Gambit

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/51030424.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Stray Kids (Band)
Relationship: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Characters: Lee Minho | Lee Know, Han Jisung | Han, Seo Changbin, Bang Chan
(Stray Kids), Hwang Hyunjin, Lee Felix (Stray Kids), Kim Seungmin
(Stray Kids), Yang Jeongin | I.N
Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Organized Crime, Alternate Universe - Detectives,
Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Detective Lee Minho | Lee
Know, Assassin Han Jisung | Han, Detective Seo Changbin, Eventual
Smut, Rough Sex, Blood and Injury, Smoking, Top Lee Minho | Lee
Know, Bottom Han Jisung | Han, Morally Ambiguous Character,
Implied/Referenced Character Death, Age Difference, minho is 30 jisung
is 23, Han Jisung | Han is a Little Shit, Lee Minho | Lee Know & Seo
Changbin are Best Friends, Stalking, Obsession, Guns, Phone Sex,
Kinda?, Knives, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-10-22 Completed: 2024-01-17 Words: 98,867 Chapters:
7/7
 Gambit
by bingchillen

Summary

Detective Lee is drawn into a dangerous game when tasked with investigating a series of
high-profile assassinations. As he delves into the case, he finds himself entangled in a deadly
cat-and-mouse pursuit with an assassin who blurs the lines between hunter and prey.

Notes

this is a crime au, so there will be blood, bodies and injury -- if anything too crazy happens
i'll be sure to tag it at the beginning of each chapter <3

disclaimer: this is heavily inspired by the TV show killing eve, and if you haven't watched it
already, pls do yourself a favour

mood board

See the end of the work for more notes

Translation into Русский available: Gambit by lisafelix

 Meet-Cute

"Get that off my desk. I'm busy enough."

It was a short and sweet grunt, a squint of his eyes and a flash of his teeth to let his partner
know that he was absolutely not in the market to take on another case. It was probably futile
considering how stretched out most members of the force seemed to be as of late, but the last
thing Minho needed was another file atop everything else he had to handle.

"What if I buy you lunch?" The gruff in his partner's voice was a wondrous attempt at a
nicety, and Minho could only glare at the manila folder, the glimpse of papers and
photographs peeking outward, as though beckoning him to open it. It was a nice attempt, and
his rejection of it almost certified a call into the chief's office, or a scathing email -- better
yet, an amalgamation of the two tied in a pretty little ribbon. But he wasn't one to yield.

"The day you buy me lunch is the day I hand in my badge and gun," Minho mutters, finally
ripping his gaze from the screen which perused the report of the sting operation he organised
the week prior. "If I was assigned to this case, I would have been assigned to this case."

His partner, a rock-solid anchor to Minho's storm-riddled ship, airily sighed before leaning
the crux of his weight upon his desk, sure to knock over a stapler while he was at it. His blue
work shirt, creased, but tucked into his crisply grey trousers, dictated to the older man that he
had not a single plan to leave the office today. Around his broadened chest, he wore a leather
holster that had witnessed better days and that mirrored Minho's, and his hair was tousled up
and out of his face, almost neatly.

When he took to the field, he was always in some aerodynamic active shirt from that gym
store he seemed so loyal to, but Minho only needed passage to the bleakness of his attire to
realise he had not a single plan to etch outside of the four walls of the office -- not when he
could attempt to persuade his partner to do whatever he seemed to be purporting forward.

"We were assigned this case," Changbin smirks, arms crossed over the leather holster atop his
chest. "And what was it that I did for you last week? Can you remind me? My memory is a
little fuzzy about all the details."

"Fuck off," Minho grunts with a small chuckle, leaning into his office chair and stretching his
arms skyward - feeling his white shirt unfurl from the neat tuck around his hips.

"Oh, I remember…" The younger of the two sighs overtly, tilting his head to the side. "I had
to deal with the narcotics team so you could try your luck with that dancer from the bar the
other week. They nearly put me to sleep every time I even need to be in the vicinity of em,'
and you didn't even get laid."

Minho hardly wanted to dwell on the painful discourse that translated across the table with
that pretty young dancer who was a nice thing to look at but seemed to think a detective was
a made-up job. With a deft sigh, choosing to forgo this battle part of the greater war in which
he and his partner often found themselves, he haphazardly reaches for the file and glares at
the front page.

"This is foreign affairs… and Seungmin's jurisdiction." Innately, he threw it back to the desk,
feeling his time waste in every second that passed. "We are homicide, give it back to the chief
and tell him to redistribute it accordingly."

Changbin shrugs, reaching forward for his fingers to gingerly grasp the folder and unfurl the
contents within. Minho leant closer, perhaps out of mindless curiosity, but with the idea that
no matter what he saw, he was going to do everything within his power to not take it on.

He blinks upon the first instance. Three separate photographs were laid before him. Three
separate bodies that almost every member of the force had seen thus far -- the images were
even passed around on a chain email that Minho had received from his partner the second
they were available. He even laughed outwardly at the caption from one of his colleagues:
'Welcome to Korea!' They were three diplomats, visiting the country on business, all with
traceless wounds who seemed to just drop dead in various public places. No traces of blood,
no fingerprints, no clue.

It was nothing Minho hadn't seen before. In fact, the sheer visual of these old, suited men,
greying and with a myriad of public controversies following their wake, was completely
desensitised for the detective who had just dealt with photographs of some unrelated and
frenzied stabbing attack that hit his desk earlier that morning.

"These are not homicides," Minho crosses his arms over his chest. "These are assassinations
and again, it's Seungmin's jurisdiction and not ours. Go and give it to him, I'm sure that
department has enough free time."

Changbin snorts, before running a hand through his blackened hair that curled slightly by this
time in the afternoon.

"You think I don't know that?" He mutters. "The chief thought foreign affairs were hitting a
wall, so they wanted us to go down and have a look through it all -- see if we can see
something they're missing."

Minho glances up from the file, melding his glare out of the doorway to his office, and
toward the desks gathered in the department that seemed to handball this case off and away.
The head of the department, Seungmin, leant against one of the desks with a mug full of
coffee in his grip, laughing along to something one of the investigators was relaying. Prick.

"Scorned lovers and drunken idiots who carry knives on nights out are our expertise," He
murmurs, with eyes that were raking across the vicinity of the photographs and the wounds
sustained by all of the victims. It was quite high level. Utterly traceless. Poison darts and
puncture wounds that were there for god-knows-how-long before they even dropped dead.
"This is the work of someone above our pay grade."

The younger man seemed to recede all care for his partner's incessant complaints and
ricocheted himself up and toward the doorway.
"If you got that much of a problem, you can take it up with the chief." He huffs, before
flickering his gaze toward the silver watch cantering his wrist. "Remember, you owe me. Get
a report to him by the end of the day and I'll stop teasing you about your inability to get a
second date."

Minho scoffed.

"Where are you going?"

Changbin clasps the door handle with gusto, using two fingers to salute to his partner of five
years with the chagrin of a man who had just about pestered him into submission.

"I've got a second date."

The detective couldn't quite help the breathless laugh that left his lips as the door closed and
muffled the irritating chatter occurring in the greater office. The quiet did well in focusing his
attention on the file, perusing across the scribbled notes of foreign affairs, the trail of question
marks, and the incessant emphasis on the international pressure this was causing the
government. All extremely above his pay grade.

He takes a deft sip of his nearly stone-cold black coffee, utilising the lick of bitterness to do
its best work in coaxing his neurons to fire effectively and to conjure a single thought that
could get this file off his desk so he could return to the tirade of tasks beckoning him. He
couldn't quite help the way his eyes perused the photographs and the nature of the way each
diplomat died.

The first dropped dead and had sustained a related wound to the temple a few hundred metres
away from the hotel he had been staying at. An unidentifiable poison in his system.

The second, carked it in the parking lot of a doctor's office where he had recently frequented
for his physical examination. An unidentifiable poison in his system.

The third had died in the locker room of some day spa, just as he was collecting his
belongings, with a phone in hand to organise a car to leave. An unidentifiable poison in his
system.

Minho's lip twitched at the way his body was laid out in a state of nudeness, almost recoiling
at the diplomat's less-than-savoury skin all wrinkled and destitute.

He need not focus an ounce more of his energy on the matter. It was close and shut.

With a silent nod at the bitter elixir staining his white mug that functioned as he intended, he
rolls his eyes and collects the photographs and notes within the folder, sauntering out of his
office and toward the chief. He was hoping to treat this case as a bandage -- effective and to
be ripped off at breakneck speed.

Two knocks coaxed the attention of the chief, who was leant over his desk, tie dangling upon
the keyboard, eyes squinted in their glare at the screen of his monitor -- as though a product
of yet another forgotten pair of glasses.
"Detective Lee? How can I help?" He murmurs, barely glancing up, far too enthralled at
whatever seemed to hold his attention so vividly. Minho simply slides into the seat across
from him, throwing the folder upon the desk, and crossing his arms over his chest -- already
with a mental pecking order of everything else he had to spend his time worrying about.

"The foreign affairs case," He grunts, earning Chan's attention, coaxing his tuft of chestnut
hair to erectness, his sights set upon his subordinate.

"Changbin said I should be expecting you," He leans into his seat, a dimpled grin conjured
before he glances toward his watch. "You're about ten minutes early, however. He said you'd
take your time before coming all the way over here to shove it in my face."

"Well, I was hoping to shove it back in Seungmin's face." Minho caught a glimpse of the
younger man, always smiling and in debt to the detective of about three beers now. "It is his
case, after all."

Chan chuckles, grasping the folder and flicking through it as though it were the morning
paper.

"And…?" He sighs, cracking his neck to the side. "You at least scanned through it, correct?"

Minho shuffled in his upholstered seat, quick to press a shoulder forward.

"Yeah… Yeah, I've had a couple of thoughts." He murmurs, and the chief nods as though
beckoning him to carry on. "Whoever is doing it, is experienced as all hell. Initially, I thought
ex-military. But, all of the deaths seemed to occur outside of a place of service."

Chan raises an expectant eyebrow.

"A hotel. A doctor's office. A spa." Minho continues, all nonchalant. "Foreign affairs have
spent a lot of time studying the surveillance footage in the streets where they all dropped
dead. But I'd bet the strike happened from somebody they trusted… or paid to trust. You
know, a hotel manager, a nurse or doctor, a beautician. Somebody in a position of service."

The chief remains in a reverend silence, lips thinned in a line as every word is processed.

"And it seems whoever is doing these kills, are getting better and better with practice." He
leant forward, quickly pointing toward the body lying languidly in the street a couple of
hundred metres away from the hotel he had just checked out of. "The first died a decent walk
away from his hotel, but the latest victim died right in the locker room of the spa… and to the
detriment of my eyes, didn't even get time to put a pair of boxers on."

Chan releases a breathy laugh, but his brows soon knit together as though to marinate in the
thoughts expelled from the homicide detective.

"I'd say whenever they strike next, expect greater efficiency." He quickly grasps the folder
and flickers to the toxicology reports annexed to the autopsy of the latest victim. "And the
dosage of poison is increasing. It is clear they work the field alone, but they're a quick
learner. They're getting better and they have developed a knack for public places and a
position of trust. It's most likely they'll attack quite publicly next. A sports game, a university,
a music festival. Anything along those lines."

The chief almost snatches the folder and clasps it shut, pressing his palms upon the shiny
mahogany of his desk, to stand to his feet. His eyes were squinted and a pestering smirk was
shyly painted upon his lips. Minho almost felt a lick of regret in expelling just as much as he
had, having been a detective long enough to recognise that look anywhere.

"You're staying on this case," He surmises with a deft sigh. "I'll have the investigation team
take over some of your day-to-day. The pressure from high up is getting too damn much, and
I need only the best on this case. You're gonna' work with foreign affairs until the killing
stops."

"This is not my jurisdiction, Chan," Minho mutters, darkened glare expelling toward a man
who could see the silver lining in most things.

"It will be." He nods back. "It will be until whoever-the-fuck is doing this is cuffed or dead."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was Saturday when Minho received the dreaded phone call that all of his suspicions were
right. He and Changbin were at their usual watering hole, watching the game amongst a
plethora of drunkards and fighting spirits, that they were soon reaching in a lack of sobriety.

Chan was quick to report it, and even quicker to command them to stop whatever they were
doing and get down to the scene.

It was a hit—an effective one at that.

A diplomat. A restaurant. Didn't even make it out of his seat.

"You're driving, genius." Changbin grunted, tossing his partner the keys to his car, equally as
resentful that this case was now bleeding into their weekends. Minho didn't quite have
anything to argue, he was as equally liable for saying a little too much, but the case was
talked about almost every night on the news, and the crux of their homicide work was palmed
off to the investigation squad. They had little choice in doing anything to get the matter
solved.
They arrived at the crime scene like shadows dipped in noir. Suited, as always, and parked
illegally on the side of the road out the front of the restaurant, flashing their badges lazily at
the parking attendant who was just about to print a ticket.

The restaurant exuded an air of lavish elegance, with red velvet chairs and white tablecloths.
Crystalware and fine plates littered all of the deserted tables, and Changbin was sure to make
some comment about a half-eaten steak just abandoned on one of them on the way in. Yellow
tape lined a section of the restaurant and the murmur and chuckles of their colleagues
fluttered through the air. They dipped below the tape, and Minho almost grunted to see
Seungmin leant against the host station, arms crossed over his chest, and jovially chatting
with other members of his division. Doing anything but work.

"Detective Kim," Minho sighs, loosening his tie as he reaches into his back pocket to pull out
an exhausted notebook. "I'd say there have been no more developments since I received the
call from the chief?"

The younger man, bathed in nonchalance with the experience of riding a desk and bumping
glasses with government officials and ministers, sucked in a steep breath before turning
toward the two homicide detectives.

"Mr. Shin died about a half hour ago. Just dropped like that." He shrugs with a snap of his
fingers. "Work your magic. I gotta' take like ten calls."

"Thanks for the help, that's really useful." Changbin grins, reaching forth to clasp his
shoulder, before swiping his glare at his partner -- the two literate in saying enough with their
eyes.

"I'm surprised the chief asked us to take on the case, you seem all over it." Minho flashes his
teeth in a failed smile, melding a glare toward the younger man who somehow prevailed as
head of his department.

Seungmin barely replies in words, simply squints his darkened eyes further, and withdraws
his phone from the inside pocket of his navy-blue blazer. He taps around a few times before
pressing the screen against his ear, brushing passed the army of two manning the homicide
squad with splendour.

"Can you believe that guy?" Changbin grunts, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

"I can, actually."

A camera flashes, with bursts of light igniting like fireflies in the darkness, each snap
capturing the macabre of the moment, and Minho glares toward exactly what the lens was
pointed at. In the hushed ambience of the upscale restaurant, where smatterings of detectives
and police from differing departments gather to debrief or simply exchange pleasantries
about their weekends or compare the schools their kids were accepted into, Minho and his
partner hone in on the body.

It is a desolate portrait of humanity, and Minho simply sighs as he vests toward it.
A male. Fifty-something. Head leant in his bowl of what looked to be overpriced pasta. Their
hands languidly lay on the sides of his body. A sleek grey suit tailored to perfection. Not a
single trace of blood, or a fight.

"Afternoon, Detective Lee… Detective Seo…" Minho barely obtains the will to meet the
crime-scene photographer in the eye, already aware that he had hardly an interest in
exchanging pleasantries with yet another one of his partner's conquests who he seemed to
dangle in front of his face most days. This one was rather worthy of dangling, however. Tall.
Hair sleek and tied up erectly, as though sprouting from his head like a palm. A pair of silver-
framed glasses leant on the bridge of his nose. The trendy kind. He wore casual clothes and a
badge wrapped around a chain and pressed to his chest -- the only object separating him from
being mistaken as some artsy college student in pastels, and not a member of the police force.
"Seems we all got dragged in on our day off, huh?"

"Hwang," Minho mutters, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat to pull a pair of latex
gloves and stifle them on. "A nice and clean scene for you, hm?"

The taller and lankier man chuckles, adjusting his glasses and fidgeting about with his
camera.

"We've traced the perimeter of the restaurant - nothing is out of place. I'll be honest, it'll save
me the paperwork," He crosses his arms over his chest. "Unlike the scene at the subway from
the other week." He fails to shudder, thick lips pressed tightly at the thought. "I'm still
drawing up reports about all the splatter."

The older of the two goes to offer a semblance of a breathy smile at the memory, before
halting at the strengthened scent of his partner's cologne which he had no choice but to
inhale, watching him insert himself between the two.

"You're wearing the bracelet I got you," He grins, eyes flicking to the pearls clasped around
his left wrist, hidden shamelessly by his beige cardigan. "I told you it suits you."

Minho rolled his eyes, squatting to his knees by the corpse -- allowing his partner the reins to
try his absolute best at continuously wooing the forensic photographer to no avail. The
detective was somewhat satisfied he placed a face to the allusive second date Changbin
pursued days prior. At least it didn't end in the flames as he projected.

His eyes traced along the body, searching for any detail, any anomaly, any clue of the
assailant he had to drop everything to pursue. The diplomat's suit, sleek and freshly pressed,
gave no hint of struggle or violence. Minho's gaze wandered to the bowl of pasta and he
twitched for only a moment at the reddened sauce. Only a flicker of his sight across the table
away, it seemed whoever he dined with ordered the same, and it lay half-eaten, untouched
since the moment he had fallen.

He almost smirks at the allusion. Poisoned food seemed like a plausible explanation, but it
was easy. Way too easy.

"Who did he share the meal with?" Minho turned on his shoulder, glaring up at his partner
who was shamelessly flirting with the photographer as he flickered through the brief and
preliminary notes left by foreign affairs.

"His wife." He retorts, melding his attention toward the older man. "She passed out at the
scene apparently and was rushed to the nearby hospital."

Minho flickers to the bowl utilised by the diplomat's wife and squints his eyes.

"Any updates on her condition?"

"Doctor called about five minutes ago," Changbin raises his eyebrows as he reads the report.
"She went into shock but has since calmed down."

"Interesting." He huffs with a deft grunt, standing to his feet. "Get toxicology a sample of
both her food and his food."

"Obviously." Changbin nods, as Minho gently lifts the diplomat's fork from the table with a
gloved hand, carefully inspecting the entails upon the silver. "Poison?"

"If I were a betting man, I'd say no." He sighs, placing the utensil into a plastic evidence bag.
There was nothing unusual on the surface, but the chief would berate him into the next
century if he skimmed passed it. "And after all… I am a betting man."

"Get this and samples of their food to tox for analysis." Changbin nods, grasping the bag
from his partner to handball in the direction of a wandering detective standing by the
hostess's table. "And get me a list of every guest and member of staff for interviewing. Has
anyone left the premises since he dropped dead? Either way, lock this place down."

Minho nodded internally, vesting the totality of his trust in his partner to handle everything
else. He was glad at least someone besides himself was competent enough to handle this
investigation.

Continuing his meticulous examination, Minho pulled a silver ball-point pen from his pocket
and brushed it against the diplomat's neck - tracing the area just below the jaw. Most of the
skin was soft and yielding, the product of age and a freshly woven fate. But he felt his saliva
ball at the base of his throat when he traversed along the skin until a subtle stiffness was felt
beneath his touch. He leant closer, his eyes unfurling to reveal a barely discernible puncture
mark, almost imperceptible to the untrained gaze. He gently pressed the tip of his pen against
it once more, confirming its rigidity, and grimly smiled.

"There you are," he whispers, feigning off the watchful eyes of the forensic photographer still
hanging off every word of his partner as he barked orders. "Hey Hwang, get a picture of this
for me, hm?"

The taller man fidgets into place, raising his barrelled lens toward the fixture in which the
detective placed his pen beneath. With a single flash, Minho's eyes gleamed toward the
minuscule puncture mark lit by the photographic embers, and upon a deep breath, he
straightened up - with a mind racing with the weight of the revelation.
"Find something?" Changbin smiles, brushing shoulders with his partner as the world
continues to move around them.

"A puncture to his neck. I'd say this is our guy." Minho pulls his blue-hued latex gloves from
his hands, pocketing them just as quickly. "It's open and shut."

"Useless pricks," His partner mutters and Minho follows his gaze toward Seungmin and the
other detectives from foreign affairs leaning against a table outside of the crime scene, some
spirited conversation translating between them about the baseball game happening tonight.
"Getting us to do all of their work."

Minho chuckles small, eyes melding back toward the body laid on the table, mind swirling
through every possibility that harkened their presence. It was bothersome to be pulled from
his usual duties, it was infuriating to be pulled into his work on his day off, and it was
exhausting being one of the only detectives fronting efficiency at the crime scene.

But there was nothing more satisfying than being right.

"Start the interviews with all the staff," Minho ushers his chin toward the kitchen where he
just caught a glimpse of the wait staff and chefs gathered around the silver benches and
gleaming stoves, arms crossed and stoic, as though they had better places to be. He could see
the hostess and restaurant manager in some vested argument that this would ruin the
restaurant and drive away customers. "If you're happy enough, send em' home after but keep
all of their details on file."

Changbin scoffs with arms crossed over his chest.

"Why the fuck do I have to do interviews?" He leant forward to press Minho's shoulder
roughly. "I did em' last week."

"I'm not really in a people mood," He mutters, shaking his head.

"Are you ever?" He expected the retort, and smirked, nonetheless.

"Not on days off I'm not." He grins, rubbing his hands together and almost recoiling at the
powdery impression left remnant by his latex gloves. "I need to make sure the samples get to
tox. If I have time I'll take over. Sound fair?"

"No." Changbin grunts, grasping the list of staff he needs to interview in his hand. "But who
cares what Detective Seo thinks?"

Minho laughs and briskly brushes past his partner, ducking below the crime scene tape
cordoning off the area around the diplomat's table, hellbent on reaching the bathroom. The
stark juxtaposition between the opulent dining area and the restroom was evident. Here, the
fixtures were modern, pristine, marble-tiled and gleaming in chrome fixtures. It was far
better than the usual scenes he was called to in homicide.

The cold water tap was quickly turned on, and the water streamed over his lean and capable
fingers - washing away any residue and reminders of just what his hands had encountered. It
was never easy to face death so frequently. There was always something so dirty about it… as
though an inescapable vessel that was minimised to paperwork, rather than a human life. The
powdered entails of latex gloves, now free from the sterile barrier that separated them,
washed away and into the titanium drain of the ceramic bowl.

As he paused to shake the excess water from his hands, the door to one of the stalls to his rear
creaked open, and someone emerged from one of the stalls. A fleeting glimpse of black and
white caught his attention in the restroom mirror, momentarily diverting his focus from the
still-running water. Ignoring it at first, Minho's hardened stare at his hands shifted when he
inhaled a strange scent - almost like gardenias.

It was hard to ignore. Delicate ivory petals filled the air, as though a soft and enchanting spell
beckoning Minho's senses. Perhaps it was the ever-present waft of blood, black coffee, and
cigarettes that he encountered most days that heightened the symphony of perfume clinging
to his nostrils. It was as though he was amidst a sun-kissed garden in full bloom, reminiscent
of balmy summer evenings and moonlit strolls through meadows adorned with blossoms. It
smelt like all things that Minho did not surround himself with.

He truly couldn't help the way his eyes flickered up, glaring through the mirror at the young
man behind him - dressed in a crisp white shirt, black vest, and a neatly tied apron - a
member of the waitstaff. His black hair fell effortlessly around his moon-shaped eyes,
framing a face that beckoned a small stutter within Minho's chest.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and the detective's gaze lingered far longer than he intended. He
couldn't help but find himself captivated by the waiter's features - his dark hair, delicate lips,
his overall air of charm. It took the younger man two blinks to snap Minho out of his trance,
a brief moment of connection before he beckoned forward to turn on the tap and wash his
own hands in tow.

Flustered at his inability to act normal, Minho almost felt himself laugh under his breath at
the strange thoughts that pervaded his mind. The man beside him was young - most likely a
student waiting tables to make some money between classes. There was once a time when
Minho imagined he would have the confidence to act as though he wasn't married to his job,
where he could paint on the semblance of a charming smile, and dote the younger man into a
flirtatious conversation that extended beyond a single evening. Hell… he felt so exhausted by
his workload as of late that he'd take a single evening and nothing else at this point.

He placed the impossible thought at the back of his mind, before reaching to grasp some
paper towel, drying his hands with a sense of urgency.

But as he felt those two obsidian-hued eyes studying him intently within the mirror before
him, he couldn't help the way his head tilted up.

"Is everything okay?" He clears his throat, watching the waiter blink twice once more, as
though he didn't imagine Minho knew how to speak.

When he already imagined that the man beside him was simply too young, too spritely, too
attractive, too full of life to think of Minho as anything more than a stranger in a bathroom,
the detective was easily able to drop any of the reservations bothering him, and instead
presented that dead-panned stare of a man that was decorated enough to conjure words from
anyone.

The detective's eyes didn't falter. He noticed his every movement. The way his doe-eyed gaze
flickered to Minho's chest, to his hair that fell in chocolate waves, to the holster wrapped
around his shoulders and the pistol clear in view beneath. It was charming in a sense. The
waiter's pink lips shrivelled within themselves, like a blossom beckoned for slumber, as
though he had never seen a gun before, or a stranger in a bathroom who had one clear and
beneath his coat.

Cute. The detective's mind continued to imagine how a 25-year-old Minho would have
handled this. Perhaps he would've turned around, tilted his head to the side and asked him
straight-up if he'd like to get a drink, or make some teasing retort that if he stared anymore he
may as well take his number. But years on the field made him weak, and he grimaced at his
central concern that he must be surely worried. To be a spritely young waiter and to watch a
man die. He almost has to shake the empathy sweating from his pores.

Before he ventured forth to humiliate himself by continuing to speak, the waiter simply tilted
his head to the side.

"Your tie is crooked."

Minho blinks. It would be unfair to assume that he would be some stuttering mess, some
university student who had figured out that Minho was a detective and to perhaps ask him
bothersome questions he wouldn't be allowed to answer. But he hardly imagined his voice
being so grounding, so deep, so clear and strong.

"My tie?" He mutters, glaring down at his own chest -- unsuccessfully, of course (the mirror
is right there, after all) and bracing the slighted nature of his navy tie in all sorts.

The younger man chuckles a sweet sound, and takes a step toward the detective.

"Here," he whispers as Minho feels himself carried away in a cloud of gardenias. He reached
forth, and without a single reservation, grasped the length of the fabric with two hands, glared
up at the detective with two bright eyes, and bit one succulent bottom lip. "If you do it
properly the first time, it stays right."

Minho narrowed his gaze at the gleam of his skin, its tan complexion, his sharpened jaw, his
perfect teeth and the delicate wisp of his eyelashes.

"I know how to tie my ties." He fails to a whisper, eyebrows meeting into the middle of his
forehead inadvertently.

A tightened grasp protrudes near his throat, his breath constricting for only a second before
two delicate fingers adjust the collar to his white shirt. He was so close. Minho was on duty.
He had no reason to want to grasp his wrist in his hand, ask him his name, watch those
perfect teeth clasp that perfect bottom lip, listen to his breathy little words, take him far and
away from this caverned bathroom and commit unspeakable things. But his mind continued
to go there, despite his better judgement.
The younger man simply smiles once more, taking a step away. His palm trails from base to
tip of his navy tie, flailing it in the air as though it were a sail in the wind. His eyes were
studying it, head tilted to the side as though something was amiss. Minho felt too frozen to
even decipher anything more than his heart beating in his chest.

"Strange," The waiter whispers, studying the sight wrapped duly by the detective's neck. "I
like it better crooked."

In one last tug, he loosens the length and returns the detective's tie to the loosened portrait of
unkempt he would never have noticed otherwise. He wanted to cut in with some desperate
question of his name, or for him to wait a couple of hours until he could leave the crime
scene and join them for drinks. He wanted to pester those bright eyes with compliments of
how they sparkled. He wanted to relax, to be cool, to not be reduced to this silent mute of a
man incapable of words.

But the waiter simply gleamed a small smile, turned on his heel and etched out of the
bathroom as though he didn't obtain the power to do anything he so wished.

Minho stared at the closed door until his mind told him to get it fucking together. From there,
he was able to run a frustrated hand through his hair and exit just as quickly, shaking off
whatever the hell made him act like that, and stalking ardently toward the kitchen where the
interviewees were meant to gather. His hand was fidgeting with his tie - torn between
wanting to loosen it further, or to fix it, or to pull it from his neck altogether. From there, he
beckoned toward the restaurant manager's office, where he witnessed the messily written note
of his partner's upon the door: 'Police Interviewing in Progress' and unfurled himself inside.

Changbin's eyes widen upon the sudden intrusion and the chef in which he was interviewing
glares confusedly between the two officers.

"Changed my mind," Minho mutters, pulling his coat and blazer from his body and resting it
on the coat stand where he noticed Changbin had palmed off his black trench. "It's better if
we both handle this."

His partner simply grunts, stifling off the prospect beckoning him to roll his eyes, before
Minho drags a chair around the small and cluttered table.

"I'm Detective Lee, by the way." Minho barely cares enough to meet the chef in the eye, he
simply rolls his sleeves, and pushes the spring of his silver pen, pressing the tip against the
vast plain of white paper and plasters on that usual air of nonchalance. "Start from the
beginning."

It was a painful hour and a half of interviews. Unnecessary tears. Incriminating words from
the most innocent of mouths. A waitress who asked one too many questions about the
investigation. A sous-chef who was sweating bullets that he was the one who made the pasta
the diplomat ate. Minho had to swat Changbin's knee beneath the table to stop him from
laughing when he offered his wrists to the detectives, as though surrendering himself out of
inescapable guilt. The restaurant manager flew a little too close to the sun in her defensive
stance against the barrage of their questions, but Minho only had to glance at her background,
that she had managed the restaurant for 15 years at this point, to rule out her involvement in
any of the other assassinations. The hostess was more concerned with the health issues
arising from the body still being out in the restaurant and the bartender kept trying not to gag
as he recalled watching the victim die from across the room.

The list was eventually exhausted, and Minho felt his chest simmer as he crossed out the final
name off the list of staff, frowning at the hostess' name scribbled at the bottom and then the
vast plain of white paper.

His mind could only recall those moon-shaped eyes he was waiting for. He had interviewed
every member of the wait staff -- all college students who were half terrified and half itching
to leave… but not a single face he craved to see. He flipped the page over, and over, and over
again. Just in case. Just in case his eyes forgot how to function. Just in case there was a name
they didn't see.

"I'll do some follow-ups with the chef who made the food after we get the reports back from
tox," Changbin leant back in a squeaky desk chair belonging to the restaurant manager, and
fished a cigarette from his pocket, resting it between his teeth. After igniting the tip of it and
inhaling a small breath, Minho felt his eyes on the side of his face. "Everything alright?"

Minho's mind was a cacophony of words. Some told him he was careless… others told him
he just imagined all that occurred in the bathroom. Either way, he scrunches the list of
interviewees in his hand, protrudes through the cloud of smoke emanating from his partner's
mouth and back into the kitchen -- noticing it empty, aside from the few members of the wait
staff who were still gathered around discussing everything that had happened. His chest was
rising and falling, eyes searching tirelessly for the man who smelt like a fresh bed of
gardenias, with the perfect skin, and gleaming smile. The very fucking reason the detective
subjected himself to a tirade of interviews.

He was meant to walk through the door, probably in the middle of the list of wait staff to get
through. Minho would find out his name. Minho would get to listen to that strengthened
voice pierce his soul once more. Minho would watch him recount some story that he was in
the kitchen at the time of the death, fraternising with the staff, talking about his upcoming
exams or how tortuous the lunchtime rush on a Saturday was. Minho would show him that he
wasn't a pathetic, crooked-tied, mess of a man, and conjure on what lithe amount of charm he
had left in his vernacular.

But as he continued to study the emptying kitchen, and the detectives filtering in and out of
the restaurant, watching the coroners etch inside with a stretcher to collect the body, he
couldn't quite help feeling his chest clench and rage begin to simmer.

Grasping the arm of the first officer who brushed passed him, his gaze narrowed and his lips
almost twitched.

"Get me access to the CCTV footage now."

Minho's hand was clenching his thigh for the entirety of the viewing. He had watched the
victim die about twenty times now. Completely untouched. Just began writhing around, and
his head hit his meal as though it were a pillow on a welcoming bed. His eyes were following
the grainy footage arduously, tongue poking out to saturate his bottom lip upon every trail of
the wait staff -- recognising the one he interviewed who was more interested in talking about
his band than the investigation, as the waiter who served the diplomat his meal.

The footage seemed to jump in the minutes leading up to his death. It was a shortened blink
and the tape skipped. Minho's fist was almost gearing to shatter the screen before him in
every replay.

"Rewind," the detective kept demanding in a gnarled voice to the younger officer who sighed
upon every sanction of the backwards arrow. "Again."

"It's a fault of the cameras, jumps have been happening throughout it all." Changbin perks up,
leaning his elbows upon his knees, clearly irritated to be watching the same tape roll over and
over and over again. "How many times do I need to tell you that is everyone on the list of
staff?"

Minho melds his glare toward his partner.

"We told foreign affairs to not let a single member of staff off the premises until we
concluded our investigation."

"That was every member of staff," Changbin grunts, holding an open palm out. "I told you,
there are only two people with access to the back door of the restaurant who were not on
today. The woman who handles the marketing works remotely and is on holiday with her
three kids, and the other is the owner who is currently in hospital with a kidney infection.
Want me to organise a warrant for their arrests?"

"No, it wasn't," Minho mutters, feeling the sweat on his hands fester as he rubs them against
his grey suit pants. "There is another man I saw. A waiter. Young and… with these nice
eyes."

Changbin shoots him a look.

"I swear to fucking god--"

"Just jump forward, would you?" Minho grunts to the rookie who was staring between the
two detectives as though they were the antithesis of normal. "To when we arrived. Around 4
O'clock."

"Be quick about it," Changbin snarls, crossing his arms across his chest. "God, how hard is it
to operate footage, huh?"

If Minho's mind was not a shouting mess of guilt and trepidation, he would've cracked a
smile at his partner's words -- knowing they were as hopeless as each other in the tech realm.
But he could only hold the base of his tie in a white-knuckle grip, almost whispering a prayer
beneath his breath that he made it all up, that his sweet scent and achingly beautiful face were
simply a figment of Minho's exhausted imagination and not the first fucking lead they had
that slipped through his fingers way too easily.
"There," the homicide detective taps his hand on the table, startling the rookie who relents in
forwarding the footage and allowing it to run in real-time.

Minho's eyes watched as he and Changbin entered the restaurant. He watched himself mutter
words toward Seungmin, and then his partner fraternising with Hyunjin, the forensic
photographer. He watched himself analyse the body, and Changbin order some officers to
organise samples of the food for toxicology. But as his sight trailed away from his very own
back, he glared at the tape cantering the upper corner of the surveillance, feeling his chest
stiffen at the sight of that black hair, small waist, and lithe frame slipping into the bathroom.

Changbin's finger hits the screen before Minho can even put two words together.

"Is that who you saw?" He grunts to his partner, eyes almost widening. It was as clear as day
- the outline of his body, the tuft of his hair, the apron around his hips. "We didn't interview
him."

Minho's silence is an answer in itself, and he almost slumps in his chair as he silently watches
the white of the bathroom door and himself enter it, watching the minute or so he spent in
there, almost as a quivering mess of a man who could barely string two words together. He
couldn't help but rub his tired eyes.

The dagger in his chest twists as he watches the door reopen, to see that pretty little figure in
his fitted attire matching innately with the wait staff, quickly ushered out of the bathroom and
toward a door to the rear, completely out of sight for the camera to pick up.

"That's the cellar. Flick over to the footage in there." Changbin mutters, leaning closer to the
rookie as Minho retracts further away.

With a click of the mouse, Minho found himself staring at a static screen of black and white
and words cantering the middle: 'No signal. Disconnected.'

While his partner, perhaps blamelessly, resorted to shoving the keyboard and cursing beneath
his breath, Minho only felt the adrenaline invoke his hand to grasp the pistol connected to his
holster and saunter himself up and out of the security vessel. He was stalking darkly toward
the main body of the restaurant, following the man's footsteps toward the cellar, half-
expecting there to be nothing there to meet him, half-hoping that this was all one big
misunderstanding, half-ready to kiss his career goodbye.

He keeps his pistol tight and pressed to his thigh, ignoring the vehement bustling noises of
other detectives and the coroners in his surrounds. With a quiet determination, he gripped the
brass doorknob and turned it slowly, unveiling the dimly lit, narrow passageway. He couldn't
help the way his heart was pounding in his chest or the way his mind continued to berate him.

His sharp eyes, seasoned and ever-so-careful, scanned the room to take in every single detail.
On one side, a glass-encased collection of wines glistened, their labels boasting signs of their
age and pedigree. On the other side, stacks of plates and wine glasses were meticulously
arranged, waiting to serve their purpose in the grandeur of the restaurant. His senses were on
high alert, not quite raising his pistol -- just in case -- and ensuring his footsteps hardly
echoed through the cavernous space.
As he drew closer to the square window, he noticed something out of place. The window was
slightly ajar, its rusted latch giving way to the evening breeze. Just beneath it, neatly folded
on a wooden produce crate, lay a waiter's uniform.

Minho's eyes narrowed, his fist clenched and he peered out of the window to the alleyway
leading to the busying street. His voice echoed a myriad of curses and grunts, unable to
control the way his gaze contorted back to the pile of clothes, that smelt far too heavenly for
his own liking, and leant down to decipher what was written on the note laid atop the
suspiciously clean apron.

In the elegance of cursive handwriting, Minho bit back a small gulp at the words written just
above a scribbled heart.

'Detective Lee, are you gonna' come find me?'

 First Date
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Come Monday morning, Minho's knuckles were white in the grip of his thighs. The mutters
of the detectives around him were grating in his ears. Chan, standing before a projection
screen with that irritating whim of cheer and jest, was sending his mind further down than
the darkened spiral it seemed to exist upon. The goddamn ceiling fan was prickling a sated
chill down his spine, long after Changbin made some grumble that it was nearly freezing,
why the hell is the ceiling fan on? His eyes could barely look at the figure behind the chief. It
was grainy. It gave nothing away. It was the very portrait of Minho's carelessness.

All they had was a blurry shot of the side of his face, captured from the CCTV. Nothing
more, nothing less.

His very existence was sending Minho into the pits of his worst nightmare: being
incompetent. Minho hardly saw himself as a perfectionist, but with the reputation he had built
up through his many years working in homicide, he had very little to discredit any sort of
inability to get to the bottom of just why one person would kill another. He was good at it. He
was able to figure things out quickly, efficiently, and without a single lick of emotion. There
was a reason he and his partner were one of the few members of the force with their own
offices.

He certainly never felt like he was sitting before the principal, slumped in his chair, avoiding
the prying eyes of Seungmin and the rest of foreign affairs, knowing it was his very fault that
the only lead they had slipped through their fingers a little too easily.

Minho was sure to spend the rest of the weekend torturing himself with every logical way he
should have handled it. If he wasn't so startled by the way he looked, or so introspective into
just how out of practice he was in holding his own in a conversation that didn't involve death,
weapons, or managing the pile of cases that met him most mornings, he would have kept
talking. Kept him there. Asked him his name. His age. If he had plans after the investigation
concluded.

Surely the man with the lithe waist, broad shoulders, and achingly perfect hair - even in the
grainy entails of the only picture they had of him, wouldn't be so quick on his feet that he had
a practised answer for Minho's questions. Perhaps he would've let it slip through nervous
glances or a deft stutter that he had never waited a table in his life. Or perhaps, he would've
given a semblance of a hint that he wasn't friends or acquaintances with any of the other wait
staff. If Minho wasn't so in his head, so drunk off even bracing those perfect lips and bright
moon-shaped eyes in his sight, he could've offered that he bring a friend along to the bar, to
watch him scramble and try and force a lie.

But instead, he could only glare at the screen with the darkened whim of a man scorned.
Where he once saw this case as a bothersome method in moving up the ranks, taking the
steps needed for a well-earned promotion, he now saw it as something he needed to close. It
needed to be him that unravelled the thread that was collecting victim after victim. It needed
to be him who bore the notoriety, the praise, the month of free coffee and maybe two more
sick days a year as a bonus. It needed to be him to get those pretty little wrists in cuffs, to
book him, to spend hours in interrogation to find out who he works for and why he does what
he does.

At this point, Minho saw no use in caring for anything else.

"If only the list we received of the staff was accurate," He glanced to the side at his partner,
with folded arms over his chest, sending proverbial daggers over the table to the head of
foreign affairs. "We would have a suspect in custody."

"You may recall that you did receive an accurate list," Seungmin sneers between a sip of his
coffee, his hair the shade of midnight restful upon his forehead. "We had a man powerful
enough to buy and sell every person in this building dead with his head in a bowl of
spaghetti, and you think it would've been efficient having my department do a headcount of
everyone in the restaurant?"

"Oh, they looked real busy to me." Changbin grunts, squinting his eyes together. "Chief, if
you wanna' forward the footage a little bit further you'll catch two of the geniuses from
Seungmin's department comparing their answers for the Saturday morning crossword."

"We had the entire premises on lockdown," The head of foreign affairs mutters with a roll of
his eyes. "It's not my fault your partner took a piss with the suspect and didn't even realise."

"Say that again," Changbin's glare narrows, leaning his elbows on the stretch of the table
separating them. "I dare you."

Minho felt the small fire within his chest contort, but his energy felt of better use in melding
his glare back toward the screen and the figure before them.

"We're thinking too narrowly," The chief huffs, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt to the
forearm. "You think for sure this is your guy?"

The homicide detective pinched the bridge of his nose, all the used to the gentle flashes of his
pretty face, and tan skin, and perfect teeth parading around his mind like an uninvited guest.

"Has to be," Minho retorts, grimacing shortly. "He knew who I was… He knew what he was
doing."

"That doesn't mean he's the mastermind behind it all," Seungmin sighs from behind his mug
of coffee. "He's probably just a cheap hire. There's no way someone like that," he ushers a
hand toward the screen, "could pull off four traceless hits on some of the most powerful men
in the world."

"Why not?" Minho grunts, glaring at the screen. "Look at the deaths so far. The suspect must
be young, maybe early twenties. Agile. Fit. Somebody who cannot arouse suspicion, but can
be welcomed into any establishment without question." He couldn't help the way his mind
traversed back to the bathroom, and how a single flutter of his eyelashes could get him
anything he so wished. "All of the targets were diplomats visiting the country on business.
Every death has been quick, easy, targeted, and calculated. I am sure more than most that a
young man has no reservations in killing an older one."

"Maybe not the mastermind," Changbin huffs, eyes softening as he flickers his gaze to his
partner before purporting his attention to the chief. "But look at the evidence. He's gotta be
the one behind every hit."

Chan, with his arms crossed over his chest and a grim gaze traversing the heads of each
respective department at the table, sighs.

"What about the CCTV? The jumps in the tape?" He murmurs, directly to Changbin who
clicks about a few times at his laptop, bringing up the report he received earlier that morning.

"Cybercrime took a look at it," he huffs. "It was a third-party user who was tapped into the
footage the entire time. Scrubbed the tape to make our guy look like a ghost or somethin'."

Minho stares at the screen, almost salivating at the idea of capturing him. He wanted him less
for his hits and more for the way he made the detective look sloppy.

"So, there's clearly more than one of them out there." Seungmin scoffs. "If they've got an eye
in the sky, tapping into the footage like it's an open channel, then they have other field ops."

"It's him," Minho mutters, feeling the ball of his pen dig into the flesh of his palm. "Someone
is controlling the footage and tech, there's someone receiving orders, and someone is doing
the hits." He points the plastic vial of ink toward the capture on the screen. "And that is the
guy doing the hits."

"Any leads on an identity?" The chief chimes in, raising an expectant brow at the detective. "I
mean after all… You are the only one who saw him up close."

"No," Minho stares at the forensic sketch one of the artists conjured up for his account. He
didn't quite consider himself an articulate man and no words could justify just how angular
his jaw was, or the way his eyes gleamed. There was never going to be a chance the sketch
would be an accurate one. "It's a dead lead."

The chief pauses, always with that knowing glint in his eye. He was yet to berate Minho. He
had yet to question why he seemed to abandon his post, drop everything he needed to do and
join his partner to interview the entirety of the restaurant staff, on a whim. But Minho could
just feel the prickles beginning to fester on the back of his neck that it was coming… and the
detective was going to be at the receiving end of it.

"Your work is cut out for you then, Detective Lee." He instead presses a shoulder forward,
dropping any hint of cynicism and melding that darkened stare that the entire division knew
all too well. "I want his identity by end of day."

Minho felt his stomach drop, and Changbin's eyes burning into the side of his face.
"How the fuck am I going to--"

"End of day." Chan cuts him off. "Now, all of you get out. I have the press breathing down
my neck."

A symphony of papers shuffling back into manila folders, laptops clasping shut, and
grumbled mutters echo through the meeting room. Minho couldn't help but collect his things
as succinctly as possible, quick to ignore the prying eyes of the chief and his partner.

"I don't how you're gonna' get his name," Minho tenses as he feels a shoulder brush against
his. "We don't have it so easy in foreign affairs that the assailants have their fingerprints in
our system."

The homicide detective glares out of the corner of his eye at Seungmin's jovial smile and the
way he held his files against his chest, that gleam in his eye that moreover said, 'welcome to
hell,' than any actual parcel of advice.

"How many times do I gotta' say that there is a reason we're on this case now?" Changbin
sighs as they breach the main office.

"You're funny." Seungmin flattens his lips, before tilting his head to the side. "Feel free to ask
for help. You know where I'll be."

"Can't imagine myself doing that," Minho mutters, keeping his head down and etching
toward his office.

The two detectives sat side-by-side, hunched before his desk strewn with manila folders,
mugs filled with stale-tasting black coffee, and stacks of half-finished paperwork.

Minho, with his dishevelled hair, leaned forward with eyes fixed on the computer screen,
fingers dancing across the keyboard with a sense of urgency. His darkened eyes, usually so
piercing, were now shadowed with remnants of frustration, reflecting the weight of his fuck-
up and everything to follow. End of day, his ass. His jaw clenched as he meticulously entered
search criteria into the database, feeling the seconds turn into hours.

"Try our general database first." Changbin's fingers were tapping restlessly on the desk -
lulling a soft, rhythmic beat that filled the room.

Minho went to argue but was quickly halted.

"I know you think he's not in there," He murmurs, his voice edged with concern. "I know it's a
long shot, but it's protocol and we have to try. If Chan wants a name by end of day, we'll get a
name."

Minho sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, as he began to filter through the database of
anybody with a criminal record. It was disgustingly extensive -- even with the search limited
to suspects with black hair, approximately 5'7'', and in their early twenties. The results
yielded pages upon pages of names, each one representing a glimmer of hope, yet seemingly
leading nowhere.
Frustration gnawed at Minho's resolve as he watched face after face flash before him. Petty
criminals, robbers, rich kids who spent a night in a holding cell for being drunk and
disorderly, murderers alike. It was a constant stream of shitty people, some Minho even
recognised as assailants he cuffed himself. But there was not a single hint of that face he
would recognise anywhere.

The office was filled with a weary silence, broken only by the hum of the computer and the
distant sounds of the bustling divisions working on other investigations outside. Minho only
stared at the screen, unable to quell the sense of unease that nagged him.

The hours ticked far beyond lunch when they were brought to the final page of names --
subdued to five measly mugshots of one arsonist, two murderers, a robber, and some college
kid arrested for breaking and entering his campus library before exam night. Changbin didn't
say anything - a little too literate in knowing Minho's fuse was short and delicate, especially
at the vehement whim of a dead-end.

The dimly lit office began to feel suffocating, and his frustration had reached its boiling point.
In a fit of exasperation, Minho leaned back in his chair, his fingers curling into tight fists. The
air felt stifling, and he needed a break, something to break the monotony of his cascading
thoughts, even if just for a moment.

Without a second thought, he reached into his partner's blazer leant decrepitly over the desk
chair, retrieving a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It was a reckless move, and both
men were well aware that Minho had been trying to quit, but lately, he couldn't muster the
energy to care.

As the cigarette dangled between his lips, Minho muttered bitterly to himself as he stood to
his feet and gathered his coat, the frustration in his voice tangible, "Let's have a break. This
kid is driving me insane."

Leaving the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, he grabbed the manila file
containing all the information they had gathered on the mysterious suspect. He was out of the
office quickly, with a jaw set in a determined scowl, and his eyes blazed with resolve as he
ventured into the cool, concrete-lined street.

With a flick of the lighter, the tip ignited with a soft hiss. The cherry-red of the ember
bastioned away in the busying street, but all he could muster was a long, deep drag, letting
the smoke swirl around him and fill his lungs. It was a moment of rebellion against the
relentless pressures of those pretty eyes and perfect lips. But it was the only sense of relief he
had felt since bracing him in his sights.

He leant against the brick of the station walls, lulling the inhalation of the smoke until it
calmed his simmering heart. He could only pull the case file from beneath his wing and haul
the blurry image from the CCTV that taunted him, a constant reminder of his incompetence.
His fingers traced over the grainy entails. Brushing past his hair, his back, his waist… he
could feel the rage swirling in his stomach and the plans forming in his mind. He was not
going to look like an idiot… not for some ghost.
The more he inhaled deeply from the cigarette, the more the image of that pretty little suspect
played like a broken record in his thoughts.

Minho's mind began to slowly connect the dots. Only a ghost would be so disciplined… so
skilled… so prepared to evade capture yet happy enough to flounce in front of the weakened
eyes of the man leading the investigation. He remembered the handwriting on the note, and
how his eyes were fixated upon the pistol strapped to Minho's holster when their gazes met in
the mirror.

The realisation unfolded before him like pieces to a puzzle. If he was as slippery as
everybody imagined, he was more likely than not a figment of the lives they lived. A spirit. A
spectre. A shadow. Somebody who lived a full life, despite his presence being accounted for
elsewhere… perhaps in death.

Minho's mind raced, and he clasped the file shut with a small smirk emanating on his lips. He
had something… and he wasn't about to let it fetter away.

Back in the dimly lit confines of his office, with a partner who was at lunch and free reins to
delve into a theory he was sure Changbin would call him crazy for, he opened the archives.
With a single glance through his jagged blinds, he could only scowl at Seungmin sprawled
languidly and laughing brashly with the other members of his division and he made a narrow
search.

Deaths in the last five years - men aged 18 to 25.

Each click of the mouse felt like a morbidly thrilling journey through the catacombs of the
destitute. The task was essentially to find the living amongst the dead - all without sending
himself mad enough that he would be so tempted to venture back to the chief's office with a
head hung low, to make some premature sigh that he was simply too unequipped -- too weak
to take on something like this.

Portions of articles reporting car accidents, homicides and sicknesses flashed upon the screen
with reverence. The smiling faces of graduating students, some plucked from their social
media profiles, or snatched from their passports and driver's licenses, were the only clues he
could use to narrow down the search. But as his eyes began to falter, noticing far too many
faces that were far too unfamiliar, he felt that punch of frustration pool in the base of his
throat once more.

But he couldn't give up so quickly.

He pushed further back in time, searching through records and newspaper articles that
stretched beyond the last five years - from six to eight to ten.

Then, with the tip of a pen lodged partly in the middle of his palm, a faded newspaper article
from years past caught his eye. The headline read, 'Orphanage Blaze: Three Lives Lost.'

It was sick and sardonic how he found himself fettering a small smile as he leant closer to the
screen, glaring at the accompanying black and white photograph displaying the charred
remains of an orphanage building, still smouldering from the fire. Beside it, three young
faces were pictured from a previous time - smiling and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. One,
with these fox-like eyes and a dimpled grin, the second with blonde hair and a forlorn look to
his face, and the last… well… Minho knew where to credit his smile.

His features were unmistakable - the sharp jawline, blackened hair, and the unique shape of
his eyes. It was the same face -- even as a teen. The same person. The ghost that couldn't
quite hide from Minho's prying eyes.

His heart raced as he held the blurry CCTV photograph etched into his memory beside the
screen. There was no doubt; they were the same. A smile festered upon his lips, and he felt
the heat lick the base of his stomach -- like a predator with his eyes finally set upon his dinner
clean in view.

He must have read that name over, and over, and over again. Sounding out the syllables,
feeling them move upon his tongue and around his lips. Getting used to them. Whispering it.
Muttering it. Holding it in the deepest part of his brain.

"I found you, baby."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

As Minho arrived home, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. It was like the jangle of his key in
the lock, the click of the door, and the silence meeting him as the wood swung open was the
most blissful symphony of sounds to echo through the cavern between his ears. It was a few
hours passed the time he was meant to venture out of the office -- which wasn't so atypical
for a man who seemed to leave for work in the darkness of the early morning and arrive
home in the darkness of a ripe evening.

With a yawn, he felt his fingers unfurling his tie and he kicked off his shoes, slipping into
some slippers as he locked himself in and flickered on a lamp. Perhaps today, more than
usual, he glares at the gentle illumination of lights casting that warm, amber glow upon his
modest haven, with a smile. The light danced across the aged wooden floor, and the brick
walls, and he felt a sated sense of calm.

The window near the kitchen framed the tableau of the city below and the urban sprawl
transformed into a sea of twinkling lights. The couches were neatly pressed and surrounded
by his quaint collection of potted plants that cantered by the television and his record
collection. He made the mental note to water his fiddle-leaf fig as he passed it, knowing it
was due, before tossing his briefcase of files, his holster holding his pistol and his badge upon
the coffee table.

His apartment, while not expansive, was thoughtfully arranged. Like most aspects of his life,
every piece of furniture seemed to have a purpose, a place, and it was all meticulously
maintained. While his office was often as cluttered as his mind, everything in his sanctuary
was above all, clean and tidy. A comforting blend of old books and well-worn leather
decorated the living space, and as he ventured around the corner into the kitchen of tiles and
marble benchtops, he couldn't help but let out a soft smile at the two yellow eyes perched by
the microwave.

"Gomi," he sighs with the gentleness of a whisper, immediately reaching out to brush his
fingers through her white and black fur which amalgamated in an almost cow-like pattern.
"What are you doing up here?"

She barely mewls, just flickers her tail and nuzzles against his opened palm.

He chuckles, before glancing down at her bowl of food near the fridge, blinking twice at the
pink ceramic filled to the brim with biscuits.

"Not hungry today?" He chews on his bottom lip, concern ceding through every cavern of his
mind. As he mindlessly pulled out a chilled bottle of beer from the fridge, he couldn’t help
but dally his eyes over his cat, looking for any hints of sickness. When he left for work every
morning, he would refill her water and set out a full bowl of food for the day for her to graze
upon -- never quite knowing if he would return before dinner or by midnight.

But, like most cats, the bowl would be licked clean by the time he got home.

Gomi brushed against his legs, her supple body weaving between his calves, a living, purring
shadow. With each pass, she left a faint trail of warmth, and Minho continued to study her.

Much like the detective, Gomi was a master of nonchalance - a creature who approached life
with a detached curiosity. Her reflective eyes glistened with enigmatic wisdom, mirroring the
contemplative depths that Minho's mind often plumbed in from the grating entails of his day-
to-day. They were roommates, after all, two beings coexisting in harmonious separation.

She understood his commitment to work. She has her own space - a delightful assortment of
toys and a towering cat tree that dominates the living area. Here, she whiled away her hours,
blissfully indifferent to the chaos that consumed her roommate's world most days. And in
turn, Minho understood that Gomi was content in her way. Only at the end of each day, did
their routines converge. They would settle in front of the television, a silent communion, and
watch the evening news or some action movie Minho was sure to debunk beneath his breath -
all the while she purred and slept deeply.

Her needs were simple and direct: an entire apartment of sunlit patches for afternoon naps, a
cosy bed, and food.

An empty bowl for Minho to return home to witness was one of life's absolute certainties.
"You're not getting sick, are you?" He frowns at the full bowl of biscuits by the fridge,
reaching down to pet between her shoulder blades once more.

She mewls, and begins to purr, as though to let the detective know it was time to unwind and
begin their nightly routine. It was strange, but with her fleeting bliss, Minho simply shrugged,
mentally noting to maintain a watchful eye for any other strange behaviours, before venturing
down the hallway and toward his bedroom and the adjacent bathroom - wanting nothing more
than to shed his coat and suit… to forget about those haunting eyes… even if only for a
single night and to wash away the pain-stricken day.

Once in the shower, Minho let out a deepened sigh as the hot water hit his back. He found his
mind meandering through the turbulent currents of the day as the steam filled the bathroom
and conjured a foggy bliss around him. He revisited Chan's apprehensive grin when he placed
the updated file on his desk, well before end of day, and the way his mask of scepticism flew
so far away.

He felt one step closer… one foot in the door to finally slipping the cuffs around those
delicate wrists… one day nearer to seeing that pretty face again.

Emerging from the shower, he rubbed his eyes with a sense of weariness that went beyond
the physical. He began his usual ritual, the one where he dried himself with a clean towel,
movements automatic and mindless. His feet carried him toward the bed, even with his sight
marred by the fluffy cotton that was drying his face and hair in one swoop.

But when his knees collided with the neat preen of his sheets, he opened his eyes and gazed
upon the bed -- feeling his exhaustion drain from his body in an instant. There, in the centre
of the white duvet, lay a navy tie - his navy tie.

'Your tie is crooked.'

The words played in his mind like an alarm. They were all he dreamt of… all he imagined in
his deepest fantasies and well-carved desires.

A chill ran down his spine, his heart quickening with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. He
flickered between the tie and his wardrobe left open. He knew he hadn't put it there… or did
he? His mind was such a maelstrom of exhaustion as of late that he couldn't even remember
if he overfed his cat. As he stood, towel in hand, his mind continued to race along the beat of
his reactive heart.

He wrapped the towel around his hips, and silently took a step toward his side drawers, eyes
peeled at the door ajar leading to the rest of the apartment. With practised precision, he
slowly presses a finger upon the clasp, and quietly unfurls the oak to the home of his socks,
fishing through with the carefulness and discipline that was instilled upon him when he first
joined the force. When he felt the coldness of his spare pistol, he slowly pulled it toward his
bodice.

Minho stood at the threshold of his bedroom door, his heart hammering his chest. Clad only
in a towel, he held his service pistol with the same unyielding grip they had taught him in the
academy. His eyes study the silent hallway - empty as it had always been, an austere passage
leading to the other rooms of his apartment.

With practised precision, he stepped out of the bedroom, scanning the dimly lit passageway
that stretched ahead. His gaze fell upon the spare room, the one door always left open to
accommodate Gomi's toys and his home office. He utilised a spare hand to flicker on the
lights and tightened his grip upon his pistol as the light stretched over his laptop, and the
mess of his cat's toys he had to clean up. The absence of any intruders or signs of disturbance
unnerved him.

He moved cautiously, his bare feet making no sound as they tread lightly on the wooden
floor. He could feel the cold itch of the droplets cascading from his wet hair upon his
shoulders, but he was quick to assume the type of resolve instilled in him before he traded a
career on the field for a life as a detective. As he ventured through the apartment, he checked
each room with a trained eye. The kitchen was, as usual, the living room undisturbed.

