Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Examiner’s thermostat is perpetually set to the wrong temperature. In summer, it’s sweltering; in autumn, Jisung's teeth chatter as he works, despite the bite in the breeze outdoors, the honey-colored leaves falling outside the office window. Lately, he's taken to bringing a fluffy sweater to his cubicle, huddling pitifully in his rolling chair until someone—Seungmin, usually, fed up with his melodramatics—brings him something warm to drink.

It's only October. He doesn't know how he'll get through the year.

Jisung has complained countless times, but at this point, he’s pretty sure his editor’s developed selective hearing. There’s one channel for Jisung’s legitimate journalistic pursuits, another for his whining.

Currently, Jisung’s trying his best to transmit through both.

“I just don’t think this one’s up my alley, Chan,” he says, rubbing his nose. “Can’t you find another guy for the job?”

“Don't be ridiculous! It's perfect for you. Wouldn't dream of any other writer.” Chan claps Jisung on the back, then grips him by both shoulders in a proud squeeze. “Exciting, isn’t it? Your very own front-page story.”

The thing is—Jisung’s been begging for this opportunity for months. Ever since he started at The Examiner, he’s been crawling his way up from the bottom, stuck in the Lifestyle section until he can prove his worth. It’s surreal, hearing the phrase from Chan’s lips after all this time, but he’s not jumping for joy at this particular pitch.

Turns out, manifestation works. 

Jisung just should have been a touch more specific.

Because instead of covering something important—the string of burglaries in the city over the past several weeks, say, or the disappearance and presumed death of Park Jinyoung, the city’s CFO—Jisung’s reporting on...

“It’s not a strip club, Jisung. It’s a burlesque lounge. You do know the difference, right?”

Whatever his editor wants to call it, Jisung’s just not sure why he has to be the man for the job.

“I thought I was breaking out of soft news,” he mutters.

Chan’s too protective of him. He claims the crime beat’s dangerous, and maybe he’s right. The government doesn’t take kindly to reporters sticking their noses where they don’t belong. Most independent papers have already shuttered under the new regime, replaced by propaganda machines spewing conservative rhetoric about the “natural order” of subgenders, pushing op-eds in favor of extreme price hikes and regulations on scent stabilizers and cycle suppressants. Several of their colleagues who have spoken out have lost their credentials—or worse.

The Examiner toes a thin line, maintaining journalistic integrity while evading censorship. 

But if Jisung wants to take risks for the sake of a good scoop, shouldn’t Chan count himself lucky? He’s hardworking, plucky—and handsome, while he’s listing all his best attributes. He should be any editor’s dream.

“I wouldn’t call this a cover story if I thought it was soft news,” Chan says. “There’s more here. A lot more, I think.”

“Are you going to tell me, or is this going to be one of those things where you make me figure it out for myself?” 

Chan raises his eyebrows and shrugs, eyes darting mischievously.

Guessing game it is, then.

“Okay. Burlesque lounge,” Jisung thinks aloud. “Grey area, legally. Not sex work. But still…”

“Sex-y work?” Chan offers, pleased with his own wordplay. 

Jisung gives him a pity laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly government-sanctioned.”

“And yet this place is thriving. Has been for years. Revenue-wise, it’s the most successful burlesque show in the country, but it’s impossible to get into,” Chan says. “Top dollar. Top secret.”

“You think they’re hiding something?”

It's not crime, but maybe Chan's right. Rich people are usually up to sketchy shit, aren't they? Follow the money, and all that.

Chan nods. “I think it’s possible. Mysterious, isn’t it?” He raises one finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. “If only there were a way we could investigate…”

Jisung laughs. "Oh. I get it. You’re hiding something."

Chan grins like a kid on Christmas morning.

“An anonymous tip came in this morning.” He drops a thin manila folder on Jisung’s desk. “Go on. Open it.”

Jisung does. 

But instead of the usual pages of notes Jisung's used to, he finds a single, gold-embossed business card.

The front depicts a strange symbol: a snake, twisted around a single rose. The rose’s thorns impale the snake at several points along its body, blood–or is it venom?–dripping down the white space of the card.

On the other side, there's just an address, accompanied by a single line of text.

Le Bienfaiteur.

✎

The apartment smells like brownies and pasta. Not in that order. 

“Yeah, I mean, it's okay. It's kind of cool. But I'm just saying, Felix. Your first front-page article is your legacy. It defines how the public will see you! Forever! And it's not like there aren't other stories I could be covering." Jisung curls on the couch, a blanket-wrapped ball of angst, ranting as Felix consoles him from his spot behind the stove. “Just because I’m a young alpha doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be taken seriously, right? I’m just as good as all of them! Does he think that I can’t write about kidnapping, or murder, or drugs, or… whatever? I’m serious! I’m smart! I’m—”

"I know it's not what you wanted, Jisung, but take a deep breath." Felix walks into the living room, carefully balancing two bowls of noodles on a wooden serving tray. He sets the tray on the coffee table and perches on the armchair across from Jisung. “Look on the bright side. The front page is amazing! This is your big break!”

It’s the first phrase he’s gotten in edgewise since Jisung got home.

Jisung takes his bowl from Felix with narrowed eyes. “You’re using your teacher-voice on me, aren’t you?”

Felix nods.

He sighs. “I’ve been ranting, haven’t I?”

Felix nods.

“How long?”

Felix glances at the wall clock. “Thirty minutes, maybe?”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung grumbles, setting his bowl in his lap. “And thank you. I don’t know why I let this stuff get under my skin so bad. You’re right, it’s a good thing. I just had higher hopes.”

“Hey, no big deal,” Felix says, slurping up a thick noodle. “You listen to my rants about the five-year-olds who drive me crazy; I listen to yours about the thirty-year-old who grinds your gears. All’s fair in love and roommates.”

“Chan’s only 28.”

“Damn." Felix has been in the market for a new sugar daddy, a quest he's been all too eager to update Jisung on recently. "Too young. Oh, well.”

Jisung smiles. Felix has that effect on him. A blonde-haired omega with a face full of freckles, he’s a ray of sunshine in a human being— without fail, you can find him either smiling ear-to-ear or pouting with the biggest boba eyes you’ve ever seen. And he’s a primary school teacher. That level of wholesome simply should not exist.

