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Chapter Text

Your ears were ringing.

Your mouth tasted awful. 

Someone was shouting.

Why were you on the ground? 

“...said get away.”

Static arced through your eyes and pricked your face. A blob floated into your line of sight, and you lifted lead-heavy limbs to touch a pale face, made paler by panic and desperation. 

That was rare. He hadn't cried in years.

“Idiot," he hissed, and his fingers shook minutely as he brushed your hair back from your eyes, sweat-slick and patchy. “You're not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to— Why did you come here?” 

An itch crawled up your throat. Shoving yourself away with as much strength as you could muster, you rolled out of his lap and retched on the ground until your shoulders bowed. Gravel and dirt scraped the skin of your hands. 

When the fit passed, you pushed yourself onto your elbows and rasped, “Don’t shout.”

He laughed, high and nearly hysterical. You weren't doing much better, your thoughts slow and muddy. You were both going into shock. 

Pain arced through your lower jaw. You squeezed your eyes shut against a swell of nausea and bent your head, trying not to vomit on his shoes. Immediately, arms wiggled beneath your back and legs and lifted you up. A hand grazed your forehead, cool against your hot skin. “You’re burning up."

You let your head loll against his collarbone. “Mm," you whispered. Your face throbbed, and you licked the taste of iron from your bloody gums. “Think I los’ a tooth.” 

A breath hissed through his teeth. He turned, and the nauseatingly sweet scent of his pomegranate shampoo forced you to press your lips together and inhale sharply through your teeth. Suddenly you heard footsteps, frantic and uneven against gravel. His fingers tightened around your shoulders and thighs. 

“Fuck off,” he was saying, though you couldn’t tell who he was talking to. Couldn’t remember anything except to breathe through your nose, exhale through your mouth, heartbeat heavy and uneven in your throat. Laughter rung, sharp and tolling and pained. “Yeah? Keep trying, genius.”

The threads of your sweater scraped against your skin like needles. You made a soft noise. Immediately, that cool hand was back on your forehead. 

“Hey. Hey, don’t fall asleep. Can you do that for me? Stay awake.”

Trying, you wanted to say, but your lips were numb and unresponsive. Stupid lips. 

Another voice drifted into the conversation. You only caught snippets. “...would dodge… an accident? The ambulance is… fifteen minutes.”

Panic broke through the suffocating smog of apathy. They couldn’t call the ambulance. Ambulance meant police, and police meant arrests. 

Another part of you thought, Don’t care, sleep now. 

The effort of handling your limbs became too much, so you went slack.

So tired.

--

The two girls on the other side of the hallway were staring at you.

You ignored them, which only seemed to piss them off even more. The blonde leaned towards her friend and muttered something beneath her breath, and the force of their glares strengthened. With a flick of long-nailed fingers, she flipped her lanyard so that the words “VIP: BACKSTAGE PASS” plastered on the front faced the world and strode towards you in a few clicks of her heels.

“Hi,” she said in sickly sweet Mandarin.

You glanced up from your phone. She stood before you with her hips cocked, pink lips pursed into her best approximation of a pout. Her smile was pretty, contained enough venom to clog your throat, and so adorable that you almost grinned on instinct. 

"Hello," you said, adjusting your medical mask over the bridge of your nose and straightening to your full height. That put you a few inches above her, which made her eyes widen slightly before she composed herself.

“Are you waiting for DG?” she asked, gesturing towards the green room. You didn't miss how she stumbled over the name, like it was a word she wasn't allowed to say.

You tilted your head and thought about it. "Yes," you decided. "We have an appointment."

Her smile curdled. “Aren’t you a little too old to be a fan?”

You blinked. “I don’t think so,” you said. Was eighteen considered old now? “Are you a fan too?”

Behind her, the girl's friend scoffed and crossed her arms. “Duh. We’re VIP guests, can’t you tell?”

You almost chuckled. “We’ve never met," you said.

Their faces scrunched, and the girl took a half-step forward like she wanted to slap you. You would've let her try, except that the illusive green door room suddenly cracked open.

In the next second, you'd shoved past the two girls and now stood directly in front of the man, hands folded demurely before you with your eyes curved into a smile. "Excuse me," you said as the startled bodyguard's hand flew to the baton on his belt, "can I go inside?"

The bodyguard shoved the door shut behind him with a heavy thud, lips creasing into a frown. His eyes flicked up and down your body, taking in the crumpled sweatshirt, tinted sunglasses, medical mask, and general air of exhausted patience. "Sorry, Mr. Kang's busy," he muttered as he brushed past you, clearly unimpressed. "You'll have to see him another time."

Unfortunately for him, you had stubbornness in spades, and you kept up easily with his fast pace, even as he tried to shake you off with increasingly long strides. "I understand," you said, ignoring the girls' quiet giggling a few feet away, "but I'm Gin."

Behind a pair of expressionless aviator glasses, the man cocked an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Your smile twitched. "I have an appointment with Diego."

"Everyone does. Mr. Kang is a busy man."

Great. "Will this convince you?" you asked, rummaging through your pockets for your phone. 

Immediately, the bodyguard skidded to a halt. You followed suit, biting back a groan when your vision flickered at the sudden movement. "What are you reaching for?" he snapped.

"My phone?" you asked, confused.

An errant hand grazed the bridge of your nose, and the phone slipped out of your slack grip and clattered to the ground as you skirted backwards. The bodyguard was glaring at you, a cautious anger blooming on his face as he waved you away. "Look, I've entertained this long enough, but Mr. Kang is busy." He glanced down at your bare neck and scoffed. "Besides, you can’t be here without a backstage pass. If you keep stalling, I’m going to have to remove you from the premises.”

Your fingers twitched. He thought you were a stalker. Which, okay, you couldn't blame him. You didn't exactly come here in your Sunday best. But you'd expected his staff to treat you with a little more dignity than this, like you were a piece of trash on the ground to be tossed out with the rest of the rabble.

"You can verify my identity with Diego's manager," you said, tuning up the cheerfulness in your voice by a notch. "I also have the email thread confirming our meeting tonight, if you'll let me pull it up.” 

He frowned, but nodded. Bracing yourself, you knelt and reached for your fallen phone. Immediately, the floor began to swim beneath your feet. You gritted your teeth and glared at the screen, punching in each number of your password with trembling hands. Clearly, gummy vitamins, airplane peanuts, and ginger ale were a terrible idea for a late-night dinner.

The screen unlocked. You breathed a sigh of relief and scrambled to your feet. "Look—"

Darkness swarmed your vision. The phone fell out of your hand and dropped to the ground once more as you lurched sideways, vertigo bowling you over like a train.

Dammit. You knew this was going to happen.

Before your face could collide with the floor, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, gentle and firm. A familiar-unfamiliar voice drifted into your ear, quiet and imposing—not because it was particularly deep or gravelly, but because it spoke with the self-assurance of the best. 

“You okay?”

“Sir,” the bodyguard blurted out, and then fell deathly silent. Behind you, one of the girls shrieked quietly.

You squeezed your eyes shut and braced yourself. Then you looked up. “I’m fine,” you said as Diego eased you onto your feet, arm cradled carefully around your hips. 

He hummed. Blue eyeliner sharpened his pearl-black gaze, tracing the cat-like lines of his face. His body was still warm from his recent performance, and his cologne had worn off just enough for you to catch a whiff of his fruity shampoo from the soft locks that fell into your eyes. You wanted to rub a thumb over the corner of his eyes and smear the glittering eyeshadow over his high cheekbones; wanted to bury your face into the crook of his neck and squeeze him until he whispered your name. 

Instead, you let out a short, aborted breath and loosened the death grip you had on his flowing shirt, which was half-untucked from his black pants. His touch burned when it grazed against the exposed skin on your hips. “Your hair,” you started, and then stopped. Korean tasted strange on your tongue after so long of Mandarin. 

Diego released you, and it was like the sun withdrawing behind winter clouds. He touched his long pink bangs, as if seeing them for the first time, and lifted a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “I sent you pictures.” 

“Right.” The color appeared gentler over text—less bubblegum and more cotton candy. With a twinge, you felt the distance of two years stretch between the two of you like a void. “Never mind.”

As you adjusted your sweatshirt, Diego swiped your phone from the floor and handed it to you. “Take your meds.”

“What are you, my mom?” you said, and then regretted it when Diego refused to laugh. You grabbed a bottle of small yellow pills from your pocket and pulled down your mask, swallowing them dry. Diego shifted his stance to shield you from view. 

The vertigo wouldn’t go away for another half-hour or so, but your shoulders relaxed regardless. You shoved the pills deep within your pocket, somewhere you wouldn’t have to see or remember them for a while. “Thanks,” you said quietly. 

Diego peered down at you through a thick wave of dark lashes. “You were supposed to call me,” he said, not quite an accusation. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt anything important,” you said, instead of the truth which was that you were afraid to hear his voice again. 

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, now I know.”

“Hm.” Diego glanced at the bodyguard. “Why didn’t you let them in?”

The man straightened. He was too professional to be nervous, but his boss’s narrowed eyes and deceptively casual posture set off instincts he buried long ago. “Sir, I wasn’t aware that you were allowing visitors today—“

“I said one.”

The security guard ducked his head in shame. Pitying the poor guy— probably a new hire, given how stiffly he stood in that fitted suit—, you patted Diego’s shoulder and ignored how he jolted at the touch. “Take it easy on the guy. He was only trying to protect you from weirdos.”

“You’re not weird,” Diego said. 

You blinked at him, and then glanced down at your sweatshirt. “DG’s #1 WIFE” was printed on the front, Diego's pixelated face on the back. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Diego let out a snort that could’ve been a laugh. Happiness bloomed in your chest in a brief spurt before you quashed it, trailing after him as he opened the green room door and gestured you inside. 

“Come on. I’ve kept you waiting.”

You peeked inside and whistled at the sight of the fully furnished mini-bar, the array of plush chairs. Diego's stuff was haphazardly scattered in front of the make-up station: a fraying gray sweater, a couple of miscellaneous gaming magazines, and the most recent Vogue issue with Charles Choi on the cover, poised in a charcoal gray suit that matched his smoldering gaze piercing the camera. Seoul at his back, Korea at his feet, the title declared in bold print.  

“Do you have snacks?” you asked. 

“Fruit,” Diego said. “So you don’t pass out again.”

This time, you did actually sigh. “Fine,” you said, brushing past him. “But it better be good fruit.”

Diego didn’t respond. Confused, you turned around and saw him standing before the two girls, one hand on the door and prepared to shut it in their faces. One of them was blushing so hard her ears had turned red. 

“DG!” she said, thrusting her phone out. “C-Can I take a picture with you? I’m a huge fan!”

“Me too!“ says her friend, squeezing to the front. “I love your albums!”

Diego surveyed them past the sweep of his bangs. (He remembered the glares they shot you when your back was turned, unaware that Diego was examining them as intently as they were you. A stronger man would’ve let it go, knowing beauty was poison as much as it was honey. 

He was not a strong man.)

“No,” Diego said in Mandarin. 

He turned and shut the door.

--

“How are you?” Diego asked as he followed you inside.

You glanced around for a place to sit down, then settled for one of the chairs near the makeup station. It squealed as you lowered your weight onto it, but the cushions were as soft as you’d expected and it smelled faintly of Diego. You released an exhausted breath as you let your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed. “Good,” you said. “And you?” 

“Fine.”

“I’m glad.” 

And then there was silence. You opened your eyes to the sight of Diego hovering above you, hands tucked into his pockets. It was a wonder they hadn’t split around his thighs yet. You knew just how much power was hiding behind that strained leather. 

“So the internship is over,” he said, voice soft.

You nodded. “They let me go a few days ago,” you said, fighting the urge to bounce your leg or fiddle with your fingers. Had he gotten taller? You wouldn’t be surprised. That boy grew like a sprout in the worst of times, let alone on a stage where he could devour an entire company’s worth of money and resources.

With a hum, Diego slid into a nearby seat. For the first time in two years you got a good look at him—all of him, dyed hair and new face and all. Photos and midnight conversations under the cover of your blankets didn’t do him justice. Even in fading makeup and half-undressed concert clothes, Diego was effortlessly beautiful, just as at ease lounging in the plush makeup chair as he was on stage or posing for the front page of a magazine for the sexiest men in the world. 

A lump of bitterness welled in your throat, and you tore your eyes from the long line of his neck. What a way to remind you that you didn’t exist in the same world anymore. He had bodyguards (useless bodyguards, but still), a stadium packed with thousands of screaming and adoring fans, and all the money in the world at the tip of his fingers. 

What did you have? A worn-out sweatshirt you wore as a pathetic attempt to smooth over a year’s worth of grief? A best friend whose face you no longer recognized? 

The hiss of the mini-fridge broke through your thoughts. Diego reached inside and pulled out a plate of neatly displayed melon in plastic wrap. He offered it to you, not quite smiling.

“I missed you,” he said.

Pain squeezed your chest, so tightly you almost couldn’t speak. You smiled. “I missed you too,” you said, accepting the plate. 

As you picked at the melon slices, Diego crossed and uncrossed his legs, the closest he’d ever get to admitting his discomfort. Finally, he asked, “How was China?” 

A simple question, but you stiffened. He noticed—of course he did—and the chasm between you screeched and widened. "Enlightening,” you said. 

“How specific."

You shrugged. “Top secret. You know how it is."

There it was again, the strained wideness of your smile, the awkward lilt in the conversation as you fought to keep the conversation alive. You bit your lip and forced yourself to meet his eyes. "What about you?” you asked. “How are things over here?"

"Busy," Diego said, echoing your shrug. A hint of sharpness entered his voice. "You know how it is."

Ouch. You changed the subject. “The concert sold out today, huh?"

”Yeah.”

”You have a lot of fans," you said. 

He nodded. "We were expecting a full stadium."

We, meaning his team of stylists and camera crew and social media managers that you'd never met. You looked down at the plate and poked a slice of melon, watching your nails sink into the soft green flesh. You brought your finger to your lips and sucked. Sweet. ”Someone drew your face on a poster," you said. "She called you oppa, but I think she was thirty."

Diego snorted and leaned his chin on his open palm. “How old do I look?" 

”Barely fifteen.”

He didn’t laugh. “Do you think I’ve changed?” he asked, and you lifted your head, noticing that his gaze was still locked on you, black and unreadable. 

This time, the answer came easily. “Not as much as you think.” 

Diego huffed and tilted his weight to one side, stretching out his long legs into front of him. His posture screamed deliberate casualness, and you glanced behind you, searching for the secret camera he was posing for. “How long will you be staying in Beijing?” 

You brought your gaze back around with a nervous laugh. Sweat stained the back of your legs and plastered your skin to the leather.  “About that," you said. "I have a surgery scheduled in a few days. Nothing major, but—"

"A surgery?" he echoed.

"Nothing major," you repeated. "Just a routine checkup. You know how it is." 

Your head throbbed in reminder, and you pushed up your glasses, forcing yourself to focus on Diego’s expressionless face. A few years ago, you would’ve known exactly how close he was to kicking someone out of the fifth-floor window. Now, you couldn’t tell if he wanted to hug or punch you. 

“Then,” he said, “when are you leaving?” 

“Tonight.”

For a moment, Diego didn’t react. Then he leaned over and speared a piece of melon with a toothpick. You opened your mouth to protest, then fell silent as he lifted the fruit and examined it like a fascinating piece of modern art. 

“And my concert tomorrow?” he asked. 

You shrugged. “I saw most of it tonight. Your singing has gotten better,” you said, remembering the nights the two of you used to spend at the karaoke bar in your neighborhood, queueing song after song until your voices went hoarse with laughter and you fell asleep with your head on his chest.

When did you stop? You couldn’t remember. 

Diego pinched the melon between his teeth and pulled his phone from his back pocket. You waited patiently for him to finish. Then you caught sight of his screen. “Isn’t that Manager Su’s number?” you asked, somewhat dumbly.

He shrugged and continued to type. 

You waited. Then the realization hit. "Wait, are you cancelling your tour?”

“And?” he asked calmly. 

The plate toppled off your lap as you lunged for his phone. "What is wrong with you? Don’t do that!”

Diego fended you off with one arm, eyes fixed on the messenger app. You didn't know what was worse—the fact that he barely needed a hundredth of his strength and a tenth of his attention to stop you in your tracks, or that he just kept typing, undeterred by your desperate swipes for his phone. “It’s one day. They can wait,” he said, remarkably calm despite how close you were to biting his hand off. 

The swish of an outgoing message perked your ears. With a final panicked pounce, you swiped the phone from his hand and retreated into the corner with your prize. He hadn’t changed his password, so you had the messenger app pulled up in seconds. 

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius," you muttered, staring at the four words that sealed your doom. Cancel the last day. You frantically began to type an apology, only for Diego to pinch the top of the phone with two fingers and lift it from your grasp. 

"You're overreacting,” he said, rolling his eyes in uncharacteristic irritation. “It’s just a concert. I can make up for the lost revenue by filming a single ad.”

"Just a concert? J—" You cut yourself off and shot him a half-hearted glare. The wasted expenses was one thing; the monumental backlash of a top star canceling the last day of his tour without explanation was another. People would start asking questions, and you couldn’t afford questions. "Don’t be a brat, Diego Kang.”

"I'm the brat? You're the one who refuses to let me accompany you.”

”Diego,” you said.

"That's not my name.”

“Diego,” you repeated, and watched his face twitch into a shadow of a snarl. “You can’t cancel the last day of your tour, and you can’t come to Korea with me.”

Diego tilted his head, soft hair falling over narrowed eyes. A faint smirk split his pink lips, the most he would let slip of the boy who once sprinted five miles in ten minutes to bring you to a hospital.

“Why not?” he asked. “Are they going to stop me?”

--

“You are not leaving.”

The president’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a whip. You saw Diego’s lip curl in disdain as he pinched your phone between two fingers, two seconds from shattering it against the opposite wall. “And why should I listen to you?” he asked, slow and languid. It wasn’t a very Diego-like voice.

“Should I list them all?” the president said, just as languid. “Don’t forget who your sponsor is.”

“I can make money in other ways.”

“Allow me to rephrase. Step out of that room and you’ll never see Gin again.”

Diego's figure, outlined by the neon white lights, went dangerously still. When he was taken off guard or felt anything but a stubborn, deliberate apathy, his entire body would relax, and he’d become an unreadable statue. It happened when interviewers bombarded him with questions about his personal life, and it happened now, as Charles Choi threatened him with the one thing he still cared about. 

“And how do you plan to stop me?” he said quietly, sounding like he was on the verge of breaking into a laughing fit. You wished he didn't. DG's whole appeal was that he didn't laugh, a cool and handsome oppa with bubblegum-pink hair. 

“Who said anything about stopping you?”

Diego’s teeth sank into his plush bottom lip, staining them with pink lipstick. He flicked his gaze towards you, but you only folded your hands in your lap and closed your eyes against whatever expression flickered across his face. Something like cruelty or satisfaction welled in your throat.

Finally, he turned away, and you knew that Choi had won. He pushed a hand through his bangs, revealing that familiar-unfamiliar face. “Fine,” he said, soft as winter’s snow. “I’ll stay.” 

“Good."

You held out a hand silently. Diego tossed the phone towards you without a second look, anger tightening the angle of his shoulders as he dropped himself onto one of the hard-backed chairs by the make-up station. Another time, you would’ve apologized. 

Instead, you ignored a pang of hurt and turned away, cupping the phone to your ear. “Mr. Choi,” you said, adopting the cheeriness of a retail worker. “Thanks for talking to Diego.” 

“Gin.” Choi’s voice wasn’t exactly warm, but it wasn’t cold either. You stuffed your other hand into your pocket so Diego wouldn’t see it tremble and notched the cheerfulness of your smile even higher. “We can’t always spoil him.”

"He means well."

“Which means nothing in the long run.”

“Still,” you said, “there was no need for threats.”

Silence. Then Choi said, “Are you done for the night?”

You did not glance at Diego or the quiet, steady tap of his foot against the ground. You wondered what sort of calculations he was running in his mind, how quickly his genius intellect was connecting the dots. You hoped he didn’t, for his own good. “Soon,” you said quietly. “Just… A little longer.”

“I’ll have someone pick you up from the airport at ten. No need to pack.” 

An order, not a request. You exhaled. There went all the presents you’d stuffed into your suitcase. “Yes, sir. When should I meet you tomorrow morning?” 

“Good. You’ll be staying with me,” Mr. Choi said, and you jolted. “I’d like to keep an eye on you before your procedure. You still have a report to give, after all.”

You didn’t know if you were going to be coherent after a two hour flight, but you mustered an unconvincing smile. “Sounds good, Mr. Choi,” you lied. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Good night, Gin. Be well.”

“Good night,” you said, and hung up. 

Your hands were still trembling. You stared at them, then stuffed them into your pocket as you whirled on your heel and shot Diego a bright smile. “See? Not so difficult after all. Now all you need to do is apologize to Manager Su and everything will be just fine.”

He lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. The cogs in his head kept turning as he stared at the wall, chin resting on the back of his hand like a king regent contemplating his court. “You’re staying with the president.”

“Just for tonight,” you said, sinking into a nearby chair. “Hopefully he doesn’t bite my head off.” 

The joke did nothing to alleviate the tension. Diego tilted his head, silky bangs rustling as they fell over his cheekbones, a motion so familiar you almost reached out and brushed them away on instinct. “He sounded concerned.” 

You chuckled. “Are you sure you heard him right?"

"Don't lie to me.”

Oh, the irony. “I'm not," you lied. You couldn’t—wouldn’t tell him about China, or the dumb things you did to please a billionaire. "I owe him, Diego. For a lot of things.” 

Diego’s expression was carefully blank, a pretty porcelain doll with painted lips and shattered eyes. “Alright,” he said after a long silence. “But call me when you get there. I don’t care what Choi says. I’ll come get you if you’re in trouble."

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll call you.”

Diego’s fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out and grab your hand. You wished he didn’t. “Don’t hide from me,” he said, emphasizing the words with deliberate softness. “Promise me.”

You smiled, trying to forget the last time he’d broken one of your promises. You hadn’t forgiven him yet.

“I promise,” you said. 

--

(You laughed. “What?”

James lifted his head from your stomach. The two of you were marathoning old Disney movies, and somewhere along the way you’d ended up tangled up together on the tiny sofa in your auntie’s apartment, his arms wrapped around your middle and your legs hooked around his waist. The flickering light from the TV monitor played off James’s long, dark lashes. His eyes glimmered in shades of brown—gold, amber, chocolate.

“Don’t go out anymore,” he repeated.

You flicked his forehead, and he recoiled with a pout. “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you always blame me?” he protested. “It could be the other guy. Maybe I’m getting bullied.”

You rolled your eyes and shifted so the armrest didn’t dig into your back. James whined when you almost kneed him in the stomach. “That’s a total lie and you know it.”

James scooted forward to drape himself over you again like a limp jellyfish. “Fine. I was told that someone wanted to hurt me, but not directly.” His arm tightened around your waist. “I think they might go after my loved ones first.”

You blinked. “That’s sadistic.” Then you grinned. “You love me?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“Hah! James, you totally do!”

“Shut up!” he said, moving to extricate himself from your grip. But by then it was too late. You clung to his side like a stubborn koala, stretching over to ruffle his hair until he yelped and shook you off. 

“I love you too, you little shit,” you cooed.

He glared at you, flushed. He was rather cute like this, hair mussed up from your hands, eyes feverishly bright from embarrassment. “Just promise me you won’t get hurt, okay?” he said. “This is serious. I don't want you…” He stumbled over his words, turning his head to hide a blush. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Aw, James.” You pinched his cheek. “They won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes, then pressed a hand to your chest. “I promise to stay inside so little baby James won’t get his feelings hurt,” you said solemnly. He glared at you and you laughed, leaning back on the couch. “Pay attention to the movie. You’re going to miss the plot twist.”

He settled back down, head on your stomach. “I guessed it half an hour ago.”

“No way.”

“He’s going to kiss her sister,” he said, just as said scene played out on the screen.

“What—“ You slapped his shoulder. “No spoilers!”)

--

You spent most of the flight from Beijing to Seoul bent over a trash can as a flight attendant rubbed your back, wincing every time you retched. After two years, your first image of Korea was the bottom of a plastic bucket. 

Story of your life. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” you repeated to the stewardess as you shuffled out of the private jet, feeling vaguely ashamed that you’d forced her to kneel at your side as you cried into a bucket for the entire flight.  

The flight attendant’s smile remained stubbornly professional as she stood at the door, hands folded in front of her. You had no idea how her cheeks weren’t hurting after two hours, and her iron will terrified you. “It’s alright. Motion sickness is common.” 

It wasn’t just motion sickness, but you weren’t telling her that. Instead, you bowed again, urged your stomach to relax, and descended the stairs leading away from the aircraft. Your hands felt oddly empty without a suitcase, but Choi said no luggage and, well, you weren’t going to poke that hornet’s nest without good reason. 

The first thing you saw at the bottom of the steps was a massive, hulking figure in an ugly yellow suit. Then you flung yourself backwards, just in a time for a pair of tree-trunk arms to swipe through the spot where you were standing. 

“Hah! Nice to see that you haven’t lost your touch, kiddo.” 

You landed on the railing in a crouch, grabbing the rod of cool metal to steady yourself. Your head swam with nausea, but you blinked the spots from your eyes and squinted past the flood lights illuminating the dark airport. 

“Mr. Lee?” you said, incredulous. 

The figure unfurled to his full height, and yup, what a nice reminder that you were a shorty surrounded by a bunch of tall freaks. Beneath the brim of his yellow fedora, Tom Lee’s broad features contorted into a wide, mushy grin. Knowing him, he had either planned to sweep you into a hug or punch you, shattering your torso. Jury was still out on which one.

“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in years,” he said with a boisterous laugh. He was even bigger than you remembered, with a smile that reminded you of a tiger. “Howdy, Gin! How’s my favorite kid doing?”

You grimaced, clambering off the railing and landing on the steps with a thump. You needed to stop overexerting yourself before your heart gave out. 

“Hi, Mr. Lee. I’m fine,” you said, adjusting your sunglasses and meeting his grin with a strained one of your own. Shit. He was probably the last person you wanted to see right now. “Um, what are you doing here?”

“Charlie paid me a pretty buck to pick you up. Said he’ll meet you at the hotel.”

Huh. You frowned. How much did Charles Choi pay to buy Tom Lee of the White Tiger Job Center? “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Tom shrugged. “Not your choice.”

Of course. You scrutinized him. “You requested this, didn’t you?” 

His grin widened. “Good guess.”

“Why?”

“‘Cuz I wanted to.”

As you chewed on that response, Tom Lee withdrew a canteen of whiskey from his inner pocket and took a swig. You raised an eyebrow. “Drinking so early, sir?” you asked, only half-joking. Tom Lee’s day started and ended whenever he wanted; it wasn’t a stretch to think that ten at night on a weekend was considered morning for him.

He chortled and patted your back, making you stumble forward a few steps. “Ah, there’s that wit I’ve missed! Ya know, White Tiger’s just not the same without ya.” 

You rubbed your waist with a wince. “You don’t seem to be doing all that bad. I’ve heard you’re bigger than ever.” 

“Sure we are,” he said, and began to walk down the runway. You had to jog to keep up with his large strides. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want more muscle.”

He honestly didn’t. Any bigger and he’d present an actual fire hazard to bystanders. “Sorry, sir,” you said. “I was preoccupied.”

“So Charlie tells me. You’ve been working hard these last few years. Got yourself a new job with a fat paycheck, huh?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Not as good as White Tiger, of course,” he said, chuckling.

You smiled wryly. “No. Not quite.”

“Hm. Any interest in coming back?”

“Not anymore.” Not after… You swallowed and ducked your head. “Sorry, Mr. Lee.” 

Tom Lee didn’t seem surprised. With a sigh, he swiped the brim of his hat and squinted past the headlights of the row of cars. “Shame. Could still use your skills.”

He sounded contemplative. That was dangerous. A quiet Tom Lee was a Tom Lee who conquered Korea through strategy, not brute force. A quiet Tom Lee was Gapryong Kim’s best friend.

The two of you passed by a row of luxury limousines, probably waiting to pick up some rich billionaire’s son returning from a weekend flight to Monaco, then a crowd of black security cars. Tom Lee strode past them all. Typical. Tom Lee’s brand was cheap. 

“What’s Charlie got you doing now?” he asked, adjusting his scarf as a chilly wind brushed by.

You shrugged. “Errands.”

“What kind?”

Befriending a billionaire’s lonely daughter, enduring that bastardized version of your nickname, the whispers and the staring and the taunts; dirtying your hands with a side of business that would make your past self recoil in revulsion.

“You know,” you said, “stuff.”

Tom Lee covered your lower back with a single shovel-like hand, forcing you to keep up your pace or risk being bowled over. To an outsider, it might look like he was helping to steady your shaky legs after a long flight. You knew better.  What kind of stuff made ya ditch us to go all the way to China?"

You peered up at him, summoning your best wide-eyed, innocent look. “I’m not sure. Mr. Choi doesn’t tell me much.”

“Ah. And now you’re lying to me, kiddo.” Tom Lee leaned in, close enough that you could smell whatever cologne he used to conceal the musk of blood on his suit. “I thought we went over this,” he whispered. “Good kids don’t hide things from their elders.”

Tom Lee was a predator, through and through. As the hand at your back hovered closer and closer, you met his eyes with a steady smile. Not that he could see it past your mask, but it was the thought that counted. Don’t flinch. Flinch and he’ll pounce. “Mr. Choi is the president of his own company, and I’m merely a lowly employee. Why would he tell me anything?” 

“He sent you after Wang Wei, didn’t he? What’s Charlie looking for in China?”

“Mr. Lee,” you said, “I could ask you the same thing. Why are you lending White Tiger’s services to the president so easily? I thought you were a mercenary group, not a private militia under the thumb of a capitalist overlord.”

Tom Lee’s eyes gleamed. A sliver of teeth poked between his lips. “Careful, kiddo. You don’t want to overstep.”

“Neither do you,” you retorted. “Mr. Choi’s business ventures are his business alone.”

You must’ve looked ridiculous standing there, your hunched, jet-lagged figure dwarfed by all two-plus meters of Tom Lee. Tom wouldn’t hit you—he knew you too well to expect his blows to land—but he had other ways of making your and the president’s lives difficult. 

It was Tom Lee who broke the standoff with a sleazy grin. He removed the hand from your back  and flicked the brim of his fedora. “Roar. The kitten’s got fangs.” 

Slowly, you relaxed the parts of your body that had tensed to the point of painfulness. “I’m eighteen,” you said, sullen. 

Tom Lee shrugged and stopped in front of a truck that towered over the neighboring cars. White Tiger recruitment stickers decorated its beaten windshield and bumper. “I could never teach you manners.”

“You didn’t teach me anything,” you said, frowning. “I wasn’t your student.”

“Maybe not,” he said, opening the door and gesturing for you to climb in, “but I gave you James, didn’t I?”

You wrinkled your nose and swallowed a sarcastic reply as you slipped into the passenger seat. Tom Lee closed the door and clambered into the front seat. The steering wheel looked like a child’s toy in his hands.

“By the way, kiddo,” Tom Lee said as he started the engine, “you’ve got a twitch in your right eye.”

Your hand lurched up beneath your sunglasses, and you cursed, feeling the barely noticeable twitch of your eyelid with your fingers. Tom Lee laughed. “See? Still a kid. Can’t even lie to save your life."

You twisted to face the window and leaned your forehead against the cool glass. Your reflection was calm and collected, belying the turmoil beneath the surface. Damn his perceptiveness. Reason number fifty-five why Tom Lee was a pain in your ass. “Can you just drive?” you muttered. 

His eyes curved at you in the rearview mirror. “Oh, you thought this was over?” he said gleefully. “It’s a fifty-minute drive, kiddo. We’ve got a long way to go, and I can’t wait to spend it with ya.”

You slunk down in your seat and contemplated calling for help.

--

The first time you met Tom Lee, he called you a liar, threw a couch at you, and then offered you a job, in that order. 

The White Tiger Job Center had a reputation for being ruthless, efficient, and lucrative. It was also rumored to be a hotspot for organized crime syndicates to pick up security detail for high-profile events—funerals, weddings, peace treaties; that sort of thing. A single job could pay millions. 

Or so they claimed. 

The actual job center was a run-down clinic built inside a skyscraper, purposely designed by its boss to be as off-putting as possible. Visitors would climb twenty flights of stairs, pass a security checkpoint with yawning guards, and traverse miles of high vaulted ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, and sleek modern architecture. Then they'd come across a door, behind which lay cracked cement walls contrasting sleek modern metal. A malfunctioning AC puttered away in the corner, oblivious to the industry strength units positioned in discrete places around the ballroom, capable of controlling temperature to a tenth of a degree.

Just like its owner, the job center hid its viciousness behind an inoffensive veneer of working-class solidarity. In truth, the whole place looked like a bad movie set, or a rabid wolf disguising itself in the bloodied wool of its recent victims. 

Which was exactly where you found yourself one weekend: sitting in front of Tom Lee on a creaky leather couch, clutching a styrofoam cup of water that was too gray to drink. Every shift of your body caused the springs beneath you to shriek in warning. 

On the couch opposite to you, Tom Lee scratched his cheek with the massive ruby ring on his fourth finger and yawned, revealing a gaping maw of white and gold molars. Boredom colored his expression as he scanned the resume you’d scribbled down between shifts at the coffee shop. 

No wonder the security checkpoint didn’t bother checking you carefully for weapons. All three hundred pounds of Tom Lee was a weapon. His couch didn’t creak beneath him, not because he didn’t fidget, but because his weight had already pushed the springs to their limits. 

“Hm,” he said. You waited. “Hmm.”

“Sir?” you asked, curling your fingers around your cup. 

Tom Lee held up a hand the size of your face, and you fell silent. His face was oddly expressive, drooping into a disappointed pout. “You sounded older on the phone,” he said. “And not so tiny.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I… I’m sorry?” You'd sprinted here from the cafe as soon as your shift ended, so you didn't have time to change out of your coffee-splattered apron and jeans. As for your height… Well, there was nothing you could do about that. 

Tom Lee dangled your resume between two fingers and tilted his head to examine it sideways. “It says here that you used to be a gymnast. Worked a lot of jobs too, huh?”

You nodded. “For my aunt’s medical bills.” 

“And your parents?”

“They passed away when I was young,” you admitted. 

“Aw. That’s too bad.” Despite his platitudes, he didn’t look sorry at all. “Any sports? Hobbies? Special interests?”

You shuffled in your seat. “I’m pretty good at baking,” you offered. 

Tom Lee laughed. “Baking! Now that’s new. But how’dya get through the preliminary interviews with Manager Kim based on an interest in baking?” 

You shrugged helplessly. The first interviewer had taken one look at you, laughed, and sent you inside with a reminder to keep your wits about you. Regardless, you weren’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, and you really, really needed the money. 

“Maybe he saw something I didn’t,” Tom Lee mused. He ran his tongue over his front teeth and set down the slip of paper. “How old are you, twelve? Thirteen?”

“I’m eighteen, sir.”

“Hah.” He heaved a dramatic sigh and shook his head. “Kids these days. Always lying to their elders.” He put a hand on his thigh and stood up, his towering figure completely shadowing the chandelier lights. “Let’s try this again. How old are you, kiddo?”

You forced yourself to stare where you thought his eyes were, ignoring the rabbit-fast flutter of your heart in your throat. “Eighteen. Sir.”

He leaned back and let out a raucous laugh. “You’ve got balls! I like that in a kid. Not so much in an employee.”

“Sir, I’m a hard worker, and I learn fast,” you said, sensing finality in his posture. “Give me a chance. I swear I’ll surpass your expectations."

Tom Lee rubbed his chin and hummed. “That sounds pretty good to me. But ya already did something I don’t like.”

“What?”

“You lied to me.” Tom Lee’s grin bared his teeth in a predator’s growl. “And I don’t like children who are liars.”

Wind.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Pain exploded on your face.

Tom Lee looked up from his kneeling position and blinked at you, his fist embedded an inch in the concrete floor. The couch you were sitting on two seconds ago now laid belly-up on the opposite wall, its leather cover split open to reveal its broken springs. Cracks spread through the ground, inching its way towards the actual tiled floor underneath. 

Your fallen cup rolled to a stop at his feet.

“Wow!” Tom Lee said. “You’re a fast one.”

As soon as you’d registered Tom Lee moving towards you, you’d launched yourself to the side—just in time for a rocket to shoot past your cheek.

With a shudder, you touched the place his fist had nicked. The area throbbed, and you winced, yanking your hand away. You bet if you looked in the mirror, there would be a giant bloom of purple-yellow bruises spreading across your cheek.