Nearing the front door, he angled the barrel of the pistol toward the handle, utilising a spare
hand to jostle the lock upon it - feeling it steadfast and secure… just as he left it.

His vigilance finally led him to the full-length mirror by the laundry - which he cleared with
a careful dally of his gaze about the washer and dryer, and the laundry basket untouched. And
there he was… standing before it, fully naked except for the towel that barely clung to his
hips. His wet, shaggy hair clung to his forehead. In one hand, a gun remained at the ready. At
his feet, Gomi sauntered over and rubbed against his calves.

Minho glared at himself. How absurd and maddening this whole tirade had become.
Resentment coursed through him, gnawing at his sanity. The incongruity of his current state -
naked, armed, and on edge, all while his cat carried on as though nothing were amiss,
conjured a mirthless chuckle to leave his lips.

"I'm losing my fucking mind," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair
before returning to his bedroom. He put away the tie he must've pulled when readying his
pyjamas… that's the only logical explanation when his entire apartment was clear. His mind
was just paralysed by all thoughts of that crime scene that he was acting so rashly. It was
ridiculous.

The security of the apartment was sound and satisfactory… He made sure of such a thing
when he bought the place. If there was somebody in here, he would know.

By the time he settled into bed, and Gomi - who was hardly interested in a treat or any food
for the matter - was snuggled up against the detective, Minho found himself unable to sleep.
It was inefficient to toss and turn to no avail, and it would be disingenuous to say that he
wasn't completely unnerved. This time the loneliness, which usually comforted him, was
drowning his mind in all thoughts of the echoed walls.

It didn't take him long to muster up the courage to pack a bag, press a kiss against Gomi's
head, eyes still clasped shut in slumber, and out of his apartment, taking a brisk walk in the
open air of the night to the apartment complex across the street. From there, he rode the
elevator up to the 19th floor, bracing himself for the lecture he was sure to receive from the
tired eyes that were to meet him.

Sometimes Minho cursed how closely he lived to Changbin - especially when it was usually
the younger man knocking at his door at all hours of the night, knowing Minho's fridge had
food and more importantly beer… before settling into the blow-up mattress in the spare
room, or on the couch with Gomi upon his chest. But with the shoe on the other foot, he
almost saw the silver lining of it all.

He knocks twice, ready to meet his partner's sarcastic eyes with some mutter that 'he owed
him this,' before venturing straight to the second bedroom, or even the couch - he could
hardly care at this point.

When the door opens and Minho meets two familiar eyes behind the silver frame of his
glasses, he blinks.

"Detective Lee?" The voice musters, a head lolling to the side.

Minho presses his lips together, instantly regretting everything as he glares back at the
colleague he only seemed to encounter at crime scenes. He knew just about everything there
was to know about the photographer - especially when Changbin sounded off like a broken
record about how he paints on the side, has a small, fluffy dog and is just about the prettiest
thing he had ever laid his eyes upon.

"Just call me Minho, Hwang." The detective sighs, brushing passed the taller man who stood
in the doorway and into the familiar apartment. His eyes trace the couch, the bowl of
popcorn, the half-eaten pizza and the blankets amid the upholstered stretch of comfort --
seeing a movie paused on the screen.

"Who is it-- Oh, why the fuck are you here?" Changbin's voice echoes as he ventures around
the corner, a bottle of red wine in one hand, and two glasses clasped in the other. Minho
almost snorts at the sight of his best friend playing the romantic.

"Don't mind me," Minho sighs, placing his overnight bag on the counter of the kitchen. "I
was just going a little insane… couldn't stay home."

He didn't quite know how to mention that he was too scared of his instability to be alone.

"We're a little busy," Changbin's eyes were easy to read - especially when he seemed to have
Hyunjin just where he wanted him.

"Not really, we're just watching a movie. It's that new action one." Hyunjin perks up,
flouncing toward the couch with a smile clad to his full lips. "Did you wanna' join us?"

"Minho hates movies," Changbin clears his throat, eyes darting toward his partner. "Don't
you?"

The detective chuckles under his breath, glancing between the two. He could see the
desperation in his partner's eyes and well… with how pretty his date was, Minho could only
do his solemn duty as a best friend.

"Yeah, I was more thinkin' of going straight to bed." He ushers a hand toward the hallway of
his second home. "Really… you two enjoy yourselves."

Changbin drops the scowl permeating toward his best friend in exchange for a grateful smile.

"Oh, join us." The vehement of Hyunjin's voice is grossly kind… and Minho wonders if it
was just their division who were so overtly horrible. Perhaps other members of the force
weren't so self-loathing and cumbersome as homicide. Perhaps Hyunjin's division utilised
respect as a common measure. "We're only about ten minutes in - you haven't missed much."

Minho stares between his gentle eyes and his best friend who was just about to combust in
the doorway to the kitchen.

But his mind could only fester the unnerving thoughts that sent him over here, and with a
shrug, he ventures toward the second couch.

"Great," Changbin mutters, placing the bottle on the middle of the table, before sauntering
back into the kitchen. "I guess I'll get a third glass."

"Aren't you good?" Minho let out a wry smirk, settling into the cushions and reaching over to
grasp a handful of popcorn.

He could feel two eyes upon the side of his face, always knowing when he was being
watched, and continued to chew upon his mouthful when he glared back at Changbin's date.
Hyunjin's hair wasn't tied up as it usually was, instead, it cascaded by his shoulders, and the
cream cardigan clad to his upper half was almost swimming on his arms. Upon Minho's stare,
he simply smiled once more.

"I heard you found the identity of the suspect today," he perks up. "I don't mean to bring up
work… but I'm surprised you did. Changbin told me it was like finding a non-existent needle
in a haystack."

Minho chuckles at the mention of work, knowing that when he and Changbin were clocked
off for the day, that was all they spoke about.

"Yeah," he presses a shoulder forward. "The guy has been dead for ten years."

"How on earth does that happen?"

Minho shrugs.

"It's typical for organisations to hire operatives who don't exist. No family, no records, no
liability." He grasps another handful of popcorn as Changbin begrudgingly heads back over,
glaring at his partner as he places a wine glass before him. "Nobody cares if they live, or they
die - so they get given risky jobs."

"Yeah, and we gotta' pick up the pieces." His partner grunts, returning to the couch with
Hyunjin, grasping the remote in his hand. "Now, are ya' done talking?"
He was only aiming his scorned eyes at his best friend, and Minho simply snorted, leaning
back into the cushion to glare at the screen.

As they settled in to watch the terrible movie, Minho and Changbin found themselves
surprisingly entertained by the cinematic trainwreck playing out before them. The acting,
abysmal, the pacing, disjointed, and the plot made little sense. It was precisely the right kind
of awful to fuel their mutual amusement.

The detectives continued to share quips and sarcastic comments, and Minho felt a sated sense
of calm instil in his chest -- a moment of levity, a chance to unwind, and the reassurance that
he wasn't so crazy when not bound between the walls of his apartment.

Hyunjin wasn't so bad either. He could keep up with their passing words and his jokes
conjured a laugh from even the iciest fortress sitting adjacent to him on the couch by the wall.

The movie trudged on, and Hyunjin, nestled on Changbin's shoulder, slowly succumbed to
the lull of the awful film. His eyelids drooped, and he let out a soft, contented sigh. Minho
noticed this first and took a sip of his almost empty glass of wine.

"Looks like the movie's too much for him," He murmurs, angling his jaw toward the sleeping
forensic photographer.

Changbin glances down at his date with a gentle smile.

"He's out for the count," He whispers, tightening the arm he had around his shoulders, before
glancing back up at his partner - the joy and suppressed laughter of the film slowly dying
down. "You know, I got a call from Detective Kim before you got here."

Minho raises an expectant eyebrow, feeling the level of discomfort revisit his chest.

"What did he have to say?"

"His team were looking into any common threads today, and I guess they found something."
He says in a subdued whisper, sure not to disturb the gentle breaths of his sleeping date on his
shoulder. "The victims all have shared traits."

The detective couldn't help the autonomous whim of sitting himself erectly, wrapping an arm
around his head to leverage his attention, and feeling his interest pique, despite the
exhaustion of the day threatening to wash over him at any given moment.

"Oh yeah?"

"You ever heard of the Treaty of Global Security?"

"Isn't that the agreement putting a blockade on private channels of government internet use or
something?" Minho knits his eyebrows together. "I've read about it in the paper, but I don't
know much more than that."

"Most governments are against it, for obvious reasons, but a couple of diplomats have come
out in support of it." Changbin's voice is a low murmur, and the cogs in Minho's brain begin
to work overtime.

"And they're all our victims, huh?" Minho scoffs, tilting his head to the side.

"Mr. Shin was the most recent signatory to it." He ushers to the man they found in that
restaurant mere days ago - the only time Minho ever felt thwarted. "But there's about thirty
others who are still out there."

"You're saying they get knocked off when they land here?" He murmurs, trying not to get too
excited about the work laid out for him the following day.

"I'd say so." He hums. "There's another signatory here for business with no intention of
leaving, despite the chief warning him of doing so. His team don't believe he's in any real
danger."

"So… you're telling me we have bait?" Minho felt his lips coil into a wry smirk, almost
salivating at the idea of getting one step closer to this ghost haunting the proverbial walls of
his inner sanctuary.

"Kim was sayin' something about us putting a tail on the guy until he is scheduled to leave by
the end of the week." He mutters. "What do you reckon?"

"I'd say that's the only good idea he's ever had."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

By the end of the week, Minho seemed to change his mind about Seungmin's ability to
conjure a good idea.

He was literate enough in sting operations -- knowing the best positions to pose cameras and
audio devices, alongside the occasional venture undercover to foil conspiracies to murder,
and he had plenty of experience tailing suspects. But being sat in his car, which now smelt
like cheap fast food and coffee, as he followed the diplomat they were all hoping to protect
for the fifth day in a row, he was just about to go insane.

It all felt like a great big waste of time -- especially when nothing else to do with the case was
uncovered in the meantime. Beside his name, there was absolutely nothing to show for the
assailant. Minho was half-sure the chief thought his eyes must have been conveniently
searching for a face, and landing upon a dead orphan with similar features was simply an
easy way to weasel himself out of a stupor.

It was bothersome to follow the middle-aged man from the embassy to his hotel, to the
apartment they surmised his mistress lived in and to the same restaurant he frequented most
nights. Seungmin's division seemed all over the back end. Meticulously collating lists of
everybody who entered the buildings he visited, ensuring cameras were set up where they
needed to be and spending the day controlling it all from the comfort of the office. It seemed
Minho and Changbin got the grunt end of the work.

"What's the bet he tells her he's leaving his wife again?" Changbin snorts between bites of his
lunch, their radio tuned into the bugs Seungmin placed in the apartment of his mistress.

It was all greatly teetering the precipice of what they were allowed to do in an investigation.
But all of the detectives were taking advantage of the stress of the chief, who was so far taken
by the pressures of the government and the press, to even care about what measures they
purported to uncover the truth.

The clock read midday, which meant Minho and Changbin were to sit and listen to the three
minutes of grunts and meritless moans between the diplomat and his mistress - all the while
they enjoyed their lunch and thought of everywhere else they'd rather be.

"--I'm telling you, darling, the second I land back home I'm going to give her the papers. It'll
be over and we can take that holiday we've been talking about, hm?"

Minho scoffs at the words, massaging his temple between sips of his black coffee.

"Piece of shit," Changbin mutters, and his partner agrees with a fettered sigh beneath his
breath.

They were very quick to gather what a terrible person Mr. Cho seemed to be. Always barking
orders at his subordinates, snorting cocaine between each meeting, and relentlessly cheating
on his wife and family back home. It made all the measures taken to ensure his life all the
more exhausting.

"You seeing Hwang later?" Minho mutters, pushing forward mindless small talk to aid in
passing the minutes that felt more like seconds.

"Nah," Changbin checks his phone. "He's still at a scene by the Han River. I've seen the
pictures. He won't be gettin' out of there until later."

Minho almost grunts, that odd feeling of being left out of his usual cases in homicide racing
to the forefront of his mind.

"You know, if we were on that case, it'd be open and shut." The homicide detective stares
ahead at the busying streets, ignoring the grotesque pillow talk filtering through the radio.
"But here we are, listening to this prick."

"Oh, the good ol' days…" Changbin hums, ruffling a hand through his tousled hair.
"--You're meeting me there, right?"

Minho, for lack of his own will, turns the radio up.

"Yeah, I'll be there around 9."

Changbin lazily pulls out the printed schedule of Mr Cho, eyes scanning it to see where he
was meant to be in the evening -- seeing it blank and unaccounted for.

"Wear something red." The diplomat's voice purrs. "I want everyone at Velvet to see who I've
got on my arm."

"Velvet?" Minho murmurs, swallowing back his coffee. "What's Velvet?"

Changbin's eyebrows knit together, his mind traversing through his usual rolodex of insights.

"It's not the club in Hongdae, is it?" He almost grunts, fishing his phone from his pocket and
typing in the name. "Why does this middle-aged asshole want to go to a place like that?

"A club?" Minho plays about with his tie. "We can't lock down an entire club without
arousing suspicion. Call Kim and tell him we need to intervene."

"Yeah, I'm on it."

Minho's phone rings before Changbin can even bring up his contacts list -- hardly surprised
to see Seungmin's name flash up on the screen when they were both listening in to the same
channel.

"You need to alert Mr Cho's security detail that this is too high risk," Minho forgets any sort
of formality and greeting - not that he felt his colleague deserved it. "I've never even heard of
the place; I don't have time to give it a sweep and I don't have time to do preliminary checks
on all of the staff there."

"Not to mention the clubgoers - that's a fucking nightmare," Changbin mutters by the phone
pressed to his partner's ear - far too experienced in going to nightclubs and bars to clean up a
crime scene.

"The second we alert his security detail of our investigation, we're fucked." Seungmin sighs.
"You're forgetting that Mr. Cho is a foreign politician. As soon as he's aware that we've got
two separate divisions trailing him, the ball is out of our court, and it becomes a multinational
dumpster fire."

"No worse than the multinational dumpster fire that will occur if he rocks up dead?"

"He's set to depart in the morning, Lee," Seungmin mutters. "The second he leaves this soil; I
don't give a flying shit what happens to the guy. But if he and his embassy are made aware
that we have bugged his whereabouts and have had the two of you following him for the
better half of a week, we are fully at risk of an external investigation. And believe me, you
don't wanna be around the chief when that happens."
"So, what do you suggest we do?" Minho's voice is hardly a portrait of sincerity, viscerally
missing the days of simplicity. A dead body shows up, they gather suspects, collect evidence,
the guy is caught, and they never have to worry about it again. This was too complicated, too
messy, and way too political. "Sit around with our dicks in our hand and wait for him to cark
it?"

"We get the two of you inside. The best I can do is have my guys around the place in case our
suspect shows up." Seungmin instructs. "I can get you clearance so the venue leaves our
investigation alone, and I can get Cybercrime to remotely tap into the live feed of the CCTV
to stop someone else from doing so."

"Hm, saves us the paperwork." Changbin hums, pressing a shoulder forward. "I'm alright
with it. Your call, Lee."

Minho's mind only flashes in pictures of the other bodies, hardly imagining this ending well.
But part of him almost felt drawn to the ideal. It was a long shot, but sting operations were
one of their specialties. It was a dangerous game to play, and it was almost guaranteed to end
in life or death… but he was almost haunted by those sparkling eyes and he simply wanted
them out of his mind forever.

He felt his voice hesitate, his chest exhaling exuberantly.

"If this gets us a step closer to unravelling this whole mess… fine."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

One bulletproof vest, a fastened holster, a pair of cuffs attached to his utility belt, and a pistol
inserted beneath his wing later, Minho took one look at himself in the mirror of the locker
room with steadfast determination. He was just about finished buttoning up his crisp white
shirt atop the fibre of the body armour when he ran a hand through his hair -- strangely giving
a shit about his appearance for a night of duty.

"It's been a while since you've been to a club, huh?" Changbin teases, alluding to his partner's
gaze fixated upon himself. "You thinking of picking up while I do all the work?"

Minho chuckles to himself, pocketing a spare magazine upon the Velcro strap of his utility
belt.
"Nah…" He whispers, grasping his grey blazer and shrugging it on. "I'm just hoping my date
doesn’t stand me up."

By the time they were parked out the front of the busying street, already with a line wrapping
around the corner, and the neon purple of the lights in the surrounds of the club bleeding into
eyesight, the two detectives were just about finished fixing their earpieces.

"Can you hear me good?" Changbin mutters, which Minho heard double considering their
proximity and the filtered voice through his ear.

"Yeah, how about me?" He huffs, pressing a finger against the push-to-talk button, to which
his partner nods.

"I can also hear you, so make sure you're only talking about the investigation and not about
nonsense… you love to do that." Seungmin's voice filters through the channel and Minho
almost snorts.

"Did I strike a chord, Kim?" He huffs, ensuring he has everything he needs before stifling out
of the vehicle.

"Not gonna' cry are ya'?" Changbin chimes in, finger on ear.

"Whatever," He mutters as they saunter toward the club. "It's gonna' be loud in there, so only
filter through this channel when you have eyes on Mr Cho or you see anything suspicious."

"Is that an office worker tellin' us how to pull off a sting operation, Detective Seo?" Minho
taunts, adjusting his holster as the bitterness of the evening air hits them.

"I sure hope not."

"Just get in and keep our guy alive. I'll be watching on my end."

When they reached the entrance of the club, the bouncer cast a scrutinising eye as they
flashed their badges before he unfurled the velvet rope and allowed them passage inside.
Murmurs of annoyance and frustration washed over the line, and the detectives were sure to
feel the disapproving gazes on their backs as they entered. It was almost jovial in a way.

Once inside, the atmosphere of the club enveloped them. The pulsating purple lights bathed
the space in an otherworldly glow. It was a sensory onslaught, with the dance floor packed to
capacity, bodies moving to the rhythm of the thumping music. Young people in an array of
attire, from tight dresses and short skirts, all fit within the space. Laughter, chatter, and the
occasional shriek of delight filled the air - competing with the bass of the speakers that were
vibrating through Minho's core.

Minho took a quick note of the layout - casting his mind back to the floorplan they studied on
the way over. The bar bathed in neon lights in the corner, the dance floor in the centre, the
stage filled with lewd entertainers, the spiral staircase above it, and a VIP section protected
by velvet rope and sheer curtains. He already knew his way around the place. He was already
familiar with the background of the owner and the head of security -- he already had a tactile
plan in mind if anything were to run askew. His eyes scanned the hedonistic scene -
observing lips meeting lips, laughter erupting like fireworks, and a couple of tell-tale signs of
escalating arguments.

It had been a long time since he had frequented a place like this. Maybe back when he was
ready and open for a relationship or even a quick and easy screw. Maybe back to a time when
he didn't wake up in the morning thinking of a case… Maybe back to a time when he saw the
sunset from his apartment… Maybe back to a time when he imagined he could look after
more than just a cat.

"I'll take the upper floor," Changbin established part of their plan, voice raised as he leant
near his partner's ear.

He simply stifles a nod, watching his best friend disappear into the whirlwind of music and
bodies, and up the spiral staircase leading to the second level.

Minho started by meandering around the lower floor, moving through the ebullient crowd
near the dance floor. The music was reverberating through his chest, and he could feel the
energy of the drunkards as they danced and revelled. He occasionally paused to peer past the
sheer curtains that separate the VIP sections from the main floor, scanning the dimly lit, plush
spaces for any sign of the man they were meant to trail. All he could smell was the scent of
expensive perfume mixed with the musk of sweat and alcohol, and he barely felt himself
missing the days when he frequented clubs in search of temporary pleasure.

His eyes darted from one corner to another, sighing to himself as his gaze fell amiss.

Changbin's voice crackled in Minho's earpiece -- a confirmation that he had a visual of Mr

Cho upstairs, to which the homicide detective nodded imperceptibly and began his vigilant
patrol of any threats. He had all the trust in the world for his partner to keep an eye on the
stake and perhaps it was deft hope… but Minho could only feel a sense of heat lick at the
base of his stomach, hoping to see that pretty little face once more.

The strange strumming of his heart occurred whenever his mind flirted with the thought that
they could be in the same building… listening to the same song… ready to play the game the
detective had been dreaming of every night that followed. Theories of there being more than
one assassin filtered through the station every day -- but Minho always felt himself too loyal
to imagine such a thing. His hands, his eyes, and his pistol were reserved for just one person.

Minho wanted confirmation. He wanted leverage. He wanted vigilance.

He decided to station himself near the bar. Leaning against it, obtaining an excellent vantage
point to survey the entire lower floor. The dim glow of the purple lights bathed the scene in a
warm glow, but he was only dallying his gaze upon the shadows.

"Target is moving," The crack of Changbin's voice filters through his earpiece. "Heading your
way, Lee."

Minho lolls his head to the side, glaring at the top of the spiral staircase to see Mr Cho
standing at the tip of it - preened in a white suit, with a woman perhaps 25 years his junior
dressed in red, and beneath his wing.

"I see him." The detective utters, flickering his eyes toward one of the cameras fixed behind
the bar. "Have you got a visual, Kim?"

"Yeah, I've got him."

The detective was ready to embark on venturing toward him or to maintain a lax position in
his vantage point, but a shock of hair, as dark as midnight, caught Minho's attention from
across the room.

His gaze swiftly averted from the descending Mr Cho to lock onto the enigmatic figure
moving through the crowd, shrouded in black. He felt his chest constrict - unsure if it was
just the discomfort of his bulletproof vest or the chance it was exactly who Minho thought it
was.

The stranger's attire blended seamlessly with that of the other young club-goers, making it a
challenge to single him out. Minho rubbed his eyes a myriad of times, blinking to rid of the
non-existent film in front of his sight to study the shape of his body.

Black cargo pants adorned with chains clung to his lithe frame, and a skin-tight, sheer black
shirt accentuated his every contour. A harness was strapped across his shoulders, and there
was that air of intrigue to his appearance. The contrast between his small waist and broad, V-
shaped back and shoulders was mesmerising.

Minho would've stared either way.

As the music's bass reverberated through the club, and the crackle of Changbin's voice
filtered through his ear about Mr. Cho's direction, Minho heard nothing but the voices in his
head that took charge over anything akin to reason. He needed to see his face… He needed to
subdue the uncertainty… He needed to desperately put his beating chest to bed.

Ricocheting from the bar, Minho's eyes narrowed upon his target - transforming in an instant
from a protector to a predator on the hunt. He drew closer and closer to the tuft of hair
moving through the crowd, knowing that if he got this all wrong there would be a myriad of
consequences. But as he stalked very closely behind that sheer shirt that was just hinting at
the caverns and curves of his sinew figure, Minho had not a doubt in his mind that he had
exactly who he wanted.

The pounding music set the rhythm for his relentless pursuit through the crowded dance
floor. His heart raced not just from the adrenaline of the chase but from the intoxicating thrill
of getting closer to the man who had dominated his thoughts for far too long. Minho could
hardly deny the twisted anticipation of locking eyes with him once more… of hearing his
voice… of watching him falter.

Like a shadow, Minho weaved his way through the undulating bodies, navigating past
couples locked in passionate embraces and groups lost in the hypnotic trance of the music.
But his lithe figure was fluid and calculated, and Minho almost felt unable to keep up such a
pace. He felt his lips curve into a wry smirk when he noticed the assassin's steps leading him
inexorably towards the bathroom in the corner of the club, slipping inside.

Minho knew better. He did.

He should have been prepared for this moment. He should have drawn his pistol or at least
cleared the area. He should have pressed his finger to his earpiece and ordered that Changbin
account for Mr. Cho as Minho was far too busy.

But he felt as though he was owed this. Sleepless nights and relentless torments at the hands
of this slippery little ghost had to come to an end before it went any further.

Changbin's voice crackled through the earpiece once more, attempting to regain Minho's
attention, but it fell on deaf ears. He had lost Mr. Cho as soon as his eyes met that beautiful
body lost in the crowd, but this was a personal matter now - one that transcended the
boundaries of duty.

Minho stood before the bathroom door, his anticipation mounting. He felt his lips curling into
a smirk as he pressed a hand against it, ready to close the distance between them -- ready to
pay him back. He hardly faltered as the door swung open, and instead, he was met with a
lithe little frame standing there. The detective felt his world and the time signposting it stand
still as he braced those sparkling moon-shaped eyes, those perfectly pink lips, and that tuft of
his black hair falling in thick waves around his face.

He didn't even give him time to react. He grasped him by the chest, fist curling around his
sheer shirt, hoisting his lightweight figure from the confines of the bathroom, and pinning
him against the cold, dimly lit wall of the entry - away from the prying eyes of the main floor.
The small room was suffused with the pulsating bass and that heavenly scent of gardenia - a
perfume Minho never imagined he would forget, but it soon faded into nothingness when
their gazes converged.

There was no such euphoria like catching his prey… feeling his taunt chest rise and fall
beneath his fist, seeing his head lazily leant against the wall, eyes that could ask for the world
peeking out from his hair, and his tongue grazing along the expanse of his bottom lip,
saturating it. The ghost was smirking, his breaths in small pants and his body lax in Minho's
arms… just as pretty as the detective remembered.

"Detective Lee," he whispers, in that stifling voice, which Minho thought of in every deft
silence, before exaggerating a delicate whimper. "You're hurting me."

Minho simply tilted his head to the side, pressing his fist further into his chest, watching the
small breaths escape from those pretty lips still curled in a cocky smirk.

"I found you," Minho's darkened eyes were trailing past every divot and juncture of his
face… of his tan complexion and clear skin… of the way his collarbones were so visible
from his sheer shirt. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

The assailant chuckles, lulling his head forward, lips almost grazing the fist tangled in his top
and fixating him against the wall. Any onlooker would have surmised they were two bodies
finding temporary pleasure in the middle of a club. It was typical and public… but Minho
had never felt such intimacy -- a predator with his prey within his teeth.

"It is," His voice echoes in the affined space between them. "I've been thinking of you, pretty
boy… I know you've been thinking of me."

Minho scoffs, feeling his heart simmer like a stallion set for the chase.

"What makes you say that, huh?"

The detective follows those sparkling eyes, watching as they graze downward. He flickers his
gaze, carefully, sure to maintain his guard, toward the direction in which they sought.

"You're wearing a vest."

His eyes conjure sight of a small, black, blade pressed against his abdomen. He blinked,
glaring at the minuscule but undeniably sharp length that had pierced through his white shirt,
applying enough pressure to press against his bulletproof armour. Minho wouldn't have felt
it… not with the myriad of thoughts galivanting around his mind like a chaotic symphony…
but his heart sank all the same when he noticed the ominous stains of crimson spreading
across his once pristinely ivory shirt.

There was no way he could've drawn blood… and despite Minho's venture into premature
hastiness, he had faith in himself that he would've felt the grating slice of a knife upon his
skin, even if completely taken - mind, body, and soul by the sight before him. But the
realisation hit him like a tidal wave… that it wasn't his blood.

Time didn't seem to stretch as it had before, it snapped hard and fast through a vortex of
reality.

Those pink lips were curved into a grin, his perfect teeth flashing, and eyes sparkling with a
jovial nature.

"What's wrong, pretty boy?" He repeats the grotesque nickname once again. "Cat got your
tongue?"

Minho's instincts kicked in, and his steely glare shifted to the bathroom door they were
standing beside. A rush of dread washed over him… A pang of regret… An ache of failure.

Without hesitation, he released his grip on his shirt, the pressure against his vest no longer a
concern. He shoved past the enigmatic ghost, his pulse quickening as he flung open the
bathroom door. His mind was in all sorts… but his eyes, unfortunately, were working
perfectly.

Two legs, clad in white, protruded from one of the stalls, and a pool of blood festered nearby.
Before he could even conjure a single thought, he glanced back to find the assassin had
vanished into thin air, slipping through his grasp, and sending a veil of red across his vision.

Minho surged forward, rushing to the scene. He was experienced enough to gather as many
facts as he could from a single glance.
A stab wound to the throat. His hands clasped over it. His chest contorting. His eyes lolled
back in his head. His mouth was agape.

"Target is down." His shaky voice filters through his earpiece. "First floor men's room.
Laceration to the throat."

"What-- how the fuck--"

"I'm pursuing the suspect. Kim, send your men to lock the exits. Surround the place."

In a mere five seconds the door swings open, and Minho barely glances up at Changbin's
widened eyes and that scorned look on his face that had a myriad of things to say. He rushes
to the body, taking all the steps to check his pulse points, pulling his blazer from his back to
administer whatever first aid possible to stop the bleeding.

"Where are you going?" He growls to his partner when Minho reaches the door, pulling his
pistol from his holster.

"I'm not letting that fucker get away."

Already with the entire floorplan burned in his brain, Minho took a gamble and went for the
fire escape behind the bar. He could barely care for the screams and gasps of clubgoers at the
sight of his gun, shoving past anybody in his way, knowing that nothing could stop him now.

Minho's breath came in ragged gasps. The tight corridor leading to the stairs existed before
him. Four floors of staircases wrapped around a dimly lit concrete floor. He paused as the
door to the club swung shut behind him, muffling the pounding bass of the music. Now, in
the relative silence of the stairwell, the echoes of footsteps he was clad on following became
clearer. They were relentless and fast… and the detective felt his internal fire burn wild.

He ascended the stairs, hard and quickly, his heart pounding with his steps. The world around
him blurred as he chased after him. He was like a man possessed, his determination rife and
unwavering.

The detective could hear Changbin and Seungmin in his earpiece, something about having
backup arriving at the scene now. He could surmise the consequences, he could calculate the
risks to his very own safety, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. But nothing else
mattered.

With each flight of stairs, the footsteps grew louder, urging him on. The walls were closing
on in him, and his breaths were heavy and laboured. Only anticipation could fuel his speed.

The ghost was younger, fitter, clearly able to run faster and for a longer time than Minho…
but the adrenaline coursing through his veins did wonders.

As he neared the top of the staircase, eyes set on the heavy door beginning to close, he
pushed it back open with one deft shove and held his pistol before him.

The cool night air immediately enveloped him. The city's twinkling lights, the surrounding
buildings, and the antenna towering in the corner of the roof converged in his sightline. He
adopted the practised stance he learned in the police academy -- every muscle was primed for
action, every breath calming as the seconds passed on.

And there he was -- standing out in the open, facing the detective with his head tilted to the
side. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the consequences of the chase. He wore that same
pretty smirk to his lips, and the wind tousled through his dark hair.

They could only stare at each other in the chill of the night. The man Minho dreamt of for the
past week was now only a few feet away. The pistol in his grasp had the potential to end it all
in seconds. No more assassinations. No more feeling like a fool. He had the upper hand. The
chase was done. He had nowhere left to turn. He was now a mere fly in the web of a black
widow.

But Minho feels his chest stammer when the ghost breaks out into a laugh, eyes aglow with
an unnerving sense of euphoria.

"You're fast for an old man," he gleams, licking those pink lips once more. "And your tie is
still crooked."

Minho doesn't reply in words, simply grasps his pistol tighter, finger hovering over the
trigger.

"What?" He laughs once more, taking a step closer to the detective who was so taken aback
by the action, that his hand seemed to tremble ever so slightly. "Are you going to shoot me,
Detective Lee?"

Minho's eyes were studying the gentle sway of his hair as it blew in the night sky, and how he
really didn't want it matted and covered in blood. But every time his mind flickered to the
crimson spouting from the one man he was meant to protect, he was teetering toward the path
of justice.

"I don't have to shoot you," Minho mutters, his voice a testament to the unwavering conflict
storming within his mind. "We can make other arrangements."

"Like?" The assailant takes another step closer, as casual as walking in the park, with eyes
that were bleeding into the detectives like a starry night. "Maybe… a movie? Or… we can go
to dinner? Better yet, how about we just go back to your place and cut out all the unnecessary
stuff?"

Minho scoffs, unable to wipe the fetter of a small smirk blooming upon his lips, imagining all
the things he would do if he had him confined in his apartment… trying not to forget about
why they were on this rooftop in the first place.

"Thought you were the type to wanna' be wined and dined," the detective cracks his neck to
the side, feeling an amalgamation of nerves and fire burn within him. "How disappointing."

"I am usually," the ghost undulates that innocent smile Minho witnessed in the bathroom of
the restaurant the previous week, observing his sparkling gaze raking up and down his suited
body as he takes yet another step forward. "But I can imagine myself making an exception
for you."

"Hm… See I imagine you in an interrogation room, cuffs on those pretty wrists of yours,
mine to get anything I want out of." Minho can only grunt, tightening his grip on his pistol as
the younger man takes another step, almost to the point where the barrel was aimed precisely
between his eyes. "I also imagine this ending another way… and I don't want that."

As the assailant took another step closer, the rooftop became a precipice for uncertainty.
Minho gulped. He wasn't trained to hold a gun at such a point-blank distance. He wasn't
trained to witness a suspect step toward the barrel pointed between their eyes, lips pink in
cheer, and with a voice tinged with a seductive playfulness that dripped like honey through
the charged air.

He was trained to pursue… to hunt… to chase.

"You're really gonna' shoot me, Detective Lee?" He asked, his voice caressing the words. "I
thought you liked me."

Minho's eyes remained locked on the younger man; his senses were heightened by the
adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fingers, frozen in place, were still wrapped tightly
around the pistol, but the pressure on the trigger had unstiffened. He couldn't ignore the
softening of the assassin's gaze… the youthful, almost innocent look that danced in his eyes.

He watched the assassin raise a gentle hand, perfectly delicate fingers drawing toward the
cold, unforgiving steel of the pistol that Minho held in place. His knuckles were white from
the tension, from the burden of knowing that he might be the one to take his life.

Minho's breaths were ragged, and he could feel his guard wavering. He was simultaneously
fascinated and terrified… only worsening when the scent of his gardenia perfume, carried by
the wind, was a gentle reminder of his presence.

As his hand rested lightly atop the grip on Minho's gun, his guard dropped further. His nearly
dry eyes blinked for a mere second… a fleeting moment that gave the slippery little ghost the
opening he needed. Like a flash of lightning, with grace and the expertise of a seasoned
fighter, the assailant moved.

He swiftly and deftly disarmed the detective, his fingers expertly prying the weapon from his
grasp. Their hands met in a brief tussle, fingers clashing over the weapon, and in the chaos of
the struggle, Minho could only retaliate with a squeeze of the trigger - sending a single shot
echoing in the open.

A moment of panic, of disorientation, of the weight of their clamoured embrace hung in the
balance as the gunshot pierced the silence of the rooftop. The bullet went wide… harmlessly
disappearing into the expanse of the night sky, but Minho was unsure if he had shot the
younger man, or himself… the ringing in his ears was sending his mind into a stupor.

It was in a span of a heartbeat when they were no longer touching… no longer at the avail of
one another.
Minho's eyes can only glare toward his pistol - its barrel now levelled at the detective, and a
chilling grin stretched across the face of the man holding it.

"You brought a gun to a knife fight," the assassin pouts, finger dancing on the trigger as
Minho's chest rises and falls. He was in a state of shock… hardly at the action and moreover
at himself. "And you expect me to play nice?"

"What are you waiting for then?" Minho's voice is a mere growl, the red saturating his vision,
his conscience screaming and banging upon the proverbial walls of his mind with contempt.
"You're good at this… what's stopping you?"

The younger man chuckles a sweet sound, before lolling his head to the side.

The gun seemed to loom larger than life - its cold steel a stark reminder that Minho had
finally lost his touch… finally fallen out of favour with his reputation… finally met his match
in the form of this beautifully deranged enigma. His sanity was bleeding away, his self-
punishing portion of his brain almost feeling deserving of meeting a quickened fate.

"I like you, Detective Lee." The assailant gleams as Minho's bones jolt to the sound of
clanking steel. With a mischievous smirk, the older man noticed the ghost holding up a pair
of cuffs -- the exact ones that were once a fixture to his belt, a terrifying picture of confidence
and control. "I'm not done playing with you yet."

He walked the detective backward until his shoulders met the cool, undulating surface of the
brick wall. He was even quicker to clasp a single cuff on his left wrist and attach the other to
the metal pole of the drainage cantering the perimeter of the awning. Minho could barely
feel… he could only watch through the command of his gun pointing between his eyes… he
could only breathe in knowing that if he was pliant enough, the sun would rise tomorrow, and
he would have another chance at ending all that stood before him.

The younger man took a step back, grinned at his prize defeated against the wall, and pressed
two fingers against his ear.

"Yeah… it's done." He sighed into his earpiece, licking his lips at the detective who felt
himself a chasm of a man at this point. In a soft graze of Minho's chest, to his hair, to his legs,
to his lips fettering small curses beneath his breath, the assailant smirks once more. "Just
tying up some loose ends. I doubt it'll be much longer."

Seemingly finished with communication, the assassin leaned close, his gaze locked onto the
defeated eyes of the man pressed to the wall. His smile suggested a genuine fascination with
all he held before him, as though Minho were a mere toy to play with.

Their breaths mingled in the chilled night air -- the proximity was unsettling.

In a swift and almost casual motion, Minho's eyes widened as he raised the pistol and
delivered a sharp, stinging blow to the side of the detective's face. It stunned his heart, and
the impact blurred his vision for a second - the searing jolt of pain radiating from his
cheekbone. It wasn’t long before he tasted the metallic tang of blood, feeling it seep from the
wound left in its wake.
 Those pretty lips hovered just by Minho's ear, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold steel
of the cuffs and the ruthless nature of his presence. "I'm sorry, pretty boy," he whispered, his
voice low and sultry. "But at least now, you can tell your chief you put up a fight."

Minho's entire existence vibrated with rage, passion, and unrivalled determination that he
would never be defeated like this again.

Watching the assassin back away and cede toward the shadows by the edge of the rooftop, he
felt his chest simmer, his heart quake, his only card that could be played rushing to the
forefront of his mind. With a gravel to his voice, he called out into the open air.

"Han Jisung."

The words halt the younger man, readying to escape into the night, his shoulders tense and
vapid -- completely unexpected. He doesn't even turn around.

"It will be me that ends you… Mark my words."

Chapter End Notes

'keep the chapters short' challenge FAILED ❌❌❌❌

 Dinner
Chapter Notes

chapter warnings:
- wound cleaning

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Come Monday morning, the rage had already subsided into stress.

Changbin suggested yoga and a coy smile followed Minho's piercing stare in response to it.
Seungmin suggested that he does these breathing exercises he saw online to curb the anger,
sure to drop some snide remark that he also reinstates himself in a retraining program for
cops who are unsuccessful in chases. The receptionist gave the detective a lingering smile
when he entered the office that morning, a gentle gleam to her voice that cooed, 'How are you
feeling, Minho? Chief wants to see you.'

Not once did he receive more than a grunt from the woman before this whole mess, and that
could only mean one thing.

He was probably going to get fired.

And he could hardly blame anyone but himself.

A resentful glare is conjured toward his reflection, the bruise shading his cheek that was
almost swollen, his hair, not quite sitting as he'd like it upon his forehead, and the bags
beneath his eyes were the most ardent product of his sleeplessness. Perhaps the only
culminating factor to his outward appearance was - ironically - the neatness in which he did
his tie that morning. A perfect noose to choke the zilch amount of life force left to wallow
down the drain.

Almost ten years on the force. Not a blemish to his reputation.

Ten years. Thrown away for some smirking little deviant… who smelt far too heavenly and
was far too many steps ahead for Minho to ever feel comfortable.

It was nothing, if not an expectation, that he was sat subserviently in the chief's office. The
stiff-backed leather chair was uncomfortable at the best of times, and it was the scent of a
stale cigarette from the ashtray by his computer that was conjuring up the part of his brain
that once cared for quitting smoking. That and the bitterness of an old cup of coffee were
side-by-side, waiting for the chief to return in the same capacity as the guilty detective in
solitude.

Tick… tick… tick…

Minho can only stare at the clock on the wall with a darkened stare of contempt. Seconds
slipping away. Memories of the previous weekend flooded the forefront of his mind.

He was moreover keen to what the chief had to say rather than the mindless drawl of sitting
by himself in the dimly lit office. The longer he waited, the quicker the anger at himself
bubbled up.

Then, the door swung open, and in walked the chief with his all too cheery disposition. His
black coat was promptly hung on the rack, and he flounced into his seat with an overtly large
sigh, as though the weight of the world had momentarily been lifted.

"Good morning, Detective Lee," Chan greeted, voice brimming with glee. He hadn't a care in
the world about the looming storm that darkened Minho's countenance. "Traffic was murder,
huh?"

The clock's incessant ticking continued to echo in his mind, stating his silence for a moment
longer.

Chan clicked away at his computer, humming a jaunty tune under his breath as he began to
sift through emails and case files.

Minho's nails were almost digging past his trousers and into his flesh.

"You wanted to see me?" He clears his throat, almost wishing the cough that follows was
some sign of an impending sickness. Feigning the premise of 'not wanting to spread the flu'
was perhaps ammunition enough to persuade Chan to let him go and wallow somewhere else.

"Oh, yes." He hums, tapping about on the keyboard, before melding into his chair like a king
to his throne. He crosses his hands over his waist, fingers drumming rhythmically - as though
in sync with that ticking fucking clock. "Where do you suggest I begin?"

"You and I both know this is a big waste of time, I could be--"

"I'll begin by telling you to be quiet," He holds a hand up, steady, eyes black and scorned. "I
think I should start by recounting exactly why you're here, hm?"

"I know why I'm here," Minho grumbles, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Well, allow me to refamiliarise myself," he smirks, reaching into his drawer to pull a file
Minho knew all too well.

With an exaggerated sigh, he begins listing off every detail of Minho's nightmares.

"You didn't follow up with the assailant when Mr Shin died, allowing him to flee the scene.
You let the same assailant cuff you to a metal pole, steal your service pistol, and disappear
into the night. You didn't communicate with your partner or your team all to pursue this…"
His eyes flicker to the file before him, "Han Jisung… And due to your negligence, Mr. Cho is
fighting for his life in a nearby hospital with Interpol, the United Nations, and two different
governments breathing down my neck."
Minho can only blink at hearing it all out loud.

"How did I do?"

"That's about everything, isn't it?" Minho muttered, glaring through a red haze at the chief
before him, wishing he could go back to a couple of weeks ago and adamantly demand that
he really not take this case.

This case… this Han Jisung… They were consuming him whole. Eating at his mind in every
deft silence. Pestering any minute of rest. Following him into the shower and the bed of a
night. His entire world was engrossed… infatuated… obsessed. He wanted to know more;
every encounter was simply not enough.

He was torn between wanting to hunt him down, pin him up against any surface - his body
was light and nimble, easy to manoeuvre (he learnt that in the dim lights of the club the
previous weekend) and letting the punishment fit the crime. He wanted to see that smirk
drop, see his eyes falter, see those pretty lips whimper his name. He wanted to grasp him, to
feel his hair between his fingertips, and see how he liked it being tied to a pole like a lost dog.

On the other end, he wanted to know what he did when he wasn't… working. He wanted to
know if he had friends or a boyfriend, or if this was all one big persona and he was just some
young student, doing whatever he could to get rich quickly, while he went about his very real
life. What was his favourite food? Film? How did he like his coffee? Did his friends call him
Ji? Maybe something juvenile like Sungie?

But with the chief's silence and glaring scowl… Minho knew he needed to reconsider such
thoughts. They were very unprofessional.

"What do you suggest I do, Detective Lee?" He hums, cocking that head to the side. "How do
you suppose I get rid of these headaches?"

"I… I understand that this whole situation… is a dumpster fire." Minho grunts. "But you are
forgetting that I uncovered his name, and have conversed with the suspect enough to gather
what makes him tick… what he likes… how his mind works. Is that not what is asked of
me?"

Chan mutters a contemptuous 'hmph,' that usual noise he fetters whenever a point is made.

"This is all very strange to me, Detective Lee." He hums, pressing the back of his head into
his omnipotent leather chair. "You and your partner have made my life that much easier when
the two of you led homicide. Not a single blemish to your names… not a single fuck-up…
not even a fraction of a mess." He raises an inquisitive eyebrow while Minho feels himself
aging in every second that passes. "What is it about this case?"

"Look," the detective grunts, sitting upward, happy enough to defend his name. "Last
weekend was my fault, I'll admit that. But it won't happen again. That's about all I can
promise."
"There was another hit." The chief sighs, tilting his head to the side, flicking through the case
file so delicately.

The detective's attention snapped toward the older man, guilt and self-pity subsiding by the
urgency in which the words carried.

"What?" Minho scoffs. "And why wasn't I informed?"

"It happened in Tokyo," Chan's voice is airy, light, as though he was talking about the
weather. "A politician was shot on a rooftop."

"Shot?" The detective murmurs. "How do you know if this is our guy? He hasn't used a
gun… just poison and a knife--"

"Your deduction skills have always been stellar, Detective Lee." The chief sighs, pulling a
photograph from the manila folder, and placing it toward the younger man. "Take a look at
the scene and you may be able to see how I came to such a conclusion."

The image depicted a lifeless body sprawled across a dimly lit rooftop, bullet wound to the
back of the head - the type Minho felt too immune to feel anything for from his tenure in
homicide. But what made his stomach drop and sent a flickering shiver down his spine was
what lay on the victim's back - a picture… a picture of Minho.

It was an old photograph, from his days in the police academy. Back when he was young,
fresh-faced, and full of ambition. His eyes sparkled with vitality, his face was stony and
resolute, as if he could conquer the world. But instead, it was greatly defiled.

Glitter, heart stickers, stars, and planets adorned his youthful image.

'Say my name again,' read the assortment of lettered stickers at the tip of the photograph.

Minho's heart stuttered as he reached for the photograph, his fingers trembling.

Perhaps it was his futile will that didn't quite feel fear from such an action. Perhaps the
assailant thought of Minho as he thought of the assailant. He felt something shift in his
stomach at the idea of Han Jisung leaning over a desk, staring at such a picture, decorating it
with pretty little things with those delicate fingers.

The better half of his mind scolded him for such an ideal.

"I know you are a very capable man, Minho. You are great at this job, and you've got the
chops to climb higher and higher once you have a couple more years in the tank," Chan
seemed to drop the false cheer he purported as a method of berating just a moment ago. "But
for your safety, I cannot have you on the field when the heat on your back is too hot."

"What?" Minho's gaze snaps away from the photograph. "I have to be on the field. This is my
case."

"You can spend time in control while Detective Seo handles the field." He surmises. "I was
even thinking of letting Detective Kim try his luck out there alongside him."
"You've got to be fucking joking with me." Minho almost stands to his feet at such a
treacherous idea. "I won't sit out of this fight and watch from the sidelines. Not when we are
getting closer, and closer to getting him."

"Well… if you don't, I'll have no choice but to suspend you until this investigation is over."

"What? You can't suspend me."

"I can suspend any member of the force when their life is in foreseeable danger," Chan raises
his voice momentarily, quick to meld into his brows drawing together, as though the words
hurt to say. "It is very clear you are on his radar and I will not lose one of my best men."

"I'm not in any danger. He had a clear shot of me on that rooftop, at point-blank range, and he
didn't take it." Minho mutters, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "If he wanted to kill me,
I would've been dead as soon as he caught wind of who was manning this investigation."

"I can do the paperwork now. A suspension with pay. Just until this blows over… until this…
this Han Jisung is dead or in custody," He lets out, ushering to the photograph in the
detective's hand. "Since I stepped up as chief, you haven't had a single vacation. It wouldn't
kill you to relax, to go back home and visit your parents. Maybe go on a holiday -- I heard
Jeju is nice this time of year."

Minho's gaze narrows, his throat constricting at the very thought of a vacation.

"Chan…"

"I've given you two options. Control or suspension. Take your pick."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

He made a choice. A lesser evil, but still hell nonetheless.

The blinds in his office were drawn halfway, casting looming shadows across the paperwork
strewn on his desk. A pile of files waited for his attention, almost destined to be ignored by
his scorned eyes. His fingers were stained with ink from the endless forms he had filled out,
permits and warrants for various agencies involved in the investigation. While they were
organised into neat stacks, every action was devoid of his usual sense of purpose.
The photocopier hummed in the corner of the room, churning out duplicates of case files and
evidence reports. The very sound grated on Minho's nerves, a monotonous rhythm that
matched his sated heart in his chest. His eyes were strained, not only from the sleepless
nights, but from scanning the same myriad of footage over, and over, hoping to spot
something he had missed - all to no avail.

He couldn't escape the feeling of being trapped in his own personal hell, drowning in
paperwork, while his partner and Seungmin were out on the field, keeping watch on the
hospital where Mr Cho was still recovering from the knife wound to the throat.

It had been three days since he was barred from taking any sort of action aside from the
menial tasks thrust upon a control agent. Every day trudged on as though it competed with
itself, and Minho was sat strapped to the desk like he was born to it.

It was more than inevitable that Han Jisung was to finish the job, weasel his way into the
hospital, and end Mr Cho in any way he could… and it was devastating that Minho had to sit
on the sidelines and watch.

He was halfway between binding a folder to give to the chief and feigning off slighted regrets
that he should've just taken the suspension and spent all of this time in bed when his phone
rang.

With a half-assed glance at just who was calling, Minho felt a headache come on in
preparedness.

"What?" He muttered, using this call to take a break from the task he construed to be a
resounding nail in his coffin. To the detective, a break consisted of leaning further into his
uncomfortable chair and plucking his half-empty, stone-cold cup of coffee from the desk.

"I need your input in settling a matter of utmost importance," Changbin declared, his tone
sounding far more serious than Minho had expected.

"What is it?" Almost autonomously, he sat himself up.

"Who would win a fight? Captain Ri from Crash Landing on You or Iron Man without the
suit?"

"It's not even a question," He could just hear the minuscule voice of Seungmin in the
background, adding fuel to the fire dwindling in every second that passed. "Captain Ri wins
every single time."

Minho could hardly be surprised. It seemed in every itch of silence that occurred between his
partner and the head of foreign affairs, he would receive a phone call, either to settle the tides
of an argument or be utilised as a third vote. Yesterday it was some hypothetical about the
chief's private life, and the day before it was a mindless tattle about which member of the
force sleeps around the most.

"Have you both run out of things to talk about?" He grunts, clicking about on his computer,
bringing up the surveillance footage of the hospital they were guarding, clear to see Mr. Cho
hooked up to all these cords and monitors, and two members of his security detail sitting in
the room with him. He flickers to another channel, the outside of the hospital entrance, where
he can briefly detail Changbin's black sedan and the two detectives sitting pertly inside. They
were simply figures and shadows, but knowing his best friend, he could almost see the sneer
on his face.

"T'yeah," Changbin scoffs. "You should try being in a confined space with this guy. He's got
nothin' going on."

Minho couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at Seungmin's voice in the background
grunting some words of offence.

"How are you doing anyway, Min?" He sighs. "Chief treating you alright in the office?"

Minho grunts, glaring at the stacks of paper in his surroundings.

"Going a bit stir-crazy." He admits, pressing a shoulder forward. "I hate all of this quiet.
Nothing has come up since Tokyo."

"Maybe your suspect is over you already," Changbin hums. "It wouldn't be unlike a guy to
lose interest the moment he gets to know you."

Minho found himself smiling, unable to conjure any sort of contempt for such a comment. He
liked it when they all referred to Han Jisung as Minho's. It was true in every way. Minho was
the one to find his name. Minho was the one to walk away from him with nothing less than a
bruised cheek. Minho would be the one to end him… no matter what.

"I said we shouldn't be watching over Cho, we should be exhausting the entire list of
signatories to the treaty -watching for potential victims--"

"What do you think Lee is doing in the office every day?" Changbin, always quick to come to
his partner's defence, barks at Seungmin.

"The three left on the list are all assumed to be across the other side of the globe," Minho
sighs, glaring at the file that said so. "Maybe it's so quiet because he's become another
jurisdiction's problem."

"You saying he's on holiday?" His partner lets out, a gruff to his voice. "The police presence
at the hospital has dimmed down. It'll probably just be us and the rookies wandering around
the place to get in their field hours tomorrow morning."

Minho sighs, chewing on his bottom lip, hating the impending feeling of monotonous
nothing. "How is Mr. Cho doing?"

"Clinging on," Changbin mutters as Minho clicks about, flickering to the other channel of the
CCTV, watching the tapped monitor of his hospital room. "His doctor said the possibility of
him ever talking again is unlikely, but after trailing him for a week, I can imagine that being
for the better."
Minho chuckled, glaring at the footage of him bound to the bed, flowers in vases and fruit
baskets in his surroundings. The two guards who were sat on the couch by his sleeping body
were sat side-by-side, phones in hand, looking like they had better places to be. Seungmin
and Changbin's bickering was a gentle lull in the background, as the detective's curious eyes
trailed around the footage, taking in all of the details when there was no such obligation.

His gaze delicately observed the pipes and cords, and the endless machines keeping him
alive, the cushions on the couch, the sheathed curtains, the clock above the bed.

Such a sight caught his bored attention, and he conjured a deft glance at his watch, noticing
that the clock was about three minutes behind.

"Hey, is the footage of his room delayed on your end?" Minho muses, running a hand through
his hair lazily. "Or are hospital cameras just shitty?"

"In Cho's room?" Changbin huffs. "Nah, it should be fine. The chief had some new cameras
put it in when he got transferred here."

Minho refreshed the page, still glaring at the clock above the bed where the longer arm was
pointed three minutes behind the actual time.

"Then there must be a fault on my end," Minho mutters, dragging his cursor over the feed.
"The clock reads 4:38… It's behind." His eyes flicker back to the guards by his bed, both of
whom were frozen in place. "It must be paused."

"How can that be?" It seemed to garner Changbin's attention. "It's a live channel. It can't be
paused." Some shuffling occurs in the background. "Kim, flick over to Cho's room."

"It's delayed on our end too." Seungmin's voice ushers from the distance. "It's a third party
interference…. Fuck… We need to get in there."

It was a rush. A jolt of chilling spikes ran down Minho's spine… and yet, he couldn't quite
help the smirk that conjured from his lips from the chaos. It was his style. It was his mark to
get. It was Han Jisung.

"We're heading up, Lee." Changbin's voice carried its usual urgency when shit hit the fan.
"Switch to radio transmission and get into the control room ASAP. We need eyes in the sky."

As Changbin and Seungmin's voices crackled through the phone, alerting the security detail
in Cho's room of a potential situation, Minho felt a surge of that strawberry-tasting dread
clawing at his chest. He swiftly disconnected the call and pulled out an earpiece from the
drawer, dialling into the channel he knew they would meet him in.

Rushing out of his office, he made a beeline for the control centre, the one room on the floor
equipped with an array of screens displaying various CCTV feeds. There was some IT intern
sat in the main chair, but with a single growl of 'get out,' Minho asserted himself in the
central position, heart pounding as he tapped furiously on the keyboard - pulling up the
footage of the streets surrounding the hospital and any available interior views.
"I can't get into contact with his security," Seungmin's voice sparks into Minho's earpiece. "Is
there any way you can tap into the hallway footage?"

"Yeah, I'm on it," Minho mutters, eyes peeled for any anomalies. He could hear the rush of
incoming footsteps, some detectives from foreign affairs sauntering into the control centre,
clearly in cahoots with Seungmin. They all wormed themselves around the table, some
opening laptops, others trying to get into contact with Cho's head of security. It was all
mindless background noise to the detective hellbent on gaining sight of anything.

The second he tapped into the hallway footage, he was quick to notice a nurse hunched
beneath a hospital bed, hands covering her ears. Minho's stomach simmered and chest
contorted. He could barely spend a second without the incessantly perspired voices of
Changbin and Seungmin speaking into the shared transmission, barking orders for backup,
and getting the entire hospital surrounded and on lockdown.

"Hey, I have control of Cho's room!" One of Seungmin's men urges desperately.

"Okay -- put it up on the screen," Minho grunted toward him, feeling his heart pound as the
monitors lit up. The footage of Mr Cho's room returned to its regular nature, with a clock
actually reading the time, instead revealing the two security guards who had been stationed
inside.

Minho felt that all too familiar perspire of defeat leave his lips. He couldn't bear to listen to
the gasps and muttering of the detectives in his surroundings, nor could he do anything but
lean further in his seat, employing the strength of his hands to rub his eyes that burnt in
mental images of what he had just seen. One of the guards was sprawled lifelessly over Mr.
Cho's body on the bed. The other lay on the floor, equally lifeless, their once-alert eyes now
vacant.

Cho was dead.

His breath was caught in his throat as he stared at the screen, unable to do anything but
watch.

As he continued to monitor the situation, he heard the crackle of Changbin and Seungmin in
the background, urgently coordinating efforts to secure the area and investigate the breach.
Minho knew they were in a race against time, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of
helplessness from the confines of the control centre.

Amid chaos and despair, as Minho's eyes darted from screen to screen, one of the smaller
monitors off to the side briefly caught his attention. A figure was seen darting from one of the
fire exits, heading toward an alleyway where a motorcycle was parked. The familiarity of his
shadowy figure sent a jolt of recognition and excitement through Minho's veins.

He was suddenly starving and his meal was in sight.

His eyes lit up. This was it.

"I've got eyes on him, Seo." Minho huffs, two fingers pressed against his earpiece. "Alleyway
near the west wing." His gaze flickers to the entrance of the hospital where Changbin is.
"He's gonna' make a run for it."

Minho can only watch through the CCTV at the figure. He was dressed head-to-toe in dark
blue scrubs, used to blend seamlessly with the other doctors and nurses. He couldn't help but
let a small snicker leave his lips… it was so typical… so him.

Before he mounted the motorcycle, he was quick to pull the shirt from his back, leaving him
in the tight black long-sleeve he wore underneath, and into the dumpster nearby. He stepped
out of the baggy scrubs, leaving equally inky utility pants beneath. His hair, which had been
carefully hidden under a cap, fell loose around his face… it looked a little longer than Minho
remembered… just as pretty too.

With a practiced motion, and Changbin's voice echoing through the line, Minho watched as
he shoved a helmet on his head, fastening it securely, and readying himself for action. There
was adrenaline coursing through the detective's veins - as though he was right there.

"I can hear him," Changbin's voice crackled as the motorcycle revved to life. "Give me the
go-ahead."

Minho flickers to the grainy street footage, where he could just see the figure of his partner
standing stout by the alleyway, pistol drawn, the same practised stance every member of the
force had engrained in their skull.

Yet, when he glanced back to Han Jisung, now atop his motorcycle, he felt his stomach drop
at his paused movements and his head lolled to the side. His hand was rested behind his back,
and he slowly withdrew it to pull a gun of his own.

The buzz of fluorescent blooms that seemed to infiltrate Minho's mind whenever he braced
this slippery little snake in his sights, quickly blew away and for the first time since taking on
the case, Minho snapped out of it.

"Back up," He almost growls to Changbin. "He knows you're there. He's pulled a weapon --
back up now."

