Chapter Text
The screen descended from the ceiling with its usual mechanical hum, smooth and perfectly timed. Too early.
The room was dim, washed in the pale blue glow of WOP’s interface. Outside the tall windows, the city hadn’t even fully woken up yet. Inside, three very awake and very unwilling operatives sat slouched in their chairs.
North, Daotok & Typhoon
Jerry Lewis stood at the front of the room, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said calmly, voice crisp and unmistakably British. “I trust you slept well.”
North had his cheek pressed against the table, hair a mess, eyes barely open. “Jerry,” he groaned, lifting his head just enough to glare. “It is batshit crazy to wake people up before the sun has risen.”
“This could not have waited until after brunch?” he added, rubbing his eyes. “Or at least after coffee? I am not a rise and shinner.”
Jerry didn’t blink.
“Unfortunately,” he replied, unbothered, “international crime syndicates do not schedule their activities around your sleep Agent.”
Typhoon let out a quiet laugh, quickly covering his mouth. Dao didn’t react at all, already sitting upright, arms crossed, eyes on the screen as if this were exactly where he was supposed to be.
Jerry tapped a button on his remote.
The screen shifted, revealing a stark emblem black and gold with sharp lines forming something almost regal.
“Our mission,” Jerry began, “concerns the largest criminal organization currently operating within the country.”
North straightened just a little as he reached for his phone. Dao elbowed him lightly in the ribs.
“Focus,” Dao muttered.
Jerry continued seamlessly, as though interruptions were simply part of the routine.
“This organization controls multiple illegal branches, finance, trafficking, underground entertainment, weapons distribution. Their reach is extensive, their operations clean, and their true intentions remarkably well-protected.”
Images flashed across the screen. Nightclubs. Offshore accounts. Private ports.
“At present,” Jerry said, “we lack sufficient intelligence to take direct action. Which is where you come in.”
North blinked. “Wait, we’re not blowing anything up yet?”
“No,” Jerry said flatly. “You are observing.”
North sighed dramatically and slumped back. “Fun.”
“The organization is overseen by three men,” Jerry continued. The screen split into three silhouetted figures, each marked with a symbol.
“The men are known by aliases only,” he said, continuing as if none of that had happened. “Each controls a separate branch of the organization. They are cautious, intelligent, and deeply entrenched in their world.”
The silhouettes sharpened slightly, still just out of reach.
“Your task,” Jerry said, voice firm now, “is to get close. Learn how the organization functions. Identify weaknesses. Patterns. Internal fractures. Everything”
He turned to face them fully.
“Until then, you do nothing.”
The room was quiet.
Typhoon leaned forward, expression soft but determined. Dao’s eyes were already working, piecing together invisible structures. North stared at the screen, unusually still—interest flickering behind his usual dramatics.
Jerry folded his hands again.
“This mission will require subtlety,” he said. “Adaptability. And restraint.”
A beat.
“I trust you’re capable of all three.”
The screen dimmed, leaving the three of them in the low light awake now, whether they liked it or not.
Jerry pressed a button on the console.
The screen shifted again, the silhouettes dissolving into sharp, high-resolution profiles—still partially obscured, as if WOP itself were hesitant to show too much too soon.
“As mentioned,” Jerry said, “the organization is structured under three primary figures.”
A mechanical whir sounded beside the table.
Three slim folders slid forward, stopping neatly in front of each boy.
North’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh.”
Dao ignored him, already scanning the cover of his own.
Jerry nodded once and gestured to the screen. “We’ll go through them one at a time.”
The first profile expanded.
A man appeared on screen well-dressed, composed, the kind of face that belonged on charity galas and hospital brochures.
“Alias: Wolf,” Jerry said. “Legal name: Tonfah.”
North leaned closer. “Okay, he’s not not cute.”
Dao didn’t look up. “He runs in the healthcare industry.”
“Correct,” Jerry said. “Tonfah oversees multiple private hospitals, medical research facilities, and charitable health foundations. His public record is immaculate. No scandals. No financial discrepancies. Or that is what he wants us to believe.”
Images flickered past state-of-the-art hospital wings, ribbon cuttings, donors.
