Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped in days. It slicked the courthouse steps, ran in rivers along the gutters of the city streets, and turned the neon glow of nightclubs and back-alley gambling dens into bleeding pools of color. For Prosecutor Jeong Yunho, the rain was both a comfort and a curse—it muted the noise, made the city easier to think in, but it also reminded him how dirty this place was, how deep crime ran through its veins.

And no name ran deeper than Song Mingi’s.

Yunho had been building a case for months, carefully piecing together scraps of evidence, testimonies whispered from trembling lips, photographs taken in the dark when shadows were supposed to hide everything. A drug pipeline here. A weapons shipment there. Money laundering that painted half the city’s elite in blood. Every single thread, when tugged, wound back to one man. A man untouchable, charming, violent when necessary, adored by his men, feared by everyone else.

Yunho had only seen him once in person, across a courtroom aisle when one of Mingi’s lieutenants was brought to trial. The mafia boss hadn’t testified, hadn’t even needed to appear. But he had shown up anyway, all long legs and sharp jaw, sitting in the back row like he owned the building. Their eyes had met just once—and Yunho remembered it too clearly, the way Mingi’s smirk tilted as if he knew Yunho was watching, as if he was amused by the idea of a man in a crisp suit and pressed tie trying to take him down.

Since then, Yunho hadn’t been able to shake him. Not the thought of him, not the sound of his name on police lips. And apparently, Mingi hadn’t forgotten him either.

Because that was how Yunho ended up here—shoved into the back of a black SUV, his wrists bound in front of him, rain dripping down his temples. The men who grabbed him had been efficient. Waiting outside his office after midnight, pretending to be drunkards until the alley swallowed him whole. By the time he’d realized, there had been a knife at his throat, a hand over his mouth, the smell of cologne and leather heavy in the air.

Now, the city blurred past in streaks of gray and neon, and Yunho’s pulse thundered in his throat. He wasn’t stupid—he knew where he was being taken. Not to the police, not to a neutral ground. Straight into the lion’s den.

The SUV stopped at a warehouse on the edge of the docks, its metal siding humming with the sound of rain. Yunho was pulled out roughly, shoes splashing against puddles, and dragged inside.

And there he was.

Song Mingi, leaning against the hood of a sleek black car, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp features like a crown. He looked at Yunho like one might look at a particularly interesting animal caught in a trap. His eyes burned with something unreadable—mockery, maybe, or interest.

“Well, well,” Mingi drawled, flicking ash to the ground. His voice was low, dangerous, but it held a strange warmth beneath the steel. “The city’s golden prosecutor. You’re a long way from your courthouse, Yunho.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened. He hated how his name sounded in Mingi’s mouth—hated how it sent a shiver down his spine. “If you think this will stop me—”

Mingi chuckled, slow and amused. He pushed off the car, stepping closer. Yunho noticed his size immediately—he was tall, broad, every inch of him exuding power that came not from a badge or law but from the kind of respect that could only be carved out with blood. “Stop you? No, no. You misunderstand.” He reached out, and Yunho flinched, but Mingi only brushed a strand of wet hair from his forehead, his fingers deliberate, slow. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to… redirect you.”

Yunho’s breath caught, and he hated that Mingi could see it. The boss smiled, sharp and knowing.

“You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Collecting your little files, your photographs, your reports. All that effort just for me.” His thumb traced Yunho’s cheekbone, a touch that lingered far too long to be casual. “That sounds more like obsession than justice.”

Yunho’s throat went dry. “You’re a criminal. It’s my job.”

“Your job,” Mingi echoed, tilting his head as though testing the words. Then his smirk deepened, and his hand dropped, settling heavy on Yunho’s tied wrists. “And what about now? What’s your job, Prosecutor, when you’re standing here, in my world?”

The men who had dragged Yunho in lingered by the doors, watching, but not interfering. This wasn’t about them. This was Mingi’s game.