"I can take him," His partner ushers through the line in a deft whisper. "He's fucked up too
much for us. I'm not gonna let him get away."

Minho felt his mouth drying at the two feeds of footage. One, his partner pressed against a
wall, teetering between turning the corner and holding his pistol tightly, and the second, Han
Jisung, frozen in place, keeping his gun in close confines, waiting for any sort of sudden
movement.

"He won't hesitate to kill you," Minho's voice is panicked, and completely out of its usual
vernacular of monotonous and forlorn. "He offed the guards like it was nothing - you think
he'll just skim past you? Back up, Seo!"

The line was dead silent, and Minho felt his heart palpitate in his chest.
His eyes were frantic. Darting between one monitor and the other.

The control room felt like it was closing in on him - the fluorescent lights casting eerie
shadows on the walls. His fingers trembled as he clutched the edge of the desk, the strain of
the situation bearing down heavily.

Anxiety gnawed at Minho's insides. His infatuation with this pretty little ghost, the desire to
catch him, to understand him, had taken a dangerous turn. This was not about the case… this
was about keeping his partner alive.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and his dry mouth made it difficult to swallow. His
voice, unnaturally trembled, as he pressed the earpiece closer - desperate to reach his partner.

"Please," He whispered urgently. "You have to back off. It's too risky."

Silence infiltrates the line once more.

He could only stare anxiously, breath hitching in the observation of Changbin's movements,
watching him slowly and cautiously backing away from the alleyway where the man he
dreamt of was perched on his motorcycle. The tension in the control centre was thick, with
everyone seemingly halting what they were doing to intently witness the unfolding drama.

Changbin's retreat conjured a rev of the motorcycle's engine, the roar cutting through the
stillness of the late afternoon. Minho watched him slowly pocket his pistol, the demanding
presence that he fled immediately surely coursing through his mind.

Then, as if on cue, he revved the engine once more, and zipped out of the alleyway into the
street incredibly fast, heading directly by Changbin still standing stationary by a street pole,
out of his view.

But, a voice crackled through his earpiece, his partner, determined and unwavering. "I have a
clear shot to immobilise."

Minho's anxiety reached its peak as he saw Changbin raise his pistol, aiming it at the
assassin.

The first shot missed, causing a burst of sparks as it struck the asphalt, Minho's eyes observed
from one of the monitors of the parking lot. But knowing his partner… he didn't falter… he
fired again.

The second shot struck his body, and the impact sent him swerving on his motorcycle. The
assassin's lithe body jerked, and the bike wobbled dangerously. For a moment, it seemed as
though he had finally lost control.

The arriving officers were closing in, the raucous symphony of voices from different
divisions filtering through the line, sirens blaring. But this man… this deity in black,
managed to regain his balance and speed away. He was like a shadow, too elusive, too hard to
pin down.
In the control room, officers erupted into a series of relieved exclamations. Some were just
happy to see Changbin okay, others were snickering and placing bets that he wouldn't get two
blocks before dropping dead.

But Minho couldn't share in their jubilation. He couldn't help but feel a pang of worry for
him… for the man who had consumed his thoughts for so long. In that frozen moment, he
wanted more than anything to know if he lived.

He wouldn't be able to rest without knowing, that for sure, he would never return.

But reality quickly snapped back, and Minho took a deep, shaky breath of relief. He pressed
two fingers against his earpiece.

"You're killing me, you know that?" The detective muttered, running a hand through his
brazen hair, a lazy smile on his lips.

"Ah well… It's up to the highway patrol to catch him now." His voice crackles back. "I doubt
he'll get far. My bet his body is found before it hits six."

Minho stifles a small chuckle across the line, ignoring the small part of his brain that recoiled
at such a thought, before glancing at his watch.

"You feeling up for a drink?"

"Only if you're paying."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was almost a sin that Minho was only three beers deep when Changbin made the call that
they hung out some other time. It seemed a single text from Hyunjin teasing that he received
his reward for being so brave was fuel enough to contort his dwindling flame into a roaring
fire, sending him grinning across town to his boyfriend's place.

So, as Minho stood before the door of his apartment, the weight of the day's stress still hung
heavy on his shoulders. He could barely stand all of the other detectives and cops who joined
them at the bar. Their raucous laughter… their playful smiles… their overall cheer.
Damn, maybe he should've taken that vacation… Minho quickly snaps the melancholic
thoughts from his mind, knowing that with every passing second, this day would be over, and
then he could start anew.

It was sweet solitude to finally be home. Suit off. TV on. Beer from the fridge cold and
waiting for him on the coffee table. Gomi fed and purred.

He flicked on the first movie that he saw as soon as his streaming service popped up, feeling
his body melt into the couch like it was born to it. Minho couldn't help but fetter a small
smile as Gomi pounced to her favourite spot on his knee, running his fingers through her fur
as he settled into some cheap remake of an old classic he liked once upon a time.

However, as the movie progressed, he couldn't quite help the incessant voices in his head that
found it far too dull for his current mood. He stifled a yawn, causing Gomi to give him a
glance of offence before she gracefully ventured off his lap and sauntered over to lay beside
him.

His body was out of his control. There was little to dissuade him from relaxing… to forget
about everything… to allow the numbness to take over and acting like a normal person for
the first time.

So instead, he autonomously reached into his bag lying lazily by the coffee table, feeling
around for a familiar case file. It had been a constant presence in his life for the past few
weeks, almost becoming an extension of himself. The papers were filled with countless notes
and annotations, and he had read them so many times that could almost recite them from
memory.

Minho took a sip of his beer, the coolness of the liquid offering a reprieve as he delved into
the case file. The soft glow of the TV cast a dim light across the paper. He flickered to a page
about the orphanage -- the fire in which Han Jisung was supposedly to die. His eyes scanned
the lines, absorbing the sparse information about the fire… and the scepticism that the three
children who went up in flames with the building were the ones who set it alight.

From all they could gather, the orphanage staff painted a picture of a troubled boy, always
entangled in fights, a restless soul who seemed to carry his turmoil like a heavy cloak. There
were reports of schoolyard brawls, weapons found under his bed, the way a visiting teacher
lost an eye to a pair of scissors with no suspect coming forward.

"Jesus," The detective muttered, taking another deft sip, eyes skimming over the meagre
details of the past. The silence in the room was only broken by the occasional rustle of paper
and the low hum of the TV. Gomi nestled closer, purring softly against the files that
graduated to a full sprawl across the coffee table.

The photographs of the crime scenes. The restaurant. The rooftop. The club bathroom. The
hospital room.

Every single death felt like an unanswered question that simply wouldn't be solved if he
received the phone call he suspected he would. He was waiting for the chief to call, mutter
some contemptuous dig that the assassin showed up dead, that it was better to leave Changbin
on the field by himself, that Minho's strange fascination with the man did more harm than
good to their investigation.

It would be an utter disappointment if that were to be the case. Minho wanted it to end a
whole other way.

A muted creak reverberated through the air. Minho simply flickered his gaze upward, glaring
past the page to the wall leading to the bedrooms. Probably the pipes.

Reassuming his traversal into the Tokyo incident, another unsettling sound followed -- a
louder noise… more like a thud.

A disquieting shift gripped his stomach, an alien sensation. He was never one to scare easily -
- not from the crimes he had investigated, not from the horror movies Changbin brought over
most Saturday nights. But he felt a strange flower burst in his chest, and it almost heaved
with an unsettling urgency.

The detective gulped back the mouthful of beer that suddenly tasted stale.

As he stood to his feet and silently approached the threshold of the living room. His gaze
fixed down the hallway, and in the muted glow of the kitchen lights, a figure materialised. He
would always recognise the shape of his body, his silhouette, his height, the width of his
shoulders, and the slimness of his build. After all, it was all he thought about these days.

The very first contortion of space and time that met his eyes was a bloody hand, a pistol in its
grip and held to the side of his body. The other hand pressed a crimson-stained towel tightly
against his waist. His raven-black hair, tousled and messed about, framed his face like a dark,
enigmatic halo. Beads of sweat were conjured on his temples, and his lips which were once
known for their gentle curve and pink hue, were now thinning to give way to his teeth
peeking out from between.

His chest was rising and falling sharply, and his usual honeyed complexion was fading,
paling.

The anger seemed to replenish itself in the gauge of Minho's filter. He had been waiting for
him. He wanted him to suffer for everything he had caused the detective… for making him a
fool.

A charged silence enveloped the room as Minho and Jisung locked eyes, each daring the
other to make the first move.

Minho couldn't ignore the glint of danger in Jisung's hand. A gun. Any word he wished to
utter, or motion made, carried the weight of him firing it -- ending the whole thing quickly
and easily.

Jisung's eyes, once filled with that teasing confidence, portrayed strain. It was strange. The
usual assurance was replaced by vulnerability, rendering him a weakened husk of the person
Minho had known, had studied, had obsessed over.
The detective's accusatory gaze flickered to the coffee table beside the strewn files of the man
before him, where his badge and holster lay barren of the firearm that could have provided a
semblance of security. A week of control duty had left him disarmed, and now faced with this
spectre before him, he felt a vulnerability that surpassed any he had known before.

With his current state, Minho knew he could overpower him in strength, and maybe even
speed given the blood on his hands. But the gun and his unpredictability… Minho knew not
to make any sudden movements.

"You did this," the man holding the pistol whispered, his voice no longer carrying the
honeyed tone it once did. It turned sharp, accusing, and full of bitterness.

He was unsure if he was fearful of such a sight… if this was him coming to enact his
revenge. His self-loathing and inability to vest any sort of loyalty in himself brought about
the belief that he deserved this -- that a quick and easy death at the vehement whim of these
beautiful hands would be what was coming.

He was unsure if he was just another victim… if he was making his way through the list of
detectives on the case and he thought it'd be poetic to pop a single round into Minho's head
and leave him where he seemed to flourish - alone, unsuspecting, and a failure.

He couldn't even defend himself. Since his service pistol was stolen, the only weapon in the
house was a spare gun in his bedroom drawer, and his skill seemed to cower in comparison to
this dangerous enigma standing in his hallway. His pulse quickened, and he felt a cold sweat
break out on his skin -- waiting for this Han Jisung to pull the trigger… to end it.

"Fix this." The voice demands in a growl.

Minho snapped from the trance that seemed to hold him, prisoner, in every instance he faced
his fears.

"F-Fix this?" Minho's voice is a whisper, his hands drawn up and beside his face -- not that he
needed to hint he was unarmed. "What- How…"

"You have something here to fix this," His voice is sharp, his breaths spiking in every raise of
his chest. "I know you do. Find it."

"How do you know where I--"

Minho cut himself short when he saw the darkness in Jisung's eyes, the same eyes that
wriggled past every single effort to track him down. He was able to get into any venue,
behind any lines cordoned by police tape, in any parcel of the universe that the detective's
eyes couldn't follow.

The hand on his pistol tightened, stepping that itch closer to the older man who could only
stare. The bitter twang of blood was rife, but he had that same lingering scent that once
compelled Minho into a stupor.
"I have-- Never mind." He grimaces in a short wince, clasping his hand on the wound tighter.
He seemed so frail… so vulnerable… so fragile. "I-I know you have a kit here. A first aid
kit."

Minho blinks, feeling his mouth dry.

"I… I don't have anything to fix that," The detective's eyes grazed the blood on his hands and
the way his forehead had a wistful sheen of sweat. "You need a doctor… a hospital."

"Sure," He grunts, his breaths jagged. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Minho swallows and glares behind his figure, seeing his bedroom door ajar, knowing it was
shut when he ventured onto the couch to settle in for the night.

"Did you climb up here?" He whispers, earning a small snarl to affirm his question. "That's
twenty flights up the fire escape and yet you knew…"

He stops himself again, almost flinching as Jisung's body grants itself solace against the
closest surface - the wall. His head was raised, breathing through the pain. It had been hours
since he had been shot. Minho was hardly sure he had much strength left - hardly any to
stand up even.

"You let me die, nothing changes." He mutters, eyes black and scorned. "Do you realise
that?"

"Why did you come here?" Minho's tone does its best to seem strengthened, but he is far too
perturbed to conjure anything more than a murmur.

Jisung scoffs once more, shaking his head in bitter contempt.

"The only person that can fix this is halfway across the world," he mutters, voice slow and
gnarled. "I have no one else."

Minho stared at him.

There was a correct choice here. There was only one path to take.

There were intricacies in the execution. Perhaps he was to stall long enough that he lost
consciousness. Surely he was at his wit's end, and if Minho kept him talking, kept pestering
him with questions - employing his rarely used good cop strategies in negotiation - there was
a chance he would be weak enough for the detective to catch him off guard, to turn the tides
of this power play. Or he could have just cut the wait and made the move now, to pin him to
the floor, restrain him long enough until backup arrived -- ending everything.

But Minho's eyes softened as Jisung's gaze dimmed. It was usually so unreadable… with an
ulterior motive, with all of the steps calculated. Yet, he couldn't see anything hidden up his
sleeve. He was simply asking for help, scared, alone, and in the only parcel of Seoul where
nobody would be looking for him.
Minho did the math as he stared at this bloodied little figure, grasping his wound held by a
ragged cloth.

Harbouring a wanted criminal -- especially one of this scale would be enough to fire him, and
maybe add a couple of years in prison depending on how the judge enjoyed their breakfast
that day. The gun in his hand helped, distress, duress… there was an argument for that.

He could always tell the chief that he had the entire situation under control… that it was
calculated… that he simply wanted to save his life so the entire investigation unravelled. But
the questions of why and how would total his ability to reason.

Hating himself and how greatly he would regret it, Minho knew he wouldn't be able to go
through with that plan.

"It's in the bathroom." He whispers, taking a step forward.

Jisung flinches, autonomously raising the gun to eye-level, as though it were as easy as
breathing.

"I'm not going to hurt you," The detective mutters, glaring through the wall of invisible mist
thick enough to separate them. "The kit is in the bathroom. We need to move there."

"I swear to you… if you… if you even think of trying something," Jisung scoffs, shaking his
weary head. His body was weakening - the entirety of his weight pressed to the wall. "Your
partner will get it first. I make a single call and he's dead. I'll make sure of it."

"Okay," Minho huffs, hating the ammunition he was using, but respecting it. He always made
threats to the heart first. It was textbook. "Will you follow me?"

Jisung was slow but fettered a nod.

The detective's instincts kicked in as he ushered Jisung towards the bathroom. There was a
symphony of chaotic voices in his head screaming at him. To make a move. To call anyone.
To stop whatever-the-fuck he was thinking of doing. The dim glow of the kitchen lights
spilled from the narrow hallway and into the bedroom, and through to the stark grey-tiled
room.

"Sit here," Minho gestured to the edge of the bathtub, the cool porcelain a stark contrast to
the heat radiating from Jisung's lithe frame.

Flickering his glare to his black attire, he found his mind harbouring back to that desire to
unravel the mystery of his body, the part that once pondered over every detail during the
investigation.

"Take off… Take off your shirt." He muttered, turning around immediately and facing his
medicine cabinet. His voice was firm, desensitised, knowing a gun was still held to the back
of his head, knowing that neither of their lives were assured for the remainder of the night.

As Jisung complied, peeling his shirt away from his body with a wince, Minho sifted through
his neatly organised cabinet. The assassin was right, of course, he did have a first aid kit. It
was one siphoned from work when he got struck by a blank bullet -- back in a time when he
and Changbin would train in the shooting range. After thoroughly washing his hands, he
pulled two different types of painkillers, the kit, and leant them on the sink, gulping back
everything he wished to say as he turned around, and glared at the younger man sitting on the
white surface.

He swallowed, hard, forcibly stifling the part of his conscience that saw the sight as beautiful.
He truly couldn't help but notice the intricacies of Jisung's physique that he had often found
distracting in the past. His small waist accentuated the disciplined strength of his frame, and
the broad shoulders bespoke of a body sculpted for the demands of how he made a living.

Such a pretty broken bird.

"Did you try and bandage it yourself?" Minho ushers to the wound with the first aid kit, and
the saturated cloth stuck to the bloodied skin.

Jisung, who looked exhausted from even holding the weight of the pistol erectly, grunted
through sharp teeth. "What do you think?"

Minho's gaze simply narrows as he etches toward him, slowly, fearfully, but with purpose.

"If you had a better attitude, you might have a more qualified person to turn to," the detective
huffs, retrieving the first aid kit and kneeling on the grey bathmat on the floor. "Did you ever
think that?"

Jisung's head lolls to the side, a small 'tch' sound leaving his pink lips.

"You're forgetting I'm the one holding a gun," Minho almost flinches feeling the cool metal
tap against his temple, gently, like a kiss. But with his eyes drawn toward the plastic kit that
popped open upon his will, he maintained his strength in keeping focus.

"You're not gonna' kill me." Minho decides with a nod, glaring toward the wound and
ignoring the prying eyes that were watching him with intent.

"Believe me," Jisung mutters, the pistol's metal oozing a harsh cold on the skin of the
detective. "I can do whatever I want."

Pulling a slip of antibacterial wipes from the kit, Minho continues, "You kill me, this doesn't
get fixed." He rips the packet open with his teeth. "And if this doesn't get fixed, you won't
have the energy to climb back down 20 flights of stairs in the cold. You can go down to the
lobby, sure. But with the sound of the gunshot, the building's security will be alerted." He
stifles a single wipe and etches it toward the wound just above his hip, on the precipice of his
tanned waist. "You'll drop dead as soon as you reach the ground, or worse, you'll pass out
from the blood loss and the stress, and then you're done. We'll have you and whoever else
works alongside you."

Jisung's grunting and wincing subsides for a moment, as though soaking in the words, as
though calculating his response in return.
"How does that sound, huh?" Minho enjoyed the silence, enjoyed his defeat.

All the while he cleaned around the saturated bandage, ensuring the area was free of any
debris or dried blood. The layer of sweat upon his body aided in the gentle glide of the cold
wipe, and there was a small part of the detective's mind that wished the thin layer of cotton
soaked in some overpowering antiseptic wasn't separating his fingertips from the feel of his
skin. His body was so soft… so taut… so fragile… and completely within his reach.

"You will never get who I work with," he mutters, the strange deepness to his tone always
taking Minho by surprise. "You should know that by now, Detective Lee."

"No?" Minho huffs, reaching for the edge of the saturated bandage clad to the wound - some
messy attempt at fixing it he supposes the assassin conjured once he lost the police who were
trailing him. "I can see the phone in your pocket," he ushers with his chin toward the
rectangular outline of his black utility pants. "And you wear an earpiece, right? You should
know that we'll be able to find a name or two from them."

His movements were deliberate, yet the tension in the air seemed to escalate as he prepared to
unveil the true extent of the wound. He slowly began to peel it back, only snapping his gaze
upward at the younger man when he would fetter a wince, his teeth clasping together, eyes
squeezed shut. It was like he had all the control in the world. Every drag of the adhesive
conjured breathy little grunts, and wispy echoes into the bathroom.

The bullet wound marred the otherwise flawless canvas of his torso. It was a graze, not a
penetration. The torn flesh revealed itself as a crimson furrow, with dried and fresh blood
clinging to the edges like a macabre adornment. Tears of ruby wept, and Minho is quick to
clasp a handful of the sterile cotton pads from the kit to catch them.

"Your partner has a shit aim," Jisung's voice is light-hearted, almost conjuring the embers of a
chuckle to follow in place of his words. "I would be doing your department a favour by
ending it quick and easily--"

He clasps his lips shut when Minho presses the cotton tighter to the wound, maybe it was an
immature and overtly dangerous act of telling him to shut up, but he knew Changbin would
do the same for him.

"Hmph," the ghost whimpered through a small breath as Minho's eyes were busy glaring at
the sight of the injury, raw and exposed. "You don't care if I threaten you, but you can't stand
it if I talk about anyone else, huh?"

Minho swallowed back everything he wanted to say. Instead of playing into his hand, he
conjured another sealed antiseptic wipe. The sterile packaging crinkled as he tore it open, but
with the way Jisung continued to fetter breathless laughs, he almost didn't want to warn him
of how much this would sting.

"Here I was thinking you had some sort of self-respect." He hums, and Minho could just see
the building blocks stacking themselves up in his head, fettering the foundations of that
cocky little smirk he liked to emanate when he felt himself victorious. "It's sweet. Detective
Seo--"
The wipe swept over the skin, and Jisung hissed a wince in grandeur.

"Fuck- You didn't even warn me--"

"No more talk of anyone else." He demands in a lowered mutter. "I need to clean it and see if
I can stitch it. It's going to hurt and you're going to need to be patient. You either be good for
me and I do this as nicely as I can, or you're just going to hurt yourself."

When he flicked his gaze up to the younger man sitting on the bathtub, he couldn't help but
recognise that same vitality in his eyes -- like they had lit up. The pain was palpable, and he
could no longer control the small shakes his body conjured, but he licked his lips at the
words, whispering a small 'fine.'

"You can give me the gun while you're at." Minho's tone is monotonous, and deadpan.

Jisung simply echoes a weakened chuckle.

"Don't get too confident, Detective Lee."

Minho plucks a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from his first aid kit, checking its expiry date.

"How do you expect me to relax with that pointed at my head the whole time?" He mutters,
careful not to lose himself in his blackened eyes, and the proximity of their bodies.

"I think I'd make you nervous either way," he sighs back, his bare torso contorting instead of
a breath. "Wouldn't you say so?"

Minho ignores the cocky words that seemed second nature, even when he was actively
bleeding, overtly exhausted, and with nowhere left to run.

He applied the hydrogen peroxide to a clean cotton pad, soaking it in until the tips of his
fingers were saturated.

"This is going to sting," He murmurs, reaching forth to grasp the side of the tub, having no
such faith in himself in doing what would be convenient, what he desired, in grasping his
thigh or lower leg to keep him still. "You should probably bite down on a towel."

"I'll be fine -- just-just get it over with," Jisung whispered back, shaking his head quickly.

Minho proceeded to reach forth to apply it cautiously, watching the solution create a fizzing
reaction as it met his bloodied flesh.

The detective froze when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder tightly and a delicate wince leaves
his lips. His grip was steady, fingers spread to meld his weight and pressure upon his white t-
shirt. The very action conjured a sense of urgency in the older man, who glared at the
peroxide's work in disinfecting the wound, wishing for it to work faster.

"Just a little bit longer," he whispers, to which he could barely register the fact Jisung was
holding him so tightly, forgetful of the pistol in the other hand, and completely Minho's.
There was no time better than now to turn this all around, to get him restrained, to call the
chief.

But he just… couldn't.

"You know… You know for a guy who is never home, you have a lot of plants." His voice,
hidden almost to the point where he was buried in the crook of the detective's neck, falters.

He was so close, the scent of his perspiration, the blood, the faint traces of that perfume that
sent the detective wild. He could just see out of the corner of his eyes, those pink lips, the
vulnerability to his features, the desperation in his movements.

Minho could only surmise he was glaring beyond his back and toward the monstera potted
near the shower.

"How do you know I'm barely home?" He offers out, maintaining his will, withdrawing the
cotton and sifting through his kit to find everything he needs to seal the clean wound shut.

"How do you know my name?"

Grasping a sterile needle with a thin, resilient suture, Minho brought it toward the bullet
graze, doing his best to simmer the fear of doing something as insane as this. The only thing
fuelling him at this point was the adrenaline from the sheer ridiculousness that was doing a
dangerous medical procedure when he had nothing more than field training, and the fact the
recipient of the treatment was Han Jisung.

"I searched very, very, very hard."

"Well," Jisung's breath quickened, bracing himself, tightening the grip on the detective's
shoulder. "That answers your question then."

Silent now, Minho settled his shaky fingers and glared at the needle glinting under the
bathroom light. He hovered it above the wound, calming the small voice in his head.

With a controlled hand, he swallowed back a lump of apprehension and pressed the tip of the
needle to the skin sated by the peroxide.

"Keep talking to me," Jisung's voice cuts in quickly, desperately. "Please."

"Okay," Minho cracks his neck to the side. "Who is paying you to kill all these people?"

The assassin snorts, squeezing the detective's shoulder, shaky breaths emanating in every
silence.

"Who is on your witness list?"

Minho finds his lips curling into a wry smirk, eyes dark and glaring at the wound. "That's
classified, isn't it?"

"Again," Jisung ticks, sucking in a steep breath, "that answers your question."
The needle pierced the skin, navigating the edges of the graze, pulling the torn flesh together.
Jisung winced again as Minho worked, his body reacting dimly, but with the tightness in
which his hand squeezed the detective's shoulder, the pain was evident.

"Okay, okay," He hisses, grimacing in every silence. "Why- Why did you wanna' be a cop?"

Minho blinks at the question but continues to slowly stitch up the consequences of the
previous encounter -- employing whatever base knowledge was knocking around his mind. It
was hard to ignore his proximity, the soft breaths from his lips that were almost hitting his
neck, and the way the detective had to continuously etch closer to the wound with fingers
dancing upon his soft skin.

"I had good grades and I always enjoyed those detective cartoons that played every Saturday
morning," He was careless in his answer, the needle punctuating each word. "It makes my
problems seem small when you see death every day."

"All because of a cartoon?" He chuckles stiffly, his grip on Minho's shoulder momentarily
releasing before tightening again. "That's cute, Detective Lee."

Minho felt a small smile echo from the words.

"My turn," the older man huffs, listening to the assassin grimace as he tightened a particularly
critical stitch. "Did you ever wanna' do anything else?"

The atmosphere in the bathroom was charged with a strange intimacy, the cold porcelain of
the bathtub beneath them contrasting with the warmth of Jisung's lithe skin.

"Like be a rocket scientist or work in an office?" He stifles a weak laugh. "Not really."

"You always wanted to do… this?"

The wound was just about sealed, and the skin surrounding the length of the graze was
reddening -- probably some fault of his inexperience, but it was clean nonetheless.

"Why wouldn't I do something I'm good at?" Jisung mutters through clenched teeth as Minho
pulls the thread from the last stitch.

"Well," Minho said, tying it off, "you are good at what you do."

Jisung's eyes, normally sharp and calculating, softened for a moment. While the aftermath
required further attention, Minho grabbed antiseptic ointment, carefully applying it to the
stitched area. His body tensed with each touch, his sharp inhale filling the tiled space.

"You think so?" He whispers, still holding the detective's shoulder, sure not to let go.

Minho flickers his gaze away from the wound, glaring upward at his soft features, the glint in
his eye that was so evident even through the pain he endured. He had studied Jisung long
enough to know this was all an act… it had to be. Feigning those long lashes, and whispering
gentle words could win the weakest mind over, and that is why he was so good at his job.
"You give me migraines." The detective pulls away slightly, not trusting his willpower if he
etched any closer. "That answers your question."

Jisung smiles, the wrinkles by his eyes squeezing together like two butterflies.

"Well, you've been a pain in my ass… so I'd say you are too." The comment seemed drenched
in that usual sarcastic vernacular, but with this exhaustion laced in his voice, it almost
sounded genuine.

As Minho reached for a bandage to cover the now-treated wound, he noticed the residue of
dried blood on Jisung's hands. His instincts kicked in and gently reached forward and clasped
his wrist, inspecting the bloodied palms.

"You need to clean up," Minho said, his tone firm but not unkind. After pressing on the
bandage, he guided Jisung to the sink, where he watched him hesitate for only a moment,
placing the pistol in his right hand on the cold, undulating surface of the countertop. The
detective took an apprehensive step away from the assassin, not wanting to compromise the
strange sense of trust, not now.

He washed his hands quickly, scrubbing between his knuckles and beneath his nails, giving
way to the delicate fingers no longer marred in the debris of the crimson stains and returning
to a form Minho found hard to forget.

Minho watched as Jisung deftly grabbed the painkillers, rattling a few pills into his palm to
swallow and then lean toward the tap, letting the water flow into his mouth.

Their eyes meet when Jisung raises his head, wiping the back of his mouth with his now
clean hand, and staring back at the detective in the mirror.

The white adhesive strip covered the stitched wound, but Minho found himself momentarily
captivated by this pretty problem. It was a strange juxtaposition -- the striking beauty and the
raw reality of the situation. Up close. So real. Like a figure from his favourite story that
materialised out of thin air and was now standing all fragile in Minho's bathroom.

It was a beautifully bad dream.

Clearing his throat, Minho broke the momentary trance, watching Jisung's doe-like eyes
blink.

"You can clean yourself up and change into some clothes." He said, his voice firm, trying to
regain control of the situation. "Shower," he ushers toward the glass door next to the bath.
"Towels," he points to the cupboard near the sink. "And clothes are just in my room here."

He continues the uncharacterised quiet. Like the crux of the evening, he didn't carry the usual
ammunition that bested the detective twice now, and despite everything, Minho continued to
hold the upper hand. He just had to work himself up to use it.

"Are you hungry?"

Minho noticed the way Jisung licked his lips, a subtle hesitation, as though the idea of food
was momentarily erased from his mind. Minho didn't wait for a response.

"I have some food in the house. I can cook. Just… Just clean yourself up and don't get the
dressing wet." He mutters. "Okay?"

Jisung swallows. But nods.

As Minho fettered his gaze to the floor and shut the bathroom door behind him, a whirlwind
of conflicting thoughts engulfed his mind. Should he grab the spare pistol from the bedroom
drawer? Should he take a more drastic measure, like moving furniture to barricade Jisung
inside the bathroom until backup arrived? The thought of calling Changbin or the chief
crossed his mind, but the potential fallout gave way to pause.

Feeling like a mindless drone, with hands that smelt like a strange combination of hydrogen
peroxide and antiseptic gel, Minho slowly walked into the kitchen. The bedroom door now
closed, felt like the last nail in the coffin of his control over the situation. He grappled with
the urge to take decisive action, but he just failed.

When he heard the pipes groan and the sound of the shower echo through the apartment, he
cursed under his breath. There was a great chance that Jisung would simply shove his
bloodied shirt back on, use the shower as a rouse, and escape back through the bedroom
window and out the fire escape. It might have seemed illogical given his current health, but
for Jisung, it was as rational as Minho contemplating a call for backup.

In the kitchen, the detective mechanically went through the motions of cooking. He sliced
thin pieces of steak intended for tomorrow's lunch and prepared some rice.

Jisung won again. He got what he wanted from Minho, made him look like a fool, and used
his weak mind and strange fascination with the younger man to avoid the chase that was
inevitably to catch him.

Minho continued to fry the meat, the sizzle in the pan offering a stark contrast to the quiet
turmoil within his mind. He berated himself for focusing on making sure the steak was
cooked to perfection, marinated generously -- when he was almost sure Jisung had fled down
ten flights of stairs at this point.

His winding thoughts for the past fifteen minutes were abruptly cut off when the bedroom
door clicked open. His attention snapped toward the entrance, expecting anything. His
conscience kicked in, his stomach swirling, inadvertently slipping one of his steak knives into
the pocket of his sweats.

Jisung passed by the kitchen without a glance, and Minho, almost burning himself on the pan,
couldn't help but watch as the younger man moved through the hallway. The aroma of
Minho's body wash accompanied him, as did the fact that he was now clad in Minho's black
shorts - the ones he usually wore to the gym - and an old sweater that hung loosely on his
smaller frame.
Without uttering a word, he made his way to the couch and settled into a cross-legged
position on the cushions -- as though he lived there. His gaze lingered toward the kitchen,
their gazes meeting, and Minho found himself reeling in the enigma staring back.

"It smells good in here." He lets out, bottom lip tucked beneath the top.

Minho could only glare at him. He expected him to escape, almost hoped he would do so,
happy enough to forfeit this battle as part of the larger war if it meant his life.

Jisung got what he wanted from the detective, and a part of the older man suspected that he
had the gun tucked behind his back as insurance.

"I didn't know you cooked for yourself." Jisung continues, the colour still absent from his
cheeks, but the farce he carried with him was slowly resurrecting. "I just assumed you ate out
all the time."

"I cook when I can." He presses a shoulder forward, transferring the now fluffed rice into a
bowl, before melding his glare to the man sat on his couch, tracing his every move carefully.
"Do you?"

"Look at me," he chuckles like they were not on opposing ends of their line of work. "Does it
look like I do?"

"I am looking at you," Minho's voice is a mutter, eyes grazing his damp hair, and the way it
seemed to regain its shine. "It looks like people cook for you, not the other way around."

"Well, you're cooking for me." Jisung bites back, tilting his head to the side and blinking
away the maelstrom of a stare they were caught in the midst of.

Instead of replying, Minho sifts through his drawers to find a spoon -- not trusting him with
any other utensil and walks the food toward the coffee table.

As soon as his gaze flickers to the opened files strewn out over the oak, it seems Jisung
followed his eyes.

"Here," he quickly interjects, handing the younger man the bowl of beef and rice, coaxing his
attention away from the file. "Eat."

"Thanks," Jisung hums back, grasping it. Minho is quick to collect the pages of reports and
photographs, stifling them away. He didn't know what to say next. He didn't know what to do.
The blood he was sure he'd need to clean from the bathroom, the towel he used to dry
himself, the spoon in his hand, his fingerprints all over the couch. He had all of the evidence
in the world… yet, he could only pace back toward the kitchen as though he were simply a
guest.

As he approached the sink and started to wash the dishes, he couldn't help but glance back at
the living room, where Jisung was spooning in the food with small murmurs of contentment.
His hands were submerged in the soapy water, but his eyes were borne to the assassin, the
soft glow of the TV illuminating his doe-like eyes, making Minho's sweater appear even
larger on his lithe frame.

Jisung's gestures were surprisingly innocent as he reached forth to grasp the half-empty beer
left on the table from earlier, taking a sip to wash down the food. Minho felt his stomach stir,
knowing their lips had inadvertently touched, having every part of him so close.

It was easy to forget that he was a weapon, bred for the kill.

The assassin appeared so engrossed in the film, and Gomi, who had pounced out of hiding,
leapt to the couch and nestled by Jisung's lap. Minho almost felt himself forget about the
steak knife he had tucked in his pocket for even a second -- glaring at how natural the sight
looked.

It was all such a pretty act. It could fool anyone.

When he finally finished washing the last dish, he turned off the faucet and dried his hands.
The detective hesitated for a moment, watching as Jisung's attention remained fixated
between the TV and softly petting Gomi's neck. Slowly, he walked back to the living room
and took a seat beside him.

"Seems like Gomi likes you," he remarks, clearing his throat. He places a hand atop his lap,
using the length of it to suppress the outline of the knife -- his last resort.

"She's very friendly." Jisung gleamed, a tentative smile playing on his pink lips, before
glancing at the older man, the vulnerability in his eyes momentarily overshading the danger
drenching everything. "I've always wanted a cat."

"You've never thought of having one?" He lets out, finding himself studying the play of
colours on Jisung's face from the TV and how his eyes sparkled with genuine interest.

"I travel a lot," Jisung sighs, scratching behind the black ears of the white cat. "With my line
of work, it'd be hard to keep it fed."

Minho's gaze narrows. Work. He almost has to stop his autonomous reaction to scoff at the
ideal.

The younger man lets out a part laugh as light as air at the detective's reaction, shuffling
about on the couch until his knee was almost touching Minho's thigh.

"You have this nice apartment, you can cook, you have a stable job… you're well put
together, Detective Lee." His body language was open, his smile bright, and he spoke with a
confidence that felt disarming. "Why are you all alone?"

Minho cleared his throat once more, ushering Jisung's gaze toward Gomi. "I'm not alone."

Jisung chuckled, the sound surprisingly genuine. "You don't bring anyone home… you don't
date… you don't have a boyfriend." He hums, gaze flickering between the screen and the
detective. "What a waste."
"I'm a little busy these days," Minho murmurs in reply, torn between maintaining his
composure and succumbing to the surreal nature of the situation. "This new case I'm on is
proving to be a challenge."

Jisung's smile is soft, as alluring as the detective remembered from that very first crime
scene.

"Do you find the time?" Minho is quick to interject, happy to keep talking if it meant he
could keep an eye on him.

"If I really want something, I get it." He sighs, running a hand through his slowly drying hair.
Minho felt a shift in his stomach, the part that imagined Jisung delving into the world of
want, knowing that with his demeanour, with his eyes, he could get anything - or anyone - he
wanted. "But work is getting busy these days too. Must be something about this time of year."

Minho bit his lip. Cute.

"How are you feeling?" He flickers his gaze toward Jisung's torso.

"Better." He glances down at his lap. "I'll probably get it restitched when I find the time."

The detective pauses before pressing in any way he knows how. "Are you… Are you gonna
be busy for the next few days?"

Jisung tucked his bottom lip beneath his teeth, melding his weight into the cushion with his
elbow, head lolled to the side to stare at the older man.

"Why do you ask?" Minho flickers his gaze downward, seeing that Jisung's delicate fingers
are softly grasping the edge of his white t-shirt, giving it a small tug. "Are you asking if your
services will be needed in the office sometime soon? Or are you asking because you want to
see me again?"

"I don't need you to answer that for me when I always prepare for you to show up," Minho
mutters, staring at his hand upon his shirt, seeing his index finger twirl in the fabric.

"I must say today was disappointing." The assassin fetters a small pout of his lips, his voice
softening. "Seeing your partner and not you at the scene," he ushers to the side of his waist
where the bullet had struck him. "He isn't as fun, Detective Lee. Not even close."

"Don't worry, I wanted to be there too." He couldn't quite pinpoint where his words turned so
truthful. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to stop you."

Jisung hums that gentle laugh, tugging his shirt once more with not enough strength to loll
the detective closer, but to tighten the cotton so the sated air of the apartment vested to his
skin.

"You're good at your job, Detective Lee." His voice is a mere whisper now, almost a rival to
the quiet movie echoing in the background. "And I enjoy you… I really do. But to think you
could stop me is a little foolish, wouldn't you say?"
Remaining that itch of strength, the detective scoffs. "I'm getting good at reading you now.
You can be predictable at times."

However, in the contortion of space where Minho wished to continue, Jisung's sudden
movement caught him off guard. The detective's words lingered in the air as the lithe
assassin, without warning, shifted to his knees, and straddled Minho's lap.

Jisung's proximity was palpable, his thighs on either side of Minho's, and their faces mere
inches apart.

"Did you read this?" He whispers, his sparkling eyes loyally holding Minho's gaze. The
sudden shift in dynamics, the promise of control slipping away, all to be replaced by a strange
allure that would always fascinate and unsettle him.

In between his lips and the honeyed complexion of his skin peeking from the caverns of the
sweater, the detective settled upon the notion that he need not let the fear show… that he was
no longer on the losing end of this pretty little enigma.

Minho's hands, almost naturally, reached toward the collar of the sweater, coiling the fabric
around his fist, unintentionally tightening his grip to pull him closer.

"I made a promise to you, Jisung." He whispers, the surge thickening in the tension which
crackled in the air. "Do you remember what it was?" Yet even as he ushered these words, the
ache in his body betrayed a certain vulnerability, knowing that the underlying current of
danger was more tantalising than something to fear.

Jisung's gaze held a glint of mischief, but instead, he rested a single hand on Minho's chest,
his fingers rubbing sinuously against the expanse of skin etching out of the shirt.

"That you would be the one to end this." He answers, that innocent sugar to his tone.

"Mm," Minho mutters as he coaxes the younger man forward, feeling the softness of his
breath upon his lips and the scent of his own body wash clad to his skin, desire for control
finally coming to fruition. "I don't want you forgetting that."

The detective could barely contain his inability to chastise himself, banishing the thoughts
that gave way to a myriad of extra problems that he couldn't fix even if he tried. For now, he
wanted to taste. To hold. To give himself some sort of leverage he had been craving since the
moment their eyes first met. He had not a clue of what Jisung was thinking, no entry to his
thoughts, no idea if the same share of want pervaded his twisted mind. That is until he spoke.

"I don't forget anything you say, pretty boy," Jisung whispers the same hand which once held
his chest now grasping his cheek, and then, he was pestering forward, bridging the gap
between what they both craved and the precipice of logic.

Minho didn't find the necessity of being gentle. His lips were moving against Jisung's, fist
tight around its grip on the sweater, no hesitation in any semblance of passion. He tasted as
the detective imagined; sweet, warm, the personification of honey.
There was no need for air, two chests heaving with effort. The older man ran his tongue along
his lower lip, grunting shortly when his pink lips parted and the entrance in which he sought.
He was so soft, the heady slick of their saliva cascading between each respective mouth and
into the detective's veins, the sensation intoxicating. When Jisung makes a slow moan against
his lips, the shift beneath Minho's groin harkens away any sort of suspense.

Wicked, evil, perverse thoughts sift through his mind, feeling the assassin tense as Minho
wraps his arm around his waist, pulling him closer -- sober enough to avoid trailing near his
wound.

The kiss was wet, languid, coy. And when they separate for only a moment, sucking in what
oxygen they could, they are returned to one another in a desperate capacity. Minho was
feasting upon that insatiable taste of the man he dreamt of, wanting nothing more than to feel
everything. He wanted to see that melodic voice whimper, his eyes glassy, to feel his flesh
beneath his fingers, taut and yielding for his touch. He wanted to strip every bit of clothing
clung to his perfect body, to lay him back into the pillows or to carry him into the bedroom,
to bend him over the kitchen counter, or to clasp a hand around his neck -- giving way to the
small part of his mind that wished to assert all of the power he could.

Jisung was an ardent opponent in challenging that same want, his hands rampant upon the
detective's torso, his hair, and his lap. He was youthfully eager, murmuring sweet grunts of
pleasure, both men literate at this point that only more would be able to fulfil the gauge of
satisfaction between them.

Minho couldn't quite imagine wanting someone more and the kiss became messier because of
it. Their tongues were melding against one another, desperately filling the assassin's need to
please, and the detective's obsession. He wanted to make Jisung's body his -- he wanted to
make Jisung feel what it felt like to yield under his hold, he wanted to make him pay.

"Do you want to fuck me, Detective Lee?" Jisung whimpered into the kiss, teeth breaching his
lips to press a satisfied grin against him.

"Mm…" Minho prefaces in a deft whisper, pressing the tips of his fingers to rest upon the
younger man's hips. "I think you know the answer to that."

The assassin conjured a darkened chuckle, reaching a hand downward to press against the
detective's thigh. Minho was intoxicated in every way possible. He no longer had any
thoughts of his dwindling career, or of the lust-sized hole that was now infiltrating the
investigation. He simply thought of Jisung's lips, and how tonight was a long-awaited break.

Jisung pulls away, his breaths softly expelling gentle lulls against Minho. The older man
takes a steadying resort in calming his shaky heart, hardly wishing to invite any sort of logic
into this taut moment of silence.

Maybe the younger man has withdrawn his lips to regain his strength, or to allow the
hopelessness of the entire situation to bloom like a cynical flower between their bodies.
Either way, Minho craved his taste once more and sought out the warmth of his mouth in
such a deft silence.
 But as quickly as the connection formed, it shattered. It was then that he felt a cold weight
upon his throat, the edge of a blade, the jolting touch of metal against the delicate skin,
cleaving through what they could have had with a chilling sense of reality.

The air, thick with a regretful tension, echoed Minho's racing thoughts. His breath was caught
in his throat, his heart and stomach dropping, all of the remorse rushing to his subconscious
at breakneck speed.

Minho swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. The regret, like a
heavy anchor, threatened to drag him under.

"What was this doing in your pocket, Detective Lee?" The slippery little snake whispered, a
small smirk pestering his pink lips that glistened in their shared primal gloss. "How
disappointing."

Chapter End Notes

surprise surprise i do NOT study medicine

soo, im sorry for medical inaccuracies and the delay in getting this up! ive been super
busy but now that uni is finished for the year, i have like 3 wips on the go and hoping to
get a lot up shortly!
 Drinks
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

If Minho was rich in any capacity, it would be in options.

His chest was rising and falling at the languid pace of the man atop his lap. He could sense
the foreboding risk, the sharp silver knife, the last line of defence that deep… deep… down
he had no intention of using – not against Jisung, at least. He could sense in the closeness of
their bodies, the way Jisung’s forehead was still rested against his own, and the way his eyes
were glossy and reflective of the detective’s self-portrait of loathing, that it would be very
easy for him to end it all.

A quick flick of that delicate wrist, one last smirk, one last deft comment that Minho was
sure to hum to the afterlife. Just a single movement – overkill wasn’t his style, that much was
clear in all of the hours Minho spent studying him. He got in, got out, got what he wanted,
and moved on.

Perhaps that was how Minho imagined it all to end in that moment. It was difficult to
swallow without the grunt of his Adam's apple feeling the taut presence of the blade. His lips
were pink and coiled to the side in some wry smirk. Slick. Coated in the shared entails of a
kiss. The prettiest thing Minho had ever seen.

To die at these hands. To die in his favourite place in the world, home. To feel the rupture of
his failure come to fruition.

It was a nice option. But… Minho had another idea.

“Are you surprised?” The detective whispered, his eyes inundated with the assassin’s.

Jisung twitched, his head melding to the side momentarily before bouncing back to form. His
eyes always seemed to light up, that same deranged enigma from the very first day he toyed
with Minho and his investigation.

“It wasn’t exactly what I was trying to find.” He hums with that fictitious honey to his tone.
He raises his knees slowly, blade keeping its tightness against the bounty of Minho’s throat,
before melding back down, rubbing himself against the firmness in Minho’s sweats – the type
of firmness that didn’t go away… not when the thoughts pervading his mind were this
exciting. “What did you plan to do to me with this, hm?”

His voice is a sweet whisper, summer nectar, the type of tone he employed knowing he
always got the answers he wanted.

“Were you planning to pull it out and press it against my throat once you had all of my
clothes off?” He hums, and Minho feels the blade tighten against his skin – as though the
smallest itch of pressure would pierce the layer separating them… and then nothing.
“No, I wasn’t.” Minho etches out a whisper, blinking eyes boring into those sparkling ones.

“Or were you hoping I would be too busy doing something else to notice?” He murmurs, so
close Minho could feel the kiss of his breath on his cheek – wanting to honour the voice in
his head that wanted to delicately talk him off the ledge, to mend, to say whatever he
imagined possible to carry his doubts away – even momentarily. “Tell me, Detective Lee, tell
me what you were thinking.”

The older man huffs, unable to control the wry contortion of his lips – the way he imagined
the pleasure of Jisung’s body to feel, and the premise of his next actions were battling at the
forefront of his mind. Just a moment ago, he imagined crawling through fire to feel his taunt
flesh beneath his fingertips, to hear him whimper Minho’s name, to see him come undone
and finally show his true self.

But it was time to turn the tides, to see his smirk falter, to see him finally lose.

“How can I trust you?” Minho whispers, watching Jisung blink once… and then twice.

He is observant, eyes flickering from the blade to Minho – a glare etching toward his soul.

“I once wondered what you liked to do for fun,” the older man mutters, apprehensive hands
still steadfast in his grip around Jisung’s waist. “I wondered if you talked in your sleep, or
had a best friend, or if you ever had doubts right before you pull a trigger.”

Jisung’s eyebrows knit together in the middle, as though he wasn’t quite following.

“I think about you… too much,” his voice chuckles, perhaps weakly, his mouth unbecoming
of the words leaving it. “About where you’ll be, where you’ll go, if you’re okay…”

Jisung backed his face away, for only a moment, attempting to read Minho’s hand, attempting
to decipher a part of the game they liked to play with one another, or if this was the real thing.

“And all I have learned about you is that you do not exist, ” Minho whispers, watching his
eyes suddenly falter. “I want to help you, I do… but to even have you sit on my couch, I
knew I needed to be prepared.” He flickers his gaze to the knife held to his throat. “I’m happy
to play games with you, Jisung. I’m happy to sit here and listen to you speak, and I’m happy
to kiss you. I would’ve been happy enough to fuck you too if you wanted it.”

The assassin’s eyes narrow, the type of glare that says this is not how you play.

“But you are not real.” The detective continues, waiting for the glimmer of a second in which
he relents his steadfast grip on the blade… waiting to strike. “I can feel you and see you and
taste you… but I don’t know who you are. ”

Jisung’s smirk falters, his lips failing to a flat line, like all of the breath was suddenly sucked
from his lungs – leaving them shrivelled, and coping.

“I kept a knife on me because you’re a bad guy, Jisung.” Minho suddenly felt his voice
itching with the absent confidence it had been lacking for weeks now. “And bad guys like you
don’t get to be trusted.”
Minho’s eyes flicker back to his lips, watching them twitch slightly, to gnarl. Perhaps this
was his true self… angry, scorned, able to feel true emotions – even if the first ones that
fronted before the detective were filled with rage. Perhaps this was the lowering of that pretty
mask all wrapped in a bow.

For a fleeting second, Minho feels the weight against his throat subsides, but only for a
fleeting second.

It was probably out of retaliation to his words – it was probably to swing back, develop some
traction, and really let Minho feel the pain. But in the flick of Jisung’s wrist, and his lips
coiled together out of contempt, the detective utilised what minuscule amount of time to
harbour what dwindling fortitude he had left, and to finish this losing streak.

In a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, he seized Jisung’s delicate wrist, fingers coiling

around it like a vice. The sensual balance of power shifted abruptly, and with a forceful twist,
Minho turned him over, Jisung’s body now sprawled beneath him on the couch.

That same blade, a steak knife, was now pressing against the milk of Jisung’s exposed neck.
He couldn’t help the stirring in the base of his stomach at the sight – his breath, now ragged,
echoed with the intensity of the moment.

Jisung’s chest rose and fell beneath him, his eyes as dark obsidian reflecting a storm of
thoughts – plans and counterplans flashing in bouts. His smirk had vanished from those
pretty pink lips, replaced by a steely resolve.

Minho’s gaze was loyally attached to Jisung’s, searching for a glimpse of the real person
behind the carefully constructed facade. He wanted to see him squirm, to gasp, to suck in a
deep breath to prepare himself for what was to come. But the fragments of Jisung’s reaction,
his real reaction, were very quickly putting themselves back together again.

“What now, baby?” Minho’s voice, a mix of authority and curiosity, cut through the charged
air.

The seconds stretched, taut with anticipation, and Minho held firm.

But even he couldn’t help the unnerving feeling prickling up his spine, watching Jisung’s
head lulled to the side, his tuft of growing black hair falling around his eyes, his top lip
thinning for his teeth to appear.

He is giggling before Minho can even organise the cacophony of voices in his head.

“If I wanted you dead, pretty boy… you wouldn’t have lasted a week.” He whispers, and
Minho can still taste his lingering sweetness upon his lips. “But now you’re making me
reconsider how nicely I’ve treated you.”

Minho doesn’t fall so easily to the words, despite being drenched in the syrup of that melodic
voice.
“You’re not gonna’ hurt me,” Jisung continues in a deft murmur, his hand slowly snaking its
way around Minho’s wrist like a man would hold his longtime lover. “You’re not gonna’ cut
me with that knife you have against my throat… You’re not trained to do anything but chase
and chase and chase like a good dog.”

Minho couldn’t help the way his lips tugged to the side, forever enthralled by Jisung’s words,
his stance, his power. It was an addicting drug. Heroin, but only the finest.

“You’re right,” the detective whispered, watching the silver of the knife offer a glimpse of his
reflection as he held it tightly against that delicate throat. “But I don’t need to chase you
when I have you right here, beneath me, where I can see you.”

“Oh?” Jisung hums, almost leaning into the blade, lashes fluttering. “And what are you going
to do to me?”

Minho smirks once more, reaching his other hand into his back pocket, and slowly pulling
out his phone.

“I’m just gonna’ make you sit right here in my arms, baby.” The detective nods, licking his
lips and lowering the elbow to his knife-wielding hand to press against the assassin’s chest -
to tighten their proximity. All the while drawing his phone close to his body, unlocking it
with a glance. “Can you sit and be good?”

Jisung smiles lazily, seemingly as intoxicated as Minho, having far too much fun.

The detective can just see the ‘dial’ button beckoning him out of the corner of his eye, right
by Changbin’s contact. His hand trembles slightly, wilfully observing the way Jisung still
hadn’t quite caught on.

He had a mere second, but the faint sound of the dial tone shifted his infatuated glare from
dazed to dread. Jisung’s face drops, eyes faltering, and a brief panic flashes across his
features.

All Minho needed to do was call – Changbin would answer and put two and two together.
After all, they worked in perfect synchronicity.

But just as the detective went to make any semblance of a movement, a forceful kick
connected with his stomach, knocking him back onto the coffee table. It was sharp and
callous, just about stealing the very breath from his lungs. In a daze, Minho watches Jisung -
swimming in a borrowed sweater - and bolting towards the bedroom.

Acting on instinct, Minho is quick to pursue, only taking a few lunged steps, fast enough to
catch up to the assassin and pin him up against the cold, brick wall of the hallway. Their eyes
locked for a moment, the tension was palpable, no longer a sensual act but moreover a
sinister reality.

“Coward,” Jisung mutters, two hands pressing against the detective’s chest, ricocheting his
weight to meld against the opposing wall, before his swift movements carry him further
down the hallway, where he is quick to shove a sentinel potted plant down.
Minho barely registers the shattered ceramic, the crash echoing through the silence, and the
soil now covering his once pristine hall. Without an itch of hesitation, Minho chases after him
– knowing he was heading toward the bathroom annexed to his bedroom, knowing that was
where he left his pistol, knowing this wouldn’t end any other way.

Instead of following him into the bathroom, Minho makes a split-second decision to change
course. In a swift, almost desperate motion, he clamours toward the drawers near his bed,
pulling out his spare service pistol. His stomach was still knotting from the swift kick that
was delivered to it quickly and easily, and his knuckles were white in their grasp of his gun,
aimed directly at the bathroom door, ajar, and dark. He couldn’t see Jisung, but he could hear
his breathing and some shuffling around.

“Come out with your hands up,” Minho’s voice is a deft grunt, eyes alight with the premise
of this headache going away. “You got what you wanted – now give me what I want.”

“I really don’t like killing unless I get paid,” Jisung hums, and Minho doesn’t even flinch at
the clicking sound so exclusive to a gun occurring in the tiled room. “It’s a shame, pretty boy.
I thought we could’ve had something.”

“Once you’re in custody, I’ll take you on a date - how about it?” Minho muses, raising a
second hand to clasp his pistol. “I’ll buy you a coffee and we can talk in one of the
interrogation rooms at the station and you can tell me all about the little operation you’re a
part of. I’ll be a very good listener.”

A deft scoff emanates from the bathroom.

“I don’t date dead guys.” Jisung continued, and Minho could just about hear the grin clad to
his lips. “I’m gonna’ have to stand you up, Detective Lee.”

The bedroom is shrouded in an unbearable silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of
Minho’s breath. His pulse was racing in anticipation, the slow stirring of heat licking in the
base of his stomach, the gun clutched tightly in his hands. In the bathroom, Jisung is no doubt
poised in the same manner, each man trying to read the other.

Minho knew he was at an advantage. The room was so vast in comparison to the small chasm
of the doorway. A split-second calculation would determine such a standoff – and it was only
up to the pretty little assassin conjuring small breaths of preparedness who had to play his
cards carefully.

The detective wasn’t trained to kill. He wouldn’t find any pleasure in doing something so
drastic, and he knew deep down he didn’t want to see Jisung meet such a fate. But for the
deranged enigma on the other side of the wall, killing came as naturally as breathing, and
Minho knew he had pressed a little too hard.

Every second felt like an eternity, the air pregnant with the impending danger, and yet, Minho
didn’t feel an itch of fear… just that strange excitement.

But it is all quickly and explosively sobering when he hears a sharp crack of a gunshot.
The bullet tears through the air, narrowly missing Minho’s shoulder by hitting the lamp atop
the drawers. The impact sends glass shards flying, the bulb shatters in a shower of fragments,
the light burning out. Instinctively, Minho drops to the floor, reconvening and catching the
part of his breath that was treacherously stolen from him.

From his prone position, the detective raises his pistol, scanning the room for any movement.
It was a brief, fleeting moment, but he caught a glimpse of the pretty assassin, eyes darkened
and face nullified by concentration. Minho’s gaze is frenzied in locating a perfect spot on that
perfect body to immobilise him.

Before Minho can aim his shot, another gunshot reverberates through the room, the vibration
harkening a flinch and a deft grunt to leave his mouth. The ceiling light above them shatters,
and glass rains down onto the carpet, one fleck even scraping the older man’s cheek.
Darkness swallows the bedroom, leaving Minho with his ears ringing and his breath
shortened.

He strains to see through the obscurity, the blackness concealing Jisung’s next move.

Minho barely had a moment to conjure any thoughts of grandeur before he felt the sated chill
of the wind enter the bedroom, the sounds of the city quickly filling his ears, and the sudden
jolt of realisation course through his mind. The window was open.

“For fuck’s sake,” the detective grunts, quickly scrambling to his feet, jolting toward his
bedroom window.

Pistol first, he peers over the ledge of the fire escape, hearing the proficient footsteps fleeing
down the many flights of stairs exposed to the bustling city. Enacting the scourge of
adrenaline pooling in his body, the detective braces himself to climb out, only to halt at the
crack of another gunshot.

He instinctively ducks back – watching the bullet whizz past his sightline, into the night air
and narrowly missing his head. With wild eyes, Minho glares back over the ledge to see
Jisung’s bright gaze, a malevolent smirk on his face.

“You’re fucking insane,” He growled to the assassin, who left the older man with a playful
wink, continuing to run down the fire escape, through the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering
in the air.

Regaining his composure, the detective takes a calculated risk, aiming his gun at the fleeing
Jisung. The gun wavers in Minho’s grip, watching as a tuft of Jisung’s hair appears in his
gaze in every instance he curls around the fire escape. He had a perfect shot to end this
dangerous game once and for all – to put this whole mess to bed.

But something stays in hand.

Apprehension.

He just… couldn’t.
Minho feels his hand falter, and as Jisung disappears around a corner, the detective lets him
go into the night.

He was on the brink of self-berating. Of launching hard and fast into a series of resentful
words at himself, at his inaction. But amongst all of the festering criticism for himself, he
didn’t once feel the scathing burn of regret course through his mind. He was almost glad it
ended that way… a fight for another time.

Just as the detective found himself sighing, glaring at his dark bedroom and the mess made in
his once quiet sanctuary, a loud bang reverberated through the apartment. The front door,
battered and splintered, caves in under the force of the building’s security and police.
Floodlights beam through the hallway, momentarily blinding Minho who was exiting the
bedroom with a resentful huff.

Well, Changbin seemed to have put two and two together.

A team of law enforcement rushed in, weapons drawn, voices calling to him, asking where
the suspect was, if he was okay.

He could only sigh, throwing his pistol to his bed soiled in broken glass, etching his way to
the fridge to finally fix himself a drink.

When the higher-ups arrived, the chief, Changbin - with Hyunjin closely following - and a
smattering of other members of the forensic team present to collect evidence, Minho only had
that feeling of euphoria lingering through his veins. His mind couldn’t help its endless
infatuation with those lips he knew the taste of, his hands couldn’t help burning the memory
of how his waist felt, and how pretty he looked laid beneath him.

It was fuel to the same fire that had been wildly burning since he first braced Jisung in his
sights.