From a graze. 

“What the fuck,” you said quietly, shocked, confused, and more than a little terrified. 

Tom Lee drew himself to his full terrifying height and brushed off debris from his hand. He was way too fast for his size, having crossed the distance of the room in the time it took for you to blink. “You in track, kiddo?” he asked, leering. 

You inched around the table, keeping Tom Lee’s fists in sight. “Er. No, sir, I’m not.” You were barely in high school, you bemoaned. “I played a lot of tag as a kid.”

A mistake. Tom Lee’s grin widened. “You should really consider it,” he said. “It’s good for your hips.” 

The last thing you registered was the whip-fast blur of his fist.

You blinked.

Then you glanced behind you at the wreckage. Half of the fake wall had shattered on impact, leaving a pile of debris that slowly trickled down. 

A table. He threw the table at you, which would’ve killed you if you hadn’t ducked to the ground at the last second.

This place, you thought as Tom Lee put his hands on his hips and cackled, was crazy. 

“I haven’t had so much fun in years!” he exclaimed. He jutted a finger at you, and you instinctively flinched, tensing in preparation to run again. “I like you.”

You couldn’t respond, which didn’t seem to bother Tom Lee. He lumbered over to the first couch, the one he punched and you leaped out of, and flipped it over with one hand. With a satisfied sigh, he dropped back down on the broken springs and retrieved a crushed box of cigarettes from his inner coat pocket. He lit one with a flick of his lighter and a half-lidded smile. “You’re not a fighter,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “but you’re a damn good runner, aren’t ya?”

Adrenaline weakening your legs, but you managed to crawl back to your feet without falling flat on your face. “Thank you?”

Tom Lee grinned. “One hundred points,” he declared. “Minus ten points for lying to your elders, but plus ten points for the entertainment.” 

Somehow, you had the feeling that Tom Lee’s approval was just as dangerous as his contempt. Despite that, your heartbeat quickened. “Does that mean…?”

Tom Lee twisted in his seat to shout at the line of spectators outside, causing his couch to tremble and groan in protest. “Hey, Kim! Yeah, you. Can we get this kid on the payroll? No, not as a mercenary.” He tapped his cigarette against the armrest, letting ash fall to the ground, and then stubbed it out on his inner wrist. “Put ‘em down as a recruiter.”

Kim, one of the suited men waiting outside the fake building, bowed and strode out of the room. You stared as Tom Lee leaned back and draped a trunk-sized arm over the back of the couch.

“You’re— You’re going to hire me?”

“I’m a nice guy,” said Tom Lee.

“But you called me a liar. You said you hated me.”

He shot you a lazy grin. “I changed my mind. Starting today, ya work for me.”

Oh. You nearly fell to your knees, but compromised by stumbling into the wall and supporting yourself with an arm propped against the peeling wallpaper. Relief poured through your veins, a headier emotion than panic.

“Thank you, sir,” you said. “I-I’m happy to hear it.”

Tom Lee waved it off. “We can talk about salaries later. For now, how’s this?” 

He took out a pen from his pocket and scratched a number on his palm. You leaned in for a better look and had a heart attack.

“Yes. Yes, that’s— That’s fine,” you blurted. That was more zeros than you’d ever seen on a paycheck. If you played it safe and planned out the next month, you could pay for your aunt’s hospital fees, rent and utilities, and have enough left over to treat your cousin to a meal at the southside restaurant once a week. Maybe he'd finally get some meat on his spindly limbs. 

“Glad we could come to an agreement.” Tom Lee’s black eyes gleamed. “Hey, kiddo. What’s your name?”

“My name?” you asked, startled. “It’s—”

“Wrong!” From his inner pocket, Tom Lee withdrew a lighter, which looked comically small in his massive palm. With a flick of his thumb, he lit the edge of your resume on fire. “Forget everything you know. You’re part of White Tiger now, which means I get to name you.”

You stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

Tom Lee let the ashes of your resume fall to the ground. “Your name is Gin. Got it? G-I-N.”

You must’ve taken too long to respond, because Tom Lee’s smile veered into taunting territory. “Well? Ya hear me, kiddo? What’s your name?” 

Your nails dug into your palms. You ducked your head. 

“Gin, sir,” you said quietly. “My name is Gin.”

He reached out a hand to bridge the gap between you and him, and you forced yourself to stay still as he gripped your head and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“That’s good,” he purred. “Nice to meet ya, Gin. Your training starts next week. Let’s work well together, hm?”

--

The penthouse suite was new.

Though, to be fair, so was the rest of the furniture. The whole suite stunk of new money, from the lush Persian rugs to the floor-to-ceiling windows opening to the Seoul cityscape to the 200 million won Joseon-era vase displayed on the far desk like it was 20,000 won. Even the notepads were thickly bound and embroidered in calligraphy. Obviously, the last two years had treated him well.

Your head throbbed. You wanted to rip the mask off your face and stomp it to pieces. Asshole. 

The president stood at the far side of the suite, gazing out at the dark cityscape with his arm folded behind his back. A dark magenta suit hung off his shoulders, hiding a deceptively lean frame. As you stepped through the rosewood doors and murmured thanks to the attendant who’d brought you this far, Choi's stature rippled, and the cocky persona he adopted for business purposes slid over his shoulders like a cloak. 

“Did you bring luggage?” he asked without turning around.

"No," you said, literally empty-handed. 

Choi turned, a shadow of a smile flickering across his lips. The Seoul nightscape unfurled behind him, a painting he placed on his wall for show. Tom Lee was intimidating, but Charles Choi was something else entirely, a yellow-eyed owl watching rats scurry through the field from above, casting a shadow over his prey with his massive wings. “Good. We don’t need to worry about extra ears, then.”

Paranoid as always. You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes, then remembered who you were dealing with and did it anyways. “Your interior decorating skills haven’t improved," you said as you approached his desk. 

Choi tilted his head. He'd cut his hair, slicking it back into spikes. It didn’t do anything about the wrinkles at the corners of his narrow eyes, but it did make his face ten times more punchable. ”And neither have your manners. Sit.”

You didn’t. “I saw Tom Lee today."

”Did you?” he mused. “Imagine that. Mentor and mentee, reunited after two years.” 

You smiled, nails digging into the back of the leather chair. You imagined tearing it into pieces and throwing the shredded pieces into his incredulous face. “Cut the crap, Mr. Choi. Are you seriously planning to include him in the T Group deal?”

”Have you eaten?” Choi asked. 

“Chairman Wei’s backed by the largest underground organizations in China, excluding the Triad," you said, “and even they won’t touch what the chairman’s keeping in his basement. Cross him, backstab him, or even think about undermining his power, and you won’t live to regret it.”

”That sounds like a story,” Choi said, mild and polite. It was. You’d been saving it for today, knowing that your unrecognizable body would be floating down the Changjiang River if someone caught even a whiff of a rumor of you leaking that sort of information over email, letter, or text. “Have you eaten?”

“Chairman Wei didn't agree to a third party.”

Choi rested his hand on the back of his chair. He was too careful to get scars on his body, so his fingers took the brunt of it, silvery scratches crossing the back of his knuckles and joints. "Wei has no choice. White Tiger is one of ours. "

“Not to him,” you said. “White Tiger doesn't fall under your direct jurisdiction, legally or socially. Chairman Wei won’t buy it, not even for a second.”

Choi drummed his fingers on the desk, a condescending sort of amusement flickering across his face. "I'm not going to ask again, Gin."

Your fingers threatened to break through leather. "Are you sure about this?" you pushed. "This goes beyond the company.” This was about what lay behind the shiny paparazzi pictures and staged acts of kindness and PR stunts, the blood that soaked every bill that slipped into Choi's awaiting hands. You knew that Choi's operations had just begun to crank and that your return to Korea facilitated something bigger. If your work was overturned by human greed—

"Have faith, Gin," Choi said. His eyes gleamed. "You have good friends." 

You stared at him. Then you dragged a hand down your face and released a long-suffering sigh. You should’ve known better than to try to convince Charles Choi to change his mind. "I ate on the plane," you said. Mostly trail mix and an entire glass of ginger ale to avoid vomiting on the stewardess’s shoes. 

“There are smoothies in the fridge. No solid foods before your operation, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Yeah, sure," you muttered. A clear dismissal.

Your feet took you across the penthouse. The refrigerator’s AI shuddered awake as you pulled it open, asking for your dietary preferences in a cheerful voice. True to Choi’s word, the shelves were stocked to the brim with tall pre-made smoothies of every color.

You hesitated, then chose one that resembled Diego’s hair. Strawberry and raspberry, the label read in round hangul. Definitely not the president’s handwriting. Probably a poor maid’s. 

You took a sip and made a face. Smoothies always tasted too sweet and stuck to the back of your throat like glue. But they didn’t wreck hell on the rest of your body, so you sucked it up and brought the tall cup back to Choi’s desk. 

Pleasantries completed, Choi sat down, a king claiming his throne. He twirled a pen between his fingers; it wasn’t hard to imagine a knife there instead. “Feeling better?”

"Not really," you said. 

Choi shrugged. “Sit,” he said—demanded, really. 

You sat, the coldness of the smoothie in your hands sinking into your skin. Choi caught his pen and stabbed it into a pad of paper. His eyes, always half-lidded and sharp, smiled, kind and coaxing. 

Seoul at his back, Korea at his feet. 

“Tell me about China,” he said.

So you did.

Chapter Text

“And watch your diet from now on,” the doctor said, checking his clipboard. “Absolutely no junk food. Saturated fats will only exacerbate your symptoms.”

You nodded, only half paying attention. Someone in the hallway was making their lack of direction everyone else’s problem, and the resulting clamor pounded against your head, making you wince. Like the scratch bedsheets thrown over your legs and the persistent migraine weren’t irritating enough. 

“Another thing. Your records say that your family has a history of diabetes?” The doctor arched an eyebrow. 

“From my mom’s side,” you admitted, pulling on the collar of your hospital gown. Your back felt cold.

“Keep your sugar content low, then. That includes simple carbohydrates,” he said, noting it down on his clipboard. Then he slotted his pen behind his ear and shot you a kind smile. “How do the new sunglasses feel?”

You touched them and returned his smile hesitantly. The world was covered in a film of dark gray, and you had trouble distinguishing wall from floor. Plus you looked like an asshole walking around in the middle of the day with tinted sunglasses, but anything was better than the alternative. “Good. Helps with the migraines.”

“Ah, right. I can write you a prescription for that.” 

“There’s no need—“ you started. 

“Best we nip the issue in the bud,” he said gently, and frowned at the page. “I want a neurology consult. We should get an MRI scan to rule out brain lesions or tumors.” 

You flushed. “I can’t afford that.”

He blinked. “My apologies.”

A loud bang from the hallway cut you off mid-response. The doctor stopped and shot the door an exasperated look. “ What is that ruckus?” 

The door slammed open. Someone shouted your name.

You hardly had time to push yourself to one elbow before a brown blur leaped across the hospital room and—to the horror of the doctor—tackled you onto the bed. Your back hit the mattress with a thump, and you let out a gasp of surprise as a smothering weight draped across you and clutched you closer with spider-like limbs. The tips of red-brown hair tickled your nose.

Like smoke, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest dissipated. Two weeks was enough to forget how heavy he was, but not enough to forget how terrible his dye-job was. You knew you shouldn't be happy, but god, you’d trudge through hell again if it meant keeping his stupid smirk and his stupid tan uniform in your life, listening to his laugh break the death-like monotony of the sterile white room. 

"James," you sighed. 

James buried his head in the crook of your neck and whispered your name into your ear. You allowed him to maneuver you until you were draped sideways across his lap, your legs over his knees. The frames of your sunglasses dug into your face awkwardly as you pressed your face into his shoulder, hugging him closer. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, nose digging into your neck, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing?" sputtered the doctor. 

“It’s fine,” you said, muffled by his shoulder. “He’s mine.”

You didn’t know what the doctor said next, and you didn’t care. As if hearing your thoughts, James let out a wounded sound. His arms bracketing your back tensed. You stroked his back. “I’m fine, James,” you soothed, ignoring the baseline level of pain swimming through your body. “You made it. I’m fine.”

James raised his head, making you look up as well. Your faces were inches apart, so it was impossible to miss the shininess of his black eyes, the steel-like discipline of his expression belying the panic trembling in his hands as he gripped your waist. 

“You’re not , ” he said viciously, grabbing a bundle of your IV drips and tugging until the IV stand leaned precariously. “You’re hooked to these— these fucking things and they said the damage to your body is permanent and it’s all my fault—”

“James!” you said. 

He fell silent.

You took his chin and turned his face from side to side. He didn’t have any physical injuries you could see, but his lashes fluttered as he dropped his head, soft and defeated. 

Guilt swam up your throat. You placed your hands on his cheeks and leaned your forehead against his. This was no good. James Lee was a brash, selfish, genius brat who loved with the same intensity that he hated. “Stop overthinking. If anything, I was even more stupid."

James’s breath was hot against your lips. He laid a hand on the back of your neck and pulled you closer. “You’re right. It’s his, ” he said vehemently. 

“Don’t,” you said softly. “It wasn’t either of your faults.”

He was silent, and there was a storm furrowing his brow, and you wished you could say anything but, No, it wasn’t his fault, don’t hurt him, please. Instead, you rubbed your thumb over the invisible tear tracks on James’s cheekbones and gave him your softest smile, the one that once convinced him to give you the last slice of cheesecake. “I don’t care about that anymore. Just tell me that you’re okay.”

James’s anger left him in a swoop. He raked his eyes over your face and carefully, gently tugged your mask down to reveal your face, slightly sweaty and damp from your own breath. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m fine.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” 

You slumped against his chest and closed your eyes. That was the nice thing about his stupidly long legs. You slotted into James's lap like a puzzle piece. 

The poor mattress shrieked as James plastered his entire weight against you like an oversized koala bear. He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. “This is why I hate you,” he muttered, words muffled by your shoulder. 

“Huh?” 

“You’re the one in the hospital and I’m the one who disappeared for two weeks, but you— You still care. ” His voice broke. “What’s wrong with you? You should hate me.”

You stroked his hair, untangling the mats and knots with delicate fingers. Did the boy ever brush it? “I was pretty upset that you didn’t visit,” you admitted. 

“See?”

“But then I remembered that you ran away for a month the first time I called you my best friend,” you said with a shrug, and the tips of his ears burned red, “so I let it go.” James muttered under his breath. You patted his back and said lightly, “So? What have you been doing without me?”

James took a deep breath. Then he twisted to face the door, his jaw tense. “You can come in,” he called.

“Oh, sure, let everyone crowd the patient’s room,” said the doctor, throwing his hands into the air. 

You nearly laughed, but the amusement fled your system as a new presence sauntered inside. 

Familiar. That was the first word that came to mind, followed swiftly by dangerous. 

If you crossed a former boy band singer with a battle-grizzled yakuza boss, you'd get Charles Choi in expensive cosplay. A pair of round glasses sat on his nose, and streaks of premature gray ran through his black hair. His white shirt and long overcoat should’ve screamed tacky, but he pulled it off with the arrogance of a man who knew exactly what his smirk did to women. Echoes of a wilder youth lingered in his posture, the jut of his hips and the arrogant line of his shoulders, tempered only by time and experience. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Gin,” he greeted, low and cold. “My name is Charles Choi.” 

You felt the overwhelming urge to shove James behind you. Instead, you pulled up the blankets to your chin and tried to look dignified in your puffy blue hospital gown. Only White Tiger workers and James’s friends called you Gin, and you didn't think this man was James's friend.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Choi,” you said. From the corner of your mouth: “What’s this about, James?”

“Mr. Choi is an old acquaintance of mine. He’s interested in our abilities," James explained in the tone of voice he usually reserved for tutoring sessions. 

“Really.” Your throat was dry. “Shame we've only met now.”

Choi chuckled. It wasn’t a friendly sound. “Shame,” he repeated. 

“And what abilities of ours is Mr. Choi interested in?” you asked.

Choi glanced at the doctor. “Can you give us some privacy?”  It was phrased as a question and delivered as a command. 

The doctor blinked, then shrugged. “Call me if you need anything," he said, giving Choi a meaningful glance. 

“Will do,” you said.

The doctor slipped out the door, and you tracked Choi’s movement with narrowed eyes as he sauntered across the room and slid into the chair meant for your closest relatives and friends. His overcoat fluttered, revealing his missing arm—not that that made him any less dangerous. Choi crossed his legs, penetrating you with an ice-blue stare. 

“Do you know what they call you?" he asked.

"Gin?" you replied.

"The Untouchable." 

James stifled a snicker. You elbowed him in the side, which he dodged smoothly, turning the movement into a side-hug. "It's just a stupid nickname," you said with a sigh. "I have no idea how it caught on." Something to do with your speed, probably? 

"Hardly," said Choi. "Your reputation precedes you. Half of Seoul wants you dead. The other half would go to war for your sake.”

“I’m well aware of the fact that I have friends, thank you,” you said. He made it sound so ominous, as if people couldn’t be friends without wanting something else out of them. “Get to the point.” 

Chin perched on your shoulder, James stiffened. Your curtness surprised him, who’d seen you offer a helping hand to iron-fisted and bull-headed delinquents with a smile. But kindness didn't mean naivety. Choi’s politeness only served his own interests. 

Choi splayed his hands. “I need your information-gathering skills. I’m interested in starting a business.”

“No thanks,” you said. “I know your type.”

For the first time, Choi’s lips twitched. He leaned forward, intrigued. “And what is that?”

“Greedy,” you said. The first thing Choi's eyes fell on when he walked in wasn’t the bandages around your head or the tubes connected to your inner wrist, but the White Tiger badge on your nightstand. “We don’t need that kind of complication in our lives right now, so take your coat and leave, please."

“I already agreed to it," James said.

What a brat. 

You inhaled, then nudged James off of you. “What did you promise him?” you asked Choi.

Choi rolled his shoulders, a ripple of muscle and lethality. Your suspicion of the man being a former fighter solidified into certainty. “Money and treatment.”

“How much?” you asked.

“Enough. Your aunt and cousin will be taken care of.”

“How do you—” Never mind. You made a mental note to ask someone to swing by Gangbuk. “What else?”

“He promised to save you,” James said, crossing his legs. He wasn’t kicking and screaming his way through the negotiation, which meant he’d already accepted that this was the only choice.

You rubbed your temples, willing away your impending headache. “And you believed him?”

James’s eyes went half-lidded. His jaw locked. “I know you. You’re going to get out of here and decide that just because you’re no longer bedridden, you’re in perfect health. You’ll return to White Tiger and start working again like nothing ever happened, and you’re going to ignore all the signs of your body breaking down just so your family can eat a better meal.”

“I— It’s not terminal, James.”

“Maybe not today,” he agreed, “or this week, or even this year. But what about the future? We’re applying for college in a few years, and your cousin is going to middle school soon. Do you really think you can pay for your aunt’s living costs, your cousin’s tuition, and your own hospital fees at the same time? You're practically asking to collapse from overwork."

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Three-time middle school debate champion, indeed. You could almost imagine the judges on the sidelines noting down his incredible verbal prowess: Full points to James Lee of Moon High School for being a smartass. 

“That may be true, but Mr. Choi doesn’t seem like he's rolling in cash either,” you said.

Off to the side, Choi’s lips quirked. “No, not yet. But that’s where you and James come in. If you join me, I can get you the money in a few weeks.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t believe you.”

“Don't you?" he said coolly.

And so Choi told you every filthy detail of his plan to conquer Seoul, one blood-soaked territory at a time. Halfway through, you stopped glaring at him and transitioned into an incredulous stare. By the end, all you could do was laugh.

It was genius. Worst of all, it would work. Of course, the entire plan hinged on James’s prodigious talents and the inherent violence of teenagers with something to prove, but James’s hatred had started simmering the moment he came upon your fallen body, and Tom Lee would never pass on a good investment. As long as you performed your role as expected, it would only take a few measly years for Seoul to kneel at Choi’s feet. 

No, forget Seoul—Korea itself would bow to its new conqueror. 

You dropped your head in your hands, laughter petering out. 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The more enticing Choi’s offer, the more reluctant you were to accept it. Men like him, reclining in your hospital room like a king overlooking his throne room, wanted power, lived and breathed for the moment their foot smashed their prostrate opponent’s spine. Powerful allies meant powerful enemies, and that wasn’t something you could afford at the moment.

But Choi never intended to give you a choice. If you refused, James would die to the swarm of rivals who salivated for his blood. If James refused, you would waste away in a hospital room, lacking the resources and connections for treatment. Either way, the best outcome was to agree to Choi’s terms. 

You tapped the back of James’s hand. He’s using you.

He tilted his head and flashed you a fanged smile. I know. 

Your mouth tasted like bitter cashews. You turned to face Choi. 

“Okay,” you said. You’d apologize to your ancestors on your way to Hell. “Tell me about the job.”

--

The plan was simple. 

Go to China. Establish yourself as an asset. Convince Wang Wei that Choi was worth collaborating with in the future.

The internship existed only as a verbal agreement between Charles Choi and Wang Wei, the chairman of the T Group. You called it an internship to disguise what it really was—a test from one monster to another, where they gathered in a room that didn’t exist on any official documents and used their words to pantomime the punches they wanted to inflict on each other. 

You had two years to prove yourself. After that, it was free ball.

“And he wants nothing in return?” you asked, setting down the fork of cafeteria slop on the tray in your lap.

James had left a few minutes ago to attend the district-wide poetry championship, letting the two of you hash out the details. After the nurse came in your food and left just as quickly, Choi migrated at the window, peering down at the hospital parking lot below. When you spoke, he snorted, casting you a glance through hooded eyes. “He’s a businessman. Of course he wants something.”

He was looking down on you. You notched the friendliness of your smile up a degree. “No wonder. I didn't think that a nobody from Korea could manage to make such a one-sided deal with the T group’s chairman.”

“Calling me a ‘nobody’ is a bit cruel.”

“You aren’t?”

Choi turned around, a trace of a vicious smile dancing across his lips before he shoved it behind his mask of neutrality. Too bad. You had an eye for pushing people’s buttons.

”If Hu wanted money, he wouldn’t have agreed to the deal.” He swept a hand through his graying hair, eyes gleaming behind his thin-frame glasses. “More likely, he wants an easy way into Korea. We’re the desperate ones here, not him.”

“Desperate is right,” you muttered. The plan was insane. He wanted you to gain Chairman Wei’s trust within two years, and gather the information he needed? You were good, but not a miracle-worker. 

Choi ignored you.

“Two years worth of living costs is nothing to the T group,” he said. “Given the power advantage Hu has over us, we can’t exactly report him for exploitation if something goes wrong. And if we succeed, then we owe him this favor. It’s a win-win, low-cost investment.”

“So we’re guinea pigs."

“That we are," he agreed.

You stabbed your fork in the gray slosh on your tray and swirled it around, watching the overcooked rice disappear beneath a mound of radish. "If I’m going to do this, I want insurance that you're holding your end of the deal.”

”Oh?” Choi leaned his hip against the windowsill, the picture of relaxation. “What are you proposing?”

”Receipts,” you said. 

”No," he said immediately. "No paper trails. Everything must be in cash.”

“Then give me some kind of evidence that you're paying up."

”You don’t trust me? I’m hurt,” he said drily. His eyes flicked off to the side, thinking. "You've been friends with James for a while. Do you trust him?"

"Of course," you said, finding the question stupid.

"Then I'll have James confirm it for you."

"That's—" You paused. Choi spoke like he knew what James's answer would be before he even asked. Trust like that only came from time. You frowned, suspicious. "I never asked how you knew James."

Something like reluctant acknowledgement came over his expression. Did he think you'd miss their obvious connection? 

"No, you didn't," Choi said quietly. 

You waited. Choi offered nothing else.

“Are you scamming him?” you asked.

”First you called me a nobody, then you call me a conman. I should be insulted."

"Nice deflection," you said with a smile. "You didn't deny it."

Wind ripped through the room. You grabbed your pillow before it blew onto the floor while Choi closed the window with a shove. His windswept hair covered his eyes as he turned to face you. 

"If I pull this off, we’re not going to be conmen," he said. "We’re going to be kings.”

There's no "we" in this, you thought. You remembered your dinner and shoved a bite of rice into your mouth with a grimace. Undercooked and mushy. 

—

It took a few days for you to be discharged from the hospital, and another week to get your affairs in order. You crammed in a few days of Chinese lessons, hugged your aunt, made your little cousin promise not to grow any taller while you were gone, and mourned the fact that you never got the chance to say goodbye to your old friends.

Ah, well. You’d see them again. 

The flight to Beijing was unremarkable. Even your dorm, a small shack shoved in the corner of a college campus with room for a bed, a desk, and nothing else, was unremarkable. The walls were thin enough that you could hear every word of your neighbors’ loud argument about soy sauce. 

Your first day as an intern began at 6am. You slapped on a mask and your prescription sunglasses, dozed off in the shower, spent ten bleary minutes trying to figure out why the gas stove didn’t work (turned out food debris was clogging up the igniter—typical), scarfed down some eggs with no salt, then took the subway to the main building. Ten minutes before seven, you stumbled through the doors of the towering white skyscraper, where a smiling receptionist took your name and escorted you inside.

Some of the employees were deep in work, while others milled around, chatting with their coworkers before the day officially began. As soon you entered the room full of cubicles, a dozen eyes looked up in sync.

“Everyone, meet the newest member of your team. They're interning with us as part of Chairman Wei's new endeavor into intercontinental talent exchange programs,” said the receptionist. She paused, and you clumsily supplied your name. “We welcomed them into the city yesterday.”

Half of her introduction went over your head. You clasped your hands in front of you and curved your eyes above your mask. Just smile and wave.

A dark-haired man in a plaid shirt stood up from his cubicle and waved. His gaze flickered to your mask and sunglasses before averting politely. “Nice to meet you! I’m Haowei, your group leader.”

You bowed. “You too, Haowei,” you said, enunciating each word carefully. The cadence of Chinese wasn’t too dissimilar from Korean, but the differences were just prominent enough to throw you off. “I will work hard.”

Haowei laughed. “No need to be so formal. We’re all friends here, right, guys?” He glanced around, and the group nodded and chorused their agreement. “Can you say your name again?”

You repeated it. His expression flickered awkwardly, and you sighed. “Gin is also fine,” you said. 

“Jiyin? That’s great,” Haowei said, forging on. “Well, we’re currently working on a few projects for the director, so we’ll catch you up as soon as possible. How’s your math?”

You mentally translated the unfamiliar Chinese into Korean, then admitted, “It’s okay. Not good as I want.”

“That’s fine. Min will oversee your projects.” Haowei gestured to the woman next to him. “She’ll help get you started. We can check in at the end of the day, see how work is treating you. Does that work?”

“Yes,” you said, nodding.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the receptionist said, slipping away. 

The group dispersed, and Min, a severe woman with dark glasses and company-mandated pencil skirt, led you to your desk. “Wait,” you said, and pulled out a pre-prepared care package of disinfectant wipes, squirt bottle, and paper towels.

She paused, watching you clean the work station methodically. Every nook and cranny was wiped, every table leg cleaned until they shined. Once you finished, you let out a sigh and put everything away. Too late, you realized how weird it must’ve looked from an outside perspective. "It was dirty. I need to clean."

Min's eyebrow rose. "Okay," she said slowly. 

She hovered over your shoulder as you set up your company account. Her Chinese was clipped, abbreviated, and sounded like she was judging your every pause and hesitation. “No, not there. Click that. Stop. Go back. Are you listening to me?”

”Yes,” you murmured, flushed with embarrassment. 

Her response was swift and immediate. “Then act like it.”

She left soon after, leaving you to fumble through the steps by yourself. As you struggled with the pinyin keyboard, your neighbor scooted her chair backwards, holding a cup of coffee in one hand. She was a bright-eyed girl with brown hair tied into a loose bun—pretty, but nowhere as terrifying as Min.

“Hi!” she said. “I’m Liyang, your desk neighbor."

You tilted your head to meet her expectant gaze. Her smile was too wide to be genuinely friendly, but you could tell she was trying. You glanced at the coffee she clutched with sparkling pink nails, then back at the impeccably drawn wings of her eyeliner. “Nice to meet you,” you said. “I am Gin.” 

You exchanged some useless pleasantries. Where are you from? Seoul. How old are you? Sixteen, but you were turning seventeen in a few months. Do you like anime? No, but only because you didn’t have a reliable device to watch it on and your phone screen couldn't capture the full magnificence of the animation. Liyang was almost bursting with curiosity, and it only took a few more societally mandated questions about your life in Seoul before her real objective leaped from her lips.

“So who recommended you?” she asked, brown eyes wide with deliberate innocence. “Your Chinese isn’t great, so you must be pretty good at your job.”

You winced. You weren’t James, so three days of practice didn’t make you a fluent speaker. Haowei, who happened to pass by at the moment, laughed and said, “Come on, Liyang, Jiyin’s doing great for a beginner. I bet they’re trying their best.”

His attempt at assurance only came off as patronizing. You waited him for him to leave, then replied, “Chairman Wei is my boss. You mean that?”

Liyang shook her head. “No, I mean, who do you work for?”

“Oh. Mr. Choi.”

She gasped. “Cho Hanzou from Chongqing?”

At this point, a few more people had inched closer, pretending to make coffee or check their phones. Once in a while their eyes would betray their intentions, darting over and lingering on the two of you just long enough to make you uncomfortable. The name made several of them flinch. 

“No. Charles Choi from Korea,” you corrected. 

Liyang’s smile dimmed. She crossed then uncrossed her legs. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is…”

“It’s okay. He is not big.” Though Choi certainly postured like he was. 

“How did you end up here, then?” she asked, innocently confused.

You pursed your lips, searching for the right word. “Rec… Recommendation,” you said, tripping over your tongue. “From friend.”

For some reason, Liyang recoiled. Shit. Wrong thing to say. You fumbled for an apology, but she was already sliding out of her seat with a strained laugh, prompting the crowd to disband. “That’s super interesting! Um,  it was great to meet you, but I have to go back to work now. Crunching those numbers, you know how it is.”

“Miss Liyang,” you began, rising to your feet.

“Bye!” she said, and fled. 

You stared at her back as she darted towards the break room and slammed the door behind her. Through the windows, you saw her pull aside a group of people and start whispering, pointing in your direction once in a while. Their faces contorted with disgust, friendliness cooling. You got the feeling that you’d made a major misstep.

It only went downhill from there.

As you tried to make heads and tails of an incomprehensibly designed internal webpage, Haowei stormed into the room and shouted for everyone to line-up. His panic galvanized the group into action, and you raised your head from your computer as your coworkers rose from their seats, stepping outside their cubicles to form parallel lines on either side of the aisle. The transition was so smooth that it could’ve only been practiced, leaving you to scramble to find a spot beside Liyang. 

Haowei darted from place to place, hands fluttering. “Hurry up!” he snapped at his unfortunate target, a vast departure from his cheery self. “Fangli, are you a turtle or are you just slow? Hurry up!”

His urgency infected you, and you found yourself bouncing a leg, peering above the row of heads at the door. After one last check, Haowei took his position at the head of the room. As lumbering figure stepped inside, he bowed deeply until all that was visible was the top of his faintly balding head. “Welcome, Chairman, sir!”

A rumbling chuckle that raised the hair on the back of your neck. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

”Not at all, sir,” simpered Haowei. “Only the best for you.”

Chairman Wei was a tall, broad man, the opposite of Choi’s willowy lethality. He reminded you of Tom Lee in the same way that a wild bear reminded you of an elephant. Both were large, hulking masses of muscle and fat, and carried evidence of their wealth in the gleam of their golden teeth and tailored silk suits. Both had a way of squinting at you with black eyes that shrunk you down to a needlepoint.

It was a good thing, then, that you were used to Tom Lee. 

“Good morning,” Chairman Wei said. “How is everyone doing?”

“We’re doing well, sir,” said Haowei. “But, er, if I may ask, what are you doing here? The check-in isn’t for another week…”

Chairman Wei hummed. Slowly and deliberately, his gaze wandered around the room until it settled on you, half-hidden by your coworkers. A shot of coldness ran down your spine, and you averted your gaze, staring at the glittering gems on Liyang's earrings.

“Just wanted to check up on things,” Hu said. 

Haowei launched into an eager explanation of the section’s progress for the month. Chairman Wei played along, his eyes sweeping along the line of workers. “Keep it up,” he said once Haowei finished. “I don’t want to see any stragglers the next time I come by. Not like last time."

Haowei’s face flashed through several emotions at once before diving into embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”

”Good.”

The chairman’s footsteps thudded as he greeted each employee by name, asking about their projects, their work, their friends, and leaving them flushed with pride and awe. When his shiny loafers finally stopped before you, you stilled.

“You’re Gin?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, keeping your head down. 

“Head up.”

You obeyed and met Chairman Wei’s ash-gray eyes. His nose was crooked and smushed, like it’d been broken several times by a professional boxer. When he smiled, his thin lips pulled back to reveal gold incisors. 

“You’re Choi’s kid,” he said in near-perfect Korean. You blinked, and then nodded. “Is Beijing treating you well?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good, good.” Before you could protest, he reached over and ruffled your hair. “Choi tells me that you’re a fast learner.”

“I try."

Chairman Wei moved his thick hand to your shoulder, a heavy weight that almost buckled your knees. “How are you with coffee orders?”

“I worked at a cafe for a few years,” you said, trying to ignore the prickle on the back of your neck. As the conversation dragged on, your coworkers began to stare, though none of them were bold enough to start whispering in front of Hu. What was Hu playing at, speaking in Korean in front of them? He was practically asking for random rumors and misunderstandings to flourish. You switched to Mandarin and asked, “I am not bad at coffee."

Your phone dinged. You looked down to see a text from an unknown number with a paragraph-length coffee order. Chairman Wei’s phone was dwarfed by his massive paw, and he waved it at you. “Better learn fast," he said. 

Like you needed the extra stress. You bowed as Chairman Wei finished his rounds. As soon as he left, glares pierced you from every angle. Min, your supposed mentor, rolled her eyes and tugged Liyang away as they returned to work. She grew even more curt when you checked in with her. 

Even Haowei’s smile was dimmer than usual, only offering you a brief “keep up the good work!” as he headed out. You leaped to your feet, desperate to speak with him before he left. “Haowei, wait!” 

He paused at the door. “What?”

“Am I… I mean, should I…” Words, words, words. Mandarin was hard. “Am I okay?” 

“To be honest, it’s hard to tell. You’ve only been here for a day.”

”No, I mean. With people.”

Haowei’s smile grew strained. He scratched his neck and glanced off to the side. “Is this about Liyang? I know she talks a lot, but don't let it get you down." 

"I feel I insulted her," you said. "Accidentally."

He was silent for a long time. A shadow of a smile darted across his lips. "Just... Keep your head down, okay?"

That didn’t reassure you, but you nodded, too embarrassed to keep him any further. He gave you a thumbs-up and slipped away.

You rode the subway back home in silence, bag cushioned between your legs. By the time Min finally released you from your prison, it was deep into the night, so your only companions for the trip were a slumbering homeless man and a frazzled office worker. 

As the dark landscape whipped past, you leaned your forehead against the cool window and closed your eyes. Emptiness clawed at your stomach, but going to the cafeteria meant braving the stares and whispers, so you were subsisting on the eggs from the morning and the memory of the ramen packet in your cupboard. You felt like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up a hill, redoing spreadsheet after spreadsheet for every minor error Min unearthed. Nothing met her standards. 

You imagined giving Choi your progress report at the end of the month. Yes, Mr. Choi, I’ve been busy. No, I haven’t been promoted yet. Chairman Wei is dead set on making my life as hard as possible, so I’ve been stuck staring at financial reports until the numbers sear into my eyelids. Do you want to hear them?

Eight billion yuan worth of assets, three hundred million in cash equivalents, two hundred thirty million in investments. Five billion in gross profit… 

“Hey, kid. This is the last stop.”

You opened your eyes and sat up. The officer worker hovered by the doors, concerned. Even the homeless man had woken up and was shuffling towards the door, ratty blanket in hand. 

“Long day?” asked the homeless man. His smile revealed a missing front tooth. 

You blinked blearily, then dragged yourself to your feet. “Maybe.”

“Kids your age shouldn’t be worrying about anything but school and friends,” said the office worker. 

“That’s right,” the homeless man said. “And cute girls!”

You laughed. “I will remember,” you said, stepping into the empty station. After a moment of deliberation, you spun around to give the two of them a bow. “Thank you for waking me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the office worker, scratching the back of his head. 

The homeless man’s expression softened. “Stay strong, kid. Things will look up.”

You managed a crooked smile. “Thank you,” you repeated. 