Yunho swallowed hard, heat and fear tangling in his chest. He wanted to spit in Mingi’s face, wanted to tell him that no matter what happened tonight, he’d never bend. But the words stuck, because Mingi was closer now, his presence suffocating and magnetic.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Mingi murmured, his lips near Yunho’s ear, close enough that Yunho felt the warmth of his breath. “Every file you’ve compiled, every step you’ve taken—it was always going to end with you here. With me.”

Yunho shivered. His body betrayed him before his mind could scream at him to stop.

Mingi leaned back, eyes scanning Yunho’s face, watching every flicker of emotion. “You hate me,” he said softly, almost like a lover whispering in the dark. “And yet you can’t look away. Tell me, Yunho. When you dream at night, is it my face you see?”

Yunho’s lips parted, but no words came out.

The silence stretched. The tension was unbearable, electric, wrapping around both of them like chains. Mingi smiled, slow and dangerous, and leaned in again, brushing his mouth against Yunho’s jaw—just barely, a ghost of a touch, but enough to set Yunho on fire.

“This isn’t the courthouse anymore,” Mingi whispered. “Here, you don’t make the rules. I do.”

And then he stepped back, leaving Yunho’s skin cold where his warmth had been, eyes burning with unspoken promise.

“Untie him,” Mingi ordered, and the men at the door shifted. “I want to see what the city’s golden prosecutor does when he’s free in my cage.”

The ropes fell, Yunho rubbing at the red marks on his wrists, but his heart only pounded harder. He wasn’t free. He’d never been less free in his life.

And Mingi knew it.

The slow-burn had only just begun.

---
The room smelled of cigarettes and damp concrete, the kind of suffocating atmosphere Yunho had only ever encountered in interrogation rooms. But here, there was no mirror, no table, no law to stand behind. Just four walls and the looming presence of Song Mingi.

Yunho’s wrists still burned from the rope. His chest heaved with fury, shame simmering beneath his skin like a fever. He didn’t belong here—he was the one who put men like Mingi away, the one who cut through the rot of this city with sharpened words and damning evidence. But now? He was prey.

When Mingi stepped closer, the air changed. Yunho tried to keep his chin high, his anger barely masking the tremble in his hands. “You can’t keep me here,” he spat, his voice cracking. “I’ll get out, and when I do, I’ll make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your life—”

The words barely left his lips before Mingi’s hand lashed out.

The sound of the slap cracked through the room like a gunshot, a brutal sting exploding across Yunho’s cheek. His head snapped to the side, his knees buckling until his tall frame collapsed onto the cold floor. For a second, the room spun, ringing in his ears, and Yunho’s hand instinctively flew up to his burning skin.

It wasn’t just a slap—it was possession, a reminder of power, the kind of blow meant to leave shame deeper than the welt.

“Don’t act fucking crazy,” Mingi growled, his voice low and seething, the kind of tone that made even hardened men tremble. He crouched down, fisting a hand in Yunho’s collar, forcing him to look up. Their faces were inches apart, Mingi’s shadow swallowing Yunho whole. His dark eyes burned into him, sharp and merciless. “You think you’re above me? That your fancy suits and courtroom speeches mean anything here?” His lips curled, sharp teeth flashing. “This is my world. You breathe because I let you.”

Yunho’s jaw trembled, a mix of fury and humiliation twisting in his chest. He wanted to scream, to spit in Mingi’s face, but the ache in his cheek anchored him to silence. The heat of Mingi’s hand against his throat was suffocating, pinning him not with brute force but with raw, undeniable dominance.

When Mingi finally released him, Yunho fell back against the floor, the concrete rough beneath his palms. His breath hitched, and to his own disgust, his eyes stung with tears.

Mingi straightened, brushing invisible dust from his tailored coat, as though Yunho wasn’t even worth dirtying his hand on. “Stay in your place,” he said coldly, each word drawn out like a command carved into stone. “Or next time, it won’t just be a slap.”

The guards by the door shifted, their silence heavier than words. Yunho could feel their stares—two men watching him crumble, their gazes lingering too long, crawling over his body like hands that hadn’t yet touched.