“Is there something else bothering you?” Felix asks.

“What do you mean?” Jisung replies, too quickly.

“Yeah, it’s annoying that it's not harder-hitting, but you’ve done plenty of fluff pieces. At least this one has some intrigue. It shouldn’t be bothering you that bad.” He rests bowl on the coffee table and gives him a soft look. “If you want to talk, I’m here.”

Jisung flushes. Felix is saying the quiet part out loud. Spending a bunch of time in a burlesque lounge isn't exactly playing to his strengths.

Jisung presented late, at the very end of college. Since that first time, he hasn’t had a single rut. Hasn’t knotted a single omega. It’s not that he’s got low self-esteem, or anything. He knows he’s hot. Young. Whatever. A lot of omegas would love to have him, or so his friends say. His body just...isn’t interested. He hasn’t found his person. Something like that.

Sometimes he wonders if there’s something wrong with him. Most of the time, he distracts himself. Throws himself into his career, his ambition.

This story will make all that much harder to ignore.

“I know. And thanks. I mean it,” Jisung says. "I'll be okay."

“You can do this,” Felix reassures him. “Focus on the story, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

"One step at a time."

✎

The first step is to follow the first clue.

The first clue is an address on a gold-embossed business card.

The address on the gold-embossed business card leads to a big, black door on a deserted street corner in a strange part of town.

Not good, not particularly bad. Just… forgotten. As if by design.

Jisung knocks. 

Nothing happens.

Jisung waits.

The night is cool, the mid-October wind whipping against Jisung’s leather jacket, curling the tips of his hair. He hops from foot to foot to keep from shivering. The walls of the building are a forgettable, drab grey. There’s some graffiti on the lower-left cinderblock. On the sidewalk beside his foot, he spies a scrap of paper. He grabs it, flips it over, rakes his eyes over some indecipherable scribbles. Disappointing. 

He stuffs it into his wallet anyway, right next to the business card he got from Chan. You never know.

No one's coming. Ah, well, these things happen.

Just as he’s turning to go, he hears it—The barest hint of smooth jazz slinking from the gap at the bottom of the door. The opening can’t be more than a couple millimeters, but it’s enough for Jisung to catch the drift of a strange melody in a minor key, enticing him like a siren song. It’s enough for him to glimpse a sliver of crimson light, drawing him in.

Jisung crouches, slipping the business card between the gap and sliding it through.

The door opens.

✎

It’s Jisung’s first time at a burlesque lounge, and he prays it’s not obvious.

The doorman lets him in without a word. He doesn't ask questions. It’s not that kind of place. Le Bienfaiteur isn’t where you go if you want to be known.

Jisung walks down a pitch-black staircase that feels like it will never end. He can’t see his own feet, just follows the sound of the music until his descent’s complete.

He steps off the staircase and into a new world.

The lights are dim. It smells like musk and amber, dark and expensive, tendrils of sweet smoke clouding the air. Lust pulses along with the seductive bass of the music, a venomous undercurrent in a sea of opulence, everything drenched in red and black and gold.

“Holy shit,” Jisung whispers under his breath.

A handful of clientele, all of whom must be stratospheres beyond Jisung’s tax bracket, sit scattered around the intimate room, their bodies in comfortable repose. Jisung recognizes one or two of them: a CEO here, a football player there. Dancers adorned in feathers and sequins—and not much else—slink between velvet loveseats and high-top tables, making conversation.

It’s the fanciest place Jisung’s ever set foot in. He feels suddenly self-conscious in his plain white dress shirt and charcoal work slacks. He hopes he looks the part. He can’t blow his cover before he’s even figured out who he needs to talk to.

He needs to loosen up. Act like he belongs.

A drink might help.

“Can I get a bourbon and coke?” he asks the bartender, a man with chin-length red hair and piercing eyes. Jisung keeps his vision trained on those eyes, not the leather harness and bare chest beneath them. He glances just long enough to notice the gleaming silver pin affixed to one strap of the harness, its design pinging in his memory: a serpent twisted around the stem of a single rose.

The bartender slides the drink back across the counter, and Jisung takes a sip, trying not to grimace. 

“Strong.”

“I give the cute ones extra. Makes them stay a little longer.” 

“And tip a little better?” Jisung counters. 

The bartender grins, biting his bottom lip as he stretches out his hand. “Hyunjin. Pleasure.”

“Jisung,” Jisung says, then flushes. Why didn’t he think of a fake name? A backstory? All it takes is one pretty stranger, and he’s thrown totally off his game.

Flirting with a potential source. Drinking on the job. Cool, cool, cool.

“You’re just in time for the show, Jisung.”

✎

Jisung hurries to an open seat. The room darkens to pitch-black, then brightens again in a flash as red lights illuminate a line of dancers on stage. The room stills, like the calm before a storm, like a firework just about to pop. A hush descends over the crowd. Jisung realizes he’s been holding his breath.

The show begins. Music thrums, a silky Nina Simone song slinking from the speakers like an alleycat’s prowl. Dancers clad in leather and lace sway to the beat in slow, fluid motions. Jisung loses himself to the performance. 

He didn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t this. The men on stage are confident in their bodies; they move their limbs like paintbrushes, decorating the stage like a canvas. They must’ve rehearsed this routing countless times; it’s flawless, as far as Jisung can tell. But the dancers look so natural. Like they were born to be here. They play off one another, telling a story with every swish of their hips, every dazzling smile, every impeccably coordinated motion. One dancer tugs off a black satin glove, throwing it into the air; another catches it between his teeth. 

It’s sexy; it’s fresh; it’s fascinating as hell. Jisung can’t look away. 

He’s not even thinking about his insecurities with his subgender, which typically haunt the back of his mind like a cobweb he can’t quite reach. He’s definitely not thinking about the story. The Examiner is worlds away from this lounge, this stage, this night. Jisung’s whole being’s pulled into the show, transfixed. 

The opening number ends, and several dancers scamper away as the room darkens again. There’s a round of polite applause, an uptick in the scents swirling in the air. Cedar and cinnamon, cranberry and clove.