And despite the chief’s incessant concern, Changbin’s guilt, and the myriad of questions
being thrown his way, Minho couldn’t fucking wait to see him again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“See, this is what I like to see!” Minho barely glances up from the body to see his smiling
partner, arms crossed over his chest, observing the mosaic of blood painting the wall behind
them. “No untraceable poisons, no public places, no dressing like a nurse to get into a
hospital. Just a simple gunshot, all recorded by the CCTV and a lovely ten-minute drive away
from the office.”

“Talk dirty to me,” Minho mutters, collecting the rubble samples on the shoulder of the
victim with tweezers and syphoning them into an evidence jar.

A brief slap is heard to his rear.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” it’s Hyunjin’s voice, and the detective crouched to his knees
glances behind his shoulder, to brace the forensic photographer in his view. He was clad in
his usual casual clothes, cool and loose, with the additive of his badge around his neck on a
chain, and a police vest cantering his torso. “The man was shot less than an hour ago and
you’re acting like it’s a good thing.”

“It is a good thing,” Changbin scoffs. "This is a welcome change to that other theatrical
bullshit.”

“Mm…” Minho mutters, standing to his feet as he seals the jar with its silver lid, ushering a
rookie toward him to shelve it with all of the other evidence he had so far collected. “It’s a
change alright.”

“I’ve missed homicide,” Changbin hums lovingly. “Haven’t you, Lee?”

“Well,” Minho sighs, removing his blue latex gloves, and throwing them into the plastic bag
where all of the respondents were to annex their rubbish. “We can’t rule out anything at this
point. We didn’t get the tip that this is related but… something’s off… That’s for sure.”

“Come on, ” his partner drawls. “A gunshot at point blank range,” he points to the body of
the upper-scale attorney, head lolled back and hands petrified by his sides, “some guy
wearing a mask and tailing the cleaning crew to get into the building, no third-party
interference into the surveillance… This isn’t Han Jisung’s style. This is just another case of
make friends, not enemies.”

“Yeah,” Minho nods his head in agreement. “You may be right.”

It had been a cool two weeks since the incident at Minho’s apartment, and his desk had
become a proverbial ghost town. However, one positive seemed to be his ability to clean up
the fragments of their shared evening rather succinctly.

In all honesty, Minho was able to shrug his shoulders, and arouse zero suspicion of his
actions. It was no lie to recount that his apartment was broken into, he was forced at gunpoint
to stitch up a bullet wound, and he had to tussle with the assailant until he was able to scare
him off.

The very worst of it seemed to be the chief’s forlorn ‘I told you the heat on your back was too
hot .’ But the detective did well in assuring him that he would be fine… he even moved into
Changbin’s spare bedroom with Gomi to really settle their worries momentarily while the
investigation carried on.

It was like his life had resumed and he wasn’t plagued by the scourge that was losing to Han
Jisung.

Of course, he made no such mention to anyone – not even Changbin – of the kiss they shared.
Minho didn’t quite find the necessity of putting forth that sort of evidence. It was moreover a
fact he often liked to think about whenever he would read Jisung’s file. Like a feature of a
film that doesn’t quite change the plot if it went unnoticed. But Minho noticed, and it was his
best-kept secret.
The shift in the investigation really halted matters. The – few living – signatories to the
global security treaty were all in their home countries, and far, far away from Seoul. The
entire draft of the legislation was quickly thrown out the door, with the United Nations
finding it too big of a risk for further deaths. There were no killings, no sightings, no clue.
Essentially, it was almost a case closed.

Hence Changbin’s inappropriately keen cadence to be at a crime scene after two weeks of
office work.

“The chief is paranoid,” he continued to draw on, leaning up against the wall by an abstract
painting – ignoring the blood splatter experts who were still setting up their blue lights. “If
anybody rocks up dead that happens to work in an office like this, he’s just gonna’ assume
there’s a common thread.”

Minho sighs at his best friend's words, taking a step back to grasp the scene.

It was hardly Jisung’s style, that was for sure. But something about the formation of the death
seemed clean… orchestrated.

Ignoring Changbin’s continued cheer, who had quickly moved on to bothering his boyfriend,
Minho chews on his lip as he tries to imagine what happened. Standing in the centre of the
office, his gaze runs along the floor until it meets the body lying languidly in the overtly
expensive leather desk chair. It was point-blank range, exactly how it was pictured on the
CCTV. The masked assailant somehow manifested in the room, held his pistol forward,
barrelled a singular shot, and etched around the desk.

He follows his footsteps, slowly, carefully, sure not to miss any detail.

From the inside of the mahogany desk, he glares at one of the drawers ajar, and pulls a clean
cloth from the inside of his blazer pocket, slowly opening it all the way. At first, Minho
blinks at the wads upon wads of collected cash, separated by denomination, and bound by a
rubber band, alongside three gold bars. It was strange. The drawer was activated by a keypad,
operating like a safe, and yet, it seemed nothing was stolen and no force was needed to even
get it open.

“Hey Hwang,” Minho cleared his throat, glaring moreover at his partner who was fraternising
with the taller of the three. “Did the first responders get the code for the safe from his
secretary before we came in?”

“No,” Hyunjin shakes his head surely. “Everything is as it was. I even took some photos of
the initial discovery. The safe was always open.”

“Well,” the detective sighs as Changbin walks himself around the desk, following his
partner’s inquisition. “What was in the safe?”

“What idiot kills a man and doesn’t take all this? Fuck… there’s gotta’ be millions in here,
Lee.” Changbin scoffs, picking up a roll of cash with a gloved hand.
Minho could already feel his eyebrows drawing together, and something shifting in the base
of his chest. Blood, the yellow evidence markers, and the cheerful hum of hurried footsteps
drenched his senses. Quickly turning his attention to the temporary control station, consisting
of two laptops and a bunch of cables the detective had no idea the function of, he waves at
one of the tech rookies typing something on their phone.

“You,” he snaps toward them with those cold eyes. “Bring up the CCTV. I wanna see it
again.”

The rookie nodded nervously and guided the detective toward the labyrinth of laptops and
cords. As they approached the makeshift station, Minho glared at the man already standing in
front of it. A slim build, clad in a forensic police vest that matched Hyunjin’s, and black hair
obscured by a navy blue baseball cap. He moved his fingers along the keyboard with a
suggested familiarity, and when it seemed like he was finished and he backed away from the
control centre, Minho grunted as he felt his shoulder collide with his own.

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” Minho mutters, irritation etched into his voice. His
glare briefly met the passing face – a young officer, with bright fox-like eyes and clear skin,
likely a recent graduate from the academy.

“I– Sorry, Detective Lee. ” He scrambles, brushing past the older man quickly.

Shaking off the encounter, Minho turned his attention to the laptop, leaning over the table to
scrutinise the footage once more. It unfolded as expected. The victim was sitting at his desk,
reading something on his computer screen, the masked assailant, clad in all-black utility
clothing, a ski mask, and a beanie, flounced into the office, unloaded a singular round and
began to stalk toward the desk.

The tape stops precisely when the assailant circled the desk.

“Why did you stop it?” The detective crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the rookie
next to him, watching him rewind the tape once more.

“I didn’t stop it, sir.” He murmured apprehensively. “That’s all that we could recover from
today’s film.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you talking about ?” He whispered, quick to pinch the bridge of his nose with his
index finger and thumb. “Just switch over to the current feed and rewind an hour.”

“Okay,” the rookie is quick to jump into action, tapping around on the keyboard, taking
juncture of the camera cantering the corner of the office. With a click, Minho is staring at
their current formation. He and the rookie by the control centre, Changbin and Hyunjin by
the body, the blood splatter team just about finished setting up the blue lights, some interns
carrying in the trays of coffees Minho ordered when he heard they were needed on the scene.
With another tap on the mouse, the feed rewinds far beyond the arrival of the detectives, first
responders, and the secretary who let out a harrowing scream when she discovered the body.
And then, it stops.
“Why did it stop?” Minho pesters again. “Keep going until we see the kill.”

“It won’t let me.” He frowns, typing something on the keyboard once more. “It’s like the tape
reset from this point.”

Minho leans forward, his eyes narrowing at the screen.

He rewatches it all again under the guise of fixation upon separate points of focus.

The first, he trails the secretary. She screamed, ran, and only appeared at the scene when one
of the responding police asked her to show him the body. Nothing amiss there.

The second, he glares at the two street officers who arrived at the scene. They shone a
flashlight on the body, and one of them put their hands on the leather chair without gloves.
Idiots … but they didn’t etch anywhere near the safe.

Curiously, Minho revisits the construction of the control centre, consisting of two laptops and
various cables, by a forensic technician. The slim man was standing there, observing the
footage when Minho and Changbin arrived but was quick to make himself scarce
inconspicuously when they requested to see the footage themselves. It was strange.

He could feel his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watched himself and Changbin
syphon on a pair of gloves to begin their investigation. As soon as they walk away from the
laptops, he notices that the same technician in the baseball cap reappears at the control
centre.

“Who is that?” Minho mutters, his voice low but urgent, finger pressed against the screen.

“Ah…” The rookie service tech hums, leaning closer to inspect the figure. “I’m not sure.
Someone from forensics maybe?”

The detective couldn’t help the way a fleeting grunt escaped his lips, eyes snapping away
from the screens.

“Hey Hwang, come here.” He calls to the taller man who was amid crouching to his knees,
camera lens aimed at some anomaly he must’ve found on the floor. “Is this guy from your
division?”

Hyunjin, adjusting something on the camera hung around his neck, is quick to stalk toward
the detective. With a press of his finger, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and
leans closer to the screen.

“The technician from forensics is Officer Song – but she’s at another scene today. The one in
that high-rise in Gangnam.” Hyunjin surmises with a nod. “It could be one of her interns, but
they wouldn’t be able to access any of the footage without their code.”

“So, you’ve never seen him before, huh?” Minho mutters, feeling Changbin brush against his
shoulder as a surrogate to the unfolding investigation.

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s just me and the blood splatter team from forensics today.”
It was that familiar shift in his stomach, that tantalising pull of the invisible thread that was
keeping him afloat throughout two weeks of mundane office work. He had to calm his
simmering heart, suppress the excitement, and meld his glare toward his partner who just so
happened to be riding the same wavelength.

“This isn’t right,” Changbin mutters under his breath, staring at the screen. “God… They’re
just letting anyone with a fucking vest onto a crime scene now, huh?”

Like a switch, Minho’s gaze locks with his partner – the unspoken understanding passing
between them like an electric current. The urgency of the situation is palpable and without
uttering a word, they both break into movement, guns drawn and eyes darting around the
crime scene for the man in the baseball cap.

Minho’s mind races, calculating the possible escape routes when his surveillance of the room
becomes fruitless. Instead, he doubles down and flicks through the channels on the CCTV,
scanning the various cameras in the building. Hallway, lobby, reception area. Nothing. But
when he switched to the elevator feed, he couldn’t help the stirring in his stomach.

There he is, standing alone in the elevator with a self-assured smirk. His head is down,
engrossed in the small screen he’s holding, but the telltale dimples on his cheeks give him
away. Without even a glance, Minho can almost hear the cogs turning in Changbin’s mind
beside him.

As the elevator descends, the man in the baseball cap lifts his head slightly, pressing two
fingers against his ear and begins to move his lips. Great.

A wave of realisation washes over the detective and his partner grunts beside him, a mix of
frustration and determination etched on his face.

“Stay here and call the chief,” Changbin orders Hyunjin, who already had a phone in hand,
before scowling in lieu of his partner, “time to go for a run.”

Without waiting for a response, they sprint toward the fire escape, the quickest route to cut
off the technician’s escape. Minho’s mind was alight with possibilities, and his feet were
moving far beyond the capacity to which he cognitively commanded them.

The sound of their footsteps echoes through the narrow stairwell as they descend, adrenaline
pumping through their veins. Changbin is cursing under his breath that they had four fucking
flights of stairs to go and that he wished he called in sick today. The chasm of stairwells was
silent, only filled by the tension of the chase and the sounds of their rhythmic huffing.

The air is rife in thickness as Minho and Changbin burst into the lobby, panting from the
perilous sprint down the first escape. Their pistols are drawn, and Minho wastes no time
growling a command for everybody to get down, while Changbin punctuates the order with a
deft yell of “Police!”

The lobby erupts into chaos as people scramble for cover, the myriad of ever-changing faces
cowering in fear and confusion.
Amidst the panic, Minho’s eyes snap between the empty elevator and the revolving door at
the forefront of the lobby, catching a singular glimpse of that baseball cap and his thin body
now devoid of the faux police vest he used as a disguise.

“Come on, he’s heading into the city,” Minho grunts as they follow suit, and run into the
bustling street beyond, navigating through the panicking crowds with precision. As they
breach the lobby doors, the technician is already weaving through the waves of pedestrians
on the sidewalk. Midday sunlight casts long shadows between towering buildings, and the
streets were alive in the hustle and bustle of people on their lunch breaks.

But Minho’s focus narrows solely on the fleeing suspect.

“Police! Stop now!” Changbin was shouting, hoping to draw attention to the unfolding
situation.

Yet, the suspect, now exposed without his disguise, darts across the street, skillfully
navigating through the traffic. Minho follows, hoping with a prayer beneath his breath that he
isn’t about to get cleaned up by a driver not paying attention, and etches toward the entrance
of the subway station.

Both detectives push themselves to the limit, lungs burning from the exertion as they descend
the barrage of stone stairs, leaping over barriers all to follow the technician who was making
a brisk break toward the platforms. Minho’s heart is awash in the adrenaline flowing through
his bloodstream as they plunder down the caverns of the station.

It was a chaotic symphony of screeching trains and hurried footsteps. The technician
manoeuvres through the crowds, narrowly avoiding collisions as he rushes toward the
awaiting train. Minho and Changbin don’t slow down, not now, and continue to chase him
toward a stationary train, pistols remaining drawn, eyes in a laser-like focus toward their
target.

Minho could just see the suspect slip onto a train in the nick of time, but the detectives
followed suit, narrowly jumping the barriers and squeezing through the doors. The subway
car is a blur of motion. They weave through the passengers who were gasping and gulping
upon view of their pistols at the ready. Three beeps punctuate the air, signatory of the doors
beginning to close, and Minho can only feel his breath hitch as he notices a figure leap from
the train and back onto the platform. The doors slam shut, and the train jolts, beginning to
move.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Changbin’s voice is a growl, scowling through the glass.

The detective saunters to the window, eyes frenzied and wild, glaring at the suspect now
standing confidently on the platform. He removes the baseball cap, revealing a mess of black
hair, and grins that strangely familiar dimpled smile.

The added cherry on top was the way he raised his hand, stared directly into Minho’s eyes,
and waved. His chest was vibrating with laughter, and as the train moved along, the suspect
turned on his heel and began to walk away, disappearing into the busy subway station.
Minho’s fists clench at his sides, frustration at a boiling point. He felt all of the air leave his
lungs, and anger coursed through him. The sense of familiarity gnaws at the edges of
consciousness leading him into unbridled fury.

It was clear in every sense of the matter that they were nowhere near out of the woods.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“–Han Jisung…”

Minho felt his bones jolt at the mere mention of him. The detective, still seething with
frustration, mindlessly stabs away at the palm of his hand with his pen, leaving the surface
practically covered in ink. The chief was standing at the front of the meeting room, having
spent the last half hour going into detail about the gunshot victim, almost lulling him to
sleep.

He had heard it all before. The victim, the attorney of Mr Shin – the diplomat who died in
that restaurant all those weeks ago, was uncovered to also obtain a myriad of clients who
were advocates for the global security treaty. It seems they had found the fine gossamer
thread that connected that crime scene to all of the others. They were running in circles
around the investigation and Minho could only imagine whoever hired them to play out this
well-constructed killing spree to be rather happy with the state of the department in this
meeting room.

Seungmin sighs, standing to his feet when Chan calls him up, ready to present his findings
about the safe in greater detail. Minho can only cross his arms over his chest as he glares at
the screen flashing with a photocopied image of what they all assumed to be stolen by the
one who carried out the hit.

“I managed to get his secretary to provide me with this,” he points to the screen, leaning
himself against the meeting table. “It was rather simple to get her to fold… I’m not sure what
went wrong in your interrogation, Detective Seo, but she sang like a canary when I applied a
bit of pressure.”

“The woman wouldn’t stop screaming and wailing for the entire interview,” Changbin, sitting
beside Minho, grunted. “I tip my hat off to you for getting a fucking word in edge-wise.”

“Anyways,” Seungmin rolls his eyes as he glares back at the screen. “This is a copied version
of what we believed to be stolen by the assailant. It turns out our victim was the attorney to
three of the biggest domestic adversaries of the global security treaty – all of which are
planning to rally for the United Nations to reopen the legislation for signature.”

Changbin leans forward, his brows furrowed in concern. “So, they’re essentially in
possession of the details of their next targets? Was this not public knowledge? Why did the
victim leave this information buried in his safe?”
Seungmin presses a shoulder forward, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, the media is really playing up the threats arising from this treaty, I guess the victim
thought that by hiding this information away he would be alright,” he sighs as Minho’s gaze
flickers to the middle of the table where photographs of his dead body were laid out, “but we
all know how that turned out.”

“So, we have two suspects at play here.” The chief nods, following Seungmin’s words
carefully. “We have the man in the baseball cap who tampered with the CCTV–”

“And made us look like rookie idiots in the subway,” Changbin grumbles under his breath.

“–And we have Han Jisung who carried out the kill.”

“No,” Minho perks up now, finding his second wind. “It was a different killer.”

“Detective Lee?” The chief chews on his bottom lip. “It’s clear they are all in cahoots. The
very software that the man in the baseball cap put into our system was the same software
used to interfere with our cameras at both the restaurant and the hospital. I know I don’t need
to remind you that Han Jisung carried out these instances.”

The detective sighs, standing to his feet, glaring at Seungmin until he sits back down, before
strolling to the front of the room with his laptop – quickly plugging it in to enhance his
findings.

Three distinct images are displayed on the screen. The first is the grainy image of the masked
figure who killed the attorney in point-blank range. The second is the man in the baseball cap
captured by the CCTV in the subway with his hat off and grin clad to his lips. And the third,
a granular snapshot of Jisung fleeing from the hospital at the last scene he was spotted.

“We have already established that our little friend here,” he swipes his glare at the shot of
Jisung, “has an affinity for being very theatrical with his marks. He’s disguised himself as a
waiter, a nurse, a clubgoer, and there were reports of him dressing up as a dancer when he
made that hit in Tokyo.”

He is quick to point at the blurry image of the man who killed the attorney. “Our guy from
yesterday covered himself head to toe in black utility clothing, a mask and a beanie… not to
mention the way he shot him dead at point-blank range.” Minho almost finds himself
chuckling at the premise of the discussion. “Jisung likes to be subtle. Poison, a knife to the
throat when Cho was taking a piss, and a gunshot in the back of the head. They’re completely
inconsistent.”

“Maybe he’s under the pump?” The chief suggests, pressing a shoulder forward. “Why not
ditch the stupid disguises so we stop sniffing his trail?”

“That’s not how Jisung operates,” Minho mutters, shaking his head as he glares at the three
suspects. “Not to mention this suspect is holding the pistol in his left hand… and I’ve been
held at gunpoint enough to know Jisung is right-handed.”
“So, who do you suggest it is?” Seungmin perks up, apprehensive gaze melding toward the
detective.

Minho flickers to the next page he had at the ready – the black and white photograph of the
obituary reporting Jisung’s death in the orphanage fire.

“My guess,” he hums, glaring at the two boys sitting beside him who were reported dead in
the same tragedy. “Our killer from yesterday was this one,” he points a finger at the blonde
with the insatiably beaming smile, “Lee Felix.”

The room lingers with a palpable tension, and Changbin with the same concern etched on his
face, stands up and saunters toward the screen.

“Look at his features,” Minho’s partner continues, glaring toward the chief. “Blonde hair,
freckled skin, thin jaw… he’s wearing the mask for a reason. If his face were caught on
camera, his identity would be uncovered imminently. There ain’t many suspects in our
system that look like that, I’ll tell you that for free.”

Minho nods at his words, lifting his gaze back to the screen.

“And this one on the left was the man from the subway.” He retorts. “Yang Jeongin.”

“He always had that shit-eating grin, huh?” Changbin mutters, still reeling from the chase
yesterday. “Give me ten minutes in an interrogation room with him and he won’t be smiling
anymore.”

Minho can only watch the chief and his forlorn expression of concern and determination.
After a heavy sigh and a deep glance at the screen, he turns toward the detectives within the
cavernous meeting room.

“I’ve received intelligence that the three men from the contact list of the attorney are
scheduled to attend a press conference in Busan in two days. I want this finished.”

Seungmin, to Minho’s relief, quickly interjects. “Well, we need to postpone it and put them
all in protective custody until the threat is neutralised. You saw what happened to Cho when
we let him roam freely.”

“Agreed,” Minho mutters to the head of foreign affairs, still recovering from the headache
Jisung caused from the onset of that.

The chief shakes his head. “I appreciate the concern, but I want this resolved, not delayed.
The government is taking the stance that the treaty must go ahead. No more interruptions.”
His gaze narrows quickly and darkly. “Han Jisung, Lee Felix, Yang Jeongin… they’re just
young kids who are good at what they do and are obviously making a lot of money for
themselves. But I want whoever-the-fuck is paying them to do all of this. This is bigger than
all of us. This is all a big chessboard and they are only three little pawns.”

“What do you suggest then?” Changbin pesters, tilting his head to the side. “We’re not
exactly in a good position to be taking risks at the moment. The media won’t shut up about
this whole mess.”

The chief leans forward, perpetuating that gentle smile that often fronted when he took this
authoritative stance. “We set up a trap. I’ll get you and Detective Lee into the hotel where this
is all going down, we swap out their personal security details with covert agents who are
inundated with the investigation, and we wait for one of them to show up. We just need one
and the entire thing unravels, mark my words.”

“They won’t open up,” Minho mutters. “They won’t give anything away. I can already tell
you that for sure.”

“So make them open up, Detective Lee.” The chief grunts, flashing that frenzied gaze. “You
have an admirer in Han Jisung… I’m sure you can be persuasive.”

“What are you saying?” Minho draws his eyebrows together, almost scoffing at the chief’s
words.

“He came to you to stitch up a bulletwound, willingly, and knowing the risk.” He tilts his
head to the side. “Something tells me that this juvenile infatuation he seems to have with you
will help us out in more ways than necessary. Gain his trust. Get him to sing. I don’t care
what you have to do – just do it. Don’t let him walk all over you again.”

The detective can only stare at his superior, feeling the fluctuating thoughts buzz around his
mind, feeling the sudden dread shift into place.

“This will be over by the end of the week. I suggest you all pack lightly and get some reading
done on the flight there.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was simple to set up the bugs in the function room where the press conference would take
place. The lined carpet, spandrels and fixtures of bronze on the walls, and the intricate
drapings surrounding the windows were perfect perches to mount their microphones and
cameras and begin the process of manning the trap they had set. Everything was going to
plan.

The opulence of his hotel room was filled with everything he needed for the steps to come to
fruition. A bulletproof vest, a pocket knife, two pistols, and enough ammunition to keep an
army at bay. The chief and Seungmin were able to get all of the covert operatives into the
hotel, disguised as the security details for the advocates arriving in the morning, and Minho
had the entire site plan of the hotel burned into his mind from the flight over.

In his own room, Minho clasped the abysmal crystal glass of whiskey in his hand, staring
past the soft glow of the chandelier overhead, and into the expansive ocean view of the
skyline outside his window. It was a nice change to the gritty reality they were used to in
Seoul, but something in his chest just felt… amiss.

On one hand, there was that immense joy. The trap was set, the plan was in motion, he had a
clear role to play, and he was allowed to finally win on a silver platter. On the other, a subtle
twinge of guilt crept in. Playing dirty seemed to be Jisung’s speciality… but it was Minho’s
first day, and he had his reservations.

Changbin, settled in the room next door, far too preoccupied with his nonchalant dismissal of
his best friend in a muttered ‘Hyunjin is calling, I’ll be a while,’ leaving the detective with
idle time to play before plans were set in motion.

He couldn’t help but give a pert nod at his reflection in the ornate mirror. His hair was swept
up and out of his face, his suit was sharp and pressed nicely, his holster holding his pistol was
fastened tightly by the darkened leather, and his belt held a shiny pair of cuffs and his golden
badge. He looked neat… clean… dressed to kill.

Minho left his room with purpose. The corridor outside was adorned with rich, burgundy
carpeting, and the walls were elaborate canvas’ for paintings in gilded frames. He eventually
found himself in the elevator, and then his eyes lit up at the golden-hued lobby. As he strolled
through it, coolly - not drawing any attention to himself, Minho’s sharp gaze casually
surveyed the occupants, ensuring nothing seemed out of place.

The lobby itself was a testament to luxury, with golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling,
casting a warm glow over the marble-like floors. Rich couples, groups of friends, and
travelling businessmen and women in finely tailored suits moved about, their dwindling
conversations blending into affluence. His eyes were ever watchful, vigilant for any signs of
irregularity. He was quickly satisfied that everything appeared normal, and he made his way
to the carpeted staircase to ascend to the hotel’s restaurant.

Much like the rest of the hotel, the restaurant exuded extravagance. He continued to survey
the patrons, ignoring the waiter’s polite inquiry about securing a table.

It was disappointing not to find what he wanted to find, but he continued to move
purposefully through the restaurant and into the adjacent hotel bar.

The bar was an intimate vision of marble and gold, with a long stretch of polished granite as
a counter and an array of high bar stools. It was quiet compared to the other bars Minho
frequented in Seoul. There was no raucous laughter, no fighting, no yelling. It was one of
refined indulgence; clinking glasses and the low hum of conversation filling the air.

When the detective entered, his eyes immediately focused on a familiar silhouette sitting on
the furthest end of it.

There, those broad shoulders were hunched over a phone. His favourite back in the world.
His tan arms, sinuous and defined, were exposed by a black suit vest, tucked into tailored
black pants that emphasised his trim waist. Minho could only see his tuft of midnight hair,
and his feet turned inward to each other on the base of the stool, to know it was exactly who
he was looking for.
He probably needed to cut the chief some slack one of these days for his ability to put a good
plan together.

An empty glass sat before him, and Minho felt a familiar blaze stir in the base of his stomach,
the excitement bubbling over a little too much.

Maintaining his cool, the detective swallowed all of the reservations in the back of his mind
and approached the bar - far and away from the problem all alone on the other side.

Sliding his card toward the bartender, he tilted his head toward the prettiest man in the hotel.
“Get him another drink.” He mutters, eyes loyal to the way Jisung was so engrossed in
whatever was on his phone, his elbow leant on the marble and his pink lips pursed together in
concentration.

As the drink was being prepared, some cocktail with a cherry annexed to the side of the
martini glass, Minho inadvertently unfurled his silver cuffs from his belt, his footsteps slow
toward his prey.

He was close enough to smell his gardenia perfume and see the intricacies of his hair when
the bartender placed the cocktail before him, coaxing his attention upward. In his brief
confusion, the detective reaches down and clasps a singular cuff on his wrist, watching him
flinch. Jisung’s eyes quickly snap toward the silver now wrapped around him, before melding
his glare toward the older man sliding into the seat beside him.

“You don’t want to make a scene, believe me,” Minho whispers in his ear, so close he could
hear his breaths in reaction to such words. “I’ll have you bent over this bar, both wrists in
cuffs, and the entire squad manning this investigation here to watch.”

“Do you wanna see me make a scene?” Jisung murmurs back, eyes black in their study of the
detective.

“Try me, baby.”

As Minho settles into his bar stool, clasping the other cuff tightly and glaring delightfully at
his bound prey, he watches Jisung sigh and reaches forth with his free hand to grasp his
drink.

“I was just thinking of you, Detective Lee,” he muses, taking a sip, and Minho feels all of his
summers come to fruition. With a tug of his cuffed wrist, he huffs softly. “There’s no need for
such drastic measures, is there?”

Minho can only stare at the man who had made his life so difficult.

“What are you doing here?” He grunts, wasting no time in playing the game Jisung loved.

“Well, I was about to find the gentleman who bought me the drink,” he murmurs as casually
as ever, completely ignorant of the wrist kept in Minho’s possession. “But it seems he came
to me.”
“Are you here for the conference?” The detective presses again, eyes pertinent in their
watchful stare of Jisung’s lips saturated in the slick of his cocktail.

“Does everything have to be about work with you?” He mutters, rolling those pretty eyes.

“So, it’s just some coincidence that you and I are sitting next to each other in this bar and
miles away from the city?” Minho lets out, raising an expectant eyebrow.

“You and I have this funny little habit of always finding each other… so I wouldn’t write off
a coincidence so quickly.” His tongue swipes his bottom lip and his head lolls to the side.

Minho almost has to suppress the small smile tugging at the side of his mouth, having a
strange sense of sentiment at the words.

“Then why are you all dressed up?” The detective flickers his gaze to his tightly wound vest
and the way his hair was as preened as usual. “Got a date or something?”

Jisung scoffs, lips curling into that wry smirk.

“If I had a date, I wouldn’t be waiting at this bar all desperate and alone,” the assassin lets out
with a small chuckle. “I was just waiting for my night to begin… and with you here, I’d say it
has.”

“Come on Jisung,” Minho ticks, watching the younger man sip at his drink once more. “I
know you can give me a little more than that.”

Jisung chuckles once more, as though he were privy to an inside joke.

“A little birdie told me you took a trip on the subway the other day,” he sighs, index finger
tracing around the rim of his martini glass. “I usually avoid it at lunchtime. All those
people… it’s a nightmare.”

Minho doesn’t react, just leans an elbow on the bar and tightens his grip on the cuffs
connected to the man beside him.

“Did you end up getting your wound restitched?” He glances toward the hip he became all
too acquainted with those weeks ago.

“I did,” he nods with a laugh. “Turns out you did an alright job. It’s a clean scar at this
point.”

“Good,” Minho nods, actually glad to hear it. He was quick to rein in the pestering voices in
his head that were telling him to play the game, to get the answers out of him, to get him
alone. He just had to work himself up to it. “I hope the damage you did to my apartment was
worth it.”

“Sorry,” Jisung laughs once more, fluttering those pretty lashes. “You seem to be coping well
with Detective Seo.”
Minho ignores the way Jisung knew everything. He could barely blame him. He thought of
Jisung right before he went to bed and in the moment he opened his eyes.

“He’s a good roommate,” the detective nods. “He doesn’t fire a gun in the house and kill my
potted plants.”

“Oh, come on.” Jisung rolls his eyes playfully. “I was doing you a favour. It was one of the
ugly ones anyway.”

Minho tugs on the cuffs in response, earning a gentle chuckle from the assassin, his lips
thinning to expose those perfect teeth.

“Where are your friends tonight? Felix and Jeongin.” The detective muses, glancing around
the bar, watching Jisung’s eyes not even falter. “Are they going to be joining us?”

“Hm…” Jisung chews his bottom lip. “I assure you they won’t be.”

“Oh?” Minho hums. “I was hoping to meet them… really meet them.”

The assassin shakes his head, plucking the maraschino cherry from the rim of his cocktail
glass and bringing it toward his pink lips.

“Why? You have me right here.”

“The one from the subway… Jeongin… he’s got a pretty smile. I was hoping he would be
with you.” Minho continues, watching Jisung’s lips wrap around the bulb of the cherry, teeth
sinking into its flesh. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what he had to say about everything.”

Jisung shakes his head once more, jaw moving as he swallows down the cherry.

“You won’t get anything from them. They know what’s out of bounds.”

“I’m out of bounds?” Minho’s finger tilts upward, grazing along Jisung’s hand in cuffs.

“You’re mine to play with, Detective Lee.” Jisung’s voice is a low register, but Minho heard
him loud and clearly. “They know that.”

Minho couldn’t help the stirring in the base of his stomach, the prickles etching down his
spine at his words. It was primal, that feeling. He had never felt it with anyone. Not that brief
boyfriend he had in college. Not with any of his one-night stands over the years. He had
never felt such perverse thoughts front when bracing anybody within his view. Jisung was
different, fleeting.

He was intelligent. Every word that spilled from that mouth was constructed and crafted, and
he didn’t even stop to choose what to say next… he just said it.

Truly… he was the best in the business.

“I like that,” the detective sucks in a sated breath. “Being yours to play with.”
“I know.” Jisung presses a shoulder forward, eyes alight with the premise of control. “But
you’re forgetting something else… something crucial.”

“Tell me,” Minho mutters, finger still toying with Jisung’s hand between the cuffs. “Tell me
what I’m forgetting.”

Jisung’s smirk is pretty and pink, and all the detective can focus on, before leaning closer to
the older man, lips grazing the cusp of his ear. His scent was intoxicating, the proximity
between them palpable, his conscience ceding in every sense of the matter.

“I’m all yours too, pretty boy. ” He whispers. “You can do anything you want to me.”

Minho lets a small scoff leave his lips, eyes dark in their stare toward the younger man.

“I’d be out of a job if I did what I wanted to do to you,” he mutters, trying to suppress the
way his stomach fettered with fire.

“What do you want to do to me?” Jisung blinks, head tilting to the side. “It surely can’t be
that bad, Detective Lee. I can keep a secret, you know?”

“Jisung…” He muses, voice slow and gnarled. “Careful now.”

“Come on,” he drawls, his voice almost whining. “I can tell you what I want… will that
help?”

Minho’s intoxicated stare of darkness said enough, and the pretty assassin was more than
happy to continue talking… to continue to lull the older man into a stupor.

“I’ve had all of these thoughts, Detective Lee.” He begins, wrapping his index finger around
Minho’s, jostling the cuffs between them.

“Thoughts about what?” Minho gulps back the saliva pooling at the base of his throat.

“What your body looks like… what it would feel like to have you inside me, all deep and
hard… if being fucked by you would feel as it does in my dreams.” He hums with that
honeyed tone. “See… Now, you can tell me what you wanna do to me. It’s only fair.”

Minho’s stomach practically coiled, eyes only borne to Jisung’s flesh, getting a read on those
black eyes filled with lust. The detective only had to take his gaze toward his pink lips, chest
stirring in anticipation, mind surging far beyond the premise of consequences, to know he
couldn’t deny him this wish.

“From the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted to be inside you,” Minho’s voice does him a
service, and carries itself toward the younger man. “I’ve wanted to see you, every part, and
taste you, and hold you, and watch your legs give out. I’ve wanted all of you in every way.”

The assassin licks his lips once more, making that pretty little ‘hmph’ sound.

“What’s that noise for, huh?” Minho continues to graze his eyes loyally along the bounty of
Jisung’s body – his taut waist, his perfect hands, the way his eyes sparkled under the
crystalline chandelier overhead, and his skin was kissed in gold.

Jisung breaks out in a small and soft chuckle, shaking his head momentarily.

“I’ve got sort of a… code of ethics when I work, Detective Lee.” He begins, teeth clasping
around the stem – all that remained of the cherry.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, I’ve made something of a rule for myself, that I don’t fuck guys who are trying to hunt
me down.” He presses a shoulder forward. “It makes things very complicated, and messy, and
I can’t guarantee anything.”

Minho almost snorts.

“So, say we were to hypothetically do the things we wanna do to each other… Are you telling
me there’s no guarantee you’re not just going to slit my throat right after?” Minho hums,
reaching forth to grab all that remains of Jisung’s cocktail, shooting down the sweet gin
concoction with ease.

“Well… In the same sense that there’s no guarantee that you’re not going to just use me up so
you can get me into custody.”

“We’re at an impasse, Jisung.” The detective sighs. “And I’m sure you don’t trust me as
much as I don’t trust you.”

“It seems so,” Jisung stares back in the same capacity. Doe-eyed, the chess pieces moving in
his mind, all of the possibilities calculating.

Minho can only recall the words of the chief. Gain his trust. Get him to sing. Take him down
in any way possible.

It was a dirty play to honour the small voice in his head that wanted everything from the man
sitting so close. It was a low blow. It was the type of act Jisung would use on Minho to make
his hit, to get his way. But he was willing to do anything to get him to talk – even if it meant
he had to double-cross him. He did the maths in his head as his eyes studied the way Jisung’s
bottom lip tucked beneath his top. The damage caused by a singular night could be
catastrophic. It could lead to questions of Minho’s career, it could - should - result in Jisung
letting out more information than he needed to, and it was possible at least one of them could
end up dead come morning.

But like a bull shark in a vast sea, Minho saw Jisung as a single drop of blood that he would
travel oceans for.

“Maybe we create something of a temporary truce,” the detective sucks in a sharp breath.
“You give me a night of your time, and I can act very surprised when I see you at the
conference in the morning.”

Jisung’s eyes light up, and his head lulls to the side, almost fondly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective Lee.” He trails slowly, finger coiled
around Minho’s tightening. “Is that why you think I’m here at this hotel?”

The detective felt his chest simmer at the premise of getting a singular answer from him.

“Please … Feel free to correct me.”

Jisung lets out a gentle chuckle, leaning his temple on a clasped fist.

“Your room or mine?”

“Mine.”

“On the tenth floor? With Detective Seo next door? I don’t think so.”

Minho twitches.

“Fine. Show me to your room, Jisung.”

“You’re funny when you’re not so serious all the time.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Minho barrels his gaze to the gilded door on the other side of
the bar. “The bathroom?”

“Look at what I’m wearing,” Jisung hums. “Do I look like the type of guy who gets fucked in
a public bathroom?”

Minho felt something shift in his stomach, his mouth almost watering at the premise. Instead,
he clears his throat deftly and suppresses the portion of his mind that wanted to see Jisung’s
head pressed against a stall door, the tiled room echoing his moans at an acoustic standard,
taking him quickly and messily – trying his best not to get caught.

“You like to play dirty all the time, why not a public bathroom?” The detective poses the
question, blinking twice.

“I have a better idea,” Jisung hums longingly. “Follow me?”

Minho glares at his sudden enthusiasm, trying to read the fortress of his mind.

“What do you have on you, Jisung?” He mutters, flickering his gaze to the vest covering his
torso, the silver necklace clasped around his sun-kissed neck, and the matching suit pants
cantering his lower half. “You always have something up your sleeve.”

“You’ll find out, pretty boy.” He licks his bottom lip. “I can assure you, however, that only
one of us has a gun.” His doe-like eyes flicker to the holster around Minho’s chest, hidden by
his blazer.

Minho’s gaze is steadfast.

“You said a temporary truce, right?” The younger man raises an eyebrow, swinging on the
bar stool so his chest is facing the detective. With a tug of the cuffs, he draws Minho’s hand
toward his thigh. The older man could feel his chest simmering, his eyes loyally drawn to
Jisung’s lap, watching his delicate fingers place his hand on the side of his thigh to grasp the
flesh. More intrinsically, however, it seemed Jisung was etching his touch toward the few
inches of hard steel felt beneath the surface. It was a small blade, covered in some hardened
fabric, and wrapped around what felt to be a velcro holster clad beneath his pants. “This is all
I have on me.”

“Why?” Minho murmurs, fingers tracing the outline of the knife, trying to suppress the
glaringly loud thoughts that wanted to see him in nothing more than this singular band of
velcro and a blade clad to the milk of his thigh.

“Same reason you thought it was appropriate to bring a pistol to a hotel bar,” he whispers
back, and Minho knew there was no such arguing to that point. Instead, he let out a small
smile, beckoning the younger man into action. “Now… Are you going to follow me, or
what?”

The detective hated his autonomous reaction to Jisung. To be detached and ready to do
whatever he needed to do for the investigation would be ideal. But he truly couldn’t help the
way his head pounded, his hunger increasing, the invisible thread connecting them
tightening.

He followed Jisung. He was happy enough to follow him anywhere.

As they walked through the bar, Minho couldn’t help the way his eyes were fixated on
Jisung’s every move. The rhythmic sway of his hips, the confident stride that exuded grace
and purpose, his mesmerising display of self-assuredness. And everybody noticed him too.
Every step he took was calculated, every gesture intentional.

Minho’s lips curled into a small smirk as his gaze lingered downward at the singular cuff
dangling from Jisung’s wrist. It was amusing in a way. He wore it as though it were a bracelet
rather than a sinister show of their reality.

When they reach the entrance of the restaurant, Minho flinches as he watches Jisung’s body
collide with a passing businessman. At first, the man appears perturbed, but his irritation
quickly cedes into a softened gaze as Jisung flutters those eyelashes, and offers a masterful
display of charm in “I’m so clumsy! I’m sorry.”

From the detective’s vantage point, he was quick to notice Jisung’s hand slipping into the
businessman’s pocket with practised ease, retrieving his keycard to his room. It was always a
performance… and Jisung was the prettiest thing to ever grace a stage.

“A room just opened up,” Jisung beckons with a playful wave, slipping the keycard into his
pocket when the businessman etches away. “You coming?”

“Sneaky, aren’t you?”

The dance continued, and Minho’s stomach was a cavern of rolling waves. He felt a sense of
gravity toward Jisung… like his body was inexplicably drawn to him in every way possible.
The proximity between them was like a fire doused in a shower of gasoline, and Minho had
not a single plan of extinguishing it.

Before Jisung could lead him to the elevator, the detective was quick to catch up. He snaked a
firm arm around Jisung’s waist, drawing him close, their bodies momentarily pressed
together. He leant toward his ear, inhaling that intoxicating perfume once more.

“Let’s take another way up. Can’t guarantee we won’t be watched.” He mutters, knowing the
cameras in the main elevator were tapped by his investigation.

The words held a kernel of truth. It was more than likely that Changbin was still on the phone
with his boyfriend, or was amid a bout of room service and a movie. But he wanted to ease
Jisung any way he knew how. Gain his trust. Get him to sing.

“Come on,” he whispers by his ear, hand on his waist cascading down his arm to link their
fingers together – keeping him close and guiding him towards the hotel kitchen.

As they entered the bustling kitchen, the heat from the stoves and the clatter of dishes
enveloped them. Minho was quick to notice the kitchen staff and chefs shooting darkened
glares their way. He simply rolled his eyes, unclipped his badge from his belt, and held it up
for them to see.

“Keep your heads down – get back to work,” he muttered toward them, a stern enough
warning that prompted the workers to avert their gazes. He could hear the sweetness of
Jisung’s laugh following behind as he led them through the maze of stainless steel and busy
culinary activity.

“So bossy…” His honeyed voice retorted.

When they reached a discreet door at the end of the kitchen, marked ‘Staff Only,’ Minho was
quick to open it and lead them toward the elevator designated for hotel workers delivering
room service. He truly couldn’t help the way his hands grasped Jisung’s taunt waist, melding
his body toward the door when it opened, manhandling him into him.

The doors close, and the confined space amplifies the tension between them.

After selecting the floor, Jisung leans casually against the mirrored wall, his eyes fixated on
the detective swallowed by his internal gratification. The subtle smirk on his lips suggested
that he knew profoundly what he did to the older man, but Minho need not let it show. Not
now.

Minho was staring. Deep and primal. His core was alight.

Jisung laughs.

“What’s so funny?” The detective muttered, eyes black in the haze of reimagining how the
assassin’s lips tasted, wanting more than all he could ever ask for.
“Nothing,” Jisung’s voice is merely a whisper. “It’s just… You want me so bad. ”

Minho’s lips tug to the side, as he ricochets from his perch across from the prettiest thing he
had ever seen. His feet were carrying him toward Jisung like the gravity that grounded them
to the earth. His arms were raised by Jisung’s waist, pressing him up against the wall.

“And I’m going to get you…you know that, right?”

Jisung’s eyes softened, hands splaying against Minho’s chest, the handcuffs dangling.

“Maybe in another universe, we could have more time.” His words are like a golden elixir.
“More than a night.”

“Maybe,” the detective whispers, leaning all the closer. “Maybe in another universe, I could
take you on a date. A real date.”

“I thought you said you’d take me on a date once you had me in custody,” Jisung huffs, lips
grazing Minho’s, heart set ablaze. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I just want this,” Minho whispers. “I just want you.”

“I want you too, Detective Lee,” Jisung mutters back. “I’ve wanted you the second I saw you
in that bathroom.”

Minho’s heart beat like a stallion set for the chase, but his hands travelled to the cusp of his
soft jaw. His senses were pierced by the scent of his perfume – now isolated away from the
bar. As their lips met again, it seemed the entire investigation fell out of the detective’s mind.
His taste. His touch. His insatiable ability to meet Minho in the middle. That was all he cared
about.

It was quick and heated. Tongues met as bodies pressed closer, and any of the reservations
Minho had flew away as he melted into the taste. Jisung’s body softened, dissolving into
Minho’s arms, as if he fit there, as if he belonged there. His hands were grasping his jaw
tightly, drowning in Jisung’s addictive taste, the remnants of the gin stinging his tongue. The
younger of the two was desperately pressing himself against the detective’s thighs, high on
the oasis that punctuated his streak of neediness. He wanted more, needed more, but the
elevator dinged on the seventh level, and Jisung’s hands were etching them apart.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he whispered against Minho’s lips. “Please … I don’t want you to
hold back.”

“Just for tonight,” Minho, completely drunk off Jisung’s taste, muttered. “I’m yours as you
are mine.”

They were silent as they walked out of the elevator and into the hallway. Jisung made some
comment about the room number from the card he swiped, but Minho could hardly hear. His
head was throbbing, his conscience screaming, his stomach stirring. He could only keep his
eyes prone to the younger man leading the way.
When they find the room, Jisung presses the card against the door, and then, they are
enveloped in a stranger’s hotel room, completely alone, uncompromised from either side and
in utterly dangerous waters.

It was neutral ground. The perfect stage to take each other apart.

The room was expansive, a luxury lounge area stretching out before them. A sleek couch
occupied the centre of the space, with a large bed tucked away, untouched, in the background.
The light was dim, giving way to subtle shadows, and Minho’s heart thudded loudly in his
chest.

His eyes darted around, scanning every corner, every shadow, ensuring that this wasn’t just a
carefully laid trap and not just a deviation from his true duties.

Jisung, however, turned around to face the detective in the doorway, and in that moment, any
lingering doubts faded far away into the night. The assassin’s features were highlighted by
the soft glow of the lights, and the room seemed to shrink in the background. His alluring
gaze, the hair that fell effortlessly, the play of darkness on his face.

Easily… The most beautiful mistake the detective had ever made.

Minho was stalking toward him before he could conjure another thought.

He leant forward and wasted no time in enacting further sin. Jisung’s lips were soft, pliant,
and hungry for everything Minho had to offer. The kiss peeled away the doubt and the
reservations in his mind. Jisung’s fingertips were entangled in Minho’s hair as his tongue
continued to explore his mouth, backing the older man until his back hit the closed door.

“I love getting what I want,” Jisung broke the kiss to whisper against Minho’s lips slick in the
shared comeuppances of their touch. “I love seeing you break.”

That same primal hold reignited Minho’s core, and he couldn’t help the way his hand found
its way toward Jisung’s throat, fingertips clasping the taunt flesh, earning a gasped breath and
a tinge in the detective’s pants. He drew his jaw upward, eyes meeting, the pink smirk of the
man in his hands relinquished all doubt… he wasn’t going to be gentle.

“That mouth of yours loves to run doesn’t it, baby?” Minho’s voice is almost a growl, fingers
tightening on Jisung’s throat. “Makes me think it’ll be good for something else.”

Sparkling eyes, slick lips, and pliant enough for the detective to practically melt, Jisung lets
out a muted laugh between bated breaths.

“Use it.” He almost gasps as Minho snakes his other hand downward to grip his hip tightly,
leaning his head forward to initiate contact with his delicate neck. “Use me any way you
want, Detective Lee.”

The words were sweet nectar, auburn, fire.

All the while his lips were at the nape of Jisung’s jaw, sucking hard and true until his lips
fettered a demure whimper, the detective felt a hand clasp around his clothed cock,
inadvertently earning Jisung a graze of his teeth along the bounty of skin. He was so forward,
so confident, so in control… it conjured something of an uncontrollable storm within the
detective.

Quick nips and prods against lips, a tightened grasp on the firmness eventuating at his groin,
and a hand syphoning off his blazer to the floor, Minho only pulled away when he felt a hand
on his chest and the obscene little noise coming from Jisung’s mouth.

His hand was tightened around the holster wrapped around Minho’s shoulders, the pistol
under his left wing. For a brief second, Minho felt a blitz of reality cede all expectations of
the night ahead. He couldn’t help the way he felt paralysed watching Jisung’s delicate fingers
wrap around the handle of the pistol, the way his chest was rising and falling, the way his jaw
was glistening in the remnants of Minho’s saliva. He had the power to end the detective’s life
in his hand as he slowly withdrew the gun, but Minho was only drawn to the way Jisung’s
eyes were loyally watching his own.

Jisung let his hand drift onto Minho’s cheek, his index finger tracing his lips as though he had
never seen him before. Like he was something to be studied, to be watched.

“What are you going to do with that?” Minho tests, head cocked to the side, essentially
watching an arsonist play with matches.

Jisung’s eyes faltered, his bottom lip sucked beneath the top and for a split-second, Minho
could swear he saw the act drop. But just as quickly, the assassin, gun in hand, saunters to the
hallway table and drops the pistol with a thud, returning to the man all too prepared for death
in the doorway.

“I want you. ” Jisung tilts his head to the side, eyes raking up and down the entirety of the
detective. “I can’t taste you if you’re dead.”

Minho’s fist finds itself coiled around the assassin’s vest, pulling him closer, tighter, exerting
what strength he could.

“So taste me,” He mutters, meeting the pretty little ghost in the middle for another hungry
and desperate kiss, saving no time for breathing or allowing the reality to settle in. He was
throbbing hard and true in his suit pants, feeling Jisung’s hand rub against the firmness as his
arm snaked around to squeeze the meat of his backside.

Their chests were pressed up against one another, and a hand tugged hard and true at his belt,
unfurling it open and the zipper to his trousers. He could barely ignore just how soft Jisung’s
ass felt in his hand as the skin moved languidly between his fingers. He could just imagine
the tightness… He could just imagine all of his pestering doubts threatening to come true.

“Do I really make you this hard Detective Lee?” Jisung whispered, that scathing smirk clad
to his lips as he continued to palm the older man, stealing breaths from his mouth, sending
his mind into a daze.

“You’re beautiful baby,” he muttered, fingers finding themselves pressing against the
indentations clad to the assassin’s delicate throat. “But if you don’t get on your knees and
open that mouth up for me, I’ll ruin you.”

Jisung gleams, licking into Minho’s mouth, syphoning the detective’s pants to his calves as
his warm hand slips itself beneath the band of his boxers.

“I was hoping you would ruin me anyway.”

As they were etched down the length of his legs, Jisung melts down to his knees, eyes glaring
up at the detective with an abhorrent amount of want filling them. Minho couldn’t help the
way his breath hitched when he felt Jisung’s fingers wrap around the length of his cock, his
hands inadvertently burying themselves in his hair of midnight black.

“So pretty,” Jisung whispered, grasping the base of it and fluttering the thick wall of lashes
that framed his eyes. “Been dreaming of this.”

The detective could only react in the way he knew how. His index finger follows the bounty
of Jisung’s jaw to the cusp of his chin, angling his face right by his cock, giving him the
perfect view.

“Be good for me, okay?”

Jisung coiled a gentle lick against the tip, like a preening cat, reverberating the genesis of
Minho’s core. He looked so innocent as he dribbled on the length of it thereafter like he had
never done such a lewd act in his life… like he was truly as sweet as he looked.

His eyes immediately snapped up to the detective, lips wrapped pertly around him, tongue
lathing against where it felt the most sensitive. He was a natural because of course he was,
and Minho felt like breaking. His chest was rising and falling, his head leant against the door
behind him, and his hands could only guide that pretty little mouth further and further until
Minho felt the tip of his cock hit the wall of his throat.

“Fuck– Jisung,” Minho muttered, infatuated with the sight before him, fingers lacing behind
his head to keep it in grasp. He fettered another curse under his breath at such a sight… dark
eyes watching nothing more than the cock stuffed into his throat. He was making obscene
noises, doing anything he could to please. He had ruined everything for the detective, and he
felt little sympathy for the way his grip tightened in his hair, inadvertently thrusting himself
into the wet heat of his mouth until he saw a tear fall from his sightline.

Jisung muffled a guttural groan against his cock – sending a vibration and a jolt of electricity
through Minho’s spine when he felt the air from his nose against his pelvis.

Between licking the underside of the detective’s length as best he could, the determination of
the act perpetrated his mouth open that little bit wider, keeping his eyes borne to the older
man, keeping his mind in a daze. He had a hold on Minho’s soul, and he knew it too. It was
captivating, and encapsulating. It was the type of look that made the detective loosen his
grasp of his hair, wanting to be gentle.

As he pulled away, coughing through a breath, lips and chin slick and shiny, Minho felt his
throat hitch. Gain his trust. Get him to sing.
He had to snap himself out of it.

“No more… I want you,” he muttered when he felt the tip of his cock meld against the
wetness of his throat, a teetering orgasm coming to fruition. Instead, he placed a tentative
hand under Jisung’s arm, pulling him upward, manoeuvring his lithe frame around to press
against the door. He had control now – their lips met once more, and Minho almost melted
against the moisture of his spit-combed mouth.

He felt Jisung’s hands around his neck, tugging at his tie, slipping it off and to the floor. His
fingers were quick to unfurl each button of his white shirt until the detective felt those same
delicate hands against his stomach, fingers pressing taunt and hard into the flesh. It was
hardly fair how clothed Jisung was at this point.

“Off. All of this. Off.” Minho grunted, lips against his throat, earning a raspy little noise that
the detective was sure to compartmentalise in the deepest cavern of his mind. His hands did
him a service, and he unbuttoned the three clasps holding the linen shut.

When he felt his skin, the softness, the velvet he dreamt of, he felt his teeth clasp down on his
tongue, navigating the pure euphoria of having Jisung’s hand traverse his spit-slick length,
teasing in every sense of the matter.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” The detective almost growled, tugging his flesh with his
fingers, etching their bodies apart for his eyes to graze the bounty of his skin. His lithe waist,
his perfect chest, the small scar he once stitched by his hip. His body was an oasis… small
enough to slip wherever he pleased… strong enough to make his marks and fill his quota…
alluring enough to make someone like Minho forget he even had a task at hand.

“I can’t wait til’ you’re inside me,” his soft voice whispered, a deft moan leaving his lips
when Minho’s mouth connected with his nipple, tongue swiping it in a singular motion,
drinking in the way Jisung’s breath hitched. The detective’s lips trailed toward his navel,
kissing with purpose, fingers so busy unbuttoning his pants that he was quick to withdraw
down and toward his ankles, helping him step out of them. Minho glared at his cock, stiff,
pulsating, as perfect as the rest of his body, but found his gaze caught by the flash of black in
the corner of his peripheral vision.

Minho’s eyes flicker toward his bare thigh, a canvas of tanned allure, a seamless expanse of
skin that was devoid of any imperfection. There, wrapped around it, was the velcro holster
clung discreetly to his skin and upon it, a leather case protecting a pocket knife. Minho licked
his lips, recognising the blade from the club… recognising it as the weapon Jisung used on
one of his hits… recognising it as a show of his cunning resolve.

Jisung’s fingers meld into the detective’s hair as Minho wrapped an arm around the underside
of his thigh, drawing it upward, allowing his leg higher standing on his knee. He leant
close… close enough for his breath to whisper a kiss on the honeyed skin.

Minho coiled his fingers around the holster, watching the meat of his thigh yield and contort
upon his touch, his lips still grazing along the smoothness.
“What are you going to do with that, Detective Lee?” Jisung’s voice was on the brink of
losing its strength, his hair falling lazily upon his forehead as he glared down with those eyes
of obsidian lust.

Fingers unfurl the velcro, quick to loosen it from his skin and his hazy vision witnessed it fall
from his thigh to the floor, leaving him with no more tricks to play. For the first time since
Jisung’s existence became the plague that festered Minho’s mind… he knew he had nowhere
to hide.

He instead gives a gentle kiss where the blade once lived, hands reaching up to grasp Jisung’s
hips, and in one swift motion, he turns his bodice, all for Minho to play with, around to face
the door.

“F-Fuck, Detective–”

A slap, a squeeze, Minho’s eyes were only loyally borne to the way Jisung’s ass looked
before him. Blooming pink at the contact, recoiling at even a smidgen of touch. Minho
presses his lips against the blush turning hot, applying wet kisses until the assassin is
practically begging for more in quick little whimpers. His knuckles were white in the grip of
his hips, holding him in place, keeping him to the door like he was a fixture of it.

Minho rather enjoyed the sound he made when his tongue met his opening, warm, and
driven. In a singular motion from start to end of his entrance, Jisung growls low and
desperate, hand hooking around to clasp the detective’s hair. He wanted to fuck into his wet
heat until Jisung’s legs gave out… until he saw stars. Even with a hint of a taste, Minho
feasted upon him, coaxing him open, earning the whining little noises leaving his lips.

He continued to lap up and down, sure to collect his taste upon his tongue and press it further
into his opening, slurping the rogue droplets of saliva that fell from the corner of his mouth in
every cycle. It was a bite of the forbidden fruit, it was laborious to serve a man on the other
side of the law, it was fated in every sense of the matter, to feel Jisung open up, to hear him
curse beneath his breath, to feel his body falter when his teeth dug into the flesh of his cheeks
between licks. The taste was tantalising, the euphoria was blinding, and Minho felt himself
aching.

“Taste as good as you look,” Minho grunts between breaths, chin slick in spit, tongue burying
itself that little bit deeper. The noises… the sweetness… the reality that Jisung wasn’t being
deceptive.

“Fingers,” the assassin hums, knees shaky and ready to give out, “f-fuck me with your
fingers.”

Minho would never deny such a request. But it only took him to pull apart from his entrance
momentarily, to glare at the mess he made before him, and the way Jisung was just about
buckling under the pressure, that coaxed him into action. As he stood himself up, kissing
along the bounty of his spine, Minho dug his fingers into Jisung’s scalp, lulling his head back
to lean on the detective’s shoulder. Their breaths were shared and languid, Jisung gasping as
though he was short of air.
“Bed… so I can fuck you anyway you want me to.”

Jisung tried to whisper back an answer, but a weakened noise and a tongue licking into
Minho’s mouth was all he could conjure before the older man was pulling him toward the
bed, laying him upon the freshly made sheets, caging his body beneath him. He looked so
pretty… just where Minho wanted him.

“I don’t have lube or a–”

“I don’t care,” Jisung seethes, legs spreading, cock brushing against Minho’s.

“Brat,” the detective’s voice is deep, scornful, a scathing portrait of the tortuous pleasure the
assassin had inflicted up until now. His hands were clasped around his throat once more,
having learned it silenced him. “Now sit and be good for me.”

Surprisingly, Jisung took instructions well. Legs spread, skin drenched in honey beneath the
dim light, eyes staring up at Minho with need and want. Minho was quick to trail the wetness
of his saliva upon the fingers intended to spread him apart – revealing his tightened entrance
coated in a thin sheet of spit. The assassin flinched, initially, when Minho rubbed against the
velvety slide of his perineum, and then atop his hole.