He forced himself upright, his fists clenching until his knuckles whitened. His breath came sharp and uneven, anger burning in his veins as he snapped, “Release me!” His voice cracked under the weight of desperation, shame cutting through the words. He slammed his fist against the door, metal rattling, echoing through the chamber like a hollow prayer. “You can’t keep me here!”

Mingi paused at the threshold, his broad frame silhouetted by the hallway’s dim light. He didn’t even look back. Only a soft, cruel chuckle slipped from his lips, curling in Yunho’s ears like smoke. And then he walked out, leaving the sound of the heavy door clanging shut.

Silence pressed in, thicker than the smoke.

Yunho’s body trembled, his cheek throbbing, his pride fractured. He bit his lip hard, tasting iron, trying to anchor himself in the sting rather than the humiliation. But it was impossible to ignore the weight of the guards’ stares. Their eyes dragged over him—his loosened tie, the way his shirt clung to his chest from sweat and rain, the flush that the slap had burned across his skin.

Their attention was suffocating, invasive, almost worse than Mingi’s hand itself.

Yunho hugged his arms around himself, retreating toward the shadows of the room, as if the dark could shield him from the hunger in their gazes. But nothing could shield him here. Not his badge. Not his courtroom speeches. Not his laws.

Only Mingi’s command had kept them at bay.

And Yunho knew—if Mingi willed it, those hungry stares could become hands.

The prosecutor swallowed, his throat dry, his tears burning hot trails down his cheek. For the first time, the reality of his captivity cut deeper than his fury.

This wasn’t just about his case anymore.

This was about survival.

---
The door creaked open again, heavy hinges groaning against the silence that had settled over the concrete room. Yunho’s head snapped up, his chest still heaving, face flushed with shame and rage. His cheek still burned red from Mingi’s earlier strike, his knuckles raw from pounding the steel door until his skin nearly split. The guards had not moved—still leaning lazily against the wall, their eyes never straying far from his body, watching him like predators circling prey.

And then Mingi walked back in.

The mafia boss looked maddeningly composed, as though nothing had rattled him, his dark coat swaying with his steps. A slow, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, that expression Yunho had already grown to hate—one that said *he already won.*

“I thought you’d have learned by now,” Mingi drawled, his voice smooth and low, dragging across Yunho’s skin like smoke. He let his eyes roam over the tall prosecutor crouched against the wall, disheveled tie hanging loose, white shirt damp with sweat. “But you’re still fighting. Still pretending you have teeth.”

Yunho’s fists clenched. His throat was raw, but anger cut through the ache. He forced himself up onto unsteady legs, glaring at the man who had stripped him of every ounce of control. His pulse pounded like war drums, telling him this was his one chance. His only chance.

And before he could talk himself out of it, Yunho lashed out.

His leg shot forward, a sharp kick catching Mingi squarely in the stomach. The mafia boss staggered back, caught off guard, the smirk wiped from his face. Yunho’s palm followed with a resounding crack, a slap across Mingi’s cheek that left his own hand stinging.

For the briefest moment, Yunho saw it—Mingi’s mask fracture, a raw flash of something feral, something personal. The only man who had ever laid a hand on him like that before had been his father, and the ghost of that wound flared behind his eyes.

But then it was gone, swallowed by fury.

“You stupid little—” Mingi’s voice was rough now, stripped of its lazy amusement. He lunged, his hand snapping out and connecting hard across Yunho’s face. The impact sent the prosecutor stumbling sideways, dizzy with pain. His vision blurred, but he barely had time to gasp before Mingi’s fingers twisted into his hair, yanking viciously.

Yunho cried out, the sound raw, involuntary. His body bent under the brutal grip as Mingi dragged him forward and slammed him against the wall. The back of his head hit concrete with a sickening thud, sparks exploding across his vision. He whimpered, hands clawing uselessly at Mingi’s wrist, but the man was immovable, towering over him with rage carved into his expression.

Tears burned hot in Yunho’s eyes—unwanted, humiliating. They slipped down his cheeks, streaking over flushed skin.