By the time you unlocked your front door and started boiling a pot of water on the stove, your determination  solidified. Chairman Wei was too shrewd to not understand the impacts of his actions, so the switch to Korean in the middle of a conversation was intentional. No one would ever believe that you were just talking about coffee. All they'd see was the chairman chatting with a random intern for longer than everyone else for seemingly no reason except favoritism.

You tore open the ramen packet and dumped it into the pot along with the noodles. Soon, the smell of spice and MSG wafted through the air, filling your tiny dorm room. Suddenly Liyang’s pivot made sense. You’d also hate the new guy at work if you thought their success was a result of nepotism. 

So this was a test. Chairman Wei wanted to see how well you did when everyone hated your guts, your ability to endure and persevere under adversity. Maybe you’d run back to Choi with your tail between your legs, whining about toxicity in the workplace, or barricade yourself in your cubicle and keep your head below the waterline, remaining strictly mediocre until the two years were up. 

Your first taste of ramen straight from the pot was incredibly salty and spicy. You swallowed it anyway, splattering sauce all over your small dining room table. 

Obviously, Chairman Wei had never met you. He wanted a show? Fine.

You’d show him why you were White Tiger’s top employee for two years in a row.

--

For thirteen hours a day, you pieced together spreadsheets from scattered memos, took increasingly elaborate coffee orders from people who tossed them in the trash as soon as your back was turned, and dealt with backhanded compliments about the quality of your work. Someone even shook your hand and said in sugary-sweet Mandarin, “Stop pretending to be special,” and you had to smile dumbly and pretend you didn’t know exactly what they meant. 

Still, you worked. You learned to sort legitimate criticism from scornful insults. Reports arrived at your desk and were sent to higher management on the same day. You even memorized Chairman Wei’s coffee schedule. (Mondays were lattes, Tuesdays were cappuccinos, and Fridays were whatever the first-floor barista could whip up in five minutes.) 

Things were finally looking up. Somewhere along the way, Min stopped asking for so many redoes. The vehement disdain for your presence subsided, relegated to mean-spirited rumors and passive-aggressive corrections instead of outright insults. You managed to send some money back home, a tidy paycheck that would cover your aunt’s expenses for the next few months. Liyang even offered you a tentative smile when you bumped into her in the break room, though she still darted away while you weren’t paying attention. 

Then you returned from a bathroom break to find your finished report crumpled up in the trash, covered in soy sauce from someone’s half-eaten lunch. 

Ice drenched your bones. You couldn’t move, couldn’t see anything but the smear of rice and lettuce on the title page, covering the summary you so fastidiously typed up. Quiet giggles drifted through the air, and you didn’t have to look to know that a gaggle of your least favorite coworkers had gathered around the corner, delighting in your torment like tourists at a zoo exhibition.

Batting aside the food remnants and tissues, you reached into the trash can to retrieve the report. When you handed it in to Haowei this morning, he patted your shoulder and told you that you did a great job. So why…?

A flash of plaid. Haowei joined the group at the door, steadfast in his attempts to avoid your gaze. He bent his head and laughed at a joke, high and piercing. 

Your ears rang. Like a robot, you returned to your desk and stared at your computer’s log-in screen. The blue background flooded your vision. Damn. Damn. 

You were wrong. Things could always get worse. 

A shadow fell over your desk. "Gin, where's your report?" Min asked. From the tone of her voice, she was using "position B of disappointment"—arms crossed, lips pursed, foot tapping. "Haowei said you didn't turn it in."

"Sorry," you said instinctively.

She frowned, and you steeled yourself for the barrage of disparagement. Then her eyes fell on the crumpled mess of food stains and paper beside your computer, and her impatience transformed. Less accusatory, more confused. "What happened?"

You shrugged. "I don't know. I found it in the trash, so there must've been a mix-up or something." Or maybe, a tiny voice in the back of your head whispered, you weren't good enough. 

Min's expression twisted. "Haowei, that hundan."

You blinked. Min held out a hand, and in a trance, you handed her the ruined remnants of your report. She flipped through it, uncaring of the soy sauce that smudged her manicure. You waited for the usual criticism. Instead, she pinched her temple and hissed out a breath. "This looks fine."

"Really?" you asked, surprised. 

"Yes, really. A few minor formatting errors, but that can be fixed easily."

Her praise, as rare as it was, filled you with warmth, and you straightened in your chair. At the same time, dread coiled like a serpent in your chest. "Then why did it get thrown out?" 

Min pushed up her glasses. "Haowei's cheerful, right? Friendly. Makes you want to invite him out for a few drinks."

You started to say that you were underage, but she cut you off with a shake of her head. "He does this all the time to employees he doesn't like," she stated, holding up the ruined report. "And since he's at the end of the chain of command, you don't realize it until it's too late and you're called to the section manager's office."

Unexpected rage clouded your vision. You gripped the armrests until they creaked. "Then what's the point?" you said—nearly spat out. "If you're right, then anything I do will end up in the trash anyways."

Min cocked an eyebrow. "It seems I misjudged you."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a hard worker, aren't you?" She snatched a tissue from your desk and wiped her hands. "You haven't given up yet. Why do it for his sake?"

"Because he's my boss," you said.

"No, he's your group leader," Min corrected. She wiped your report with the tissue before tossing the used napkin into the bin beneath your desk. "I'll let my manager know that this wasn't your fault and ask him to reassign you to me. Don't worry about Haowei. He's nothing."

The vehemence of Min's last statement set off alarm bells in your head. "He did it to you too," you said.

Min smiled. "He tried," she said. “It didn’t work out so well for him. Why do you think he's so desperate to gain the chairman’s favor again?”

A notification dinged on your phone. Min's eyes were pulled to the sound, and she sneered at the text from Chairman Wei. Cappuccino with a vanilla shot, no ice, extra whipped cream, half almond milk and half low-fat milk.

"If nothing else," Min said, "do it to spite the ones who don't think you're capable. It worked for me."

You studied her, the sharp wings of her eyeliner that screamed don’t fuck with me. Her coldness wasn't a result of cruelty, but an attitude tempered by years of harassment and men looking down on her for her appearance and gender. That’s why she wore her hair so tightly, drew her makeup so fiercely, dressed and walked like she wanted to piece her heels into someone’s brain.

You liked her better than Haowei’s false warmth.

”Okay,” you said, standing. “I can do that.”

Twelve minutes later, you walked into the elevator, drink in hand. You pressed the button against the button for the top floor and steeled yourself to meet the most condescending, asshole-ish boss you’d ever had (after Choi). 

You got this. You were a big kid. Asking for a raise—or at the very least, better treatment—wasn’t a big deal. Just walk up to him and be direct. 

Hi, Chairman, I hate your company. Please give me more money. Thank you!

Thunk.

A blur of black and gold shot through the crack between the elevator doors, impaling itself in the far wall. You screamed and leaped backwards from the metal blade shivering inches before your nose. 

What— Was that a spear? Who threw a spear at you?

Because of the massive spear sticking out of the wall, the elevator doors retreated rapidly to reveal a nearly empty hallway. You said nearly empty because there was a young man with long, braided black hair in a tan overcoat striding towards you, holding a small blue bundle. As he got closer, you realized that the bundle was a pretty girl with ashen-blond hair, and that the man cradled her like she was the most precious thing in the world. 

“Excuse me,” the man said as he ducked inside.

He yanked, and the spear slid free, leaving a large crack that crawled up the wall and disappeared into the ceiling. He allowed the weapon to settle at his side, and then gave you a nod, like it was normal to throw spears into elevators and carry around teenage girls. 

“Forty-four,” he said.

You pressed the button, too stunned to react. The forty-fourth floor was for executives, but even if he was a kidnapper and not someone on the board, you weren’t going to interrogate him. If he could wield a two-meter long spear like a chopstick, who knew what he could do to you?

As the man adjusted his grip on the girl, she shifted, murmuring something in her sleep. His cold, handsome features softened, and he lowered his head. His long hair, sectioned into two neat braids, brushed her cheeks, causing her to giggle and nestle closer to his chest. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a blue square slipping out of the girl’s pants pocket. “Miss,” you started, reaching out to nudge it back in place, “your phone—”

A hand whipped through the air. You lurched backwards as the man held out his arm, angling his body to shield the girl from view. “I’m sorry,” he said politely, as if he hadn’t just tried to break your arm, “but Miss Vivi is resting. Please do not disturb her.”

“Right,” you said, shocked by his attack. “I— Sorry. I just saw that her phone was falling out of her pocket, and I thought…”

The young man caught the offending article as it slipped out and slid it into his suit pocket. You squeezed yourself into the corner and waited for the floors to tick up. His gaze was scalding. 

“Do you fight?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “No. I’m not a fighter.”

From the man’s expression, he didn’t believe you. You sighed. “I played a lot of tag as a kid,” you explained. 

Understanding crossed the man’s expression. He tilted his head. “You’re Jiyin. The new intern from Korea.”

“That’s me,” you said. “Jiyin. Yup.”

“Your Mandarin is good,” he said in lightly-accented Korean.

You smiled. “Thanks,” you said as the doors creaked open. The man didn’t move to get out, and the staring was starting to get uncomfortable. “Er. This is your floor, I think.” 

The man opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the girl’s sleepy murmur. “Xiaolong? Zen me la?” 

Immediately, his demeanor shifted, becoming soft and fuzzy around the edges. You might as well be a gnat on the wall for all the attention he paid you as he stepped out of the elevator.

“Your next meeting begins in ten minutes, Miss Vivi,” he said quietly. “Please be awake by then.”

 “En. Got it.” 

The last thing you saw was the girl pulling herself up using the man’s shoulder. Before the doors slid shut, she twisted and peered at you with gray eyes, as bottomless as a deep well. 

Ding.

The elevator went up. You checked your cappuccino to make sure it hadn’t spilled, then phoned the emergency services listed on the button panel so they could inspect the crack in the wall. Once the adrenaline left your system, you shared a quiet laugh with yourself.

What the hell. And you thought Taesoo was the only one with that devotion to his faith. 

--

The chairman was in the middle of a call when you walked into the office. He barely looked up as you closed the door behind you. 

“You’re late,” he said in Korean. Then, in Mandarin, “Ah, not you, the new intern. Couldn’t even get a coffee order in time.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “Sorry, sir,” you murmured. “There was a—”

“Making excuses now?” Chairman Wei asked, lifting a thick eyebrow at you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. 

“Better. Put it on my desk.” He swiveled around, his back to you. You swallowed and moved forward gingerly.

As you rearranged the spread of paperwork and trinkets, you reflexively scanned the documents, categorizing them based on subject and recipient. The Chongqing sector wasn’t doing great, you noticed. If you could send the files to the finance director somehow, he could revamp their financial model, figure out why their deficit was so high…

You stopped and reran the numbers in your head.

Something didn’t line up. The source of the numbers—an eighty page financial report, all in dense technical jargon—passed by your desk this morning, and you’d spent too long micromanaging pieces of data for Min’s approval to overlook how the documents on Chairman Wei’s desk underreported profits and overreported deficits. Fact-checkers and overseers meant that meddling with raw data was near impossible, so the problem originated from higher up. 

Someone on the ladder was pocketing the money and lying to the chairman about it. 

“Sir,” you said. When he didn’t respond, you repeated, louder, “Sir.”

Chairman Wei paused, and you knew you’d overstepped when his brow darkened. In Chinese, he said, “No, no, it’s not you. Just some spoiled brat begging for my attention.” He covered the speaker with his hand and said in insultingly slow Korean, “Do you have something important to say, Gin?”

“I hope so, sir,” you said. “I, uh— I think— That is to say, I have a guess that something may be suspicious…”

The drum of his fingers on the table was thunderous. 

“Get to the point,” he said. “I don’t have time to wait for you to figure out how to speak your own language.”

You took a deep breath. Let it hiss between your teeth as you exhaled. 

“Chairman, I’m trying to help you,” you said, and pointed to the documents on his desk. “They’re lying to you. I’ve been cataloging all the money that comes in and out of your company from trade deals, loans, and interest, and they’ve misreported everything. The profit margins are way higher than that, and the deficits— there aren't any deficits, which is why I’m telling you that it’s all wrong.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your uneven breaths. Then Chairman Wei said, “I’ll call you back. No, it’s not my kid. Someone just revealed an interesting factoid about my company.”

He hung up. As you stood there, stiffer than Gun after a good fight, he laced his fingers over his plump stomach and surveyed you with pale gray eyes. 

“When did your putonghua get so good?” he asked, still in Mandarin. 

“A while ago,” you said. Three weeks was long enough to learn a new language. Ironically, translating the hate letters stuffed in your bag helped. 

Chairman Wei plucked the coffee from his desk and took a sip.

“Not bad,” he said, and you didn’t know if he was referring to the coffee or the reveal that you weren’t totally clueless. “Tell me more about the liars in my company.”

--

The summons came the next day. A simple text from the chairman, along with a set of instructions: Conference room 4401, 10am. Bring your resume and your best attitude.

The elevator was being fixed, so you took the stairs. By the tenth floor, you were sweating and panting like a Siberian Husky in the Nevada desert. By the twentieth, you lost half of your body weight to tears. By the thirtieth, you began to draft your obituary. 

What came out on the forty-fourth floor was less of a person and more of a wrung-out sleeve of cramps and exhaustion. You dragged yourself up the final step and flopped down on the ground in the middle of the stairwell, panting. Sweat plastered your mask to your face, and you swiped a finger beneath the seam, allowing cool air to rush over your feverish skin.

If this was some kind of backwards test to see if you could do an interview while half-dead, you were going to launch Chairman Wei’s desk out of his penthouse window. (Never mind that your arms were too flimsy to even lift your bag, let along a solid chunk of wood.) Psychological warfare was that man's middle name.

You breathed out, feeling the warm air bounce off the inside of your mask. A ferocious burn clawed at your lungs. Pressure tightened your temples, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut against the pain. 

God, you were so out of shape. 

With a groan, you pulled yourself to your feet using the railing and trudged through the door into the floor proper.

Room 4401 was piled with stuffed animals. No desks or chairs, just a floor covered in pillows and a circle of mood lights diffusing a soft pink glow throughout the space, landing it somewhere between a young girl’s paradise and a toy collector’s basement.

Exhaustion numbed your confusion. You strode through the open door and tapped your knuckles against the wall in greeting. “Miss Wei? I’m here for the interview.”

Behind a giant Hello Kitty plush, a hand reached up and waved. “Over here,” came a lazy voice. 

You moved through the maze of pillows and plushies until you came across a slumped figure, squished between two large stuffed animals the size of small refrigerators. The girl from the elevator smiled at you from the ground, stretched out like a starfish. 

"Hey," she said. "You’re the new intern, right? I’ve heard about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you said without saying, I’ve heard about you too. Vivi Wei, the president’s young daughter, the infamous genius in charge of managing Hotel Vivi, one of the T group’s subsidiaries. Her awful reputation as a frivolous, spoiled president who cancelled important shareholder meetings to take week-long cruises around the Indochina Sea belied the raging success of her hotels. The new branch in Shanghai had only opened for a few weeks, and the praise was already glowing. 

But geez. Vivi couldn’t be older than fourteen or fifteen, dressed in a red qipao with gold-accents. Her hair was drawn up into twin buns, framing a round and innocent face. Every expression, however small, would knit her eyebrows or wrinkle her nose, which would make for a charming picture if not for her eyes—mellow, gray, and as bottomless as a well. 

Those same eyes bore into you as you drew closer, and you had the distinct (and uncomfortable) sensation that you were being taken apart like a pig at the market. Swallowing, you reached up to adjust your mask over your nose. She followed the motion with a slow blink.

“My dad says that you’re smart. Are you smart?” she asked. 

“I try to be,” you said, and fumbled for your bag. Your hands were damp as you handed over a manila folder. “Here’s my resume. I included my previous employer’s number if you need a reference.”

She wrinkled her nose but accepted the folder. You sank to your knees as she pushed herself onto one elbow and scanned it. You had Min look at it just in case, since your written Mandarin left much to be desired, but it was still nerve-wracking to have a potential employer review your accomplishments right in front of you. 

"Hm, yeah, okay," she said. "I don't really care." 

Before you could unpack that, she tossed your resume to the side, where it landed in a stash of peep plushes. She patted a nearby bean bag and gave you a bright smile. The contrast between the drowsy bundle in the elevator and this vibrant, excitable teenager nearly gave you whiplash. 

“Let’s talk!” she chirped. “Oh, and just so you know, Xiaolong’s here too in case you’re thinking of trying anything.”

“Try something?” you echoed, eyes flicking to the back of the room. The only hint of Xiaolong’s existence was the telltale gleam of a sharp, lethal weapon in the artificial pink lamps. 

“LIke kidnapping me, extorting my father for company secrets, and then tossing my dead body in a ditch somewhere for the dogs to eat.”

You flushed. “No! What?"

Vivi shrugged. "You never know. Plus, you got that weird mask on and you're all... sweaty." Thanks, you thought, wincing. Fourteen year olds were brutal. Hopefully your cousin remained a cute kid forever and never learned teenage rebellion. "I’ll make up my own questions and decide if I want to work with you, got it?” 

It didn’t sound like you had a choice. You ran a hand through your damp hair and sighed. “Got it.”

“Great! First things first: take off your mask.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Vivi said, flashing you an innocent grin. “Why, are you super ugly or something?”

You leaned backwards, loosening the straps around you ears. “We’re not exactly close, Miss Wei. This feels like a breach of privacy.”

Understanding crossed Vivi’s delicate features. “So we have to be friends before I can see it?” She put a finger to her lips, then twisted to face the shadowy figure in the corner of the room. “Xiaolong, can you give Jiyin access to our VIP lounges? And an invite to the next charity ball. Ooh, and charge Jiyin’s card with one hundred thousand yuan.”

“What? Miss Wei, I don’t need those—”

“Why not? I want to be your friend!” 

You sputtered, more taken off guard by her earnestness than anything. “That’s— That’s not how you make friends.”

“What do you mean?” Vivi cocked her head, soft blonde hair falling over her collarbones. “It’s worked before.”

You stared back into those deep gray eyes, dread bloating on your throat. Was she really that sheltered, or was she playing obtuse? Did her father shelter her for so long that her only metric for kindness was the value of her net-worth?

With a deep breath, you laid your hands flat on your thighs and channeled all of your patience and empathy. Take two. You were talking to a rich, privileged heiress whose only real interpersonal relationships were with a manipulative chairman dad and a devoted spear-wielding worshiper. 

“Miss Wei, I don’t feel comfortable taking all of those things from you. As I mentioned before, we’re not close. If I take your money, I would feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness.”

From the look on her face, Vivi didn’t understand. She rocked onto her knees and leaned forward with a leer. “Well, at least let me see what’s beneath it—”

You caught her hand. The entirety of her wrist fit between the loop of your fingers.

“I have a delicate immune system, Miss Wei,” you said, and her face fell. 

“Oh.” She paused, still perched on her knees. “You’re not going to die on me, are you?”

You almost laughed. “It’s under control. Part of the reason I came to China was for rehabilitation,” you said, curving your eyes so she could see your smile. “So, um. Can you tell Xiaolong to stop trying to kill me?”

“Xiaolong!” Vivi snapped. “Down!”

Like an obedient dog—or a bodyguard utterly devoted to his charge—Xiaolong withdrew his spear from your neck and retreated back to the corner. With a hiss, you released your hold on Vivi's wrist and rubbed your throat. 

What incredible control. The tip of his blade just barely grazed your skin, never sinking deep enough to draw blood, but presenting just enough of a threat that you had no doubt of his intentions. If you moved even a millimeter, Xiaolong would’ve beheaded you without question.

The incident sapped the amusement from Vivi’s demeanor. She crossed her arms and glowered at you. “So you’re not secretly super hot under there?”

You grimaced. “Does it matter?"

“Oh.”

Boredom drifted across her face. With a sigh, she fell backwards and leaned backwards so that she was hanging upside down, the tips of her hair spreading out across the floor. “Xiaolong,” she whined, kicking her legs in the air, “I don’t want to talk to this person anymore.”

“Wait, what?" you said.

“Understood, Miss.”

A firm hand gripped your arm and hauled you to your feet. You stumbled, back crashing into Xiaolong’s chest. His presence loomed, but you ignored him in favor of gaping at Vivi. "What about the interview?" you asked,

“Miss Vivi has terminated it,” Xiaolong said, his grip tightening on your upper arm. “You’re no longer needed.”

“You don’t even know what I’m good at!"

“You’re no longer needed," he repeated.

As he dragged you forward, you raised your elbow and spun around, bringing your knee up to smash his awaiting nose. He blocked it with his other hand, but the surprise of the counterattack loosened his grip, and you leaped back a few steps, leg throbbing. 

Xiaolong examined the faint redness of his hand, dark brow furrowed. A shadow of reluctant admiration colored his voice. “Not a fighter,” he said, mimicking your blithe tone from the elevator. 

“Not a good one,” you corrected, sweating through your mask. Thank fuck for the self-defense lessons James forced you to attend. 

“Have you learned?” he asked. 

“Don’t want to,” you said, adjusting your stance. “What, you want to teach me?”

“Xiaolong, why aren’t you doing your job?” said Vivi. Get them out of here!”

The interest drained from his face. Just like that, no one else, nothing else existed but his charge's orders. Xiaolong swept his spear behind him, sinking into a practiced form. “Understood, Miss.”

Then he flew into action. 

A few years ago, when you were still working as a receptionist for a second-hand electronics store, you saw a clip of an animation with a farmer’s son and an arrogant dragon prince who’d been cast out from Heaven for spitting in the Jade Emperor’s cup. After the farmer’s son found the hissing, screeching dragon trapped in the wreckage of the barn, he fled to the nearby village for help. Every lash of the dragon’s tail sent a bolt of lightning thrashing through the clouds. Every writhe of its scales caused thunder to crash through the countryside, an avalanche of rain and furious cries for revenge. 

Xiaolong fought like a divine dragon with its tail nailed to the ground by farmers with pitchforks. His movements flowed like a river and surged like a tsunami—which is to say that if they landed, they’d hurt. 

“Can we talk about this?” you yelped, his blade scraping past your nose.

Obviously not. Xiaolong sliced his spear through the wall beside your head, giving you mere moments to duck out of the way. Not only was his speed ridiculous, but he was strong, maybe as strong as the man who broke a Buddhist bonsho with his bare fist. 

“Xiaolong, the bean bag!” Vivi shouted as his spear came down upon a pile of unfortunate plushies. “Ugh, you’re paying for that.”

The only sign that Xiaolong had heard was the chance in his strikes, becoming swifter, snappier, threatening to hack off pieces of your limbs if you didn’t dart away in time. Before you knew, your back hit something tall and squishy, and you glanced behind you to see the giant Hello Kitty plush that Vivi was lounging on. 

You could dodge, of course. But your brain automatically flashed to another child that you’d protect with your life, and with a muttered curse, you planted your feet and closed your eyes as Xiaolong’s spear hurtled through the air. 

The pain never came.

You cracked open an eye to see the tip of a gleaming spear hovering before your nose. Behind you, Vivi clapped her hands. “Hey, you’re pretty good! I’ve never seen anyone who could dodge Xiaolong for so long.”

You swallowed, crossing your eyes to keep the spear in your line of sight. “Does that mean,” you said, heartbeat fluttering in your throat, “that you’ll hire me now?”

With a wave of Vivi’s hand, Xiaolong backed off, allowing the tail end of his spear to hit the floor with a light thud. The smile Vivi directed at you was vibrant and unrepentant.

“No way,” she said. “You didn’t even obey me when I told you to take off your mask. Why would I want someone who didn’t listen to me to work as my employee? I don’t have a death wish.”

“I would never put you in danger," you began. She waggled a finger. 

“Would you run in front of a moving train for me?” 

“What?”

“Drink a glass of poison?”

“I—”

“Can I guarantee that you won’t sell me out at the first opportunity? That your friendliness isn’t a facade? What about political pressure? How willing are you to lie to the government for me?”

“Miss Wei,” you said, then stopped. 

She shrugged. “And that’s why Xiaolong is the best” she said, tugging on his sleeve and shooting him a young girl's innocent, cruel smile. His hand flexed around his spear, then settled.  “If I tell him to bark, he'll bark. Right, Xiaolong?”

“Woof,” he said emotionlessly. Vivi giggled. 

Vivi’s words stunned you. You dug your hands into your thighs, feeling your overgrown nails dig into the tender flesh. 

She was right. However much you hated it, she was right. Your employer was no longer Tom Lee, who couldn’t care less about his employees’ behavior as long as they produced results. If you wanted to earn Vivi’s trust—if you wanted to make her acknowledge you as more than a passing fancy—you needed to show that you were worth valuing. 

You unhooked the mask from your ears, peeling it off. Then you took off your sunglasses, adjusting to the bombardment of vivid colors and lights with rapid blinks. The lower half of your face felt damp and warm. With a shaky breath, you met Vivi’s gaze again. 

“Is this better?” you asked. 

Without the sunglasses, Vivi’s eyes were closer to almond-brown than gray. She surveyed you again: the indent on your nose when you’d worn your mask for too long, your chapped lips, the firm and determined line of your mouth.

A mischievous smile stretched her lips, and you forced yourself to remain still as she tipped forward and touched your collar, drifting her fingers across your throat. Her cold fingers traced the line of your jaw. She was a princess satisfied by the deepness of a noble’s bow, how far you’ve lowered yourself to please her.

Is this enough? you wanted to ask. You stared into her gray eyes and dared her to toss you out like a discarded rag, like the reports Haowei tossed in the trash without a second look, like the pride you shoved in the bottom of your luggage when you decided to throw your life away for a stranger. For James. Is this enough? 

“You’re kinda cute,” she mused, teeth peeking between her lips. 

Her soft fingers felt like knives against your skin. "Thank you," you said. 

Vivi patted your cheek. A vein on your jaw pulsed, a twitch not unnoticed by Xiaolong. 

 “You’re hired!” she declared with a grin. “I’ll ask baba to get you situated. Since we’re friends now, we should be close to each other at all times, so how does an office next to mine sound?"

And just like that, you were hers.

"Okay," you said. "I understand, Miss Wei."

Vivi took your hand and laced your fingers together, squeezing. She either didn't notice the conflict warring on your face or didn't care. (You'd wager the rest of your life on the latter.) “Let’s get along, okay?” she said, eyes curving until her irises disappeared behind a bristle of pale lashes. “Oh, and call me Vivi. Miss Wei makes me sound so stuffy.”

Chapter Text

Abort mission, abort mission, abort mission.

Taesoo Ma’s arm bracketed you from above, corning you against the peeling wallpaper of the karaoke room. Strands of his long black hair tickled the sides of your face as his eyes bore into yours, narrowed and sharp with interest. He smelled like smoke, but not cigarette smoke—more like woodsmoke, something cooking over an open fire. 

Your hands scrambled behind you. You grasped the door handle with the tips of your fingers, just as he slammed the door shut with a shove. When you jolted, he bared his teeth in a triumphant grin.

You did not scream. You just squeaked very loudly and at a high pitch. 

“So,” Taesoo said, “what’s a little lamb like you doing here?”

When you were told that Ansan was full of rampant teenage gangs, Taesoo Ma was not what you were expecting. He was two meters of pure, hardened muscle. Even the black long hair, pushed back from idol-esque features with a headband, couldn’t distract from the sheer power resting in the plan of his right hand—a hand you’d seen shatter the marble table just a few moments ago.

You swallowed and watched his gaze follow the bob of your throat. You pressed your palms to your thighs, wiping off your nervous sweat. “Here as in this karaoke bar, or here as in Ansan?” 

He shrugged, a sleek, casual gesture that reminded you of a slow-blinking panther, surveying its prey from the trees. “Both. Either. Whatever.”

You should’ve shoved him away, or at least called for backup. Instead, you said, “Can you please put on a shirt,” your stupid mouth betraying you. 

Taesoo looked stunned. Then he drew his head back and laughed uproariously, though he didn’t remove his arm from the wall, nor did he put on a shirt. “Answer my question first," he said, amused. "Then we’ll see about my shirt.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Can you just…” You motioned for him to step back. He did, but only an inch. You bit back a sigh. “You know who I am, right?”

“Tom Lee’s pet."

Your irritation must’ve been obvious, because Taesoo’s lips twitched. Work a job together with Tom Lee once and suddenly you were the man’s poster child, literally and figuratively. 

You cleared your throat, hand flitting up to rub the strings of your lanyard. “You can call me whatever you want," you said. "In any case, I’m here to strike a deal with the strongest candidate for king in Ansan: men in exchange for profit.”

Taesoo’s eyes narrowed. Finally, finally, he removed the arm from beside your head and took a step back. Before you could sigh in relief, he dropped down onto the plush couch, right in front of the marble table he’d destroyed when you first introduced yourself. “Tom Lee from Gapryong’s fist wants to hire me,” he said, rubbing the calluses on the knuckles of his right hand.

“Well,” you said, “sort of? A contract. It’s flexible, really.” 

“Why me?”

You cocked your head. There was an easy answer and a cute answer. The easy answer was that of all the future kings of the regions of Seoul, Taesoo embodied brawn without significant brain. Unlike that viper from Chungcheong or the pretty bastard from Incheon, Taesoo didn’t have overwhelming speed, fancy martial arts, or an unbreakable skull. All he had was an unwavering faith in his honor, and that simplicity was precisely what your plan needed to work. 

The cute and fake answer? 

“You’re the strongest region by far, so it’s an easy investment,” you said. “If you win, we all win.”

Taesoo hooked his arms behind the back of the couch, splaying his legs. You looked away from the blatant flaunting of skin, feeling your cheeks flush red. “And you’re the only thing they could muster up to convince me?”

“Uh, yeah. Am I not convinving enough?"

Taesoo paused. Then he slammed a fist into the ground. Cracks spread across the floor, the closest one groaning as it stopped inches from your shoes. 

You didn’t flinch.

“You’re cute. That’s the only reason you're not dead,” he asked calmly as he lifted his hand from the ground, shaking out dust and debris from his knuckles. You bit back your instinctive response. Gee, thanks. “But I’m not stupid enough to trust that money-hungry bastard from the 0th generation. You’d sell me out at the first opportunity.”

You brushed a piece of dust from your collar and took a deep breath. You’d expected some pushback. These were kings you were talking to, after all.

The best strategy was to make it seem like he needed you, though in all honesty Taesoo Ma was already well on his way to conquering all of Ansan and then some more by sheer charisma alone. The boy who’d escorted you inside this karaoke bar had been two seconds from tearing your throat out before you even said a word to Taesoo, simply because you hadn’t gotten on your knees and bowed your head to the floor in greeting. The only thing stopping him was your obvious civilian status, and even Ansan wasn’t dumb enough to get the police involved in a turf war. 

But your reputation (and paycheck) with the job center was hanging on by a thread. Tom Lee tolerated you because of your swiftness and youth, which snuck you into places the senior managers—stern and muscular, the leer of power prominent even when one of them had a terrible combover and the other kept a picture of his daughter on his wallet—-couldn’t touch. But small jobs could only take you so far.

You needed a client, and you needed it to be Taesoo Ma. 

“You want to conquer Ansan, and that’s fine. But conquering it is the easy part. Keeping it under your control is another,” you said. “Being a lone wolf never works for long. If you want to rule over Ansan like a proper king, you need people, and we have data analysts, finance advisers, and political constituents ready to be at your disposal if you wish.”

Taesoo raised an eyebrow. “Adults involved with a minor’s turf war?”

“They won’t be fighting, and they won’t have an official role,” you said, tilting your head. “And you’re not going to be a minor forever, are you?”

You met his calculating look with your best smile. It was a challenge, a bluff that you hoped he didn’t see through. Would he peak at seventeen? Or would he seize victory by the throat and bring it to heel?

After a moment, Taesoo shrugged. “How much profit are we talking about?”

You showed him a number. He laughed. “You must be stupid.”

“That’s not your problem,” you said, shrugging. 

You didn’t dare say anything else, but a spark of suspicion glimmered in Taesoo’s eyes regardless. He wasn’t an idiot, no matter how much he threw around his physical weight. Of course, you weren’t just dealing with Ansan. You planned to visit every major region in and around Seoul, dipping your toe in the lucrative business that was turf wars. If they needed information on another, you’d supply it. And if they didn’t want you to spill the secrets to another enemy, they’d have to pay you. And if they chose to attack you directly… we’ll, that’s why you had Tom Lee.

The White Tiger Job center had power. All you had to do was leverage it.

“If you don’t want this deal, I can go to others,” you said. “I’m sure they’d love the opportunity.”

“You think anyone else in Ansan can stand up to me?“ Taesoo mused. 

“Not in Ansan,” you said quietly. 

The thing about the turf wars was that they were all circular. Ansan would eat Suwon would eat Incheon would eat Daegu and so on and so forth until it looped back to Ansan. There wouldn’t be a real winner, not unless you seized your crown and defended it. And that was the advantage you offered with White Tiger: money in exchange for manpower and, even more importantly, management experience. The small sliver of profits you would take every month would be nothing compared to the lucrative business of becoming a region’s king.

Taesoo Ma knew that. But it wouldn't be that easy unless you proved you could own up to your words.

“So you’re forcing us into a bidding war,” Taesoo said. 

“That’s right. And you set the starting price.”

He examined his hand, flexing and unflexing those long and callused fingers. You resisted the urge to shuffle your feet. If you ran, you could get to the car parked around the corner just in time to escape the swarm of Taesoo’s followers out for your head, though hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Tom Lee would be disappointed if you returned missing a limb or two. 

“Alright lamb,” Taesoo Ma said, and your breath hitched. “If you’re as good as you say, I’ll pay you as much as you want. Otherwise, I’ll deliver your corpse with a bow to Tom Lee myself.”

“Understood,” you said.

--

“Auntie?” you called, ducking through the hanging beads.

No answer. You glanced around the small salon, brow furrowing. The place was practically dead this early in the morning, but you saw a light on in the backrooms and your aunt would never waste electricity unless she was already up. “Auntie?” you repeated, raising your voice. 

A few moments later, a slim, dark-haired figure poked her head out from the backrooms. “Sweetheart, is that you? Don’t you have school?”

Your heart leapt. You dumped your bag next to one of the salon chairs and sprinted forward, steadying the stack of boxes she was balancing in her arms just in time to prevent it from crashing on the ground. “Careful! That was close,” you said, nudging her with a foot. She relented, and you steady the stack of cargo as carefully as you could, peeking around the tall stack to follow her into the storage room. 

“My savior,” she said, smiling warmly. 

You flushed as you set down the boxes in the storage room. They weren’t even that heavy, filled to the brim with empty shampoo and conditioner bottles. Your aunt would probably refill them with water, squeezing every last bit of use from them before she needed to throw them away.

Hm. Maybe you could convince White Tiger to refurbish her salon. Not like they’d miss the money, and you’d have plenty left afterwards to pay off the bills…

A finger flicked the back of your head. You winced, staring in shock at your aunt’s pout. “Auntie!”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. Her expression was stern, or as stern as her pretty features would ever get. “What are you doing here?”

You rubbed the back of your head. “School let out a while ago,” you lied, neglecting to tell her that you hadn’t gone in the first place. “I had an interview in the area, so I came to check on you.”

Her expression relaxed. “Aren’t you sweet,” she said, reaching out to pinch your cheek. You leaned over obligingly, letting her fingers roam your face. “I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite.”

“Auntie,” you whined. “Lying is bad for you.”

“Who said anything about lying? I can have two favorites.”

You giggled. She grinned triumphantly and swept you into a hug. “Thank you for checking on us, sweetheart. We’re doing well.”

You hummed, squeezing her thin frame gently. Were you taller than her now? The thought made your heart leap, and you vowed to wear flatter shoes next time. 

Over her shoulder, you let your eyes roam over the corners of the salon. Some of the plastic on the chairs was cracking. Dustwebs hung on the ceiling where your aunt couldn’t see. She was getting your paychecks, you’d confirmed that with Tom Lee. But she wasn’t using them. 

“Where’s the kid?” you asked, releasing her.

“School. Like you should be,” she said, just firm enough to not be a joke. 

You shrugged. Middle school wasn’t worth the effort. “Sorry.”

She squeezed your hand, then pushed you into one of the salon chairs and spun you around to meet the mirror. The bruise on your cheek had blossomed into an ugly purple patch of skin, and you blushed, thankful that your aunt hadn’t noticed. 

Her fingers tugged through your hair, scraping gently against your scalp. Her fingers were rough, you noticed. You made a note to buy her more hand cream, the expensive kind with so many scents you couldn’t name them all. “Your hair’s getting long, sweetheart. Why don’t you let me trim it?”

“Sure, auntie.”