Typhoon frowned slightly. “He looks… nice.”
“He is widely regarded as generous and ethical,” Jerry replied. “Which makes him effective.”
North blinked. “That’s somehow worse.”
The screen shifted again.
A second profile replaced the first, this man sharper, tan skin, muscles and tattoos barely visible by the shirt, louder even in still images. Stage lights. Crowds. Neon bleeding into darkness.
“Alias: Lion,” Jerry said. “Legal name: Arthit.”
North gasped. Actually gasped.
“He definitely knows.”
Dao closed his folder halfway and shot North a look while Typhoon held his laughter in. “This is a criminal briefing.”
“And I am processing…visually,” North shot back.
Jerry continued, unbothered. “Arthit owns a music and entertainment conglomerate. Record labels, concert venues, exclusive clubs, artists, singers and models they all come and go. His influence in the nightlife scene is… considerable.”
Clips rolled. VIP sections, velvet ropes, flashing cameras.
“Everything checks out on paper,” Jerry added. “Taxes paid. Licenses valid. No confirmed illegal activity.”
Typhoon tilted his head. “But nightlife is messy.”
“Exactly,” Jerry said. “And messes are easy to hide in the dark.”
The screen shifted for the final time.
The third profile appeared. Cooler and quieter. Tall buildings. Boardrooms.
“Alias: Panther,” Jerry said. “Legal name: Johan.”
North squinted. “I don’t like that guy…”
“mhm.” Dao muttered.
Jerry allowed himself the smallest hint of amusement before continuing. “Johan controls extensive real estate holdings, investment firms, and import–export businesses. He operates internationally.”
Documents scrolled past. Contracts. Blueprints. Offshore properties.
“Every asset is legitimate,” Jerry said. “Every transaction accounted for. If there is corruption, it is buried deeply.”
The screen went dark.
Jerry folded his hands again. “Individually, these men appear untouchable. Clean records. Respectable reputations.”
He looked at the three of them in turn.
“Together,” he said, “they are the backbone of the most powerful criminal organization in the country.”
North leaned back in his chair, tapping his folder against his palm. “So, to summarize,” he said, “they’re rich, hot, and legally flawless.”
“Yes,” Jerry replied evenly.
Typhoon swallowed. “And we’re supposed to find the dirt.”
Dao closed his folder with quiet finality. “Which means the dirt exists,” he said. “We just haven’t been invited to see it yet.”
Jerry’s gaze sharpened.
“That,” he said, “is precisely why you’re going in.”
“If they’re this important,” North said, lifting his folder and letting it fall back onto the table, “why are we on the case?”
He tilted his head, genuinely curious now rather than dramatic. “No offense, but don’t you usually send, like… more expirienced agents?”
For the first time since the briefing began, Jerry laughed.
It was brief, more of a quiet exhale than a full sound but unmistakable.
“An entirely fair question,” he said.
He stepped closer to the screen and tapped the remote again. New images appeared, sharper this time. Not official photographs. Candid ones.
Dimly lit parties. Private lounges. Yacht decks at night. Figures caught mid-laugh, mid-drink, mid-indulgence.
“The subjects,” Jerry continued, “are known to be… less than proper in their personal lives.”
North leaned forward again. “Now that sounds promising.”
“Young,” Jerry said, unbothered. “Wealthy. Powerful. Unmarried.”
Dao raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Drugs,” Jerry went on. “Parties. Excess.”
Typhoon shifted in his seat, uneasy but attentive.
“And yet,” Jerry added, “nothing that can be officially pinned on them. No charges. No witnesses willing to speak. No evidence that survives scrutiny.”
The images froze.
“They are careful,” Jerry said. “But they are not restrained.”
North clicked his tongue. “Tragic.”
“They have a type,” Jerry continued, turning back to them. His gaze lingered pointedly at the male and female models surrounding them.
“We need individuals who can blend in,” he said. “Who won’t raise suspicion. Who can enter their world without looking like they don’t belong.”
North gestured vaguely at himself. “So, pretty distractions.”
Typhoon smiled nervously. “Is that a compliment?”
Jerry allowed himself a small, restrained nod.
“It is a strategic assessment,” he said. “One I do not make lightly.”