But it only took the edge of his index finger to lodge itself from tip to knuckle in the tight
squeeze of his heat to really see him react. His teeth sunk into Minho’s shoulder, his tongue
flat against his skin, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt it so gutturally, and Minho could only
honour the voice in his head that truly didn’t want to see him keen. So, he was gentle.

He licked his lips, knew to etch deeper when Jisung’s breath faltered and to pause when he
whimpered. His eyes opened when Minho felt his knuckles lay partly against his skin, and
Jisung nodded at the stretch, almost begging for more.

“Want me to move?” The older man muttered, watching Jisung, through a soft moan, nod
once more.

His spit-slick entrance soon acclimated to Minho’s every move. The assassin was making
obscene noises, whimpering in every deft silence, digging his teeth into Minho’s skin to
bruise and prod against it out of spite. His finger was curling, his cock aching, his mind
screaming.

“More,” he soon whispered, demanding, and whiny, bucking his hips upward to earn the
older man’s undivided attention. And more he received, at first, a second was added, and
then, a third. Until the moment Jisung’s eyes were almost welling with tears, his wet cock
rubbing against Minho’s stomach, and his voice echoed those petulant demands, the detective
was happy enough to continue fucking him with his fingers. Now at a pace of greater
consistency and strength, satisfied to watch him unravel under his grasp. At some point,
when Minho had lost himself in another kiss, Jisung pulled their lips apart to lean their
foreheads together. “Want you now. ”

It was all Minho needed to hear for his cock to continuously pulsate with every little moan
from Jisung’s dripping mouth. He would’ve been happy enough with three fingers lodged
partly inside of him, watching him come just from his touch, listening to the noises, lapping
at his throat until it bloomed pink and purple in melodic webbed bruises.

But it was time, and the detective repositioned their bodies. He raised those pretty thighs, sat
himself between them, and lined himself up against that used entrance.

Jisung was an angel on a cloud beneath him. His perfect torso, the mosaic on his neck, by his
nipple, the scar on his hip. His lips were glistening, his eyes dazed with the verity of touch,
his hair a mess upon his forehead. Minho didn’t realise he was staring until the assassin took
it upon himself to raise his hips, his opening meeting his tip.

“Can you…” Jisung whispers through glassy eyes, hand wrapped around Minho’s taunt arm.
“Can you do me a favour?”

Minho’s fingers were curled around his cock, edging closer and closer, pausing momentarily
to test the waters of Jisung’s desire.

“Anything, baby.” The detective whispered, and to his detriment, meant it.

Jisung’s lips curl into a smile – not a smirk, his breath hitching.

“Can you… Can you drop the act for five minutes?”

Minho swallows, drawing his eyebrows together at the man before him.

“This isn’t an act.”

Jisung smiles again, hand still clasped in a singular cuff rubbing up and down Minho’s arm,
almost soothing him.

“It’s all an act with you… just as it’s all an act with me.” The assassin fetters the words that
set Minho ablaze. “Temporary truce, like you said. You be you, and I be me.”

Minho’s mind is a cacophony of sounds. His conscience tells him to get his shit together, that
he had done enough damage, that he just needed to flip Jisung over, clasp his other wrist in
the cuffs, and end it. His heart told him to forget the investigation, to honour the voice in his
head that truly wanted this. All the while his eyes were searching tirelessly for any insincerity
in such words.

“Five minutes?” The detective whispers. “You want me to be myself… for five minutes?”

Jisung nods.

“I… I don’t think…”

“I’ll begin,” the assassin huffs, swallowing a ball of saliva collected at the base of his throat.
“I-I get scared very easily.”

Minho flickered his gaze away from himself pressed against Jisung’s entrance, to instead feel
something of a pull against his chest.
“You get scared?” The detective’s voice is a whisper.

He was unsure whether it was the hormones or the way Jisung ensnared himself into Minho’s
soul, but he almost sounded different.

“All the time.” Jisung’s breath hitches, tongue laving against his lips, sparkling eyes blinking
toward the man hovering above. “I get scared of new things, of change, of you, of this .”

“Baby,” Minho’s voice found itself faltering, lowering to an elbow, leaning closer to his
heart, to his face. He wanted to ask a question… a ‘Why are you scared of this?’ But Minho
had the same thoughts pervading his mind from the second he first laid eyes on the prettiest
thing he had ever seen. “I… I get scared too. Of death, of failure… of you, of this.”

Jisung’s teeth flash under the guise of a lazy smile. Their faces were so close, breaths in close
capacity, damp chests rising and falling in synchronicity.

“...Of how this ends…” The assassin was more articulate, but Minho agreed in a gentle nod.

“Five minutes,” the detective mutters, nose brushing against Jisung’s. “Let’s try five minutes
without being scared.”

Minho felt the unexpected warmth of Jisung’s chuckle meet his core.

“And pretend we’re not… this?” He poses the question, legs wrapping around Minho’s hips,
earning a shared breath when his length brushes against his entrance, knowing what is to
come.

“What do you say?” It was strange how Minho felt the doubt cede, but when he saw those
lips tug to the side, and a hand gently grasping the base of his cock, guiding it toward his
opening, he knew he had his answer.

“I say take us there,” Jisung whispers, cuffed wrist wrapping around Minho’s neck, and the
older man obliges, pressing himself into the beautiful enigma beneath him. It was a tight
squeeze, it was that foreign feeling of having nothing more to lose, it was the way the
detective exerted a long, low growl into Jisung’s mouth. “M-Minho–”

His sweet voice tore the detective’s heart asunder. Hearing his name, feeling his breath and
kisses, having his cock lodged so deeply inside. He has to compose himself, sliding the
entirety of his length into the younger man, feeling his thighs shake.

He hadn’t moved… not yet. The simple feeling of his entire cock buried deep inside Jisung
was enough. It was all of his fear yet all of his desires conjured into one perfectly beautiful
individual.

“I-I like jewellery and nice clothes,” Jisung whispered against his lips, as the detective
wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a gentle tug to earn another grunt. “I like being in
control.”

Minho sucked on his bottom lip, working his cock into him – the tightness of his body not
relenting.
“I don’t date because I don’t wish that upon anyone,” the detective continues, finding his
second wind and thrusting into him harder. Jisung fetters a laugh at the words, quickly
replaced by a moan as Minho continues to pump his length. The heat and sweat on their skin
was searing, the electricity palpable. “I have this job… It keeps me busy.”

“I don’t date for the same reasons,” Jisung gleams, breaths ragged and hot. “And cos’ I can’t
cook.”

Minho kisses him again, loving the feeling of his opening, of the way he whined and how he
tasted. But moreover, he loved his words. They were swallowing each other’s moans,
Jisung’s tightness was all-encompassing, suffocating in the best way. A test, but only for a
strong heart.

“One day I don’t wanna’ be alone,” Minho whispered to him, feeling a jolt of electricity
shooting down the underside of his cock, doing his best to continuously pump Jisung’s length
until the younger man gave away. His inhibitions were non-existent, and his conscience was
decimated. He was Jisung’s … truly.

“Neither… I just want to be normal.”

Minho could see the stars in Jisung’s gaze – his sightline blurring as he doubled down. He
suppressed the myriad of noises wishing to escape either of their exhausted mouths with
another kiss – more teeth and tongue than the grace of everything else they had shared. He
planted his feet, not knowing how much more he could take of this, of the truth, of reality, of
the impending shadow of orgasm creeping upon the horizon. Their eyes met, and in an ardent
act of strength, Minho no longer held back.

He fucked him even harder, hand gliding effortlessly, letting go of doubt. His cock, pulsating,
and their hands squeeze together. He is buried to the hilt, quickly losing control, just about
approaching the very dangerous destination he was dreading.

And it didn’t help that Jisung was making such delicious sounds. Whispers of ‘more,’ ‘so
good,’ and ‘please,’ were begged against the detective’s lips. His thighs were quivering
around Minho’s hips, back arching, body so naturally melding together.

Minho lost track of time, but when he felt Jisung’s body jolt, and his hand quickly found
itself saturated by hot ropes of the assassin’s orgasm sealing their sticky bodies together, the
detective just about fell forward. Only a few movements prompted him to fill Jisung’s velvet
walls with all that he had pent up. He was muttering into the crook of his neck, dazed,
milking the efforts of his euphoria, feeling at rest and completely trapped in an endless
forest.

Their lips were still leaning upon one another’s… their touch second nature… the reality
slowly coming forward.

It was blissful together, happy, almost peaceful. The articulation of straying away from the
this they were bound to fill.
 But when Minho’s heart settled, and his arm snaked around Jisung’s sweat-slick waist, he
opened his eyes to the darkness of his gaze. He cut through the serenity with words of
venom.

"That was five minutes.” He whispers with a hand pressed against Minho’s chest, just about
posed to rip out his heart. “Come on, it’s time for us to go back.”

Chapter End Notes

oops my hand slipped SUE ME

 Target Acquired
Chapter Notes

pov switch 🥳
See the end of the chapter for more notes

A curious cat sat on the bed and watched its prey.

Its prey didn’t take the form of a mouse or a mockingbird who had landed on a honeydew
leaf for a drink. It didn’t cower or tremble. It didn’t run, and it certainly didn’t hide.

It was tense… and beautiful.

Beautifully tense.

His shoulders were wide, strong, slightly out of form. Sitting at a desk all day would be the
culprit, but time in the gym and on the field was evident in the way lines existed on his back
and his arms were defined in taunt skin that felt so soft to the touch. He didn’t go to the gym
much. He would sometimes join his partner in the morning before work at the 24-hour one
between their apartment buildings, but it had been two weeks since he was spotted there.

His form was hidden well by his white dress shirt. Freshly pressed. One of the newer ones he
bought a few weeks back when he went to the mall to buy a new cat tree. He was
apprehensive about entering the suit store, he didn’t like spending money on himself,
probably thinking that he had enough, what’s the use of more? But Jisung was glad he did. He
looked pretty.

Those fingers were often tapping against his chest or his thigh, and most of his pen lids were
gnarled as though a small rodent had chittered away at it. His palms often had remnants of
ink, and he liked to lick his lips, as though missing out on a certain taste. It was his attempt at
quitting smoking. That and the nicotine patches Jisung found in his trash were dead
giveaways.

The deepness of that gaze, always so watchful and observant, kept flickering to the drawers
by the bed in some stranger’s hotel room. It was clear in the way his throat manoeuvred.
Trying to be subtle when he saw the screen flash in light when there was a notification. It was
safe to say he loved to assume the worst. Detective Seo. The division chief. Detective Kim.
Sometimes his mother. He didn’t text anybody else, it could only be from that pool of people.
A swallow. A prolonged stare at the device.

Jisung was betting on Detective Seo.

Where r u
 Any updates on HJ?

Wanna get a drink :D

They were about all he could surmise would be on the phone. Detective Seo wasn’t quite
articulate, and while he preferred to call over text, Minho preferred neither, so they often
went unanswered. But he was nervous. Out of his comfort zone. He was trying to act cool. In
control. As though the consequences were not calculated in his mind in the millions.

It was cute.

And while this cat felt the need to play with its dinner that little bit longer, he couldn’t help
but cleave a path through the silence, readying himself to pounce back into action, to shake
hands and walk away with a little too much fondness for a one-night-stand.

But once his holster is wrapped around his shoulders, Minho turns toward the cat with that
face that couldn’t quite mask its true intentions.

“Are you hungry?”

Jisung blinks. What was the play here?

“Hungry?” He couldn’t help but cough, tucking his clothed knees toward his chest as he
glared forward at the sentinel man.

“Mm,” Minho nods, syphoning on his blazer. “We could get room service… or head back to
the restaurant.”

Strange.

“But we came up here to…” Jisung cocks his head to the side. “Are you not satisfied
enough?”

“No,” he is quick to interject. “I’m not.”

“Detective Lee… We made it clear that five minutes was enough of trying to pretend that
both of us don’t have other jobs at hand, hm?”

His face is always so stern. Dark eyes, round, and lovely. Bottom lip tucked beneath the top.
Concerned… but nicely so. He looked like he cared. But that was just Jisung falling a little
behind in trying to figure out a motive.

It was probably the sex… which he enjoyed far more than he hoped he would. It was
probably the softness of his kiss and the words he whispered when he was inches inside. It
was probably seeing him naked, finally fulfilling that small voice in his head that wanted
nothing more.

All he knew was that he was slipping and needed to regain his footing if anything were to go
as planned.
“Did you have dinner?” Minho asks again, and Jisung squints his eyes, trying to read that
mind of his. It often bled thoughts that were noted in the way he reacted. When he was going
to make a sudden movement, he’d swallow deeply. When he lied, he cleared his throat after
the words left his lips. When he was unsure, his eyes would dart around to remedy it.

These tell-tale signs of a man preened to interrogate and get answers out of people. But
Jisung saw through his pretty skin.

“No, I didn’t.” The assassin folds his arms over his chest, cocking his head to the side. It was
fun to keep guessing. “Did you?”

From the latest update from HQ, there were no signs of active movement from the
department, and Jisung’s eyes had observed Minho’s phone activity since they etched into the
room. There was no way he would have contacted anyone. Not without interference.

“Come on then,” he ushers his head to the side, holding out a hand.

Jisung can only stare at it.

“You need to eat.” He continues in that monotonous tone, all business, no fun. But the
assassin felt a small fire burning in his chest because of it. “And besides, the second you
leave my sight, I’ll have Detective Seo tap into the CCTV for reinforcements to work out
where you’re staying. Your operation, wherever it is, in this hotel will be over.”

Minho bites his lip after the words traverse to the younger man—his usual sign of an empty
threat.

Jisung glances at the arms of his new silver watch, nice and sparkly, a bonus for his latest hit.
He had time before he needed to report back. It would be easy to explain himself. The tracker
he attached to Minho’s back pocket was all he was asked to do tonight. They would be
understanding to a little fun.

“Are you blackmailing me into a date, Detective Lee?” Jisung cocks his head to the side,
finding himself smirking at the very thought of the older man at his whim. “Is that wise?”

“A date?” Minho flashed his teeth, an attempt at a smile, before taking a step closer and
offering that hand toward the assassin’s seated position. “Who said anything about a date?
Just because I know how you taste, baby, doesn’t mean I was trying to get a date from you.”

He cleared his throat. A lie.

“Dinner?” Jisung felt the words travel through his lips, as though they were foreign. “You
want to have dinner… with me?”

He licks his lips, reaching down to grasp Jisung’s wrist. Nice and tightly, and exactly how
Jisung wanted to be held.

Minho glances at his own watch.

“I just love spending time with you, baby.” He sighs, that head tilted to the side. “Don’t ruin a
perfectly good night… and a perfectly good outfit.”

Jisung truly couldn’t help the way his body reacted to Minho’s words. It was frustrating in a
way. He knew the words were Detective Lee talking rather than the Minho he felt his soul
entwine with for a mere five minutes. He knew there was some ulterior motive. He knew
Minho still had a job at hand for the evening, and that he wasn’t so beguiled that a little sex
could cause him to lose focus.

But he smiled anyway.

Jisung eventually found himself sitting across from Detective Lee in the nice restaurant a
couple of floors down. The low hum of conversation, nothing of value, and soft clinking of
cutlery filled the backdrop to the intimate atmosphere. The subdued lighting cast shadows in
the corners of the room, highlighting Minho’s cheekbones, and the deepness of his brow.

The detective appeared relaxed. Leaning back in his chair with an air of confidence.

His eyes, however, remained fixed on Jisung. It was the type of intensity that excluded the
rest of the world and the mission at large. It was a strange connection, a visceral one, and
Jisung knew not to be ungrateful.

It was alluring to observe Minho up close. For weeks, he had been surreptitiously watching
Minho’s movements, studying his routines. He could only watch from an adjacent street
corner where Minho would dash into the cafe by the police department each morning for a
latte for himself and a cappuccino for Detective Seo. But to see him, surprisingly at ease, was
one of Jisung’s finest orders.

The air was different now. He knew how Minho felt. How he tasted. What it was like to be
held by him. The voices in Jisung’s head wanted to make things harder. To counteract all of
the groundwork he had achieved in getting over this juvenile crush as Felix liked to coin it.

But he couldn’t help the way his stomach flips even in the bare presence of the older man.

“So, what is it that you talk about on dates, hm? Enlighten me,” Jisung hums, two elbows
leant on the table, chin pressed on his clasped hands. “Music, books, movies… are you
gonna’ lie to me and say that you only take the special ones to a restaurant like this?”

Minho smiles.

“I don’t believe for a second that you don’t go on dates,” Minho leans in his seat, two fingers
pressed against his temple. “Maybe you don’t have time for a relationship… but I’m sure you
have been spoiled by choice.”

Jisung felt the warmth spread in his chest. He loved this game.

“Like I said to you,” he huffs. “I get what I want and then I leave. Dinners and drinks they’re
nice and all… I’d prefer just to get to the good part.”
Minho paused, his eyes unblinking for only a moment. He was jealous– reverently and
clearly. It was so amusing.

To be wanted so badly… Oh, how fun.

“Okay then,” Minho sits himself taller. “Let’s talk like we’re on a date then. After all, you
and I know each other well enough at this point.”

The lingering kisses clad to Jisung’s throat were enough to attest to this.

“Where are you from?” The detective lets out at the end of a breath.

Jisung couldn’t hide his smile.

“Incheon,” it was the truth, and Minho didn’t quite expect that. He blinks those sparkling
eyes in response. “Until I was about seven when I moved to–”

“–Hanam,” Minho finishes his sentence for him. “I’m assuming that’s when you became an
orphan… you poor thing.”

He can feel the words prickle his skin, ignite his core, and set his heart alight.

Jisung had spent so much of his life watching others, that he couldn’t quite help the
excitement of Minho knowing everything. The very idea of the detective sitting in his
apartment at all hours of the night, wracking his brain about who Jisung was, where he came
from, and what he was going to do. It was more thrilling than the assassin had ever
anticipated.

“You’re well-researched, aren’t you?”

Minho nods, head lolled to the side.

“And what about you, Detective Lee? Where are you from?”

“Gimpo–”

“–In that apartment block by the convenience store,” An unfettered smile follows Jisung’s
words like a shadow. “It’s a nice spot… You probably rode your bike to school because it was
so close.”

Minho’s lips curl. He was pleased with Jisung. It was clear on his face.

“Is there anything you don’t know about me?” The detective poses the question.

“Well…” Jisung huffs, mindlessly recalling every waking hour he had spent searching
Minho’s profiles on social media (which were barren and scarce), his family history, where
his mother lived, where he went to college, the type of food he fed Gomi that could only be
sourced from a veterinarian’s office. “I know most things, actually.”

“Like…?”
“You’re not even that old but your music taste is questionable,” Jisung begins with a raised
eyebrow. “You like old bands that nobody has heard of these days and songs with
depressingly deep, sorrowful lyrics.”

Minho could only glare at the assassin’s dig, but Jisung liked how lame and intense he was. It
was like looking at dead bodies every day and analysing blood stains was a gentle vacation
from the impending solitude of his too-clean, perfectly decorated, and meticulously organised
apartment.

“You had a boyfriend in your final year of college who was the only person you ever really
loved, but you ended things with him because he wanted to settle down and you wanted to
join the force,” Jisung continues, flexing his ability to retain information… although it came
rather easily when it involved Detective Lee. “You blame yourself for not being enough, but
in hindsight, it was probably for the best considering he’s–”

“–Married with a kid,” Minho finishes the sentence for him.

It seemed like fair game to talk about the past– Jisung wasn’t quick to forget the poor orphan
comment.

“I just… I think about you all the time,” Jisung confesses between a sip of gin, lemon, and a
fizz. “Long after I’ve finished a job.”

Minho bites his lip, and Jisung can barely take his eyes away from the detective’s index
finger circling the rim of his glass– dancing just for him. Something within the assassin
twitched.

“Perhaps because you don’t have to lie to me,” he suggests with those dark eyes. “I know
what you are. I know what you do. You like to dress up as other people, but I see right
through it. I have since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Jisung has to calm the flurry of flames within his chest.

“Is that why you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Like dressing up as other people?” Minho poses the question with a sense of genuine
wonder.

“Who doesn’t like playing dress-up?” Jisung replies, licking the tang of citrus from his lips.
“It keeps things interesting.”

“And how do you dress, Jisung?” The detective asks, eyes flickering to the skin of the
assassin’s chest unfurled by his black vest. “Like this? Or are you playing dress-up right
now?”

“Who am I dressing up as?”

“You came to this hotel tonight not to set up for the hit you’re planning tomorrow morning,
Jisung.” Minho murmurs, taking a deft sip of his martini. “You came here, dressed like that,
for me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?”

“What do you look like… out of all of this?” Minho’s eyes were grazing all the skin Jisung
was showing. He felt the prickle of his glare, as though in every flutter of those achingly
thick lashes, small tattoos were etching themselves into the fibres of his being.

He didn’t know how to answer such a question. Nobody had ever asked. On what grounds
would he ever need to prepare an answer?

It was true that Jisung was always armed in some capacity or another. The knife he reapplied
to the Velcro strap around his thigh was enough for what this evening required. But he didn’t
dress like this when he wasn’t working. He liked to be comfortable but at the same time, he
liked the labels stitched to the overpriced white t-shirts from designer stores and the gems
encrusted to a necklace or bracelet. It reminded him of where he came from and
subsequently, how he turned it all around.

“Not like this,” Jisung couldn’t quite understand why he was suddenly so truthful with
Minho. It was certainly easier to lie– better even. “I– I look just like anybody else.”

Minho furrows his brow.

“Believe me,” his voice was a mutter. “I’ve never seen anybody who looks like you.”

Jisung smiled. He couldn’t help it.

“So, tell me something I don’t know then, Detective Lee.” He muses. “Think hard.”

Stop, the small voice in Jisung’s head – once referred to as his trusty conscience – demanded.
But he licked his lips, lolled his head to the side and presented his squared shoulders to give
the older man his unfettered attention, despite his identity.

He drank in the detective’s silence, his reservations, his throat swallowing back saliva and his
eyes, still fiercely loyal and in Jisung’s direction.

“Okay…” He murmurs slowly. “When I said to you, that I’d be the one to stop you, I meant
that I’d be the one to help you. I’ve been thinking of ways I can get you out of this life.”

Jisung blinks.

“There’s no getting out of this life, Detective Lee.” The younger man ignored his knees
pressing together painfully tight and the way the words made his mouth dry. “I am not in
need of helping. There is only one way out… and I happen to enjoy my life, actually.”

“Okay,” Minho nods back, a jarring softness to his voice in conjunction with his gaze. “Now,
you tell me something I don’t know.”
Jisung’s voice was forming words before his mind could even compute them.

“Okay,” There was a venomous spore on his tongue, and perhaps Minho deserved it for
flying too close to the sun and raining down upon their proverbial parade of sex and sweet
talk. “That dinner you made me… steak and rice… it was the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Minho didn’t say much to that and perhaps that is why Jisung chose such a thing to share.

“I’ve never had a meal cooked for me.” He mutters, enjoying the way the detective was
glaring at him as though he were a porcelain doll about to break. “I live off a diet of
chocolate, takeout, and dinners at fancy restaurants but only when I’m working. It was… It
was nice, Minho.”

“Maybe you should break in more often.”

“Well,” Jisung pressed a shoulder forward. “Keep leaving your fire escape unlocked and I
will.”

When Minho paid for dinner (because he refused to eat anything at the expense of ‘blood
money’), Jisung was proverbially kicking himself for walking the detective back to his room.
It was nearing midnight, he could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, and he could imagine
the lecture he was about to receive.

But… But he didn’t want to go back.

He didn’t want to talk about tomorrow. He didn’t want to get three hours of sleep before he
had to launch the plan they had sequestered for the past week. He wanted Minho to invite
him inside. He wanted to borrow a pair of his tracksuit pants, preferably the black ones that
smelt of his lavender laundry detergent, and to curl up in his arms and do nothing more than
rest.

Minho was staring at him in the doorway. He was speaking in a hushed voice. Detective Seo
was probably fast asleep next door to the room anyway.

For the first time in a long time, Jisung didn’t quite know what to say.

“I’m sure you can surmise that I’m not staying at this hotel,” the assassin begins, swallowing
down his wishful thinking.

“Well,” the detective crosses his arms over his chest. “That saves me looking.”

Jisung glares back into his darkened room from the ajar door.

“It’s funny… You could just walk in there, make a call, and end this.” He whispers, finding
himself frowning, not wanting any of it to end. “I’m quick on my feet but that third drink
really made me a little drowsy.”

Minho smiles, sucking on his bottom lip.

“If you’re so drowsy, I’m more than happy to drive you to where you’re staying.”
Jisung chuckled.

“Funny,” he says in a small voice. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s a lot that I’d like but I can’t have it,” Minho says in a whisper. “I’d like it if you
came inside and spent the night. I’d like it if I could take your number and see you anytime I
want. I’d like it if I didn’t have to hunt you down in the morning and act like tonight didn’t
happen.”

The assassin found himself frowning. This wasn’t as fun as he hoped it would be.

Fishing through his pockets, Jisung pulled out his wallet, and the tiny earpiece that he kept on
hand.

“Here,” he huffs, holding it between two fingers. “It’s a tapped line– I have a guy who made
sure it cannot be intercepted.”

Minho stares at the offering.

“The other earpiece is where I’m staying.” Jisung sighs. “If I wasn’t me and you weren’t
you… I’d take your number. But this is the best I can do.”

Minho takes the earpiece with a small smile, inspecting it with those dark eyes.

“I know you know how to use it.” Jisung licks his lips. “And don’t you think for a second I
will be compromising anything for you… but I’d like to know you’ll be waiting for me when
I get back.”

“This make and model was discontinued years ago,” he murmurs, glaring at the earpiece.
“It’s been modified to all hell and the serial number is on the base… I could track down
where you got it and who you bought it from in a second.”

“I know you can,” Jisung nods, feeling his conscience kick itself for his actions. “But if I’m
going down, you’re going down. Got it, Detective Lee?”

The older man pockets the earpiece with a small smile, reaching forth with a fist to curl
around Jisung’s waist to lull him closer.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Jisung,” he whispered, so close that the younger man could smell
that lingering cologne, wishing the moment lasted forever.

“And you know I’ll be waiting for you.”

They kiss goodnight. Soft. No underlying tension. Lips that were literate in the movement of
the other. It was maddening and sad. But it warmed Jisung’s icy core… so much so that he
thought about it all the way back to the apartment across town.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
“Welcome back, slut.”

Jisung couldn’t help his grin when he ventured back into the three-bedroom apartment they
had rented for the weekend.

Innie was hidden behind that baseball cap he wore every day, lips sucking away at a pink
lollipop as he sat before the makeshift surveillance headquarters he fashioned out of four
screens. The assassin could just see the footage he was replaying on the screen. It was Minho
who had him up against the wall of the elevator, their lips in synchronous movement and
arms running rampant upon one another.

“Enjoy the show?”

“You were meant to get a tracking device on him, not spread your legs and let him fuck you
in some dingy hotel room.”

“Oh, Innie…” Jisung was smiling, sauntering behind his best friend to drape two arms around
his neck, pecking the tip of his baseball cap. “One day when you’re old enough to take the
field, you’ll get the chance to sleep with as many detectives as you want.”

Innie shoves Jisung’s arms off his shoulders with a glare.

“Tell me you at least got a device on him,” he sighs with those darkened eyes, and Jisung
simply shrugs, pointing at the red flashing dot on the screen– signifying Minho’s location in
his hotel room on the tenth floor.

“Are you really doubting me?”

“Lix isn’t gonna’ be happy,” Innie licks his lips with his red-stained tongue from the lollipop.
“He said this would happen.”

Jisung opens one of the cases of Innie’s tech and gadgets, eyes seeking the adjacent earpiece
to Minho’s.

“Where is holier than thou Lix tonight, hm?”

Innie makes that face he always did when it came to talking about their best friend.

“Out,” he rolls his fox-like eyes.

“Out,” Jisung repeats with a huff. It was expected. “And you’re calling me a slut.”

“I don’t know what you see in him,” Innie flickers his gaze back to the screen. “He’s so…
frigid and intense and just… old.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Jisung sighs in that loved-up tone that could only be perceived as scathing.
He pockets the earpiece quickly and carefully, making sure to stash it when Innie’s gaze is
drawn toward some code that infiltrated the monitor.
“You can’t be too careful with cops, Sung.” Innie is furrowing his brow now, two fingers
clasping the plastic base of his lollipop. “Never trust a man with a badge— thought you knew
better than that.”

“I don’t trust anybody but you and Lix,” Jisung’s gaze narrows. “He’s a very important piece
to all of this. Without him, we don’t get the intel we need.”

“He is just playing you.” Innie lets out, voice no longer tinged with softness. “That’s what
they’re trained for. They’ll say anything to fuck you over… I wouldn’t be surprised if the
chief put him up to it.”

Jisung wasn’t sure why the words were so offensive.

“It’s not like I’m in love with him, Innie.” He didn’t mean the contemptuous venom to his
tone. “I don’t ever want you worrying about me. I know who he is, and he knows who I am.
We agreed to a truce, we had sex, truce over.”

Innie sighs, clasping a hand on the tip of his baseball cap, slumping it further down his tuft of
black hair.

“Fine,” he mutters, glaring back at his station. “You know best.”

Jisung finds his gaze softening at the sight. Tentatively, he lays a hand on Innie’s shoulder,
affording it a squeeze.

“One more year of this, Innie, and we’ll have enough money to last us ten lifetimes.” The
older of the two couldn’t help but mutter. “You can’t spend it worrying about me.”

Jisung could see the eye roll resting upon his gaze.

“Come on now,” he sighs, squeezing his taunt flesh hidden under one of his favourite
oversized hoodies. “Look at him,” he ushers his chin toward the replay of the CCTV
sauntering across one of the four monitors, honing his attention to him and Minho walking
back to his hotel room. “You cannot sit there and tell me you wouldn’t want him. He’s
perfect.”

“It’s bad manners to play with your food,” Innie mutters, shoving him off with a playful
chuckle. “Now… Get onto Lix before it hits 1 AM.” He points toward the clock. “There’s a
new device I need to show you idiots how to use before you run off to bed… or accidentally
fuck Detective Lee again.”

“You’re gonna go far, Innie,” Jisung sighs, puckering his lips to lay another kiss upon his
baseball cap. “One of these days I’ll get you in a training facility.”

“And trust you to handle the backend?” He snorts, pointing the pink tip of his lollipop to the
screen. “Funny joke.”

The second Jisung shut the door to his room, he pulled the earpiece from his pocket and
fiddled with it until he saw a green light flash and inserted it.
He wasn’t sure why he was so keen to speak to Minho again. Innie was right… It was
desperately bad manners for one to play with their food.

But Jisung was a well-trained cat who did everything that was asked of him. A little bit more
fun before his fangs clasped down on the neck of his prey wouldn’t hurt.

“Detective Lee,” he sighs as he stands before the vanity, unbuttoning his black vest. “I hope I
didn’t leave you waiting.”

Silence permeates the other end.

Jisung twitches.

It was a deft thirty seconds of quiet, and perhaps Jisung quickly changed out of his clothes
that smelt like the man he wanted to speak to out of avoidance. He was out of the restraints of
trying to look pretty, the outfit he picked in knowing it would most likely seduce the detective
that was flying a little too close to the sun as of late, and into something a little more
comfortable.

Jisung clicks the earpiece once more, hoping it was some technical fault rather than what he
feared it would be– another person to lose.

He felt his fists clenching, his short fuse burning to a crisp, his inability to act normal in not
getting what he wanted–

A fettered breath was heard over the line, and Jisung felt his chest constrict.

“You put a tracking device in my back pocket?”

Jisung’s lips curled into a smirk, and he sighed into the bedsheets with glee and pressed two
fingers against his earpiece.

“In my defence, I hid it really well.”

“How well if I found it?”

Jisung bites on his bottom lip, withdrawing the lingering taste of Minho. “Maybe I wanted
you to find it, Detective Lee.”

He hums. “You’re better than that. You have something else up your sleeve.”

“I trust I’ll be able to find you with or without it.”

A breathy laugh traverses the line.

The silence between words conjures a small and compliant smile to bloom on Jisung’s lips.
He couldn’t help the way his fingers were brushing against his neck, as though touching the
kisses left by the detective. It was embarrassing in a way, to be reduced to this messed puddle
of a man just from hearing his voice.
“Preparing for tomorrow?”

Jisung flickers his gaze toward the wardrobe door slightly ajar and the disguise he had
planned.

“Mm… no, I don't prepare for anything this late,” he sighs, rubbing his bare legs clad in
nothing more than the shorts that once belonged to Minho– the ones he has carried with him
since that night in his apartment. “I’m just getting some rest. I’m a little weary given
tonight’s events.”

“You sound tired,” the detective huffs. “Maybe we should just wait to see each other in the
morning.”

Jisung licks his lips once more, the tip of his tongue lingering longer when it garners a hint of
Minho’s taste.

“I like your voice, Detective Lee.” His finger was pressing against one of the marks on his
throat. “It’s nice.”

“I like yours too.” His voice is lowered, deep, exactly what Jisung meant. “But I like
everything about you.”

“I know you do,” Jisung answered, some of the playfulness leaving his voice. “I mean… with
how you touched me tonight, I got the message loud and clear.”

Minho pauses, and Jisung can just imagine the cogs ticking in his head.

“Did you like it?”

Jisung felt his eyes slip closed as his mind sprinted far away from him.

The answer was an overbearing yes… But Jisung wasn’t quick to let him win.

“I like a lot of things,” he muses instead, two fingers flirting with the transmission button on
the earpiece, while his other hand traced the steps of Minho’s touch.

“Tell me,” Minho’s voice is a mutter. “Tell me you liked how I touched you tonight.”

A twitch was felt in the base of Jisung’s stomach and he truly couldn’t help how he grinned.
His body autonomously wanted to flip itself on his stomach, legs kicking in the air, giggling
righteously like a love-struck teen. It was amusing to the assassin that Minho would use the
line for this reason, and he would play it into his hand every single time.

Instead, he hums.

“I preferred it when your lips were on me if I am to be completely honest.” He tuts, knowing

it drove the older man wild. “Although, even your fingers and your tongue didn’t quite feel as
good as your cock.”
Minho went silent again, and Jisung took his fingers away from the earpiece, fluttering a
stubborn chuckle behind his hand. He would never tire of being so forward… so shocking…
so perfectly frightening for the detective.

“What are you doing, Jisung?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The younger man presses a shoulder forward. “I am having fun.”

Minho laughs.

“No… No, what are you doing?” He continues. “Are you in bed?”

Jisung glances about his bedroom– the third biggest in the apartment their agency organised
for the weekend. He drew the short straw when it came to letting the others take the bigger
ones… although Felix was so desperately absent that it hardly made any sense he got a bigger
room than Jisung.

“Mm-hm.” He sighs. “Why? Are you gonna ask me to touch myself for you or something?”

Jisung could just about see the smile that Minho would fetter. It would be one of those he
elucidated without a semblance of control.

“I’ve already used you tonight… your body is probably too tired.”

“I could always go again.”

“I know you can, baby. I know.”

Jisung shuffles further up the bed, head hitting the tuft of cushions that were there for
decoration. His teeth clasp his tongue, his neurons firing effectively with the intent to form a
plan.

“Maybe I go out and find someone to make me feel that good again,” he glares out of the
window to the balcony adjacent to his room. “There’s still time, and you prepared me well
enough.”

Jisung felt the heat in his stomach bubbling over at Minho’s silence. He could just see that
stern look on his face. That thick upper lip clasped between his teeth. The veins on his hands
pulsating at the premise of frustration.

“I can call my friend in the Busan homicide division to give me access to the road footage– I
can find out where you are in an hour.” He mutters darkly. “What’s that saying? Two birds
with one stone?”

“Are you that jealous, Detective Lee?” He sighs, shuffling his hips into the mattress.

“Yes, I am.”

Jisung bit his lip so hard he wondered if he would draw blood.

“Then pretend I didn’t say anything,” he continues. “I’m afraid I have to run.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Minho lets out. “You’re gonna’ stay right there and listen
to me.”

The assassin cocks his head to the side, all the more amused at his antics.

“Well, you can’t force me to do anything.” His smile was growing wider and wider. “I won’t
have to go far to find someone else to want me.”

“You don’t want anyone else but me.”

Jisung knew it was true.

“Then give me a reason to stay.”

“For one… I am still thinking about you.” Minho begins. “And I’ve studied you long enough
to know you like it when you’re all I think about. You want to be the centre of my world. You
want me to chase you. Don’t you ever want a break?”

“A break?” He lolls his head to the side. “Why would I want a break from being everything
you think about? It’s the one thing that makes this boring job I have so exciting.”

“No, a break from trying so hard to earn my attention,” the detective continues. “A break
from control.”

“Mm… Do you not remember me telling you I like to be in control?”

“I remember everything you say.” He mutters. “But I want control now.”

“And how do you propose you control someone like me, hm?”

“It’s easy actually. I give you an order and you follow it. How does that sound?”

“I do like games.” Jisung flirts with the idea, knowing he would let the detective do anything
that didn’t compromise his mission. “You have my interest, Detective Lee.”

“Well, first I need to know what you look like… surely you’re not still wearing that pretty
outfit you picked out just to get me tonight.”

“Detective Lee, you’d want me if I showed up to that bar tonight wearing anything,” Jisung
muses, knowing it to be true.

“The only rules of the game include you not speaking back to me and doing everything I say.
Do you not understand that, Jisung?”

The assassin smiles, thumb pressing against his two front teeth with glee. He liked how this
was sounding already.

“I understand.”
“Good.” He mutters. “Now tell me what you look like.”

Jisung glares down at himself. It would be easy to lie… to tell some fictitious tale that he was
half naked, wearing a pretty pair of underwear or perhaps something tight and form-fitting.

But something about Minho made him spurt the truth.

“A t-shirt of a rapper I’m sure you’re too old to know,” he couldn’t help the smile that
followed his words. “And your gym shorts I stole from your apartment. Is that sexy
enough?”

Minho sucks in a breath.

“I like knowing you’re comfortable,” the detective murmurs. “That’s always sexy to me.”

Jisung chews his lip, always finding the odd fascination Minho had about who he really was
without the disguises so strange. His true self was materialistic, selfish, and able to do
anything to get what he wanted. He knew that it was all Minho’s charm– the type of charm
trained in detectives when they were taught skills in negotiation. But a small voice in Jisung’s
head liked to imagine it was sincere.

“How about this, baby? Instead of you going out, finding someone else to make you feel
good, you let me help you?”

Jisung raised an eyebrow, tempted enough.

“I– I would let you.”

“Good. Now, listen to me.”

He swallowed.

“Okay.”

“Take off your shorts– well, my shorts, actually.”

Jisung chuckled to himself, slipping them off so easily. It was like Minho was in the room–
he could just about imagine the contemptuous look on his face for still wearing his clothes.

“Okay,” he whispers, rubbing his knees together. “They’re off.”

“Good. Now, tell me, are you still tender and open?”

“I–” Jisung found his voice caught in his throat, feeling the blood pumping to his dick, unable
to control the guttural reaction he still had in Minho’s favour. “I’d have to find out.”

“Find out for me then, baby.”

Jisung swallowed once more, quickly glaring at the door, sure that Innie wouldn’t just barge
into him fingering himself at the command of the detective spearheading their mission.
Surely, he’d be too deep in one of the video games he played on his Nintendo Switch while
booting up the combative malware he invented. Surely, if he were to saunter into the room,
he’d just roll his eyes– having caught Jisung in far more compromising positions.

“Wet your fingers… I don’t want you to be sore.”

“Okay, Detective Lee.” Jisung whispers and syphons his underwear to his thighs, spreading
his legs with knees raised skyward. “Anything for you.”

“Good,” he mutters when Jisung’s fingers hit his tongue, quick to pool with saliva before
pulling them out with a clumsy trail of spit to fall from his chin and onto his t-shirt. It was
performative at best, and futile considering Minho couldn’t see him, but the idea that Minho
was in his ear, alone in his own capacity, and waiting for Jisung’s response, he couldn’t help
but spread his legs further. “Have you done what I asked?”

“Yes,” Jisung whispers, knowing it would be easier had they been on the phone rather than
having to press against his earpiece every second, but he made it work. “Yes, my fingers are
wet.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Now tell me, Jisung, are you still tender?”

Jisung couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt so strangely nervous. Minho couldn’t see
him. Minho couldn’t hear him unless he activated the push-to-talk button on the earpiece.
Minho had explored and tasted every single part of the assassin only hours ago. It was true
that he had that authority… and jarring ability to command those around him.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t done such an action either… especially with the detective at the
forefront of his mind. But when he tentatively felt the tip of his finger touch the taunt flesh of
his used entrance, he fettered a breath that breached the precipice of intimacy.

He was quick to loll his head to the side, essentially leaning his ear into his hand.

“You still with me?”

Jisung presses the earpiece with a huff, his wandering finger only rubbing gently upon
himself as his thighs spread ever so slightly wider. “I’m still with you, Detective Lee.”

“And?”

Jisung almost flinched at the words. He was always so imaginative… but the blurred lines
between reality and fiction were converging as he pressed that little bit further until his index
finger breached the hollow of his velvet walls. It was like Minho was lying above him, his
musk and scent infiltrating Jisung’s senses, the warmth of his skin, of his kiss. He was slowly
realising the problem with tonight– the problem being that a single time didn’t quite cut it as
he thought it would.

“I’m soft,” he whispers, back involuntarily arching as he teases at his entrance. He was
employing a bite of his lip upon his lower lip to keep himself quiet. “I’m soft and tender and
used.”
“I thought you would be.”

“And what do you wanna do with that information?” Jisung’s voice is a mere susurration,
feeling his cock pressed against his stomach, suddenly invigorated at the motion. “It’s not
like you can come here and do anything about it.”

“Tell me where you are… and I’ll make it all better.”

The assassin lets out a sobering giggle at the words– like it was their own secret humour, that
nobody in the universe would understand if not for their circumstances.

“I’m fine to sit here, making a mess, imagining it’s you touching me all night long,” Jisung
lets out a small breath, sure that it fed over the line. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve touched
myself thinking of you.”

Minho grunts quietly, and Jisung can just picture him. Out of that suit, in his hotel bed, never
as comfortable as he would be in his own. It was cute to imagine him being a little
apprehensive at doing something like this, but knowing that Jisung brought out the worst in
him invigorated the assassin to his core.

“So… I’m not the only one.”

Jisung bit his lip, hiking his right leg up that little bit higher on the bed. He didn’t have the
consequences in mind as he applied more and more pressure, unravelling everything holding
him back.

“It doesn’t feel like how you did it,” Jisung lets out the smallest of moans, pressing further
and further until he feels his knuckle on his perineum, moving at his own pace, sure to treat
himself nice and slowly considering the night he has had. But hearing Minho’s breaths and
mutters over the line conjures somewhat of an increased pace of panting a little too fast too
early. It was partly frustrating– the inability to get exactly what he wanted. “Fuck Minho– I
wish you were here with me,”

“I know.” He murmured, a sure sign of weakness, but to Jisung, his self-control was to be
expected. “How good is your imagination?”

Jisung hums a small smile, head melting into the cushions. “Better when I have no idea what
the real thing feels like.”

“Well, I’m right here.” He keens. “Play with yourself like I did.”

Minho’s words further fanned the flames of arousal that had fronted inside the younger man–
long before they took one another apart in some strange hotel room. He was so taken by such
a demand, that he almost cried with relief as his other hand inched downwards, wrapping
around his sensitive length – beginning to traverse across the skin slowly.

“Feels good,” the assassin whispers when he musters enough strength to press against his
earpiece. “Tell me you have your hands on yourself… your body– you’re just perfect.”
Jisung meant it in more ways than Minho probably suspected. He whined at the thought of
Minho’s hands running all over him, scandalising himself, pumping him full and deeply with
those fingers that were more inclined to grip a pistol and sit at a desk. There was something
so hot knowing he was trained at holding, using and chasing with a gun… but when it fired
that one time they were on a rooftop, Jisung drank in the fear in his eyes. Minho never quite
knew how to handle himself… he didn’t quite know how to hurt another… he never quite
knew his power.

“I do but… I just wanna feel you again, Jisung,” Minho’s voice barely does him a service.
“You felt so good in my arms… You tasted so sweet. I loved every single noise you made,”
Jisung’s eyes were shut as his mind replayed every single moment in the hotel. “I didn’t think
you’d fold for me so easily– I didn’t think you’d wanna’ get fucked by a man you hardly know
in some stranger’s hotel room.”

Jisung licks his lips, torturing himself by withdrawing his hand from his leaking cock to press
against his earpiece.

“I know you better than your friends and family know you, Detective Lee,” he muses with a
sated breath fuelled with a dangerous desire. “I was ready to become yours weeks ago.”

“Of course, you would,” answered Minho, as Jisung’s fingers grazed against his stimulated
prostate, knees shaking under the shockwaves elucidated from the touch. “You’ve been
teasing me and torturing me… You act all put together but I’ve got you fingering yourself at
my command.”

Jisung scoffs, hating that despite being as full as he was, he wanted more– he wanted Minho.
He wanted Minho’s thumbs upon the dimples in his back as he watched his ass bloom pinks
and reds like a poisonous oleander flower, rocking the bed with an insatiable urge to make
him suffer. He wanted Minho’s lips all over him, knowing that he was drinking in his taste,
his flavour, and satisfying every craving he ever had. He wanted Minho to follow him to the
ends of the earth, knowing he was good enough to do so, knowing he wanted it so badly.

This cat was blurring the line between wanting to play with its food and wanting a new
owner.

“I want you– I just,” he whimpered softly, finding more pleasure than he would on his own.
Sometimes this felt like a chore or a way to unwind after a long day. It was so much easier for
Jisung to just pick someone up, or sleep with one of the guys from Felix’s endless list of
contacts who bought them pretty, shiny things whenever they asked, but just knowing Minho
was right there… he didn’t think he had much in him. “I’d do anything to see you again.”

“I’m sorry baby,” said Minho with a voice laced with that omnipotent arousal. “You keep
being bad for me and killing all these dangerous men… I can’t give you anything more than
this.”

Jisung panted, too caught up between his fingers torturing in and out of him as his other hand
was wrapped tightly around his cock. He felt himself so close, that it would be any second
now, all he needed was to hear Minho’s voice.
“Please,” he whispers, taking his hand from his cock with fissured breaths. “I’m so close.”

He ran his fist along the traversal of his length, drinking in the silence, imagining Minho
doing the same, up until he heard his deep breathing on the other end, edging himself to
release.

“So, finish with me, Jisung.”

It was a simple command for a man who only followed very few in his life. Nonetheless, his
release echoed between his fingertips, saturating his hand in warmth and wetness, ceding
droplets on his lower stomach and hips until his teeth were clasping down on his bottom lip
until he worried he was going to draw blood.

He was smiling which was strange and lame and just such a fall from grace. Jisung was lost
in a labyrinthine embrace of deft memories of Minho’s lips, his touch, his aura that made the
assassin feel like he was actually wanted. He laughed softly at the mess– at himself, before
pressing his clean fingers against the earpiece.

“I don’t– I’ve never done that before,” he lets out almost breathlessly, a laugh following his
words. “You bring out the worst in me, Detective Lee.”

After a bout of silence, which Jisung surmised to be the time when Minho was shuffling
around nervously on his bed, sure to quickly clean everything up, and etch back to a place of
orderliness.

“Hmph,” he huffs deeply, sleepiness laced in his tone. “I think I bring out the best in you,
Jisung.”

The younger man rolls his eyes at the tease, reaching the box of tissues clad to the side table
to clean the mess.

“So, it must be me that brings out the worst in you,” he surmises with a gentle smile,
imagining that Minho enjoyed being tortured the way Jisung liked.

“Maybe,” he whispers before silence infiltrates the line again.

Jisung, now sitting on the edge of the bed, with a lazily wiped down stomach and shorts
sitting at his thighs, found his eyebrows drawing inward. He almost wished he could last
forever, that he would have remained in that little bubble of bliss for longer, that the cogs
were no longer ticking in Minho’s brain that reminded him of just why they knew one
another.

“Uh,” the assassin’s breath hitched, glaring straight ahead at the gear he had prepared for the
following morning, knowing what he had to do. “That device I put in your pocket– take it
with you tomorrow morning and leave it in the bathroom of the lobby.”

Innie would kill Jisung for compromising an intricate part of the plan– especially one that
involved his best friend ridding him of something he stayed up late just to engineer.
But Jisung didn’t quite seem to like the idea of an unfair playing field. The chase was the best
part.

“I was going to flush it down the toilet.”

“Don’t,” Jisung shakes his head, syphoning on his shorts. “Just… Just do me that one favour,
‘kay?”

Minho hums.

“What are you playing here, Jisung?”

“There’s no play.” He reassures the detective. “I just like to win fairly… and I don’t need
anyone else knowing you already found it.”

“Are you getting sloppy, baby?”

“Not at all, Detective Lee,” he smiled, biting his bottom lip. “And for that, I have only a
simple request for you.”

“Go on.”

Jisung huffs, glaring at his cases of weapons laid next to his luggage.

“Don’t kill me tomorrow.”

Silence permeates the line.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” Minho whispers. “I can get you into protective
custody if you just tell me who you work for.”

Jisung licks his lips.

“I don’t need helping, Minho.” He mutters. “But I do appreciate the concern.”

He sighs. “I can make all of this go away.”

Jisung had a suspicion that it was most likely the chief propelling Minho to say such words…
to etch such promises in the hope it got Jisung to spill the dirty little secrets the police craved.
He knew at the end of the day they wanted the man who paid his salary and that as soon as
they found out such a thing, they would have not a single problem putting a bullet in Jisung’s
temple. But there was that desperate sense of sincerity in Minho’s voice that did wonders in
persuasion.

“Even if that were possible… I enjoy doing this.” Jisung runs a hand through his hair. “Just as
you enjoy chasing… I enjoy running.”

“How isn’t it possible?”

He was desperate… he had somewhat of a saviour complex, for sure, but he wanted to help if
that were even a notion. It was sweet in a way.

“I told you, there’s no way out of this life where I go on living.” He hums in a voice drenched
in honey. “Now, if you do me a kindness and not kill me tomorrow morning, I’ll pass the
favour on.”

“You wouldn’t kill me– you’ve given up that shot too many times.”

Jisung smiled.

“And in your defence, I’ve been too quick for you to even line one up.”

He fetters a soft, breathy laugh tinged with a myriad of things he wasn’t saying.

“Just… Just think about it, Jisung.” The detective sighed, and the younger man felt his
eyebrows drawing inward at his stash, suddenly feeling that strangely stale taste in his mouth.
“Maybe I’m being selfish, but I can give you more– I can give you options. I don’t want this
to end any other way.”

The assassin felt his chest constrict; his glare set to the floor.

“All so you can take me on that date?”

“Mm-hm.”

Jisung stands to his feet, frowning at his reflection in the mirror.

“Sweet dreams, Detective Lee.” He whispers. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Minho is quiet, for ten seconds that stretch to thirty, to a minute, to the point where Jisung is
just about to pull the piece from his ear, crush it into a million little pieces and throw it from
the balcony out of anger.

But his voice etched across the line in a murmured hush.

“Goodnight, Jisung,” Minho speaks up. “I’ll be seeing you.”

When he knew the line was dead, Jisung pulled out the earpiece with a forlorn glare,
wondering why the mix of euphoria and apprehension was moving so seamlessly in the
boiling pot of his stomach. He could hear the panelled wood from the lounge room
floorboards shift, he could feel their vibrations, and the addictiveness of Innie’s laughter that
transcended boundaries, and found himself sighing.

He quickly washed up in the adjacent bathroom and prepared himself physically but
moreover mentally. He didn’t like lying to his friends.

It felt like he was betraying all of the hard work they did by even speaking to Minho without
the filter instilled in him in every training day. It all felt so very dirty– but it was an addictive
drug that he was a little too dependent on.
He knew he had to do some damage control.

When he sauntered into the main body of the apartment, his eyes innately went to Innie
sitting at the table, having swapped his lollipop for a slice of pizza that he was near breathing
in like air. He was caught between the scent of the wafting food and that sting of ash and
smoke, immediately glaring at just where it seemed to stem from.

It was the leather jacket with bleach-blonde hair that caught his attention. Felix was sitting
casually, balancing between a cigarette in one hand and a carton of chocolate milk in the
other as he watched Innie eat. The youngest of the three was surrounded by an array of
electronic devices, his nimble fingers dancing across a keyboard as he continued to shovel the
food in his mouth.

Jisung shot Felix a wry smile, the remnants of all his broken promises to the man still
lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Oh hey, Innie was just looking for you.”

Felix continued to stare at him, that mischievous grin spread across his face that accentuated
the carefree confidence that defined him.

“I gotta’ hand it to you,” he sighs between a puff of smoke. “You’re impressive.”

“Oh?” Jisung roughs up his hair as he slides into the chair across from Felix, ignoring Innie’s
scowl as he reaches in to grasp a slice of pizza. “Are you talking about the fact I got a device
on Detective Lee or the fact that I fucked him?”

“Gross,” Innie mutters between a mouthful, eyes only borne to whatever-the-hell he was
tinkering with.

“How’s his dick?” Felix tilts his head to the side, blowing the smoke between gaped lips and
fanning the ashes into the bright pink plastic tray by the pizza box.

“I would tell you to find out for yourself, but I’m instilling our code on this one– he’s mine
and only mine,” Jisung hums, swallowing down his bite with a toothless grin. “Sorry!”

“Have you scanned him?” Felix poses the question to Innie, who shakes his head with a
glare.

“I’m clean,” Jisung shrugs. “The trackers they use at that district station are bulky and are
magnetically attached– I didn’t wear any metal on purpose.”

Felix leaned back in his chair; fist clasped around his cartoon of chocolate milk which he
took a swig off.

“Do you love him or something?”

Jisung almost choked on his pizza.

“Are you kidding me?” He muttered. “What is the matter with you?”
“Just asking,” he tuts with a shrug. “We could see you went to dinner with him after… you
didn’t get home til’ midnight.”

Jisung’s gaze flittered between his friends, doing his best to balance the unspoken bonds held
and his desires.

“What? Am I not allowed to keep stringing him along?” He presses a shoulder forward with
crossed arms. “We need him to want me if it means we can get an in with the cops.”

“I know this,” Felix lets out as though it were obvious. “All I am doing is making sure that
you’re not attached to this guy.”

Jisung stifles a glare in his direction.

“And where were you tonight then?”

Felix’s lips coil to the side.

He doesn’t quite reply in words. He stood up, the cigarette dangling casually from his mouth
as he reached into a backpack on the couch. He sought out a black folder, and Jisung blinked
– it was a recognisable symbol of a new contract and a fresh assignment – before the younger
man tossed it onto the table in front of the assassin.

Jisung arched an eyebrow, his head lolling to the side in a gesture of mild surprise.

“Already?” He questions, his fingers idly tracing the contours of the ominous folder.
“Thought we had to carry out a few more for that political buyer?”

Felix merely blew out a stream of smoke, his expression stoic. “Change of plans,” he finally
uttered, his tone light and unphased. “It’s the same buyer– just with a shift of targets. They’re
getting worried about information getting uncovered a little too quickly.”

“What’s the timeline?” Jisung inquired, fingers rhythmically tapping on the leather, mind
already calculating the logistics of the mission.

“End of the week– the buyer was gracious enough to give us time to prepare.”

“End of the week?” Innie drawls by interjecting. “But I’ve spent the last two days perfecting
the encryption data to blackout that stupid conference… Tell me I didn’t waste my time.”

“Five days?” Jisung scoffs flickering the folder open with eyes borne to his best friend.
“Meet with him again and tell him we’re prepared enough to do it by tomorrow if it’s local.”

Felix grinned.

“Oh… You’re gonna eat your words, Sung.” He hums, squeezing his shoulder. “Take a look.”

Jisung practically rolled his eyes, trusting his efficiency in getting any job done– but when
his eyes met the folder, his stomach plummeted into a nauseating sensation that seemed to
drag him into an abyss. His mouth dried, words caught in his throat as he grappled with the
 sudden, chilling, reality unravelling before him. The two names paralysed his core and even
though he was well-versed in putting on an emotionless facade, he couldn’t help the way his
eyes dropped.

Target 1: Lee Minho

Age: 30

Occupation: Homicide Detective

Target 2: Seo Changbin

Age: 29

Occupation: Homicide Detective

Chapter End Notes

very likely this will be 7 chapters not 6 (what a surprise that i cant plan a fic properly
tho)

and i very much apologise for the wait! work had been so crazy pls forgive me
 Checkmate
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Minho reduced their fun to a crushed-up in-ear and a toilet flush when he heard nothing but
radio silence for two days.

Nothing.

Not a glimpse of his midnight hair on any CCTV in the radius of the conference. Not a peep
of interference upon the bugs they set up in anticipation of a hit. Not a hair on the heads of
any person of interest harmed in the last 48 hours.

The police force was taking it all as a success– an intimidation tactic that happened to work
out exceptionally well. The conference was held, and the treaty was promoted by three rich
pricks whom Minho once imagined he would be ordering the blood splatter team to acquaint
themselves with, and then hastily packed up to allow said rich pricks to board their flights
and get the hell out of dodge.

A relief, the chief was calling it.

A win, Changbin coined it.

A break for the weekend, Seungmin sneered between sips of coffee come Monday morning.

But Minho felt something off in his stomach.

He wasn’t so daft and caught up in the breeze of Jisung’s stardust to just roll over and accept
that he wasn’t in Busan just to get the detective in bed and to leave a tracking device on him
very messily. The marks that once littered his chest and neck were as faded as the memories
of Jisung’s lips.

The chief squeezed his shoulder and told him he did well when they reviewed the footage of
the bar, noticing the sheer amount of information Minho was able to get out of him.

He relayed the fact that Jisung essentially confirmed their suspicions of Lee Felix and Yang
Jeongin.

He disclosed the knowledge that he had a temper; a sense of unease when left hanging, an
insatiable need to get what he wanted and the behavioural cues of somebody with a
personality disorder.

He all but confirmed the long-standing theory that the assassin had some strange infatuation
with the lead detective on the case and that the central thought behind his actions was to earn
Minho’s undivided attention.
However, what Minho failed to inform the others, was the fact Jisung liked to imagine a life
outside of the one he already led. He feared change, new things, and the very vulnerability of
even speaking to Minho. He wore comfortable clothes when he was alone, and prepared for
everything in advance. He found a fascination in areas of Minho’s life he often dubbed as
boring or mundane. He had never had a meal cooked for him before and he loved to be in
control.