As she dragged over her cart of tools and got to work, she said, “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve missed you.”

Snip, snip. 

“We or just you?” you joke, watching your hair fall to the floor. 

“We, of course! You know the little rascal loves you. He’s just shy.”

Snip, snip. “Is he doing alright? No one’s giving him any trouble at school?”

“Oh, he’s doing just fine. I started taking him to church, and we met this wonderful family—two, actually! Such lovely children. Mira and Zack, isn’t that adorable? I hope they become good friends.”

“Johan’s a nice kid. I’m sure they’ll be close,” you said, smiling. 

When you left the salon, your hair was considerably messier than when you’d started. You pressed a kiss to your aunt’s cheek and crammed a check into her hand. “I got a bonus at work recently, auntie.”

“Oh! You don’t have to,” she said, already moving to stuff the check in her back pocket where she’d forget about it. 

You caught her wrist gently. “Nah. It’s almost Johan’s birthday. Why don’t you get him something nice?”

Her eyes widened. Something was strange about them, almost blank in their intensity. You frowned. 

“Good point,” she said, and turned away before you could get a better look at her eyes. She busied herself with the cash register, and the dings and kachinks of the machine punctuated her next words. “What do kids these days like? Books? Games?”

“Maybe not books,” you said, dragging a hand through your cropped hair. “But I’m sure he’ll like whatever you give him. You’re his mom, after all.”

She laughed and tittered, and you spent the last few minutes of your time chatting with her about Johan’s grades and trying to memorize the details of her face. Before you left, you stuffed another stack of bills into the empty cash register behind her back. Then you gave your aunt another hug and promised to visit again next week with Johan’s birthday present. 

“Pay attention in school,” she scolded, pinching your waist. “And eat more! You’re so skinny, you know.”

You pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I will, auntie.”

There was a sleek black car waiting for you by the road just outside the salon. “Well?” Beolgu asked as you slipped into the passenger seat. “Done crying to mama?”

“Don’t be a dick,” you said, turning your head to watch the alley disappear into the distance as Beolgu pulled the car away from the street. “I just had a few things to take care of.”

The man sneered, running a hand through the thick tresses of white-peppered hair he was so proud of. His narrow eyes trailed up and down your figure. “What’s with the ugly cut? Looks like you got run over by a blind guy.”

You ran a hand through your messy hair, noting the choppy and uneven layers. Your auntie had long and elegant fingers, ones that you’d inherited. “I think it’s nice.” 

He scoffed, turning his attention back to the road. “Looked better long.”

“I could care less about what an old man thinks of me.”

“Old—” Beolgu sputtered, handsome face pulling into a scowl. “Respect your elders! Plus I’m trying to give you advice. You’ll never succeed if you keep those useless attachments.” 

You stuck out your tongue. “And that’s why your wife left you.”

You ducked as he threw a half-hearted fist towards your face, though a half-hearted punch from Beolgu was a full-on blow for anyone else. He didn’t take his eyes off the road as he removed his hand from the broken headrest and shook it out with a click of his tongue. “Don’t be a brat.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, brushing shattered pieces of leather and metal from your lap. Anger tightened your voice, but you forced it down with a deep breath. “Beolgyu, do you, uh, know how much cornea transplants cost?”

“Huh?! Do I look that old to you?” When you were silent, Beolgu cast you a glance from the corner of his eye and clucked his tongue, frustrated. “Last I checked, 30 million won. Why, are ya losing your touch?”

Your mouth went dry. Thirty million won. You wouldn’t be able to earn that in a lifetime, even with Tom Lee’s money filling your pockets. Your fingers dug into your thighs, and you heard yourself say faintly, “Take me to Cheonliang. I have an appointment with a king.”

Beolgu sneered. “Why the fuck am I chauffeuring for a damned kid?” he muttered under his breath, hands tightening on the steering wheel. 

“Because your boss said so. And you’re paying for the damages, by the way,” you said.

“You little—“

--

Life as Vivi’s secretary sucked. 

Every day, you woke up at 5am, took your medication, and walked to the office and sit down at your new desk (in your own room!) just in time for Vivi to send an offhanded demand over text, forcing you to run back and forth the entire day to accommodate her needs. Sleep was a luxury, acknowledgement even less so. You’d be lucky if Vivi even glanced at you before sending you off again for her lunch order or a new pair of fluffy slippers or meeting notes she forgot to review. 

People still stared when you passed them in the cafeteria and whispered your name loudly in the hallway, hoping that you’d flee back to Korea with your tail between your legs. But now that ire was tinged with jealousy. Why you? was the general sentiment. How did you receive the Chairman’s approval so quickly? 

Privately, you wondered the same thing. You had no delusions about your own competency. You were good, yes, but your assignment as Vivi’s secretary felt more like a test than a reward, and one that you were failing more often than not. 

Ugh. Company politics. At least you didn’t have to see Haowei ever again. You didn’t know what happened to him after Min, but you hope she made mincemeat out of his career.

“Jiyin,” Xiaolong said.

You raised your head from your desk, blinking blearily at the door. There was a thick manila folder tucked beneath Xiaolong’s arm. His suit was navy blue today with a pink flower tucked in the breast pocket. Vivi’s work, no doubt. It softened his sharp features, made him a little less intimidating. Just a little, though.

“More work?” you croaked as Xiaolong placed the folder on your desk. Your fingers were cramping, and you had no idea where your butt stopped and your chair began. 

“Director Lixing wants the details of the acquisition in Yunnan,” he said. “He says there are potential investors interested in backing the project.”

“Understood,” you said with a sigh. You flipped through the papers, glancing over the names and faces of the executives you’d need to track down. Some of them worked overseas; others were a mere building down the street. That was going to be a fun meeting to schedule. “Anything else?” 

“No.”

You gave him a nod. “Thank you.” As he prepared to leave, you called, “Can you ask Miss Wei to meet at the first floor cafe later tonight?”

“She has tutoring,” Xiaolong said.

You smiled dryly. “She doesn’t,” you said. You had a copy of her schedule. “Tell her to meet me there. I’ll finish by seven.”

His eyes narrowed. “Fine.” 

As Xiaolong left your office, you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake the image of the writhing storm dragon away. After a few fruitless minutes of staring blankly at the empty spreadsheet, you set down your pen and folded your head in your arms. Your stomach curled in pain, but you couldn’t eat until you finished the report, but you couldn’t finish the report until your body stopped aching like a twisted pretzel. The headache that had been building in your temples was turning into a migraine. 

A bubble popped in your temple. You lurched up just in time to cup your hands beneath your nose and catch the blood that dripped down. “Shit,” you muttered, trying to grab a tissue and keep blood from spilling on the ground at the same time. 

One terrifyingly close incident involving a pencil that nearly went through your eye later, you managed to sit back down at your desk, a box of tissues placed close by to catch the torrent of blood cascading from your nose. As you stuffed your face with tissues and waited for your vision to return, your eyes drifted to your phone and its suspicious lack of messages. Usually it’d be blowing up by now, Tom Lee or Beolgu demanding you to meet them at the job center for another job, or any of the other idiots who had your number. 

Your hand twitched. You missed James. Usually you could send him a text and wait for his stupid face to appear on your screen like the sweetest, most welcome pop-up ad in the entire world, but Choi…

Well. Best not worry about Choi when you had your own problems to deal with. 

A few agonizing hours later, you packed your things into your bag and trudged to the elevator. They’d managed to fix the crack caused by Xiaolong’s spear, but the fissure was still visible if you paid attention. 

The first floor cafe was empty except for the tired barista wiping down the counters with an old rag. She glanced up when she heard your footsteps. When your gazes met, she nodded at you and returned to cleaning without another world. You sat down at the table with the clearest view of the front door and waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, the barista tapped your shoulder. “We’re closing up.”

You checked your phone. 10pm. “Sorry for taking up your time,” you said, rising to your feet. The barista took one look at your expression and flinched, but you couldn’t find it in you to apologize for scaring her.

Vivi’s apartment was only a few blocks away from the company building. She owned the entire building, in fact, though she spent most of her time in the penthouse with her friends, doing whatever fourteen year old conglomerate heirs did with their limitless freedom and funds. 

Your feet took you to the front desk, where a perky employee with a fake smile directed to the penthouse after a flash of your shiny ID. The elevator dinged when it arrived at the top floor. The doors slid open. 

Immediately, you were bombarded by sights and sounds. The entire floor had been transformed into a club, complete with a live DJ, flashing lights, and screaming teenagers. Someone launched themselves into the air and chugged a bottle of soju as they surfed the crowd. The floor shook with every thud of the bass.

“Excuse me,” you said to the most sober-looking kid nearby. You could barely hear yourself over the roaring music, “have you seen Miss Wei?”

The boy didn’t look up from his phone. “Probably with her groupies.”

“Do you know where they are?” 

He pointed upstairs. You thanked him and squeezed yourself past a group of giggling couples making out on every available surface. You definitely weren’t going to touch that kitchen table for a long, long time. 

It wasn’t difficult to find Vivi, mostly because Xiaolong was about a head taller than everyone around him and he never left her side for long. This time, he was standing guard outside one of Vivi’s numerous bedrooms, creating a noticeable radius of space where no one dared disturb the living statue in a black suit and crimson tie. 

As you escaped the throng of writhing bodies and unconscious teenagers and into the relative quiet of the second floor, his eyes flicked towards you.

“Pardon me,” you said, reaching for the door.

As expected, his hand closed around your wrist. You used the momentum to slip behind him and snatch the keys from his back pocket. “Thanks,” you said, and unlocked the door before he could tug you away. 

A hand slammed the door shut. Xiaolong loomed behind you, black eyes narrowed. His hair was drawn into a ponytail today, long and sleek like a snake over his shoulder. “I’m afraid you can’t go inside.”

“I’m here to give Vivi my daily report,” you said. From your bag, you pulled out the same manila folder he’d dropped on your desk that morning and gestured with it. “She’ll want to hear about this.”

“Not now,” Xiaolong said. “Miss Vivi is taking visitors.”

You smiled, trying to look pretty and innocent. Xiaolong’s frown only deepened. “I need ten minutes.”

“Worse things have been done in five.”

“Two minutes.”

Xiaolong cocked his head. Loose baby hairs fell into his eyes, though he didn’t seem to notice or care. “You seem irritated.”

The lights were worsening your migraine. You fought to keep your voice low and calm as you stuffed the folder back into your bag. “I have something urgent to discuss with her. I’ll leave as soon as I’m done.”

You felt him evaluate your hunched shoulders, your tight voice, your rumpled clothes, and you wondered what he saw. You were a head shorter and dozens of kilos lighter, and you could barely throw a punch to save your life. 

Finally, Xiaolong inclined his head. “Two minutes,” he said, a threat as much as it was an acquiescence, and stepped to the side.

Inside was Vivi and her friends sitting in a circle of plush couches overseeing the Beijing skyline. Or you assumed they were her friends. They all looked the same to you: young, rich, draped in clothes that cost more than your rent for the past sixteen years combined. 

“Huh?” Vivi said, glancing up from her phone. Of all her friends, she was the least dressed up, wearing a comfortable pink hoodie and gray sweatpants. Probably because she had nothing to prove. “Oh, it’s you. Didya get my boba?”

You blinked. “You didn’t ask.”

“Ugh. Okay.” She turned back to her phone, then snorted. “LOL. Guys, come look at this pet peacock someone let loose in the mall.”

“Ew, bird poop!” a pink-haired girl said, scrunching her pretty nose.

“Peacocks…” Another girl looked contemplative, tapping her chin with a glittery manicured nail. “How much do they cost again?”

“We can get some for Vivi’s birthday!” said a boy covered in golden jewelry. “Ten albino peacocks!”

“Vivi,” you said over the cascade of giggles, “we need to discuss your punctuality.”

Vivi looked up, delicate brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“You were supposed to meet me today, remember? This is the fourth time in two weeks that you’ve…” Forgotten me, you wanted to say, but cut yourself off in time. No way were you letting yourself sound that pathetic in front of these kids. “I missed my appointment at nine.”

Vivi tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and rolled her eyes. “How’s that my problem? You’re super forgettable.” 

Her friends jeered and laughed. “Dude, face it. You’re old and weird,” one said. 

“Leave her alone, weirdo,” another added, giggling so high that it hurt your ears. 

You said nothing. Vivi yawned, a tiny tiger baring its needle-sharp teeth. “Are you mad at me?” she asked, sounding more curious than defensive.

You considered it. Were you angry? You were familiar with anger, how it boiled and festered in your stomach. Sure, you were annoyed when Vivi left you to wait in that cafe alone, head pounding and body shivering with exhaustion. You were disgruntled when Liyang and the others in Haowei’s squad spun around and fled in the opposite direction whenever you walked by. But now? 

“No,” you said, and your smile grew bland. “It’s fine. I understand.” 

You tossed the manila folder onto the couch. After a moment, Vivi picked it up and flipped through it, eyes narrowing as she digested the contents. “I finished the paperwork for Director Lixing’s acquisition of the land in Yunnan. If you still take advice from an old, decrepit person like me, I would reject his offer. His investors are more like gamblers, and I wouldn’t put it past them to run if the project goes south.” 

Vivi chewed on her bottom lip, then swiped her tongue over the lipstick smeared on her teeth. “Thanks, I guess,” she said, which was the closest she’d get to agreeing with you.  

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said, and gave her a quick bow. On your way out, you tossed the keys back to Xiaolong, who caught them deftly. “Two minutes, right?”

Xiaolong examined the keys. His black eyes were as inscrutable as ever, flicking towards you with such quickness that you almost convinced yourself you were hallucinating. “You finished the paperwork?” 

“It was only fifty pages.” You’d spent more time helping James prepare for his essay competitions. You pinched your brow, willing away your headache. No luck. Your heartbeat roared in your ears, a steady beat counting down the seconds until you passed out. “Tell Vivi I won’t be coming in tomorrow,” you managed to say, closing your eyes against the pain. “I have to make up an appointment.”

A pause. “Understood,” Xiaolong said. 

You stalked out of the party, letting the pounding bass and flashing lights fade to the back of your mind. As you stumbled into your apartment and face-planted in your cot, inhaling the scent of dust and old ramen, you let your lingering irritation slip through your fingers. 

Just kidding. You shrieked into your pillow until you nearly passed out. Agitation, anger, and embarrassment swarmed your thoughts. Should you have treated Vivi, daughter of Chairman Wei and your boss, like that? No. Did you care? No. 

But that was stupid. Tom Lee put up with your antics, but that was because he was a masochist who enjoyed playing with his prey. Plus, you were a kid and barely posed a threat to his multi-million won empire. Not that you posed a threat to Chairman Wei’s conglomerate either, but more was at stake here than a couple of quarters and your silly little pride. 

In a fit of frustration, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand and typed, AHHHHHHHHHHH.

A green dot immediately appeared next to James’s profile picture, a stupid picture of the two of you posing in front of the principal’s desk after covering it in sticky notes, as he came online. “Brat 🙄” is typing…

Hemorrhoids? 

NO.

Constipation? Then, as you struggled to keep a grasp on your anger, which was already fading away in the face of James’s ridiculousness, he said, Don’t forget to eat ur veggies while ur in China (´∀｀=)

You lowered your head to your pillow and huffed out an exhausted laugh. Brat, you sent, delighting in the familiar shape of the words. 

Hehe (*^ω^*) Pause. U ok over there? 

You paused, uncertain. Then you frowned, angered by your uncertainty. Not really. But I can deal with it.

Three floating dots appeared, bobbing up and down, up and down. After a moment, they disappeared, and you let out a breath, knowing all too well that you wouldn’t be able to lie if he asked. 

Lmk if u need me to beat anyone up ♪(´ε｀ ) Or serenade them, I’m not picky

“Where is he getting these emojis from?” you muttered, feeling your lips twitch. 

I’m sure, mister 5-time-regional poetry championship winner. 

(≧∀≦) U CAN DO IT! Ur not James Lee’s best friend for nuthin!!

You smiled at your phone. Yeah, you typed. Definitely.

James sent a flurry of hearts and emojis so fast you could almost see him in your mind’s eye, curled up on the rooftop or a bench somewhere so he could skip class, hunched over his phone with the stupidest, smuggest grin on his face. Call me later??? It’s so boring without u .(( _ _ ))..zzzZZ

Sure. Tell me how everyone’s doing.

(＞人＜;) talking about other men while ur with me? How could u, husband???

???When did we get married??? 

˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧༚

His profile went gray, signifying that he’d gone offline. Smiling, you set a reminder for yourself to call him this weekend, probably when he wasn’t at school or challenging random students to fights. 

You rolled over onto your back, covering your eyes with a forearm. You were supposed to be mad about something, but when you tried to grasp for it again, it slipped away like an ephemeral wisp of smoke. 

James always had that effect on you. Even since you fell asleep on the rooftop and woke up to the sun blocked by a red figure, all messily dyed hair and hooded eyes and a sharp smile around a lollipop, you couldn’t escape his orbit.

You missed him. What was he doing now?

(“Get off your phone, James.”

“Alright, dad,” James said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t move from his spot on the bench, staring at the tiny profile picture on the corner of the screen as he waited for your response. 

The photo was taken right after your little cousin’s elementary school graduation, so you were fifteen but looked younger, hair soft around your cheeks, smile round and beaming as you hugged your cousin to your side. The kid was cute, too, with the same round eyes and innocent expression like a lost puppy. But you were cuter. 

Charles frowned. He’d gotten a haircut recently, sharpening the edges of his handsome features. But even the pretty makeup and fitted suit couldn’t hide the bloodlust in his gray eyes. “You’re not focusing,” he said. “Do you think this is going to be easy?”

“He’s just some kid,” James said, attention fixed to his phone. Anger struck him when he read, Not really. But I can deal with it. What the hell was Charles Choi making you do over there? 

His fingers flew across the screen as he typed out an instinctively furious response, then deleted it with a huff. You were strong. He wouldn’t insult your intelligence by assuming you needed help. 

Instead, he sent, Lmk if u need me to beat anyone up ♪(´ε｀ ) His lips pulled into a snarl. Or serenade them, I’m not picky. 

I’m sure, mister 5-time-regional poetry championship winner. 

“And heir to the Yamazaki Syndicate,” Charles said. As he spoke, a parade of black cars rolled to a halt by the sidewalk. James glanced up briefly, catching a glimpse of shiny black shoes and waxed hair as the suited men emerged like assembly line robots from the procession. Charles turned, beige coat flaring behind him as he inclined his head towards the severe man in the ivory suit. “Yamazaki-dono.”

“Elite,” Yamazaki said, black eyes gleaming like obsidian in the moonlight. They fell on James, splayed across the bench with all the nonchalance of a kid model. “This must be James.”

James’s phone pinged. He looked down at your incredulous “???When did we get married???”, snorted, and scrolled through his emoji list to find one that would make you laugh the hardest. “Yeah, hi.”

He could feel the old man’s irritation from miles away. “Impertinent child,” he muttered in Japanese, likely not intending for any of them to overhear. But Charles did, and his hands twitched ever so slightly behind his back. 

Fuck off, James wanted to say. But of course Charles would be on his ass about being rude to a business associate, ugh. So he tucked his phone into his pocket and unfurled from the bench, stretching with a deliberately infuriating yawn. His body thrummed with energy and rage. 

“So where’s the kid I’m supposed to fight?” James asked, flashing them a sharp-toothed grin.

The yakuza boss or whatever cocked his head. His gaze burned as he raked his eyes up and down James’s figure, taking in the beige Moon High School uniform he didn’t bother to change out of and the fading dye-job. “Gun,” he said softly. 

A kid stepped from his shadow. Well, a “kid,” except he was almost as tall as James and James was, in your words, a “fucking giant.” His eyes were weird, black with tiny pinpricks of white as pupils. James blinked. 

“A pretty boy?” the kid said in Japanese, hands jammed in his pockets. There was a look of utter boredom on his face. “He’s not worth much.” 

The back of James’s neck prickled. He started to laugh, which made some of the black-suited yakuza men bristle. By gut alone, the kid—Gun—was about as strong as the kings that reigned over the regions of Seoul. Maybe even stronger.

But not strong enough. 

“Oh, boy,” James said, flexing and unflexing his hands. In Japanese, he said, “Didn’t your dad teach you to respect your elders?”)

--

Two days later, you were newly medicated, fresh off seven (a full seven!) hours of sleep, and ready to take another Vivi-trademarked tantrum to the face. Not like you could ignore her anyways. The text she sent that morning was pretty clear about her intentions.

get over here or ur fired

An old sort of relief fell upon your shoulders. You stared at your phone and sucked in a breath. So you weren’t being fired… yet. 

As you wish, Princess.

“No, no, no, NO!”

You closed your eyes as the screams grew louder and louder with Vivi’s increasing irritation. The conference room walls were all glass, meaning you could see exactly what the poor executive had been presenting on the huge monitor before Vivi had cut him off with a kick of her legs and a petulant shout. 

The executive clearly didn’t know Vivi well enough to stay silent when she worked herself into a frenzy. “Miss Wei, let me explain—“ he started to say. 

“Explain what? How you’re going to run the place to the ground by agreeing to Lixing’s stupid deals? How you’re going to turn our profit margins to zero?” Vivi shrieked. 

“Well, that’s not likely—”

“No! Shut up! God, you’re so stupid. I can't even look at you.” 

You heard the room murmur and stir, uncomfortable. You turned your head and deliberately fixed your eyes on the seam of the floor where immaculate white tile met wallpaper, all inoffensive pinks and purples to suit Vivi’s tastes, trying not to tap your foot nervously. 

There was a long pause, punctuated by the quiet sounds of Vivi’s furious breaths. “Get out,” she finally said. No response. “Didn’t you hear me? Out. Out!” 

There was the clatter of a dozen chairs being pushed back at once. You straightened, pretending to look busy as the conference room door slammed open and a bunch of old men in suits stomped out, disgruntled. There was a man at the front, tall and sneering with a terrible bald spot on the back of his head. 

“Stupid little—“ The man stopped, finally noticing your presence. You glanced up and curved your eyes in a smile, though you weren’t sure how much of it he could see past your tinted sunglasses. “Who are you?”

You bowed your head respectfully. “Gin, sir. I, er, work for Miss Wei.”

He frowned, hovering awkwardly in the hallway with the rest of the men spilling out behind him. “Are you a new hire?” he asked, scanning your tinted glasses and blue medical mask. His voice was tinged with derision. 

You refused to fidget, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes, sir. I transferred from the overseas marketing team a few weeks ago.”

His face relaxed. You wondered what his thought process was—fear at being caught bad-mouthing Vivi, concern that you’d report him, relief when he realized his superiority and how easily he could silence you permanently. 

Position restored, he drew himself and nodded at the people behind him to move on without him. They did, filing into the elevators with the same hunched and dejected form. Interesting. He must be the ringleader orchestrating company affairs behind Vivi’s back, the one who’d caused her to text you at 4am in the morning. 

“Keep an eye on her, huh?” the man said, and winked. A chill went down your spine. “Don’t want to make the princess unhappy.”

His voice was full of coy, sickly sweet derision. He looked at you like he expected you to nod and agree, sharing in the delight of insulting one’s betters behind their backs. 

“We wouldn’t,” you said, slowly and deliberately. You flicked your eyes to the side and inclined your head at the figure emerging from the conference room, shoving down your apprehension. “Miss Wei.”

Vivi was in a pantsuit today, a baby blue that matched the ribbons in her pale hair. Her expression was unreadable, even as her brows furrowed into an undeniable scowl. You couldn’t tell if she was angry at you, the board members, or herself. Where did she learn to do that, to fix every expression to be as opaque as iron?

“Colluding behind my back again?” Vivi asked, crossing her arms. Behind her, the ever-present Xiaolong dipped his head, hands folded neatly behind his back. 

“Of course not, Director—” the man began, looking nervously at Xiaolong’s impassive face.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Vivi snapped. Once again, you blinked. Her face was turned away, but she looked like she might be pouting. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “I’ve already said everything worth saying,” you said slowly. 

Vivi huffed. “Get out of my sight,” she told the board member, who scurried out of sight like a rat with none of his previous cockiness. When she turned back at you—

Well. That was new.

“Do you really hate me?” Vivi asked, a film of tears welling up in her deep gray eyes. Her bottom lip wobbled dangerously. 

You blinked, and then rapidly back-pedaled, pressing yourself to the opposite wall. Nope, nope, absolutely not, you were not touching that with a fifty-foot pole—that referring to Xiaolong and the anger blazing in his eyes, barely restrained by his uptight posture even though you were sure he was clenching his hands behind his back, about two seconds from grabbing the nearest spear-like object and jamming it into your teeth. 

“Miss Wei, I’m your employee. I don’t need to like you to work for you,” you said, watching nervously as the tear threatened to fall down her cheek. Even if they were fake, her crying face was uniquely heart-wrenching, like watching a tiny puppy whine and nip at your feet. 

Vivi sniffed and rubbed her eyes with the hem of her suit jacket. “I just wanted to be friends,” she said, voice trembling. “I wasn’t even that mean to you. I mean, I did make fun of you to my friends and tell Xiaolong to attack you, but don’t friends do that all the time?”

You scanned her figure, and then sighed, pushing off the wall you’d plastered yourself to. “Please stop,” you said, feeling like you’d aged twenty years in a single minute. 

“H-Huh?”

“You’re not really crying, are you?” you said, running a hand through your hair, then letting it drop to your side. Xiaolong was still glaring at you, which was its own issue, but… “There’s no need to pretend. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Vivi froze. Then she removed her hands from her eyes and laughed, expression miraculously clear. Sticking out her tongue, she rubbed her fingers over the tear tracks on her cheeks, mouth curved mischievously. “Almost fooled ya, right?” 

“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe.” 

Manipulative brat. 

Vivi crossed her arms and pouted, tears gone. “Party-pooper. Thought that’d work,” she muttered to herself. Then, louder, “Guess we can jump straight into business. Dad— er, the Chairman is throwing a charity ball in honor of the 100 million yuan donation he made to that, uh…”

“The cancer treatment center in Qingyuan,” Xiaolong offered. 

“Right. That.” Vivi examined her nails, looking oddly bored as you reeled at the insane amount of money Chairman Wei was slinging around. Sometimes you forgot you were dealing with a conglomerate head, not the CEO of an indie start-up. “Obviously, I have to go, and I need a plus one. So?”

“Xiaolong isn’t coming?” you asked.

“‘Course he is.”

You floundered. “Isn’t he your plus one?”

Confusion flitted across Vivi’s face before she giggled, seemingly charmed by your obliviousness. “Silly. Why would a dog need to be my plus one?” she said, reaching over and lacing her fingers through Xiaolong’s. He inclined his head, gaze softening. 

Right. You forgot. These two were insane for each other. 

“I would be honored to accept,” you said through the knot in your throat. 

You heard Vivi laugh, sharp and high. “Of course you are. I’m Vivi,” she said, like it explained everything and nothing. 

--

You’d been made up before. Once, in middle school, they made everyone in the class participate in the school play. Somehow, you managed to be shoehorned into the role of the huntsman who brought the evil queen a boar’s heart (actually just a piece of clay gleefully painted by the art kids) instead of the princess’s. They gave you a wig and an old costume from the storage closet that smelled like dust and told you to growl like a wolf.

You did your best. Your auntie took as many blurry videos as her tiny camera had storage for, and your cousin cried when you greeted him backstage because he thought you were a stranger. 

This wasn’t quite the same. They stuffed you into a costume, sure, and the makeup still clogged your pores like hell. But the person looking back at you in the mirror wasn’t a terrifying conglomerate of middle school costuming mistakes, but someone who might approach attractiveness. 

Or, as Vivi put it when you slipped out of the fitting room, “Wow, you actually look nice for once!”

You stared at the mirror, almost afraid to touch your own face. They’d lengthened your lashes twice fold, made your face small and petite and pretty, even hiding that irritating pimple on your forehead with an artful sweep of bangs. Your clothes filled out places it needed to fill, slimming down others. 

You waved. The person in the mirror waved back. You made a face, and the person in the mirror pouted, lips pink and glossy. It was witchcraft. They’d even managed to make your prescription sunglasses look suave and cool. Shame half of it would be covered up by your mask. 

I’m going insane, you told James after sending him a picture of your makeover. You kicked your feet as you waited for his response, shifting awkwardly on the velvety seats of Vivi’s custom limousine, complete with a built-in bar and party lights. 

Σ੧(❛□❛✿) woah, those are some MASSIVE diamonds!

Hahaha aren’t they ridiculous? 

(● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾ get me a pair! 

Sorry, I don’t have that kind of money.

Meanie…

You laughed, grateful that he was taking everything in stride. Not that James was the type to care about outward appearances, but, well, you could only be told how pretty and nice you looked now with five pounds of makeup and a scrubbed body before you wanted to throw yourself into the nearest harbor. How are things going for you?

Mr. Choi made me beat up a kid (c" ತ,_ತ)

???

[“Brat 🙄” sent an attachment: ouch.png] (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾ look what he did to me!! 

James… that’s the smallest cut I’ve ever seen. And you had no doubt the other kid, whoever the hell they were, was in much, much worse condition. 

But my beautiful face… (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)

The text was accompanied by a pouting selfie of James, his eyes wide and watery, bottom lip jutting out. There was a tiny flower-patterned bandage placed on the cut on his cheek. You smirked, rubbing your thumb over the little curl of hair on the back of his head that never lay flat. Narcissistic much? 

So u think i’m ugly??? (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)(´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)(´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)(´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`) 

I think, you said, and blinked as a slim hand snatched the phone from your hands. Vivi had perched herself next to you, examining your phone with an innocent curiosity. She looked even cuter than usual, hair twisted into a fashionably messy bun, eyes lined with glittery gold eyeshadow. Her dress almost drowned her in big poofy fabric, but it had the intended effect of making her seem petite and delicate, a fairy princess in pink. 

It didn’t hide the unsettling gray of her eyes, though. Nothing could.

“Who’re you talking to?” Vivi asked. Her expression brightened as she scrolled up, finding the picture James had sent you of his new haircut. “Ooh, he’s cute.”

“Wait,” you said, watching helplessly as Vivi settled down on the plush seats with your phone, pink dress poofing out around her like a mushroom. “Miss Wei—”

Vivi chewed on her manicured nail. The light from your phone reflected in her eyes, a square of white amidst endless almond-gray. “Is he a k-pop idol?”

James? No way. “He’s a student,” you explained, reaching out to retrieve your phone. “He’s from Korea.”

Vivi raised her arm, keeping your phone out of reach. Her brows were furrowed slightly, her cherry-glossed lips pursed into an exaggerated pout. “You were smiling,” she said, voice oddly low. You blinked, resisting the urge to rub your eyes. Was it that obvious? “Are you guys friends?” 

“I hope so,” you said, confused by her confusion. 

Vivi cocked her head, her eyes suddenly fixed on your face. Her tiny fingers, chilled by the evening air, squeezed your upper arm, nails digging into your new clothes. Suppressing a wince, you snuck a peek at Xiaolong, who sat on the other side of the limousine with his head tilted back, his eyes closed in an expression of utter peace. Why wasn’t he stopping her? 

“So why are you here?” she asked. 

You opened your mouth, and then found that you didn’t have an answer. Beneath the limousine lights, Vivi’s mouth curled.

You were saved from an answer when the limousine slid to a stop. Like clockwork, Xiaolong’s eyes shot open, and he slid out of the car with enviable grace. Vivi untangled herself from your arm and tossed your phone behind her, which you caught inches before it shattered against the ground. “Whatever. Let’s go!”

Your heartbeat slowly calmed down as you glanced up from the floor, on your hands and knees like a crawling bug. Xiaolong peered down at you, expressionless as always. 

“Miss Vivi is waiting for you,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled, picking yourself off the limousine floor. Ugh. Dust.

--

The mansion was something straight out of a Disney movie. Everything that wasn’t red velvet was gold or silver. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling like a teardrop. You stared at it as you followed Vivi up the red carpet steps and into the opulent ballroom, wondering how many people it’d knock out if it fell. You noticed Xiaolong’s eyes on it too. Bit of a security risk, huh? 

On the half-raised stage was a group of black-suited musicians, a live concert of beautiful classical music. Handsome butlers wandered through the swarms of socialites, offering tiny bits of caviar on stuffed rolls with the same handsome smile. Teeth glittered, gold flashed as powerful executives, politicians, and celebrities mingled. 

As soon as Vivi stepped through the door, the entire room’s gaze swiveled and fixed itself on the tiny pink-clad heiress. You froze. For once, you were thankful for Vivi’s makeover. The price of a single watch on an executive’s wrist was worth more than a lifetime of rent in Gangbuk. You’d humiliate Chairman Wei if you showed up in your usual shabby suit and pants, and Vivi knew it.

A silence settled upon the hall, though music continued to play. Then someone called out, “Madame Wei!” and the dam broke. A swarm of people rushed forward, tittering and smiling for Vivi’s attention. 

“Madame Wei, congratulations on the success of Shanghai Vivi,” a suited man said as he shoved his way to the front of the congregation. He even had the gall to take Vivi’s hand and kiss it, lips lingering a little too long to be comfortable. “Your talent knows no bounds.”

You saw Vivi’s shoulders tense at the same time Xiaolong stepped closer, a promise of safety amidst the chaos. “Thank you, Director Li,” she said, sweet as honey as she slipped her hand away and wiped it discreetly on her thighs. “All due to your generous contributions, of course.”

“It was the least I could do for the daughter of Chairman Wei,” the man said, smiling thinly. “After all, a favor must be repaid in full.”

“And might I compliment your dress tonight, Madame Wei!” a nervous-looking man piped up, wiping a handkerchief over his sweaty forehead. “Such style, such aplomb! Who is your tailor?”

“I don’t pay attention to those kinds of things. Daddy bought it from some French place,” Vivi said, even though you’d seen her spend days agonizing over what specific ruffles should be added to her sleeves. She twirled, and pink flared. “Isn’t it cute?”

“Adorable,” the man gushed. “And how did Chairman Wei identify the seasonal fashion? Did he have a hand in the new Hong Kong Vogue issue featuring the model Fengren?”

Vivi’s hands fisted the ruffles of her dress, though her voice remained cheery as she said, “Why don’t you ask Daddy? I think he’s over there.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare—”

But Vivi was already moving on, forcing the crowd to jog beside her lest they lose their golden goose.

“Madame Wei, who’s your new friend?” a reporter called, pen at the ready. 

You jolted out of your musing, suddenly met with the attention of a hundred-some gazes. It was worse than forgetting your speech after walking onstage. It was worse than having a couch thrown at you by a monster in human skin. It was the helplessness of a butterfly pinned to the ground by a curious toddler with a stick, a spotlight on the most pathetic creature alive. 

You floundered, drowning in the shared condescension and derision in their eyes. They expected nothing but the worst from you, and how could you bear to disappoint them?

A hand waved through the air, splitting your panic. Vivi stood before you with her hand poised as if to strike someone, drawing the spotlight back onto herself. 

“Just my secretary,” she said, then yawned cutely behind her palm. Something sharp glittered in her smile. “Excuse me, everyone. I’d like to get some refreshments before I continue. Why don’t you join me?”

The crowd clamored and shouted their acquiescence. Vivi giggled, but her eyes remained as hollow as you’d ever seen them. She didn’t look back as she flounced off, Xiaolong following suit. As the ass-kissers clung to her steps, you were left alone in the middle of the massive ballroom, reeling from your first step into the sickly sweetness of high society.

You swallowed the residuals of your panic. Did she lead them away on purpose? 

A butler drifted by and offered you a tiny stick of potato. Half-drifting, you took one and popped it into your mouth, then made a face. Bland and oily. 

“Awful, isn’t it?”

There was a weird man standing next to you, black hair carefully pulled back from an aged face. He was short and well-dressed, which made him anything from a high-ranking politician to a random security goon. But then he smiled up at you, arms folded behind his back, and you recognized that look in his eyes, the absolute assurance of the richest and most powerful. 

“There's nothing better than a good bowl of rice and kimchi to warm the soul,” he continued, unaware or uncaring of the eyes that flicked towards the two of you. “None of this fancy Western food. Barely fills the stomach and costs hundreds of won. Bah. That’s a scam, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Um. Yes, sir,” you said, ducking your head.

He waved a hand dismissively. “I get enough of that from my kids. Just call me Steve, eh?”

Steve. Did you know any CEOs named Steve? Steve Jang, Steve An, Stephen Daniels… Wait, should you even be talking to this guy in the first place? 

“I haven’t seen your face around here before. Well, mask,” he continued, oblivious to your internal conflict. “What company do you represent?”

“The T Group, sir,” you said. Steve Jobs—wait, no, he’s dead and he’s white. Steven Kang? 