The room went quiet again.
Jerry straightened, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
“Additional intelligence will be transmitted to your devices within the hour,” he said. “Full background reports, social patterns, preferred venues, known associates.”
The screen behind him dimmed to WOP’s insignia.
“You are to review everything carefully,” he added. “Memorize what matters. Blend seamlessly. Mission starts next week. VT Gala’s afterparty.”
North gave him a lazy salute. “Blend. Seamless. Understood.”
“You are dismissed.”
The screen retracted smoothly into the ceiling.
And just like that—
Mission briefing over.
Morning sunlight spilled across their apartment in clean golden strips, illuminating a space that was way too organized for someone their age, mostly because of Dao.
The couch cushions were aligned. The coffee table spotless. The stack of folders in the center arranged by height and relevance.
Naturally, North had disrupted all of it within three minutes.
Typhoon stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower. He flipped a pancake, the scent of vanilla and butter filling the apartment.
“Almost ready!” he called cheerfully.
At the kitchen island, Dao sat perfectly straight with Johan’s file open in front of him, already annotating with a pen. Sticky notes were forming a small army along the margins.
Across from him, North was leaning over the mixing bowl, finger fully dipped in pancake batter.
“North,” Dao said without looking up.
“Mmm.”
“That’s raw.”
“I live dangerously.”
Typhoon glanced over his shoulder. “I can make more if you’re still hungry.”
North beamed. “You’re an angel.”
Dao said flatly, turning a page. “Could we attempt seriousness for ten consecutive minutes?”
North licked his finger dramatically and finally pulled the bowl away from himself. “Fine. Serious mode.”
He grabbed Arthit’s file and opened it, immediately pausing.
North dropped back dramatically into his chair, clutching Arthit’s file to his chest.
“I call dibs on party guy.”
Dao didn’t even look up from Tonfah’s profile. “You can’t call ‘dibs.’.”
“I can,” North shot back. “And I got here first.”
Typhoon looked between them, chewing thoughtfully. “Got where first?”
“To the hot one,” North clarified.
Dao finally raised his eyes. “This is an infiltration operation.”
“Exactly,” North said brightly. “And I infiltrate best when I’m motivated.”
He flipped Arthit’s shirtless photo around so it faced them. Arthit mid-performance, stage lights framing him.
“Come on, Dao,” North continued, leaning forward. “We’re basically prey for this mission. At least let me have some fun.”
Dao’s expression flattened. “We are not prey.”
“Strategic bait,” North corrected smoothly.
Typhoon tried to hide a small smile.
North pointed at him immediately. “Look at Phoon. He agrees.”
Typhoon blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Did you see him blush when that Johan guy came up?” North pressed.
Typhoon nearly choked on his pancake. “I didn’t blush!”
North waved a dismissive hand. “Potato, potato.”
“That doesn’t even apply here,” Dao said.
North ignored him. He turned to Typhoon with exaggerated seriousness. “What do you think, Phoon? Be honest.”
Typhoon hesitated, glancing down at Johan’s photo. clean-cut, composed, all sharp lines.
“I mean…” he started softly. “Maybe North is right.”
Dao stared at him.
Typhoon quickly added, “Strategically! I mean strategically. Arthit runs nightlife. North loves parties. Johan handles business and real estate… I could probably blend into corporate events. Sports fundraisers. Charity galas.”
North gasped. “See? He’s thinking! Growth!”
Dao closed Tonfah’s file slowly.
“Fine,” he said at last. “If we’re dividing targets based on environmental compatibility—”
North clapped loudly. “Yes! Compatibility!”
“—then North takes Arthit,” Dao continued, pointedly ignoring the interruption. “Typhoon approaches Johan.”
He tapped Tonfah’s name once.
“And I’ll handle Tonfah.”
North leaned back smugly. “Knew you’d come around.”
Typhoon nodded, oddly pleased. “That makes sense.”
North tilted his head toward Dao, smirking. “I think it’s very suiting Daotok got the good boy.”
Dao’s eye twitched.
“That’s his type,” North continued sweetly.
Typhoon’s eyes widened. “North—”
“He alleges,” North went on, flipping a page in Tonfah’s file. “Because remember his ex?”