When the lights lift back up, Jisung gasps. A single dancer stands at the center of the stage, hip cocked, face concealed by a crimson-feathered fan.

Jisung's pulse spikes, his body flooding with pheromones instinctively. He leans forward, hungry.

At least he’s not nervous anymore.

It’s hard to be nervous when he’s watching him.

The dancer in the middle of the stage is impossible. That’s the only word for it, impossible. A human body shouldn’t be allowed to move with such effortless grace. He glides across the stage like he owns it. Even from this distance, his features are elegant, striking: straight nose, high cheekbones, pillow-like lips, dangerous eyes.

Eyes that lock onto Jisung’s for the entire show.

He’s imagining it. There’s no way the other man can notice him under the bright stage lights. It’s wishful thinking. But when his hips dip, and he straddles a wooden chair, one razor-thin stiletto on either side, Jisung swears he shoots him a smirk, his eyebrows lifting. And when he unfastens his corset, one clasp at a time, it really looks like he’s watching him, too. Like Jisung is just as captivating of a show as the one he’s come to see. 

Jisung’s breath catches in his chest, body pulsing with a brand-new feeling, addictive and dangerous.

He has to meet him.

Has to know him.

The curtain closes; the dancer disappears. Feeling suddenly displaced, Jisung surveys the crowd. All alphas, by the look and scent of them, which tracks. They look calm, but Jisung can sense the energy thrumming underneath, volatile and barely controlled. 

Le Bienfaiteur is a tinderbox, and they’re all just one match from catastrophe.

He tries to tell himself it's all in his head, but the more he sits there, the more certain he gets: they're watching him, the other alphas. Some of them surreptitiously, a glance out of the corner of their eye; others, head-on, practically snarling at him from a distance.

The message is clear: Get out. You don't belong here.

Jisung shudders. Anxiety prickles at his skin, rushing back even stronger after the brief reprieve of the show. He loosens the collar of his white button-down, an attempt to get some air. It doesn’t help.

He should go.

It was a good first try. That’s a lie, but he tries his best to make himself believe it. He’ll call tonight… reconnaissance. He came in. Got a lay of the land. He can come back next time with a better plan, more confidence. Better safe than sorry.

It’s getting late. When was his last real meal? Right. He needs dinner. Jisung’s extra hungry, in fact, because out of nowhere he’s overpowered with the most delicious scent he’s sensed in his whole life, ripe orange and sweet cream and something a little dark, a little woodsy, all of it perfect—

“Are you going to sit there and stare all night, or are you going to buy me a drink?” 

✎

Jisung whips around, jostling the ice at the bottom of his glass and splashing his drink on his trousers.

Fuck. That’s going to stain.

More importantly, fuck. 

It's him.

Jisung is a journalist. He’s not prone to hyperbole. This is a fact: The dancer draping his body elegantly over the high back of Jisung’s leather chair is the most beautiful person he has ever seen. 

“Um, hi,” Jisung says. He flashes a grin he hopes is charming, catching the dancer’s eyes. They’re pretty eyes. Very pretty. He could look at them all night. “I liked your show.”

“Thanks,” the dancer says with an easy smile. “I like you.”

He’s around Jisung’s height, maybe a little taller, bleached blonde hair falling languidly over one eye. He’s got a smile splayed across his face like Jisung’s his next meal and he’s got all the time in the world to play with his food.

He’s also wearing nothing but a pair of burgundy lace panties and a cherry-red leather harness, two black diamond-studded nipple clamps adorning his soft chest.

Jesus Christ.

Jisung blushes.

“It’s my first time here,” he admits. 

“I know." The omega smiles. "I’m Minho.”

“Jisung.” His flush spreads from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “That obvious, huh?”

“I’d remember a face like yours,” shrugs Minho, who is awfully relaxed for being practically nude. “Plus, your scent is… strong.”

“Strong how? Like, good-strong?” He says, then backtracks. “I don’t hang out with a lot of omegas. And you— you said it was strong, so I was wondering if it was different from how my friend thinks I smell, and if it was good or bad or—”

So much for not being nervous.

“It’s good,” Minho replies, and now he’s the one whose ears turn pink at the tips. Or is that just a trick of the light? “It’s sweeter than I expected. It’s a baked good kind of scent, vanilla and cream, but it’s got a note of something deeper. Espresso, but milky? You know, it smells like—”

“Cream cheese,” Jisung grumbles. “My scent is cheesecake. And coffee.”

He’d been hopeful that maybe Felix had been wrong. Not that he doesn’t love cheesecake—it’s delicious, and an Americano pairs with it perfectly. It’s just not the most alpha scent of all-time. Why couldn’t he have gotten whiskey, or tobacco, or, he doesn’t know, fucking dirt and motor oil?

“Cute.”

Nevermind. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

“Ah! Um.” Jisung makes a sound somewhere between his throat and his chest, something between a gulp and a squeal. “Thanks.”

Minho looks at Jisung for a long time. His gaze is soft. “You’re very welcome, Jisung."

Minho sits on the chair's armrest, kicking off his heels and resting his feet in Jisung's lap. The gesture is casual, familiar, like unlocking your front door after a long day at work. It should feel foreign, but it’s strangely comfortable—as if Minho’s ease in this environment transfers to Jisung, too. As if the membrane between them is permeable, Jisung’s borders dissolving cell by cell the longer he spends in this strange space.

Jisung wonders what it takes to feel at home in a place like this. To feel this comfortable in your body all the time. He thinks it must feel nice. Liberating.

Oh, well. Maybe in another life.

“We don’t get much of your type around here."

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jisung asks, bracing himself for inevitable disappointment.

"The young alphas. The hungry ones.”

“Oh.”

“It’s hot.” 

“Oh.” Jisung swallows.

This is Minho’s job. All of it. His tone, his touch. The way his gaze lingers on Jisung’s full lips, on the hint of collarbone peeking from his dress shirt, on the silver glint of his pants zipper—He’s paid to make sure that Jisung has a good time. That he comes back. That he keeps their secrets.

It’s not personal.

Jisung can’t get attached.

“So.” Minho cards a hand through Jisung’s hair, and he shivers. “What’s an innocent guy like you doing in a place like this?”