The man tilted his head, examining you with beady black eyes. “That accent,” he muttered, and you felt vaguely offended until he said in Korean, “You’re from the motherland?”

Unbidden, a smile crossed your face. “Yeah. Gangbuk, Seoul.”

“Ah, Gangbuk.” He tilted his head back as if to think. “Beautiful place. Full of rich history. How is it now?”

You shrugged. “As well as it’ll ever be.”

Steve Something glanced at you. “I never imagined Wang Wei would get off his high horse and finally breach international borders for fresh talent,” he said mildly. “You must be pretty special if he brought you.”

“I don’t think so, sir. I just had…” An enterprising deal. “...an ambitious mentor.”

He cracked a grin. “Is that so? What’s his name?” 

“Charles Choi.”

He grunted. “I’m not familiar.”

“He’s young.” And a conman. “I’m actually here for Chairman Wei’s daughter, Miss Vivi Wei,” you added, nodding towards the swarm of people surrounding the refreshment table. 

“Ah, the ambitious businesswoman,” Steve said, adjusting his silky maroon tie. You weren’t surprised to see the gleam of silver on his wrist, another watch worth more than your entire existence. “Well, a word of advice from one Korean to another. The T Group are well-connected in all aspects. Be careful that association with them does not bring more detriment than benefit.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good kid.” Steve offered you a hand. “To ambition,” he said as you shook his surprisingly callused grip. There was a business card tucked in his palm, which you slid into your pocket with a wry smile. 

“Yes,” you said. “To ambition.”

After he left, you pulled out the card. Steve Hong, it read in simplistic typography. Chairman of the H Group. 

Ah. The tech monopoly. On cue, your phone buzzed, and you pulled it out to see “Brat 🙄” flash across the screen. A huge grin, bigger than the one you’d offer Chairman Hong, spread across your lips, and you ducked your way through the crowd of people, muttering apologies all the while.

The cool evening air hit your face, and you leaned your arms over the balcony railing, a smile tugging on your lips. You pulled down your mask, took a deep breath, then answered the call. “Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey yourself,” came the amused response. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

You tilted your head to the sky and gazed up at the moon, a plate of yellow on a silver background. A few floors below you, the white quartz of the mansion unfurled into a sprawling garden with verdant greenery and leaping fountains. Buying a mansion this big would put you in debt for the next one thousand years. 

To think that Charles Choi wanted to match their wealth one day. Ambition was that man’s middle name. 

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“You can think?”

“Shut up.” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. “What’s up?”

“Well, someone promised me a call this weekend,” James said, and you could practically hear the pout in his voice. “But apparently I have to do everything in this household.” He sniffed theatrically. “It’s like you don’t even love me anymore.”

“Aw, James,” you said. “Of course I do. I just hate the sound of your voice.”

He yelped in protest. You laughed, a bright sound that surprised even yourself and caused some lurkers on the balcony to peek over. You cleared your throat, forcing down a blush. “Heard you got beat up.” 

James’s sigh crackled over the phone. You could imagine him lying face first on his bed, painting his nails or reading his textbook with a bored expression on his pretty face. “Yeah. Mr. Choi recruited a yakuza kid to help me clear out Seoul.”

“Yakuza?” you asked, surprised. Charles Choi had connections to the yakuza? 

“The Yamazaki Syndicate. You haven’t heard of them?”

Unfortunately, you had, and nothing good. Cheonliang was practically run by two of the Yamazaki’s guard dogs. You even had to fight one of them when you dropped by to speak to the regional king, though “fight” was probably the wrong word. “Run away and cry as he chased you across the courtyard” was a more accurate description, at least until he got bored and kicked you out of the compound. 

“He’s good,” James admitted reluctantly. “Not as good as me, of course. But pretty good.”

You hummed, remembering the tiny cut James had shown you. That was rare. Most people didn’t even get close. “Are you supposed to train him?”

“Mr. Choi’s having us train with one another. Apparently I’m close enough to surpassing another threshold that he thinks it’d help.” James scoffed, and you heard the crinkle of a lollipop wrapper before he popped the candy into his mouth with a loud crunch. He never bothered to lick the damn things. “Like I need to spar with a thirteen year old.”

“Mr. Choi hasn’t changed his plan, then?” you asked.

“No.” A pause. “You’re okay with it?”

“We crossed that bridge a long time ago, James,” you said quietly, picking at your nails. “I don’t think they’ll ever…” You trailed off, throat closing. “I don’t know. Sorry. I can’t give you a better answer.”

James’s voice was tight. “It’s fine. Those bastards never deserved you anyways.”

You chuckled drily, staring out into the dark evening. Sometimes you wished you smoked so you could dramatically blow out a plume of smoke, cigarette pinched between your fingers. 

“How are things on your end?” James asked, breaking through your thoughts. 

“Ah,” you said. “It’s alright.”

“Uh-huh.” James sounded disbelieving. 

You dropped your head and groaned. This was why you could never lie to him. He sniffed you out like a hound. “I told you before, right? The girl I’m supposed to look after—I just don’t understand her. She’s a spoiled brat, but she takes my advice when it suits her. Sometimes she’s super nice, and other times she’s the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“Wow. High bar.”

“James,” you whined. “This isn’t funny!”

He laughed. “It doesn’t seem that complicated. She’s the daughter of the chairman, right? She’s probably just lonely.

“Lonely?” you asked, incredulous. “She has money, power, and the whole world kissing her feet for an ounce of her favor. What else could she want?”

“I don’t know,” James said, sounding annoyed for no reason you could discern. “A genuine connection with another person? Someone who doesn’t like her for her father’s money? A friend?”

A friend. You stared into the air, stunned.

“Jiyin? What are you doing here?”

You whirled around, tugging your mask back up and cupping your phone on instinct. Vivi stood at the entrance of the balcony, hip cocked and brow furrowed, her ever-present shadow at her side. Shit.

“Gotta go,” you whispered, “duty calls.”

“The brat?”

“Yup. Text you later.”

“‘Kay.”

You hung up, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Miss Wei,” you said, managing a smile. “What do you need?”

Vivi frowned. “I’m done. We’re getting out of here.”

“Oh,” you said. “What about your friends?”

Vivi’s glower deepened, and she turned her nose up with a huff. You winced. Wrong choice of words. She lifted her arms, and Xiaolong swept her into a bridal carry and began to stride across the ballroom. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea, too afraid to comment on the girl nestled in his arms. 

You chased them down. “Doesn’t the chairman still have a speech to give?” you asked, panting. “We’ve only just arrived. Wouldn’t it be rude to just leave?”

“Who cares?” Vivi said, burying her face in Xiaolong’s collar. “Everyone’s so stuffy anyways, no one will notice.”

You glanced at the lively scene behind you, then followed Xiaolong down the steps.

Xiaolong set Vivi down at the bottom of the stairs, bowed, and then disappeared to retrieve the limo. She rubbed her arms and shivered, shoulders bare in her frilly dress. After a moment, you peeled off your jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She cast you a glance, then looked away, tiny hands clutching onto the suit jacket for dear life. 

For a while, the only that was audible was the dull sounds of music and conversation, interwoven with the sound of owls and crickets. You exhaled, feeling your breath dampen the inside of your mask. 

“You disappeared,” Vivi said. “Why’d you leave?”

“I was speaking to a friend,” you said. 

“The guy on your phone?”

You nodded. Vivi huffed. “He’s way too hot for you,” she muttered, head bowed. 

Your initial instinct was to bristle. Then you looked at her again. She seemed so small then your jacket swallowing her form, her ashy-blond hair made darker by the night sky. There wasn’t much of anything on her expression but a placid, subdued irritation. 

“He is,” you admitted. And far too kind, too. 

She sniffled. You waited, and then asked, “How was the party?”

“Boring,” she said, like she was waiting for you to say it. “Even when it’s a party, the only thing they want to talk about is business this, business that. ‘Oh, Miss Wei, why don’t you try this lobster? The Haiyang Company had it imported from Sweden.’ ‘Miss Wei, did you read my email? ‘Miss Wei, Miss Wei, Miss Wei!’” She stomped her foot and glared at nothing. “Don’t they know my name is Vivi? Gosh!”

You blinked. “I’m sorry,” you said as the limousine rounded the corner. 

“Whatever.” Vivi stepped into the limo without a second word. You followed suit, mind racing. 

James was right. Of course he was.

Vivi was fourteen and at the top of the world, a position usually meant for fifty-year old business men with balding heads and snarling teeth. Where else could she go from there but up?

Before you could lose your nerve, you leaned over to Xiaolong, who was sitting at the other side of the limo with his hands in his lap, and said, “Does Vivi have anything on her schedule after this?”

Xiaolong peered up, brow furrowed. Babysitting Vivi didn’t seem to affect his energy-levels at all. You had no doubt he could pull that spear from nowhere and fend off an entire army if it came down to it. “No. Why?”

“I want to make a detour.”

Xiaolong’s eyes narrowed. “Show me,” he said, and you pulled up the place on your phone and tossed it at him. He caught your phone from the air, scanned the website, and then moved to the partition, muttering rapid-fire Chinese to the driver. After a moment, he returned to your side and handed back your phone. “Arrangements have been made.”

“Thanks,” you said, smiling up at him. “I know this is a bit out of place for me.”

To your surprise, Xiaolong shook his head. “I understand your intent,” he said. “I’ve had the same idea numerous times.”

You blinked. “Really?” 

“I’ve never had the…” He paused. “Had the courage to see it through.”

“You. Lost your nerve? You?” you asked, incredulous.

Xiaolong’s face was obscured by darkness, so you couldn’t see much except the slight twitch of his lips. It might’ve been a smirk. It also could’ve been a scowl and a warning for you to back the fuck off. “I am her guard. I do not have the right to decide what is best for Miss Vivi.”

It was the most he’d said to you in months. Struck by his words, you leaned back in your seat. “I can’t say I feel the same,” you said after a while, “but I appreciate your honesty. Thank you for telling me.”

He inclined his head. 

“What are you two muttering about?” came Vivi’s sleepy voice. You glanced at Xiaolong, then back to the little pink princess as she pushed herself onto one elbow, squinting through the darkness.

Well, it was now or nothing. 

“Vivi,” you said, wiggling your fingers awkwardly, “how do you feel about midnight hot pot?

Chapter Text

A furious torrent of curses broke through Seonji’s feverish dreams. 

“Where the hell am I? Did that fucking bastard drop me off in the middle of nowhere again?”

He was on his feet before he fully registered the sound, threadbare blanket tossed to the side of his tiny shack. Every bruised and battered muscle in his body tensed in preparation for a confrontation. Did the Kojima brothers return with a new recruit? Or was it the challengers who chased the crown he never wanted? 

The footsteps got louder. Seongji stared at the door, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

A knock.

“Hello?” called an unfamiliar voice. “Anyone home?”

Seongji burst through the door, prepared to lash out at the person who dared invade his home, and—

“Woah,” you said, blinking at him. “Hi, I guess?”

Seonji’s heart leaped. His fist had missed you by several inches, which shouldn’t be possible. He’d never missed a single punch during his training—but since when did he ever care about training?

You were still waiting for a response. Seongji drew back and shifted his stance, tense. Nothing about you screamed spy from the Yamazaki Clan, with your black canvas bag and blue school uniform, but the Kojima brothers had done worse things than loop a civilian into their plans to drag Seongji back to the cult. Or at least someone who looked like one, even though no civilian could've dodged his punch as easily as you had.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, voice hoarse from disuse.

Frowning, you held up both hands in surrender. “Sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said, the second surprise of the day. “Is this Cheonliang?”

Seonji wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed, to drown in the blissful nothingness of sleep until the world stopped spinning and he finally escaped that awful ringing in his head. But your gaze pinned him to place. Silently, he pointed south.

You turned to look at the road, brow furrowing. "Huh. Any idea how long it'll take to get there?"

"Dunno," Seongji said. For him, fifteen minutes. For a normal person? Anywhere from three hours to half a day. 

You scowled, a shockingly dark expression on your delicate features. “Fucking Beolgu,” you grumbled. “Just because I made one little joke about his wife…”

“Beolgu?” Seongji asked.

“My Uber driver.” You glanced at him, then did a double-take. “What happened to your face?"

Seongji touched his bruised cheekbone, licking residual blood from his teeth. It didn’t hurt that much. He was used to sleeping on the other side anyways. “Accident.”

Before he could react or, hell, try to punch you again, you stood inches away from him, eyes piercing him through. He froze as you raised a hand, hovering it over his jaw. “Can I touch you?” you asked. 

He didn’t know why he nodded. Fuck, he should be shoving you away, scaring you so that you never approached him or his mountain ever again. But this close, he could smell you, something sweet and intoxicating and vaguely musky like sweat and pomegranate. A weird combination, but you told him later that that specific brand of shampoo was constantly on sale, so you’d buy it in bulk and share it with your best friend. Then you’d smiled and ran a hand through his rough hair, offering to gift him a box of the same brand. 

When you touched his face, Seonji’s knees nearly buckled. Your touch was gentle, your fingers warm and callused as you fluttered them across his cheekbone, wincing at the deep purple bruise developing on his skin. There was none of the usual disgust or fear in your gaze—only a gentle concern.

“Fractured,” you muttered, and Seonji wanted so badly to follow your touch as you pulled away. 

Pathetic. Clearly those challengers had hurt him way worse than he’d imagined, enough to jostle loose a few brain cells. He jolted out of his daze when you retrieved a giant gauze pad from your bag.

“Is your vision in that eye okay?” you asked, unpeeling the gauze.

Seonji might’ve grunted something in affirmation. He didn’t remember anymore, but he knew it made you laugh loudly. 

What he did remember, though, was batting your hand away from him as you led him stumbling and crawling into his cot like a toddler. He might have slurred an insult about your hair, too. You only rolled your eyes and pulled his threadbare blanket over his shoulders. Your hand was cool as you laid it across his forehead. 

“You’re burning up,” you murmured. “How are you even conscious?”

Seonji gritted his teeth and held back a moan, pain wracking his body. Only your firm grip on his wrist grounded him. When the cool rim of a water bottle touched his lip, he jerked his head to the side and pursed his mouth. He wasn’t going to let himself be poisoned so easily.

He heard you sigh. “Jeez. You’re worse than James.”

Your hand went back to his forehead, and he’d never admit it but only your touch kept him sane throughout the first hours of that night, brushing through his hair with the gentleness of a kinder man. Every time he emerged from his fever, you were there, either standing guard by his bed, busying yourself with his cranky portable stove, or trying to force-feed him more water.

After the second night, Seonji’s fever broke just enough for him to snatch your wrist as you crawled to your feet to check the stove, whatever you’d managed to scrounge up from his meager stores burbling happily in his tiny pot. You jolted, but you didn’t try to tug away, perhaps knowing you’d never succeed.

“Who are you?” he rasped, squinting through his blurry vision. 

Your smile was wry, the sun peeking out from behind storm clouds as you pried his fingers off your wrist. “Gin. Do you think you can handle solid foods now?”

--

For a girl half your size, Vivi could eat. 

“More beef,” she said to the waiter, mouth filled with beef-stuffed mushrooms and fish balls. “And pork. Ten plates each.”

The poor man looked like he wanted to cry. The tower of empty plates on your table was already piled taller than Xiaolong, and Vivi wasn't anywhere close to stopping. “T-That’ll be twenty thousand yuan, ma’am.”

Vivi slurped up a long rice noodle, oil flicking onto her nose. Xiaolong placed a paper napkin in front of her, which she ignored. “And?”

As the man fled to the kitchen, you pushed your chair back. The three of you looked ridiculously out of place in this tiny hole-in-the-wall hot pot restaurant, dressed to the nines and back. Hell, Xiaolong nearly bashed his head against the swinging overhead light when he first ducked inside. But Vivi’s expression had lost some of that unseen tension from the ballroom, the terrible hollowness that filled her eyes like arsenic.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” you said. “The charity ball didn’t suit you.”

“Ugh, yeah. I’m starving.”

“You didn’t eat anything at the dinner?” You’d only picked at your own bowl of rice, remembering all too well the last time you’d indulged in junk food. Ramen was fine as long as you skipped the sodium and oil packets, but hot pot was pushing it, and you’d rather not wake up in a pool of your own vomit when you weren’t even old enough to drink.

Vivi pouted, face smeared with sauce and oil. “The chef's ugly and mean.”

Huh. You didn’t know about the ugly and mean part, but the appetizers they had been serving certainly left a lot to be desired. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better," you said, smiling awkwardly.

"No, you're not," Vivi said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her smile was as pretty as belladonna. "You're just like the rest of them."

You forced yourself to meet her eyes, accusing as they were. How many poor souls had Chairman Wei saddled with Vivi in a futile attempt to tame her? How many had left, humiliated and defeated You weren't a psychologist, but you couldn't imagine that Vivi enjoyed the endless cycle of new faces, all sly and simpering in the same way, doing their damndest to pretend the knife behind their back wasn't for her.

And to think you'd been one of them.

"Then I apologize for leaving you alone. Inexperience isn't an excuse for a lack of professionalism. As your secretary, it was my responsibility to protect you from unwanted attention, and I failed.” You bowed your head. “I’m sorry.”

Silence. When you raised your head again, Vivi’s expression was blank. She played with the fluffy ends of her dress, smearing oil and grease all over the expensive fabric. “Why’re you being so nice all of a sudden? It’s super weird.” 

“Haven’t I always been nice?” you asked, a little hurt. 

“Not to me,” Vivi said, waving her chopsticks through the air for emphasis. A few drops of oil flew through the air and landed on the table behind her. The two men started to get up, only to slink back down when Xiaolong glanced at them. “You’re always so stiff. It’s weird.” You opened your mouth, only to snap your jaw shut when she jabbed her chopsticks at you. “Look! Like that!”

“Pardon?” 

Vivi slammed her hands on the table, ignoring the fervent glares the restaurant owner shot her out of the corner of his eye. “You do that-- that thing! You go super quiet and you don’t move.”

You looked down at yourself. You were sitting the way you’d learned in class, back straight and hands folded in your lap, mostly because looking attentive was the easiest way to avoid being smacked with a piece of chalk from the teacher for dozing off. “Why would it be annoying?” 

Vivi threw her hands in the air. “You’re not supposed to just take it when someone yells at you. Why don’t you get mad?”

“Do you want me to get mad?”

Vivi looked frustrated. “I don’t know.” 

“Okay,” you said, smiling, “then I won’t get mad.”

She glowered at you. Somehow, you didn’t feel annoyed at all. Rather, there was a strange, floaty sensation in your head, almost overwhelming the thicket of oil in the air. The whole time you’d been treating her like one of the geniuses in Seoul, the ones who could bend steel with a single hand or hack into Wall Street using a 2000s Nokia phone. 

But Vivi was just a kid, the same age as your cousin. She threw tantrums when things didn’t go her way and made business decisions based on how much she liked people’s faces. That was an annoying quality for a boss, but for a kid? It was almost cute.

Almost. 

“You’re weird,” Vivi repeated, cheeks puffing out in a confused pout.

“Thank you,” you said. A piece of loose hair was stuck to the corner of her mouth. You were tempted to brush it out of the way, or pull her hair into a ponytail in the way your auntie did for you and your cousin. 

The waiter returned with a cart of meat, sweating as he placed plate after plate on the table, which was practically groaning under the weight. You watched the tower grow warily. “You know,” you said to Xiaolong in Korean, struck by a surge of bravery, “now would be a good time to pull one of those black credit cards and save me from a lifetime of debt." Not like you weren't already in debt. Ha-ha.

“It’s pink,” Xiaolong said. You blinked. He didn’t look like he was joking.

“Fine,” you said as you pulled out your wallet forlornly. It’s an investment, you repeated to yourself. “I’ll pay in advance.” 

Before the poor waiter could take your credit, a hand swiped through the air. You flinched back, just in time for a figure to lean over your chair with a croon. “Aw, come on. Surely a hotshot like you could spare some change?”

“Uh,” you said as a group of, hm, how could you put it politely? A group of annoying bastards crammed themselves into the already packed restaurant, filling up the space with their irritating smiles. As the waiter squeaked and hobbled backwards, you tucked your credit card back into your wallet and turned in your seat to meet the stranger’s leer. “What is happening?”

The man was tall and decently built, dressed in a too-big leather jacket and matching pants. Tattoos lined his arms, though you couldn’t make heads or tails of what the random squiggles were supposed to represent. His face was twisted into what he probably thought was an impressive glare, but just ended squinting his eyes and baring a row of yellowing teeth. 

Was this a robbery? No, then why were the owner and his wife still standing at the counter? More importantly, they were glaring at the three of you.

“The night of your life, sweetheart,” the man cooed, hand gripping the back of your chair so that he could lean over, pressing into your personal space. “What’s with the mask and sunglasses? Are ya some kind of celebrity?”

“Sorry, we’re not interested,” you said. “Also, I’m underage.”

Slowly and deliberately, the man dragged his gaze up and down your body, lingering on your bare neck. Your skin crawled. You suddenly wanted to scrub all the makeup off your face and dunk yourself into a hot tub until you were red and steaming like a lobster. “You don’t need to lie to me, sweetheart. Come on, let’s go have some fun.”

You grabbed his wrist when he tried to snatch your sunglasses. “No means no," you said, jaw clenching. "Leave us alone.” 

The man’s face twisted, and he yanked his arm out of your grip. “Fucking ugly bitch. Just because you’re rich, you think you can treat us like shit?”

You bristled. Suddenly, Vivi yawned. “I’m full,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the hem of her five-million yuan dress. “That was pretty yummy.”

The back of your neck prickled. Her statement felt like a warning. Obviously, the thugs weren’t smart enough to recognize what it meant for Vivi Wei to jump into a conversation, smiling like a panther baring its fangs.

“Hey, this one’s a cutie too,” said one of the man’s friends, edging closer and closer to Vivi. “What’s your name, girlie?”

Dammit. “Try not to—“

Glass shattered. The owner’s wife screamed. You smiled wryly as the restaurant patrons, jolted out of their self-imposed ignorance, suddenly found it in their hearts to leap to their feet and flee through the door, dinner forgotten. 

“—destroy everything,” you finished uselessly as Xiaolong unfurled from his seat, face contorted into an inhumane visage of wrath. You pinched your brow and sighed. This was going to be a fun conversation with the company lawyers. “I tried.”

The creep didn’t hear you, too busy passed out on the sidewalk, having been thrown through the window with a single swipe of Xiaolong’s hand. 

From then, things unfurled into chaos. The men threw themselves at you, howling about their friend and how they’d make you pay for everything. A+ for enthusiasm, but there was no way they were getting past Xiaolong when he looked like that. 

As Xiaolong fought off the horde of faceless goons, you grabbed Vivi’s hand and tugged her towards the kitchen. “There’s probably a back door over here,” you say, pushing her head down and letting an errant plate fly overhead harmlessly. 

She struggled in your grasp like a tiny kitten. “But I wanna see!” she cried, craning her neck.

“Nothing to see,” you said, shoving Vivi forward and dropping to the ground. Twin fists sailed over your head, colliding with each other. The two men dropped to the ground as you leaped onto the nearby table, narrowly dodging the man that crashed into the chair you’d been standing in front of mere seconds ago. 

“In fact, it’s best if we give Xiaolong some space,” you said, kicking a creep in the face when he tried to crawl onto the table. Ugh. This was just like the zombie flicks James liked to watch. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

Someone tried to throw a clumsy punch at you. In a flash of inspiration, you leaped into the air, landed in a handstand on his shoulders, and kneed him in the face, knocking him back into the throng of men. You touched down on the ground in a kneel, hips smarting.

Man. You were so out of shape. 

“Wow,” Vivi said from behind you, sounding exhilarated, “nice flip!”

“Thank you,” you said, hopping to your feet with a wince. 

Only two people remained upright amidst a field of groaning bodies. When Xiaolong released his grip on the man’s collar, the poor dude wobbled and collapsed face-first at Xiaolong’s feet. Impressive. He didn’t even look out of breath, though he’d definitely need to pay for a new suit. Blood was hell to get of fabric, let alone silk. A few strands of hair escaped from his neat ponytail, swaying in front of his eyes.

The sound of clapping ripped your attention away from the savagery of Xiaolong’s face. “Ten points!” Vivi said, grinning. Her eyes were alight with that fervent glow, like someone dropped a flashlight down those deep wells of gray. “I think that was a world record.”

“Only ten points for a world record?” you said drily, and cocked your head to the left, letting the pen hurtle past your ear.

“Get out of here! I-I’ve called the police, you hooligans!” the owner roared, face flushed and spittle flying. He clutched a bouquet of pens in one hand, which he raised threateningly. “Leave!”

You glanced around at the broken tables, shattered plates, and upturned hot pot broth spilled across the floor, and barely stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. “Happy to do so, sir. Unfortunately, we won’t be liable for damages,” you said, pulling out your wallet. 

The owner squeaked and jumped backwards as a business card impaled itself on the counter before him. Summoning your best impression of Charles Choi, you pulled down your sunglasses just enough to let him catch a glimpse of your eyes, half-lidded and unimpressed. “We should be the ones pressing charges. You were the one who unjustly called this attack on us. No, don’t try to deny it. What do you think we’ll find if we look through your little friends’ pockets? Surely not a phone with your number on it, and at the exact time that our dinner was interrupted.”

“You--- You were disrupting our service!” the owner sputtered, pressing himself against the wall. “I had every right!”

“Of course, and I respect your decision as a small business owner,” you said, inclining your head. “Which means surely you respect the T Group Conglomerate’s decision to sue for unjust emotional damage and,” you rubbed your chin, pretending to think, “attempted murder against their heiress?”

The man’s face went pale. “W-What?”

“Of course, if none of tonight’s events are revealed to the public, then we have no impetus to do the same. Power to the people and all.” You smiled, and it wasn’t a pretty one. “Thank you for your service. We look forward to your response.”

As the cherry on top, you spun on your heel and marched towards the door without looking back. You hoped that worked. You hadn’t bluffed like that since Cheonliang. 

Suddenly, a small, cold hand grasped your wrist and pulled, nearly making your heart leap out of your chest. “Race you!” Vivi cried, dragging you along as she hopped over the bodies on the floor with the ease and grace of a fairy. She didn’t even look at them, even when she crushed the nose of the creep who tried to hit on her beneath a pretty pink heel. 

“What do I get if I win?” you asked, stumbling after her. 

She laughed, bright and carillon. “Anything you want!”

You cocked an eyebrow, feeling a smile tug on your lips. “Is that a promise?”

“Duh. This was the most fun I’ve had in years."

“Well,” you said as Vivi released your hand and raised her arms towards Xiaolong, “I’m happy to please.”

Without another word, Xiaolong picked her up in a bridal carry, and she snuggled against his chest, either not noticing or not caring about the blood smeared across his suit. “Last one to the limo is a stinky butt,” she said, sticking out her tongue.

Your mouth fell open. “I’m racing Xiaolong?”

Vivi reached up and tugged on Xiaolong’s ponytail. “What, scared?”

Xiaolong dipped his head in silent acknowledgement of the command. When he met your gaze, there was a sharpness there, a well-fed cat licking its teeth after a good meal. You shuddered and looked away. 

The three of you reached the threshold of the shop. You glanced over your shoulder at the wreckage the three of you had made of the restaurant, along with the sobbing owner behind the counter being comforted by his similarly distraught wife. “Anything I want?” you asked. 

She nodded, her smile as bright as the sun. “Sure!” 

You peeled off your jacket and slipped off your annoying closed-toed shoes. Feet bare, you draped both over your arm and dragged a hand through your hair, lips quirked into a wry grimace. Xiaolong shifted, eyes narrowing in sudden alertness. It would be disrespectful to meet him with anything but your best.

“Keep your word, Vivi,” you said. 

--

[You sent an attachment: Beijing.png] The hot pot here is amazing.

♪(*^^)o∀*∀o(^^*)♪ awwww looks like I missed all the fun! 

--

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“Vivi,” you said with a sigh, resisting the urge to put your head in your hands, “please get off my desk.”

Vivi pouted and clambered off your desk, nearly kicking off your little potted plant in the process. You caught it just before it smashed on the ground and set it back in its spot by the empty picture frame. “Pretty, pretty please?” she asked, cupping her hands beneath her chin and batting her lashes dramatically. “You have to come. Or are you planning to leave me alone?"

“You’ll have Xiaolong and your other friends. You don’t need me,” you said, squinting at the spreadsheet. Something was wrong with the formulas, but you couldn’t figure out which cell had the missing command.

Vivi leaned over, scanned the spreadsheet, and then clicked on a random cell and added an “$” to the formula. You leaned back in your chair as the effects rippled down the column, changing the errors into beautifully arranged numbers. “But it'll be boring without you," she said as you gleefully copied the numbers into your weekly report.

You spun around to face her. Vivi cranked up the charm, even cupping her cheeks and squishing them like a hamster. You sighed and ruffled her hair, nearly tugging it out of its two cute buns. “Why would an old person like me go on a cruise with your friends? They’ll laugh me off the boat."

Vivi's cheeks reddened s she peered up at you through a veil of pale lashes. “It’s my boat. Why would I kick out one of my friends?”

“I’m flattered, but I still don’t think I’d be a good fit. Plus, I don’t have any more vacation days.”

“It’s paid-time off. And I’ll give you a raise!”

“You already did,” you said, amused. You'd never forget Xiaolong’s expression of vague disbelief as he rounded the corner and spotted you leaning against the limo, grinning with all the smug righteousness of the cat who’d caught the canary.

Vivi stamped her foot. “I-I’ll demote you!”

“Chairman Wei would be disappointed to hear that,” you said amicably. 

Vivi wrinkled her nose. “Are you seriously not coming?” she asked forlornly, staring at her feet with her head bowed and shoulders hunched. She was definitely playing it up for a nonexistent camera, but your heart tugged anyway. Damn your weakness for cute kids.

Sometimes, you couldn’t believe how much Vivi had changed in two months. Apparently, taking her out for hot pot, beating up a bunch of randos, and defeating Xiaolong in a footrace across five lanes of traffic and through at least twelve dodgy alleyways was the key to getting on her good side.

You were no longer relegated to your office, doomed to be forgotten as a background character for the rest of your internship. Instead, Vivi dragged you everywhere she went, from board meetings to dinner at her penthouse to weekend shopping sprees. You became her shadow, second only to Xiaolong himself. (Which meant your daily itinerary went Vivi, meeting, meeting, lunch, Vivi, more meetings, office work, Vivi, Vivi, rinse and repeat. Sleep was overrated.)

In return, you took Vivi and Xiaolong to the spots you used to hit with your friends—wandering noodle stands with secret menus that tasted better than three star Michelin restaurants; cramped and popcorn-littered movie theaters showing gory American thrillers from the 80s; karaoke places above an antiques store that always smelled of incense and whose machine needed to be kicked to work. You helped her with homework and even cooked for her when she demanded to taste authentic Korean food, even though you could barely make half-decent bowl of bibimbap and the entire culinary world would gladly kneel at her feet at the flick of her hand. 

The throne at the top was undoubtedly lonely—which should be ridiculous. Vivi had all of China kissing her feet. But when you asked her if she wanted to invite anyone else to karaoke, she gave you a strange look and said, “Who cares about them? I only need you two.”

Maybe her clinginess should've been irritating. But you had enough practice wrangling another whiny genius from Seoul ((ㆀ˘･з･˘) wdym, i’m adorable!). So you let Vivi watch reruns of soap operas on your couch as you worked, entertained her cravings for 3am convenience store snacks, and allowed her to dress you up like her personal fashion doll.

But could you really up and leave your responsibilities just to accompany Vivi on a seven-day cruise through the South China Sea? You had a job, and Chairman Wei remained as irritatingly reticent as he’d been at the beginning of your internship. Even as Vivi’s personal secretary, he barely gave you the time of day, grunting affirmations when you gave him your monthly report and waving a hand when you tried to ask him for suggestions. 

“Can’t think of anything by yourself? Pity. I’d expected better of you."

Ugh. Sometimes you wanted to smack him and Charles Choi across the face. 

You leaned back in your squeaky office chair and stared at the ceiling. You’d skated past the past few weeks by being yourself, but yourself wasn’t enough for Charles Choi’s plans. Vivi was the beginner's boss; Chairman Wei was the demon king waiting in the deepest depths of the dungeon. And everyone knew beating an RPG required strong allies.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll come with you.”

“Yes!” Vivi cried, punching the air. You chuckled as she danced around your office, kicking her feet clumsily and wiggling in excitement. “Come on, let’s go tell Xiaolong! He’s going to be so pumped.”

“I’ll join you in a minute,” you said, returning to your laptop. “Let me finish---”

Vivi slammed your laptop shut, tucked it under her arm, and bolted out of your office. You stared at her, then leaped out of your chair and sprinted after her. “Vivi?!”

Vivi ran towards Xiaolong, who stood vigil in the hallway, and leaped into his awaiting arms. She waved as Xiaolong stepped backwards into the elevator, sticking out her tongue with a playful giggle. “Work’s boring. Catch me if you can!” she called as the doors slid shut. 

You gaped at the closed elevator, and then bolted for the stairs, nearly bowling over one of Vivi’s other employees in the process. Was this revenge for last time? You couldn’t quite tell, but you thought Xiaolong was smirking before the doors shut. 

Wait, that was your only laptop! You needed it to access the company database!! 

“Vivi, come back!”

--

“And this is our private movie theater, complete with a private chef, a personal bartender, and an entire candy store to peruse while you enjoy our Ultra-HD screens!” the tour guide said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm. "We have every flavor you could possibly want. Feel free to choose anything that strikes your fancy!"

You were the only one who clapped. The rest of the entourage were on their phones, yawning in obvious boredom, or playing with your hair (Vivi). The tour guide’s bright smile twitched, and he hopped towards the candy store at the back of the movie theater with a dramatic gasp. 

“Look! We even have the special, yet-to-be released super secret special flavor of jelly beans! Grab a bag and feast to your heart’s content,” he said, gesturing towards a humongous vat of jelly beans that stretched towards the ceiling. It was almost as big as a truck, filled to the brim with rainbow-colored candies.

You clapped again. James would go apeshit for this place. “What kind of flavors do you have?” 

The tour guide whirled upon you, grateful tears welling in his eyes. “Sour apple, banana, rainbow road, chocolate-covered-blueberry…” Vivi yanked on your hair, making you wince. “...caramel apple, teriyaki chicken…”

“Teriyaki chicken?”

“It’s good!” he declared. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” you said, chuckling. “Can I try some?”

The tour guide grabbed a random bag from the nearby display shelf and practically shoved it into your arms. “Take it. On me!”

As the guide led you through the rest of the ship, you snacked on jelly beans and took as many photos as your phone storage would allow. There were dining halls decked out in gold chandeliers and red carpet, arcades with hundreds of shiny machines, multiple Olympic-sized swimming pools and Six-Flag-sized water parks, and even an entire indoor basketball arena that once hosted an NBA training camp.

Teriyaki chicken jelly beans, you told James, along with a picture of the half-empty bag. They're weirdly good.

Nothing. It felt weird not to have an immediate response, but James had gotten busy in the last couple of weeks, sometimes ghosting you for hours at a time. Maybe he was sparring with the Yamazaki kid again. Disappointed, you tucked your phone away and listened to the tour guide describe the architectural influences on the spiral staircase (the etchings were pure gold, he promised).

The only reactions drawn from Vivi’s friends were yawns, giggles, and sarcastic comments about how they’d had more fun napping in the hospital. Even Vivi was oddly subdued, having given up on playing with your hair after tying it into a bow, braiding it into a heart, and then trying to shave it all off while you weren’t paying attention. (You confiscated the razor, because, what? Where’d she even get that?) She didn’t even twitch when the indoor swimming resort was revealed in all of its slippery-slidey glory. Were you in an alternative universe where this was normal? Why was no one else excited?!

Finally, the guide dropped you off at one of the many restaurants on the ship and fled after giving an excuse about checking in with your rooms. The rest of her friends dissipated in opposite directions, leaving the three of you alonoe in the dining hall. Xiaolong stood a few paces behind you, but you felt his eyes on the back of your neck, as potent as the gleam of a knife’s edge. 

As you poked the napkin princess with a finger, in awe of the details they’d managed to fold into her cloth face, Vivi dropped her head on the table with a groan. “Tired?” you asked.

She grumbled into her arms, head still down. 

You tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong?” 

Vivi lifted her head and shrugged. She looked like she wanted to shrink into her oversized sweatshirt. That was rare. Vivi delighted in dressing herself up. “It’s kinda meh.”

Oh. You thought it was all very impressive, but rich heiresses undoubtedly had a different standard.

You ruffled her hair and chuckled when she tried to bat your hand away. “If you get bored, come get me. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really?”