There was a very distinct pause.
Dao stood up.
Slowly.
North immediately froze.
“…No sudden movements,” Typhoon whispered.
“North,” Dao said calmly “do not finish that sentence.”
North grinned. “Dao claims he likes good boys but we all know he can’t resist a bad boy.”
And ran.
Dao lunged across the kitchen island with far more athleticism than anyone gave him credit for.
Glass and stone rose from the cliffs in clean architectural lines. The main house overlooked the ocean, all floor-to-ceiling windows and curated minimalism. Music hadn’t started yet, but the stage was already assembled near the infinity pool, lighting rigs angled toward the sky in silent anticipation.
Inside, the air was cool.
Controlled.
Arthit stood near the bar, sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless rather than intentional. He swirled amber liquid in his glass while watching the staff move with quiet efficiency below.
“They’ll arrive by ferry first,” he said casually. “Influencers, socialites, bored heirs. The usual.”
His voice carried easily — warm, almost amused.
Across the room, Johan stood beside a massive digital display showing shipment schedules overlaid with marina docking times. His suit jacket was off, vest still immaculate, posture precise.
“The private yachts dock on the east side,” Johan replied. “Security will route them through the main entrance. No deviations.”
He adjusted a timeline with one smooth swipe.
“Once the main event transitions to the afterparty,” he continued, “the marina traffic increases. Noise levels peak. Cameras are naturally focused on the house.”
Which left the docks unremarkable.
Uninteresting.
Unwatched.
Tonfah closed a leather folder and placed it neatly on the table.
“The shipment arrives at 02:40,” he said evenly. “Medical supply containers. Registered under humanitarian export.”
Arthit smirked slightly. “Technically not a lie.”
“Technically,” Tonfah agreed.
The three of them fell into a brief, comfortable silence, not the silence of uncertainty, but of men who had done this before.
Routine.
Johan zoomed the display further.
“The afterparty acts as visual clutter,” he said. “Distraction. The guests assume the chaos is the point.”
“And it is,” Arthit replied lightly. “Just not the only one.”
He set his glass down and walked toward the open windows, ocean breeze catching the edge of his shirt.
“People behave predictably in excess,” he added. “They stop looking outward.”
Tonfah watched him for a moment. “And the risk?”
“There is always risk,” Johan said calmly.
Arthit smiled.
“That’s why it’s fun.”
Below them, workers unloaded crates disguised as sound equipment.
On the manifest: lighting rigs. Imported wine. Specialty catering.
Inside some of them. Something else entirely.
Tonfah adjusted his cufflinks. “No complications,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
“There won’t be,” Johan replied.
Arthit turned back toward them, expression relaxed but eyes sharp.
The WOP jet hummed steadily in the private hangar, lights low, engines warming.
Inside, it was controlled chaos.
North stood in front of the mirrored wall, twisting to look over his shoulder.
“Really, Jerry?” he complained. “These shorts barely cover my ass.”
Jerry, who had been reviewing something on his tablet, visibly paused.
“I beg your pardon?”
North gestured dramatically at himself. The outfit was deliberate, fitted, sharp, effortless nightlife energy. Designed to attract attention without screaming for it.
“I’m just saying,” North continued, adjusting the waistband. “One strong ocean breeze and…”
Jerry cleared his throat, faintly flustered but recovering quickly. “Your attire has been selected based on environmental blending metrics.”
Dao walked past them calmly, already buttoning his shirt, clean, understated, tailored to perfection. He opened a small jar and applied a soft layer of coconut cream to his neck, the scent subtle but expensive.
“That’s the entire point,” Dao said without looking up. “we are supposed to be noticeable.”
North gasped. “Noticeable? I prefer the term unforgettable.”
Typhoon stepped out from behind the partition, adjusting the sleeves.
He glanced at North and smiled. “You look good.”
“…Thank you,” he said, softer for half a second before recovering. “I know.”
Jerry clapped his hands once not loud, but commanding.
“Gentlemen.”
The cabin lights shifted slightly as a concealed panel slid open.
Inside: gadgets.
Three slim earpieces.