He’s disarming. He’s enchanting. He’s a terrible idea, most likely. But there's something about him that makes Jisung want to be honest. 

He barely thinks twice when he answers, “I’m writing a story.”

Minho laughs, rolling his eyes. “A story? About this place?"

And it does sound ridiculous, hearing it from Minho’s lips. Jisung doesn’t really know why he’s here, beyond Chan’s vague tip the other day. He doesn’t know what’s lurking under the surface. He just has this sense, this innate knowledge of something more. Like a hunting dog following a scent, like a sculptor chipping away at stone. 

"Maybe you could give me a contact? Someone who knows more about the operations around here?"

"There’s nothing to see here. Hate to break it to you.” Minho looks around the club lazily, like he’s in the grocery store or the laundromat. It’s almost convincing, but something's off in his response.

Something’s off in Jisung, too. He’s inclined to be way too forthcoming with this man he’s just met. If he thought the bartender was disastrously pretty, Minho is like an EF5 tornado. He’s city-shattering. Life-destroying.

Unfortunately, Jisung doesn’t care.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay,” Minho says. “Let’s say, for the purposes of argument only, that you’re right. Why would I tell you? Now? We barely know each other.”

“You don’t have to tell me now,” Jisung compromises, emphasis on the now.

Minho tilts his head like a teacher who’s just heard the perfect answer. “What did you have in mind?”

“We can get to know each other,” Jisung blurts, then flushes. “I mean, for the story. So you can trust me. So you can, you know. Feel confident in my, um, journalistic integrity.”

“Integrity,” Minho mimics. 

“Y-yeah.”

“Interesting.” His eyes skim Jisung’s body from top to bottom, then linger on the spot beneath Jisung’s belt, where Jisung’s…

Shit. He’s incredibly hard, the length of him straining against the fabric of his pants. Jisung shifts in his seat, to no avail.

“Please,” he presses. “Will you talk to me?”

“We are talking.”

“Will you help me?”

Minho's eyes gleam. “Maybe.”

“Tomorrow.” Jisung doesn’t know what he’s saying. Doing. He’s drunk. All he knows is he wants to see Minho as much as possible. This man is his kryptonite. Fuck the story. He is so going to regret this in the morning. “Coffee. My treat.”

Minho leans over. His face is so close to Jisung’s. Oh, God. Jisung can’t look at him any longer. He’s too pretty. His eyelashes are so long. His lips look so soft. 

“It’s against company policy to consort with customers outside of the club,” he breathes.

Jisung should've thought of that.

“Ah, right—Sorry,” he says. “It was a stupid idea. I drank too much. I’d better—”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“It wasn’t?”

Minho moves closer, the weight of him pressed against Jisung’s chest. His hands palm Jisung’s sides, snaking up and down his waist, his finger running along the waistband of his pants. Jisung’s heart stops as he waits for Minho’s answer.

“I don’t mind breaking a few rules for the right reasons.”

Suddenly, he flashes something bright in Jisung’s face. Jisung realizes it’s his phone, which Minho must've stolen from his pocket and is now casually unlocking. He types quickly, then hands it back to Jisung with a new number stored in it. There’s no name on the contact. Just a cat emoji. 

Jisung stares down at it, stunned, as Minho plants a soft kiss on his cheek.

“See you soon.”

✎

Jisung tamps the espresso, applying consistent pressure to form a perfectly compact, disc-shaped puck. He’s already ground his favorite beans and weighed them with precision, so his whole kitchenette smells like the blend’s notes of rich chocolate and juicy berry.  There’s natural light streaming in from the living room window, and the way the sun hits the floor, he can tell the wood is spotless. 

Thank you, Felix, for vacuuming before work today.

He twists the portafilter into the head and locks it into place, cursing under his breath at his own nerves. He’s done this ritual a million times. He could do it with his eyes closed. But today, it needs to be perfect. 

Minho's agreed to an informational interview. At Jisung's house, for privacy's sake. Jisung refuses to read into that, to hope that it might mean something. It's absurd. He's being irrational. He's excited about the story, that's it, and he's getting his feelings all confused inside. Minho is a stranger, even if he doesn't feel like one. Even if he feels like a warm cup of tea in a too-cold office.

The doorbell rings. Jisung sets their coffees on the table and scampers to the door. He double-checks the music, rewinding the song—“From the Start,” Laufey—to exactly fourteen seconds in. That way, it doesn’t look like he queued it up on purpose, but there’s still plenty of time before the good part. He’s going for a coffeehouse vibe. Cool, but not too try-hard.

Who is he kidding? He's trying very, very hard. 

He checks the room one final time, giving himself a mental pep talk.

What the pep talk should be: Stay focused. Get evidence. Find a clue. A name. Anything. Figure out what he’s hiding.

What the pep talk, in reality, is: Be cool. Minho’s hot, but so are you! You have a lot of things going for you. A great sense of humor! A charming smile. A decent co—

There’s a knock on the other side of the door.

Jisung jumps, then swings it open in a manner that might be many different things—frenetic, eager, pathetic—but cool is decidedly not one of them. 

“Hi!”

“Hi.”

You know who is cool? Minho. 

Minho, who’s dressed casually in a black Gucci bomber jacket and slim-fitting black jeans, his fingers adorned with several silver rings, which catch the light from the open window as he props the door open. He somehow looks even sexier with clothes on.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“Thanks for having me,” Minho peeks his head inside. “Your place looks nice.”

Right, Jisung should let him in.

They sit, Jisung at the armchair and Minho on the couch. He feels like a therapist, knees pressed primly together, back straight, leaning forward in Minho’s direction.

“Which one’s mine?”

“Oh. Um, either.” Jisung busies himself with the coffee tray—straightening it, folding napkins underneath each cup, then straightening it in the opposite direction. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I made one iced Americano, one latte. You pick. I like both.”

He drinks an iced Americano every morning without fail, but he can change. For Minho.

Minho takes the latte with both hands, holding eye contact as he takes a long sip. “Good.”

“Good?” Jisung’s heart is not swelling. It’s not. He doesn’t even care.

Minho nods. “Figures, the boy who smells like espresso and cheesecake makes a damn good latte.”

