Chapter Text
The rocking chair creaked with a rhythm older than memory, back and forth, back and forth.. a metronome keeping time with the low murmur of voices that filled the saloon like smoke. Hongjoong sat in the corner farthest from the door, one boot propped against the wall, the other flat on the sawdust covered floor. The chair tilted back just enough to put him in shadow, just enough to let him watch without being watched.
Or so most folks thought.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled slow, let the burn settle in his chest before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled upward into the dim haze.
The saloon smelled like it always did, whiskey and tobacco, leather and sweat, with an undercurrent of something sharper. Desperation, maybe. Fear. Hongjoong had learned to read a room by its smell long before he'd learned to read the faces in it.
Tonight, the room smelled like trouble waiting to happen.
He liked it that way.
The blue of his hair caught the flicker of lamplight as he shifted, the color unnatural in a place where most men wore dust and denim in shades of brown and black. It made him stand out. Made people look twice. That was the point. Let them look. Let them wonder. Let them think they had him figured out, the pretty boy with the fancy embroidery on his shirt, the silver hoops glinting in his ears, the black bandanna tied loose around his throat like he was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
They never figured it out until it was too late.
Hongjoong took another drag, eyes half lidded as he scanned the room. The saloon was busy tonight, but not packed. A dozen men scattered across tables, a few at the bar nursing drinks they couldn't afford. A card game in the corner, low stakes, lower attention spans. Someone laughed too loud near the piano, and the sound grated against Hongjoong's nerves like a rusty nail on tin.
He didn't move.
Behind the bar, Seonghwa polished a glass with the kind of precision that suggested he wasn't really thinking about the glass at all. His dark eyes flicked up, met Hongjoong's across the room, held for a beat too long before returning to his work. No words exchanged. None needed. Seonghwa knew why Hongjoong was here. Seonghwa always knew.
That was the thing about running a saloon in a town like this, you either learned to keep secrets, or you didn't last long enough to regret it.
Hongjoong let the cigarette dangle from his lips as he adjusted the brim of his hat, fingers brushing over the embroidered stitching on his shirt. White thread against black fabric, patterns that twisted and curled like smoke, like secrets, like the lies he told so smoothly people thanked him for them. The ring on his left hand caught the light, simple band on his ring finger, worn smooth from years of use. His other hand rested on the arm of the chair, black nail polish stark against pale skin, a single finger painted like a promise he had no intention of keeping.
Or maybe he did. Depended on the day.
The door swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air that cut through the stale warmth of the saloon. Hongjoong's eyes tracked the movement without turning his head. Two men stumbled in, already half-drunk, voices too loud as they made their way to the bar. Seonghwa's expression didn't change, but Hongjoong saw the slight tightening around his eyes. Trouble, then. Or the prelude to it.
Hongjoong rocked the chair forward, let his boot hit the floor with a soft thud. The cigarette had burned down to almost nothing. He stubbed it out on the sole of his boot, flicked the remains into the spittoon beside him with practiced ease, and leaned back again.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
That was the thing people didn't understand about him. They saw the embroidery, the jewelry, the way he dressed like he gave a damn about appearances, and they thought he was soft. Thought he was all talk and no teeth. They looked at his size, small, compact, built more for speed than strength, and they made assumptions.
Hongjoong had built a career on those assumptions.
He tilted his head, let his gaze drift over the room again. The card game was getting heated. One of the players, a man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, was leaning forward, voice dropping to a growl Hongjoong could feel more than hear. The others at the table shifted, hands moving closer to their belts. Not yet, though. Not quite yet.
Hongjoong's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You gonna sit there all night, or you gonna drink somethin'?"
The voice came from his left, a woman with red hair piled high on her head, rouge on her cheeks, and a dress that had seen better days. She leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, one hip cocked in a way that suggested she'd been standing too long in shoes that didn't fit right.
Hongjoong didn't look at her. "Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're askin' 'cause you care, or 'cause Seonghwa sent you over here to make sure Ah ain't causin' no trouble."
She laughed, a short, sharp sound that held no humor. "Honey, if Seonghwa thought you were causin' trouble, he'd handle it himself."
"That so?"
"That's so."
Hongjoong finally turned his head, met her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away first. They always did.
"Tell him Ah'm just fine," Hongjoong drawled, voice soft, accent curling around the words like honey over a blade. "Just enjoyin' the atmosphere, is all."
"Sure you are." She pushed off the wall, smoothed down her skirt. "You want another drink, you know where to find it."
She walked away, heels clicking against the wooden floor, and Hongjoong watched her go. Not because he cared where she was going, but because watching people move told him things. The way she favored her left leg. The way her shoulders tensed when she passed the table with the card game. The way she didn't look at the two drunk men at the bar, even though one of them called out to her.
Information. Always information.