Two cufflinks that doubled as encrypted signal transmitters.
A watch face capable of facial recognition and micro-scan recording.
And small metallic bands.
“Tracking bracelets?” Typhoon asked.
“Biometric monitors,” Jerry corrected. “In case any of you decide to get tense.”
North placed a hand on his chest. “I have never been dramatic in my life.”
Dao took his earpiece first, examining it before fitting it into place. Typhoon followed. North waited until last, inspecting his reflection one more time before snapping it in.
Jerry’s tone shifted to more serious.
“From this moment onward,” he said, “communication must be minimal.”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“You are guests. Not operatives.”
North straightened slightly.
“If you uncover something actionable, transmit through coded signals only,” Jerry continued. “No open lines. No improvisational heroics.”
Typhoon nodded firmly.
Dao gave a small, understanding tilt of his head.
Jerry stepped toward the jet door controls.
“This organization has remained untouched for years because they are careful,” he said. “Do not underestimate them.”
The engines grew louder.
“And do not underestimate yourselves.”
For a brief second, the stern-boss exterior cracked just slightly.
“Good luck.”
The jet door began to lift.
Warm island air flooded into the cabin salt, music faint in the distance, something electric underneath it all.
North adjusted his collar.
“Okay,” he exhaled. “Let’s go, we have a mission.”
Typhoon laughed softly.
Dao stepped forward first.
And one by one, they descended into the night.
North stepped off first when the ferry docked. No hesitation. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, smoothed a hand through his hair, and let his expression settle into something loose and effortless.
“Remind me,” he murmured quietly, “why criminals always have the best parties?”
“Minimal communication,” Dao replied in his ear.
North smiled faintly. “Right.”
He blended into the ascending crowd easily. No one stopped him. No one questioned him. A passing stranger laughed at something he didn’t hear, and North laughed back automatically, already slipping into the rhythm of it.
It was loud. Louder than expected. The bass thudded against his ribs. Champagne flutes clinked somewhere near his shoulder. Perfume and salt air mixed into something dizzying.
For a moment, even he felt small inside it.
Typhoon entered through the main staircase of the house rather than the dock. The difference was subtle but important. He offered an easy smile when his invitation was scanned.
Typhoon moved carefully at first, adjusting to the sensory weight of it all. He wasn’t uncomfortable just aware. Every balcony. Every guarded doorway. The direction security subtly redirected traffic.
“Main floor,” he said softly. “Marina access visible from the east corridor.”
“Noted,” Dao replied.
Dao arrived last, as planned.
He didn’t rush. He never did.
The first thing he registered was the spacing. The deliberate arrangement of noise and shadow. The VIP platform elevated enough to command attention without appearing defensive. The staff positioned just slightly too strategically to be simple servers.
He accepted a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and paused near the quieter edge of the terrace, where conversations leaned closer to business than indulgence.
“Bar?” he asked.
“Left side,” North answered, voice lower now.
“Center,” Typhoon added.
Dao nodded to himself.
Then the music shifted.
A ripple moved through the crowd, subtle but synchronized. Attention drifting upward.
On the elevated platform overlooking the main terrace, three men stepped into the light.
Arthit looked exactly as advertised, relaxed in it, like the night belonged to him. He acknowledged someone below with an easy grin, already performing without trying.
Beside him, Johan stood straighter, gaze scanning rather than soaking. Controlled. Measuring.
Tonfah didn’t smile at all. His expression was composed, but his eyes were attentive in a way that suggested he noticed more than he let on.
For a fraction of a second, the distance between platform and party felt immense.
“Targets confirmed,” Dao said quietly.
North swallowed, though he’d never admit it.
After the first hour, the noise stopped feeling sharp and started feeling constant
They blended in
North had found his rhythm easily. He laughed when expected, touched arms lightly when speaking, let himself be drawn into conversations about music releases and exclusive guest lists. He hadn’t taken more than a polite sip of his drink.
Typhoon moved differently. Softer. He listened more than he spoke. Someone pulled him into a conversation about yacht racing.
Dao stayed near the edges.
He danced when it was necessary. Spoke when spoken to. Filed away details, security rotations, which staff carried earpieces, how often the marina lights flickered on and off.