“Must be genetic.” Jisung flushes from his head to his feet, silently congratulating himself for thinking of a semi-decent comeback.

Are they flirting? No. He's just... Establishing rapport with a subject. A subject who he fell for at first sight while under the influence of bourbon and smooth jazz and lingerie, but a subject nonetheless.

“Is it okay if I record?” Jisung asks. It might kill the mood, but that’s okay. There shouldn’t be a mood. He’s a professional. “It’s only for the purpose of transcribing my notes. You’ll remain anonymous, and I’ll make sure to cross-reference anything with you that ends up—”

“Knock yourself out.”

Jisung presses a button on his phone and sets it on the table between them. They’re quiet for a moment, watching small blips of sound register on the screen. The muted scent of orange marmalade drifts across the air.

“I like this song, by the way,” Minho remarks.

Of course he does. This is the good part.

“So.” Jisung clears his throat. “Tell me about yourself.”

"I thought we were here to talk about Le Bienfaiteur." 

Jisung’s conducted so many interviews that it’s practically muscle memory at this point. Each one adapts to the specific people involved, but the underlying premise is the same: Forge a genuine connection; be an active listener; read between the lines.

“We’ll get there,” Jisung says, sipping his drink to release his nerves. “But first, I’m curious to learn more about you. It'll help me understand your perspective.”

Minho looks pleasantly surprised. Jisung wonders when was the last time someone truly tried to get to know him.

“Well, then. What do you want to know, Jisung? I’m an open book.”

✎

Two hours later, Jisung hasn’t found out much about the club, but he’s learned a lot about Minho. If he's telling the truth, that is. Jisung wants to believe him.

Minho, who always knew he wanted to be on stage, but only on his terms; Minho, who has loved music as long as he can remember but loves his body even more, loves feeling like he’s the very art he’s creating, loves finding joy in the dark corners of this corrupt society, even when they’ve tried to snuff it all out. Minho, who's both delicate and strong, elusive and direct, a puzzle of a person Jisung's dying to unravel.

Minho, who crinkles his nose when he giggles. Who seems to gain immense pleasure from teasing Jisung, but seeks his validation in subtle ways. (“That made sense, right?” he asked, after a long ramble about his love for the countryside; “I can say that again for the recording if it wasn’t loud enough,” after a daydream about the first time he danced for a crowd.) 

Minho, mysterious Minho, beautiful Minho, intoxicating Minho—If Jisung were the editor, he’d scrap this whole story, make the entire front-page his picture and fill all the columns with his words. He’s that good. 

Jisung closes his notes and looks up at Minho. “We can call it there.”

Minho nods. He gets up from the couch, reaching his arms above his head in a cat-like stretch.

“You’re not a very good reporter.”

Minho, who has quite the mouth on him.

"Excuse me?"

“We didn’t even talk about your story."

Jisung stammers. “I'm—I’m satisfied with our progress."

Minho’s right. He’s failed, abysmally, but that hardly seems to matter at the moment. He doesn’t know what’s going on at Le Bienfaiteur, but he knows Minho has three cats. Right now, that feels much more important.

“Alright.” Minho appraises him with a half-smile. “I’m satisfied if you’re satisfied.”

Jisung’s playlist has run out. He listens to the wall clock for a few seconds—tick, tick, tick—, then uses the wall clock for its intended purpose. 

Shit, it’s almost four. 

Felix will be home any minute.

“Would you meet me here again?” Jisung scuttles over to meet Minho by the door, stopping him with a light touch to his forearm. His skin is soft. The sensation is too much for polite conversation. He shrinks back immediately, as if he’s been burned. “You know. For the story."

“Sure, I’m free."

"Next week? Same time, same place?"

He was going to say every day, but he didn’t want to overdo it. Why didn’t he say every day? Stupid. He could be seeing Minho every day, and now he’s willingly reduced that to once a week? What’s wrong with him? 

"That works." Minho looks at him intensely, as if he's making a life-altering decision—like buying a house or changing his name, not simply agreeing to another conversation. "No one’s ever at the club during the day.”

✎

Jisung spends the better part of the next week glued to his work computer.

Going to the scene of the crime is, all things considered, a small part of his job description. Mostly, Jisung stares at screens. He rifles through papers at libraries. He drinks a lot of caffeine.

He dives into his research, and he tries his damnedest to forget his physical body, all of the annoying trappings that come with it. 

If he concentrates on investigating stories, he won’t have to interrogate himself.

For the most part, this strategy works. It's kept his rut at bay, at least. With suppressants so dangerous to obtain under the new regime, it’s the best treatment plan he’s got.

He starts by searching the club’s name, but nothing comes up. It’s a match for an old crime movie. Doesn’t seem related.

Then, the club’s name and address. 

Nothing, again.

“Did you find anything while you were there?” Chan asks one afternoon, trying to help. “A cocktail napkin, a matchbox, a receipt? You never know. Anything could have a clue.”

“Not really,” Jisung mutters, too embarrassed to admit that he wasn’t really thinking straight once he met Minho.

But what about before he met Minho?

Jisung reaches for his wallet, yanks out the scrap of paper he found on the ground outside the club. He shows it to Chan.

“Does this mean anything to you?” he asks. "It's hard to read, I know. Probably just junk."

Chan studies the inscrutable list for a few moments. “Hmmm. That one looks like Choi, Y. And then Kim, Y. Next, that’s, I don’t know, Park, J.? And maybe this one—”

Seungmin, the beta sports reporter who loves to get under Jisung’s skin, walks by, peering over Chan's shoulder. “Bhuwakul, K. Wang, J. Tuan, M. Lim, J.,” he reads out, finishing the list in a bored tone. He gives Jisung a strange look. “That’s weird.”

“What?” Jisung asks.

“This is a list of all the kidnapping victims from this year,” Seungmin says slowly. “Why do you have this?”

Shit.

Over the past few months, the city’s been tormented by a string of disappearances. All of them impeccably carried out. A government official, a top corporate lawyer, a neurosurgeon… Jisung doesn’t know them all by heart, but he knows they’re all very important. Not the type of people to simply up and leave. And yet, it’s like they never existed at all.

Did they all belong to Le Bienfaiteur? Were they found out?