“Pathetic,” Mingi hissed, pressing his forehead against Yunho’s, the grip in his hair tightening until Yunho’s scalp screamed with pain. “You dare put your hands on me? You think you can humiliate me in front of my men?” His lips curled, venom dripping from every word. “Nobody disrespects me. Nobody.”

Yunho’s chest heaved, caught between fury and helplessness. His trembling lips parted, but no words came—just ragged breaths, just the shameful sound of him crying in the grasp of the very man he wanted to destroy.

Mingi’s gaze flicked to the guards lingering by the door. His jaw tightened, then loosened as he let out a sharp breath. “Get out,” he ordered coldly.

The guards hesitated, exchanging looks, but they obeyed without question. The door slammed shut behind them, the echo reverberating like a gunshot. And then it was just the two of them.

Silence pressed in heavy. Yunho’s tears rolled freely now, hot and humiliating. His body shook with the effort of not breaking completely.

Mingi tilted his head, studying him with the intensity of a predator toying with prey. Slowly, almost tenderly, he raised his free hand and brushed his thumb along the wet streaks on Yunho’s cheek. The gesture might have looked gentle, almost caring, if not for the cruel twist of his lips.

“Look at you,” he murmured, mocking softness dripping from his tone. “All fire a moment ago, and now you’re crying like a child. Do you hear yourself?” He chuckled darkly, wiping another tear with exaggerated slowness. “The prosecutor. The righteous man. Reduced to this.”

Yunho turned his face away, shame hollowing him out, but Mingi’s grip on his hair yanked him back into place. Their eyes locked, Yunho’s watery and furious, Mingi’s gleaming with power and something darker.

“You should see yourself,” Mingi whispered, his breath ghosting across Yunho’s lips, his voice low enough to crawl under the skin. “It’s intoxicating. That mix of rage and helplessness. You fight me, but your body betrays you.” His eyes dipped briefly downward, to where Yunho’s chest rose and fell too fast, his body tense and trembling. “Even now. You hate me, but you can’t deny it—this power over you, it’s rewriting you.”

Yunho’s jaw trembled, a sob tearing from his throat. He hated him. Hated the way his words burrowed into him, hated the cruel smirk, hated that his body felt feverish and trapped between fury and something he couldn’t name.

Mingi leaned closer still, his lips brushing Yunho’s ear. “Cry all you want. Scream if you must. But understand this—you are mine now. No courtroom, no badge, no law will ever save you here.”

He dragged his thumb over Yunho’s lower lip, slow, deliberate, smearing the wetness from his tears. His smirk returned, sharp and merciless, as he watched the prosecutor tremble beneath him, pinned between wall and hand and power.

And for the first time, Yunho realized Mingi wasn’t just breaking his body.

He was breaking everything.

---
The room was suffocating. The walls pressed in around Yunho, shadows stretching long across the cold floor as the moonlight bled in from the tall, barred window. He lay on the bed, eyes wide open, chest heaving with restless breaths. Sleep would not come—not here, not under the constant weight of Mingi’s gaze, not with the echo of his slap still burning in his cheek.

Every second in this mansion was another nail hammered into the coffin of his freedom. He could almost hear the walls whispering, *you are trapped, you are his.*

Yunho pushed himself up, his palms damp with sweat. His heart beat wild and desperate. He looked toward the door—two guards stationed outside, their muffled voices sometimes filtering through. No chance there. His eyes moved to the window, tall and narrow, locked but not barred tightly enough to keep him from trying.

He swallowed hard, adrenaline searing through his veins. His legs trembled, but determination burned hotter than fear. He couldn’t keep waiting. He couldn’t survive this if he didn’t try.

Quietly, he stumbled toward the window, his white shirt sticking to his back with sweat, his bare feet whispering against the carpet. He pushed at the frame. It groaned, stiff from disuse, but it opened just enough. Cold air slapped his face, sharp and biting, making him shiver.

He glanced down. The garden stretched below—dark hedges, twisting stone paths, fountains glinting faintly under the pale moon. It was far. Too far. But Yunho’s chest tightened at the thought of staying here, under Mingi’s hand. He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood.