Then Typhoon’s voice came through, lower than before.
“Targets on the move.”
North turned instinctively, but bodies blocked his view from the bar’s raised platform. “I can’t see them from up here.”
“They left the balcony,” Typhoon said. “Heading inside.”
“Find them, North,” Dao murmured, already stepping away from the dance floor. “I need your eyes on them.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
The music followed him as he slipped through the glass doors toward the quieter side of the house. The sound dulled slightly once he was inside, replaced by softer lighting and the distant hum of generators.
He moved toward a window at the far end of the corridor.
From there, the docks were partially visible just beyond the slope of the terrace. Boats shifted gently in the dark water. Staff moved in pairs.
A truck sat near the loading area.
Too discreet for catering.
“They’re planning to move something tonight,” Dao murmured under his breath. “But what…”
“You don’t seem to be enjoying the party.”
The voice came from behind him.
Close.
Too close.
Dao stiffened but didn’t turn immediately. He was annoyed more than startled. He didn’t have time for this.
“Needed some air,” he said evenly.
A soft huff of amusement behind him.
“Are you sure of that, pretty boy?”
Dao’s jaw tightened.
“I am.”
The edge in his tone wasn’t subtle.
Footsteps approached, unhurried. Confident. The kind of approach that assumed space would be given.
They stopped just behind him.
Too close.
Dao turned sharply, ready to snap,
And found himself face to face with Arthit.
Up close, he looked less like a distant figure on a balcony and more like a man very aware of the effect he had. Shirt slightly open at the collar. A beer bottle resting casually in his hand. No visible tension in his posture.
But his eyes were sharp.
“Fiery personality,” Arthit said lightly. “Not everyone would speak like that to the host.”
There was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth not offended. Interested. Amused.
Dao didn’t step back.
“Then maybe you’re not used to honest company.”
For a second, the music outside felt very far away.
Arthit studied him. Not openly. Just enough.
Then he laughed warm, easy, but not careless.
“I like it,” he said. “Most people try too hard to impress me.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the docks beyond the window before returning to Dao.
“And you’re standing here instead of dancing.”
Dao held his stare.
“Maybe I don’t like crowds.”
“Or maybe,” Arthit said, taking a slow sip of his beer, “you just need the right company.”
The air between them shifted.
Not romantic.
Not yet.
Just aware.
Somewhere in his ear, North’s voice whispered, almost breathless:
“Okay. So. Minor update. Lion is currently flirting with you.”
Dao ignored him.
North was trying very hard not to laugh.
From across the floor, he’d caught just enough of Dao’s stiff posture near the window — and the unmistakable silhouette of Arthit leaning in a little too comfortably — to piece things together.
“Oh this is rich,” he murmured under his breath, reaching for a fresh drink from a passing tray.
He didn’t look.
Which was his mistake.
He turned at the same moment someone else did.
The collision was small but decisive. Liquid sloshed upward in a glittering arc before landing squarely across silk fabric and exposed skin.
The blonde stared at him.
For half a second, the world seemed to pause around them.
She was beautiful in the deliberate way of magazine covers — sculpted, styled, shining under the lights. And now her expression was murderous.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she snapped.
North blinked once. Then twice.
“Oh no,” he breathed, staring at the spreading stain. “That’s tragic. That was… very expensive looking.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You—” she started, then stopped herself, clearly deciding he wasn’t worth the energy. She shot one final glare before turning sharply on her heel and disappearing into the crowd, fury radiating behind her like heat.
North exhaled slowly.
“Well,” he muttered, brushing a drop of alcohol off his wrist. “That could’ve gone worse.”
He looked up.
And up.
And up.
Johan stood in front of him.
Tall wasn’t the right word. It was more the way he occupied space. Even here, in the middle of pulsing music and flashing lights, he seemed untouched by it.
North registered it immediately.
Damn. He should be enjoying this party more.
The music was deafening, the alcohol free-flowing, people laughing too loudly at nothing — and yet Johan looked entirely unamused to be standing at his own event.
His gaze flicked once in the direction the blonde had stormed off.
Then back to North.
Assessing.