Or did Le Bienfaiteur need them gone?

Either way, it’s Jisung’s first real lead.

Chan’s cell rings. He holds up one finger as he answers. Seungmin and Jisung wait, patiently. When he hangs up, his face is grim.

“That was Detective Jung,” he says, his mouth a thin line. “There’s been another burglary.”

Seungmin grabs Jisung by the arm. “Oh, we’re definitely coming with you.”

✎

Jung Ho-Seok is smoking a cigarette outside the pharmacy on 17th Street when they arrive.

“Hey,” he says, high-fiving Chan. "My man."

He's quite the character, but their staff is lucky that Chan is childhood friends with Detective Jung. It’s probably a major reason why The Examiner is still open. Friends in high places, and all that stuff.

“Fill us in,” Chan says.

Ho-Seok takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out with a sigh. “More of the same. Troublemakers. Smashed the windows, took the cash out the register, stole the most expensive products. Resellers, we think. Black market stuff, you know the drill.”

Chan nods. “Think you’ll catch them this time?”

There have been a handful of similar break-ins over the past month alone. Most people think it’s looters, protesting against the current regime. Or simply opportunists, victims of the system, pushed toward desperate measures to make ends meet.

Jisung feels a familiar twinge of frustration as he looks out at the devastation. These are the stories he wants to be covering. Real, meaningful journalism. Solving crime. Protecting citizens.

Ho-Seok shrugs. “If you think you’ll do a better job, have at it. Our guys have already done their work. Feel free to get in there, just leave it how you found it.”

Chan walks off, taking pictures of the shattered glass and ruined shelves, writing notes in a pocket-sized Moleskine. Jisung follows, hoping to see what he sees. Maybe Chan will notice his ambition, rope him in as a co-author. Jisung can write two stories at once. It’s no problem. 

Seungmin calls over from the pharmacist’s counter. “Jisung, come take a look at this.”

He peers over Seungmin’s shoulder. It looks like an ordinary patient’s file, notes on medication refills and dosage amounts, until Seungmin flips over the top paper. 

"Weird, right?"

He sucks in a breath when he sees it— The symbol he’s starting to recognize anywhere.

A single red rose, a serpent twisting in between its thorns.

✎

Jisung goes back to Le Bienfaiteur that night, against his better judgement.

He shouldn’t be seen around here, especially with everything he’s learned lately. If this is all connected somehow—the burglaries, the kidnappings, the club—it’s a huge risk. But he has to talk to Minho. Warn him.

Unless Minho already knows.

Unless he’s complicit.

It’s not possible. Even if it goes against logic, his brain won’t accept that Minho could possibly be involved in any nefarious activities. It's something instinctual, deeper than thought.

Minho must be protected.

Minho is innocent.

Right?

He arrives after the show’s already ended and finds Minho quickly, chatting with Hyunjin at the bar.

“You,” Hyunjin grins.

“You,” Jisung scowls, impatient to get Minho alone. 

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows, already reaching for the bourbon. “The usual, then?”

Jisung accepts the drink, promising himself he’ll stop at just one this time, then turns to Minho. “Is there anywhere we can talk in private?”

“Someone’s impatient. We’re not supposed to meet until next week.”

A flash of alpha energy runs through him. It's gone as quickly as it comes. “I don’t care. Need to talk to you. Now.”

It’s obvious that this pleases Minho. He raises his eyebrows, exchanging a glance with Hyunjin before answering, “Come with me.”

Minho leads Jisung down a dark corridor, illuminated just barely by the crimson red sconces flanking its walls. Jisung follows, soundless, adrenaline coursing through his veins. They make their way to a small dressing room with a vanity, couch, and minifridge. Minho clicks the door shut behind them.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Yeah, because being alone with a gorgeous man at the center of a potential crime ring really puts him at ease.

“I don’t have time, Minho,” Jisung says. Just being in the club after what he’s started to put together makes him feel uneasy, like he’s at the top of a drop tower. “I came here to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Minho smiles. “You worry too much.” 

“You don’t worry enough,” Jisung counters. 

Minho seems to ignore this completely. Instead, he reaches into the fridge and hands Jisung a water bottle. The condensation is cool against his skin. “Drink this.”

“Minho, I—”

“You don’t want a hangover, do you?”

Jisung sighs. He cracks the seal, chugging from the bottle until the plastic puckers underneath his palm, then gives Minho a pointed look. “Happy?”

“Always, when you’re around.”

Jisung turns his eyes to the ceiling, as if only God can save him from this man. On second thought, he really hopes that no higher powers are observing this particular moment. Unless they’ve got a thing for men in black bowties, satin suspenders, and lace-up knee-high boots. 

He needs to get to the point before Minho navigates them off-topic again. Jisung’s so easily distractible around him. It’s like he’s a puppy and Minho’s a brand new couch.

“There was another break-in today, you know.”

Minho’s face is impassive, but his eyes flash. “That’s too bad.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“I read The Examiner too, Jisungie.”

Jisung’s caught off-guard by the mention of his paper. Though he’s researching Le Bienfaiteur for work, it feels like a separate world down here. A dream, maybe a nightmare. A place where reality doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, where Jisung’s body acts independent of his brain, where everything’s heightened and obfuscated at the same time. 

“I know it’s all connected,” Jisung claims, hoping he sounds more sure than he feels. “I found it. Your symbol. The serpent and the rose.”

“Maybe Hyunjin was filling a prescription."

“Yeah, right. Okay. Then explain this.” Jisung thrusts the paper he found outside the club in Minho’s direction. The one with the list of disappearances. “And don't tell me Hyunjin’s picking out baby names.”

Minho scans the list like it's a letter from his health insurance company. “It’s a boy, evidently. I’ll have to congratulate him.”

“Minho.”

“Amazing. He’s not even showing yet.”

“Minho.”

Minho blinks at him like a cat who’s just knocked over a full glass of water. “Did I say something wrong?”

This man is going to drive Jisung insane.

"Why won't you just tell me what's really going on?"

This time, to his credit, Minho doesn't deny it. "I can't."

"Why?"

"It's not mine to tell."

"But what if I really, really want to know?" Jisung asks with an over-the-top pout, the one that never fails to work on Felix when he's too lazy to get up for a snack. "Please?"