You nodded. It was as if a light flicked on in her head. Vivi leaped up from the chair and pumped her fist in the air. “I’m gonna go find the DJ. See ya!” 

“Have fun,” you hummed. You took a sip of the complementary wine as Vivi darted away, Xiaolong following suit.

Mm. Fruity.

--

You’d initially wanted to use the trip as a way to get closer to Vivi's friends, maybe see if they had anything worth note to bring back to Charles Choi or Chairman Wei. But that plan fell through as soon as you approached them.

“Stinks of sewage trash,” one of the foreigners, a Russian girl who spoke English with a thick accent, said when you offered her a bag of sweets. You took the hint.

As night fell and the party on the upper deck  began, you retreated to the lower floors. After a few minutes of wandering through random rooms, you found yourself sitting at an empty bar with a friendly-looking bartender, who took one look at your haggard expression and slid a glass of ginger ale across the counter.

“It's good for digestion,” he said sympathetically, sliding a paper umbrella onto the drink. 

“Thank you,” you said, dragging it closer. You tugged down your mask, trying to ignore the bartender’s curious gaze, and took a sip. 

A few moments of companionable silence as you gathered your strength. Then the bartender cleared his throat and leaned over, lowering his voice. “You’re Miss Wei’s new secretary, right? I’ve seen you around.”

"I suppose," you said, pulling your mask back on. “You can call me Gin.”

“Gin,” he said, pronouncing it correctly. You blinked, and then grinned, making him flush and duck his head. He had a pretty smile, curving his soft brown eyes. “I’m Kanglei. It's nice to finally meet you in-person!"

“My reputation precedes me, I see,” you said drily. Damn Haowei. You still hadn’t shaken off the bad karma from your first months in his department.

Kanglei turned red. “N-Not really! I’ve just heard things. Er, good things, I promise. You’re prettier in-person. Not that your mask is ugly! I just--” You laughed. He groaned and rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

“You’ll learn,” you said, swirling the straw through your ginger ale. “Are you new?”

He laughed awkwardly. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, I started a few weeks ago. Have you ever been a bartender?”

“No,” you said, smiling. “A barista. I picked up a few tricks.” You glanced around, pretending to look for eavesdroppers, then propped your elbows on the counter and whispered conspiratorially, “Like how to deal with difficult customers.”

Kanglei looked intrigued. “Really? I’d love some tips, cuz I’ve definitely had some, uh, weird people come around.”

“It’s pretty simple,” you said, and then pointed to your mouth and curved your eyes in demonstration. “Just smile.”

He did. You chuckled. “There you go,” you said, waving a hand. “Everything else falls into place after that.”

“That's what I do,” Kanglei said with a sigh, “but my boss says I look stupid.”

“I think it’s cute.”

Kanglei froze, looking so much like a fawn in headlights that you burst out laughing. His face turned red, and he sputtered as you put your head in your arms, chuckles shaking your shoulders. “Don’t tease me! I get enough of that from my coworkers,” he grumbled, running a hand through his short brown hair. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you said, still chuckling. “I’ve known a few mixologists in my life. They’re an uptight group.”

“Mixologists,” Kanglei said with a huff. He turned to grab a bottle from the shelf and refilled your glass of ginger ale. “You know, I have a chemistry degree, and I think mixology is bullshit.”

You perked up. "Is that so?"

He puffed out his chest. “Four years in America! Though, er, I didn’t go anywhere with my research.”

“What kind of research?” you asked, leaning over the counter. 

Kanglei blinked, surprised by your eagerness. “O-Oh. It was pretty basic, you know. Just some polymer stuff,” he said, chuckling. “Synthesizing monomers, purification, analysis, like that.”

“Really,” you said, eyes glittering. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me more?”

By the time Vivi found you, the two of you had moved away from the bar and had situated yourself on one of the ridiculously plush seats in the lounge, nursing a tray of bar snacks Kanglei scrounged up from the back and the leftover teriyaki chicken jelly beans. 

“My expertise stops at organic chemistry, but that sounds pretty close to a basic transesterification reaction,” you were saying, knees drawn to your chest as you peered at Kanglei with all the rapture of a priest for their newfound god. “How did you get around polymer degradation when using such high synthesis temperatures?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Kanglei said, smacking a pillow emphatically. “The kinetics and thermodynamics didn’t match up. Thermodynamically, the polymer form should be far more stable than the monomer form, but heterogeneity was difficult to achieve with the starting materials we were using. We could hike the reaction temp up to 50C and it’d work fine, it’d just take forever.”

“Huh. Couldn’t you pressurize the vessel and achieve the same result?”

“You’d think, right? But vacuum is pretty hard to--”

“Jiyin!”

You looked up, and Vivi was standing at the door, brow creased in vague consternation. She marched over and launched herself into your lap, wrapping an arm around your neck. You grabbed her waist to steady her, feeling a bit like you were babysitting your cousin again. 

“What are you talking about?” Vivi asked, pursing her lips. Very pointedly, she ignored Kanglei, and he shrunk into himself.

“Chemistry, Vivi," you said

She propped her chin on your shoulder and played with the stray ends of your hair. A familiar emptiness swirled in the gray of her eyes, and you exhaled, steeling yourself for the inevitable shitstorm. “So you’re a chemistry nerd?”

"Well, I was a tutor, so I had to know what I was talking about.”

“What about organic chemistry?”

"I've covered it."

Vivi brightened. She slapped her hands on your shoulders and shook you frantically. “What about labs? Do you have any experience handling chemicals?”

A little dizzy, you pried her hands off your shoulders and shook your head. “Unfortunately not.” No college-level lab would hire an overly eager middle school student, and it wasn’t like you could be trusted around chemicals after… Well. The closest you got nowadays was baking.

Vivi’s eyes narrowed. She wiggled off your lap and hopped to her feet, hands on her hips. Was she mad at you again? “Well, whatever. Are you coming or not?”

Ah. You had promised to entertain her. “Alright. Give me two minutes,” you said, giving her a soft smile. She brightened. 

“Two minutes! Meet me in my room, and bring a first aid kit.”

As soon as Vivi ducked out of sight, Kanglei’s shoulders collapsed, and the breath left his lungs in a whoosh. You gave him a concerned look as he slumped over like a corpse, defeated. “Are you alright?” you asked. 

“You’re insane,” he said, hugging the couch pillow to his chest. “How did you do that?”

“Huh?”

“How did you keep her attention for so long?” 

You made a face and stood up with your empty glass. You hopped over the counter, found a tray filled with dirty dishes, and added your glass to the stack. “She’s just a kid. Kids like what kids like,” you said, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. 

“You’re a kid too,” he said, watching as you hauled yourself back over the counter (definitely against the rules, but whatever). “Hell, I’m twenty two. I’m barely out of diapers to my coworkers.”

You laughed. Kanglei grinned, then sobered. “But seriously, that’s the longest I’ve seen her hold a conversation with someone other than a billionaire or her scary bodyguard.”

“Xiaolong?” 

“You know him too?”

“Know is a strong word,” you said. “But we’ve been acquainted, yes.”

He scrunched his nose, awed and intimidated in the same breath. “I repeat: you’re crazy.” 

You hummed. There was a time when you would have agreed. But after meeting James and Tom Lee and the kings of Seoul, you had a much higher standard for “insanity.” “Well,” you said, smiling wryly, “we have to be a little crazy to survive, right?”

--

Cruise ships, you found, were terrifyingly in the middle of the night.

The place was big enough that the rave on the upper deck was barely audible from Vivi’s side of the ship, a whole section of food, entertainment, and games dedicated to her and her alone. The flashing lights and dancing figures on the upper deck looked like ants in an infinite black void as you walked up the stairs to her suite. On the distance horizon, the coast of India glittered like gems. 

Vivi’s suite was no less luxurious than her penthouse, two floors of sheer opulence dressed in the pink of a teenage girl’s aesthetics. When you reached the door, you didn’t even have to knock. An artificial voice said, “Face recognition activated. Welcome, GIN.” 

Holy shit. 

The back of your neck prickled as the door eased open. You ducked inside and squinted through the darkness. “Vivi?”

Metal flashed. You yelped as you ducked, narrowly avoiding the tips of your hair from being sliced off.

All at once, the lights in the suite clicked on, revealing Xiaolong and the spear impaled in the floor next to your feet. 

“Fight, fight, fight!” Vivi shouted, pumping her fist. She was perched on the second floor railing, feet kicking through the air as she cradled a bag of popcorn in her lap. Her grin was blinding. "Come on, I wanna see some action!"

You should've guessed. A shift of Xiaolong’s stance, and the spear sang as it sliced through the air, aiming for your head. You launched yourself to the side and landed on your hip with a grunt. He had been eying you like meat for days, and you were far too familiar with that look to mistake it for anything but bloodlust. If you weren’t running for your life, you’d almost feel nostalgic. 

Abandoning your bag on the floor, you scrambled to your feet and sprinted towards the kitchen and its beautiful collection of granite and metal. Just in time, too, because as soon as you grabbed one of the stainless steel pans from the rack and spun around, Xiaolong’s spear came down on your arm, sharp end first. 

Pain jolted through your arm. The pan clattered to the ground. You arched backwards, flipping out of the way as Xiaolong transitioned seamlessly into an upwards slice. How did he stop the momentum of the downwards swing so quickly—

“Ooh, close one,” Vivi called. “Just gotta be a little faster, Xiaolong!”

“We couldn’t have done this in the gym?” you asked, holding up your fists defensively. Xiaolong was rapidly advancing, the tip of his spear gleaming like your death. “Or with protective equipment?”

“But that’s not as fun,” Vivi said, and you could hear her pout all the way from the kitchen. “Plus, you said you’d help if I got bored.”

“I meant a playing board game!”

Vivi blew a raspberry. “Boo. This is way cooler. Now we can figure out which one of you would win in a fight for my honor!”

“Excuse me?” you cried.

“Rest assured, your concerns have been noted. Any injuries will be taken care of by the T group,” Xiaolong added, resetting his stance with a twirl of his spear. Something in his voice gave you pause. He sounded… excited.

Change of plans. 

Xiaolong angled his spear, poised to lunge. Before he could impale you against the refrigerator, you shot forward. Instinctively, he dropped his weight to defend against a tackle. Instead, you ducked under his arm, snatched the warped pan from the ground, and threw it up just in time for his spear swing down from the heavens. 

CRACK. 

“Wood shaft,” you said, managing a grin as Xiaolong’s eyes widened, his spear splitting in half where it’d slammed into the steel handle. “Weakest in the middle.” 

You caught the half with the metal spearhead before the splintered spear fell to the ground, wincing at its weight. Thankfully, it wasn’t Xiaolong’s usual weapon, the one he’d used at your interview. Otherwise, you’d be dead twice over. Shitty wood made for shitty weapons, and Newton’s Laws reigned supreme.

Xiaolong straightened, examining his half of the broken spear. “I see. I should not have underestimated you.”

A lash of his arm, and you arched to the side, feeling a gust of wind rip past your cheek. You heard a great crash, and then nothing. 

Slowly, you turned. The broken wooden shaft was embedded several inches in the wall, a projectile even more effective than the half in your hands. You swallowed and dropped the spear end, knots forming in your throat. 

“I—” you began to say, prepared to surrender. Instead, Xiaolong lowered his arm and pierced you with a calculating stare, eyes slitted.

“I thought so,” he said flatly. He marched towards you, and you took a nervous step backwards, only to blink as he strode past you and bowed to Vivi, still perched on the second floor railing like Juliet waiting for her Romeo. “Miss Vivi, I concede.”

Huh?

“What?! But we were just getting to the fun part!” Vivi cried, mouth filled with popcorn.

“I need to contact maintenance,” Xiaolong said calmly, gesturing to the ruined kitchen and making you grimace. You were usually more cognizant of your surroundings, but fights made your head go blank. James always scolded you for panicking too much, but what else could you do when certain death condensed itself into the form of a black-haired teenager with a fucking spear? “In addition, I believe we’ve reached a stalemate.”

Vivi kicked her feet with a frown. “Weren’t you winning?”

“Not exactly. While Gin cannot harm me, I,” Xiaolong said, folding his hands behind his back, “cannot touch Gin. If we were to continue, we’d only destroy our surroundings. Therefore, I concede.”

“But you’re stronger,” Vivi said, throwing a popcorn kernel at Xiaolong. He barely blinked as it bounced off his forehead, catching it in his other hand. “You can just go, bam and pow! One hit and Gin’s dead.”

“Is that so?” Xiaolong murmured. And suddenly he was staring at you, eyes slitted and back straight like a soldier. It was a challenge as well as a promise. “Would that ever happen, Gin?”

You exhaled. Your arms ached from the force of Xiaolong’s blows, and you were pretty sure he’d shaved a few inches off your hair. Xiaolong embodied an tsunami, as much as James was a lightning bolt and Seongji a prowling wolf. Blood rushed through your body, and you carefully pinched your nose, willing the impending nosebleed away. 

“No,” you said. “Of course not.”

(“With all due respect, sir,” one of the managers said, cracking his neck, “why the hell did you hire that kid?”

Tom Lee roared with laughter, sitting atop a pile of his defeated opponents. Despite the mountain of employees who’d tried and failed to defeat him (a thirty percent raise and a whole five days of PTO, he’d promised to the victors), the only evidence that he’d been in a fight at all was his unbuttoned suit, which had popped open when Manager Hui scored a nasty blow to his throat. 

“Is that what ya think?” he asked, taking a swig of whiskey from his ever-present flask. 

“They’re far too young to be in this business,” the manager said, aiming a kick at Tom Lee’s head. Tom Lee batted him away easily, and he landed at the base of the mountain with a grunt. “Did you hear about what they did in Cheonliang? They went and befriended the brat on the mountain. What are we, a daycare service?”

“Fourteen ain’t that young to start working,” Tom Lee said. “When I was that age---”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Tom Lee chuckled. “Rude, aren’t ya?” He caught the fist charging towards his stomach, twisted, and threw the man over his shoulder, all without dropping his flask of whiskey. “Bah. Gin would never disrespect me like this.”

“What exactly do you see in them?” the man said, groaning as he rolled back onto his feet. “And geez, boss, go easy on us. My joints aren’t as flexible as they used to be.”

Tom Lee shrugged. With an enormous yawn, he rose to his feet, and what a terrifying sight it was, to have Tom fucking Lee loom over you like the final boss in a video game. A few people groaned as he stepped on their faces on the way down, but otherwise remained silent. “Easy answer. We’ve got plenty of strong fighters. But that kid—I’ve never seen talent like it.”

“Oh?”

“Gin’s the fastest thing in Seoul,” Tom Lee said with a leer. “And I’d be a fool to not take advantage of that.”)

--

You made Vivi bibimbap. 

As you rummaged through the kitchen, Vivi sat at the counter and scrolled through TickTackToe, as docile as a kitten now that her boredom had been sated. Off to the side, Xiaolong talked quietly into his phone, surveying the damage the two of you (mostly him, to be honest) had done to the suite. Soon, the smell of sesame oil spread through the suite. You tossed the pre-shredded carrots into the pan and added a pinch of salt.

This was a familiar routine. Most of your nights in middle school were spent huddled in your room with James, whispering under your breath because you were afraid to wake up your little cousin. Occasionally, Johan would stumble into your room anyways, rubbing his eyes sleepily and asking if he would join the two of you for whatever you were doing, even if he was already nodding off. You’d leave and come back with a bowl of leftover bibimbap, and James would be scrolling through his phone while Johan dozed on your bed, clutching James’s hand to his chest like it was his personal teddy bear. Cute. 

As Vivi devoured your pretty mediocre bibimbap with the enthusiasm of a growing teenager, you stared down at the extra serving you’d portioned into a bowl. Then you stood up and walked towards the statue at the back of the living room. 

“Here,” you said in Korean, thrusting the bowl and a fork at Xiaolong. “Your serving.”

Xiaolong didn’t move, chin tilted up and gaze somewhere over your shoulder. If it wasn’t for the dark shadows beneath his eyes, you’d peg his reticence for mere stubbornness. “I don’t eat on the job," he said, low and even.

“How are you going to protect Vivi on an empty stomach?” 

“I’ll manage.”

You sighed. Stupid fighting maniacs and their obsession with appearance of strength. Showing a little humanity wasn’t going to kill them. “I’ll put it in the fridge. You heat it up once Vivi’s asleep,” you advised. “And, uh. Sorry for breaking your spear.”

“Guandao,” he corrected. “And it was a practice weapon.”

You brightened. “So I don’t need to pay you back?”

“If you wish,” he said, shrugging, a surprisingly casual gesture that made you snort. 

“Not really sure where I can commission another one of those freaky things, so you’ll have to make do with a fork,” you said, waving said fork around. 

“How fortuitous.”

“Hey, forks are pretty dangerous in the right hands.”

Xiaolong cocked his head. “Like yours?” he asked quietly. 

You chuckled. “With what strength?” you asked, jabbing at him playfully. 

He caught the fork between two fingers and yanked it from your hands, examining it with the solemnity of a funeral manager. “You’re quick on your feet,” he said. “If you trained, no one would be able to stop you.”

A knot grew in your throat, but you waved it off with a chuckle. If Xiaolong noticed your sudden awkwardness, he didn’t comment on it. “What makes you think I haven’t?” you said. “Didn’t have a talent for it. My instructor— he, uh. He gave up on me after the first lesson.”

“You’re lying.”

You blinked, then looked up. Xiaolong’s brow was furrowed, but before he could continue, Vivi popped up between the two of you and shoved you backwards with enough force to make you stumble, surprised. “What are you whispering about?” she asked with a pout. There was kimchi sauce smeared all over her mouth. “Stop talking in languages I don’t understand.”

“You could always learn,” you said, still reeling. 

“But Korean’s weird.”

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and wiped Vivi's lips with your sleeve. Vivi’s eyes widened in shock, and her cheeks went red. “Geez, are you my mom?” she grumbled. But she didn’t move away. 

“There’s another serving in the pot,” you said. You glanced towards Xiaolong, then wrenched your gaze away, feeling your face grow hot and embarrassed. “Sorry for the trouble. I’ll clean up.”

As Vivi polished off a second (and third) plate of food, you washed the dishes and packed Xiaolong's leftovers with plastic wrap. The bibimbap didn’t look half-bad this time. Pieces of runny egg yolk oozed over red rice, while green onions offered a pop of color. Maybe you should become a foodie, you thought, snapping a quick picture and sending it to James. 

Bibimbap ;) how does it look? 

You waited, then tucked your phone away. In the meantime, you could finish making the agenda for tomorrow’s meeting with Vivi’s executive board. Budgets needed budgeting, and capitalism waited for no man. 

As you settled on the couch with your laptop, Vivi tossed herself over the back of the sofa and draped her arms around your shoulders, squinting at the screen. “Why’re ya still working, Jiyin?” she whined, wisps of hair tickling your ear. “You’re on vacation.” 

Absentmindedly, you reached behind you and patted her head. “I’m just finishing up the agenda. We’re discussing the outreach initiative you proposed last week,” you said, pointing at the map on the screen. “See? That’s where the new hotel is going to be.”

Vivi hummed and leaned her elbow on your shoulder. She was so tiny that the weight barely registered. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

The question was completely out of left field. “Um,” you said, and mentally reviewed your schedule. “Depends. What do you need?” 

“I want to show you something,” Vivi grinned. “It’s my biggest secret.”

Your mind whirled. You evened your breathing, doing your best to not seem like you were on the edge of your seat. Here it was, the dangling piece of meat Charles Choi wanted from Wang Wei. “What kind of secret?” you asked, voice as even as you could afford it. 

Vivi’s smile took a turn for the gleeful. “It’s my business. Well, my other business.” She curled her hand around your neck like a collar and squeezed gently, manicured nails digging into your flesh. “You’ll see.”

--

Ding.

You jolted awake and fumbled for your phone in the darkness. James was finally online. At 3am? What was he doing, harassing the karaoke workers again? 

Wahhhh sorry for missing this Σ(-᷅_-᷄๑) got suuuuuper busy all of a sudden lol

It’s fine, you responded, hiding the gleam of your phone under your covers. Vivi had insisted on dragging the mattress to the living room so you could sleep over in her suite, and she snored peacefully next to you, ash-blond hair carefully twisted around curlers. I think my cooking's improved. No more food poisoning :p

u should make some for me after u come back (*´꒳`*)

I'll do my best. A pang of pain stabbed your head. You thumped your forehead with the heel of your head, wincing. You spent way too much strength fending off Xiaolong. What have you been up to?

You waited as the dots bobbed up and down, up and down. I want a ketchup heart ✌︎('ω'✌︎ ) made with lots of looooooove <3333333

You sighed. You’re awful, you typed slowly, fondly. 

Σ（ﾟдﾟlll）HUH??

--

“Welcome,” Vivi said, gesturing behind her with a flourish, “to my factory!”

Workers in white hazmat suits and blue masks bustled around the massive room, packing baggies into black containers and sending them down the assembly line. The hum of machinery nearly drowned out the shouts of the managers who loomed on the upper floors, safely hidden behind several layers of glass. 

All contained within the lowermost floors of the cruise ship. 

Vivi skipped across the floor with a delighted giggle, darting between workers in hazmat suits like a fairy princess, all dolled up in pink and white with her ash-blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Xiaolong prowled close behind, occasionally giving feedback to the managerial staff who approached them with nervous smiles.  Even without the two of them, though, it was clear that the factory functioned like a well-oiled engine. Little time was wasted between the machines spitting out a product and the workers snatching it up to package and ship. 

Vivi stopped by a criss-crossing array of assembly machines and whirled around, lacing her hands behind her back. “Well? Do you like it?”

You hesitated, washing as the towering chunk of steel behind Vivi moved up and down, up and down, stamping delicate designs on each of the products spat out by the machine behind it. “It’s big,” you managed. “What exactly do you produce here?” 

Vivi tapped a worker’s shoulder and wiggled her fingers for a baggie. He obliged, and she thrust the brown circles at your face with a grin. “These!”

“Cookies?” you asked.

“That’s what you think, right? But they’ve got something way better than chocolate chips in them.” She unzipped the baggie and offered you a slim piece, then snatched it back, clearly thinking better of it. “Ah, you probably shouldn’t eat them. They’re laced with drugs.”

Drugs?

“We grow them underground, actually,” Vivi said, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Our greenhouses have top-notch temperature and humidity control systems, and the sun lamps operate on a day-night cycle that mirrors the actual sky. We grow everything—marijuana, tobacco, poppy…”

“Who’s the buyer?” you asked. Xiaolong's presence at your back felt like a brand. He was waiting for something, you were certain of it. As if you were stupid enough to act out here.

“Oh, everyone. Japan’s our biggest client, but we’ve been expanding,” she said, handing the baggie back to the worker. “I convinced some of my friends in Europe to take a sample with them, and it’s really popular there.”

You cleared your throat, immensely thankful for your mask. You'd never had a good poker face. “And you’ve never been caught?” 

Vivi giggled. “Of course not, silly! No one ever checks minors, so security’s basically useless.” She tilted her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Well, I guess we almost got busted in Petersburg, but only a dozen people were arrested, and they were orphans anyways so it's not like no one went looking for them.”

When she whirled upon you, expression bright with eagerness, you realized she was waiting for your praise. With a strained smile, you said, “It sounds like you’re running a tight ship, Vivi.”

Vivi beamed and grabbed your hand. “I haven’t shown you the final product yet! We hire a bunch of pastry chefs to make the cookies super cute.” 

You let yourself be pulled along. 

So this was Chairman Wei’s goal. China’s laws were too strict for Vivi’s particular brand of business to flourish, so Chairman Wei wanted you to guide her to the Korean underground, knowing full well that Mr. Choi’s business was built on blood money. After all, drugs were lucrative. Stopping his daughter from producing them would be foolish when all he needed to do was to stop producing them in China. If Vivi managed to endear yourself to you, then you would return to Korea and report your good relations, opening the gateway to Korea. 

“Gin?” Vivi tugged on your sleeve with a pout. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” you said. “You purify everything in extraction vats.” 

Vivi lit up, pink lips splitting in an adorable smile. “Want me to show you? They’re big enough to swim in.”

You looked down at the delicate hand curled around yours. Vivi was about the same age as your cousin, yet she was already building a drug empire at the behest of her father. You wondered what motivated the adults in your life—why Vivi and James needed to sacrifice their childhoods for sneering strangers who used them like chess pieces; what that made you if you went along with it, just for a chance to extend your life. 

Monsters really came in all shapes and sizes. 

“Sure,” you said, and followed her into the next room.

Chapter Text

The salon was empty, as it had been the last couple times James had visited. Still, for propriety’s sake, James made his footsteps extra loud as he ducked beneath the swaying beads.

There were two figures huddled in the back, nearly hidden by the salon chairs. “—good pay,” your aunt was saying, back to the door. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Your mom can take care of herself.”

A quiet grumble. Your aunt sighed and leaned, embracing the smaller figure. “I know, Johan. Please be patient, okay? Your mom’s eyes aren’t great right now, and your hyung is studying hard in China, so I need to support us too.”

“Do you have help them, though?” your little cousin said quietly. His head was down, brown bangs covering his eyes. “Those guys were creepy.”

“Don’t be rude, Johan. They’re your hyung’s coworkers.” Your aunt chuckled. “Even if they’re bulky and rough-looking, I’m sure they’re upstanding citizens.” 

James cocked an eyebrow. So Tom Lee had finally got around to visiting your aunt’s shop like he’d promised. If he forced every single member of White Tiger to get a haircut at your aunt’s salon, that was an easy couple hundred thousand won. 

“Just use hyung’s money! That’s why they got a job.”

“Come now, Johan,” your aunt said, high and artificially cheerful, “how could I do that to your hyung? That’s money for their college fund, you know! I can’t use that for personal expenses.” 

James had heard enough. He cleared his throat and grinned when your aunt whirled around, sightless eyes roaming the salon until it found the blob of tan and red at the front door. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, adjusting the black duffel bag over his shoulder. Your aunt didn’t look much like you, but there was a hint of you in the curve of her eyes when she smiled, and that was enough to release the black cloud of fury weighing down his shoulders. 

“James?” your aunt said, squinting. 

“In the flesh.”

Her pretty face brightened. “It’s good to see you again! Let me take a look at you.”

James obliged. Her hands flew to James’s face, and he let her feel around, tracing the slope of his cheekbones and jaw. She touched the new piercings on his earlobe and clucked her tongue. “You’ve gotten thin. Are you feeding yourself?”

James shrugged. “I manage.”

“Well, clearly it’s not enough!” she scolded. “Stay for dinner. I’m making gochujang jjigae.”

“Auntie,” he whined, pitching his voice high and nasally, “don’t you think I’m handsome?”

She pinched his cheek and tugged gently. The two of you were the only ones who could do that and still live to tell the tale. “Fishing for compliments isn’t attractive, James,” she scolded. 

Fair enough. 

“I have homework so I can’t stay for dinner, auntie,” James said. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Oh, no need to be so courteous. You’re our sweetheart’s best friend. Our door is always open to you.”

James squeezed her wrist gently, and she finally removed her hands from his face. “Thank you, auntie,” he repeated. Then he peered around your aunt and smiled at the figure hunched over in the back, sitting quietly in a salon chair. “Hey, squirt. Long time no see.”

If possible, Johan sank deeper into his chair and refused to look James in the eye. “Hi,” he muttered, hands curling into fists on his thighs. “I was about to leave.”

Ouch. James had been expecting a little more enthusiasm. 

James rummaged through his pockets and found the grape-flavored lollipop he’d hidden there at the beginning of the day. He crouched down, offering it to Johan with a grin. He knew Johan hated when he did that, but it always made you snicker and Johan blush.

“Were you?” he cooed. “Where to, little guy?”

Johan frowned, scuffing his shoe against the ground. He was taller than you and your aunt, and would probably be pretty close to James’s height once he was older. But he curled into himself like he wanted to melt into the floor. 

Or, James thought, he was hiding an injury. 

“F-Friends,” Johan said, glancing away nervously. His arms fluttered towards his stomach, then back to his sides. “We’re going to the arcade.”

“Really?” James grinned, unwrapping the lollipop and popping it into his mouth. “That sounds fun. Mind if I tag along?”

Your aunt clapped. “What a great idea! James, do you mind taking care of Johan for the day while I go to work?” She checked the clock in the corner and grimaced. “I’m sorry for the late notice, but my appointment is in a few minutes, and I want someone to look after Johan while I’m gone.”

“Not at all, auntie. I can handle Johan,” James said, rising to his feet. Johan followed suit, face scrunched indignantly. 

“I don’t need a babysitter!”

“You’re fourteen, Johan, who knows what’ll happen to you when I’m gone?” your aunt said with a frown. 

“But--”

“Come on, squirt,” James said, cuffing Johan over the head. Then, while Johan was still wincing from the (gentle!) blow, James grabbed the back of Johan’s collar and tugged him towards the back of the salon, where he knew your and your aunt’s bedrooms were. “We can chat in your room.”

-- 

“What are you even doing here?” Johan muttered as James sauntered into your aunt’s bedroom, duffel bag in hand. He lingered at the door, far too used to this routine to complain about James’s blatant impoliteness. “Hyung’s been gone anyways.”

“I’m running a few errands nearby. Thought I’d stop by and say hi,” James said absentmindedly, glancing around. The bedroom was as sparse and gritty as he remembered it, except for the beautiful white vanity table pressed against the wall, likely your work. It was untouched, though. Your aunt had more pride than you did. “Besides, what makes you think I’m doing this for them?”

“Hyung’s your favorite.” Johan sounded almost sullen. Aw, was someone jealous? 

James tossed the duffel bag onto the floor and shoved open the closet door. He rummaged through the overhead cabinets, brushing aside scarves and hats until he felt metal. Bingo. “Bold assumption,” he said, grabbing the box that held most of your aunt’s savings. “Let me try. Who’s beating you up at school?”

“W-What? I’m not--”

James popped open the lock and unzipped the duffel bag, revealing the wads and wads of cash stuffed inside. Most of it was Tom Lee’s, or what had been Tom Lee before it transferred into Charles Choi’s hands—your cut of the deal. He counted, then stuffed two wads into the metal case and slid it back into its original position.

Johan’s protests trailed off. After a moment, he asked, “How did you know?”

As James hadn’t been in enough fights to know when someone was hiding an injury. “Your hyung would be sad if they knew you were getting bullied,” he said instead, lifting your aunt’s bed—mattress and bedframe and all—and revealing the shoebox she kept hidden behind a few beaten-up suitcases. He kicked all of them into the open floor and dropped the bed back onto the ground. Why did everyone always keep their hidden savings beneath their mattress? 

“That’s why I’m not going to tell them,” Johan said. James didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that he had jutted his chin out, jaw locked stubbornly. “And you aren’t, either.”

“Is that an order?” James asked, divvying up a few more wads of cash to stuff into the shoebox. Three, four— Forty hundred thousand was a good number. The rest could go into the suitcases, where your aunt might run into them a few months later when she was silently panicking about rent.

“It’s a request. Hyung’s always busy and works hard to support us. I don’t want to make them worry even more.”

“They’ll worry about you regardless,” James said, closing the shoebox. The dozens of messages on his phone were proof of that. How’s Johan? Is he doing well at school? Please remind him to eat more protein, he always gives his portions to auntie. “They want you to live a good life. Don’t disappoint them.”

“How could I not?” Johan muttered. His hands were balled into fists, and he ducked his head so that his bangs covered his eyes. Didn’t do much to hide the trembling of his bottom lip, though. “I’m not super smart, and I’m not as strong as you. If I graduate, I’ll probably get a dead-end job, and hyung will still have to take care of us.” Genuine vitriol filled his voice, and he sent a glare at the suitcases. “This sucks.”

James exhaled. “Not being as strong as me isn’t saying much,” he said, lifting the bed with one hand and shoving the suitcases and shoebox back under it. “Still doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

“But I am. I can’t help Mom or hyung.” 

The lollipop cracked between James’s teeth. He took out the crushed stick and tossed it over his shoulder without looking, where it fell nearly into the trash can. Change of plans. 

“Two things,” he said, turning towards Johan with a pretty smile. “One. Stop being a coward.”

Johan bit his lip. “I can’t fight,” he muttered, sounding so much like you that James’s fists clenched. “Otherwise I’ll get in trouble, and Mom and hyung can’t handle all that stress on top of everything else.”

“Then don’t let anyone find out that you’re fighting,” James said, annoyed. He leaned over, and Johan flinched as James flicked his forehead, then the spot beneath his ear. “Uppercut to the jaw usually knocks a person out in one clean hit. I learned that trick in middle school.”

Johan blinked like a kitten. Then his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in the way that you did when calculations were running behind those dark pupils. “Okay?”

With a self-satisfied smile, James ruffled Johan’s hair. Then he hauled the duffel bag over his shoulder and sauntered out of your aunt’s room. A series of hurried footsteps followed him.

“What’s the second thing?” Johan called, falling in step with James. There was a new steely undertone to his voice, astonishment and conviction rolled into a neat package. 

Good. 

James jerked a thumb towards your aunt, who was methodically counting the cash in the register. “Help me play Santa, and I’ll take you out for ice cream.”

--

“Why are we here?” 

James tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Like I said,” he said, “I’m running some errands.”

It was the middle of the day, so the streets of Ansan Public—or at least this branch of the circle—were empty. A few salarymen ducked past, trying not to look like they were skipping work to have drinks after lunch. As James walked towards the big, bombastic bar at the end of the street, Johan scurried after him and squeezed himself closer when curious eyes flicked towards them.

“Wow, so tall…”

“The redhead’s cute! Do you think he’s a foreigner?”

“Or an idol?”

“The boy’s cute too. Like a bunny!”

If anything, Johan’s face got redder, and he ducked behind James like he wanted to grab his arm, the same way he’d do when he was younger and scared of the gory movies James and you used to binge for fun. James let him, amused. Being almost two meters tall at seventeen desensitized him to those types of comments, not to mention his gorgeous face. 

(He could practically hear you rolling your eyes. “You’re so full of yourself,” you’d say, before grinning to show that you meant no harm.)

“This doesn’t look like an ice cream parlor,” Johan said, glancing around nervously. The shopfronts were bright and colorful, offering all sorts of entertainment from arcades to souvenir shops—a pretty veneer for a bloody business. “I-I’m not supposed to leave Gangbuk by myself.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” James asked. 

Johan scrunched his nose. “You’re not an adult.”

James reached over to cuff Johan on the head. To his surprise, Johan ducked, a beat too slow. “Ow!”

“Relax. It’ll be fine.” They stopped at the bar’s front entrance. There was a pair of stern security guards standing at either side, sunglasses gleaming and arms folded in front of them, showing off their buff shoulders. James glanced at the neon sign, oddly washed out in the noon sun. Yup, this was the place. “Come on.”

Johan’s brown eyes widened, darting from James’s face to the security officers back to James. “Wait, I’m underage, I can’t go into bars!”

“So?”

Johan flapped his arms wildly, voice rising. “So it’s illegal?”

With a shrug, James strode forward. As soon as the security officers caught sight of him, they held out their hand. “Hey, ID first—“

James’s shoe slammed into the first man’s jaw and launched him across the street. Before the second one could react, James brought his leg down on his head. The man crashed to the ground, blood spurting from his mouth as he bit cleanly through his tongue. 

“There,” James said cheerfully, hands in his pockets. “Now that they can’t tell anyone.”

He hopped over them and sauntered into the bar.

--

“Hey, who are you—“

Kick. 

“You can’t be here, you’re not a member—“

Roundhouse. 

“What the fuck—“

Backspin.

“Enemy—“

James slammed his hand into the man’s jaw, shutting him up for good. Ugh. He preferred not to use his fists, but the dude was getting annoying. And loud.   

Destroy them, Choi’s text had said. James was all too happy to oblige. 

Johan’s panicked voice dragged James out of his musings. “H-Hold on! What are you doing?” the boy said, plastering himself to the wall as James whirled around and sent another attacker crashing to the ground with an elegant kick to the neck. “Oh my god. Are they okay?” 

“Relax,” James repeated, swiping his hair from his eyes and sending Johan a lazy grin. If anything, the boy’s panic worsened. As if James was amateur-ish enough to leave dead bodies where anybody could find them. “Watch and learn, kid.”

“This isn’t ice cream!”

“Says who?” James said, nodding towards the end of the hall. There was the distant thundering of footsteps—reinforcements, he assumed, and suppressed a yawn. Hopefully someone fun would come soon. He was starting to fall asleep. “We’ll probably find a restaurant over there.”

“Is this what you do every day?” Johan said as he picked his way around the bodies, face pale. He jumped about a foot in the air when one of them groaned, and darted to James’s side with a yelp, grabbing the back of his shirt for dear life. “Oh, lord. Does hyung know that you’re crazy?” 