And then as if the situation required no further attention Johan shifted slightly, clearly intending to walk away. The model, the spilled drink, the interruption none of it seemed important enough to warrant engagement.
North reacted before thinking.
“So you’re not going to get me a new drink?”
It came out smooth. Casual. Just edged enough to be provocative.
The entitlement of it hung there between them.
North crossed his arms lightly, tilting his head as if this were the most obvious social expectation in the world.
Johan stopped.
Slowly.
One eyebrow lifted.
“Does anyone copy?”
Typhoon kept his tone low, barely moving his lips as he stood beside the bar, nodding politely at whatever story the man in front of him was telling.
Static.
No response.
Across the terrace, North was clearly occupied. Dao had gone silent.
Perfect timing.
The man beside Typhoon laughed too loudly at his own joke and clapped him on the shoulder with unnecessary force.
“You’ve got a good smile,” the man slurred. Expensive watch. Red face. Third drink past reasonable. “You should smile more. Lightens the place up.”
Typhoon smiled again more controlled, polite.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He tried to angle away, but the man wasn’t done.
“Oh! Wait,” the man suddenly exclaimed, spotting someone behind Typhoon. “Tonfah! Look at him.”
Typhoon’s stomach tightened.
The man waved exaggeratedly.
“Isn’t he adorable? I swear the models you guys get here keep getting better and better.”
The words were sloppy. Loud. Demeaning.
Typhoon forced himself not to react.
It would be very easy to send this guy flat onto the marble floor.
Instead, he kept his shoulders loose and his expression pleasantly neutral.
Footsteps approached.
Calm. Unhurried.
Tonfah stepped into view.
Up close, he was different from the balcony. Cleaner lines. Softer expression. Suit perfectly tailored, collar immaculate. The kind of man who looked like he belonged.
He glanced once at the drunk man.
Then at Typhoon.
Just a look.
But it lingered half a second longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” Tonfah said mildly to the drunk guest. “I’ll take it from here.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
The man blinked, laughed awkwardly, and wandered off without protest.
Typhoon registered that.
Power without volume.
Tonfah’s attention returned to him fully now.
Not scanning. Not distracted.
Focused.
Typhoon felt it, that intensity. It wasn’t predatory in the obvious sense. It was clinical. Measuring.
He realized he was blushing and hated that he was.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” Tonfah said.
His tone was pleasant. Almost warm.
Typhoon tilted his head slightly. “I guess you just don’t remember.”
A small pause.
Tonfah’s lips curved faintly.
“I would have,” he said quietly. “Believe me.”
There was no arrogance in it.
Just certainty.
Typhoon adjusted his posture, letting his expression soften just a little more than usual. Wide eyes. Slight tilt of his chin. A carefully curated innocence.
He could play this role.
“I’m Tonfah,” the man said, extending his hand.
Typhoon placed his hand in his.
Tonfah’s grip was gentle.
Too gentle.
Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply to make it intimate without being inappropriate.
Their hands lingered a second too long.
Up close, Typhoon could see it now, the difference between Tonfah and the others. Arthit burned bright. Johan was steel.
Tonfah was silk over a blade.
Two security men approached quickly, stopping just short of interrupting the space between them. One leaned close and whispered into Tonfah’s ear.
Typhoon watched the shift happen in real time.
The warmth didn’t disappear.
It cooled.
His eyes sharpened first. Then his jaw tightened just slightly.
Surprise flickered there.
Then something darker. Anger restrained, precise.
But when he looked back at Typhoon, the smile returned like nothing had changed.
“Excuse me, beautiful,” Tonfah said softly.
The words should have sounded sweet but they didn’t.
He lifted Typhoon’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, the gesture polished, charming, perfectly executed.
And cold.
“It seems something has come up.”
For just a second, Typhoon felt the absence of warmth in him. Like standing in shade after sun.
Then Tonfah released him and turned, already composed, already walking toward whatever had disrupted the night.
The security men followed and the moment he disappeared into the crowd, Typhoon exhaled.
Only then did he realize he’d been holding his breath.
North didn’t remember how they got there.
One moment he’d been leaning against the bar, trading dry remarks with a man who barely reacted. The next, he was being guided, no, directed. down a quieter hallway, past a door that shut with a muted click behind them.