Hongjoong reached up, fingers brushing over the hoop piercing in his lip, a habit he'd never quite broken. The metal was warm from his skin, smooth under his touch. He could feel the weight of the other piercings in his ears, the hoops and studs that caught the light every time he moved. Some men wore their weapons on their hips. Hongjoong wore his in plain sight, and most people never even noticed.
The card game erupted.
Chairs scraped back, voices rising in a cacophony of accusations and denials. The man with the scar was on his feet, hand on the gun at his hip, and the others were scrambling back, hands raised, mouths moving too fast for Hongjoong to make out individual words.
Seonghwa moved.
He didn't rush. Didn't shout. Just set down the glass he'd been polishing, walked around the bar with the kind of calm that made everyone in the room go still, and stopped three feet from the man with the scar.
"Not in my saloon," Seonghwa said. His voice was quiet, but it carried.
The man with the scar stared at him, jaw working, hand still on his gun. For a moment, Hongjoong thought he might actually be stupid enough to draw. Then the moment passed, and the man's hand dropped to his side.
"He was cheatin'," the man said, but the fight had gone out of his voice.
"Then don't play with him again." Seonghwa's tone didn't change. "But you draw that gun in here, and you won't walk out. We clear?"
The man with the scar glanced around the room, looking for support, for someone to back him up. His eyes landed on Hongjoong for half a second, then skittered away like he'd touched something hot.
Smart man.
"We're clear," the man muttered, and sat back down.
The tension in the room eased, conversations resuming in fits and starts, and Seonghwa walked back to the bar like nothing had happened. Hongjoong watched him go, watched the way he moved, the way he commanded the space without ever raising his voice.
Seonghwa was good at what he did. That's why Hongjoong kept coming back.
That, and the fact that Seonghwa knew when to ask questions and when to keep his mouth shut.
Hongjoong pulled out another cigarette, struck a match against the sole of his boot, and lit it. The flame flared bright for a moment, illuminating the tattoo on his inner arm “NO1LIKEME”, stark black letters against pale skin, before he shook it out and dropped the match into the spittoon.
The smoke curled upward, and Hongjoong let his eyes drift half closed again, rocking the chair in that same slow rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.
He thought about the wanted posters he'd seen tacked up around town. Thought about the names on them, the faces, the prices. Some of them he knew. Some of them he'd crossed paths with in one way or another. Some of them owed him favors they'd never be able to repay.
One name in particular had caught his attention.
Song Mingi.
Hongjoong had seen him before, once, maybe twice, in passing. Tall. Pink hair that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. Dangerous in a way that made people cross the street to avoid him. The kind of man who didn't need to say a word to make his point.
The kind of man people were afraid of.
Hongjoong wasn't afraid of him.
But he was interested.
The wanted poster had listed a price high enough to make even Hongjoong raise an eyebrow. Whatever Mingi had done, someone wanted him bad. And in Hongjoong's experience, when someone wanted something that bad, it usually meant there was a story worth knowing.
And Hongjoong collected stories the way other men collected coins.
He took another drag, let the smoke fill his lungs, and exhaled slowly. The saloon was settling into its usual rhythm now, the card game had resumed, the drunk men at the bar were arguing about something inconsequential, and the woman with the red hair was making her rounds, smiling at men who didn't deserve it.
Hongjoong's fingers drummed against the arm of the chair, a restless energy thrumming under his skin. He'd been in town for three days now, watching, waiting, listening. Picking up pieces of information like scattered pennies, fitting them together into a picture only he could see.
Something was coming.
He could feel it in the air, in the way people moved, in the way conversations stopped when he walked by. The railroad company was making moves again, buying up land, pushing people out, leaving ghost towns in their wake. Twenty years ago, they'd taken everything from his family. Twenty years ago, they'd made him into what he was now.
He didn't forgive.
And he sure as hell didn't forget.
But revenge was a dish best served cold, and Hongjoong had learned patience the hard way. He'd learned to wait, to watch, to let other people make the first move while he stayed three steps ahead. He'd learned that the most dangerous weapon wasn't a gun or a knife, it was information.
And right now, he had plenty of it.
The door swung open again, and Hongjoong's eyes flicked toward it out of habit. Another man stumbled in, this one alone, hat pulled low over his face. He made his way to the bar, ordered a drink in a voice too quiet for Hongjoong to hear, and stood there nursing it like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Hongjoong watched him for a moment, cataloging details. The way he kept his back to the wall. The way his eyes scanned the room every few seconds. The way his hand stayed close to his hip, even though Hongjoong couldn't see a gun.
Nervous. Running from something. Or someone.
Hongjoong filed the information away and turned his attention back to the room at large.
One of the drunk men at the bar was getting louder now, voice rising above the general din. "What in tarnation you mean you ain't got no more whiskey? This here's a saloon, ain't it?"
Seonghwa's voice was calm, measured. "Got plenty of whiskey. Just not the kind you can afford."