Minho kept it a secret that Jisung writhed around and whimpered when his neck was kissed.
He enjoyed following instructions and pleasing Minho with his lips and pretty batting lashes
and wasn’t above begging to get a semblance of relief from the detective. He loved to tease
and wasn’t so shy when it came to telling Minho what he wanted and how he felt. He ceded
control when in Minho’s arms. He made noise… took pleasure liberally and with an open
mind.

Jisung was sensitive… clingy… obsessed.

And Minho forgot to mention that he was infatuated with him.

“As it goes,” Minho’s eyes don’t even meet the chief’s gaze as he pursues the front of the
meeting room. “We have zero persons of interest in our jurisdiction, no airports or tollways
have identified any suspects leaving Busan, and the treaty will be open for signature at the
UN tomorrow morning.”

Minho glared out of focus, an index figure tracing a ghost of a mark just above his collar,
simmering with unbridled anger at everything Han Jisung left in his wake. It all felt so very
personal, so very pointed, and the detective wondered if the entire weekend was just another
trick out of his book. He was a good actor, which was established on the very first day they
crossed paths, but to physically feel and watch him come undone in an act of passion, Minho
felt he had underestimated the assassin.

“Hey,” a snap of a finger lolls him from the Han-Jisung-sized trance pestering his vision.
“Have you suddenly lost interest?”

Minho barely looked back at the chief who was leaning his fists on the mahogany table. He
was far too engrossed in the safety procedure posters that were mandated in every room, and
the free psychological help hotline HR purported when too many reports of depressed cops
came to light. He didn’t want to discuss Jisung as a success … as an enigma they unravelled
and are only waiting to capture.

He couldn’t rest until this was over. But he had hardly an idea of what over looked like in
keeping Jisung alive and safe.

“Han Jisung has been and is your problem, Detective Lee. Perhaps you should show some
enthusiasm that we have the intel to take him down.”

“And what intel is that?” Minho bites back, arms crossed over his chest, an insatiable
darkness to his glare that only surfaced when he took on this case.
Chan shoots him that ‘I own knowledge you don’t,' glance he loved to torture them with
whenever they were at a crossroads. He did it just last week to Seungmin when he asked him
a question he couldn’t possibly answer, waiting dramatically to unload something new he
received from their watchful perches all around the city.

“I got a tip this morning from this lovely old woman from Busan– quite the turn of phrase on
that one,” he chuckles, gleaming those ever-bright eyes, marrying his gaze to the homicide
detective slumped in his seat. “She’s a landlord who hosted three young gentlemen over the
weekend – paid in cash by an anonymous envelope the week prior.”

Minho’s attention is piqued, especially by his deduction that Jisung never actually stayed in a
hotel when they saw one another. He didn’t have a keycard in his wallet. Just an earpiece.

He internally scolded himself at the memory– at the mess he had become and the secrets he
now harboured.

“She didn’t see them check in or out but saw them in passing. Nice young boys who asked her
about her day, she was sure to add.”

“Where are you going with this?” Seungmin mutters behind two fingers pinching the bridge
of his nose.

The chief smiles and turns to the screen, where he projects a captured image of some sort of
code Minho couldn’t quite understand. He had a base level of knowledge regarding security
tech walls and invasive malware from the more complicated homicide cases he had once felt
like a breath of fresh air. But the plain grey screen, without a semblance of recognisable data,
conjured a raise of an eyebrow from the detective.

“What is that?” He asks the obvious question– knowing that every official in the room has no
clue of what they are witnessing.

“Cybercrime is calling it a clean sweep– Officer Song is saying she’s never seen anything
like it,” he huffs, head lolled to the side. “Some device was activated over the weekend that
wiped out encryption data on every piece of tech in the building with a camera. She only
realised because there was a robbery last night and all of the stored footage in her security
system had been scrubbed. Not to mention her personal phone, her laptop, and there are
reports of similar issues from every tenant in the complex.”

Changbin glares at Minho from across the table, arms crossed over his chest, bottom lip
protruding like it always did when he was deep in thought. He was acting strange that
morning. He didn’t want to rideshare to the office and seemed to have an itch for the stale
black coffee from the machine rather than the cappuccino Minho picked up for him.

“Busan Forensics gave the apartment a sweep, and low and behold, we found some
goodies.”

The first image flashes on the screen and Minho just about catches on to Chan’s allusion.
It was a photograph of a bullet, which the detective immediately recognised. It was one of
Jisung’s – the same he used in Tokyo and at the hospital on Cho and his security detail.

“Scrubbed serial number, silver jacket, same make you should all know by now.” Chan sighs,
flicking to the next page.

A photograph of the bare wall littered in the imprints of cords and coils, as though somebody
had tried to use military-grade technology in some three-bed-two-bath apartment just outside
of the city. Then, on the next slide, the ashes of what looked to be a charred piece of paper.

Minho had already seen enough to conclude, but the chief continued anyway.

“And of course, we found this lodged in the pipes of the sink.” He hones on to the next page,
a brightly exposed photograph of an evidence flag numbered ‘4’ and the matching earpiece to
the one Minho had flushed that very morning. He couldn’t help but dart his eyes to his lap,
refusing to acknowledge it.

He imagined that a week ago, if he saw such a thing he would salivate under the guise of
being a step closer to Jisung’s capture. But now… in knowing what he did, in feeling what he
felt, and in missing what he missed, his chest only constricted.

“What do you say, Detective Lee?” Minho could hear the grin in Chan’s vernacular. “Would
you see that we have a nice lead here?”

Minho’s darkened gaze meets the 24/7 confidential therapy helpline on that depressingly
yellow and orange poster by the door and conjures what little he can. The sign was tempting.

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Street footage near the apartment building was compromised in the cyber attack, so we ran
the plates of every car that was spotted in the approximated time frame that they were
assumed to have checked out– all from an outer perimeter,” he closes his laptop with a huff,
continuing with his thinking-out-loud brainstorming tactics Minho was literate enough in
understanding by now. “Only three foreign service vehicles were identified – the rest all
belonged to local drivers and businesses, so that will be our focus for today, hm? Everyone
out.”

The shuffling of papers and mutters beneath breaths fills the meeting room, and all Minho
can do is furrow his brow, finding the crux of Chan’s plan futile. He had somewhere along
the way stopped giving a damn about the logistics of the investigation. He wanted to know
why Jisung just disappeared with nothing more than a discarded in-ear and a million other
questions pestering his mind.

“Great,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temples with a prolonged grunt. “I’ll get the names of
the drivers and what companies they belong to– you two can focus on deciphering the other
evidence – the earpiece namely.”

“And since when do I take orders from you?” Minho couldn’t quite help the bane to his
tongue when melding his glare to the head of foreign affairs.
“Just look into the earpiece for me, I have phone calls to make,” he sneers, collecting his
things and galavanting out of the meeting room.

“Detective Lee… What’s he like?” Minho glances behind at one of the interns who is
clasping his notepad and laptop to his chest.

“–Yeah,” another joins in with an enthusiastic grin. “What’s Han Jisung like up close?”

Minho just about scoffs.

“That’s information neither of you will ever know,” the detective mutters as he stands to his
feet, clasping his folders of papers in a single fist. “Get to work on looking for any other
outages that are similar to the one in Busan and stop asking questions.”

They both gulp and do as they’re told.

Minho couldn’t help but feel the burning gaze of another upon his cheek, and with a quick
flicker of his eyes, he conjured a glare toward his partner who was still sitting across from
him. Changin’s face was unreadable– a stark contrast to its usual vitality. He always clearly
displayed the emotions that pestered him. He was never shy to smile when he caught a joke
or to roll his eyes when pissed off. The very fact he harkened neither of the two disturbed the
detective. What worsened it, was the way he gathered his things quickly, desperately and
sauntered out of the meeting room.

Strange.

Minho shuffled back to his office and shut the door with a huff. The evidence folders sat on
his desk; copies of the evidence from Busan, captures of CCTV Jisung was but a fleeting
ghost upon, and an explanatory guide on expansive malware that every member of the
department was tasked to familiarise themselves with. Under the guise of diving into the
investigation, Minho powered up his computer and brought up a page regarding encrypted
folders. Lines of code and technical jargon scrolled across the screen, but his thoughts were
far and away from there.

The cold reality of the investigation clashed with the warmth Minho had felt in those stolen
moments… those perfect minutes.

He found his head in his hands, and his lips fettering a heavy sigh.

All he could think about was Jisung.

His lips. His hands. His eyes. His touch. His sweet laugh.

And his ability to disappear into thin fucking air.

The very sane part of Minho wanted to put the pieces laid out in front of him together to get
him back for this radio silence and the way he capitalised on the detective’s weakness over
the weekend. But the very non-quite-so-sane part of Minho wanted to put the pieces together
and keep it all one big secret– to protect him, to compromise his job and everything he had
worked so hard for.
A darkened grunt left his lips at the two conflicting ideas, and he soon shoved himself out of
his desk chair and out of his office– he was better off getting to the bottom of another
mystery while he was at it.

He didn’t even knock when he entered Changbin’s office because why would he?

Changbin’s neck cracks upward as Minho helps himself to the swivel chair on the opposing
side of his wooden desk. The older of the two couldn’t help but notice the way he had not a
single file opened, his computer was sitting idly, and he hadn’t even unpacked his briefcase.
It was like everything between the four walls and a plastic plant were frozen in time.

“Can I help you?” Changbin mutters, eyes darting about the room. “You can’t just barge in
here.”

Minho folds his arms over his chest, a small scoff escaping between his sharp teeth.

“What is your problem, huh?” He huffs, not needing another issue unfolding before his eyes.
“You’ve been avoiding me all morning.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

The very fact he squeezed the words through clenched teeth said enough to the man who was
as literate to Changbin’s quips and mannerisms as he was to analyse CCTV footage.

“The last 48 hours have been one giant fucking headache, Seo,” Minho lolls his head to the
side, not quite so inquisitively, but moreover as a coping mechanism. “Help me out at least
and tell me what it is that’s bothering you.”

Changbin shot him a look that could kill.

“You’re the one who needs to help yourself out.” He mutters, fingers curling over his
mousepad– and for a second, Minho worried he was about to tear it in two. “You fucking
prick.”

“What are you talking about–?”

Changbin rolls his eyes, hand slapping the unassuming plastic of his mouse, and then he
clicks a few times, sure to tap a key or two, and chews his lip while he is at it.

“You owe me your career, did you know that?” He grumbles beneath his breath. “You owe
me a year’s salary. You owe me everything for what I did for you.”

Minho wanted to hit him back with a cacophonous symphony of counter-arguments, but
when he quickly put aside his often overbearing pride, he was able to cotton on to exactly
what his partner was talking about.

Changbin grasped his monitor by the base and turned it toward Minho– who was just about
ready to sink into the clinically carpeted floor.
“Take a good look at your work– cos’ I’m about to scrub my hard drive as soon as I get it off
my screen.”

It was a playback of the surveillance footage from the hotel– more specifically, the tenth
floor, Minho’s room. The dimly lit corridor, adorned with hints of muted colours, brought a
hardened pang to Minho’s chest. He knew exactly where it was, he knew exactly what he did,
and he had replayed it all in his mind since it happened after all.

His partner’s voice cut through the tense silence, “You know, I had to review all the footage
last night to send it up to the chief for this morning’s meeting.” He raised an eyebrow, locking
gazes with the man who felt himself a ghost in plain sight.

Minho’s heart raced as he watched the footage play out – almost as though it were a film he
had never seen before in his life and not the very crux of his fettered soul. There they were–
he and Jisung, sharing a quiet moment, a goodnight in the form of a kiss and exchange of
earpieces, a goodbye that marred itself with raw and unguarded emotion.

“Changbin–”

He holds a hand up in response.

The younger man continued, his tone calculated, “I made a few adjustments to the reel the
chief got and I kept all the off-cuts here.”

Minho’s voice was barely above a whisper as he pestered, “I can explain all that.”

Changbin need not reply in words– especially when the knot in Minho’s chest tightened like
a noose.

“The chief told me to do whatever it takes to gain his trust– to get him to reveal what we need
him to.” Minho felt it futile to even begin to argue with his partner when he knew his guilt
was palpable. “I got some good information out of him, Seo. I got him talking bout’ things he
would never give up if we had him in an interrogation room.”

“And then what? You sleep with him?” He lets out, running a hand through his hair. “I mean I
know it’s been a while and all, but this is our suspect. He isn’t some hot thing you can talk up
at a bar.”

“I know,” he mutters, finding no such disparagement in his partner’s concern. It was

ludicrous. It was idiotic. It was a bite of a poisoned apple that was a little too irresistible. “It’s
all such a fucking mess.”

“I mean… what were you thinking?” He continues. “I don’t know if you think you can help
this kid– but looking at his file, it’s not looking good. If we catch him, I doubt he’ll spend a
single day in a cell before his organisation puts out a hit on him, and if we don’t catch him, he
will spend the rest of his life carrying out these contracts and I doubt that life will be long.”

Minho glared through a darkened haze at his partner, tensing at hearing everything his
conscience whispered to him of a night out loud. He agreed with him– they trained together
in the academy and were partners from their very first investigation after all. His entire moral
compass coincided with the man sitting across from him, such a betrayal could only be
blamed upon his inability to keep far and away from Jisung.

“It’s not completely hopeless,” Minho murmurs with a lowered gaze. “I’ve been thinking of
ways we can help him.”

“Help him?” Changbin whispers. “There’s no helping a contract killer, Minho.”

The detective simply flickered a glare at the footage, watching the moment when Minho
closed the door to his hotel and the way Jisung stood idle out the front of it for a few more
seconds before he slowly fettered away.

“The chief and the government only care about who is paying for all of these hits,” Minho
mutters. “You and I both know that they don’t give a damn about the middleman… they want
a political takedown.”

“I don’t care how good he was in bed or how convincing he can be– there’s not a hope in hell
he would give up anything about that,” Changbin leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tightly
over his chest. “They know how to play the game and believe it or not, their game is the same
as ours. We don’t give our classified information away, they don’t give theirs away.”

Minho shuffles in his seat, eyes grazing the floor in contempt.

“For the love of god don’t tell me you gave anything away,” Changbin sighs longingly,
pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m already risking my neck by keeping this footage to
myself, you know?”

“I’m not that stupid, Seo,” Minho mutters with a grunt. “I didn’t give anything away.”

“Then why are you making that face?”

Minho fetters a breathless sigh.

“I just have this feeling that Jisung can be… persuaded.” He lolls his head to the side.

“You’re calling him by his first name and everything,” his partner fakes a cry, shaking his
head in a dramatised panic. “When does it end?”

“Would you just listen to me?” The older of the two raises his voice, taking the strangely
loose reins of the conversation. “He… He planted a device on me when we were… when we
were–”

“–When you fucked him, you mean?”

“If you want to put it that way,” Minho avoids his prying gaze. “And when I found it, he
compromised his mission by telling me to stash it. He didn’t want it known to his people that
he was letting me off– he wanted a fair playing field, and he was willing to override the only
task asked of him that night.”
“So, what? You think he’ll spill the beans about who he is working for because he told you to
stash a tracking device?” Changbin ushers between sharp teeth and a forked tongue. “The
entire point of our presence at that hotel in Busan was to get you to gain his trust… but I
thought even you could read through a lie.”

Minho ignores the pestering premise even his conscience liked to dwell on.

“Look at the facts of the matter,” Minho reaches for the file atop his partner’s desk with
gusto. “He has been groomed as a weapon since he was 13 years old. Time, money,
logistics… They were all invested by someone out there with enough cash that there’s
probably ten– no, twenty Jisungs who are all preened and manufactured killers. We take
down the organisation, we stop these weapons being made.”

Changbin continued to stare at his partner as though he had grown a second head and spoke a
foreign language. It was a spectacle of everything Minho wasn’t. The detective was always
by the book, formulaic, the type of operative that they utilised as an example in the police
academy. It was an incredible departure for the man who knew him best, to simply sit across
from him, and listen to this sort of discourse. Minho knew it too.

“Then why don’t you pick up the phone and kindly ask your boyfriend to give us the names
we want?” Changbin’s voice is a muted huff. “That would solve all of your problems, huh?
Maybe we even get a deal to put him in witness protection for the rest of his life in exchange
for it.”

“Jisung would be no help,” he says, sitting forward once more. “I doubt he has even met
them– let alone had their names.”

Changbin pauses, chewing on his bottom lip as though the cogs in his head were working
overtime.

“I mean, of course,” he grumbles with the shake of his head. “They bred the kid for the kill–
why would they reveal themselves to the one person skilled enough to take them down if they
ever were to piss him off?”

“Exactly,” Minho huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jisung isn’t the one who can help
us in finding a name.”

“Well your work is cut out for you,” Changbin reaches over the desk and snatches the folder
from Minho’s hand, flicking to the first page of the binder– index finger pressing on the
photo of the three orphans side-by-side. “You can either sleep with the smiling fuck from the
subway or the other one. You can’t have both cos’ all three would send me into cardiac
arrest.”

Minho has to fend off his ability to roll his eyes despite the fact his partner was etching down
the right path.

“My bet is this one,” the older man sighs, ushering toward the blonde-haired boy, innocence
radiating from the youthful photograph. “He has kept the lowest profile. He’s our lead in
getting the names.”
“Good luck finding him,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “And good luck getting a word
out of someone who is yet to even show us his face.”

Minho can only nod in response– having felt the impending guilt of his actions overcome his
vernacular.

The weight of unspoken words and the gravity of the situation pressed down on both
detectives. He could barely face his best friend, his partner, his brother. He knew he had
fucked up and that his misguided actions had consequences. But he wasn’t budging on this.
Not until he figured out what was going on with Jisung and if there was even an inch of a
possibility of helping him.

“I need time… to think about all this, Minho,” Changbin finally spoke, his voice cutting
through the silence with a mixture of frustration and concern. “I need time to figure out just
how far I’ll go to solve this case– knowing that he is… he is more to you than our suspect.”

Minho opened his mouth to respond, to explain, to defend himself, but before he could utter a
single word, Changbin raised a hand, cutting him off again.

“Just… Just leave me to that, yeah?” His partner’s plea hung in the air, a request for space to
process the revelation, to grapple with the implications of his actions. The strained expression
on Changbin’s face spoke volumes about the internal battle he was facing– torn between
professional duty and personal loyalty.

Minho can only nod, rising from the swivel chair with the sobering guilt that was once
dormant but now waking within him.

As he stood in the doorway, glaring back at his best friend with a lowered gaze, almost
shameful, at the file laid before him, the weight of his actions settled on his shoulders. For the
first time, Minho finally felt the consequences come to fruition.

“Thank you, by the way.” He mutters, not even earning a glance up. “Thank you for covering
my ass… I… Well, I appreciate it. A lot.”

Changbin doesn’t even look up. And Minho could barely blame him.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Later that night, Minho capitalised upon the dim glow of his apartment for a subdued
backdrop for the chaotic symphony of voices and noise within his head. Papers and case files
were scattered across the coffee table, the floor, and Minho’s lap. His laptop had died about
half an hour ago, and all that remained of his dinner (consisting of a cup of coffee and a
generous splash of milk) lay dormant on the kitchen counter. His tired eyes, laden with
exhaustion, fought to stay open as he sifted through information about the manufacturer of
the gun in the CCTV footage of the attorney kill – his focus for the evening shifting far and
away from Jisung to centre around Lee Felix.

Gomi, as oblivious to the turmoil as ever, was curled on his knee. Just above a crumbled
report of dead leads Minho had sifted through.

As the detective teetered on the precipice of sleep, a faint buzz and then another, and then
another, lolled in his pocket and just about jolted him awake. The sudden interruption cut
through the mental fog, and he fumbled to retrieve his phone. With a tired sigh and a stirring
cat, Minho swiped the screen to check the message.

Come out to the car

Not gonna ask twice

If ur not down in 5 minutes I'm out

Gomi blinked at him and he blinked at her.

His bones jolted when he read the messages before he read the contact from which they were
sent. He almost wished it were an anonymous number– one from an untraceable line, or a
stolen phone. But when he saw the name of his best friend, he couldn’t help the smile that left
his lips.

Still in his work suit, he barely broke away from the lounge room. Simply grabbed his coat,
his wallet, his pistol and his badge, and sauntered toward the fire escape. It had been left
unlocked since he moved back in from his previous tenure at Changbin’s apartment when the
forensics team were sweeping what prints of Jisung they could.

He glanced at the black hatch and jostled it slightly, as though he were a sane person
checking if it were locked. Instead, he was hoping for the opposite. If Jisung were to show…
this is how he would do so.

And Minho would always leave it open for him.

He locks the front door and etches out into the bitterly cold night, drawn only to the
fluorescent headlights of the black sedan parked adjacent to the sidewalk.

Leaning downward to the window left ajar, he almost fettered a smirk at his partner’s forlorn
stare – eyes loyally watching the road ahead and not the man standing at his door.

“Change your mind, Seo?” Minho couldn’t help but grin.

“Just get in,” he grumbles, aggression in his actions of shoving himself toward the door,
unlocking it for him. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

Minho didn’t need to be told twice.

As the car merged onto the quiet street, a tense silence enveloped the detectives. The city
lights painted fleeting patterns on the windshield, and the glow of the dashboard lit up
Changbin’s stoic face with blues and whites. Minho was sure to steal glances at his partner,
attempting to decipher the unreadable expression etched across his features and to determine
what this was all about.

Minho was yet to speak for the first few roads that led to the overpass. But, Changbin soon
broke the silence when he leaned into the backseat.

“Put it on,” Changbin muttered, hoisting a navy bulletproof police vest, one Minho
recognised from the storage facility at the station. “Are you armed?”

“Yeah,” Minho drew his eyebrows inward, taking the vest to free his hands up to drive. “Did
you find something?”

He made a small ‘tch’ sound beneath his breath, neck cracking to the side.

“An address.”

“You found an address…” Minho mutters the words too good to be true, they sound
fictitious. “How is that possible?”

“Look in my bag,” he ushers with his chin to the briefcase Minho manoeuvred between his
feet. “That clean sweep that they used in Busan to blackout the cameras in that apartment
complex… turns out that same technological mishap happened in Seoul last month just on a
much smaller scale.”

“How much smaller?” Minho whispers as he pulls the printed copies of the reports from
some local electrician responding to the outages.

“A block of factories in the industrial district,” he hums, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Only
one is out of operation – and has been for around ten years now.”

“Jesus– you think that’s…?”

“Keep it in your pants,” Changbin mutters. “I was meant to take Hyunjin to that new sashimi
restaurant tonight… the least you can do is act normal so I can hurry home and make it up to
him.”

The older of the two rolls his eyes.

“Does the chief know we’re doing a stakeout?”

“He’ll find out if I’m satisfied with what we can get out of tonight,” the younger man
surmises. “But no… no I didn’t find it in myself to mention this– you know, in case he asked
the question of what we’re exactly trying to find.”

His partner can only nod between a furrowed brow.

“We need to get to Lee Felix– I’ve done enough reading on the kid tonight, I have a rough
idea of what we can ask him.”
“Well, put your vest on cos’ I’m anticipating we run into your bloodthirsty little boyfriend
while we’re at it,” his partner retorts. “And make sure you’re loaded.”

“It won’t come to that,” Minho murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Even trained dogs bite, Lee.” The words are an irrefutable reminder. “Just do what you
always do and watch my back. I’ll be watching yours.”

As they arrived in the industrial district, the blackness of night enveloped the soon-deserted
streets. The roads were dominated by the low hum of trucks returning to the factories for the
night or workers leaving their shifts. The only light sources were the intermittent blinking
lights of electrical poles, casting shadowed glows on otherwise pitch-black surroundings.

Changbin switched off the headlights to the car the second they turned into one of the darker
factory-lined streets. He parked on the adjacent gravel path when they approached a faction
of four factories. Among them are a laundry, a manufacturing facility for cosmetics, and a
parts centre for cars.

It was the fourth, however, that made Minho unbuckle his seatbelt and sit forward. It
emanated a faint light from the second floor, with not a single sign alluding to a business or
an owner. Surrounded by a wire fence, it seemed ordinary at first glance. Abandoned.
Waiting for sale. Yet, the detective noticed the telltale red dots scattered around the
perimeter– cameras, surveilling the area with a watchful eye.

“You got a plan or are we just running in hoping we don’t get shot?” Minho mutters,
fastening the last strap of his bulletproof vest and checking that his pistol is loaded.

“Nope,” he hums jovially, arm reaching into the backseat once more to pull a pair of wire
cutters from the leather. “But I gave the place a look online. It used to be an old toy factory
around ten years ago– around the left side of the property, there’s a disposal shed. We enter
from there.”

“The tech they use is beyond us. I’m sure there’s a lock and sensor on everything, Seo.”
Minho mutters, mind crassly winding to the annoyances conjured from the blockades they
infiltrated on most of the footage they recovered from crime scenes. “The second we cut a
single wire on that fence, they’ll know we’re here.”

“Good,” Changbin nods, flicking the barrel of his revolver and counting the six bullets
lodged in the cylinder. “I want them to know we’re here. I don’t have the time or the patience
to seek them out.”

“We get in, we find Felix, and we get him into a secure location.” Minho decided. “We get
him talking. No distractions.”

“Take your own advice,” Changbin sucks in a sated breath. “What’re you gonna do if you see
Jisung?”

“We’re here for Felix.” He repeats. “The other one– Yang Jeongin… he could be useful too.
But we’re not here for Jisung.”
“And if he becomes a problem?” Minho didn’t like how Changbin uttered the words as he
clasped a pair of cuffs into his vest pocket.

“We don’t shoot to kill, Seo.”

“Well, he does and we’re about to step into his arena now.” His partner grunts, opening the
car door. “Come on.”

When Minho stood to his feet and glared at the unassuming building and the faint light from
the second floor, he felt the trepidation deep in his chest. He wondered if this was the place
Jisung called home. He wondered if this was where he watched movies, laughed with friends,
trained, or simply found moments to shut off and relax.

Changbin was existing upon the fizzled end of a burning fuse and led the way around the left
side of the factory. The night was silent and dark, and all Minho could do was pull his pistol
from his holster and keep it on hand– just in case. He followed his partner around the
perimeter of the fence which, despite the age of the building, was of a surprisingly modern
and expensive make. It was an achingly good lead.

The metallic clink of the wire cutters echoed in the silence, and Minho was sure to keep a
watchful perch as he cut one wire, and then another, and then another, until the younger man
had fashioned a slit in the fence wide enough for both detectives to slide through.

Minho could imagine what the chief would say to this if they were to get it all wrong. If they
were just breaking into an equally dangerous lair of the unknown without a warrant… if he
didn’t actually know Jisung as he thought he did, and was simply gallivanting into his
waiting trap– making it all the easier for him to make quick work of the detectives.

As he stepped through the gaping wire, he imagined that his body would never be recovered
if Jisung were to kill him here. It was almost depressing that his central thought was who
would feed his cat if they were both to disappear after breaching this precipice of danger. It
was a tantalising idea to flirt with– to die at his pretty, soft, gentle hands. To watch the
lifeforce fade from his sight as he glared down the barrel of the gun… or perhaps that blade
he moved like a swift butterfly.

The exterior of the factory was shrouded in darkness only known to those who exist on the
other side of the law. The only sound heard between Minho’s ears was the crunch of gravel
beneath their shoes and the beating of his heart. Changbin glanced back at his partner with a
nod, alluding his attention toward a single car parked out front, its licence plates belonging to
a different province.

They were learned enough to communicate with one another with a mere glance and a nod. It
was their own language they formulated from countless investigations and despite the tension
still rife in the air, and the onset of Minho’s messy infatuation with the man he was hell-bent
on finding, they worked like synchronous ripples on water.

When they neared the entrance, Minho with a pistol poised at the handle, nodded once at his
best friend before utilising his spare hand to gently jostle it– sure not to make a noise. It was
securely locked, as expected, and in a nod that held the weight of countless operations, they
repositioned. For Changbin, a forceful kick straight into the surface, and Minho, his pistol
poised and ready for anything to jump out at them.

The door, once a problem, was now swung open with the sound of its protest muffled by the
night. A faint glow beyond the doorway hinted at something , and Minho nodded once for his
partner to draw his weapon, knowing that whoever was inside, knew of their presence too.

Changbin signals with two fingers that they stick to the left, and Minho nods, leading the
way.

There was a sign of life in a jacket discarded to the floor, and a pair of keys on a hook. His
darkened gaze scanned the surroundings ahead, waiting for any signs of movement.

As they reached the end of the hallway, the space unfolded before them, revealing a large
open living area bathed in a soft light. It was modern and sleek, a complete traversal of the
shell of a factory. The floors were bathed in a warm varnished wood, and the dim
illumination from lamps and hanging fixtures created a vision of warmth. There were
carefully selected art pieces– sculptures and paintings, a dark-stone kitchen where in place of
plates and pans were pizza boxes and takeout containers piled by the sink. By the expansive
couch, the TV emitted a soft glow, its screen flickering with images, but as far as the eye
could see, it was eerily devoid of any occupants.

They moved through the room, sure not to make a peep, eyes seeking any movement they
could. Once cleared, Minho beckoned toward the spiral staircase near the TV. A shared nod
between the two detectives was enough– they needed to sweep the area before ascending to
the next level. They fanned out, moving with caution. Minho’s eyes darted from corner to
corner, pistol poised, ready and waiting. Changbin mirrored his actions, taking a path behind
the kitchen counter and into the bathroom as Minho cleared the closet by the couch.

But it was the sudden creak from the suspended floor above connected to the spiral staircase
that broke the sated sense of calm.

In an instant, Minho’s training kicked in, and his pistol aimed upward toward the platform
suspended above them. His eyes were too slow in identifying just where the noise came from,
but before he could even react, a sharp impact reverberated through his body.

The force of the blow and the crack of the bullet echoed like a thunderous clap and for a
fleeting moment, time froze. It was quick. It was sudden. And it fucking hurt.

A gunshot had found its mark just below his rib, and the searing pain that cut through the vest
sent a shockwave through the detective’s body that rivalled being trampled by a horse. It
sucked the breath from his lungs, jolting his heart into a frenzied rhythm that drowned out the
continued chaos. His back was against the nearest wall, and with such dulled senses, he
barely recognised the sound of Changbin returning fire or that fact he was already bounding
up the spiral staircase.

Coughing through the pain, Minho’s hands instinctively reached for the source of the searing
heat, where the bullet had been absorbed by the vest. He fumbled to check if it had seeped
through the armoured fabric, and the lingering agony overshadowed his relief of absent
blood, but god it felt like he was bleeding.

The taste of metal lingered in the back of his throat when he heard his partner’s voice cut
through the beating of his heart in his ears, he gritted his teeth against the pain and ricocheted
off the wall with a prolonged grunt.

“S-Seo!” He called out when he snapped back to the reality they were in, hearing nothing
more than his partner’s muffled voice from above. “Fucking hell,”

Clasping his stomach he knew would be painted an obscenely dark bruise come morning,
Minho’s fight or flight response urged him to purport the latter, and his eyes drew upward at
the suspended platform connected to the staircase, seeing his partner on the floor with another
man in a struggle. When the slightest itch of red flashed in his gaze, Minho’s feet were
moving beyond his body’s capacity up the stairs.

Minho led with his pistol and felt teeth clasp his tongue upon the sight ahead of him.

Changbin was hovering above a figure, blood splattered on his fist as he endeavoured into his
pockets to find a pair of cuffs with his other hand. He was grunting and muttering beneath his
breath which the older detective realised was a product of the searing wound on his left
shoulder, trickling crimson vitality through his white shirt.

“A bit trigger-happy, are we?” The younger man fetters and the jostling metal of the cuffs
fastens. “Help me out with this prick, Lee.”

Minho fettered one last cough from the lungs that felt like they were of limited capacity and
etched toward his partner who was straddling the back of the figure.

Holding his gun in close confines, the detective stalked toward the commotion.

Leaning closer, he could see the tuft of black hair on the assailant and a dark blue baseball
cap lying next to his writhing body. He was face down, a pair of silver headphones wrapped
around his neck and a loose grey hoodie covering his torso with hands clasped behind his
back at Changbin’s command.

Minho kicks away the pistol lying dormant on the floor, keeping it far and away from the
prying hands of who he assumed to be Yang Jeongin muttering contemptuous words under
his breath.

“You alright?” Minho huffs catching wind of the blood staining Changbin’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” the younger detective grunts, clasping the other silver link on his thin
wrists. “How bout’ you, Jeongin? How’s your nose holding up?”

He raises his head to glare back at the two officers omnipotently gazing down at him with
venomous eyes. He had a trickle of blood from his left nostril and as it seemed, it met the
imprint of Changbin’s fist in the tussle.

“Fuck you.”
“Not very good with a gun, hm?” Changbin sighs, rolling him around so he is facing them
and Minho squints his eyes at his face. He looked so young, so jovially full of life but with
that darkened whim of a man who had spent said life on the run. “That’s okay. I’m sure your
friends make up for it.”

“Where are your friends, huh?” Minho grunts, glaring at the four doors to this upper level –
one locked with a keypad, the other two sealed shut and the third slightly ajar. “You home
alone?”

He says nothing, which was to be expected, and Minho just about felt something snap in his
chest because of it.

“Listen to me,” Minho demands darkly, trying his best not to wince as he squats down to
meet the younger man’s eye level. “We can make this very easy for you if you make it very
easy for us.”

He scoffs with the roll of his eyes.

“Are you alone?”

Jeongin simply snorts and lolls his head to the side, completely disregarding his bloodied
nose and the two guns pointed toward him.

“I don’t talk to cops,” he flickers his gaze between the two detectives. “You can both suck
my–”

“–Alright,” Changbin grunts once more, purporting an inch of strength to pull him to his feet
and jostle him toward the closest wall to lean upon. “You’re gonna’ stay right there and we
are going to wait until your friends come home, hm? Or do you think they’re just gonna leave
you here with us and take the next flight out of Seoul?”

Jeongin didn’t seem to like the words, and Minho knew his partner was perfectly in his
capacity by shit-talking until he conjured something worth knowing from the younger man. It
was his speciality, after all.

“I’m gonna sweep the rooms up here,” Minho mutters, adjusting his bulletproof vest that he
was suddenly so grateful for, sure to stalk toward the apprehended man with darkened eyes
before doing so. “Be good for my partner, hm?”

The younger man’s fox-like eyes were rolling. It seemed he had that same pretentious attitude
as Jisung, and Minho wondered just how they worked as they did because of it.

“You’re wasting your days, Detective Lee.” Minho barely caught onto the words that were
gritted between his teeth. “If you were smart you wouldn’t have come here.”

“What did you say to me?” He scoffs, so close that it harkens another fettered smirk from the
younger man.

“Oh, nothing,” he hums. “Let’s all just wait for my friends to show up, hm? You guys are
welcome to fix yourselves a drink or pull up a chair. Make yourselves at home.”
“What are you talking about you little freak?” Changbin utters, drawing closer to the younger
man who was taller and skinnier than both detectives, reaching forward to pat down his
pockets in search of other weapons. “You got a phone on you?”

Minho was vigilant in the way Jeongin’s gaze was married to him, despite Changbin’s
incessant search and the continued barrage of insults. He was glaring at the detective as
though he were privy to an inside joke… as though he saw through the vest that read ‘
Police,’ and the demeanour of a man on duty. He was looking at him with the same knowing
eyes as Jisung and perhaps it wouldn’t be a far cry to surmise that he too knew of what
happened between them at the hotel.

He wondered if this was the man Jisung told everything to. If he were a proverbial safe space
… If they told one another their deepest secrets and spoke deep into the night. He wondered
if he was looking at the man Jisung held closest. They were raised together in that orphanage
after all.

The detective continued to sweep the rooms upstairs. Pistol-first, he ventured toward the door
left ajar. Boxes and cases were scattered around in some sort of organised chaos. Minho’s
mind raced with the realisation that they had stumbled upon a stronghold. There were files
and papers, what looked to be stored communication devices, and out-of-operation monitors
collecting dust. The evidence that lay before him… was everything he needed to close the
case. He could end the entire operation… he could make sure that Jisung and his associates
never saw the light of day again… he could make a single phone call to the chief and have
the entire place surrounded.

He had reached the point in the investigation which he was all too acquainted with.

He moved into the next room and his surroundings shifted dramatically. It was a simple
bedroom, spacious and modern. A sprawling double bed with black sheets and a leather
jacket hung casually over a chair. An ashtray rested by the television and it had a sweet smell
of a cologne. Even a preliminary glance around alluded to the detective that this wasn’t
Jisung’s room, but he somehow felt drawn to it all the same. Minho’s eyes were inexplicably
beckoned to a glass frame placed next to the bed, and the sight within it sent a jolt through
him.

It was all three of them in the photograph– Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung, side by side, frozen in
time. It was a departure from the usual image Minho used to draw upon, one of them as
children in conjunction with the orphanage fire, but here, they were older and happier, but the
detective felt something shift.

The background was some sort of mountainous landscape, and Felix occupied the centre, his
smile radiant and infectious. He had an arm wrapped around Jeongin’s shoulder, whose hands
were tucked into his hoodie pocket and headphones rested around his neck. Jisung was there
too, wearing a white shirt and denim shorts, holding up a peace sign with a grin that was wide
and captivating. He looked strangely different… so naturally at ease. He didn’t look like the
man that weaponised every word he said, or that had taken countless lives. He looked
comfortable getting his photo taken. He looked like he was having so much fun. He looked
like the man Minho saw only in brief flashes.
He swallowed back everything he wished to say when he cleared the room and moved on to
the next. It was blockaded by a keypad, and Minho only needed to glare out of the corner of
his eye at Jeongin still pressed and cuffed against the wall, exchanging meritless insults back
and forth with his partner to no avail to realise it was his room. That much was clear.

And then he ventured to the last room of the four, door ajar, and beckoned the detective
closer.

It was another bedroom, but the scent… that delicate gardenia and blossoming perfume
calmed the beating in Minho’s chest. He flickered on the light and quickly painted the four
walls in vitality.

A double bed was pressed in the corner, sheets rumpled, slept in, not made. Minho’s lips
fettered a ‘tch.’ He lowered his weapon, with eyes that followed around the perimeter,
carefully and slowly. It was a very organised mess. A pile of clothes on the floor, a dresser
that held a silver tree of necklaces, bracelets, pretty things. Beside it, a tray of perfume, and
Minho’s hand immediately reached toward the black bottle that stood at the forefront, half
empty, with a lid lying next to it as though it was used in convenient passing. He brought it
toward his nose and almost melted at the smell. It was Jisung in a bottle. It was everything he
wanted. Everything he missed. Everything that was tearing him apart.

Cords and wires, a laptop, an empty iced coffee cup, a pair of headphones, a box of comics.

Minho’s fingers couldn’t help but caress the bed as he walked alongside it. The softness of
the linens… the way it frustrated the detective that he never made his bed. It was such a
simple task– one that Minho did religiously. His lips turned into a small smile at the very
thought.

He ventured to the side table, where another tray of rings settled. It was a very normal
room… explicitly charming, warm, taut, as pretty as the man it belonged to. He wondered
what Jisung dreamt of in here… what he did… if he was a light sleeper.

Probably, Minho thought, because he was too.

A matching photo frame to the one in the other bedroom caught his eye. It was the same
photo but with glittery stickers stuck around the perimeter. A rainbow, a flower, a twinkling
star.

He opened the first drawer and felt his bottom lip curl beneath the top.

Minho stared back at a picture of himself.

It was an old photo, one of the detective wearing a training t-shirt and standing with the now-
commander of the police force when he was in the academy. Minho wasn’t smiling, because
he never smiled in photos. The commander was cut out, and the detective was the central
focus. Beneath it, another photograph lay dormant. It was recent. It was some long-ranged
shot of Minho getting out of his car out the front of the office, that distaste to his demeanour
and that darkness to his eyes. He had been watched… stalked… and yet, he felt a strange
warmth bloom in his chest at the thought. The next, a photo of Minho on a phone call while
sitting in his car, and the one after that, the detective out for lunch with Changbin and
Seungmin, lips curled into a smile at some joke he assumed to come out of his partner’s
mouth.

It was sick and sardonic, a crime in its capacity– but to Minho, it was almost a love letter.

“–Hey Lee, we got company,” Changbin’s voice cut through the songbirds reverberating
between his ears. “Rooms clear?”

Minho cleared his throat, shutting the drawer with the heat of the gesture rushing to his
cheeks and adding fuel to the fire in his chest.

“Yeah, clear.” He mutters, backing away from Jisung’s belongings, not quite understanding
the idea that seeing his room was moreover a twist of the dagger in his heart than an
exploration into what would soon be marked as evidence.

Grasping his pulsating stomach, Minho saunters out of the bedroom with eyes that
immediately draw toward what looks like headlights from the windows outside.

“Who is that, huh?” The detective immediately grunts toward Jeongin pressed against the
wall, raising his pistol toward him.

He just shrugs and bypasses the older man by looking at the ceiling.

“Phone’s ringing,” Changbin nods, holding a phone Minho assumed to be owned by Jeongin.
“Answer it and tell them everything is under control.”

Not a word leaves his mouth and Minho draws so close that Jeongin had no choice but to
meet his eyeline.

“We are not here to arrest you or to compromise your mission,” he utters, earning Jeongin’s
attention. “We are here to talk– to negotiate. We are here outside of office hours – completely
off the record, and we won’t be able to help you if whoever that is out there comes in with a
weapon drawn, do you understand?”

“I don’t believe you, Detective Lee,” Jeongin whispers, those eyes darkening as the ringtone
continues to draw out the silence. “I don’t believe you want to help anyone.”

Minho had to work quickly, and if that meant he had to leave his dignity behind, so be it.

“Frankly, I don’t want to help you at all. I want to help Jisung,” he was quick to notice the
way Jeongin blinked at the words. “His life means nothing to my division and the second he
is caught, I doubt he will live to see a trial. But that’s not the case for us,” his gaze met
Changbin who seemed to nod at the tactic that Minho was adopting, “and I will do anything
to make sure that doesn’t happen, okay?”

Jeongin seemed to drop that tantalising scowl he had adopted since he was cuffed.

“Tell them nothing is wrong and that they are fine to enter,” Changbin mutters, bringing the
ringing phone forward. “The second you break, we have no choice but to surround the place.
Everything in your operation will be over.”

He gives the younger man not even a second to think before he slides his thumb and answers
the phone, initiating the speakerphone setting and holding it close.

“Hey,” a voice huffs casually. It was deep, relaxed, not Jisung. “Did you go out the back
door? I got an alert that the sensor went off.”

Jeongin is quiet, eyes staring at the screen, in a war with himself.

“Hello?” The voice repeats. “Innie?”

He sighs, sure to swipe his glare at the two detectives standing before him.

“H-Hey… Er… Yeah, yeah it was me,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I was testing that
new security system. It worked, huh?”

“Mm-hm.” The other man replies with a sigh. “Sung got the alert as well, he’s heading back
home. I told him to bring dinner.”

Jeongin and Minho meet eyes.

“Okay,” he softens his voice. “Sorry about that– it was a pain to set up.”

“Mm-hm. There’s a car across the road. Did you run the plates?”

Minho narrows his glare at the assailant.

“Yeah, it’s nothing.” He is quick to purport. “Are you coming in or are you just gonna sit in
your car forever?”

The other man chuckles.

“I’m coming. See you soon.”

Changbin ends the call and pockets the phone.

“Good. You can follow orders, that could be useful.” He mutters, glaring at the younger man.
“Now sit there and be quiet– I’m gonna get your friend.”

With a nod, he leaves Jeongin in Minho’s care and plunders down the staircase.

It was quiet between the two as they awaited the arrival of another. Minho, still in pain and
pissed off that he was shot, couldn’t quite put together the words to articulate the entirety of
the situation. Everything he wanted was upon this very property and yet, he felt as empty and
as lost as when he first took on the case.

“You’re not gonna get anything out of him,” Jeongin fetters beneath his breath, black eyes
scathing and burning into Minho’s head. “I don’t care how much Jisung likes you… we will
never trust you.”
“I don’t need anyone to trust me, I just need you all to hear me out,” Minho barely wanted to
look at him, the searing pain in his rib reminded him of why.

“What do you even want from Jisung?”

Hearing the keys jostle in the front door, Minho ricochets off the wall and scoffs.

“I want him to have a choice.”

Jeongin stays silent enough.

A bang. A growl.

Minho’s eyes flickered toward the source of the commotion toward the balcony railing.
Leaning over, he caught sight of a blonde man, his frame fit and lean, standing with his hands
raised beside his head. His expression was feigned… almost bored at the motion. Changbin,
behind him, held a gun with a steely grip with a barrel aimed at the back of his head.

His partner was patting down his pockets, sure to retrieve and stow away a pistol he
uncovered into his back pocket and with a forceful shove, the blonde man stumbled forward
and upon the couch– exactly where Changbin wanted him.

“Come on,” Minho tilted his head to the side, gripping Jeongin’s restrained arm as he pulled
him toward the stairs, leading him toward the motion.

“Felix, I take it?” Changbin sighs as Minho reaches the bottom of the stairs, walking the
apprehended man toward the couch. The detective finally took the time to glare at who
Jeongin fell up against. A pretty thing– completely devoid of that childish innocence from the
single photograph Minho had of him.

His scorned eyes immediately drew away from Changbin and toward the older man, who
leant himself up against the iron pillar, and smirked.

“Detective Lee,” he sighs, as though the entire tirade were business as usual. “I’ve heard so
many good things.”

Minho’s gaze narrowed, assessing Felix’s reactions. There was something in the way he held
himself… a subtle confidence that hinted at a too-deep layer of involvement. Yes… he was
exactly the man they needed to get names.

The detective knew it would be wise to pull his pistol, to raise it as his partner was, and to
completely unleash his best in interrogation. But instead, he sauntered toward the coffee
table, close enough that he could smell that alluring cologne, and sat himself down.

“We’ve got a few questions… Hope that isn’t a problem,” Minho asserted, tilting his head to
the side.

“Sure,” the blonde chuckled, pressing a shoulder forward before glancing at the man next to
him. “But I have a few of my own first.”
Minho raised an eyebrow.

“Go on,”

“Which one of you was it that made my friend bleed, hm?” He ushers to Jeongin’s bloody
nose and the brokenness of his resolve.

“Well, your friend, can be sure to tell you that he is only bleeding because he shot me,”
Minho huffs, pointing to the pulsating ache in his rib as he glares between the two men.
“Would you say that’s fair game?”

Felix nodded at Jeongin in a way a mother nodded at a child.

“Well, it can’t be that bad when you come in here wearing a vest, hm?”

“You’re lucky he was wearing a vest, otherwise you would’ve been coming home to a dead
friend, buddy,” Changbin mutters from the rear.

“I’m happy to put it in the past if you can do the same. An eye for an eye… we have a clean
enough slate to have a conversation, right?” Minho peruses, earning a delayed nod and a
crossing of his legs.

“You mind if I…?”

He was reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket and Minho could hear the clicking of
Changbin’s gun at the action.

“Relax,” Felix’s smile is all too charismatic and charming, as he instead sifts through to pull
out a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. “Unless it bothers you?”

“It’s your home,” Minho leans back, nodding. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Want one?”

“I’m trying to quit, no thank you.” Minho’s response earns a shrug before he clasps a
cigarette between his teeth and ignites it.

“Mm…. Good for you,” he hums after sucking in a sated breath, smoke falling from his lips
naturally. “So, what brings you here, detectives?”

Minho couldn’t help the way his fist clenched on his knee.

“We came here to speak to you.”

It seemed to earn a grin from the younger man sitting on the couch.

“I must say I’m surprised to earn your attention, Detective Lee,” he gleamed, two fingers
snagging the cigarette with ease. “Thought I wasn’t your type.”

“You’re not,” Minho sighs. “But I believe you may be of some use.”
“Mm… you’re not my type either,” he shrugs. “I’ve had Jisung’s leftovers before. Not into
it.”

Minho tried not to twitch, gauging exactly who sat before him. Jeongin was a little too clear
with his feelings… a little too passionate for a man who had to be stealthy in every way. He
wasn’t as preened as Felix and Jisung in articulation and winning without drawing a weapon.

But the detective once got through to Jisung. He could do it again to Felix.

“It’s an impressive operation you’ve got going on here,” Minho skims past the comment,
eyes darting around the expansive space. “It only took how long, Detective Seo? Just over
two months for us to get here. I’d say that’s an all-time high for us.”

Changbin nodded, but his gaze was married purely on the two seated assailants and his pistol
was steadfast because of it.

“What was it that gave us away?” He blows the smoke from the side of his mouth.

“Well, nothing has been given away yet.” Minho hums. “If this goes how we want it to go,
then we should soon be on our way and very forgetful of this address.”

Felix grins once more.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Minho smirks.

“Your freedom in exchange for names– to be more specific, the names of every person who
has contracted your err… services,” the detective smiles. “Surely, I’m talking to the right
person for that.”

Felix breaks out into a laugh.

“Freedom?” He lolls his head to the side. “As far as I’m concerned, we are already free.”

“For now, maybe,” Minho nods. “I’ve given this place a look… it’s quite nice… but I’ve seen
enough to draw my investigation to a close and with that, I doubt you will be able to live the
free life you are so far enjoying– unless you can meet me in the middle here.”

“Oh, I completely get it– don’t you, Innie?” He gleams at the younger man beside him, who
is sending proverbial daggers toward the detective instead. “For weeks now… all we’ve
heard is Detective Lee this … Detective Lee that … but I understand now. You’re so very
believable.”

Minho hums, feeling a strange shift in his stomach. He liked knowing Jisung talked about
him. He liked having his picture taken and kept close to the assassin. He liked knowing he
was as part of Jisung as Jisung were to him.

“It’s very convincing and it helps that you look the way you do, Detective Lee,” Felix smirks
between a puff of smoke. “But you have come here tonight, into our home, with nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?” Changbin murmured, and Minho could just imagine his allusion to the pistol
pointed at their heads.

“No, Detective Seo, nothing.” The blonde sighs. “You’re here on your own accord. I’d say
the only people in the world who know of your location are sitting in this very room. The
chief clearly does not know that you’ve come here out of office hours because he would not
send two measly homicide detectives to infiltrate a property like this without a warrant, nor
would he be quite as understanding in your little infatuation with your lead suspect, hm?”

Minho doesn’t show the contempt on his face, but he feels his rib pulsate at the words
anyway.

“–Who will not be very happy at all when he comes home to find you here holding us at
gunpoint, and I doubt will be bringing enough dinner for the five of us.” His gaze narrows
between the detectives. “But, it doesn’t matter. Like I said… the only people in the world
who know you are here are sitting in this room right now– I’m assuming it’s going to stay
that way.”

“I can see what you’re trying to say,” Minho fetters with a tug of his lips to the side. “But this
address was only uncovered because of some connection mishap… What are they calling it
Detective Seo?”

“A clean sweep.”

“–A clean sweep.” The detective confirms with a smile. “I’m sure you know something about
it, Jeongin. That blackout attack on all of the cameras in the apartment building you
frequented in Busan– you must have been testing and perfecting the technology for the last
month when you wiped the surveillance of the factories around you, hm? It’s all so
impressive… well above my pay grade.”

Minho quite liked how the man with the fox-like eyes shifted in his seat, quick to draw his
gaze to his lap and away from Felix’s prying glare.

“This address is sitting in our office as we speak, by morning it’ll make its rounds through
the different departments– it’s an irritating process, you see… I’m sure you get it.” It was a
lie, but Minho was well-versed in the art of it by now. “Your threat, it’s a good one, but the
second you kill us you better pack a bag and wipe your prints because the entire place will be
surrounded come morning.”

Felix doesn’t react in words, he simply leans further into the comfort of the couch and sucks
in another breath– completely unphased, and at ease.

“I don’t believe you,” he croons, licking his pink lips. “And frankly, I don’t need you to
believe me either.”

“I’m glad we can agree,” Minho shrugs. “Maybe I’m a little over-confident, but with
everything I have seen since we took this case is that the two of you are quite good behind
the scenes… but I doubt you’re good enough to make us just go away. ”
Felix simply glances at his watch.

“If you wait about twenty minutes… Jisung will come home and I can imagine he will be as
good as you say, Detective Lee.” He smiles, all innocent and pretty. “And he has made it
known that he is ready to let you go now.”

“Let me go?” Minho cocks his head to the side.

Felix’s grin is infectiously wide.

“He got what he needed from you. He’s had his fun.” He sighs and Minho’s eyes are only
borne to the way his cigarette was just about exhausted– flame etching to his fingertips. “And
if you knew Jisung in any capacity, you’d know he gets sick and tired of playing with the
same toy more than once.”

Despite the incessant need to do so, Minho doesn’t react in any capacity. He swallows down
the words burning the tip of his tongue and smiles once more at the man before him who was
strangely ready to play the second he ventured inside.

“What’s that face for, Detective Lee?” He chuckles, putting out the cigarettes on the cement
ashtray decorating the middle of the coffee table. “Don’t tell me you actually… no… Did you
really think that anything was going to work out between the two of you?”

Minho shrugs it off.

“I didn’t come here to talk about Jisung in that capacity… I came here to negotiate,” he
hums. “And while I do appreciate your observations about past events, I would rather draw
your attention to the fact your entire operation is fucked unless you give me what I want.”

“Okay, so let’s all pretend that you’re here to negotiate,” he sits himself a little further on the
edge of the couch, forearms leaning on his knees. “You want names from me, hm?”

“That’s all we want.”

“And I am expected to act stupid and pretend that two salaried detectives will be able to pay
the three of us enough to even discuss if this is something worth our time?” He trills with a
laugh. “Mm… You are fascinating, Detective Lee.”

“This isn’t about money,” Minho nods. “This is about your lives.”

“Then you should know that if I am to give you what you want, our lives are completely out
of the question.”

“Yes, Jisung made that clear the last time we spoke,” Minho pressed a shoulder forward,
elated to see Felix’s eyes light up at the mention of his associate. “But you are quick to forget
that your lives are out of the question either way.”

“Okay… so we give up the names to the police of all people and lose our lives, or we keep
the names to ourselves and die in custody?” He sighs longingly, testing the words on his
tongue. “You’re not a very good negotiator, Detective Lee.”
“You’ve been dead once before, haven’t you?”

Felix pauses, catching onto the allusion with a little too much enthusiasm. He licks his lips
once more, all the more intrigued by what Minho is purporting.

“Yes well… this strange second life we’ve been given… I quite like it,” he fetters, lolling his
head to the side. “It’s much better than any sort of alternative you can muster up.”

“Think about it,” Minho pressed a shoulder forward. “I know the chief and I know my
department well enough that they may be very forgetful of what you have all carried out if
you hand over the names.” He is sure to swipe his glare at Jeongin while he’s at it. “And I
would be generous enough to orchestrate another way to make you all disappear so nobody
comes after you.”

“We could stage a fire,” Changbin mutters from behind his partner. “Or does that hit too close
to home?”

Felix’s eyes teeter between both detectives with an insurmountable charm. He hadn’t dropped
that guard yet– he hadn’t shown even a glimpse of compromise. But Minho could see the
parts moving in Jeongin’s mind, which was a little less subtle and a little less secretive, to
gauge that it was somehow feasible.

Minho glares back at Changbin. They knew they had to keep talking.

“I don’t think you realise the gravity of the situation,” Minho leans a little closer to the
blonde. “If this doesn’t end… I will hunt you all down until it does… and at that point, I don't
care if you have to rot in prison the rest of your life or if your employers are merciful and
send someone behind bars to cut it all short for you.”

“We’ve given you your options,” Changbin murmurs. “I know you’re both smart enough to
think about it.”

“We’re a man down,” Felix flickers those tantalising eyes between the detectives. “Do you
think he should have some sort of input on the matter?”

Minho shrugs.

“I’ve been watching Jisung long enough to know where he aligns,” he lets out with a huff.
“The ball is in your court,”

Felix smirks once more.

“Am I able to give you an answer in…” He tilts his head toward Jeongin, that knowing glint
in his eye.

“–Three days,” Jeongin mutters, darkened eyes aimed at the older man.

“Yes… Three days.” Felix grins. “It gives me time to think and I don’t feel comfortable
leaving Jisung out of this. Surely you can respect that, detectives.”
“Why then?”

Felix gleams.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he holds out a hand, willing and charming. “Give me
three days to think about it. My decision isn’t a light one.”

Minho stares at the hand.

“Come on,” he drawls with a smirk. “A three-day long truce… surely you can both respect
that. What do you say, Detective Seo?”

Changbin doesn’t reply in a greater capacity than holding his pistol tighter.

“Detective Lee?”

“Give me something as assurance you’re not just going to skip town the second we leave this
place.” He utters. “Forgive me if I can’t find it in my heart to trust you.”

“Sure,” he nods. “How about Jisung?”

Minho blinks.

“What?” He grunts. “How can Jisung be assurance?”

“I can give you a rundown of the contract he is currently carrying out. I trust you can use that
information to keep us in check, hm?” He smiles, all pretty and sly. “No names disclosed, for
obvious reasons, but surely evidence you can put forward to your chief if we skip town as you
surmise we will.”

Changbin stalks closer to the blonde, gun wavering near his face.

“What are you playing at here, you smirking little shit?”

“Assurance.” He nods. “If you don’t hear from us in three days… you’re free to take him
down any way you can, hm?”

It was so clearly a farce. Felix knew Minho wouldn’t compromise Jisung like that. Minho
knew it too. But it was all he could accept. He had to hold up his end.

“Fine,” Minho mutters. “Give us the contract.”

“Give him the contract,” he hums to Jeongin who rolls his eyes and pulls some sort of device
from his pocket, plays around with a few buttons and dials, before lolling his head on the rear
couch cushion alluding his attention to the printer by the door making a rustle and a buzz.

“There,” Jeongin huffs. “Go fetch.”

Changbin saunters toward it and pulls a sheet of paper from the grey machine. He stares at it
with those darkened eyes before melding a glare at the two painfully silent assailants.
“What am I looking at right now?”

“Well,” Felix sits himself a little taller. “It’s a standard contract– it’s quite common for us to
receive work in that form. Name, age, occupation… sometimes a location, almost always a
timeline, very rarely a method.”

He meets Minho’s gaze.

“Good enough for you, Detective Lee?” His voice is a mere susurration. “Everything you
need to take Jisung down. Three days and the case is closed. You’ll be a hero.”

Changbin hands his partner the copied slip and he can only glare at the blacked-out names
and personal information.

“Who is this contract for?” The small voice in his head finds its central concern in a potential
life lost… and what Jisung was asked to do.

“Hm… I’m not gonna spoil the fun.” He smirks once more. “Take it. See what you can do
with it. You either hear from us in three days or–”

“–You don’t.” Jeongin finishes the sentence well enough.

“You said it yourself, Detective Lee… the ball is in our court. Let’s play now.”

“And Jisung?” Minho felt himself at a strange sense of loss.

Felix smirks.