Then he climbed.

His body shook as he lowered himself awkwardly onto the ledge. His hands clutched the window frame, knuckles white. He looked once more behind him, into the prison-like room, then squeezed his eyes shut and let go.

The fall came too fast. His body hit the ground with a sickening crack as his ankle twisted under his weight. Pain shot up his leg like fire, ripping a cry from his throat before he slapped his hand over his mouth to muffle it. The taste of dirt and iron filled his mouth as he curled, gasping.

But there was no time. No time to wallow in the agony splintering through his ankle. He forced himself up, body trembling, and began to limp—half-running, half-dragging himself across the garden. Every step was torture, stabbing through his leg, but adrenaline kept him moving.

The garden stretched endlessly, every hedge like a wall keeping him from freedom. The night air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet earth and roses. His breaths came ragged, fogging in the cold as he stumbled toward the faint glimmer of iron gates in the distance.

Hope flared—an exit. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself faster, his injured leg screaming with each step. He reached out for it, fingertips brushing the cold bars when—

Arms closed around him from behind, hard and merciless.

Yunho gasped, thrashing wildly, his nails clawing at the air as one guard’s thick arm wrapped around his chest, yanking him back. Another grabbed his arms, pinning them tight, dragging him away from the gate that had been so close it burned his vision.

“No! Please, let me go!” Yunho screamed, his voice breaking into sobs. His body writhed desperately, but the guards only tightened their grip, their hands rough on his skin, one of them digging fingers cruelly into his waist to keep him still.

His ankle buckled again, another jolt of pain shooting up his leg, forcing a sharp sob from his lips. The humiliation of it all—being carried like an animal, powerless, reduced to begging—made tears blur his vision.

“Boss’ll want to see this,” one guard muttered, his voice cold.

The other smirked, his eyes lingering too long on Yunho’s body, their grip far from professional, more like possession than restraint. Yunho whimpered, trying to twist away, but the hand only roamed more roughly across his torso before shoving him forward again.

By the time they forced him back into the mansion, his body was trembling violently, sweat dripping down his temple, his leg dragging uselessly beneath him. He could barely breathe, hiccupping on choked sobs as they pushed him into the marble hallway.

One guard peeled away, heading down the corridor to fetch Mingi, while the other kept him locked in his arms. Yunho struggled weakly, but the man only gripped him tighter, one palm spreading broad against his chest, pinning him against his own body like a prisoner held in chains.

“Please,” Yunho whimpered, his voice hoarse, broken. “Don’t—don’t touch me, please—”

The guard didn’t answer. He only smirked, holding him tighter, the press of his hand lingering too long, his body heat searing against Yunho’s back.

And then the footsteps came.

Heavy, unhurried, echoing like thunder down the marble hall.

Mingi’s presence filled the corridor before he even appeared, the guards stiffening, Yunho freezing in the cruel grip around him. The mafia boss emerged from the shadows, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his eyes glittering with something sharp and dangerous.

His gaze swept over the scene—Yunho trembling, the guard holding him down—and his lips curved into a slow, furious smirk.

“What did I say,” Mingi drawled, his voice deep and rough, vibrating in Yunho’s bones, “about trying to run?”

Yunho’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shook his head violently, tears spilling over, but before he could beg, Mingi’s hand shot out.

The slap cracked across Yunho’s face, harder than the first, snapping his head sideways. His knees buckled, but the guard kept him upright, holding him like a broken doll. Yunho gasped, his cheek stinging with molten fire, his ears ringing.

Mingi’s jaw flexed, his smirk curdling into something darker. He stepped forward, sliding one hand around Yunho’s stomach possessively, gripping him hard enough to make him gasp.

“You think you can leave me?” Mingi hissed against his ear, his breath hot and venomous. “You think you can run from me like I’m nothing?”

Yunho whimpered, his body twisting weakly. “Let me go,” he whispered, tears streaking his face.