"Well, that's mighty convenient, ain't it?" The drunk man slammed his hand on the bar. "Ah reckon you're just tryin' to squeeze every last coin outta honest folk."
"Honest folk pay their tabs," Seonghwa said. "You ain't paid yours in three weeks."
The drunk man's face flushed red. "Now you listen here—"
"No, you listen." Seonghwa leaned forward, voice dropping. "You got two choices. You can settle up what you owe, or you can get out. Ah ain't runnin' no charity here."
The drunk man sputtered, looked to his companion for support, but the other man was already backing away, hands raised. "Don't look at me, Charlie. Ah told you this was a bad idea."
Charlie's jaw worked, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. For a moment, Hongjoong thought he might actually try something stupid. Then the moment passed, and Charlie's shoulders slumped.
"Fine," he muttered. "Ah'm goin'."
He stumbled toward the door, his companion following close behind, and the saloon settled back into its rhythm. Seonghwa caught Hongjoong's eye across the room, and Hongjoong raised his cigarette in a mock salute.
Seonghwa's lips twitched, almost a smile, before he turned back to his work.
The night was still young. The saloon would get busier before it got quieter. And somewhere out there, in the dark beyond the doors, the world was turning, grinding forward with the inevitability of a train on its tracks.
Hongjoong rocked the chair back, let the shadow swallow him whole, and waited.
Because that's what he did best.
He waited, and he watched, and when the moment was right, he moved.
And when he moved, people didn't see it coming until it was too late.
The cigarette burned down to nothing between his fingers, and Hongjoong stubbed it out, flicked it away, and reached for another. The match flared bright, illuminating his face for just a moment, the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint of silver in his ears, the black hoop in his lip, the smug curve of his mouth that said he knew something no one else did.
And he did.
He always did.
A commotion near the back of the saloon caught his attention. Two men arguing over a woman, voices rising, hands gesturing wildly. The woman in question looked bored, like she'd seen this play out a hundred times before.
"Ah'm tellin' you, she's mine!" one of them shouted, a wiry man with a patchy beard.
"That dog won't hunt," the other man shot back, broader in the shoulders, meaner in the eyes. "She ain't nobody's but her own."
"You callin' me a liar?"
"Ah'm callin' you dumber than a box of rocks if you think she's gonna choose you."
The wiry man's hand dropped to his belt, and Hongjoong's eyes narrowed. This was about to get interesting.
But before anything could happen, the woman stepped between them, hands on her hips. "Y'all are actin' like a couple of ornery mules," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Ah ain't interested in either of you, so why don't you take your cotton pickin' egos somewhere else?"
The two men stared at her, mouths open, and then the broader one started laughing. "Well, hell. Can't argue with that."
The wiry man looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. He muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the bar. The broader man tipped his hat to the woman and followed.
Crisis averted.
Hongjoong took another drag, amused despite himself. The woman caught his eye across the room, and he raised his cigarette in acknowledgment. She rolled her eyes and went back to her business.
The saloon was full of stories like that. Little dramas playing out every night, people trying to carve out some semblance of meaning in a world that didn't give a damn about them. Hongjoong watched them all, filed them away, used them when he needed to.
Information was currency, and he was richer than most.
He thought about Mingi again, about the wanted poster, about the price on his head. Thought about what it would take to bring a man like that down, or what it would take to make him useful.
Hongjoong wasn't in the business of bounty hunting. That was too straightforward, too honest. He preferred the long game, the kind where you pulled strings and watched people dance without ever knowing who was holding the puppet.
But Mingi... Mingi was different.
There was something about him that made Hongjoong's instincts prickle, made him want to know more. Not just the surface level information anyone could get from a wanted poster, but the real story. The why behind the what.
And Hongjoong always got what he wanted.
Eventually.
The piano player started up again, a slow, mournful tune that filled the spaces between conversations. Hongjoong let the music wash over him, let his mind drift, let the pieces of the puzzle he was building shift and settle into new configurations.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought crystallized, sharp and clear: Tonight's the night something changes.
He didn't know what. Didn't know how.
But he could feel it, the way you could feel a storm coming before the first drop of rain fell.
The air was different. Charged. Like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
Hongjoong smiled, slow and dangerous, and settled deeper into the shadows.
Let it come.
He'd be ready.
He was always ready.
The cigarette burned down between his fingers, and he let it, savoring the heat, the slow burn that mirrored the restless energy coiled in his chest. The saloon hummed around him, oblivious to the shift in the air, oblivious to the fact that something was about to change.
But Hongjoong knew.
He always knew.
And when it came, whatever it was, he'd be three steps ahead, just like always.
Because that's what he did.
That's what he was.
The most dangerous man in the room, and nobody even knew it.
Hongjoong took one last drag, stubbed out the cigarette, and leaned back in the rocking chair, eyes half closed, waiting.
Always waiting.