“You’ll hear from him.” He nods. “No matter what.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

In the days that followed, Minho couldn’t quite find it in himself to move beyond Felix’s
words. It was true that he had to trust them… that he had to conjure some sort of belief that
they wouldn’t skip town with the names, never to be seen again, and for the detective to pick
up the pieces of his decimated career and fractured heart. It was true that he was vesting the
totality of his belief in a foul-mouthed tinkerer and a smirking deviant who seemed to get off
on messing around with their investigation, as well as holding onto hope that Jisung hadn’t
just dissipated into his ghost form once more.

Again, not a single hit occurred… well, nothing that was alerted by the department. Changbin
had his theories. That Jisung was carrying out something internationally– or that they were
talking out of their asses to get the detectives to leave. He mentioned something about it
being an expired contract, or one they had already completed. He even theorised that it was
all fictitious because how the fuck could they trust a single one of them?
The only beacon of hope Minho had was in Jisung’s ability to hear his reason.

What didn’t help their cause was the ridiculousness of being out and socialising at such a
time. It had been three days since they infiltrated their headquarters and it just so happened to
be Hyunjin’s birthday.

Any bypasser would assume that there was no such pressing investigation nor was there a
looming deadline with how Changbin was having the time of his life. Three drinks in and
Minho felt achingly sober from the swarm of thoughts about Jisung, and without a lick of
celebratory spirit, he thought it in his best interest to call it a night.

“You’re leaving already?”

Minho almost felt a pang of regret when he saw Hyunjin’s face drop. Almost.

He was a little too kind and meek for the detective’s liking. He was utterly considerate,
insightful and gentle– everything he imagined his best friend to deserve. But Minho didn’t
quite know where to start in putting down his professional walls to conjure a sense of
normality.

“Yeah,” Minho flickers his gaze to his watch, voice raised over the raucous laughter and
music of the bar. “I have some reports to get started on.”

“Do you ever stop working?” He sighed with a bright cheer, adjusting the plastic tiara on his
head that read ‘Birthday Boy’– Changbin’s doing, Minho surmised. “I thought the foreign
affairs case was essentially over.”

Minho fetters a close-mouthed smile, quick to inhale the dwindling champagne wafting
around the taller man’s body.

“It’ll be wrapped up soon,” he nods with a smile. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

He made a face Minho wasn’t quite sure what to make of.

“Changbin told me about the case,” he says loud enough to be heard over the music.

“What about it?” Minho thins his lips– feeling his insides tense, feeling his sobered thoughts
take over.

Hyunjin smiles once more.

“He told me that he needs it to end if he ever wants to see his best friend again,” he was sure
to grasp Minho’s shoulder, affording it a small squeeze. “You can’t let it devour you,
Detective Lee. You gotta have some fun once in a while.”

As a man who had already been swallowed entirely by the case, Minho smiles nonetheless–
doing whatever he can to get home.

“Goodnight, Hwang,” he nods, peering behind the lankier man to glare at his partner,
teetering to the brink of overkill by singing a little too loudly into Seungmin’s ear at his
favourite part of the song. “Get him home safely, yeah?”

“Got it.”

When Minho arrived at his apartment, it was 11:05, and the elusive three-day deadline was
nearing its end without a single word from anyone. He felt the disappointment in his aching
head and the frustration tighten in his jaw as he leaned his forehead against the door– too
defeated to even place his key in the hole.

He couldn’t escape the sense of failure that clung to him like a shadow refusing to be cast
aside. He had watched the world move on and all around him… all the while this case– this
man– had eaten up his time, his heart, his mind, and his ability to function. Minho knew deep
within he never should have carried on manning the investigation. It was simple in homicide.
He didn’t have any of these messy feelings that threatened to ruin everything.

With a deep sigh, he finally lodged the key into the door and swung it open– wanting nothing
more than to slip out of his suit, crawl into his bed, and never wake.

The second the door opened, Minho’s hand instinctively reached for his holster, fingers
gripping the cool metal of his pistol.

Inside his apartment, classical music filled the air. The vinyl player spun gracefully,
producing some melody from one of the records the detective was gifted by his mother. The
TV was on and flickering with muted images, all the while the lamps in the lounge room
were lit, as were the lights in the kitchen. A sizzle from the stove joined the music in casting
ambience into his favourite space in the world, and the aroma intensified, filling the room
with an undeniable allure. His eyes lasered to every other anomaly– the set table with two
plates, a bottle of champagne and two glasses, a black duffle bag sitting on the coffee table,
Gomi fast asleep on a cat bed Minho was sure he didn’t buy.

“You’re home late,” a voice tuts, emerging from the kitchen with an apron tied around his
waist, frypan in one gloved hand, spatula in the other and those scheming eyes gleaming.
“Hope you weren’t up to no good when I’ve been slaving away for you.”

Minho lets go of his gun still attached to his holster and quickly swallows the ball of saliva
lodged in the back of his throat.

“Are you just gonna stare, Detective Lee?” He smiles with that whim of cheer. Besides the
apron wrapped around his lithe figure, Minho could just see the tight-fitted black t-shirt
beneath and a pair of cargo pants with a chain attached to the hip. “Take off your coat, relax
and sit down… I give dinner maybe five more minutes.”

The detective doesn’t say anything. Just closes the door and slowly sifts off his blazer and
coat, resting them on the rack by the doorway.

“What are you doing here, Jisung?” He mutters, feeling like he was intruding in his own
home.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He hums, returning to the kitchen, disappearing from the
older man’s sight.

In Jisung’s absence, Minho is quick to dart his glare toward the duffle bag left on the coffee
table. He peered into it, noticing a familiar box. Bullets and laid beside it, a pistol. The make
was the one he used in two separate hits. He is quick to dart his eyes upward, on guard,
unwavering.

“How was the party?” The voice calls alongside humming the tune of the music and the older
man has to ignore the pulsating in his chest.

Minho finds himself standing in the passageway of the kitchen, eyes studying the sight before
him.

Jisung was moving about Minho’s kitchen as though it were his own. Dishes were piled up
by the sink, food scraps were left on the cutting board, and a large silver knife – the one
Minho used to slice meat – was sitting idly by Jisung’s spare hand, beckoning the attention of
the detective.

“It was fine,” Minho murmured, unsure whether he was in some strangely familiar dream or a
foreign nightmare. “I don’t like parties.”

The assassin chuckled, tilting his head to the side as he monitored what looked like a pan of
chicken – unseasoned, bordering burnt, without a semblance of experience laced in his
technique.

“Just fine?” He huffs, barrelling his eyes toward the detective.

Minho had missed the darkness of his gaze… the whimsy, the allure, the unknowing of
everything he had studied.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just fine.”

Jisung takes one last look at the detective and sighs with a contemptuous shake of his head.

“I told you to sit down and relax,” he huffs, leaving the frypan to the flame, really burning
the chicken now and removing the black mitten meant only to remove trays from the oven.
Instead, Minho inhales the gentle nature of his gardenia perfume - the sweetest, but most
tantalising thing to ever infiltrate his senses - landing before the detective with that pretty
smile. “Here… Let me help you.”

Minho was too slow to even realise what Jisung was doing before he felt his fingertips on his
shoulder, coiling beneath his leather holster and tugging to fetter it away.

“What are you doing?” The detective whispers, so close he could see the softness of his skin,
his cheeks, the pinkness of his lips.

Jisung smiles. The type with teeth. The type where his eyes clasped and wrinkles in the shape
of a butterfly wing formed. He tugs again, and before Minho knows it, he is staring at his
own service pistol in the hands of the assassin.
“Sit down,” he licks his lips as he wraps the leather holster around his wrist and syphons the
pistol to sit on the bench behind him. If Minho were to reach for it, he would have to go
through Jisung… and with the way he held that mischief to his gaze, he had an inkling that it
was intended that way. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. Let me take care of you
tonight.”

“Jisung–”

“Don’t argue,” he grins, flattening two palms on Minho’s chest, softening his gaze at the sight
before him. With a push, he walks the detective backward until he meets the smooth wood of
the dining room chair. “Sit.”

Minho’s mind struggled to catch up to the reality before him. It was nearing midnight. The
third day of the three-day deadline. He was meant to get Felix’s answer. He was meant to
make the moves he needed to make in exchange for their freedom, Jisung’s chance at a good
life, for the identities of the names the chief wanted. He was meant to close the case the
second that happened. He was meant to forget that this everything of a man had consumed
him… swallowed him whole with no intention of spitting him back up.

But with the way Jisung moved about the kitchen, smirk returning to his lips, hand dipping
down to touch the base of the steak knife a little too often and with that scathing gaze that
continued to meet the detective out of the corner of his eye, Minho felt his insides tightening.

It was clear that this wasn’t the man he spent the weekend at the hotel with. That man was
soft… vulnerable… strangely sweet in every way he didn’t intend.

Minho knew Jisung well enough to know he was working … and that was not a good sign.

“I hope you don’t mind that I just used what you had in the house,” Jisung muses from
behind the stove, and in the split second he turned his back to reach for something in the
spice cupboard, Minho utilised it to study his surroundings– in trying to assert some sort of
defence if he needed it. “It wouldn’t end well if I had to go to the market myself. I’d go in
there looking for some vegetables and come out with a whole new– ah shit, the chicken!”

The detective flew to his feet. He didn’t care about the food– it hardly looked edible, but he
used the opportunity to assert himself, to find his grounding, to seal up his final wall of
defence.

“Let me help,” he is quick to mutter, etching behind the assassin who looked like he was in a
war with the frying pan rather than in collaboration with it. So naturally, Minho’s arms
snaked around his waist, keeping him close and tight and in his sight, before trailing a hand
to clasp against his wrist. “Take the pan off the heat and get a serving plate ready. It looks
cooked through to me.”

And teetering the precipice of ‘burnt to a crisp.’

Jisung tilts his head to the side so Minho’s face can near his own, so close the older man
could see nothing more than his faltering facade. He was no longer smirking or with that
knowing glint in his eye… Minho’s touch was making him nervous, and the detective had to
capitalise on that.

“It smells nice, Jisung,” he hums, lying through his teeth but doing what he can to get him to
drop the act. “What did I do to deserve all this, hm?”

A reluctant smile festers on the younger man’s pretty lips.

“I missed you,” he whispers, leaning back to press a kiss against Minho’s cheek. “Is it a
crime to want to look after you?”

The detective has to control the small voice in his head that craves more.

“Not at all,” Minho sighs and takes an ardent step away from the assassin, quick to saunter
toward the counter with the cutting board and the kitchen knife that stuck out like a sore
thumb. “Bring it over here so I can cut it up.”

Jisung shoots him a glare when he notices the gleaming silver of the blade.

“What part of sit down and relax do you not understand, Detective Lee?”

Minho licks his lips.

“You know me,” he huffs, holding the knife tightly. “I simply can’t do that.”

Minho deftly sliced through the chicken. It was charred and unsavoury, and the rhythmic
sound of the knife hitting the cutting board filled the air. He could feel Jisung’s eyes fixated
on him and he felt the atmosphere begin to shift… he felt control etching back into an arena
he was comfortable in.

“Fine.” A hum and pacing back and forth follow. “How about a drink?”

“I’d love one,” Minho said, feigning nonchalance. Jisung’s eyes just about lit up as if those
words were exactly what he wanted for the detective. Eagerly, they both moved toward the
table – carrying a plate of burnt chicken and what looked to be rice, shockingly undercooked
and unwashed– as though literate in domesticity and not in the investigation that had
consumed them.

As they settled into their seats, Minho across from Jisung, the older man couldn’t quite shake
the feeling that something was amiss. The assassin had this deviant little smile on his lips. A
single glance back at the kitchen revealed the absence of his service pistol, the one Jisung had
pulled from his shoulders and placed on the kitchen bench. Before he could even speak, the
overtly loud pop of the champagne bottle shook his bones to the core.

Jisung was already pouring the bubbly liquid into the glasses, that knowing glint in his eye.
The golden fizz danced to the surface, and Minho almost felt his mouth dry.

“What are we celebrating?”

Jisung chuckled, that same lightness to his demeanour as he untied his apron and rested it on
the third chair of the four-chair table.

“You,” he hums, holding a glass for the detective to enjoy.

Minho narrowed his gaze at the glass of bubbles in his hand.

“Why are we celebrating me?”

“Three days– isn’t that what you told my roommates?” He lolled his head to the side. “Three
days and the case is closed. You’ve done exceptional work, detective.”

Minho had to stop himself from reacting or from trying to source just where on his perfect
little body he was hiding the gun.

“So, you discussed what I brought up to them?”

“Well… you can imagine what they had to say. Not even I expected you to show up there of
all places.” He chuckles, taking a sip of his champagne. “They have had some thoughts.”

“It’s nice by the way,” Minho huffs. “Your place.”

Jisung’s lips tug to the side.

“You didn’t want to wait until I got home?” He preened. “I would have liked to give you a
tour.”

Minho’s mind casts itself back to the beautiful whimsy of Jisung’s room– his space, his
things, his pictures of the detective he kept right by his bed.

“I saw enough.” He nods. “And I had already made up my mind before I even got out of the
car.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, studying Minho with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.
He flickered his gaze to the plate of dinner sitting before the older man before plastering on
that playful smirk.

“Eat,” he quipped with those bright eyes. “I’m sure you’re starving.”

Minho squinted at the assassin, having no such appetite but knowing it would be inept to
refuse him. With a huff, he picked up the fork already laid out for him. Jisung was staring and
Minho could feel the vibration on the floorboards beneath them from his foot tapping on the
wood, anticipating, waiting, bracing himself. The detective sought out just why he seemed so
antsy– and why the grin on his face only seemed to brighten as the seconds ticked on.

With a glance back at the kitchen, Minho’s eyes scanned the dishes left by the sink, the
myriad of condiments and spices he had pulled from the cupboards, and the black bottle of
rat poison amongst it all. His stomach coiled at the sight and he once again assumed his cool,
maintained his composure, and plastered on a gentle smile at the pretty thing at his table.
“Thought you said you didn’t cook for yourself,” Minho tried his best to keep him talking,
the rolling waves of his conscience were screaming at him to make a move. He certainly had
no interest in eating when he didn’t even own rat poison.

“I don’t,” he hums with those fluttering lashes. “But I wanted to do something special for
tonight… for you, Detective Lee.”

Jisung wouldn’t try and fucking poison him, Minho thought to himself.

But he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was so very off.

“Please, don’t wait for me,” Minho smiles, watching him with those knowing eyes. “You’ve
worked so hard– have some.”

The younger man chuckles and shakes his head. He didn’t even need to speak to etch his
thoughts into fruition. He wasn’t going to budge until the detective took a bite.

Minho’s lips thin and his eyes glare at the charred chicken beckoning his fork.

Jisung wouldn’t… surely.

He stared at the plate with a heart beating a million miles per hour and decided to call his
bluff. He took a bite.

It was hardly appetising– overcooked, too salty, strangely stringy.

Jisung observed Minho’s reaction with a playful smile. When the detective swallowed down
the lump of char with a feigned expression, he too, picked up his fork and took a bite from
his plate, punctuating the flurry of dismal thoughts running rampant around Minho’s mind.
For a fleeting second, the tension in the room dissipated and he reignited that strange sense of
trust he had for the younger man.

“So,” Jisung hums after he swallows down a mouthful. “I’ve been told to pass on an apology
from Innie– for shooting you.”

Minho takes a sip of the champagne.

“I think we gave him a fright.” He utters as though he hasn’t dealt with a searing pain in his
stomach for the past three days. “It’s an occupational hazard, I guess.”

“He isn’t one to scare easily,” Jisung shrugs before his eyes soften. “How are you feeling?
Fracture anything?”

“Thankfully, no,” he huffs, although he wondered if the doctor got it all wrong considering
the size of the bruise left on his stomach. “But you’d know all about how much it aches at
night.”

Jisung gleams once more, excitement bubbling the more Minho speaks.
As they continued to eat, the room settled into an uneasy calm. The clinking of cutlery
against plates filled the space but Minho couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was more to
this… that it wasn’t as black and white as he hoped.

“I’ve gotta say,” Minho began, expression shifting into something a little more serious. “I’m
glad to see you here. I was worried that I wasn’t going to get an answer from you. I didn’t
want to jump to conclusions.”

“Mm… my er… associates made it known to me that you’d be keen on getting an answer out
of us,” he chuckles. “They had a lot to say when they asked where I was going tonight all
dressed up.”

The detective’s eyes rake up and down his simple, yet strangely efficient ensemble. It was a
familiar iteration of what he wore beneath his disguises. Something comfortable, but lithe
and nimble, plenty of pockets in those utility pants for knives and guns and the three backup
plans Minho surmised he kept at his beck and call.

It was a little too loud for a man whose speciality was subtlety.

“Hm… So, you broke in here tonight because you missed me, Jisung?” He mutters. “Not
because you had something else to say?”

“I didn’t break in anywhere,” he places a hand against his chest– offended. “You left the fire
escape open and I can read it all over your face, pretty boy, you’ve missed me.”

Minho knew it was true.

“So, what are your associates' answers to what I propositioned them into?”

“You mean when you negotiated whether we should give up every contract we’ve had in
exchange for our freedom, as you like to call it?”

“You’re a good listener, Jisung.”

He laughs once more, running a finger across his lips of oleander; pretty and pink, but
poison.

“I wanted to see for myself, if you were playing a game, Detective Lee,” he suspires.
“They’re good at reading people but I doubt there is anyone whose heart is still beating that
knows you better than me.”

Minho takes a sip of his drink which seemed to lull him into a stupor. He wanted so badly to
return to that inch of paradise he saw on the weekend– that unfiltered, achingly beautiful and
devastatingly real portrait of the man before him that only echoed in glimpses. But to get
there would be a laborious exertion of his best in negotiation.

“There’s no game.” He nods. “I want what I want.”

“And you recall my words from the past weekend– that even if you think you’re helping, it’s
impossible.”
“I just want this, Jisung,” Minho was etching toward his money shot, feeling the fissures of
his deception, caution and truth converge into one. “Right here… right now.”

The younger man purses his lips, those sparkling eyes narrowing.

“I want you here, waiting for me at the end of a long and shitty day where I’m chasing
someone completely different– someone who I don’t give a damn about… someone I’d be
more than happy to get into cuffs and make sure they never see daylight again,” he mutters,
unsure if he was trying to convince Jisung to not kill him or to inadvertently transform his
dreams into actuality. “I’d cook for you because… because this is terrible, baby, you know
that, right?”

Jisung’s eyes seem to falter… his facade slowly cracking at the seams with his lips turning
into an apprehensive smile.

“I’d take you anywhere you wanted to go. I’d do anything you wanted to do. I’d make the
bed in the morning because it’s simple and easy, and I know you don’t like doing it,” he liked
the way the assassin paused at the allusion before breaking into a gentle laugh. “I wouldn’t let
you feel like this was it … because for you, it’s not.”

The night deepened, and with each passing moment, Minho sensed the walls closing in.

“I love chasing you, Jisung… but I can’t do it forever– not when I know what you’re like
when you stop running.”

Jisung blinked twice, and Minho was quick to notice his clenched fist on the table– as though
in an internal battle with himself.

“What am I like?”

“You’re still as clever, and difficult, and just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen… You’re
everything.”

Jisung bit his lip, gaze tantalising the detective who continued to grapple with his own
vulnerabilities and the unpredictable twists of fate before him.

“I don’t like this game, Detective Lee,” his voice is quiet, no longer elusive or prepared. “I
don’t like it at all.”

“Then drop the act, Jisung,” he asserts, feeling the shifting dynamics looming over them like
a spectre. “And set yourself free.”

Jisung’s glare was dark and it bore into the detective’s amid the air that crackled with tension
as the seconds stretched into eternity. He doesn’t quite reply in words, not when he reaches
behind his back and pulls Minho’s service pistol to place on the table with a thud. Its barrel
was staring the detective in the eye and upon its settlement next to his glass of champagne,
Minho didn’t even shift in his seat.

“I came here to kill you tonight, Minho,” Jisung confessed with a voice tinged with a chilling
nonchalance. “It was very open and shut. Pays well too. It’s common when people go
 snooping and find out a little too much.”

Minho, despite the pistol now pointed at him, felt a surge of defiance– and it was his rapidly
beating heart that took the grunt of it.

“Then why are you hesitating?” He asked, his tone a measured challenge. “You’re a
professional. Do it and be done with it.”

Jisung’s top lip twitched and he fidgeted in his chair as though to avoid the beat of silence in
the air.

“I don’t know,” he muttered with slumping shoulders. “I thought a gun would be a good
idea,” Jisung ushered his chin toward the duffle bag leant on the coffee table. “But then I
thought maybe a knife… or poison… or smashing into your car on the way home tonight.”

He bit his lip with a hesitant smile.

“Maybe I haven’t done it yet because I trust you… a little too much,” the assassin whispers.
“Maybe I wanted to hear you out.”

Minho’s brow furrowed as he processed Jisung’s words and the way his gaze lingered on the
cold metal of the pistol.

“So, tell me… what can you do for me, Detective Lee?”

The clock ticked to midnight and Minho found himself in a delicate dance between survival
and the cultivation of the man before him. It wasn’t easy. It was barely feasible. It wouldn’t
end well.

But he swallowed back those reservations. He was ending the game.

“You let me take your life.”

Chapter End Notes

merry xmas besties 🤍

epilogue to come!!!
 Game Over
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

That was all Minho could tell Jisung.

He was never a man of faith. Not to no god or deity. Not for a hopeful future. Not for a
prosperous bounty in promotions, money or love.

He always operated under the guise that if he wanted to achieve something, he shouldn’t sit
around and manifest it to be true, not when he could take action to ensure that it would be
achieved.

There was no faith in Jisung’s eyes either.

They were blinking in slow bouts at the detective, glassy, unsure, rightfully confused in every
way. Minho could barely blame him. They were the same.

No faith. No belief in a higher power. No trust in the greater good or the world at large.

They had the same selfishness. The same darkness deep within. The same ability to play a
little dirty if it meant they could come out on the other side.

“You want to kill me?” He whispers, and Minho quickly notices his darting eyes toward the
pistol lying on the table between them, as though still weighing up his options.

“Yes,” he confirms with a nod, hating the ache left in place of Jisung’s silence. “You give me
the names and in turn, let me take your life… this life… then, I can make this all go away.”

“That’s a high price.” He mutters, shaking his head, and the detective almost revels in his
leaking facade… his glinting persona… the real Jisung bleeding out before him. “I like my
life.”

He had only fronted on a few occasions. The real Jisung was still as beautifully troubled as
the man who showed up to work. He had a temper, a certain sensitivity when he didn’t quite
understand Minho’s intentions, and a loyal heart– one that kept his friends at the forefront
and the willing resolve to burn the world down to conserve that.

After meeting Jeongin and Felix, he was a little sceptical as to why his loyalty was unfounded
for them. But that wasn’t his business.

He wanted nothing more than to get rid of this perfect and achingly difficult headache of a
man who hit his desk all those months ago. But seeing the vulnerability, the apprehension and
the sheer ridiculousness that encumbered this arduous task was more than enough to motivate
the detective to do anything to see him okay.
“We are at the point in this case where I need to pick whether I help you or I let it play out…
fair game. If you win, I’ll be happy knowing I tried. But if I win, it will end much
differently.”

Jisung shakes his head, almost grimacing as his eyes converge with the older man’s.

“This is… This is something I can so easily avoid,” he mutters, biting his lip. “There’s a large
price on your head, Detective Lee. I can just take the money, run, and everything will go back
to normal.”

“Yes, you can.” Minho’s voice is small and refined. “You can do whatever you want to me.
You’re better, stronger, faster… I wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”

“You’re right,” Jisung glares at the pistol once more. “I can do whatever I want to you. It
would be so easy.”

Minho didn’t need to say much– the cogs in Jisung’s head were turning; reinstating his
training, his discipline, the way that trusting somebody on the other side of the law would
never end well. He was more than willing to give him the time.

“I… I don’t need somebody to rescue me,” he mutters, index finger running along the body
of the gun, softly, carefully. “I’ve never needed that, and I don’t need you to think that you
can. This is what I do… this is what I know… this is what I’m good at.”

“And if this is what you want, then I can respect that,” Minho leans back in his seat, arms
crossing over his chest, willing and yielding to whatever Jisung wanted. “After all, you’ve
rejuvenated somewhat of a passion in my career. I would enjoy finishing you off just as
much.”

Jisung flickers his glare up, scoffing beneath his breath.

“I– I just,” his voice catches in his throat, his furrowed eyebrows giving him away.

He glances around the apartment, all in disarray, a mess but the only type of mess that doesn’t
bother the detective.

“All I think about is you, Detective Lee,” his voice is honeyed sugar but his gaze is
foreboding. “I think about where you go, what you wear, what you eat. I think about who you
hang out with, what you think about when you hang out with them, if there’s somebody at
work you have your eye on.”

Jisung is grimacing before he can even continue, fingers wrapping around the base of the
pistol, and Minho– for a split second, finds himself gulping.

“The very idea of you with somebody else… looking at them like you look at me, touching
yourself over them like you touched yourself over me, it makes me feel just,” he whispers,
glaring at the gun. “It makes me very upset.”

“There’s nobody else, Jisung. You know that.”

“And all I want is your attention,” he hums, flicking those dark and deranged eyes up. There
was something melodic about the sirens pinging around Minho’s head. He knew that there
was nothing logical about the way he felt about Jisung. Nothing akin to reason. Nothing akin
to self-serving. Feeling this way was a very quick tutorial in throwing away everything he
worked so hard for– but to see the gloom in his eyes the colour of twilight, and the way his
lip curled upward to simmer the petulant control beneath the surface, it was more like a
beautiful dream. “I want you to watch me. I want you to chase me to the ends of the earth. I
want you to have me, and only me, as the only thing you ever think about.”

Minho licks his lips, feeling his stomach stir even watching Jisung press two palms upon the
table and stand to his feet. He wondered if this is what all of his hits saw in the moments right
before they died. A perfect angel of death stalking toward them. With dark hair framing his
face, pink lips upturned to the side, and a tantalising glare to render them but a husk of a
person.

And for a moment, the detective almost felt jealous that they were to witness such a thing.
Not when Jisung was his in every sense of the matter.

“You give me little choice, Detective Lee.” He sighs, tracing toward the older man, gun in
tow, preened glare posed to kill. “You have consumed me whole… and we can’t have that.
Not when I have a mission at hand.”

Minho couldn’t help the autonomous whim of his hand when it reached up and grasped the
assassin’s forearm. Gently. Tentatively. Aware that Jisung was a heartbeat away from raising
the gun and ending everything.

His thumb faintly traced the smoothness of his skin and his eyes crept upward, bracing all
that he wanted in view. All of his movements had to be calculated. It was all one big chess
game, after all.

If Minho were to make a move, one where he gave off the impression that reduced Jisung to a
case and nothing more, he could just about imagine his interwoven fate. If he gauged that
Jisung was simply not going to give up anything and render himself nothing more than a
pawn for the assassin to infiltrate his king with, then he was playing a completely different
game from the start.

He knew he had to keep Jisung happy. He had to keep him feeling wanted… feeling needed.
But that was a small ask for Minho who felt that organically.

“You’ve consumed me too,” he mutters, holding his arm tighter. “Made me lose my mind, my
reputation, my winning streak– made me lose everything.”

Jisung titled his head to the side, and with one gentle tug, Minho had him standing between
his spread legs clad to the kitchen chair, gun to the side of his body, and the other arm clasped
between the detective’s fingers.

“And I’d let you keep taking anything else you wanted.” Jisung doesn’t even soften his gaze–
remaining as intent, as dark, as dangerous. He couldn’t be sweet-talked, Minho knew that.
“I’d let you take my heart, my breath, my life… if it meant I could have you here, like this,
all the time and not in some…”

Minho lolled his tongue, trying to locate the word in the ruthless haze of gardenia that
infiltrated his mind.

“–Dangerous situation.”

“–Right.” Minho nodded, arm tightening, the other hand braving its way toward the wrist
clenching by way of the metal pistol burning in Jisung’s hand. “Some dangerous situation.”

A gentle chuckle escaped his mouth.

“I thought you would have realised by now that I’m not the type of guy you can settle down
with and live happily ever after,” Jisung’s lips were slick, moving slowly. “Even if you get
what you want, I won’t be your prisoner you can come and visit in protective custody.”

“Prisoner?” Minho blinked, tugging him closer so that his chin had to be tilted upward for
their eyes to meet. “Who said anything about you being a prisoner?”

Jisung clicked his tongue, inadvertently wrapping an arm around the older man’s neck, pistol
resting just on his shoulder– a weighty, metal reminder of what was to come if Minho made
any sort of error.

“This isn’t an interrogation, Detective Lee,” he hums, leaning so close to rest his body weight
on one of Minho’s thighs, content enough in his lap– in control. “I won’t have you talk to me
like just some case.”

Minho couldn’t help the constricting of his chest, never quite strong enough to hold the wild
beating of his heart whenever he had Jisung so close. His fingers found themselves on his lap,
on his thighs. The taunt rustle of the rigid cargo of his pants gave way when he traversed the
bounty of his skin, looking for any bumps, any anomalies… anything else hidden up his
sleeve.

“You’re not just some case,” Minho shakes his head, counting the number of breaths it takes
before he feels something hard, something sharp, something jagged in the pocket sewn to his
calf. But he conserves the move his rook was to make. “And you’d be the prettiest thing in
protective custody, believe me.”

Jisung gleams, arm tightening around Minho’s neck, drawing their faces even closer.

“Come on, baby,” Minho continues, fingers tracing the outline of what felt to be a three-inch
blade hidden beneath the surface. “You make one call to your little friends and get me a list
of names and then I can just take it from there. Let me take care of everything.”

As Minho spoke, he noticed a subtle change in the assassin’s demeanour. His real self
bleeding through all of the rigid barriers of charm. He was so at home in Minho’s arms, so at
ease, it was hardly a precarious presumption to notice that the grip on the pistol was
loosening.
Jisung’s lashes fluttered, and a too-pretty smile curled on his lips; that same dangerous allure
that made Minho’s heart race. Slowly, he manoeuvred his hand into Jisung’s pocket, fingers
wrapping around the grip of his concealed blade without alerting the assassin.

“Everything?” He whispers and Minho can see the sutures that were holding him together all
this time slowly dissipate. Jisung was so young– a chasm of a man who had to do whatever
he needed to raise himself, to raise his kin. He needed to be treated delicately.

“Everything.” He confirmed with a gentle nod. “That’s my promise.”

Just as Minho began to feel a semblance of control… of strength, taking Jisung’s glassy glare
and softened features as a sign of vulnerability, he felt a sudden jolt in the younger man’s
body when he tightened his grip on the blade in his pocket.

It was as though the assassin read the detective’s mind, quickly unwrapping his arm around
Minho’s neck and suddenly standing to his feet. Reacting with instinctive speed, Minho
countered, using his spare hand to grab Jisung’s wrist holding the gun, grip so tight that it fell
to the floor with a heavy thud. It was delicate enough for his middle finger and thumb to meet
together, immobilising the strength purported in his grip. With a swift motion strengthened in
years of evasive techniques, he shoved Jisung’s body until his back hit the kitchen table–
conjuring a breathy grunt to leave his lips.

The blade in Minho’s hand glinted in the dim light as he held it against the taunt skin of
Jisung’s throat– tenderly kissing it until he saw his heart-shaped Adam’s apple gulp. The
room was silent, save for their heavy breaths and the distant sounds of the city beyond the
walls. Jisung’s wrist went limp in Minho’s grasp, not perpetuating any strength to fight back,
and while the detective imagined that this sort of overcoming power would enrage the
assassin, his pink lips curled into a coy smile instead.

“Try me, baby,” Minho murmured, his voice adopting a stern edge, “we’re in this together
now, whether you like it or not. Give me something, anything, and maybe we can find a way
out of this mess.”

Jisung sighed, a resigned expression crossing his face– never looking more relaxed than
beneath Minho’s hold, knife to his throat, gun befallen from his hand; their own kind of
deranged embrace.

“Show me… Show me how much you want me all to yourself… and maybe I will consider.”

“Show you?” Minho couldn’t help the way he flashed his teeth into a grin, forever
enamoured by every word that fell from that mouth. “I’d do anything to have you– to have
this. You should know that by now, Jisung.”

“Remind me then.”

His eyes were tracing the marvel of Jisung’s throat– the beauty of the dangerous dance they
were engaged in. The younger man’s chest rose and fell with a rhythm that mirrored a
tempestuous sea, and his lips, slick from licking them in anticipation, held an allure that the
detective couldn’t resist.
Unable to suppress the desire any longer, the insatiable need to show Jisung everything he
felt, Minho leaned down, closing the distance between their respective bodies. It was a stark
collision of emotions– gentle yet fervent, a mingling of conflicting desires. In that very
moment, unsurprising to either man, Minho found himself lost in the taste and touch of the
beautiful problem lying beneath him, the boundaries between them blurring in a red haze.

It was as though Jisung were made for him. His slightly thicker bottom lip melded atop
Minho’s slightly thicker upper one. Champagne drenched his taste buds, passion in the way
that he moved, powerful enough to completely rid of the detective’s conscience.

But just as the embrace deepened, tongue laving against tongue, a sudden force swept
Minho’s resolve. A hand quickly wrapped around his wrist, and an elbow connected with his
chest. Two legs were wrapped around Minho’s waist and in an instant, they were turning
around in a scuffle– the detective’s back colliding with the table, shattering the champagne
glasses. He could feel the glass pierce his white shirt and a prickle on the surface– surely
scratching a thin layer of skin to draw blood.

Jisung, who weaselled his way back into control, sighed, straddling the detective’s pelvis now
holding the blade in a lax grip. Minho’s breath hitched as he braced himself for anything–
knowing that Jisung was the only one in the world who could have him at arrears.

“There’s one thing you’re forgetting, Detective Lee,” Jisung continued, his tone unwavering
and drenched in honey. “You will never control me.”

Minho couldn’t help but smirk.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” the older man whispered without an ounce of resentment. “I
don’t think anyone can control you.”

He flinches, feeling the cool gleam of the knife’s tip meet the centre of his chest. As Jisung
flicked his wrist, he cut through the thread of Minho’s buttons, starting with the one closest to
his throat– closest to his pulse point. The blade moved methodically, almost lovingly,
severing each button one after the other with a swift pop until Minho’s work shirt hung open,
revealing his chest rising and falling.

Jisung’s eyes gleamed with that sinister fascination as he brought his other hand to touch the
exposed skin tentatively.

Minho had never felt so wanted… so needed. As though a treasure worth the risk of
bloodshed.

With a strained yet steady voice, he continued his attempts to persuade the assassin atop his
lap.

“Let me show you, Jisung,” he whispered, tentatively raising his hands to grasp Jisung’s hips.
“Let me show you what a life is like where you’re not looking over your shoulder… where
you’re not living in the shadows.”
Jisung’s fingers lingered on Minho’s chest, swallowing down the words, testing them in his
mind.

“I like the shadows.”

Minho pressed on, using every ounce of persuasion he could muster.

“You’ve been the most constant part of my life since I laid eyes on you… I don’t want to lose
that just to close a case.” He whispered, holding his hips in his grasp. “I want to take you out
on a date… do normal things… let you show me a better world than the one I see at every
crime scene.”

Jisung’s eyes were searching Minho’s face for sincerity. There was a storm of conflicting
emotions playing across his features and that beautiful guard began to shift ever so slightly.

“I prefer skipping all that,” he mutters, those deranged eyes of black pearl glimmering in the
kitchen light. “I want more than dinners, movies and stargazing.”

Minho’s fingers traversed higher, thumbs hooking beneath his tight black shirt to feel the
pliancy of his skin, the warmth, everything he had craved.

“And you think I’ll just sit around, with you looking like this all the time, and not do
anything about it?” He hoisted his body upward, sure to feel the coolness of the blade press
against his skin as he did so… insatiably careless about something as insignificant as pain if
it meant they could be closer. “I’d fuck you like you deserve anytime you wanted me to,
Jisung.”

The younger man’s lips twitch, slick in their shared saliva and undoubtedly hungry. He was
flickering his gaze from Minho’s eyes to the blade he still held against his bare chest rising
and falling as the seconds ticked on. If he leant any closer, the sharp edge was a tangible
reminder of the endless dance they were engaged in.

But Minho could barely wait any longer; the very fact they were so close, so within reach,
conjured the guileless part of the detective to front.

Leaning upward, Minho sought Jisung’s lips, even as the blade edge pressed against his
chest. It was an exchange in blood for a kiss– which to the detective, was utterly worth it.

His skin parted in a thin slice, and a sharp sting mingled with the intensity of their kiss.
Crimson welled up as a physical manifestation of Minho’s feelings– his sacrifice. Jisung
almost hesitated, and his grip on the knife loosened as Minho’s tongue melded against his
own, moving in their own sort of synchronicity.

“Minho,” Jisung whispered against his lips as the detective felt a bead of blood traverse down
from the paper-thin cavern on his chest toward his stomach. “When I told you new things
scare me…”

“I’m scared too,” Minho mutters when he feels Jisung shift on his lap, already conjuring stiff
arousal from beneath his suit pants. “Scared this plan won’t work… scared it will work.”
The fingers in Minho’s hair tighten their grip and a small, almost pained grunt leaves his
lips.

“This… This isn’t you winning, by the way,” he pressed his forehead into Minho’s, dark eyes
fluttering open and staring forward. “Not like this. Not now.”

The detective couldn’t help the smirk painted on his lips from hearing those words escape
Jisung’s mouth, nor could he control the guileless stirring of his groin when the assassin
continued to shift on his lap.

“So, you’re gonna’ follow my plan then?”

A sharp thud is heard to the detective’s left; the blade falling from Jisung’s hands sheened in
his blood and upon the table beside them.

“Mm,” the assassin tilts his head to the side in thought. “Depends how good you are.”

Minho was never one to shy from a challenge. Especially one this pretty.

With a rough grasp of Jisung’s wrist, tight enough for a grin to break out on his face, and an
equally harsh grip of his waist with his other arm, Minho almost shoved the assassin back
until he was standing far and away from the table in a scramble. It only took a deft glance
down at his chest to envision the blood seeping from the slice on his left pectoral and the
glass rubble he knew was lodged in smithereens in his back. The pain was the obvious
feeling to dwell upon… but like most things lately, Jisung was a perfect disruption from the
norm.

The kitchen and dining table were a mess and with the way the assassin was smirking at him,
as though he knew how much it bothered the detective, Minho briefly considered the merits
of ripping his shirt open– knowing he would enjoy the scratch of the fabric and the ideal he
would need to borrow something to leave in. Instead, he simply stalked forward, hauling the
younger man’s pliant body against the closest surface, with lips pressed roughly to the
delicate skin by his throat, with hands to hold his hips in place.

There was an avenue to be soft… to be gentle… knowing that anything Jisung gave him was
as precious as stardust. But gentleness wasn’t nearly enough to convey the stirring in Minho’s
loins.

The detective made quick work of discarding his clothes in a less-than-destructive manner.
Starting with the skin-tight shirt hugging his every contour that Jisung was pliant enough to
coax his arms through. Nice and easy for the older man to manoeuvre. Yet when he leant
forward to press a kiss upon his sharp collarbones– all to honour the small voice in his head
that wanted to paint his skin purple and pink– a quick tug upon his own shirt decimates the
remaining buttons until they clank to the floor… further adding to the mess.

“Can you ever play nice?” Minho fettered a scoff beneath his breath, hauling a hand upward
to clasp against his throat, fingertips digging into the rigid flesh, relishing in how it earned a
gentle chuckle to leave Jisung’s glistening lips.
“Relax, Detective Lee,” he purrs, fingers unfurling Minho’s shirt from his shoulders until it
hits the floor sullied in glass and drops of blood. “You always get so worked up.”

All of the breath seeps from between his teeth, sparks dancing their way up his spine. Despite
the semblance of control Minho usually prides himself with, his hand tightens around
Jisung’s throat until the assassin grasps the detective’s forearm with a squeeze– completely
relinquishing his hold.

“Too much, baby?” Minho mutters, suckling on the supple flesh of his throat, making it all
better.

“Not enough,” Jisung whispered back, lithe fingers running amuck in reaching forth to
unbutton Minho’s trousers, palming the stiffness beneath the surface once the clasps were
rested by his hips.

Minho hollows his cheeks and takes a deep breath, cock aching within his boxers that Jisung
was making light work of in caressing. Even something as simple as his touch and the taste
on the tip of his tongue awoke a primal force he had never felt until they encountered one
another.

Sex was usually a nice way to pass the time. With his first boyfriend, it was shy and tentative,
their own type of dance formulated from shared inexperience. With his numerous one-night-
stands, it was either a quickie so his night wasn’t a complete waste of time or perhaps it was
something to enjoy with a like-minded person who was as happy as Minho to be at each
other’s avail for a drawn-out period.

But with Jisung… it was the chase.

It was teetering the precipice of gentle and rough– the game they’ve been perfecting for
months now. The game they made theirs. Even when Minho felt as though he had the upper
hand, he always knew Jisung had something else up his sleeve, something else that was
strong enough for the detective to lose every part of himself if it meant he could have more.

The primal thirst for Jisung quaked in his stomach once more, and all he knew through the
red haze overwhelming his vision was that he needed to get him into his bedroom.

“Up,” he demanded against the nape of his neck, lolling the delicate skin between his teeth as
his hands braced the back of Jisung’s thighs. The assassin was quick to read his play and in a
swift movement, utilised Minho’s strength to meld his weight into his hands and wrap his
legs around his hips.

There were no words to convey or time to waste– lips immediately finding one another in the
derelict vapour that threatened to swallow them both alive from that very first encounter.
Instead, he carried Jisung into the bedroom between kisses and mutters that the place was
such a mess upon every crunch of glass beneath his footsteps.

Minho lands Jisung’s back against the wall by his dresser, lips at his neck suckling a mark as
his hands knead his backside clad in his hands.
“Been in this room so many times,” Jisung’s voice is shaky, breathless, head lolled back into
the wall as a means to breathe. “And it’s taken you this long for you to fuck me in it.”

Licking his lips between kisses, Minho almost laughs into the crook of Jisung’s neck, not
wanting to waste a breath as he drinks him in.

“Just how many times have you broken in here?” He grunts, relinquishing the hold of his
thighs to land him on the floor, needing his fingers upon various other points of his perfect
body.

When their eyes meet, Jisung grins with his hands doing their best in coaxing Minho’s pants
to his knees.

“Enough to know that the lube is in here,” he whispers, leaning to the nightstand and coaxing
the drawer open with a pull, revealing the bottle sliding around with his meticulously folded
underwear.

“Sneaky, baby,” Minho couldn’t help his smile as his stomach roiled from Jisung’s hands
seeping beneath the waistband of his boxers to clasp the galvanised length of his cock,
pulsating from the anticipation that was having Jisung in his room.

Their kiss intensified against the wall and while Jisung was stroking his cock with one hand,
Minho felt all of the breath escape his lungs in a swift and decisive movement. Minho’s
breath hitched when he felt the assassin’s forearm press tightly against his throat, turning him
around with a surprising force that made the detective’s back meet the cold surface of the
wall.

Jisung’s grip tightened and that frenzied look in his eyes spoke of a tumultuous inner
struggle. His gaze was dark and intense, a complete departure from the pliant little thing he
was for the detective mere moments ago.

“It’s been used before, Detective Lee,” his tone is venomous, flickering his gaze to the bottle
of lube. “I don’t like that.”

“Oh,” Minho smirks, the magnitude of Jisung’s want– despite the rough-hewn grasp of his
throat and how the assassin was preened enough to dissipate all of the air from his lungs with
just his bare hands– only stirred the arousal licking at the base of his stomach. “Jealous, are
you?”

“Tell me,” the younger man whispered, coaxing a whimper to leave Minho’s mouth when he
equally tightened his grip around his cock as his forearm pressed against his jugular. “Tell me
you’re mine and mine only.”

“I’m yours, Jisung.” It was instantaneous, having never had to fight between his own
anatomy to smile so much in his life. So possessive. So deranged. So perfect. “I don’t want
anyone else.”

“I don’t believe you,” he squeezes from between clenched teeth. “You’re just going to have to
show me that it’s true.”
And Minho doesn’t need to be told twice.

With a rough push, knowing Jisung could take it, he utilised his vantage point from the wall
to aim the assassin’s body toward the bed. On his way to meet him there, he stepped out of
his suit pants that were cuffed at his ankles up until this point and sifted the used lube from
the drawer while he was at it, sure to relish in the glare Jisung conjured when he threw it on
the bed by his head.

Minho falls to his knees, grasping the chain connected between the belt loops of his cargo
pants and the pocket in which he once found a blade, to pull Jisung further to the edge of the
bed. He forgets about the idea that more, in blades and weapons poised for the kill, was
probably hidden in the various pockets held together by velcro and straps, and syphons them
off with his shoes in one fail swoop.

“You won’t need to keep breaking in if you agree to my plan, baby,” Minho hums, warm
hands rubbing up and down the expanse of his toned thighs, to his calves, to the knees that
were turned into one another, savouring every single inch of the body he dreamt of. “You
won’t need to worry about other people,” he whispers as he leaves a gentle lick against the
innermost part of his left thigh, “and you won’t need to be so jealous all the time,” he
murmurs against the right.

Jisung sat himself up with his elbows, glaring darkly at the man between his legs and sat on
his knees as he stared upward.

“You’re the centre of everything,” Minho continued in a muster, leaning a wandering hand up
through the thigh hole of his boxers, grasping the warmth of his hipbone as he continued to
leave wet kisses along the bounty of his legs. “All I think about, all I want, all I need.”

Jisung scoffed, leaning forward to coax a finger beneath the detective’s chin, tilting his sight
up to loyally meld with his own.

“And you want me dead,” he whispers, index finger tracing his jaw as his thumb hooked in
his mouth, drawing the thickness of his bottom lip into a small stretch. “That’s a bit
contradictory, hm?”

“Just want the world to think you’re dead… well, more dead than what your record says,” he
mutters, unshy to press his tongue against his thumb. “Is that too much to ask?”

Jisung’s eyes were glassy, deep and flailing with that certain darkness, all the while the
detective’s fingers were at the waistband of his boxers and tugging them down to wrap a hand
around his cock– just as perfect as the rest of him.

“We’ll see,” he mutters, fettering a hitched breath that Minho drank in as though a bottle of
vitality. “I don’t think I’m ready to hear you gloat.”

With a pull, he etches away and draws his underwear down to his knees and then to the floor.
He wasted not a second longer, suckling a bruise on his hip, aching at the feel of his skin and
the light sheen of sweat nipping at his taste buds. His free hand is on his ass, massaging the
pliant meat of it in a palm, perhaps ignoring his cock on purpose– still feeling that sting from
the slice on his chest and the ache in his ribs from the gunshot he sustained the other day as
justification.

Jisung squirmed when Minho crossed from the left hip bone to the right, sure to exhale when
he traversed past the tip of his cock, earning a twitch of the appendage and a grunt to leave
his lips.

When Minho’s eyes open and he is satisfied with the glistening pinks littering his pelvis, he
draws the assassin’s knee upward, giving him a perfect view to drink in. He couldn’t help the
autonomous whim to nod at the sight. It was everything he was willing to destroy his career
for– everything he was willing to destroy his pride for.

The idea that Jisung was his… at his mercy… with his queen primed to check his king with
nowhere left to go… it made it all worth it.

Jisung mewls when he feels a kiss against his inner thigh once more, so utterly close to his
entrance and within a range that every single breath could be felt without even a semblance
of energy. Minho grasps his thigh tighter when Jisung tenses when he first tastes him on his
tongue. A deep grunt escapes his pink lips, coaxing the older man to focus his thumbs down
to the sight, spreading the assassin’s tight heat, and gently laving about his hole with ease.

He needed to be inside of him. No matter what part of him it was. He needed to be in him. He
needed to breathe him in like air. He needed to taste every single part. He needed to witness
every single sound, just in case he made one the detective hadn’t heard before, or to witness
his eyes rolling back in his head for the pleasure was too immense.

Minho flattened his tongue to lick stripe after stripe unto the cavern of his backside until he
was satisfied that Jisung was pliant enough for him to delve deeper. The detective was
feasting upon the forbidden fruit, lathering him with enough saliva, swimming in his most
sensitive of areas, digging so deep that Jisung was very slowly letting go of his hardened
disposition, melting into a mess instead.

His chin was slick in spit as he continued to move his tongue in a fluid motion in and out of
his hole, all in a working effort to earn those genuine sounds from his voice. It was partly to
build his case, but Minho knew undoubtedly, he would do this forever if it meant Jisung’s
bliss.

Jisung was rutting himself further into Minho’s face that the older man had to remember to
breathe. His tongue slid deeper, tasting the flesh of his hole and the pre-come that had seeped
down through the passage of his perineum.

“M-Minho,” the assassin’s voice is a deep hiss, arching his back with a hand reaching down
to pull the detective’s hair– doing his best to control his volume and the ability to keep still.

The detective simply hums in response, drawing an index finger forward to pester the base of
his hole, rubbing against the rim, as though giving his laving tongue better access to slide
inside. He was drinking Jisung in so slowly, so thoroughly, turning him into a quivering mess
as the obscene squelch of the act filled his bedroom.
Jisung continued to writhe around, muttering curse words beneath his breath and demanding
‘more,’ as though it were possible for Minho to eat him alive. He whined, pushing back
against the restraint– fighting for orgasm as though it were earned, aching for his cock to be
touched and spoiled.

But Minho didn’t like folding for Jisung… not that easily at least.

“Why did you stop?” Jisung grunted and Minho barely could control the small smile that
festered from the words– from the way the assassin was just so bratty and demanding.
Wiping the slick from his chin with the back of his hand, the detective instead leant upward
to grasp the bottle of lube sprawled languidly on the bed.

Minho sighed once it was in reach, sliding his spare hand to grasp Jisung’s hips and crawling
upward to lay their bodies together– wet from the blood smeared on the older man’s chest,
the saliva, the pre-come leaking from Jisung’s exposed cock. Just one big mess. The assassin
only whimpers, leaning forward to press their mouths together in a rushed kiss– almost
sucking the amalgamation of tastes from the tip of his tongue.

All the while Minho’s hands were fumbling with the lube, squirting a droplet onto the
expanse of his fingers and drawing the cool gel to the pooled saliva between his legs.

Jisung keened with his knees parting that itch apart, flinching ever so slightly when Minho’s
index and middle fingers massaged against his entrance. He knew it would be cold and would
take a second to get used to the pressure– hence the detective’s position so close to the nape
of his neck to press kiss after kiss to his comfort.

A choked noise escaped Jisung’s throat when Minho pressed a single finger into him, not far
enough to hurt but far enough to jolt his lithe frame to a freeze. His head fell against Minho’s,
breaths all jagged as though getting used to the arduous stretch.

The detective’s eyes were opened, biting down on his lower lip with a glare reveling at the
sight– increasing the hunger within that saw Jisung as the prey he needed to devour.

He could see Jisung’s knees trembling, his chest rising and falling in rapid movement, a noise
escaping his lips that came dangerously close to a whine. He all but continued to push
forward until his knuckles were sliding against the saliva residual there– aided entirely by the
lubricated ease. Minho loved how Jisung was a multi-faceted mess of a man when touched.
He was so quick to kiss goodbye to the control, so easy to reduce to a whimpering chasm, so
pretty when his head was lolled to the side and his hips were autonomously pushing him
further into Minho’s finger.

He added another between licking along his jaw, suckling the skin in his wet grasp. The heat
burned through Minho as though it were to replace every drop of his blood. The velvet walls
clasped around his fingers utterly tight– making it very easy for the detective to imagine how
they would feel wrapped around his cock. He wanted to fuck him deeper and wider with his
fingers, coaxing him through the drawn-out moans and the way he could barely handle it.

“Told you it feels better when you do it,” Jisung whispers against Minho’s lips, echoing a
grunt when the fingers lodged inside curl ever so slightly. “Everything feels better when you
do it.”

“You could have this anytime you want it, baby,” the detective buries another finger deep
within, leaning back to lock eyes with the assassin who was staring, unblinking, writhing
around. “You could have everything.”

“Just want you to fuck– me,” Jisung fetters through a whine.

Minho continues to pump into his lithe frame, relishing in the texture of his tightness, the
proximity of their bodies, and the insatiable need to have him so close.

“What do you want, hm?” Minho replied, pulling away to stare unblinkingly at the perfect
square of earth braced in his sights. “I need you to tell me a little clearer, baby.”

A feigned ‘ugh’ escapes his lips, the mild impatience leaking at the seams, already so close to
his breaking point that he could only barrel a darkened stare of resentment in the detective’s
direction.

“Words, baby,” Minho whispered, curling his fingers again until Jisung cried out, spine
arching obscenely once more. “Tell me again.”

Jisung threw his head back into the nape of Minho’s neck– almost hiding, with a forehead
already slick with sweat. He crooks the three fingers stuffed inside with an upstroke, knowing
better than anybody he was sending Jisung into a craze.

“I want you to fuck me, Detective Lee,” he mutters between clenched teeth. “Now and
hard.”

“Hm, should’ve said something sooner,” Minho whispered as he hastily withdrew his fingers,
sat to his knees and manhandled Jisung’s hips to turn him onto his stomach.

Grasping his hips square in view and keening his legs apart with a knee, Minho just about
had his work cut out for him– on all-fours, shaky, the most perfect thing he had ever seen. He
knew he had to suppress the small voice in his head that wanted to be careless and to simply
fold his body in half and fuck him into the mattress until his legs gave out. He knew that
Jisung could take it– would enjoy it, but the strange affection he had for the assassin was
glaring in view and he instead honoured the voice that left a chaste kiss on the dimples by the
base of his spine.

Jisung pressed down on his shoulder, glancing behind to make eyes with Minho who couldn’t
quite pull his focus from the sight before him– open, willing, ready.

“You’re so pretty,” Minho’s voice is monotonous, too taken in his view to offer any
semblance of articulation. “Just… perfect in every way.”

He pressed a single index finger, slick from the residual lubricant, back in to earn a hiss from
his mouth. The detective could barely control the stirring in his underwear, eyes lasering
around the stiffness in his spine and the way his shoulders tensed. He crooks his finger in a
circular motion, fascinated by how responsive Jisung was to such an act. Jisung was panting,
head pressing further into the mattress the more Minho pumped his finger– intended to
stretch him wider and wider until the younger man was pressing his hips back into Minho’s
hand until his knuckle hit the flesh of his rim.

“Please,” Jisung’s voice is a deft whimper, hips swaying in fluidity, literate enough to abide
by Minho’s every whim. “I need you.”

The detective glared through a floral haze at the assassin, the way he was sucking down on
his bottom lip, pupils blown wide with lust, entrance glistening in a sheen of lube and saliva
and beckoning the older man tenfold.

Without ripping his eyes away, Minho grasps the lubricant once more, adorning a generous
dosage to his cock now etching out of his boxers and rubbing the excess against his awaiting
hole.

“You gonna finally be good for me, hm?” He rubs his cock onto the more than slick entrance,
earning a resentful grunt to leave the assassin’s lips.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, glaring back with those darkened eyes.

Minho had the ammunition to play into his hand, to feign some teasing retort that he would
get nothing if he continued to operate with that attitude… but he abided by his physical need
to be inside and pressed himself into his tight heat– satisfied enough with the tiny whine that
escaped Jisung’s mouth. He edged closer and closer until his thighs made contact with the
assassin’s body, holding him carefully and waiting until his body went lax.

Even when those little breaths had subsided and his chest met the comfort of the duvet,
Minho didn’t want to be hasty– he didn’t want to compromise his comfort. The tightness of
the assassin was unparalleled to anything else the older man had felt. He only got to see
Jisung through the grainy entails of CCTV footage, or through endlessly perusing through his
file as his nightly reading. He wanted to savour this. He wanted to luxuriate this.

But when Jisung’s hips pushed back into Minho’s, he grasped his backside with his fingers
that bit tighter– feeling the cushion of his prostate meet the tip of his cock– earning the most
heavenly whimper to leave his lips. The older man could barely stand it anymore. Between
the assassin grinding himself against the detective as though it were him who was using
Minho, he ventures his galvanised length out from the sweetened cavern, before etching back
in at a hardened force. It earned a deft cry from Jisung, who had slumped his chest further
down in defeat. Minho knew he was hitting the right spot… knew that Jisung had befallen to
a vessel he could use and abuse– willing, at his own avail, whenever he wanted him.

“Feels so good,” Jisung choked out, words jumpy and jagged, moving as his body did in
every single thrust. Like their lips, it was as though their bodies were made for one another.
“Feels…”

Minho doubled down on him, taking advantage of his breathlessness, refusing to close down.
The older of the two was relishing in the feeling, wanting this tirade to go on, and on, and on
until the poison seeped into their skin and eventually killed them. He was plummeting into
Jisung’s body as a man deprived of pleasure. Jisung was making the most obscene noises.
Mutters for ‘harder,’ and inconceivable cries for ‘more.’

The detective employs a rough hand to grasp the back of his midnight hair, pulling his head
back to rest against his blood and sweat-slick chest. The pace naturally slowed, but it was an
earned exchange if it meant he could tilt Jisung’s chin back for their lips to meet together
once more.

It’s less a kiss than it is an excuse to pass grunts and saliva from one mouth to another– a
mess of tongues and teeth and no such coordination.

“Could have this every night,” Minho whispered against his lips, using the leverage of their
position to reach around and clasp a hand around Jisung’s cock. “Won’t need to chase you…
won’t need to hurt you.”

Jisung grunted darkly as the detective continued to pump at his cock with expert precision, all
the while tantalising his prostate until Minho felt the assassin’s tears on his cheek. His vision
was blurred around the edges, heart suddenly feeling the warmth of having Jisung so close,
pulsating in his hand, tight around his length, breathing together as though they shared a pair
of lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” the younger man whispered in a silent cry, voice constricting
when Minho’s hand moved from his hair to his throat to hold him up. “I don’t want this to
end.”

They were meeting together in the middle when Minho thrust forward and Jisung pressed
himself backward– ascertaining a rhythm that only they would know. Their developed
synchronicity was partly to blame for the tightening in the detective’s chest and the premise
that he was so close to coming undone– filling Jisung up until he was full.

He is buried to the hilt, trying so hard not to lose control that he renders him unable to walk.
He wanted to be tender, he wanted to reduce his movement to slow and steady pumps in and
out of Jisung’s hips.

The assassin was taking him so well, making such pretty noises, strokes so long and deep that
Minho could feel the pulse in Jisung’s cock when he continued to roll his wrist in rapid
movement.

It didn’t take much longer. Not when every single thrust earned one of those beautifully
ethereal moans, with enough sweat to allow their bodies to glide against one another. He fell
forward as he came into the tightened passage of Jisung’s entrance, failing to his hands
braced on the side of Jisung’s body as he felt warmth bloom on the hand clasped to his cock.
He was muttering incoherently into the crook of the younger man’s neck, dazed and milking
out the euphoria of his orgasm, sealing them together.