“How do you think we met?” James said, amused. 

“Through school!”

Hm. Not exactly a lie, but not the full truth either. His first meeting with you was during one of your assignments. You were interviewing someone for White Tiger, looking adorably nervous in your crisp uniform and lanyard. Unfortunately for you, the man you were talking to had destroyed James’s favorite ramen stand, the one that gave discounts if you ate five bowls in one sitting. Your second meeting had been on your school rooftop, when he’d climbed over the railing and poked you awake with his shoe, wondering how the hell someone who yawned like a kitten and stared blearily up at him with such soft eyes had dodged his attacks so easily the day prior. 

“I’m going to tell hyung that you’re bullying me,” Johan said, hands clenching on James’s shirt. “They’re going to yell at you so hard. A-And they might even not like you anymore!”

James laughed. Actually laughed, the sort that only you usually got him to do. 

“Squirt,” he said, ruffling Johan’s hair, “if your hyung would break up with me over something like that, we never would’ve been friends in the first place. Now let me finish my errand and we’ll actually get some ice cream. My treat.”

Johan pouted, then yelped and ducked behind James as a new swarm of challengers swarmed the hallway. James cocked his head and turned slightly to meet the man who stepped to the front, face severe and furrowed with anger. 

“So you’re the bastard who’s stirring up trouble in the middle of the work day,” he said, rolling up the white sleeves of his button-up. There were intricate tattoos running up his forearms, some fancy-smancy depictions of koi fish. “Who sent you? Siheung? Gunpo?”

James shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets in a deliberately casual gesture. He knew the man was struggling to understand the situation—the pretty, almost delicate-looking redhead standing over the scattered bodies of his friends. Look at how quickly I destroyed your men. Imagine how easily I could kill you. 

“Tell Taesoo Ma to stop snooping around White Tiger,” he said, as casual as anything. He could probably make the point better with a lollipop in his mouth, nonchalant in a way that pissed everyone off, but he’d eaten the last one at your aunt’s place. 

The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. James didn’t recognize him, but you probably would. “So it’s true. Tom Lee’s keeping Gin hostage.”

“What?” Johan said, releasing James’s shirt. 

As the men shuffled and whispered, James kept his mouth shut. Misdirection was part of Choi’s ploy. But it seemed the man was already drawing his own conclusions. 

“Did Tom Lee send you here as a warning?” he said, raising his fists. “You’ve got another thing coming if you think you can hurt Gin and get away with it.”

“Already have,” James said lightly. 

A fist flew at him. James hopped to the side, letting it sail past his cheek harmlessly. Without pause, the man spun on his heel and wound back for another chain of attacks. “Let Gin go!”

Too slow. 

James’s heel slammed into the man’s trapezius, and the man’s eyes bulged in surprise as the force of the blow buckled him to his knees. James didn’t wait for him to fall. He spun around and delivered another kick to his face, launching him across the hallway. The man crashed into the opposite wall and slid down, blood trickling down his forehead.

“Tell Taesoo Ma,” James said, “to pull his men out of Seoul.”

After a long moment, the man crawled to his feet. With a scowl, he spat out a bloody tooth and raised his fists, wobbling slightly. “Over my dead body, pretty boy.”

Huh. James had to give Taesoo Ma props. He trained loyal dogs to be his men.

A gust of wind. Johan was suddenly very, very close, staring up at the tall fighter with a terrifyingly focused expression. “You said Gin,” he said as the man reeled, stunned by the tiny child barking at his feet. “That’s hyung’s nickname. How do you know them? Who’s Tom Lee? What do you mean they’re being held hostage?”

“A kid?” the man muttered. “You shouldn’t be here. Go—””

“Shut up.” 

Silence snapped through the bar. James blinked slowly as Johan clenched his hands into fists. His posture was coiled tight, a spring ready to release. “First hyung, then James. I’m tired of everyone treating me like a kid. I deserve the truth too.”

The man frowned, wiping a trail of blood and sweat from his mouth. “Stop whining and get out of the way,” he said gruffly, putting a hand on Johan’s shoulder to shove him aside. “The grown-ups are sorting shit out—“

A kick arced through the air, beautiful and almost invisible. As the man crumpled the ground, Johan landed back on his feet, panting and wild-eyed. 

As Ansan’s men clamored and rushed forward, James sent them a vicious glare, forcing them to fall back. A vindictive smile tugged at the corners of his lips. I knew it. The kick wasn’t a perfect copy—Johan was still a middle schooler without James’s hardware—but it was close enough to be a miracle. 

There was a copy-cat in this generation, and it wasn’t one of Elite’s cronies. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Johan said, face contorted into an almost inhumane snarl. When the man groaned, he slammed his foot into the man’s hand with a sickening crack and grabbed his collar, yanking him onto his knees with astonishing strength. “Tell me!”

“Johan.”

Johan’s head snapped up. James was smiling, eyes curved and fangs hidden. “Let me handle this,” he said, and held a finger to his lips as the men in the hallway started to shuffle forward, incensed by the defeat of their leader. “Be a good kid and stay back, okay?” 

Despair, anger, and confusion flickered through Johan’s expression in quick succession. He released the man’s collar and took a step back, looking once again like a middle schooler who’d never even raised a hand against his bullies. “But—“

The men let out a challenging roar and surged forward. 

“Watch and learn,” James said, and moved. 

--

The bar was quiet. Motionless, as if waiting for something. Or maybe it was the fact that every single half-decent fighter in the building now lay at James’s feet, unconscious and to varying degrees of injury. 

James shook out his feet, grimacing at the flecks of blood on his shoes. Fighting multiple opponents was more of a hassle than a challenge. Gun had put up a better fight than these idiots.

“Did you get all that?” he asked, using one of the fallen men’s shirts to wipe his shoes. 

Somewhere from across the hallway, Johan spoke. “You’re fast.”

“Mmhm.” Though not as fast as you.

“And you’re strong, and you don’t care if you hurt people,” Johan muttered. He looked up, and there was a complicated sort of anger on his face. He didn’t get hit once during the ensuing chaos, dodging and weaving and, occasionally, kicking with the grace of a circle veteran. “Are you really hyung’s friend?”

James paused.

“I am,” he said. When Johan opened his mouth again, James held up a finger. “There are things that I can’t tell you right now. But I’ll let you ask one question, and I’ll give you an honest answer."

“Why did you bring me here?” Johan asked immediately. 

“Wrong question,” James said. 

Johan bit his lip. Then, he said, “Hyung’s not actually studying in China, right? The internship’s a scam. It has something to do with that Tom Lee guy—their boss?”

“Not a question, squirt.”

Johan’s expression darkened. “I knew those men were shady. Hyung never should’ve taken their offer.” He swallowed. “Then what should I do to protect them?”

James smiled. Good. So he hadn’t wasted his time bringing Johan to Ansan. 

“Your hyung’s safe for now. They’re too important to be hurt.”

“But—“ Johan’s eyes flickered towards the man with the koi tattoos.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” James said, flicking his forehead. “You’re a smart kid. Just watch—“ he pinched Johan’s cheek “—and learn. That’s the only way you’ll get strong enough to protect your hyung and learn the truth.”

Johan reeled, touching his face with a slightly bewildered expression. “I guess,” he said. 

“Let’s go. I’m done here.” James whirled around, whistling as he navigated the hallway filled with bodies. “I’m feeling strawberry. How ‘bout you?”

He felt a hand grab the back of his shirt as Johan stumbled after him, clearly feeling the effects of his first fight. “…cookies and cream.”

“Done,” James said cheerfully. He’d buy the biggest sundaes he could find and put it all on Choi’s card. 

--

Johan didn’t remember getting back from Ansan. The last thing he registered was trailing after James as the older boy walked him home, the taste of chocolate staining his teeth.

“Did you have fun?” James asked once Johan had stumbled inside.

Johan blinked. James was grinning at him, black eyes half-lidded, lips stretched into the type of shit-eating grin that would instantly make you smack him over the head. There wasn’t a speck of dust on him except the faint smear of red on his shoes. 

“Um, yeah,” Johan said. He bowed quickly and straightened just in time to see something strange dart across James’s face. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

James paused. “Yeah,” he said, and ruffled Johan’s hair. His hand was still big, but it wasn’t as comforting as Johan remembered. “Let me know when you wanna hang out again, okay? Your hyung’s not here, so I gotta take care of you.”

“Thanks,” he repeated. 

James left soon after that, duffel bag heaved over one shoulder. Johan watched his broad back disappear down the street, feeling numb.

He wanted to be mad. James had basically kidnapped him to Ansan and forced him to watch as he killed a bunch of strangers. That was all kinds of illegal! 

But dammit, Johan had idolized James as a kid. James was cool and handsome, even if his dye-job was awful and he had a bad habit of smirking at people like he knew something they didn’t. He went to regional poetry competitions and came back with trophies that he showed off to you like an eager puppy, eyes bright and mouth grinning. Most of the time, you didn’t entertain him, but occasionally you’d pat him on the shoulder and he’d light up like the sun kissed him on the cheek. He showed Johan how to pick locks and braid your hair when you were napping so that you’d wake up and chase them out of the room with a shout. 

Johan had snapped out of that hero worship pretty quickly after you left and James only hung around to sneak your monthly paychecks into his mom’s secret savings. He was quieter without you; a little angrier, even if he did a good job hiding it with those pretty smiles and innocuous comments.

Was the guy back at the bar—the one who soared through the air, violence bleeding into every movement—the real James, then? Was everything he did with you just an act? 

But he’d protected Johan. Had promised to tell Johan the truth, even if his eyes were half-lidded and his lips were sneering.

You were safe in China, James had claimed. But that could change at any moment, because you were entangled in a conspiracy far bigger than Johan could ever understand. 

Why didn’t you ever tell them the truth? Mom could’ve scolded those strangers until they backed off, and Johan wasn’t much use but maybe he could hold someone down until you ran away. You should’ve trusted them. 

Same reason you didn’t tell mom about the bullies, a little voice whispered in the back of Johan’s head. They’re trying to protect you. 

He blinked and found himself standing in the middle of his cramped bedroom, hands curled into awkward fists, bouncing nervously on his toes. Immediately, his face turned red, and he lowered his fists in embarrassment.

This was stupid, he thought. Johan wasn’t James, wasn’t tall or cool or handsome, didn’t know any of the combinations at arcades that crushed every single opponent, couldn’t make you laugh until you cried. He was just Johan Seong, the poorest kid at school whose cousin was rumored to be some kind of gangster (even though he knew you’d never hurt anyone, even if you were friends with someone like James). How could he help you when he couldn’t stop his bullies from kicking in his ribs every week? 

Protect hyung. 

Johan swallowed. Then he adjusted his stance and forced himself to remember the fight at the bar, how James had flown through the air like— like a butterfly, or an eagle, sleek lines and sharp talons. He would never be able to replicate that same vicious beauty, but—

Just once. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

—

Taesoo slammed his fist into the tree trunk. The massive oak swayed, leaves scattering around him. Then, groaning, it teetered backwards and fell to the ground with en echoing thud, scattering dirt high in the air.

“What,” Taesoo said, straightening, “did you say?” 

Yejun bowed his head, brow furrowed. He’d just climbed out of the car and looked frazzled, a rarity for one of Taesoo’s most trusted executives. “One of our branches in Sangnok-du was attacked, sir. Taegu Kwon is in critical care.”

Taesoo brushed bark and splinters from his knuckles. “Was it Incheon?” A certain pretty bastard always held a grudge against him for breaking his ugly car the first time they met. 

“We don’t think so, sir. According to witnesses, it was just two men. Well, mostly one.” 

A challenger who could defeat Taegu Kwon in a one-on-one? That was rare.

 “Who?” 

Yejun procured a picture from his suit pocket. Taesoo took it, glancing over the blurry black-and-white security photo. There, in the middle of one of Ansan Public’s most exclusive bars, stood a tall, slim figure in a casual t-shirt and jeans, hands stuffed into his pockets. A smaller kid (a middle schooler?) cowered behind him. If not for the scattered bodies of Taesoo’s men at their feet, Taesoo might’ve just brushed them off as two troublemakers who’d managed to sneak past security. 

But the taller man was smiling, staring straight at Taesoo like he knew exactly where the tiny security camera was hidden. It was clearly a challenge. Come find me. 

“Apparently his name is James Lee. He’s some sort of hot-shot in Seoul. Won a bunch of awards and everything,” Yejun said.

“And the child?” Taesoo murmured. The shape of his eyes seemed familiar, round and gentle. Almost like…

“Unclear, sir. People heard James calling him ‘Johan,’ but that’s all we know.”

Taesoo went still as a memory flickered past his eyes. Your panicked expression as you ran out of the bar, sputtering something about Johan and need to pick him up, sorry Taesoo! He’d assumed Johan was the name of a dog or some sort of pet, but he must be your brother. 

In that case… Did this James know you? 

“Another thing, sir,” Yejun said. “Apparently James Lee was there to deliver a message.”

Taesoo tilted his head, allowing him to continue as he examined the photo. 

Yejun hesitated. Then he bowed his head and muttered, “‘Tell Taesoo Ma to stop snooping around White Tiger.’”

The ground cracked beneath Taesoo’s feet. Yejun swallowed, wincing as Taesoo’s fury radiated off of him in waves. 

So it wasn’t his imagination. He’d wondered why the hell White Tiger had sent one of their men, a leery snake-like pervert named Beolgu who’d monopolized three of Ansan Public’s best girls for a whole week, to tell Taesoo that you were gone, that you wouldn’t come back, that your contract with him was considered null and void because you no longer worked for White Tiger. 

Bull-fucking-shit.

You were honest to a fault. In two years, you’d brought Taesoo to the peak and kept him there, even with the rabid rivals gnawing at his feet and scrambling for the throne. More importantly, you weren’t a coward. If you really were canceling your contract—if you were leaving him—you would’ve said it to his face. After all, you were the person who stared him in the eye and asked him to put on a shirt, even after seeing him shatter the ground with a single punch. So either you’d suddenly decided to give up your integrity for no gain, or White Tiger had wronged you and sent one of their lackeys to chase Taesoo off their trail in a fit of panic. 

No. That didn’t smell right. 

White Tiger was made from the remnants of the 0th generation, so they weren’t idiots. They knew exactly how much money they made from your connections to the kings of the circles. Stupidity was hard to predict, but a pig’s greed? That ran like clockwork. 

White Tiger would never kidnap you from the circles, not when it raked in cash for them. So it had to be a third party pretending to be Tom Lee’s. But who, and what did they gain from pitting Ansan against White Tiger? 

Taesoo growled and slammed his fist into another nearby tree. As it collapsed, he turned around, wiping his knuckles on the proffered handkerchief. “Call Jichang Kwak and Seokdu Wang,” he said. “Tell them I have information on Gin’s whereabouts.”

He’d leave the thinking to the King of Seoul. As for the manpower…

Well. Taesoo would have fun showing this James Lee why he was king of Ansan.

--

“I’m back,” James said.

Choi didn’t bother looking at him. The night wind brushed against his cheeks, ruffling his gray-streaked hair. “Well done. I assume everything went according to plan.”

As James meandered across the empty rooftop, he unwrapped a new lollipop and popped into his mouth, letting the taste of sour apple sink into his tongue. They were a couple dozen stories up on an empty office building with restricted rooftop access, though it wasn’t difficult for James or hell, even Charles himself, to kick open the flimsy iron gates. 

“Barely a warmup. But I did my job,” he said, licking his teeth. Like throwing a stick into a hornet’s nest, except it wasn’t clear who was the stick and who was the hornet. 

“Good.” Charles laced his hands behind his back. “If you’d told me of Gin’s connections to those child kings, our plan might’ve proceeded even faster.”

The lollipop shattered between James’s jaws. He spat out the stick and swallowed the rest of the jagged pieces. “Don’t involve them in this.”

“A bit too late for that,” Choi said mildly, glancing westwards. Towards China.

A bitter ball rose in James’s throat. He swallowed it, hopping onto the railing at the edge of the roof and balancing there on the balls of his feet, delighting in the sudden swoop of his stomach at the vertigo. They were so high up that the only sound was the whistle of wind, traffic fading to the background. “Exactly. It’s not their job anymore. Leave the kings to me.” 

“From what you’ve told me, the kings aren’t keen on hurting Gin in the first place.” James could hear the curiosity in Choi’s voice, the impersonal intrigue of a chessmaster with a particularly rebellious pawn. 

“It’s not the kings I’m worried about.”

“How sentimental.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.” Choi tilted his face towards the sky, and the flickering neon lights briefly glared across his glasses, blocking his eyes from sight. “Though I would love to hear your explanation for the boy you brought along today. Johan Seong, correct? Gin’s cousin.” 

James refused to give Choi the satisfaction of flinching. He’d known this was coming ever since he spotted the security cameras mounted along Ansan’s streets. “Yup. Just doing the job you assigned me, remember? Can’t trust you with their money.”

“I don’t recall asking you to bring a child to Ansan.”

James hummed. “What, can’t a guy take a friend out for ice cream?”

“James Lee,” Choi said, his smile turning sleek and oily. Hm. Maybe James had pushed a little too far with his last comment. “Surely you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our plan.”

James glanced over his shoulder and grinned humorlessly, teeth sharp. He stood several feet above the other man, and it gave him a rush like no other to look down on him for once. “What’s wrong? Scared of a little boy who doesn’t know how to fight?”

Elite’s smile didn’t twitch. “I made you, James. I can unmake you just as easily.”

“Is that a threat?” James said, just as quietly. 

They stared at each other. Finally, Choi moved his gaze back to the scene below them. His suit jacket rippled behind him. “Cheonliang is next,” he said. 

James leaned backwards and let himself drop back onto the roof. “Yeah,” he said, landing gently on the balls of his feet. A familiar wrath welled behind his teeth at that name, but he suppressed with a slow exhale. Not yet. 

“You’ll need to train before then,” Choi said. “The Yamazaki Syndicate aren’t to be taken lightly.”

“Sure.”

A quiet settled upon them. Choi said, “They’ll come looking for you. Are you ready?”

James placed his hands in his pockets, letting the wind play with the tips of his hair. Below them, Seoul shone like diamonds beneath the black night sky.  

“Do you even have to ask?"

Chapter Text

“You’re back.”

You blinked up at him, stirring what looked like a cement block in a small pot on Seongji’s portable stove. There was a backpack lying by your feet, mouth gaping open to reveal a collection of fruits, vegetables, and plastic containers. “Am I not allowed to be?” you asked, stretching your legs out.

Seongji frowned. The mountain was technically outside of Cheonliang’s borders, so it didn’t fall under the Shaman’s jurisdiction. Still, he hadn't expected you to return, especially after you’d spent your first visit acting as his glorified nurse. “Why are you here?” 

You prodded the lump in the pot with the wooden spoon, looking utterly at ease sitting in the dirt in front of Seongji’s shack like you had been born and raised in the mountains. "I thought I’d check up on you and make you breakfast. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Seongji said, as neutrally as he could afford.

“Really?” You rose to your feet, and Seongji had almost forgotten how much shorter you were than him, how fragile you looked in your neat slacks and tie. You raised your hand to his forehead, and he fought not to flinch back or swat you away. “Huh. I guess you are. And your cheekbone is healing well too.” Your lips quirked into a smug grin. “It would be a shame to lose that pretty face.”

Pretty? 

Seongji’s frown deepened. You were definitely mocking him. “Haven’t you heard of me?” he asked. “I’m the monster of Cheonliang. You should be terrified.”

“Is that a joke?” You put your hands on your hips and scoffed. “You’re, what, sixteen?"

“Seventeen,” he said. At least, that was his best guess. 

You clicked your tongue. “Oppa,” you said with a leer. “Or hyung, whatever works. What kind of monster gets so sick that they’re bedridden for three days?” Seongji flushed. “Besides, I’ve seen real monsters, and you’re nowhere near their level. You haven’t even thrown a table at me!”

His incredulousness must’ve shown on his face, because you chuckled self-consciously. 

“Uh, anyways,” you said, turning around and rummaging through your backpack. After a moment, you triumphantly withdrew a tiny pink bottle and tossed it at him. He caught it, briefly shocked by the coldness. Strawberry milk. “I was looking around and noticed that you don’t have a fridge. What do you eat?” 

After a pause, Seongji shrugged, fingers curling around the strawberry milk. He hadn’t had anything sweet in a long, long time. 

You sighed. “Idiot. You’re all the same.” You pointed to the pot and raised an eyebrow. “Eat.”

Seongji didn’t move.

You jabbed his bare shoulder, which felt more like a woodpecker’s tiny beak than a real hit. “Do I need to force feed you? Come on, have as much as you’d like.”

Seongji looked down at the gray sludge burbling in the pot. “...It doesn’t look good.”

For the first time, your composure cracked, and your face turned bright red. “I-It’s a healthy soup! It’s not supposed to be good!” you sputtered, waving your arms. “I mean, I probably left it on the stove way too long and maybe burnt the onions, but that’s how you caramelize them, right? I-It smelled okay, so I thought maybe it’d be fine--”

Something strange bubbled in his chest. It wasn’t until your embarrassment gave way to a pout that Seongji recognized the sound drifting through the air, light and snorting. His shoulders were shaking. 

“Gee, thanks,” you grumbled. Seongji laughed harder, nearly bending over in glee. When he finally looked back up, your lips were pursed into a pout, and your cheeks were pinker than sakura blossoms. “Jerk.”

“Nosy,” Seongji retorted. His face hurt, and he was pretty sure he’d strained a muscle somewhere. But it felt good. 

“Whatever.”

As you grumpily dumped out the “healthy soup” into a nearby bush and grabbed two red bean buns from your backpack, Seongji sat down on an overturned log. Soon, you joined him, offering him a red bean bun. He took it, crinkling the plastic between his fingers. 

“I don’t think I ever got your name,” you said, ripping apart the plastic. You stuffed the red bean bun into your mouth and offered him your hand. “You can call me Gin, by the way.”

He took your hand carefully. Your fingers were delicate, like bird bones that would shatter the moment he squeezed. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m Seongji.”

--

Can we talk? 

I want to ask you for advice 

It’s not that big of a deal but I feel like I’m going insane 

And 

I don’t know 

I’d like your thoughts on it

James? 

--

Your eyes were crusted over with sleep when you pried them open. Light streamed through the windows of your tiny dorm, illuminating the dusty floor you hadn’t sweeped in weeks. 

Slowly, you pushed yourself onto one elbow, shoving down a swell of nausea as the room spun. You shut your eyes, digging the heel of your hand into your eyes. Shit. Your entire body throbbed, and you thanked whatever deities still watched over you that Vivi and Xiaolong hadn’t stayed over last night. 

You fumbled for the orange bottle on the nightstand. When your fingers touched cold plastic, you grabbed the bottle and opened it with trembling hands, dumping two pills into your mouth. They dissolved on your tongue and left a terrible chalky taste. With a groan, you drew your knees to your chest and rested your forehead on them, waiting for the pain to pass. 

So it was gonna be one of those days, huh?

--

Stepping into your old department for the first time in nearly a year felt like walking onstage naked with no script and the President of Korea in the audience. 

The first thing you noticed was that they’d rearranged all the cubicles. Your old desk, tucked into the corner of the room where no one would ever bother to talk to you, was gone, replaced by a friendly array of bean bags and portable tables. A couple of the office doors had new nametags. (Haowei’s had been replaced by someone named Jingliu. Fired or promoted, that was the question.) You didn't recognize any of the people walking around with their gaze firmly stuck to their papers or talking rapid-fire into their phones. They must’ve just finished the latest cycle of hiring. 

As you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see your old coworkers again, an unfamiliar man in a gray suit ducked in front of you, a customer service smile plastered firmly on his face. “Welcome, dear guest. How can I help you?”

You blinked, startled by his sudden appearance. “Er, I’m here to see Min. I made an appointment for 2pm.”

The man’s eyes flicked towards the visitor’s badge on your chest, then to your mask and sunglasses. A vaguely constipated expression overtook his face. “I’ll get Director Chang immediately. Please wait here."

You suppressed a sigh. Hanging around Vivi and Xiaolong for so long had almost made you forget how normal people usually reacted to you. “Thank you,” you said, curving your eyes at him.

Just as you settled down in a nearby bean bag, a pretty brown-haired woman walked by with a cup of coffee, head buried in her phone. Her perfectly manicured nails and flashy eyeliner summoned an old memory. “Miss Liyang,” you called before you could stop yourself. 

Liyang’s head jerked up. Her dark eyes wandered around, and then fell on you. “Jiyin? You’re back!” she said with a gasp.

You raised your arms, then lowered them awkwardly. Now that she was in front of you, you couldn’t remember why you’d been so wary of her in the first place. Sure, she was a chatterbox and a rumor mill machine, but Vivi was far, far worse. “Yes. I have a meeting with Min.”

Liyang did a stutter-step like she wanted to come closer before clearly thinking better of it. With a nervous laugh, she tucked a piece of brown hair behind her ear and bit her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. “You, um, look well. How have things been?” she asked, tapping her nails anxiously against her cup. 

“I'm doing fine. Vivi’s a talented businesswoman.” 

“Vivi?” She frowned. “Oh, right! You work for Miss Wei now. How’s that been?” 

Her voice held a strange edge, wary and awed at the same time. You tilted your head. “It’s been an enlightening experience. I’ve been busy,” you said. You wondered how much of this conversation was going to end up as gossip on the company discussion boards. 

“I see.” Liyang’s lips pinched. “You’ve always worked hard. I guess it wasn’t too difficult of a transition.”

Before you could parse that, someone called out your name. “Jiyin?” It was the gray-suited man again. He gestured towards Min’s office. “Director Chang is ready for you.”

You checked your phone, a little surprised. 1:55pm. Min was early. 

“Right.” You gave Liyang a polite nod. “See you."

Her hand caught your wrist. You looked down, and then back at her face, which was scrunched up in vague embarrassment. “Um!” she said loudly, then flushed. You blinked at her, confused by the undercurrent of guilt in her voice. She ducked her head and blurted out, “It’s really good to see you again, Jiyin. W-We’ve missed you!”

It sounded like an apology. You smiled, a little surprised and charmed by her honesty. It seemed like you weren't the only who'd changed.

“Thanks,” you said, patting her hand. Her flush deepened. “Have a good day, Miss Liyang.”

--

Min looked the same as always: blouse neat and tidy, eyeliner drawn to a sharp point, expression drawn into a severe frown as she worked at her mahogany desk. When you walked into her office, a bare-bones room with a desk, a small bookshelf filled with textbooks, and an overflowing pot of succulents on the windowsill, she glanced up from her computer. Her expression relaxed infinitesimally.

“Jiyin,” she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. “Come, sit.”

You sank into the seat with a shy greeting. She finished typing and closed her laptop with a deep sigh. A wisp of black hair fell from her tight bun, which she tucked behind her ear. “I was not expecting to receive an email from you,” she said, as straightforward as always. “It’s been a while. You look tired.”

You managed a smile. You felt like it too, having spent half of your morning curled up on your bed, the other half staring blearily at the ceiling and wondering if you should just call it quits. You’d barely managed to shrug on your clothes and pop a breath mint before stumbling to the building. “A spring cold. It’ll pass.” You glanced at the nameplate on her desk. Managing Director Chang Min. Time passed fast. She had been an assistant manager when you'd worked for Haowei. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by earlier.”

“No need to apologize. I can’t imagine it’s easy being Miss Wei’s personal secretary.” You snorted. Min bent over and opened the bottom drawer of her desk. “Cough drop?” 

You shook your head. Over-the-counter medication messed with your new prescription. 

Min closed the drawer with a wry smile. “Did you get the chance to catch up with the rest of the team?”

“Just Miss Liyang,” you said. “She’s… nicer than I remember.”

Min’s eyes flashed. “Mm. When you first started, you were quite awkward, and your communication skills left much to be desired.” 

You grimaced. “Consequences of learning a language in three days, unfortunately."

Min’s eyes narrowed. “You learned Mandarin in three days?"

“Conversationally.” Though James, the arrogant brat, became basically fluent after stealing your language books and binging a bunch of C-dramas. Geniuses. Ugh. 

Bewilderment, regret, and admiration flickered across Min’s expression all at once. She didn’t believe you. “That’s impressive,” she said after a pause. “Three days is… quite an abbreviated amount of time.” 

“Though it didn’t help with Haowei,” you said bitterly. 

Min snorted. Her nails tapped a sharp rhythm against the desk. Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack. “Don’t worry. He won’t be pulling his tricks anymore.” When you raised an eyebrow, she smiled wanely. “He’s in Chongqing. Demoted. It took a while, but karma finally caught up to him.”

Vindication swept through you like a drug. You bared your teeth in a smile. “Good fucking riddance,” you muttered in Korean.

Min hummed, straightening the papers on her desk. “What did you need from me, Jiyin?”

Ah. Your amusement faded, and you looked down at your lap, intertwining your fingers. “I wanted some advice," you said, quashing your nervousness. "I’m very close to... a promotion of sorts in my current position. I’ll have better pay and benefits, and it’ll bring me closer to the goal of my internship.”

You heard Min shuffle. “But?” she asked quietly.

“But it’s risky,” you said, squeezing your hands. “And I don’t know if…”

Pause. Min heaved a breath. “The age old question,” she said. “To climb and lose everything, or plummet to the ground and do the same.” 

“Yeah.”

Min’s nails clacked against the table. “Let’s start from the beginning, then. What did you want out of this internship?”

You winced. “Money?” you said, laughing self-consciously.

Her lips quirked gently. “Of course. But what else?”

You thought about it. “Connections. A network of powerful people.”

“The T Group doesn’t have a shortage of those,” Min said. Her nails stopped clacking. “What else, Jiyin?”

You remembered James and Johan and your auntie, how Johan had gripped your shirt and refused to admit that he’d cried the day you left for China. Your aunt had brushed your hair with an old comb—she hadn’t done that since you were very, very small—and pressed a kiss to your cheek before you slid into the taxi. “Be good,” she’d said, and smiled so sweetly you'd felt your eyes sting. 

“Stability,” you said.

The corner of Min’s lips tilted up. “Good. What is worth that?” 

“Everything.”

She nodded. “There’s your answer. There was never a choice in the first place. You only needed time to come to terms with your decision.”

Your throat closed. “I see,” you said. Perhaps you’d been dragging your feet the whole time, waiting for salvation that would never come. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do in my place? Back then, I mean.”

Min snorted, uncharacteristically informal. “I’m old, Jiyin. When I joined this company, I was the only woman on the team. That made me a target as much as your foreignness did.”

“But you persevered.”

She nodded, mouth thinning. “It won’t be easy. There are going to be people hounding you every step of the way, eager to attribute every mistake to your character, every victory to mere luck.” She placed her hands on the desk and leveled you with a firm look, eyes narrow and judging. “Can you handle that?”

“Of course," you said.

“Then you’ll succeed.” There was a stray piece of hair fluttering over her forehead. Min tucked it behind her ear with a sigh. “You’re a good kid, Jiyin. You’re humble and incredibly bright. I believe in your ability to overcome any challenge in your way.”

You managed to lower your head, hands curling in your lap, embarrassment flooding you like a lukewarm shower.  “Thank you for your insight, Min. I appreciate it.”

A strange sort of regret twisted Min’s lips as she surveyed you. You couldn’t imagine what for. “You’ve changed,” she said finally. “I don’t think anyone can say that you only got here because you have friends in high places.”

Your lips lifted in a wry smile that she wouldn’t be able to see. “A good thing, I hope.”

She lowered her head. After a moment, she said, “I certainly hope so.”

--

The wind was rough by the docks. You folded your arms over your chest and tried not to shiver.

“You should’ve brought a jacket.”

“I know, mom,” you muttered in Korean. Your jacket was currently draped over Vivi’s sleeping figure as she napped in the car. Sorry if you didn't have the foresight to bring a second one.

Xiaolong barely glanced at you, all bundled up in a stylish brown coat and a red scarf that rippled dramatically in the wind. Even his hair, which should’ve been tossed in every direction, looked good pulled back from his impassive face into a long braid. The early morning did wonders for his complexion, casting a cool blue tone across his features.

Damn handsome people. James was the same, always perfectly ruffled while you coughed and sneezed next to him like a troll. 

“Checking the weather should’ve been your first instinct this morning,” Xiaolong said.

“Sorry to disappoint."

A pause. You sniffled, feeling and looking rather pathetic. It had been weeks since your last episode, but the aches still lingered in your joints. You’d practically oozed out of bed that morning, taking half your blankets with you. 

“There’s an extra jacket in the car,” he said.

“Vivi’s not exactly my size."

“It’s mine.”

You sneezed. Wordlessly, Xiaolong handed you a tissue, and you pulled down your mask to blow your nose. “Your jacket won't fit me either,” you told him, stuffing the used tissue into your pocket. “But thank you.”

He inclined his head. You returned to staring at the ocean, trying not to sneeze out half your brain cells. At least your mask covered most of your bloated, snotty, sniffling face. Otherwise the smugglers would never take you seriously.

Speak of the devil. There was a medium-sized ship docking at the port, nondescript in every sense of the word. You squinted as the dock workers rushed to meet them, making out a tall figure who stepped out of the ship. That must be your contact. 

Heavy wool landed on your shoulders. Instinctively, you drew the coat loser, casting a confused glance at Xiaolong. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, standing there with his arms folded behind his back like some sort of k-drama male lead in a simple shirt and tie. “Try not to make a fool of yourself."

You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll do my best,” you said, nudging his side. He didn't move, but his expression flickered in his version of a smile. “Ah, I think they’re coming over.” 

“I’ll wake Miss Vivi.” 

“Don’t forget her boba,” you said as Xiaolong turned, heading toward the limousine parked at the edge of the lot. His only response was a hum. 

The tall figure at the docks was talking to one of the workers. When the worker pointed, the man turned and met your gaze from afar. You suppressed a shiver, drawing Xiaolong’s jacket closer around your shoulders.

It took forever and a half for the man to come over. By that point, Vivi had crawled out of the car and was leaning against you sleepily, swaying every so often and eyes threatening to slip shut. Occasionally she’d take a long, loud slurp of her boba—strawberry matcha, a pretty pink shade that matched her manicure. 

“Miss Vivi Wei?” the man said as he approached. He was tall, maybe even taller than Xiaolong, with black hair framing a handsome and smiling face, just barely covering his cauliflower ears. His Mandarin was accented but relatively fluent, and his muscle swam beneath his shirt as he stretched out a hand for Vivi to shake. “I’m Jinho Lee. Good to meet you.”

Before he could touch Vivi, you took a small step forward and grabbed his hand instead, giving it a short shake. His palms had calluses in familiar places.

“I’m Gin. I’ll be Miss Wei’s translator for the day,” you said in Korean, curving your eyes in . “Please direct any and all queries to me.” 

To his credit, Jinho only flicked a brief glance at Xiaolong’s stone-faced expression before returning to you with a smile. There wasn’t a speck of concern in his eyes—like he didn’t think Xiaolong, nearly two meters tall and well-muscled beneath his dress-shirt, was a threat. 

He reminded you of Charles Choi. All that pretty polish, and only black tar beneath.

“A Korean translator, huh? I’m honored you thought me important enough for one,” Jinho said in Korean, lilting and soft. 

“We treat all of our business partners equally,” you said.

Jinho’s smile didn’t twitch. “I see. Then let me return the favor.” He turned to Vivi. “The goods are with my men, Miss Wei. Would you like to assess them yourself?”

After you translated, Vivi narrowed her eyes at Jinho, unimpressed. You wondered what sorts of calculations she was running as she sipped her boba, pressing herself to your side. He was handsome, which would undoubtedly improve her opinion of him, but he also had a nasty habit of looking at people with the faint condescension of a teacher towards their dull, somewhat adorable pupil.

“Sure,” she said, playing the part of the disaffected rich heiress so well you were almost fooled into forgetting that she’d spent last night playing otome games on her phone until she passed out on your bed. “But you better make it worth my while.”

Jinho tipped his head, more mocking than respectful. “Perfect.” He gestured, a king displaying their claim. “Let me show you our work.”

--

The thing about Vivi’s drugs was that there wasn’t much point in smuggling it into Korea unless there was a demand. That meant her goods would need to be approved by whatever chaebol held the reins over the drug business that week without raising any flags with authorities or compromising her own identity as the T Group heiress.

Which was where Jinho Lee and his crew came in. Bulk loads were still no-go, but samples? That was his bread and butter. He was a smuggler from Korea, infamous for being… Well. A lot of things. Murderer. Psychopath. Pimp. He was the type of crazy that even Tom Lee wrinkled his nose at.