And for a second, Minho looks like he's considering it. His lips twitch at the corners, and Jisung gets his hopes up. Outside the dressing room, he hears the noises of the club closing down, the other dancers heading out for the night.

"If you really, really want to know," he says, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

So Minho won’t talk. Fine. There’s reasons for that, reasons that don’t make him a terrible person. He’s worried he’ll get in trouble; that must be it. Even though he doesn’t look worried at all. He watches Jisung like he's his favorite Saturday morning cartoon.

If Jisung just keeps spending time with him, Minho will let something slip eventually. He has to. Maybe Jisung’s grasping at straws, but who cares? He doesn’t need straws. Fuck straws, anyway. 

Maybe they just need to get out of here.

“Are you doing anything right now?” Jisung asks.

“I’m talking to—”

“God.” Jisung laughs, despite himself. “Let me rephrase. Are you doing anything after this?”

Minho grins. “I’m doing whatever you tell me to.”

✎

The river is quiet at night.

When Jisung first moved to the city, he used to come out here to think. He’d bring his journal and a big coat and watch the water drift by, writing whatever came to his mind. None of it was any good, he’s sure—not that he’s opened that journal since he filled its pages. That’s an era he’s not eager to revisit. The point was getting it all out there, out of his brain and onto the page. Writing’s always felt like an extension of himself, like storing his soul outside of his body. Skin into paper. Blood into ink.

He still comes back to the river whenever his mind’s in need of clearing, though it’s less frequent these days. Always at night. Always alone, until now. But Minho doesn’t feel like a burden, not really. He seems to understand. 

They follow the riverwalk’s low-grade steps, Minho tiptoeing on a ledge, Jisung beside him. They don’t talk for a while. Jisung doesn’t want to, and Minho doesn’t seem to mind. Eventually, they come to a seat side by side, knees knocking together. Minho’s got his street clothes on, a thin old hoodie and jeans. He ought to be cold. Doesn’t look it, though. He looks just as comfortable here as he did on stage.

“How do you do it?” Jisung asks. He looks down at his feet, avoiding Minho’s gaze. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness already; Minho’s too bright.

“Do what?” Minho’s tone is nonjudgmental. An invitation. 

“I don’t know,” Jisung says, running his tongue along his bottom teeth. “You’re so… Unbothered. You don’t let things get to you. Don’t overthink things like I do.” He kicks at a twig on the step. It doesn’t move, so he bends down and flicks it with his pointer finger. “I mean, I’m not going to get into it—”

“Get into it as much as you want.”

Jisung shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about the club right now. You’ll just get all cagey again, and I’ll get all annoyed. Rinse and repeat. I’m too tired.”

“Fine,” Minho says. 

“Good. Fine.”

There’s a ripple in the water. They watch as it spreads, then stills.

“You’re just so cute when you’re flustered,” Minho can't help but add.

“Stop fucking with me.”

“I’m not, Jisungie,” he says softly, laughing a little. It’s not a mean laugh. “Really, I’m not.”

It’s a crisp, cool night, but the air feels warm around them. Minho’s orange marmalade scent mingles with the river’s typical algae and earth. It’s better out here, calmer. Away from the club’s overstimulating mixture of pheromones, Minho’s scent seems to soothe Jisung just as much as it draws him in.

“Look at me,” Minho says. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, Jisung lifts his head. A trace of glitter dances across the tops of Minho’s cheeks. The bridge of his nose sparkles with moonlight; his features are fixed into a slight smile. The way he looks at Jisung makes his stomach flip. It’s wide-eyed, beseeching. A little raw.

He’s not fucking with him. 

Jisung’s heart beats so loud he swears it shakes the surface of the water.

“Aren’t you scared? Of what might happen?”

“Of course I am,” Minho says simply. It’s not loaded; it’s not fraught. Just a fact. “But I can’t change that kind of thing.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Jisung asks, and he’s not sure if he means the club, or this night, or everything. 

Minho looks out at the river for a few moments, then back at Jisung. He shrugs one shoulder. Shakes his head.

“Because it’s what I love, Jisung,” he says, and Jisung’s not sure if he means the club, or this night, or everything. “Isn’t life too short for anything else? If you love something, you have to chase it. No matter the cost.” 

Minho moves to a seat on Jisung's lap, straddling him, then brings his mouth to Jisung’s, barely brushing their lips together. The concrete step is cool against the small of Jisung’s back.

“Right?” Minho whispers.

Before he can question it, Jisung lifts his chin, pulling Minho’s mouth to his more firmly. It’s deep, needy, like he’s dying of thirst and Minho’s a waterfall.

It shocks his whole body.

Jisung has never felt like this. Not from a kiss, not from anything. 

It’s terrifying.

Not only because he likes—wants, needs—this person so much, but because—if Jisung’s hunch is correct—this person is in very real danger.

Why doesn’t it worry him? 

What does he know?

Jisung looks up at him, enveloped in his scent–the warmth of his body like a blanket, his words like a labyrinth. He’s never been so sure, yet so utterly lost.

“If you quit,” Jisung says, their lips parting for a moment, “We’ll figure it out. You can stay with me, or my friends– We’ll find you another job, away from here—”

“Shh.” Minho settles deeper into his lap. He slides his hand behind Jisung’s head, threading his fingers through his hair as he brings their mouths close once more. 

“Just—kiss me tonight,” he says. “Rescue me later.”

✎

“You’re up early,” Felix says the next morning, handing Jisung a cup of coffee. A flicker of suspicion crosses his delicate features. “What’s going on?”

Felix has to get up at the crack of dawn to make it to school before his students arrive, so they rarely talk in the mornings. Jisung usually hears him puttering around in the kitchen for a few minutes and falls back asleep as soon as the front door clicks shut. He hasn’t been awake to say goodbye to Felix like this in…

Shit, he’s never done this. 

Is he a terrible friend?

Jisung sits on the kitchen barstool and takes a sip of coffee. It’s kind of nice, checking in like this. He should wake up early more often.