Jisung almost cried when he came, despite the sensitivity pervading the tip of Minho’s cock,
he continued to fuck into him way past the precipice of logic. The assassin collapsed to the
sheets, arm wrapping around to cover his face covered in the perspiration of their touch, their
release. Minho wanted nothing more than to keep moving– to keep pumping and pumping
until he earned another orgasm from him and then another… and then another… until they
had to stop to breathe, eat and drink water.

But the detective only has the strength to lean his head against the back of Jisung’s neck,
inhaling the sweetness of his gardenia perfume, leaving gentle kisses until he ceases in the
rapid force of his breath.

“Don’t run away,” Jisung whispered, turning to lay on his back, ignoring the mess painting
their skin with chests meeting in the middle to rise and fall. “Stay right here where I can see
you.”

Minho smiled lazily when he felt fingers in his hair, making way for their eyes to meet.

“Stole the words out of my mouth,” Minho hummed, hand gently skimming his damp waist.

A gentle chuckle escapes Jisung’s lips, all pink and glistening.

“Your place is a mess,” he murmurs, reaching an index finger to tentatively poke Minho’s
hand covered in the assassin’s seed. “You must hate that.”

Minho surveils the state of his room and shrugs.

“It’s your mess,” he replies, for once in his life, unbothered by it. “I’m used to cleaning up
after you.”

Jisung smiles, that genuine one where his eyes squeeze tightly and wrinkles appear.

“I should probably help you,” he sighs. “Would you say that’s fair, Detective Lee?”

Minho was strangely enamoured by the warmth blooming in his chest. He wasn’t one to thaw
his icy facade… but everything was turned on its head when he met this tantalising problem
all those months ago.

“Shower first, Jisung,” he whispered, wanting to abide by the small voice in his head that
wanted to clean him… groom him… make sure he was okay. “Come on.”

It was a familiar occurrence to be in this shower for both Minho and Jisung. The assassin
pulled him into the glass cubicle, wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him beneath
the water, laughing when the detective would pull away to breathe. He would whisper for
Minho to close his eyes when he ran a palm of shampoo through his dark hair and swayed his
hips against the older man when he returned the favour.

Once the detective was dry, the assassin sat him down on the edge of the tub, fighting off his
continued remarks against putting on an adhesive bandage for the slice on his chest,
succumbing to those bright eyes that could convince him to burn the world down.

When they were finished and Jisung was sitting on Minho’s bed wearing nothing more than a
towel as he watched the detective dress, a deft clear of his throat threatened to break the short
course of domestic bliss they so strangely experienced with one another.
“My friends are probably worried,” he hums, head lolled to the side. “You’re alive and I’m
about an hour behind schedule. I’m sure they’re not happy.”

Minho turns on his shoulder and narrows his glare.

“Are you still deciding whether you kill me?”

Jisung grins before reaching for Minho’s phone to check the time.

“I can just report that it took you longer to drop off than I intended. They’ll still pay me if I
say it started before midnight.”

A small scoff escapes the older man’s lips, happy enough in a clean pair of underwear and
shorts before meeting Jisung on the bed with a grunt.

“Stay,” Minho was unsure why the word carried so much weight. It was out of their
vernacular. Every encounter thus far was dwindling… dangerous… a bite of the forbidden
fruit. It was perhaps the most normal request Minho could pose to him. “Worry about that in
the morning.”

Jisung shoots him a look the detective was sure only he would understand.

“I…” His voice catches in his throat, mind running at breakneck speed to formulate an
answer. “I don’t… I don’t stay places.”

Minho’s brows furrow at the way Jisung buried his hands between his thighs.

“You can stay here. It’s secure.” He murmurs, trying not to let his need show. “I can lock the
fire escape. There’s no need to keep it open if you’re already here.”

Jisung’s eyes were this iridescent type of glass when he let a small smile paint his pink lips. It
stirred something so very primal in the detective– more than the sex, more than the kisses and
the adrenaline in him from the hunt. It was the ideal that Jisung had an entire drawer of
Minho’s photographs. It was the premise he left hints at every crime scene just for him. It was
the distinct shift that both of them needed the other to feel any sort of happiness.

And yet, he resorted to this shy, mindful chasm of a man when confronted with something so
innocent.

“If I stay, it gets a whole lot scarier,” he says in a small voice. “It all becomes… real.”

Minho nodded, understanding.

“You know I don’t do this either,” he muttered, unable to control the hand that reached
toward his shaggy wet hair clinging to his forehead. “But… I want you to stay.”

Jisung’s smile is small but there.

“I want to stay too.”

“Good,” Minho whispered, gently kissing his lips– wanting to melt into more, wanting to
collapse into the sheets, wrap Jisung’s body in his arms, listening to his soft breathing all
night, waking up with him braced in view by morning.

“I have some calls to make, though,” Jisung sighed. “I… Well, you get it.”

The detective, who knew the feeling, simply nodded.

Jisung left a chaste kiss against his cheek and slowly slipped away, dropping the towel to sift
through Minho’s drawers to find some clothes to borrow– or to steal, Minho surmised.

He was sooner searching for his communication device consisting of an earpiece stuffed in
some pocket of the cargo pants he wore over and then climbed out onto the fire escape to
touch base. Minho could barely stop his fleeting glances out of the window at the younger
man, leaning on the balcony as his lips moved.

But he couldn’t stare forever, despite his conscience begging him to.

Instead, he ventured out into the kitchen to pass the time. Cleaning up broken glass, drops of
blood, and the mess left by the stove and sink.

The room had settled into a quiet hum when Minho returned to bed, contemplating the
darkness outside of the window. He glanced towards the open fire escape, barely discernible
in the shadows and a vested glimpse of worry passed through him. He was used to the
assassin escaping into the night… he wondered if that was what had happened.

But just as the concern started to creep in, Minho turned on his shoulder to find Jisung
slipping through the window with the chill of the night clinging to his skin. He muttered
beneath his breath about the cold and autonomously, Minho shuffled over, knowing the
younger man needed his warmth.

Without a word, Jisung slipped under the covers, and Minho felt the familiar weight of arms
and legs wrapping around him. The cold remnants of the night dissipated as their bodies
entwined, creating a cocoon of shared warmth. Minho held him close, nuzzling his nose into
Jisung’s hair which smelt like his shampoo. As Jisung nestled closer, Minho could feel the
steady rhythm of his breath on his chest– reassurance enough that they were both here…
present in this very moment.

“Detective Lee,” his small voice echoes through the darkness, and Minho can just see his two
eyes, glassy and perfect, glimmering toward him.

“What is it?” He murmurs, running his fingers along his spine.

“Felix agreed,” he whispers. “He said he’s happy to work with you.”

Minho sighed, strangely finding the information taking a backseat to holding Jisung so close.

“I’d like to speak to him tomorrow. We can figure out a plan then.” He leaves a gentle kiss
upon his tuft of hair. “Besides, there’s someone else I need to update before we do anything.”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem then.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“You would not believe how hungover I am,” Changbin’s voice echoes through the entirety
of Minho’s apartment. “Who the fuck fed me shots after I threw up?”

Minho cleared his throat as he stepped aside for his partner to enter. He was wearing a lazy
iteration of his usual work suit– tie loosened, top two buttons undone, hair a mess and the
bags beneath his eyes resonated a few hours of sleep.

“Did Hyunjin have a good time at least?” The older man mused, returning to the kitchen to
pour him a cup of coffee, mindful of Changbin essentially throwing himself on the couch and
sighing happily when Gomi crawled onto his lap with a mewl.

“Yeah he did,” he hums with stardust following his words. “But then he told me you left
early… You’ve fallen from grace, Lee.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he clears his throat, hauling over the mug of coffee to his best friend.
“I just don’t have the stamina to keep up with you anymore.”

Changbin continued to grumble beneath his breath, tentatively inhaling the black coffee as
though to wake himself.

“It’s because of this shit,” he muttered, pointing to Minho’s laptop and case files collected in
a neat pile.

“And luckily for this shit, I don’t have a headache this morning.” He taunts with the flash of
his teeth, cocking his head to the side.

Changbin rolled his eyes.

“Those two brats from the warehouse haven’t made any contact – there’s no way they’re
gonna fold and give any names up.” The younger of the two sighs, melting into the cushions
like a man scorned. “I’m not gonna be the one to show up to work empty handed so…
practice the speech you’re gonna give the chief.”

“I need to speak to the chief, you’re right,” Minho hummed, snapping his fingers to earn
Gomi’s attention, lolling her away from his partner who was almost using the cat as a pillow.

Changbin’s eyes trail toward his best friend, eschewing a reaction when he notices that
Minho– meticulous, always organised, perfectly groomed Minho– is wearing a t-shirt and
track pants at quarter to nine in the morning.

“Why aren’t you ready, huh?” He mutters between sips of coffee. “You’ll wanna look
presentable when Chan kicks your ass in front of everyone.”
“There’s been a development,” Minho nods at his articulation, hearing the window to the fire
escape open and shut and some feet landing on the floorboards. “I think we have everything
we need to set up a sting op.”

“Huh?” The hungover man grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “To do that we would
need–”

The footsteps continue to the living room.

“–I have such a good connection out there,” Minho had to bite his lip when a voice echoed
from the kitchen to his partner sprawled on the couch. “Oh… Detective Seo!”

Changbin’s eyes dropped, as though he had seen a ghost. A very pretty, spritely in the
morning, cheerful ghost who was swimming in one of Minho’s hoodies– one from his days in
the academy and some comfortable pants to roam around the place as though he owned it.

He draped himself against the wall, pocketing his communication device and ran a hand
through his freshly washed hair.

“Jesus, what have you done?” Changbin whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Minho…”

The detective shrugged, making eyes with the assassin who was staring at his partner with
that tantalising smirk.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you finally but… it’s not.” Jisung was sure to drop it, almost
unblinking at the older man who was currently in a state of denial, unable to pull his glare
from his best friend.

“You’re fine to stay right there,” Changbin raises a hand, eyes dark with the type of gruff
voice Minho recognised from all their days on the field. “Come any closer to me and–”

“What?” Jisung muses, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll shoot me again?”

Changbin’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

“No, it’s okay,” the younger man mutters with those gleaming eyes. “It was a learning curve
for me. I should’ve just taken my shot when I had it.”

The older of the two scoffed.

“Sorry for missing– I meant to say. I should’ve aimed a little higher.”

Minho rolled his eyes, melding his stare toward the man he spent the night with, who seemed
to drop the softness from their morning of grooming, kissing, and doing their best to put
together a semblance of breakfast between Jisung’s mindless tatters about the previous
night’s events.
“Be nice,” the detective hums, tilting his head to the side. “Both of you… be nice.”

Changbin stands to his feet, seemingly dropping that lazy chagrin of a man hungover and
instead purporting his no-bullshit bad cop hat that Minho loved to employ as a secret
weapon.

“I’m not going into the office today,” Minho huffs, glaring between the two who were yet to
break their competitive stare. “Their contact who has been funding every hit put one out on
me for knowing too much. I’m supposed to be dead… so I’m keeping a low profile.”

“There’s a hit out on you too,” Jisung relays with a flash of his eyes to Changbin. “But I’m
still weighing up whether I hold up my end on that one.”

Changbin’s gaze was darting between Minho and Jisung, trying to make sense of the strange
facet of reality.

“We’ve got something here,” Minho murmurs after taking a deep breath. “We can get enough
information to dismantle the entire operation. Jisung… he’s willing to cooperate,” his eyes
soften when they graze the assassin. “With conditions.”

The detective, a little worse for wear, raises an eyebrow– a mix of scepticism and curiosity
playing on his face. He turned his glare to Jisung, who had that lax air of calm confidence
about him.

“You don’t double-cross us,” Jisung stated firmly, his tone leaving no such room for
negotiation. “You work for us, not with us on this. And you protect us.”

“Protect you?” Changbin scoffed, exchanging a disbelieving glance with Minho. “You realise
how ridiculous that sounds? You’re asking me to protect the crew who have carried out how
many kills now?”

Jisung maintained his composure, a small smirk forming on his lips. “You’re not protecting
us for my sake. You’re doing it for yours. After all, we are only doing this out of the
goodness of our hearts.”

“Mm… I’m sure,” Changbin swipes his glare at Minho. “I am not working for them, either.”

Changbin clenched his jaw, contemplating the gravity of the decision weighing heavily over
their heads.

“Come on, Seo,” Minho sighed, scratching his temple– knowing that the gravity of the
situation was far and away from anything related to logic.

“How can I work for someone I don’t trust?” He scoffs. “I don’t know what sort of weird
little sex spell you’ve put my partner under, but don’t think for a second that I will trust any
of you.”

Jisung’s smirk widened, and he licked his lips– as though the words were music to his ears.

“Trust is overrated, Detective Seo.” He sighs longingly. “You do your part, I’ll do mine.”
Changbin eyed Jisung’s demeanour for a moment that surpassed normal. Minho knew it
would be an uneasy alliance– built atop the back of an uneasy string of encounters with the
assassin since they were first enamoured with one another.

“Where are the names then? Give them to me now.”

“Jisung doesn’t have them,” Minho huffs, running a hand through his hair. “We’re waiting on
Felix to organise a time to meet up with the contact.”

“The blonde one?” Changbin seemed barely impressed, arms crossing over his chest. “He’s
probably halfway to Paris as we speak.”

“How do you think this works, Detective Seo?” Jisung retorts. “Do you think we just so
happen to have the phone numbers and locations of our contacts? There’s a reason they
source our services instead of compromising themselves.”

“Just how high profile are we talking about here?”

Jisung presses a shoulder forward.

“High profile enough that every contract so far is six to seven figures.”

Minho blinked at the words– stomach almost rumbling at the sheer magnitude of the
operation they were about to unfurl. While the better part of him nearly salivated at just what
this would mean for his career, the broken part of him felt a jolt of fear for Jisung… his life.

“So, you and your little friends are willing to lose that much cash to help us…” Changbin
scoffs through a bitter chuckle. “I’m sorry but no sex is worth that.”

Jisung snorted, that always-in-control stare purporting his features. But despite the
ridiculousness in Changbin’s vernacular, Minho felt his own curiosity pique and instead
flickered his gaze to the assassin.

“Well… he’s got a point, doesn’t he?” Minho muttered.

“We are giving you a single client,” Jisung glances between the detectives. “Just one. Every
single hit that you are both aware of comes from that client. That’s what you’re asking for,
right?”

Minho’s gaze narrows before Changbin puffs his chest up, stepping forward.

“Oh– are you under the impression that you’re free to leave and accept as many contracts as
your heart desires once we’re finished with you?”

Jisung lolls his head to the side, that lazy smile clad on his pink lips. “Like I said, you work
for us, not with us.”

“I can’t imagine that working out.”

A deft ping slices through the air, severing Changbin’s ability to continuously taunt the
younger man.

The assassin sighed as his communication device flashed red in his pocket. “I have to take
this,” he hummed, glaring between them. “I won’t be long.”

With an air of confidence, he brushed past Minho, placing a hand on his chest and leaning
upward to press a soft kiss upon his cheek. His eyes were loyally borne to Changbin, clearly
relishing in provocation as a point of power.

The detective felt his body stiffen at the unexpected and glaringly obvious show of affection.
It was a tell-tale sign that the man he went to bed with the previous night, who held his hand
deep into slumber and talked in his sleep, had taken a backseat for this preened, unafraid-to-
play-a-little-dirty professional.

Changbin grunted as Jisung slipped back into Minho’s bedroom and out to the fire escape–
leaving the two detectives alone.

The older of the two knew he needed to speak first– to quash any of the reservations he could
just about surmise to spew from his partner’s mouth. But he was too slow in taking off.

“Tell me what I wanna hear, Lee,” Changbin murmured in a lowered voice. “Tell me that
you’re gonna arrest the three of them the second we have their contact in custody.”

Minho sighed, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“This is big and you know it,” he reluctantly retorted. “This is our best chance at closing this
case.”

Changbin clicked his tongue, clear reluctance drenching his ability to give weight to Minho’s
words.

“They know if they give up a name, they’re marked for death,” his eyes were dark and
foreboding. “I just don’t know how we can give them any sort of reason to do this and not
double-cross us.”

“If they wanted us dead, they’d cash in the cheque and get it done now,” Minho grunts.

“Not dead– but dead to rights,” his partner clarifies. “We have them in a corner– they’re
smart enough to realise that. Maybe they’re just happy to play along with us if it means the
heat transfers from their back to one of their disposable buyers.”

“Jisung wouldn’t–”

“That smirking little shit, who has made your life a living hell for the past few months,
wouldn’t use you as a scapegoat so they can take their money and run away to another
jurisdiction?”

Minho’s eyes squint, refuting Changbin from view. He had the same thoughts pervading his
mind… the same logic… the same training… the same foundations that once upon a time
would have glanced at the facts and made a decision instantaneously.

And while it wasn’t just the lingering warmth of Jisung’s touch all over his body, and the way
they took each other apart the night before… it was the way the real him would front. Jisung
was stubborn, quick to anger and argue, utterly opinionated. He had his entire life ahead of
him, with nothing behind him but a decided future and rigorous training to become a weapon.
He had no choice– none of them did. Minho was privy to that.

Maybe he had become soft and just maybe his reputation preceded him.

But Minho trusted Jisung, willingly and able to foresee the flames that would engulf him
because of it.

“I’m willing to take the fall for it,” he murmured, not cowering in saying so. “We take down
the one who has been orchestrating this whole mess… and then, whatever shit we find
ourselves in because of that… it’ll be my problem and mine only.”

Changbin’s eyes soften for a fleeting second.

“Minho… You know how crazy this sounds.”

“I know. But you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A single phone call eased the chief’s mind.

“We have the information to end it.”

“So end it.”

After a tumultuous morning of convincing Changbin to play nice and for Jisung to play even
nicer, Minho managed to call in a favour with his contact at the Far East district police
station, and they set up an operation on the side of town Felix informed them to.

It was an apartment of paradoxical space– a canvas of potential yet completely devoid of life.
Situated in one of the new residential buildings, its structure was complete but every room on
every floor echoed with emptiness. The walls stood unpainted, the floorboards rough and
unvarnished, the ceilings stripped of light fixtures, and the sharp scent of paint wafted
through the air. The barren setting where they had set up their operation was just across the
road from the address Felix had given them.

It was perfect.

A trestle table, one Changbin nicked from the lunchroom to the construction team, served as
the nerve centre of their mission. On it, their laptops, and a monitor strategically positioned to
display the real-time surveillance footage of the designated meeting zone. The ambient city
lights flickered like distant stars, creating something of life in the space that omitted it while
the echoes of their footsteps resonated in the emptiness.

They were expecting Jisung, Felix and Jeongin to arrive two minutes ago. That was the plan.
That was what Jisung promised in the quiet moment they had alone when Changbin needed
to use the bathroom between a kiss and a whisper that everything was going to be okay.

Changbin’s nervous energy didn’t help Minho’s reservations about the plan either. He
continued to pace relentlessly by the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view
of the city below. The nerves were enveloping the younger man like a dark mist threatening
to swallow everything up.

Minho, seated at the trestle table, stared intently at the surveillance footage on the monitor,
the two bulletproof vests and artillery belts with cuffs and pistols beside it. The voice in his
head persisted, whispering doubts– maybe whispering logic– in making the mistake of
trusting Jisung, Felix and Jeongin. It echoed through the caverns of his consciousness,
reminding him of the precariousness of the entire plan.

Just as his doubts were preened and ready to consume him whole, a subtle rustle at the door
stirred the air. Changbin and Minho exchanged a fleeting glance– their instincts alert to the
disturbance. They had locked the door when they entered, but it continued to jostle until it
opened. Minho stood up, glaring at the doorway, feeling the relief suddenly wash over him.

First through the door was Felix, his blonde hair catching the glint of artificial light. His
presence exuded that calculated confidence, movements deliberate as he sauntered into the
room. The same leather jacket Minho saw leant over his chair in his bedroom was rested on
his shoulders, cigarette tucked behind his left ear and the same control that stood out to the
detectives when they infiltrated their base. Behind him, Jeongin, obscured by a navy baseball
cap pulled low, a lollipop stick hanging out the side of his mouth and carting a case in his
arms as lax as ever.

Then, with a flourish, Minho’s gaze met Jisung from the back of the group– his demeanour
untroubled. He held a lock-pick in his fist, pocketing it into his jacket pocket before replacing
it with a self-assured smile that danced warmth into the coldness of the empty apartment and
for a second, he felt his stomach settle.

“Detectives,” Felix greeted, tone composed and businesslike. “I imagined the two of you to
be plastered all over the news today when your neighbours found your bodies… but, I guess I
can say it’s nice to see you again.”

“So… So nice,” Jeongin muttered, sauntering toward the table and laying his case upon it
with a thud.

Changbin made himself present, seemingly masking his previous nerves with a stony facade.

“Thank you for coming,” Minho nodded after a moment of silent assessment, skimming past
the controlling presence of Felix trying to assert himself in the detective’s sightline, to find
his gaze loyally met with Jisung. He was wearing a tight compression shirt, pants with
pockets adorned in chains and straps, a loose jacket, and a gun poking out of the holster on
his hip– no longer hiding anything beneath the surface. “We’re just waiting on somebody else
and then we can get started.”

“How’s your nose?” Changbin quipped, eyeing Jeongin’s casual demeanour with a mix of
annoyance and impatience.

The younger man hidden in a cap, shot back a resentful glare as he opened the case he carried
in with him. “Is muscle all you got?” He muttered when it opened up to a laptop modified to
suit their clandestine needs, some code flashing up on the screen that neither detective would
ever be privy to understanding.

Minho didn’t even want to dwell on the venomous banter that was suddenly pumping life into
the stale air. Instead, his watchful gaze met Felix’s, who leaned effortlessly against the
kitchen counter, watching the interactions with a detached amusement.

“So,” he hummed, eyes flickering between Minho and Jisung, with that knowing glint. His
smirk, almost conspiratorial, hinted at a level of understanding that went beyond the surface.
“Are you both finding this as strange as we are?”

Minho sighed, cuffing his work shirt to his forearms, glaring between them.

“I don’t say this often,” the detective murmured. “But… I’m glad you’re here.”

Felix scoffed.

“You remember the conversation we had the other day, Detective Lee,” he sighed, plucking
the cigarette behind his ear between two fingers. “This deal goes both ways. We’re giving
you what you want– you have to give us what we want.”

Minho pressed a shoulder forward.

“And you’ll remember me telling you what happens when you don’t give us what we want,”
he glared back at Felix. “Just keep that in mind before you run off with all those wild ideas
I’m sure are bouncing around your head.”

“Oh… He’s got a little bit of fire, hm?” Felix grinned at Jisung. “I’m slowly beginning to
understand what you see. Slowly… But I am.”

“A little bit of fire is right,” Jisung’s gaze is only borne toward the detective, who couldn’t
help the small smile escaping his lips.

“Some help over here,” Jeongin called with a grunt, fingers moving at breakneck speed along
the keyboard. “Whoever picked this place as a base of operation decided to choose the
apartment with the worst connectivity.”

Minho was quick to notice the scowl Jeongin hastily barrelled between him and Changbin.

“That’s me,” Felix sighs, cracking his neck to the side and clenching the cigarette between his
teeth. “Be good, Sung.”
The assassin makes a contemptuous noise and slips away, leaving the detective with all he
wants in view. It was almost a treat being able to see Jisung so soon after separating. He
never knew when they would cross paths, he never understood what circumstances they
would meet in– but he always knew he would feel this same thrill every single time.

“I see you’re prepared to get out there yourself,” Jisung tuts, crossing his arms over his chest,
alluding to the police vest on the table behind them. “Gonna get your hands a little dirty,
hm?”

Minho chuckled wryly, finger poking his belted hip and the pistol right beside it.

“Somebody has to get in and make the arrest,” he murmurs, unable to pull his gaze from the
alluring eyes of the black pearls drawing him in. “We need to be in the mix with you.”

“Mm… That’s okay. I guess I can look after you too.” Jisung shrugged with a voice as light
as air. “After all, it’s better to be on my good side.”

“Well, I’ll wait patiently to see your good side,” Minho teases, earning a gentle squeeze of his
forearm when the younger man reaches out. “I’m sure he’s great.”

“Funny,” Jisung sighed, reaching his spare hand upward to grasp Minho’s tie, head lolling to
the side when he went to adjust it. “Are you ever going to do your tie properly?”

“Maybe I do it this way so you’ll fix it,” he whispered when Jisung etched so close the scent
of gardenia enveloped the lithe space holding their bodies. His lips tugged to the side in a
small smile, eyes gleaming with shine as Minho felt his tie constrict by his neck. “Nobody
else pays that much attention to me.”

Jisung huffs, flickering that dark glare back to the detective.

“Nobody living, that is,” he hums with a smile that speaks volumes of praise for his work.
“And nobody but me will if they want to go on living.”

“Crazy,” Minho muttered, snatching Jisung’s wrist between his middle finger and thumb.
“And jealous.”

“Well… You do bring out the worst in me, Detective Lee,” he whispered, leaning forward to
leave a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Minho refused to let go of the wrist clasped in his hand.

“Are you going to play nice for me tonight?” He poses the question knowing that with their
current proximity, no words would be heard by the others who were arguing around Jeongin’s
set-up. “Or is this all just another one of your games?”

Jisung released a breathy laugh when a deft knock at the door echoed through the air.

“I guess you’ll find out once this night is over, hm?” He preened, pulling apart when
Changbin’s footsteps sauntering toward the door gave way to the reality Minho briefly
escaped. “The fun part is not knowing.”
Minho’s eyes lingered longer than usual, knowing that his strange fondness toward the
assassin could never quite be measured.

“Why am I on this side of town at this time of night?” The knock at the door that quickly
became the last member of the party they needed, quipped when he sauntered into the
apartment. “Traffic was a nightmare and don’t even get me started on parking–”

Minho sighed, already irritated by the lax demeanour he was bringing in with him, and glared
at Seungmin who stood frozen in the doorway, gaze shifting between the three unexpected
guests moving about the apartment. Recognition flashed across his face, and the atmosphere
in the room tensed palpably.

Without a second thought, Seungmin’s hand instinctively went for the pistol holstered at his
side. Minho wondered if that was the first time he ever held one in his hands based on his
shaky confidence in wielding it.

“What the hell is going on here?” He whispered, voice tightening with urgency as he glared
between Minho and Changbin.

“You’re late… that is what is going on here,” Changbin sighed, expression caught between
annoyance and resignation. “And put that thing away before you hurt yourself.”

“Do you– Do you realise who they are?” Seungmin scoffs, completely avoiding the gazes of
the three assassins tucked into an empty apartment. “They– They–”

Jeongin, unphased by the tension, smirked at the detective shakily holding a pistol forward.
“Wow… they let just anyone have a badge, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” Minho concurred beneath his breath, before quickly shaking off the man
he knew he became when Seungmin was around. “Come on, we’re handling this and they’re
here for a reason.”

Seungmin, however, was hardly convinced.

“Handling it? You told me you had a lead… I don’t think you meant a lead like this.”

Just as the detective’s hand tightened around the grip of his pistol, Minho’s ears caught a
familiar click. His gaze shifted downward to Jisung, who was leaning on the kitchen counter,
who had drawn his own weapon poised and ready to strike if needed, unbeknownst to the
head of foreign affairs who couldn’t see the entirety of his body in view.

“We need your cooperation on this, Kim,” Minho stepped forward, attempting to defuse the
tension by brushing his shoulder against Jisung– trying to ease his qualms. “We have enough
ammunition to take down the entire operation.”

Seungmin’s gaze continued to flicker between Minho, Changbin and Jisung, the cogs in his
brain turning at breakneck speed.

“I…” He begins, testing the words in his mouth. “I would like to speak to the two of you…
Alone.”
He was sure to swipe his gaze at the two homicide detectives who nodded, knowing that they
needed Seungmin on their side if anything was to go to plan.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” Minho muttered at Felix who was watching on with amusement,
eyes alight at the weak link in the chain showing its rust.

Seungmin slowly lowered his pistol, gaze shifting between every occupant of the apartment.
He was biting down on his bottom lip and Minho could just see the slight shake to his hand
as it holstered the gun. With a grunt, he turned on his heel and gestured for the detectives to
follow him into a bedroom.

The bedroom, like the rest of the place, was devoid of furniture and life– amplifying the
gravity of the situation.

“Tell me everything, right now,” Seungmin demands, continuing to pace up and down. His
voice was a mere whisper, as though skirmishly worried the others were listening in.

Minho exchanged a weary glance with his partner, before swallowing back his resentment
and irritation.

“They are giving up the name of the man who is orchestrating the killings. The one who has
ordered every hit we have investigated.” He nods. “They want out, and this is how they’re
doing it.”

Seungmin scoffed incredulously. “And what happens once they give the names up?”

Changbin pinched the bridge of his nose, already exhausted from the day. “I never thought
I’d say it… but that is why we’re asking for your help.”

“You have a long list of contacts in foreign affairs and you’re connected enough to play the
media in a way we need,” Minho crossed his arms over his chest. “We need to act fast and get
a news story out the second we apprehend the suspect. We need to assure them that their lives
are protected given that they are putting them on the line.”

“Our suspects are just in the other room,” Seungmin hissed. “Why would we protect them?”

“The chief wants the one behind it all,” Changbin muttered. “I know this is a big ask and
honestly, I’m still weighing up how on board I am with this,” he was sure enough to swipe his
glare toward his partner. “But we end it tonight with your help.”

“God,” Seungmin muttered, stopping abruptly in his pacing. “I have about fifty-eight
questions that I would love nothing more than to shove in your faces… but how? How can I
make them feel like we’re protecting them when we should be calling for Special Ops to
surround the place?”

“Get a story ready for the press and the chief,” Minho stares him down. “We tell the media
they were collateral. We put a wire on Lee Felix and Han Jisung, get them on the field, and
let our guy get talking. Then, when we come in for the arrest and they flee, you get the story
out that all three of them got killed trying to evade police. Heat is off their back and–”
“–and then they’re free to walk away?” Seungmin grunts, shaking his head. “We all took an
oath when we joined the force, Minho. This goes against why we do what we do if we let
them go.”

Minho was quick to notice Changbin’s gaze raking the floor. He knew his partner agreed.
Even Minho agreed that letting them go wouldn’t guarantee that the assassinations stop. It
was clear that there was an even bigger network out there and that this single case was only
scraping the surface… but all he could think about was Jisung’s eyes when he told the
detective he wanted a normal life.

He had spent the entirety of his career working out how to tell a lie from the truth. When he
saw the innocent gleam in his gaze and the softness of his voice when he whispered it when
they held each other close, he saw through every single lie that they built this strange alliance
upon.

“Time is running out and trust is all I have,” the detective muttered. “I need this case
closed… I need your cooperation to make this work… both of you.”

Changbin was quick to meet his sightline, apprehension so very clear in his fidgeting hands
and the way he was chewing his lip. He and Seungmin exchanged a wary glance and Minho
could very well see the weight of the decision settling on their shoulders. The guilt Minho
felt was palpable… but they had a mission at hand.

Nevertheless, they shared a nod, and Changbin was the first to smile.

“I…” His partner retorts, his voice gruff and filled with sternness. “I’m in.”

Seungmin hesitated again, glancing at the two homicide detectives before taking a deep
breath.

“So long as I get a promotion out of this,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Then I guess
you can count me in too.”

When the detectives returned to the main body of the apartment, Felix could hardly resist
making a sardonic remark.

“Got the tears out of your system, Detective Kim?”

Jisung and Jeongin laughed, and Minho saw through a darkened glare at the words that
seemed to slice through the tension with a sharp, cold blade.

“Are you ready to begin now or what?” He huffs, running a hand through his hair as he
saunters toward the table of laptops and surveillance equipment.

“Let’s see how professional you are at all this,” Changbin concurred with an air of
nonchalance, meeting the others. “What have we got so far?”

Jeongin sighed, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a theatrical flourish. “Our hit is
finishing up his dinner as we speak.” He motions to the screen with the purple tip of the
spheric sugar. “As soon as he goes for the bill, Felix will initiate contact again and we’ll
confirm the rendezvous at the hit point.”

Minho nodded, appreciating the concise update, but Seugnmin couldn’t help but etch closer
to the screen displaying the real-time surveillance footage of the restaurant.

“How do you have access to privatised CCTV footage? What program is this?”

The younger man rolled his fox-like eyes, as though the question were a great waste of time.

“I built it.”

“You built this?” Seungmin blinked, his astonishment fronting. “Not even we have this
technology at the department.”

“Well,” Jeongin’s lips curled into a wry grin. “Try and keep up, okay?”

The words were enough to silence the detective, who thinned his lips and melded his stare
toward Felix who stood to his feet, leaning two fists on the table.

“Once I’ve met with him, I can say whatever it is that you need to build up your case and
then I trust you’ll be able to take it from there.” The blonde hummed.

“Tell me about the hit,” Changbin mutters, eyes drawn loyally to the screen playing the live
feed. “Who are we taking into custody tonight?”

“You probably know him. He’s some big-shot politician who makes those gross comments on
the news.” Felix grimaces with a shake of his head. “He’s a bit of a creep– always asking to
take me out and he’s been wanting to meet Jisung for a while.”

“He’ll get a chance to meet me today. I know how to play it up with him,” Jisung decides
with a huff, business as usual. “He’ll be less suspicious if we give him what he wants. It’s
solid.”

Minho felt jealousy itch at the back of his subconscious– not quite liking the allusion that
Jisung was free to play the part. He was the best of the best, of course… but not even the
detective could control that irritating, grating, vengeful itch that wouldn’t let him rest without
scratching it.

“Sound good, Detective Lee?” Jisung continued, head lolled to the side as he made eyes with
the older man, licking his strawberry lips as though he knew exactly what was running
through his mind.

“I’m not going to tell you how to do your job,” he hits back, flicking his eyes back to Felix.
“The plan is solid– what else do you need from us?”

“A listening device… or a wire to wear,” Felix sighs. “We have our own that Innie made– the
latest tech, of course. But I understand you collect evidence a particular way and that just so
means we’ll have to wear whatever you brought for us.”
“Mm… I’m sure it’s ancient,” Jeongin slips beneath his breath.

Changbin rolled his eyes and unlocked a case he had Hyunjin grab from the station for them
earlier in the day. Inside of it are the wires the detectives recognised from all of their sting
operations from days past.

“You will give them confirmation that we,” Changbin motions to Minho with a pointed
finger, “were knocked off sometime last night. You need to say our names and anything else
that’s damning enough that a judge can put him behind bars for the rest of his miserable
life.”

“Sure,” Felix nods. “And if anything is to follow a sort of precedent he and I have set… he’ll
have another contract ready for me.”

“Perfect,” Changbin smiled, perhaps the first organic one all day. “Then the second you get
away, we’ll take it from there.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Minho nodded, glaring around the table. “We don’t have much
time– come on.”

A gentle chuckle cut through the finally comfortable air– threatening to pollute it. Felix’s
laugh was deep, hearty, laughing as though they were friends sharing a joke over a bottle of
whiskey at a bar.

“Aren’t you both forgetting something?” He wipes his eyes, feigning that whatever it was
that seemed to conjure a deep-rooted laugh was so funny it almost made him cry.

“No,” Changbin hits back in the same tone as he treated words of question. “What could we
possibly be forgetting?”

The blonde sighs, running a hand with a wrist adorned in a silver chain-link bracelet through
his bleached hair.

“I just listed everything we are doing for you,” he reminds the detectives. “Now tell me what
you are doing for us.”

Felix allowed the room to sit on the question and it was almost unsettling how his lips tugged
to the side when the seconds stretched to a minute. Minho and Changbin exchanged glances,
silently communicating, knowing they had to tread lightly. But, to their surprise, it was
Seungmin who stood forward– chewing his bottom lip, eyes darting around the room.

“I’ve been thinking,” the younger man began, voice steady but tinged with apprehension.
“Once… Once you and J-Jisung are away from the target and the arrest is made, you need to
make some attempt to flee. It has to be convincing– convincing enough that the target
believes it.”

He looked directly between the assassins, that once-confidence facade cracking at the seams.

“Then, we’ll make it sound, look and feel like you’re dead. I have some contacts in the media
and I can run a story that you were killed in the process.” He sighed, as though the words
were a burden. “The target won’t have any reason to come after you once you’re out of there.
For all we are concerned, you’ll be as dead as tomorrow morning’s paper says you are.”

Felix raised an eyebrow– as though considering the weight of the detective’s words,
evaluating the viability, if any, of the plan. It hardly took long to deliberate before he nodded
his head.

“It might just work,” he admitted, glancing between the detectives for confirmation. “Maybe
this wasn’t a complete waste of my Friday night after all. Drinks may still be on the cards.”

“Once you’re wired up, I’ll take some pictures of you all… if that’s okay… and I’ll make
some calls.”

“Maybe you are useful,” Jeongin mutters, eyes still glued to the screen. “I’ll keep an eye on
everything while they’re on the field so we’ll know if anything has gone wrong. I’ve added
you all to my network so… with the earpieces,” he added, pointing to them annexed to his
monitor case, “communication shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Christ,” Changbin grunts beneath his breath. “You run a tight operation, don’t you? Almost
better than most departments at the station.”

“Well… we’ll be dead soon. It’s a shame because I was just about to ask if you were hiring
now that we’re out of a contract.” Felix continues with a smirk, earning a chuckle from
Jisung and Jeongin, and even a crack of a smile from Minho and Changbin. The room
seemed to ease into a sense of cooperation, albeit tinged with that unsightly past, but
peculiarly aligned, nonetheless.

“Let’s get the details perfect,” Minho said, stepping forward. “We have a limited window
here and we need to be meticulous. We’re running out of time.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

When they were on the field consisting of a dimly lit, poorly smelling alleyway, Minho
wondered if this would be the last time he would ever see Jisung.

The others were all in a state of operation. Jeongin monitored the live feed from the
apartment, with Seungmin getting the story out there and initiating contact with the chief, all
the while Changbin and Felix were going over every final detail they needed to after getting
into contact with the target.

But Minho… his eyes were observing the softness of Jisung’s skin as he helped him fasten
the base of the wire by his sternum, securing it in place. The tape reflected the dim alleyway
fluorescence and the moonlight kissed his skin the shade of honey. The detective watched his
stomach move as his lungs did, inhaling his perfume, and listening to the gentle hum of his
breath. A layer of golden hair kissed the surface like peach-fuzz… with flesh Minho was
literate enough in grasping. He truly couldn’t control the soft smile festering upon his face as
his fingers danced along the skin, seeing the black wire contrast greatly with everything he
had in sight and beneath his touch.

He loved having Jisung here. Close. In his grasp.

The chase… It was great. But now that he caught him, the chase was rivalled by the force of
the sun.

They were hidden in the roller door space of a flower store, far enough away from the others
who could be monitored by their footsteps and quiet chatter, and for a brief moment, Minho
wanted to stay in this small patch of the universe forever.

“Later tonight… once I’ve cleaned this whole mess up–”

Jisung, for a fleeting moment, dropped the facade entirely, clasping the detective’s wrist in
his hand, warmth to his gaze.

“Stay safe out there, Minho,” he whispered, using his other hand to press against his cheek,
holding him in place, keeping him in sight. “We have a job to do.”

Minho’s lip twitched, knowing the look in his eye.

“I’ll see you at the meeting point at midnight, right?” His voice is small, searching Jisung’s
gaze for any semblance of truth. It held that tantalising mix of sincerity and something
deeper. The touch of his hand against the detective’s cheek felt like a promise, but Minho was
guileless in reading through it. “That’s part of the plan.”

“Right,” he whispers. “The plan.”

Minho blinked at the intricate dance that continued to envelop them. It was delicate. A
balancing act of trust, deception, and the invisible string that would forever pull him toward
Jisung.

“So… Is this your way of saying goodbye to me, then?” He muttered, placing a hand over
Jisung’s, voice carrying a subtle longing.

“Well… goodbye to this life of mine before you kill me,” Jisung huffs, tucking his bottom lip
beneath the top. He was quick to bloom into a bright smile, a chuckle following along like a
shadow. “And who knows? Maybe I still hang out around unlocked fire escapes.”

Minho smiled, reluctantly stepping apart when he heard Changbin mutter through the
earpiece: ‘The target is on the move, let’s go.’

“If this is goodbye, then kiss me one more time,” he murmured, so close that he was sure
nothing else mattered.

“Greedy detective,” he shook his head, and the assassin complied with a wry smile, arms
wrapping around the detective’s neck, melding forth into a chaste kiss; gentle, unmarred by
anticipating passion or lingering on time running out. It was soft, sweet, perfect. It was
goodbye for now… and Minho understood that it needed to be that way if he were to ever
kiss him again.

“I’ll see you around, pretty boy,” Jisung whispered against his lips as Felix and Changbin
etched toward them, ready to move in. “I’ll be looking out for you.”

“And I’ll be looking out for you,” he replied, the words carrying an unexpected sincerity.

The connection was severed when Changbin signalled that everything was in place. Felix
pocketed his hands and nodded for Jisung to join him, and before Minho knew it, the
assassin’s touch on his fingertips became a memory, and the taste that lingered on his lips
tingled like stardust.

“Ready to move in,” Jeongin’s voice echoed over the line. “Sung, Lix… Target in position.”

Minho stepped back when Changbin brushed against his shoulder, adjusting the straps of his
bulletproof vest and readying his cuffs. Minho and Jisung shared a final glance at the edge of
the alleyway, and for once, the older man found himself feeling hopeful in the trust he vested
in the assassin. When they disappeared from view, the detectives made a silent promise in a
glance– that they were happy to leave the chase behind, and instead, to hear the echo of its
impact linger.

“We’ll end it here,” Changbin mutters to the older man. “And then you’re taking a week
off.”

Minho felt a laugh escape his throat from his partner’s words.

“So long as you’re taking a break with me.”

When they moved into position, Jeongin alerted the detectives through their earpieces and
Minho felt his stomach shift in anticipation.

“Mm… Just who I wanted to see, and you finally brought along your friend.”

The two officers exchanged glances, their eyes communicating a shared understanding of the
situation and in tow, Minho pulled a pistol from his vest, anticipating any movement and
wanting to be there for Jisung if needed.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Jisung, voice drenched in that confident facade. “It was a bit
overdue, hm?”

“You’re worth waiting for and just as pretty as I imagined,” the target muttered, and Minho
had to remind himself that Jisung was working and fully in control. “Are you here to deliver
some good news for me?”

“You getting this, Kim?” Changbin muttered through the earpiece, to which the detective
who was handling the wire feed responded with a ‘yeah, got it.’

“We’ve carried out the hits on those officers that you wanted,” Felix spoke up, his voice
casual but calculated.
“Detective Lee and Detective Seo,” Jisung added over the line, and Minho nodded to himself,
watching the players play their game.

There was a momentary pause, and the target’s scepticism rose to the surface.

“I haven’t heard anything in the news about it,” he scoffed, voice low and tepid. “You know
how big the story would be when cops are involved.”

Changbin and Minho share a glance, the younger man’s brow furrowing with his bottom lip
tucked beneath the top.

“I have my doubts that their bodies will be found anytime soon,” Jisung perks up again in a
sultry tone. “Wait until they don’t show up to work Monday morning, until then, you can
enjoy a weekend of peace.”

The target breaks out into a pleased chuckle.

“This is why you’re the best in the business,” he gleams. “Maybe the two of you join me in my
holiday house while we wait for the storm to begin,” he added in a deep chuckle that wracked
Minho’s core, “Lix, don’t you think it’s time you let me fly you out of this place?”

Felix laughs, and the detective can just imagine that lax demeanour plastered all over his
face.

“Before we get into that, is there anything else you have for us?” Felix’s voice is a purr.
“Once we know how much work we have, we’re free to play– you know that.”

He pauses and the rustle of papers flickers across the line.

“Here,” his voice becomes a mutter. “Contract says the end of the week but– for your good
work, two weeks will be fine. Just as long as you follow through with the hit, I don’t have
much more to ask of you in that regard.”

“Perfect,” Jisung says with glee. “I look forward to getting started.”

“As always, it’s such a pleasure doing business with you both,” the target continues and
Minho never knew it was possible to hear a smirk on one’s face when they spoke until he
heard his voice. “I’ll have the cash ready to wire over tonight.”

“A pleasure indeed,” Felix speaks up. “While we’d love to stay for a drink, it’s probably
better that we get going.”

“Already?”

“We have a flight to catch,” Felix hummed, and Minho felt his eyebrows draw inward, his
heartbeat increasing as the words caught on. “But hey, we might just take you up on that offer
of staying at your holiday house. A change of scenery might do us some good.”

The target laughed, clearly pleased with the prospect. “Fine– until we meet again.”
“Come on,” Changbin muttered, pulling his pistol from his holster, and pressing his shoulder
against the corner of the alleyway in a stance they were taught in the academy. “We move in
on my count.”

Minho, still marinating on the words, felt his chest ignite in that same dancing flame that
burned as wild as the day he met Jisung.

The detective poked his head around the corner, noticing Jisung and Felix moving away from
the target. Over the earpiece, Seungmin’s voice cut through, “I’ve called for reinforcements.
Make the arrest.”

With a shared glance, Minho and Changbin moved swiftly, emerging from the hidden space
and closing in on the target with speed. The politician in the expensive suit stood, seemingly
unaware of the impending arrest. Minho’s lips twitched as he stalked toward him, pistol
raised, recognising him from the nightly news– a prevalent face associated with power and
corruption. It was open and closed.

“Police!” Changbin grunted loudly when they were close enough that if he gave chase, it
would be futile. “Get on the fucking ground.”

His tuft of black hair slicked to the back of his head cut toward the detectives, and in one
synchronised motion, the two partners rushed forward, grabbing an arm each until he was
pushed to the ground with a great thud. The satisfaction that surged through Minho was
palpable. The way he squirmed. Grunts that left his pathetic mouth. The way he was taken so
off guard he could hardly articulate a single word.

The target struggled, his expensive suit rumpled and stained from the dirty alley floor– and
perhaps Minho was blurring the line between duty and a personal vendetta, but he tightened
his grip on his arms to the point where the middle-aged man winced in pain. It always felt
euphoric in some capacity clasping the cuffs on an assailant’s wrists. But this… this was
salvation.

An end to the sleepless nights. The migraines. The inability to breathe without thinking of
ways to have Jisung in his grasp.

“Cuff him, Lee,” Changbin muttered, pressing his body weight on his shoulders until the
politician conjured a deft squeak from his lips.

And Minho did, happily.

Once his hands were cuffed behind his back and the detective licked his lips at the sight
before him, the completion, the satisfaction, Changbin began to list off his rights in a voice
drenched with sarcasm.

Minho stood up, leaving the writhing target cuffed and in the capable hands of his partner. He
knew that the next move was crucial; a task in deception to make the politician believe that
he successfully eliminated Jisung and Felix. So, he jogged the length of the back-lit path, the
urgency of the situation driving his every step, unafraid of the burn in his lungs and the fire in
his gaze.
At the end of the road, he saw Jisung and Felix waiting by a black sedan that had its
headlights dimmed, but its exhaust was blowing smoke, indicating that it was on and ready to
go. Jeongin, grasping the case he brought with him in a tight grasp, was by the car, baseball
cap resting gleefully upon his head.

They met the detective’s gaze, and with a grin, Felix saluted Minho before ducking his head
and smoothly getting into the driver’s seat, followed by Jeongin who rolled his eyes at the
theatrics, riding shotgun.

Minho’s eyes found Jisung… because they always would find Jisung who was staring back.

His beauty was haunting and the detective knew he would always be this ghost that was a
little too good to be true.

Jisung, after a lingering gaze that Minho was sure to tattoo on his eyelids, ducked his head
and gracefully slid into the backseat of the car. The car revved and sped away into the quiet
of the night. Minho sighed, raising his pistol and fired three shots into the air, the sharp
cracks echoing through the alleyway– leaving behind the dust of the car and the belief that
they were eliminated in the tussle. They were in the clear. They were free to fly away to some
other portion of the city to haunt. They were gone and Minho felt the emptiness envelop his
soul.

Perhaps now it was fitting that Minho finally realised he would never catch Jisung. He would
never win the chess game. He would never take the lead in the clandestine dance they found
themselves entangled in.

But deep down, he always knew that.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“It’s the boyfriend.”

“You can’t just assume that.”

“I can so. The tears turned on the second I applied an ounce of pressure. He’s full of shit.”

“And what about the best friend? The one with the glasses? You don’t suspect Mr. collects-
dolls-that-suspiciously-look-like-the-victim?”

“He’s some sort of freak, we knew that the second he asked me where I get my hair cut… but
not the sort of freak to strangle his best friend with a TV cable.”

“Lunch on me if it’s the best friend.”

“Dinner and drinks on me if it’s the boyfriend.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Seo,” Minho couldn’t help the chuckle that left his lips, feeling
his joints crack when he stood to his feet in the dreary interrogation room bathed in
fluorescent lights and a cooler that blew air four degrees above freezing. “I wanna’ try that
new galbi place… so keep that in mind when I win the bet.”

“Whatever,” his partner grunts, collecting his notes from the myriad of interrogations they
had conducted throughout the day, tucking them into the beige manila folder exclusive to
homicide. “Do you think my heart will explode if I have another coffee? It’ll be my ninth of
the day.”

Minho glares between their empty mugs, the stained white ceramic from the residue of
powdered coffee at the base.

“I’ve probably put away twelve once,” the older man muses, collecting his own to pile atop
the paper mounding like a hill in his arms. “My heart hasn’t given out… yet.”

“Alright,” Changbin nods, holding the door open for his partner, his tie so loose that Minho
wonders if a single tug would render it futile. Now out in the hallway, side-by-side as they
walk past holding cells, the interrogation rooms, and offices of narcotics units, the younger
man continues his caffeine-driven musings. “I’ll probably need to hook myself up to an IV of
coffee the second my ass hits another chair.”

“You’re crazy,” Minho blows his growing hair out of his face. “And it’s almost five– why are
you having another?”

A deep scoff falls from Changbin’s lips.

“Are you kidding?” Minho worried briefly that he was about to drop the files from his hands
with how he raised them in the air. “We have to collate our notes and I don’t know… figure
this shit out before some other lunatic kills their girlfriend tomorrow morning?”

“Hm, so you do think the boyfriend did it,” a small smirk kisses Minho’s lips as they saunter
out to the main body of the homicide department. “I’ll review the menu of that galbi place
after I put my shit away.”

“No, you idiot,” Changbin grunts, feet carrying him at a snail’s pace to their offices side-by-
side. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Maybe you’re not,” Minho sighs, pressing the handle of his office door with an elbow,
pushing it open with his hip. “But I’m leaving at five.”

The silence that followed his words almost played a vision in Minho’s mind of the seven
stages of grief he was sure to be flashing over his partner’s face. Instead, he sighed, packing
the file, his laptop and his other notes into his briefcase, readying to avoid the rush-hour
traffic he knew would give him a migraine on the way home.

“You’re leaving… at five?” Changbin grunts, having followed the detective into his office.
“Five O’clock. You. Leaving?”
“Maybe earlier,” Minho concurs, glancing at his silver watch. “Traffic is going to be a bitch.”

Changbin’s jaw clenched, leaning on the older man’s desk, showing more of the white in his
eye rather than his pupil.

“Are you drunk?”

Minho lolled his head to the side, melding his glare toward his partner who wasn’t about to
relent anytime soon.

“I wish,” he mutters. “But I have plans.”

“Plans. You. On a Friday night?”

The detective clasped his briefcase in his hand and flashed his teeth and eyes in one failed
swoop at his best friend.

Changbin followed him to the doorway and the older man almost worried that he was about
to wrestle him back into his desk chair. “You don’t have plans unless they’re with me. What
are you doing?”

Flicking off the lights to his office, watching the mundane walls of beige dim, casting a deep
shadow over his desk, file cabinets and the faux plant annexed in the corner, Minho ignored
the remark he was sure he deserved from his ten-year streak of solitude and work.

“Believe it or not, I’ve got a date.”

Minho didn’t wait to see his best friend’s reaction when he pulled the door closed and sought
the exit with gusto. He walked through the hallways, usually bustling with the hurried steps
of officers and the low hum of conversation, but they felt eerily quiet as he continued to walk
through it. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime and Minho felt a small win ignite his
core when he realised he would get the shaft to himself.

“Hold the door!”

Minho’s hand tightened on his briefcase when he heard the Chief’s commanding voice. With
a glance up, the detective met his gaze, that knowing glint in the older man’s eye as he
slipped into the confined space, shoulder-to-shoulder with one-half of the homicide
department’s best.

“Thanks,” he hums breathlessly, leaning against the elevator wall with eyes fixed on the
younger man. “Busy day, Detective Lee?”

Minho nodded, keeping his responses succinct.

“That strangling case. Two suspects. Probably not as complicated as Seo thinks.”

“I read the file,” he didn’t break his gaze with the detective as he continued to chatter away.
“Sounds like the best friend did it.”
Minho felt a small laugh escape his lips, finding his shoulder against the cool, silver surface
of the elevator, waiting to hear the familiar ding so he could get out of there.

“Tell that to my partner, Chan.”

The silence settles for a few seconds before the chief speaks up once more.

“The Foreign Affairs case is going to trial next week,” the chief’s words echoed in the
confined space of the elevator, casting a sudden weight upon Minho’s shoulder. “They want
some more statements from you, Seo, and Kim.”

Minho was instantaneous in his answer.

“Hm… It’s been two months,” Minho admitted, voice carrying that nonchalant detachment.
“Two months since I’ve even given that case thought… I’d have to re-read the file.”

The chief’s laughter followed, always laced with that knowing quality, hinting at the layers
beneath the surface that both men were finely literate in.

“The District attorney is asking questions about the evidence you admitted– the audio files.
They want to follow up about the deaths of the assailants.”

Minho met the chief’s eyes. A silent exchange of understanding passed between them.

“And what did you tell them?” Minho inquired; his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The chief smirked in response, a calculated expression that hinted at a certain defiance.

“I said there’s no follow-up. Dead is dead, right?”

“Right.”

The stare continued into a silent conversation transpiring in the brief moments of the elevator
ride down.

“Have you heard from them, Detective Lee? Where in the world are they hiding now, hm?”

Minho smiled, a heavy exhale laden with resignation escaping his teeth, as the elevator
dinged at the ground floor and the doors slid open. Lolling his head to the side, he stepped
forward, taking up the space in the doorway, letting the chief’s gaze linger upon him a little
bit longer.

“Dead is dead,” he shrugs, words carrying the weight of finality. “I haven’t heard anything.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
When Minho unlocked the door to his apartment, slid off his shoes and flickered on the
lights, he sighed deeply when he saw the alluring embrace of his home– spotlessly clean and
warm from the onset of the spring weather he missed from being in an interrogation room
from nine in the morning. He hung his coat on the rack in the doorway, and snapped his
fingers, earning Gomi’s attention as she ran toward him with a mewl.

He unhooked the holster that was wrapped around his shoulders, leaving it, his pistol, and
badge clipped to his belt upon the coffee table, quick to move directly to the kitchen to feed
the cat and to fix himself a drink.

With a happy, purring Gomi, Minho made a mental note to go to the gym in the morning
when he felt his neck kink when reached upward and pulled two wine glasses from the top of
his cabinet. He sifted a bottle of red wine, not quite his favourite but it was someone else’s,
and so, he brought the bottle and two glasses to the table next to the couch.

Minho scrunched up the pillows and fluffed the brushed cotton blanket into the midst of the
cushions. He placed a record on the player, filling the apartment with classical music and
melted into the couch when he was happy that everything was ready.

Only when his fist found his tie and loosened it with a pull, the window in Minho’s room
jostled open and a deft thud was heard over the music. His lips tugged to the side, as though
his night finally beginning was worth a full day of work, and ran a hand through his hair
when his favourite voice in the world echoed through the apartment.

“Gomi, my baby,” he cheered with a tone as sweet as sugar. “Your daddy is overfeeding you,
I think.”

Minho snorted, glaring at the corner where the kitchen met the living room, seeing his
favourite face poke around the beam with a smile as bright as the sun, cradling the cat in his
arms as though it were their child.

“Am I overfeeding her or are you sneaking in treats when I’m not looking?” The detective
huffs, already defeated by the man he never quite foiled, chest blooming in warmth as he
carried her toward the couch. He was all dressed up, silver necklace around his neck, hair
styled, and the perfume that transformed Minho’s apartment into a lush garden of gardenia,
wafted around his lithe frame.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he pouts, placing Gomi on her cushion, smiling
with glee when she wraps herself in a ball, purring and failing into a gentle sleep. “She and I
have a deal– that’s all.”

“You look nice, baby,” Minho couldn’t help his hands, quick to grasp the cotton on his black
shirt, pulling him by the waist until both of his thighs were wrapped around the detective’s
hips. “Smell nice too.”

A breathy sigh follows and arms drape around Minho’s neck.

“You look nice too, Detective Lee,” he whispers back, lips pink and beckoning the older
man’s attention from the second he flickered his gaze upon them. “I missed you today.”
“How was work?” Minho murmurs, fingers unable to control themselves when they tangle in
his hair, watching the midnight black glide across his knuckles that never saw anything as
soft in his day-to-day.

“Work is work,” he hums, tilting his head to the side. “You?”

Minho grunted in response, knowing they kept it short and sweet.

“Work is work.”

A soft laugh left Jisung’s lips, arms tightening around Minho’s neck– forcing them closer,
needing him there.

“Is that what you’re wearing to that fancy restaurant you’re taking me?” He hummed, leaning
forward until the tip of his nose was kissing Minho’s, allowing the detective to wrap an arm
around his waist, holding him in place.

“I’ll need to change,” Minho sighed, running his fingertips along the sides of the younger
man’s body, breathing in his scent as though it were oxygen. “But… we have time. We can sit
here a little longer, hm?”

“The reservation is at seven, Detective Lee,” Jisung chuckled, lips so close that Minho was
well aware of the game they were instantaneously a party to. “And you told me to get all
dressed up and pretty… I thought I did a good job.”

Minho smiled against him, feeling so relaxed, so calm, so happy with Jisung on his lap.

“You did a perfect job,” he nodded with a voice tinged with gentleness.

“Mm… Then let’s go.”

Minho felt his lips twitch when both of his hands clasped around Jisung’s waist.

“Maybe we cut out all that unnecessary stuff and stay here instead.” The detective poses the
question, following a trend of how most of their dates had unfolded.

Jisung smirked, fingers running amuck in the detective’s hair.

“You know I like to do that.”

Minho smiled.

“I know everything there is to know about you, baby.” He whispered.

“My one weakness.” Jisung sighed, leaning forward to leave a gentle kiss on his lips that they
knew would melt into more.

“Your only weakness.”

 And for a split second, Minho’s mind travelled back to a time when he imagined that winning
felt like heaven.

But the game was already won the second Jisung landed on his desk.

Chapter End Notes

anddddd we're done!!!

thank you for reading this silly lil police fic and for all the love - i hope you enjoyed!!

please let me know if you liked it, i'll catch you in the next one <3
End Notes

you can find me here <3

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