“Jinho Lee won’t last long,” he’d snorted, tossing the newspaper into the trash. Corpses washed ashore tied to potential smuggling operation, identities unknown. “Dead men ain’t worth haggling with.”

“Dead?” you’d asked, scrambling after him. He’d promised you a raise after you signed Suwon onto the new partner program, and you were looking forward to how many zeros he could add to your paycheck. “But isn’t he still alive?” 

“Give it a couple of years,” he said with a shrug. “A man like that ain’t got passion. Sooner or later he’ll burn himself out.” He turned around, and you stayed very, very still as he put a hand on your head and scrubbed. “By his men’s or his own hand, ya know?”

“No,” you’d said, confused, and Tom Lee had laughed and laughed.

Now you get it. Even the best poker players couldn’t seal all of their emotions, eagerness or anxiety or joy seeping into the corners of their features, a tell obvious in the way they flicked their fingers or tapped their foot.

But Jinho Lee was a porcelain doll. Sure, he smiled and laughed and played the perfect part of the charming host as he showed the three of you around the boat, a quaint little thing with a wide deck and a decently furnished captain’s quarters. But his eyes were black and empty, devouring his otherwise pretty features. You found yourself keeping him in the corner of your vision at all times, like a wild animal you couldn’t let out of your sight. 

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect for the T Group to reach out, let alone in conjunction with the White Tiger Job Center. I’m flattered you thought of us,” Jinho said as Vivi rushed towards the opposite side of the boat with Xiaolong close behind, laughing as she reached over the railing to touch the salty sea-spray. He settled beside you, the picture of innocence. “I suppose the rumors are true."

“You misunderstand,” you said, draping your arms across the railing. You kept your eyes fixed on the waters, watching the tides push and pull, push and pull. “Right now, I'm Miss Wei’s translator. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Jinho's voice was light. “So the infamous Gin is finally freed from Tom Lee’s possessive grasp. I know some people who’d love to hire your services.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The sea wind played with Jinho’s hair, outlining his pleasant smile as he waited for your response. His entire body was stretched out languidly like a predator’s camouflage, hiding gleaming claws behind thick layers of foliage. “I’m afraid it’ll take more than pretty words to make me divulge the contents of my employee contract,” you said sweetly. “So why don’t you tell your men to quit sizing us up and show us what we’re really here for?”

Jinho tilted his head idly. You followed his gaze to the other side of the deck, and a cold shiver rippled down your spine. Xiaolong had hooked an arm around Vivi’s waist as she leaned over the railing, trying to touch the sea spray with her fingertips. His expression was placid, but there was a hint of softness on his mouth that betrayed his fondness. He hadn’t taken more than a single step away from Vivi, hyper-aware of the leering men Jinho called his crew scattered around the boat. Good. Vivi had her own men stationed at the docks, but there was no telling what a man like Jinho Lee had up his sleeve. 

“Miss Wei has brought quite a troublesome mutt,” Jinho said quietly. “I wonder how strong her leash is.”

Uncharacteristically, anger swarmed your head. “His name is Xiaolong,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Are you sure you want to test his bite?”

Jinho hummed. It wasn’t in amusement. “The princess and the dragon,” he mused, and you felt his eyes rake over the long wool coat draped over your shoulders. Suddenly, you wanted to throw it into the ocean, out of sight. Better yet, you wanted to throw him into the ocean. “Fitting.”

Finally, the two of them wandered over. Vivi leaped forward and looped her arm through yours, while Xiaolong hovered behind the two of you, a silent promise of protection. “So? Where are the goods? Or are you just wasting our time?” Vivi asked snappishly.

You translated. Jinho’s smile was back, customer-service sweet. 

“I wouldn’t dare, Miss Wei. Follow me.”

--

The boat was bigger than it looked. Jinho led the three of you down, down, down a cramped corridor somewhere beneath the captain’s quarters, the hum of machinery echoing amidst the narrow walls. The only light sources were the swaying light bulbs hanging by thin wires from the ceiling. That had to be a safety hazard. 

Eventually, he stopped before an innocuous door. “I don’t need to remind you to keep your mouth shut,” he said, smiling blandly. 

You kept your expression blank as you translated. Xiaolong pursed his lips. Vivi frowned and squeezed your arm. “Get on with it,” she demanded. 

Jinho unlocked the door and shoved it open. Vivi’s eyes widened, and her nails dug into your forearm.

“Oh,” she said breathlessly. “They’re perfect!”

“They” being a scattered collection of men and women huddled in a tiny storage room ranging from mid-twenties to late fifties, eyes wide and frantic as they peered up at the four of you. Plain-looking, and deliberately so. No one would look twice. 

“Our usual protocol is to dispose of the packaging once we reach Korean soil,” Jinho said, leaning against the doorframe. “But given that you’re paying for delivery as well, we thought we’d spruce things up a bit. The packaging this time was hand-picked by yours truly.”

“Who are they?” you asked. Vivi blinked, but didn’t protest at your interruption. 

Jinho shrugged. “Businessmen fleeing the poor decisions. Middle-class recluses. Nobodies.”

That didn't answer your question. You met one of the stowaway’s eyes and felt a slow chill run down your spine.

“How much can they carry?” Vivi asked, bouncing on her toes.

“As much as you’d like, Miss Wei.” 

“And they won’t blab?” 

“They’ve been trained better than that,” Jinho said drily. When he peered down at the scattered collection of stowaways, they perked up, shuffling closer like he was their salvation. One of them, the older man with the balding head, started babbling in Japanese. Jinho replied in a quiet and reassuring tone, even bending down gently to place a hand on the man’s shoulder, whose body slumped in obvious relief. When he turned back around, his expression was blank. “In any case, they’ll do their jobs perfectly well. Whatever the illustrious T Group wants after that…” 

Vivi tapped her chin. “We probably wouldn’t want to reuse them. It’ll set off a bunch of alarms, especially if they’re undocumented,” she mused. “What do you think, Xiaolong?”

“Whatever you believe is best, Miss Vivi,” Xiaolong said, arms folded carefully behind his back. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Jinho for a moment, who accepted the attention with a smirking, condescending grace. “Though if I were to have an opinion, I’d advise against over-dependence on a single producer.”

“True. We can definitely look into other avenues later,” Vivi said, nodding with exaggerated wisdom. She turned those almond-gray eyes towards you with a smile. “What about you, Jiyin?”

It was hard to wrench your attention away from the stowaways, still peering up at the four of you with uncertain gazes. Whatever Jinho had said quelled most of their fears. But one of the women was glaring at you. “I’d maintain their cover as tourists,” you said. “They can’t go under the radar of the police if they look malnourished and scared.”

Vivi grinned. “Good point.” She turned back to Jinho. “I wanna see them under better lighting."

After you translated, Jinho's eyes curved pleasantly, but there wasn’t a single speck of amusement in those black pools. “I’m afraid they’re not allowed to set foot outside. International laws and all. I hope you understand.”

Vivi crossed her arms. “Seriously? Are you that scared of the police?”

“What Miss Wei is trying to say,” you interjected, even as Vivi pouted and muttered, “Vivi, not Miss Wei,” “is that you don’t need to be concerned about the authorities while you’re under the T Group’s protection. It’s part of our contract, after all.”

Jinho's smile widened, and his gaze bored into yours, as scorching as slowly-cooling magma. “How magnanimous,” he mused. He pushed himself off the wall and stretched. “Are we done perusing the merchandise? If so, I have more interesting avenues I’d like to discuss with Miss Wei. Perhaps more on the production side, hm?”

“Production,” Vivi echoed, confused. Then she lit up. “Oh! Okay, sure.”

As Jinho led the way back down the hallway where you’d come from, you tried to follow suit. A light touch on your wrist stopped you. It was the glaring woman. She pressed herself a little closer, something frantic but calculating in her gaze.

“You know English?” she asked, accent thick.

You cast a brief glance at the three figures down the hall, engrossed in a conversation about laws governing international waters and drug production, and then back at the woman. “Yes,” you replied in English. “What do you need?”

“I know little Korean,” she said, gripping your wrist until it hurt. Dammit. So it was entirely possible she’d overheard Jinho’s two-faced euphemisms and drew her own conclusion about his motives. “We go to Korea, yes? Not other place with more danger?”

The other stowaways were starting to stir, curious and confused by your conversation. One of them asked the woman something in Japanese. She snapped back a response, her eyes never leaving your face. 

You steeled yourself. 

“Yes,” you said.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, only for her gaze to sharpen and her overgrown nails to dig into your flesh, almost hard enough to draw blood. “Jinho Lee,” she said, “is a good man.”

“No,” you said. She flinched, but didn’t seem surprised. “But he will take you to Korea."

She squeezed your hand and then let go. A knot unwinded in her posture, and you knew she’d follow Jinho Lee off the deck now, if only because you’d promised there would be a lifeboat at the bottom. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you for honesty.”

"You're so slow, Jiyin!"

You looked down the hall to Vivi, hovering by the stairs with her head cocked. She motioned impatiently with an arm and mouthed, We’re going to leave without you. Then you glanced back at the woman as she twisted and untwisted the hem of her shirt, only half-aware of the future waiting for her on the other side of the ocean. She was an adult. They were all adults. They knew what they were getting themselves into long before Jinho Lee approached them with the opportunity to flee the country.

Min’s voice drifted through your head. What is worth stability? 

“You don’t look so good,” Vivi said as you stepped towards her and Xiaolong. She frowned and yanked up your sunglasses so she could scan your grimacing face, momentarily blinded by the sudden color and brightness. You’d forgotten how pale her eyes were. “Maybe we should leave. It's getting boring anyways.”

You forced yourself to smile and slid your sunglasses back on. Vivi only used that excuse when she was worried about you but didn’t want to admit it. “It’s fine,” you said. A few steps away, Jinho’s smile was mild but scathing. “Let’s keep going.”

Your encroaching headache didn’t abate as Jinho led the three of you back to the deck. Neither did that strangling discomfort in the back of your throat, a scream trying to push its way through. 

--

Wow you’re actually ghosting me 

You’ve gotten really busy, huh? 

I feel like an annoying ex

Are you breaking up with me??

That was a joke

We’re still friends 

James? Did you block me?

Or do you have a new number I don’t know about? 

Jaaaaaamesssss

Jihoonnnnnn Leeeeeee

I miss you 

--

Your seventeenth birthday had passed by quietly a few months ago, a fact you’d completely forgotten about until Vivi looked down at your employee card, screamed, and dragged Xiaolong by his braid into the other room.  

After an hour of petting Vivi’s hair and assuring her that no, you didn’t hate her, you had just been busy (and it was during the period of time where she couldn’t talk to you without rolling her eyes every three seconds but shh, you weren’t telling her that), you talked her down from a three-hundred person rager to a movie marathon in her penthouse. So you spent the weekend on Vivi’s ridiculously comfortable couch with her snuggled at your side, a pile of empty takeout containers from every restaurant in the city scattered across the floor like war prizes. 

“They’re good!” Vivi had insisted. “And since it’s your birthday, you have to try all of them.” 

So you’d indulged her for a few bites, even as the grease slid uncomfortably down your throat. It took a bit of wrestling and a pair of strategic puppy eyes from Vivi, but even Xiaolong joined in, poised stiffly at the far end of the couch as the k-drama you picked out (an old favorite of James) played on Vivi’s massive TV monitor. The three of you watched with rapt attention as the story steamrolled its way towards disaster. 

“Wode tian ah,” Vivi murmured, wincing as the male lead shoved the pregnant female lead out of their home, oblivious that he’d fallen straight into the villainess’s trap. “This is vicious. Are all Koreans like this?”

“It’s just a story, Vivi,” you said, mask pulled down to your chin so you could take small sips of water. “But some of them, yeah.” 

Vivi clutched your arm and gasped as the female lead stumbled through the rainy streets of Seoul, sobbing too heavily to notice the truck barreling around the corner. Even Xiaolong flinched slightly. You saw him shift forward as the woman’s head whipped around to see a pair of headlights, then fall back as the ending theme played right before impact. 

“Next episode, next episode!” Vivi chanted, lunging for the remote. 

You leaned back on the cushions and set aside your water bottle. It was late enough that you couldn’t summon the energy to stop her, nor did you have the motivation to clear away the mountain of empty boxes and board games littered around your feet. “Teenagers these days are so energetic,” you said, giving Xiaolong an exaggerated look of disapproval. His lips might’ve twitched; it was hard to tell when you were so drowsy.

Vivi pouted. “What are you talking about? We’re all teenagers!”

“Even Xiaolong?” you asked.

“I’m probably seventeen,” Xiaolong said.

You blinked languidly at the blithe declaration. Vivi added, “That’s our best guess. We decided his birthday was right after mine.” 

Too tired to question it, you lifted your fist for a bump. After a second of delay, he obliged, and your knuckles knocked against one another gently. 

“Seventeen year olds rule the world,” you drawled, a bubbly sensation rising in your chest—probably all the lo mein you snuck bites of. With the reflection of the TV dancing across his features, long hair loose around his face, Xiaolong looked like his (assumed) age. 

Vivi’s slap came out of nowhere, breaking the fist-bump. “Hey, why are you hanging out with Xiaolong now?” she cried, throwing herself over your lap. You grunted as she collided with you.

“Am I not allowed to?” you asked, hauling her legs over yours. 

She grabbed your loose hair and yanked. “Dad gave you to me. That means you’re mine.” 

She stated it like a fact: the sky was blue, Charles Choi wanted the world, and you were hers. You sighed and flicked her forehead. She flinched back, pouting. “I think you need to go to bed, missy.”

“Huh? It’s not even that late.” Bravely, Vivi suppressed a yawn. “I used... used to stay up until five.”

“Xiaolong, do your job,” you said.

Xiaolong rose to his feet and captured Vivi as she started struggling. One arm folded beneath her knees, the other cradling her waist, he carried her out of the living room and into the enormous suite she called her bedroom. Her protests echoed down the hallway, though they steadily became weaker and sleepier. “Let me down, Xiaolong! You’re listening to Jiyin instead of me? Should I report you for insubordination? Xiaolong! Xiao-long!”

As her cries died down, you sank into the cushions and closed your eyes, the ending credits flickering blue and pink across your shut eyelids. Then you heard soft, nearly imperceptible footsteps. 

“It’s time for you to go back,” came Xiaolong’s quiet voice. 

“Sure,” you said, opening your eyes to Xiaolong leaning over you, his long hair swaying before your face. Today, it was pulled into a simple side-ponytail that traced his sharp jawline. You resisted the urge to bat it. “Did you enjoy the food?”

“It was greasy.” 

You laughed. If that was his only comment, then he must’ve liked it. “It was, wasn’t it?” You reached up to pull your mask back up over your nose, only to be stopped by Xiaolong’s hand around your wrist. “What is it?”

His eyes flicked over your face. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Hm,” you hummed, pushing yourself onto one elbow. God, Vivi’s couch was so comfortable. Maybe you’d be able to afford it in fifty years. “I’ll see myself out, then. Thanks for having me over.”

“You can stay in the guest room.”

“There’s no need.”

“There is,” he said. “It’s late. The subway’s already closed.”

“Oh. Um.” 

“Stay in the guest room," he repeated. Before you could protest, Xiaolong slipped his arms beneath you and lifted you up with the ease of a trained martial artist. Too exhausted to protest, you clung to his neck and huffed out a laugh as he headed towards the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

“Should I be honored that the Xiaolong is giving me a lift?”

“Miss Vivi ordered me to watch over you, and that’s exactly what I’ll do,” he said. His deep voice rumbled against your ear. You released a sigh.

“You know,” you said, “if you want to be friends, you just have to say so. None of this ‘Vivi’ misdirection stuff.”

Knowingly, he didn’t respond. You chortled as he carried you up the stairs, a comforting stride that threatened to lull you to sleep. “Xiaolong,” you said as he laid you in the shockingly soft bed, pulled the covers over your shoulders, and prepared to close the door behind him.

Through your slitted eyes, you saw him pause by the doorway, hand poised over the light switch. 

“Do you agree with what Vivi’s doing?” you mumbled, burying your face in the strawberry-scented pillows.  

“I do whatever the miss tells me to do. I shouldn’t have opinions outside my jurisdiction.”

You figured. But the difference between “shouldn’t have” and “don’t have” was a gaping abyss you didn’t think Xiaolong was ready to cross. 

“What will you do if Vivi isn’t there to give you orders?” you asked.

The silence was palpable. “Then I would wait for her.”

Yeah. That was what you thought.

“You’re not a mutt, Xiaolong,” you muttered into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “Good night."

--

You were on a raft bobbing helplessly on a massive tide. There was a wave about to crash onto your head, and you could only cower with your arms over your face and wait to be thrown into the unforgiving depths. 

“Are they okay? Was it the food?” someone murmured from far, far away. You moaned, brow furrowing in pain. “Ah! They moved.” 

Your head throbbed. Another voice drifted through the air, as distant as the night sky. 

“Really? Oh…” 

Everything ached. You couldn’t raise your head or twitch a finger or even whimper to let them know you’d heard. 

“Do you think coffee will cheer them up?” A pause. “Okay. You remember where they keep it?”

An affirmative.

As you waited for another wave to smash you off your feet, a soft delicate hand grazed your forehead, clumsily brushing aside stray hairs. With Sisyphean effort, you cracked open your eyes and saw Vivi’s face, all blurry and scrunched up in vague concern. She was wearing her new mint pantsuit, a gift from Chairman Wei for her most recent acquisition of land in Yunnan. 

“Feel better, Jiyin,” she whispered, brow drawn together with guilt. 

You closed your eyes and let yourself drown. 

--

You woke up—at three pm, your phone read; you’d slept through your first alarm and every subsequent alarm—with a flailing, frantic bird trying to claw its way up your throat. 

You managed to untangle yourself from the soft blankets before stumbling blindly to the bathroom and vomiting the contents of your stomach from the past week into the toilet. When the fit passed, you slid down to the floor and leaned your sweaty forehead against the white porcelain. A thick wad of spit and bile bubbled in your mouth, and you spat into the bowl, flushing it down with everything else.

Well, you thought, head spinning like a child’s toy. Shit. 

Flecks of blood dotted your shirt. You tore it off with a curse and sat shirtless on Vivi’s terrifyingly over-decorated bathroom floor until your stomach no longer felt like it was trying to squeeze up your esophagus. Then you dragged yourself to your feet and washed your face.

Your reflection peered back at you from the mirror as you lifted your head. You looked older. Felt like it too, joints and bones creaking like old wheels as you rinsed your mouth and spat in the sink. Haggard, with deep purple bruises beneath your eyes, a little divot on your nose where your mask usually sat, and the usual sprinkling of oily skin on your chin. The stress was finally catching up to you, like those crocodiles that only emerged from the swamp waters when it was sinking its teeth into your ankles. 

Honestly, you were long due for a breakdown. What had the doctor said? “You can't brute-force your way through a chronic illness like you would a flu. Take it slow and easy.” As if your life had ever been slow and easy, even before you stepped into Tom Lee’s office and signed your life away to the devil.

Your reflection glared back at you, lips thin. You  took a deep breath. 

One step at a time. 

You fumbled your way outside, squinting against the bright afternoon light. Everything looked brighter without your sunglasses, a detail you’d almost forgotten until you spotted the familiar orange bottle on the nightstand next to a large covered tray. You blinked. Then you lifted the tray cover and stared at the bowl of chicken congee and freshly cut fruit. Did Vivi…? 

A strange emotion tightened your chest. You swallowed and checked your phone, wincing at the flood of notifications. Vivi had been spamming your DMs since the morning. 

ru okay??? u look really sick :CC 

Then: we got ur meds!! they’re on the table 

Finally: my meeting’s done at 5, let’s get food after!!

That was two hours ago. You didn’t notice your lips twitching as you slowly and painstakingly typed out a response. Sounds good. Sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll meet you at your office. 

Surprisingly, Vivi’s profile lit up as soon as you sent the message. A gray bubble bounced up and down as she typed. No ur not!! followed by enough emojis to startle a chuckle out of you. xiaolong found a delish noodle place, let’s go there!! i want xiaomian

Vivi’s clumsy but well-meaning support tugged a small smile onto your face. You thanked her again, then scrolled through the rest of your messages. Ugh. Another missed call from Tom Lee. You wondered if he could tell you were avoiding him. 

After a brief hesitation, you clicked on James’s profile. Offline five days. Disappointment, then anger slammed into you with the force of a semi-truck. You fell onto the bed, then buried your face into the soft pillows and screamed silently. 

Was he avoiding you? 

The longer you thought about it, the more embarrassed you got. You weren’t any different from the high schoolers who used to wait outside his middle school after class, giggling and shoving each other coyly just to catch a glimpse of his face. Creepy and possessive. You always made fun of James for how flippantly he treated them. “They like you,” you’d coo, poking his cheek and pretending to swoon. “Why don’t you give your noona a smile?”

“Gross! Don’t be a creep,” he’d yelp, fending you off with an arm, and you’d laugh until your stomach hurt. 

Back home, before Charles Lee and Vivi, James would sit at the foot of your bed with his chin in his hand and his eyes fixed on yours, patiently listening as you ranted about that day’s list of little grievances. When you got too stressed from school and work and taking care of Johan and auntie, he’d bundle you in your blankets and hum until you fell into a dreamless sleep. He had a good voice, but he’d ruin it by jabbing you in the side and wheezing when you jolted awake with a yell. 

For a long time, you didn’t have anyone else. At least, not until… 

Your phone started ringing. You debated whether or not you should ignore it.

It kept ringing. Ugh. Who was interrupting your angst session? You pushed yourself onto one elbow and answered with a scowl. “Hello?”

“What the hell is your problem?” shouted Beolgu’s voice.

You yanked the phone away from your ear. “Excuse me?” you snapped, surprise oveetaken by irritation. The last time you saw Beolgu, he cuffed your head and called you a sellout, though he stayed at the gate and flirted with everyone in sight  until you disappeared into the airplane. Definitely wasn’t on your bingo card of people who’d call you in the middle of an afternoon on a Monday. 

“Are you still mad because I left you on the side of the road a couple of times? It’s called discipline, kid. When I was your age, I walked uphill both ways just to get enough rice for dinner!”

“Huh?”

“Is that why you’re sending your boytoys after us, huh? This isn’t funny, ya know! I ruined my best pants disciplining those kids!” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” you said, suppressing a scowl. Your throat itched.

Someone groaned in the background of the call. There was a crunch, like a fist against bone. “Don’t play coy. There’s only one reason Ansan’s on our ass right now, and it’s because you tipped them off,” Beolgu said, sounding pissed. Your heart skipped a beat. “I never thought you would have such awful manners. I outta teach you a lesson.”

“Beolgu,” you said, making your voice as even as possible, “I haven’t been in contact with Ansan since I left for China. What. Are. You. Talking. About?” 

A pause.

“Seriously?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “I’d be a terrible intern if I colluded with another organization while I worked for Chairman Wei."

A voice muttered in the background, a confirmation of some sort. Beoglu replied snappishly, then returned to the call with a grunt. “That’s weird. Boss’s got us staking Ansan out in case they try something nasty because someone,” and his voice dropped into a growl, “tipped the circles off, and now they think we’re trying to rat Taesoo Ma to the police.”

It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it was close enough to make you bristle. “And,” you said slowly, “you thought I was the mole?”

“Oi! It wasn't my idea! We heard that you were sending someone to Cheonliang, so we thought…”

You froze. Bitterness flooded your mouth. “Cheonliang?” you said, voice hoarse. 

“Yeah. Couple days ago, some idiot named Shinmyung Cheong sent us a request to clear out the ‘monster’ from the mountain. That’s your guy, right?”

“Seongji,” you muttered.

Beolgu snorted. “Yeah, I ain’t messing with your lover boy. We told him to fuck himself and find someone else, but Boss thought maybe you’d learned about it somehow and got pissed at us for moving on Cheonliang’s territory, and that you were takin’ it out on us.”

Wait, what? You reeled. “How the hell would I hear about that when I’ve been in China for the past year?”

He snorted. “You’re Gin.”

You pinched your brow and squeezed your eyes shut. None of this made any sense. White Tiger was partnered with Ansan Public and Suwon Staffing Agency through you, so attacking Ansan would be completely counterintuitive to their business strategy. Even if you weren’t on the best terms with Tom Lee after, hah, running away with Charles Choi last year, Tom Lee was a businessman above all else, and the contract was still legally binding. He’d never sell out the circles if it meant losing profit. 

“Wait,” you said, “you said that you heard I was sending someone to Cheonliang?”

“Yeah,” Beolgu said. “Jihoon or James or whatever. That weirdo redhead?”

Your heart leaped, and you were already halfway across the room before you collected yourself and sank into a nearby chair. Your hands were shaking, your vision blurring from the overwhelming surge of panic. “You’re sure they said James? You’re absolutely certain?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

You sucked in a deep breath, suddenly light-headed. “I-I have to go,” you heard yourself say. “Tell Mr. Lee that Taesoo Ma’s not dumb enough to attack White Tiger outright. But if he’s that worried, I’ll just resolve the issue myself.”

“Huh? How’re ya gonna do that from China—”

You hung up, his words echoing in your ears. In a strange trance, you stumbled out of Vivi’s penthouse, barely gathering enough sense to pull on a jacket and a pair of pants. 

The elevator dinged just as you jammed the button to go down. Vivi and Xiaolong blinked at you, as shocked to see you as you were to see them. There was a takeout bag in Vivi’s hand. She began to grin. “Jiyin, you’re up!”  

Vivi yelped as you rushed forward to grab her shoulders. Xiaolong took an aborted step forward, then forced himself to stop, brow furrowing. Your fingers dug into the soft fabric of her blazer jacket, and she let out a small sound of pain, gaze flicking across your face and gradually focusing on the sheer despair tightening the corners of your features. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, and then anger.

“Vivi,” you said, breath hitching. “Please help me.”

--

“Are you sending James to Cheonliang?” you asked as soon as Choi picked up the phone.

After a moment, Choi said, “Where did you hear that from?” 

The sweetness of finally outsmarting Charles Choi was drowned out by the sheer panic that overwhelmed you. You pressed yourself against the wall, just around the corner from Chairman Wei’s office where muffled shouts and murmurs scattered through the air. “It doesn’t matter. Tell him to back off from Cheonliang.” 

Choi hummed. Whatever upper hand you’d gained from surprising him faded as he collected himself. “He’s meeting with a friend,” he said, as flagrant of a lie as you’d ever heard. 

Your lips quirked in a humorless smile. “Funny,” you practically hissed. “I’m not in Cheonliang at the moment.”

“He’s popular.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” The last bit was almost shouted. A couple of Vivi’s employees shot you strange looks as they hurried down the hallway. You sank lower and lowered your voice. “Listen. Cheonliang's king is weak. He doesn’t own any land, and he doesn’t have subordinates. Plus, the place is swarming with yakuza."

“I’m well aware.” 

You wanted to vomit. “So you know that there’s nothing to gain from conquering Cheonliang!” 

“Oh, don’t be naive,” Choi said, irritation creeping into his voice. “It’s a remote country village surrounded by the ocean and mountains. We’ll gain everything if we conquer Cheonliang.” He paused, and then said, “Unless you’re keeping something from me.”

“No,” you lied. “But I don’t think you should waste your efforts trying to defeat a crownless king.”

Choi hummed, a careless note that sent fear skittering down your spine. “Do you still remember our deal, Gin?” 

Yes, you remembered it all, every single detail of that devil’s deal you’d made with Charles fucking Choi a year ago, where you’d traded your friends’ lives for a piece of heaven. You might be a coward and a traitor and everything worse than that, but you had to draw the line somewhere.

If James reached Cheonliang, he’d kill Seongji. You couldn't let that happen.

Choi took your silence as agreement. “Your cousin still needs to go to school, doesn’t he? Do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

You wished you were a little stronger so you could crush your phone in half and hurl it out the window, where it’d fall fifty stories and get crushed to death by a passing car. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” Choi said. “I don’t think so.”

Dial tone. You pulled your phone away from your ear and stared at the black screen, mocking you with its emptiness. Was this why James had been ignoring you? Just so Choi could pull the rug from beneath your feet one final time?

Damn. Damn!

You whirled around and sprinted towards Chairman Wei’s office. 

--

Vivi was still arguing with Charman Wei when you joined the silent Xiaolong in the hallway. You bit your lip, tasting blood as her muffled voice rose, clearly frustrated by her father’s unrepentant. Your hands gripped your phone hard enough to white-out the screen, concealing your frantic messages. 

James?? Are you okay???

Where are you?

Jihoon Lee.

“I’m sorry, the caller you are attempting to reach is unavailable.”

James, pick up. 

“I’m sorry, the caller you are attempting to reach is unavailable.”

This isn’t funny. Don’t mess with Cheonliang. 

“I’m sorry, the caller you are attempting to reach is unavailable.”

JAMES.

You jolted as a hand landed on your shoulder, gentle despite its weight. “Calm down,” Xiaolong said. His even black eyes threatened to drown you in their depths. “Miss Vivi will argue your case.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you said, dragging a hand through your hair and letting out a shaky breath. You could feel your pulse in your throat, a rabbit-fast rhythm that tightened your chest. “This isn’t— I need to go back to Korea.” 

“I understand,” Xiaolong said, and for a second it sounded like he genuinely did. “You have something to protect above all else.”

“Yes,” you said. “No matter what, I—”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Xiaolong’s hand squeezed your shoulder gently. Then he removed it, and you found yourself almost missing the weight. “Miss Vivi will convince Chairman Wei to suspend your internship for a week,” he said, returning his gaze to Chairman Wei’s door like the guard dog he wasn't. “That is all the time we can give you.”

“That will be enough,” you said quietly as you followed his example, trying to glare a hole through the door.

For a second, it looked as if Xiaolong would speak. Then Vivi burst through the door, hair wild. Your heart leaped into your throat as she leaped towards you, wrapping her arms around your waist. Before the door shut, you caught a glimpse of Chairman Wei's broad figure turning towards the window, angry or proud or both.

“I did it,” Vivi said into your chest. 

Your knees nearly buckled. Swallowing a swell of tears, you buried your nose into her ash-blonde hair. “T-Thank you.”

Vivi looked up. There was a sheen of wetness in her eyes that she wiped away, lips pursed into a stubborn pout. “You get a week, okay? Then you gotta come back!”

“I will.”

“You have to,” she repeated, eyes flashing. “Otherwise I’ll be angry!”

“Yes, of course,” you said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

Her breath was shaky against your collarbone. She squeezed your waist wordlessly, like she wanted to press herself into your skin.

Beijing to Seoul was a two hour flight. It’d take you another hour to pack, and another to board and get off the plane. Cheonliang was east of Gangbuk, but you could pull in a favor from someone from White Tiger who didn’t give a shit about traffic laws and could afford a couple hundred thousand won in speeding tickets. 

Your throat closed.

You had to get there in time. 

--

The air tasted different when Seongji woke up.

Slowly, he picked himself up from his cot. He’d gotten used to Jaewu and Vin Jin and the other kids’ loud voices hanging around his shack, laughter and war-cries intertwining. But it was damningly quiet this morning. He’d forgotten how lonely the mountain was without them. 

He stared down at his hands, mind empty. For a second, he heard a knock at his door, followed by your cheery voice calling, “Seongji! Wanna try some strawberry kimchi?” His lips threatened to tug into a small, instinctual smile . No thanks. Let’s just have ramyeon.

Then reality hit, and he was alone again. 

A familiar nausea rose in his throat. He grit his teeth and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

That was right. You were gone.

--

“Teacher! T-Teacher, please help! Vin, he’s— I think he’s going to kill the Shaman!”

--

Vin Jin was Mujin Jin’s son. 

Vin Jin was Mujin Jin’s son.

Seongji should’ve known. Polycorpia wasn’t exactly common, especially not Vin Jin’s specific type. Mujin Jin was the first (but not last) person who saved him, who’d picked up the six-fingered six-toed, freak from the ocean and gave him something to live for, who’d smiled at him with the warmth of a father—

And Shinmyung Cheon had killed his wife. Vin Jin’s mother. 

As Seongji tore a path through the crowd of mercenaries—and they weren’t even White Tiger hires, Shinmyung had underestimated him far too much—he noted the Kojima brothers guarding the Shaman. Shigeaki was poised with all the confidence of the strongest man within a few hundred kilometers, hands in his pockets and eyes narrowed carefully. His brother stood behind him, quieter but no less dangerous.

“Are you alright?" Seongji said as soon as he reached the huddle of kids, throwing a nameless mercenary to the ground with a growl. Mary had Vin Jin’s unconscious body slung over her shoulders. A wave of rage washed over him when he saw the blood smeared across the boy’s face and the strange twist of his arm. That sort of cruelty stunk of the Kojima brothers. Maybe Vin Jin would've fared better against a different opponent, but against those two...

You were right. The entire town was rotten to the core.

"Y-Yeah," Mary said, squeezing Vin Jin closer. Relief crumpled her expression, though she tried valiantly to hide it. "For now, at least."

“Those guys are real freaky, Teach,” Jaewu added, and Seongji didn’t need to see his eyes behind those tinted sunglasses to know that he was shooting the Kojima brothers a nervous look. “They completely fucked up Vin Jin.”

“Fuckers,” Hyunjae muttered, shuddering. 

Guilt wracked Seongji’s shoulders. This was his fault. He should’ve torn this place down a long time ago. “Go,” he said. Mary sputtered. “Did you not hear me? Go.”

She was smart enough to obey, even if she bit her lip hard enough to bruise. As the kids scampered away, the Kojima brothers jerked forward like they wanted to follow. Seongji kicked the gates shut and bent the heavy metal rod with a fist, locking the doors in place. 

Not a single step, he thought, shooting a glare at the two yakuza. They slowed to a jog, not exactly wary, but not exactly eager to leap into the fight without good reinforcements. The remaining mercenaries were weak, nowhere near the level of the white-streaked man who’d once dropped you off at Seongji’s shack, gaze cold and calculating as he'd evaluated Seongji with a sneer. You’d called him Beolgu. He’d called you brat, but there was something almost fond in the way he flicked your forehead and climbed back into the car, eyes piercing Seongji through all the while. It was a stroke of luck that Shinmyung Cheon hadn’t managed to buy out White Tiger—or perhaps it was your kindness watching over him, though he deserved none of it. 

Finally, the monster behind the Kojima brothers shifted. Shinmyung Cheon’s small figure prowled forward, hands folded neatly behind his back. Hatred twisted his face, making his sneer even uglier than usual. “What do you think you’re doing, Seongji Yuk? I let you live because you gave me the red paper. Is this how you plan to repay my generosity?”

Seongji suppressed a snort. Generosity? What a joke. “I’m not your lackey, Shinmyung. Plus, I heard an interesting story. What kind of teacher would turn a blind eye to the murder of his student’s mother?”

The Shaman stiffened, no doubt stunned to hear his secret told for all the world to hear. “You little shit,” he spat, eyes narrowing. He looked like he wanted to run. Coward. 

Seongji cocked his head. “The person who made me strong wasn’t the Yakshas," he said lightly. The Kojima brothers shifted restlessly. "It was Mujin Jin, Vin Jin’s father." And you. "I’m simply protecting his son.”

Shinmyung snorted, then spread his arms wide, still playing the part of the magnanimous god-king to an audience of no one. “So you’re finally revealing your true colors - a traitor to Cheonliang and this mountain," he spat. "I should’ve known. You’ve always liked that whore a little too much.”

A growl rumbled in Seongji’s throat, but he shoved it down, nails digging into his hands. "I've never been yours," he said. "And---" And you weren't a whore. You were his friend. His first.

"Hmph. Then you're idiotic as well as naive. " With the blasė confidence of an emperor, Shinmyung gestured. “Kill him. And find Vin Jin! I want them both kneeling at my feet by day’s end.”

The swarm of mercenaries circled him, considerably more wary of his fists after he'd taken half of them out without breaking a sweat. Seongji tightened the jacket tied around his waist, summoning all of the simmering rage he'd kept hidden for your sake. “I will never kneel for you,” he said. 

--

A few meters away, a tall figure picked its way through the shrubbery. In the dim light of near-sunset, his hair looked like black flames.

“Wow, this is literally in the middle of nowhere.” 

The dirt path opened into a set of stone steps leading to an old-fashioned compound. He brushed a tick off his shirt and clucked his tongue, examining the wall stretching above him. 

“What do they even see in this place? Isn’t hanging out with me more fun?”

A muffled shout. The ground trembled, making him blink slowly as he glanced down at the dirt on his shoes.

“Aw, damn. They started without me.”

A sweet smile curled on his lips, as lovely as belladonna. He fished a lollipop from his pocket and unwrapped it slowly, savoring every crinkle of plastic. 

“I’d better catch up."