“Nothing’s going on,” he lies. “Other than the vibrant life of crime teeming underneath our city. That, and the corruption in our government, and the lack of rights for—”

“Okay, I get it,” Felix says, raising both hands, along with both eyebrows. “I’m just saying, you're different lately. It’s like you have a new sense of purpose. A joie de vivre.”

Jisung smiles at the familiar French, which Felix has been studying nonstop lately. He's trying to land a teaching job overseas. “Wouldn’t go that far.” 

“A raison d’être, then.”

Felix is right—he does have energy. After he got home, Jisung couldn’t sleep, his mind racing with scattered, fragmented thoughts. Minho’s mouth. Minho’s body. Minho, telling him not to worry. The list of missing persons outside the club. The burglary. The serpent and the rose. He’d tossed and turned for an hour or two before calling it a night.

Jisung usually tells Felix everything. They're best friends. He should tell Felix about last night, too. He kissed a pretty boy on the riverbank. There's nothing to hide. Pretty boys kiss each other all the time.

He should tell him; he knows that. But Felix would only worry. And last night was... Special. Different. For now, he wants to keep it to himself.

“There’s work to do, Felix. Crime never sleeps, and neither do good journalists.”

“Someone’s working hard for that byline, hmm?”

“Byline—Yeah, the byline,” Jisung agrees, because it’s easier than explaining the truth. The byline is no longer a factor. The byline is merely a side effect of getting to the bottom of this mystery, of saving Minho—of having Minho.

“So what’s the plan for today?” Felix asks.

Jisung furrows his brow, then admits, “I have no fucking idea.”

He explains what he’s learned so far, hopeful Felix will help him see things in a new light. It wouldn’t be the first time. They work well together, bouncing ideas back and forth. Sometimes Jisung comes up with the silliest, most engaging lesson introduction that Felix is too in the weeds to see, and sometimes Felix gives Jisung an angle for a story he never would have considered.

“So you need a place to look next, right? I’m sure Minho told you something the other day.” Felix stirs his coffee with a small metal spoon. “Think, Jisung. Did he have any other tells? All you need is a starting point. Something in his body language, an offhand statement during the day—”

And then it hits him.

No one’s ever at the club during the day.

Jisung jumps up. “I love you, my sweet, genius roommate.” 

“Um, love you too!” Felix widens his eyes. “But what did I do?”

Jisung hunts for the coat he wore the other night, but it’s not hanging on its hook. Strange. He grabs a sweater instead, throwing it over his jeans and button-down, and gives Felix a breathless kiss on the cheek. 

“Have a beautiful day. If you don’t hear from me by sunset, call the pol—No, don’t do that, call… Seungmin! But you will. I’ll be safe. OK, anyway, bye!”

He’s halfway down the hall before the door closes behind him.

✎

Le Bienfaiteur in broad daylight. 

Cognitive dissonance.

The exterior is… well, he can’t lie; it’s not much to look at. Grey cinderblocks and a big black door. It’s the kind of building people must walk past every day without blinking an eye, completely unaware of the secret world it conceals.

It’s a beautiful fall day: bright sun shining, cloudless sky, birds chattering playfully to one another in the trees. Still, the scene is somehow… sinister. Uncanny. Like Jisung shouldn’t be here.

No one’s ever at the club during the day.

If this is some twisted game of cat and mouse, Jisung will play. Nevermind that he’s always felt like the proverbial rodent in such scenarios.

He’s an alpha, damn it, and if this is some kind of test, he’s going to fucking pass. 

It scares him how easily that thought arises. It's not like him. He’s improved at ignoring his alpha instincts over the past few years, but since meeting Minho, that’s changed. Right now, he’d say his actions are about 70% of his own volition, with hormones ruling the other 30%. He likes that ratio. But every time he thinks about Minho, he feels his control slipping.

Slipping.

Slipping.

What will happen to him in a few days’ time? In a week?

He needs to finish this story and find out the truth. Fast.

Jisung approaches the building and tugs the door, but it’s bolted shut. 

He pulls again with both hands, putting all his weight behind the motion.

It won’t budge. 

Jisung kicks the door. Obviously, it doesn’t react, because it’s a door. All he gets instead is a throbbing stubbed toe.

“Fuck you,” Jisung mutters at the door. “You're a waste of time.”

He decides to case the joint before he leaves, more of a formality than anything else. Leave no stone unturned. 

There's a few cigarette butts on the ground. A gum wrapper. Nothing special. But as he turns the corner, something in him shifts. His senses heighten. 

He smells… Minho?

It’s impossible, but he’s there, or at least the smell of him: bright, bitter oranges and vetiver floating on top of something richer and sweeter…. Cake? Custard?

Jisung follows the scent trail around the building until he places it: pudding. Definitely pudding.

After a few more steps, the trail stops. Jisung looks left and right, up and down.

No one is there.

He’s losing it.

“Fuck!” Jisung yells, banging his fist against the wall. What is it with him and inanimate objects today? “Fuck!”

A woman across the street jumps back with a shriek, dropping her groceries. Jisung opens his mouth to apologize, to ask her if she needs help, but she’s already skittering away in fright.

Great.

He slouches back, cheek pressed against the cool concrete, leaning into the drama of the situation. He’s a tortured crime reporter with a forbidden lover in moral peril. It would be kind of sexy, if it weren’t so damn infuriating. Maybe he should buy a trenchcoat. 

Jisung slides down the wall, inch by inch. Soon he’ll see the spot he punched. Except he won’t even see it, because this isn’t drywall, it’s concrete; there won’t even be the satisfaction of a—

“What’s that?” Jisung says aloud, stepping back.

A single cinderblock sits ajar, an inch or so off where it should be, coming loose from the wall.

It’s a hiding spot. It has to be. Jisung tugs, and tugs, and this time, the cinderblock comes free in his hands. 

A piece of paper flutters to the ground.

✎

You’re a smart one, aren’t you?

I knew you’d find me. 

Stop worrying, cutie. I’m not in any trouble.

And if I were…Don't you think I could handle myself? 

So little faith. 

But who am I to say no to my knight in shining armor?

Don’t be a stranger.

✎

Along with the note, there’s a ticket stub for the Bellyard Theater downtown. A matinee showing of some weird old movie. Double Indemnity.

“Fuck,” he says again, but it sounds different now.