The music outside became distant. Muffled.
Johan didn’t waste time.
The kiss wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t playful. It was decisive.
North barely had a second to process before Johan’s hand was at his waist, pulling him closer with startling certainty. The intensity of it stole the air from his lungs. There was nothing casual about the way Johan kissed, it was deep, consuming, controlled in a way that made North’s thoughts scatter. Johan bit his lips and he was sure the tight hold you leave marks.
For someone who had looked so detached downstairs, he moved like he meant to take up space.
North’s back brushed against a desk. Or a wall. He wasn’t entirely sure. His fingers had fisted into Johan’s shirt without him realizing. Heat rushed through himeverything so reckless and immediate. Johan’s mouth tasting him and his hands roaming freely.
This was a mission.
That’s all.
And if the mission required proximity, well.
Why not enjoy it?
Johan’s hand moved along his side, firm, deliberate. North felt dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. The world had narrowed down to breath and pressure and the sharp edge of being wanted with that much focus.
It made him crave more.
Then—
It stopped.
Abruptly.
Johan pulled back just enough to check his phone, breath still steady despite what they’d just been doing.
The shift was immediate. Whatever fire had been there cooled into something sharper.
He read the screen once.
Jaw tightened.
“Don’t move,” Johan said.
No warmth. No teasing.
Just instruction.
Before North could answer, Johan stepped away, already composed again, adjusting his cuff as if nothing had happened.
And then he was gone.
The door shut quietly behind him.
North stood there for a second, blinking.
“…Wow.”
He looked around the room.
It was an office. Clean lines. Minimal décor. A desk, shelving, a locked cabinet. Nothing personal. Nothing sloppy. Not a single document left exposed.
Of course.
He ran a hand through his hair and caught his reflection in a mirror across the room.
He froze.
His hair was a mess. Lips flushed. Faint marks along his collarbone.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Maybe he had taken that a little far.
Or maybe Johan had.
His earpiece crackled suddenly and he jumped.
“They’re gone,” Dao’s voice came through, calm but tight. “All three. They exited through the south corridor.”
North straightened immediately, heart still racing but brain snapping back into place.
“There’s a clear exit south,” Dao added. “If they’re moving something, it’s now.”
Typhoon’s voice followed, slightly breathless. “I’m near the marina.”
North pushed away from the mirror, smoothing his shirt as best he could.
“Coming,” he said.
“We can’t follow them. The south corridor is covered in cameras.”
North kept his voice steady as he slipped back into the main hall, letting the music swallow him whole again. He’d checked the feeds earlier every blind spot mapped, every angle noted. The south exit was clean. Too clean. Fully monitored.
“Regroup,” Dao ordered in their ears. Calm. Final. “They’re not coming back tonight.”
Typhoon didn’t argue.
North grabbed a drink off a passing tray purely for show and let himself laugh at something a stranger said. He made sure to lean into the light, to turn his head just enough for the ceiling cameras to catch his face clearly.
If the Big Three reviewed footage later, they’d see three harmless guests.
Nothing more.
One by one, they filtered toward the exit, not together, not hurried. Just bored, well-dressed boys who’d had enough of the noise.
Outside, the humid night air hit like a reset.
The drive back was quiet at first. City lights streaked across the windshield. The mission sat between them, unfinished.
North shifted in his seat.
Shifted again.
Dao didn’t look at him. “Just say it already.”
North turned dramatically in the passenger seat. “I told you you love a bad boy.”
Typhoon made a small noise in the back somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
“See?” North continued, smug despite the faint marks he’d tried to hide under his collar. “I won’t even get mad you got my guy.”
Dao rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.
“You’re insufferable. While you had a criminals tongue down your thrat I was gathering evidence.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
North gasped softly. “You hesitate.”
“I did not hesitate.”
“Just saying that gathering of evidence looked more like grinding on the evidence. Is Arthit big?”
Typhoon was now very invested in the window.
Dao shot him a look in the rearview mirror. “No conversation until we’re back home.”
North slumped back dramatically. “Wow. Oppressive leadership. Noted.”
But he was grinning.