He fits well enough under Dokja's signature— someone unassuming at first glance, but the article goes in-depth with his past of abuse.
Scum, Dokja thinks. Both this man, and whoever killed them. There's no way this killer would know him, would know what he does, but it hits a little too close to home to be a mere coincidence.
"They left a note," Joonghyuk finally tells him.
"A note?" Dokja's fingers curl around the paper. He's shaking, but he hopes Joonghyuk mistakes his rage for fear. "Do they usually not?"
"Not like this. They just signed their name."
Kim Dokja would never.
“Isn’t that kind of tacky?” he blurts. He can’t help it.
Joonghyuk’s eyebrows raise. “I suppose so,” he mulls, bringing his cup up to his mouth. "So what do you think?"
"I don't know," he admits, fingers tracing across the text of the newspaper. "I think I'd have to see it for myself."
Just as Joonghyuk opens his mouth to respond, more people start filtering in, bleary-eyed and eager for caffeine. Dokja spurs into motion, pushing the news of the killer to the back of his mind as he greets them with a bright grin. The next hour is a rush, and he’s kept busy enough that he has no time to think about anything else.
As it starts to die down, Joonghyuk approaches the register. Dokja peeks up at him from where he’s making himself a drink. “Refill?”
Joonghyuk shakes his head. “Are you free later?”
..::||::..
When there's no news of his copycat for a few weeks, he's not sure what he was expecting— if he was expecting anything at all.
Dokja starts spending his free time with Yoo Joonghyuk and finds things simultaneously easy and difficult. There’s no crash course on how to date someone investigating your kills, but it never becomes an issue. For someone with such a gruff appearance, Joonghyuk treats him sweetly. He gets treated to homemade meals often and has the luxury of learning who Joonghyuk is.
Even as he tells himself he’s just doing this to use it as a cover, he wonders if he’s growing too compliant.
Maybe he should’ve thought something was coming, because the scene he stumbles across one morning on his way to work shocks him out of his invisibility magic, and all he can do is stare.
Kim Dokja likes familiarity. He wakes before the sun is in the sky, fueling himself on the last traces of the moon before it’s gone from his sight.
He’s played around with magic enough to know that many things are out of his limit. Due to a lack of any formal training, there are things he knows he’ll never be able to achieve. Still, Dokja has tested enough that he can manage a solid fifteen minutes of invulnerability, of hiding himself in plain sight by folding the light in his favour. Maybe it’s a bit superstitious, a killer being wary of being watched, but as he takes alleys and dark streets to get to work it gives him peace of mind.
Point being: Kim Dokja enjoys his comforts. He takes the same route to work every day because no one is supposed to know what it is.
Keeping this in mind, there’s no way his copycat doesn’t know who he is.
It’s a gruesome visage, and he can see why the police thought the last one was him.
The first thing he notices is that it’s fresh— less than an hour, maybe, still long enough to be set up undisturbed. Whoever is behind it did it with the assumption that Kim Dokja would happen across it just before five in the morning. And what a sight it is.
A woman lies displayed on the street. Right off the bat, Dokja can tell there’s something wrong, even in the dim light. Her arms are stretched out above her body, cupped together as if to show something off. He’s mindful of the glints of blood on the ground as he steps closer to get a better look. His breath catches.
Resting in her palms is a heart.
Hers, he infers. She’s been tidied up a bit, but there’s no mistaking the cavity in her chest.
There’s something missing.
His eyes drift to the blood he’d walked over earlier.
When Joonghyuk had mentioned that there was a note left behind, he thought it would’ve been written on paper. He should’ve known better. The blood on the ground spells out his moniker in neat letters that are vaguely recognizable.
He needs to get out of here.
He is far too exposed to escape.
The logical side of his brain stills him even as he’s turning to leave. His name is in a crime scene. No one should know who he is, but now that they do it’s impossible to walk away from this trap without doing something.
What the fuck would a normal person do?
The solution is simple.
When Joonghyuk answers his call, the first thing he feels is relief.
Joonghyuk calls his name once, voice warm around the syllables, and then again in worry as Dokja bursts into hysterics.
"Breathe," Joonghyuk tells him, so he does. One shaky inhale after another, until he is able to explain what happened.
"I didn't know what else to do," Dokja says. "Joonghyuk-ah, help me."
..::||::..
Joonghyuk shows up around the same time the cops do. Dokja is asked a couple of questions, but he’s sobbing, stumbling over his speech. With Joonghyuk at his back, it doesn’t take long for them to let him go.
Before he realises it they’re at the cafe, Joonghyuk’s hand on his arm a familiar weight as he guides Dokja to sit. Maybe it's been too long since he's cried, because his mind is getting ahead of him. As Joonghyuk's thumbs wipe his tears he looks up.
His heart drops. Joonghyuk’s eyes are blank and cold as he stares at Dokja, past him. There’s that look again, the one that he can’t quite discern. Dokja can feel his own eyes dry up, and he sniffs to get Joonghyuk’s attention, lip wobbling.
The reaction is instant— Joonghyuk goes soft in seconds, lips relaxing into a line that isn’t as deadly, eyes crinkling at the corners. The hands still on Dokja’s face are deceptively gentle, stroking at his cheeks.
Kim Dokja has thought of him as dangerous before, but not like this.
He’s not sure he wants to expose himself yet. There’s a new sort of panic gripping his chest the longer Joonghyuk’s hands are on him, but Dokja is powerless.
“Were you scared?” Joonghyuk asks, tilting up Dokja’s chin so he’s forced to make eye contact. He sounds so concerned, the picture-perfect boyfriend, and the pressure Dokja feels around his heart is crushing.
It takes him a moment to answer, scanning over Joonghyuk’s face like it’ll help him figure out how to navigate this situation. But Joonghyuk’s worried eyes offer no hints, so he decides to be honest. “Yes,” he admits in a whisper, though it’s only partially sincere.
Joonghyuk’s hands slide down to his neck, thumbs tracing back and forth along his jaw. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
A laugh threatens to bubble up from his throat. No, you're not. Whatever he'd seen had been intentional. He thinks again of the way the woman had been posed, heart held out like an offering.
“It’s a love letter.”
Joonghyuk stills, eyes narrowing before his head tilts just the slightest bit. “What was?”
“You asked me before,” Dokja says, swallowing nervously, “when the killings started again. You wanted to know what I thought of it.”
“So you think it’s a love letter? To who— Salvation’s victims?” Joonghyuk sounds like he could start laughing, but the curve of his mouth is starting to look a little mean.
Dokja grabs at Joonghyuk’s wrists, lightly circling his fingers around his arm. “It’s a love letter to Salvation.”
Joonghyuk’s eyes go blank again.
“You’re not surprised.”
Kim Dokja has never really seen Joonghyuk smile before, but he is now. “It wasn’t a secret.”
Dokja’s fingers tighten, but he knows it hardly serves as a threat. “How did you know it was me?” Had he gotten sloppy somewhere, left evidence behind?
“The first time I came across one of Salvation’s scenes was almost three years ago. It was very memorable, for what it was. Poetic, almost.” Joonghyuk leans back and away, taking the warmth of his hands with him. “Kim Dokja,” he says, and Joonghyuk has every ounce of his attention. “Your magic reeks.”
His mouth goes dry. “What?”
That’s insane. Even werewolves and their sensitive noses have been unable to scent traces of his magic, but—
It would make sense. The pieces would fit together.
He tries again. “How is that even possible?”
Yoo Joonghyuk grins.
Dokja can’t help but think that he looks a little unhinged.
“Old magic recognizes old magic,” Joonghyuk says, holding up a hand. Shadows rise from the floor, twisting around Joonghyuk’s body until it settles like a cloak around him. He flickers in and out of sight until there’s nothing to be seen.
Old magic isn’t talked about. No one mentions it, because more often than not old magic is synonymous with dark magic, nevermind its intent. Blood magic on its own is already bad enough that Dokja’s done everything in his power to hide it in plain sight. But this makes Dokja’s invisibility magic look like child’s play.
When Yoo Joonghyuk slips back into view, he’s behind Dokja, pressed against his back. One of his hands rests on Dokja’s hip, the other holding his jaw. “You’re a couple hundred years too late to be able to hide from me,” he says, and Dokja isn’t sure if what he’s feeling is fear or arousal. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it doesn't matter.
“So why the game?” he questions, too aware of their points of contact.
"I wanted to see you bloom. The best talents come out under stress, so I posed as an authoritative figure to draw you out, but—" The hand on his face slides down, circling carefully around his throat. "You decided to hide instead."
He's unsure whether to press into Joonghyuk's hold or away. The claw-like grip on his hip distracts him, and Joonghyuk makes a vague noise of disapproval. “I thought about taking you away, but there would’ve been no fun in that.”
Dokja trembles.
With a hum, Joonghyuk’s finger taps over his throat. “Perhaps it’s not too late.”
Before he can form a question, darkness settles over Dokja’s eyes. It lasts only a moment, and when he blinks again they’re in a small room. It’s too dark to make out much, but he can clearly see a table in front of him.
“What is this?” he asks. There’s a haze at the corner of his eyes he can’t focus on, always just out of his reach. They’re still in the cafe, he thinks, but the power of Joonghyuk’s magic is so strong he has to second guess himself.
“I’ve been curious,” Joonghyuk muses, and a tray of knives appears on the table, their sharp silver glint calling out to him.
When he blinks again, a body is on the table. For a moment, he’s so stunned all he can do is stare. The man is tied down, uselessly straining against ropes as he tries to get Dokja’s attention. It takes only a second for him to recognize who it is, and his breath catches.
“They say the first kill means the most,” Joonghyuk says into his ear. It sounds like temptation, a sin. “I wonder— how would you have done it, if you had the time, the skills?”
It’s an illusion. Dokja knows that, that whatever pocket in space Joonghyuk has created isn’t real, but still—
“What happens if I say no?”
Joonghyuk’s lip curls. “I imagine it’d be a life on the run for you. And once they know you have magic… well.” It’s cruel. There was never a choice to start with.
Dokja looks back at him. “And if I say yes?”
Long fingers tap at his lips; a question, a request, a demand. Dokja's lips part anyways, and Joonghyuk’s finger strokes along the roof of his mouth. “Only one way to find out.”
Dokja considers the offer, considers Joonghyuk. He wants to kiss him— he wants to kill him. The dance between violence and fondness is a fine line that easily blurs for people like them.
He eyes the blades sitting off to his side, and then once again looks down on the trash before him.
Kim Dokja picks up a knife, and begins.