Mingi laughed—low, cruel. He pulled Yunho against him, then, with no effort at all, bent down and hauled him up onto his shoulder. Yunho yelped, pounding his fists against Mingi’s back, but his injured ankle dangled uselessly, every movement searing through him like fire.

The guards stepped aside immediately as Mingi carried him toward the stairs. Yunho’s voice broke into sobs, pleading desperately, but Mingi didn’t slow, his grip iron, his steps steady as if Yunho weighed nothing.

Up the stairs, down the hall, into his private chambers.

Mingi threw the door open with one hand and strode inside, slamming it shut behind them. He ignored Yunho’s weak blows against his back, his cries, his broken “please.” He carried him to the bed and dropped him onto it, looming over him like a shadow that could swallow him whole.

Yunho scrambled backward on the sheets, his injured ankle catching painfully against the mattress. His wide, tear-streaked eyes fixed on Mingi, his chest heaving like a cornered animal.

And Mingi only stood there for a moment, watching him with that same cruel smirk, his eyes burning with fury and possession, before he began to unbutton his cuffs slowly, deliberately, as though every movement was a sentence Yunho couldn’t escape.

---
The room was silent but heavy, the kind of silence that smothered and pressed against Yunho’s chest like a second weight. His breaths came short and shaky, every muscle trembling as Mingi stalked closer, the mafia boss moving with the confidence of someone who already owned everything in his sight—including the man trying to crawl backward on the bed.

The mattress dipped as Mingi climbed onto it, one knee planted beside Yunho’s hip, towering over him. Yunho’s hands came up, trembling, pushing at his chest in weak resistance.

“Get off me,” Yunho gasped, voice breaking, his throat raw from crying.

Mingi leaned down slowly, his smirk cutting across his face like a blade. “You really think you get to tell me what to do, prosecutor?” His voice was low, venomous, full of mockery that made Yunho’s stomach churn.

And then Mingi closed the space between them, pressing his mouth hard against Yunho’s lips, teeth grazing, tongue forcing its way in without care for gentleness. Yunho twisted, body arching beneath him, his chest heaving, but Mingi only pressed harder, swallowing his muffled cries like victory.

Yunho’s desperation sharpened—his teeth snapped down, biting Mingi’s tongue.

The taste of copper spread instantly between them, metallic and sharp.

Mingi ripped back with a guttural groan, his hand shooting to Yunho’s jaw, gripping it tight enough that the bone ached. For a second, the boss just stared down at him, his chest rising, his lips smeared red, fury dancing hot in his eyes.

“You dare,” he hissed, his words broken by his own ragged breath. “You *dare* bite me?”

Before Yunho could move, Mingi shoved him down hard, one massive palm pressing against his face, forcing his head deep into the pillow. The world went muffled around Yunho as his mouth and nose were buried in the fabric. Panic ripped through him—his chest convulsed, lungs burning as he clawed helplessly at Mingi’s arm, trying to gasp air that wasn’t there.

Mingi watched, smirk twisting back into place as he leaned his weight into the hold, keeping him trapped in suffocating darkness. Yunho’s legs kicked weakly, his injured one flaring pain through his body as his nails raked uselessly across Mingi’s wrist.

Just when Yunho’s body jolted in panic, on the edge of losing consciousness, Mingi lifted his hand.

Yunho gasped violently, dragging air into his chest, his whole body arching as he coughed and wheezed. His face was red, slick with spit near his lips, tears streaming down his temples into his hair.

Mingi grabbed his chin roughly, yanking his face to the side so their eyes met.

Yunho’s gaze was glassy, unfocused, almost deadened by the assault. His lashes clumped wet, lips parted and trembling, spit and tears smearing across his chin. He looked broken, fragile—and unbearably beautiful in Mingi’s eyes.

“You’re pathetic,” Mingi murmured, his tone dark but laced with something like hunger. He leaned close enough that Yunho could feel his breath against his cheek. “But you’re mine.”

Yunho whimpered, the sound more animal than human, but his body was too exhausted to fight anymore. His head lolled against the pillow, his chest still rising in desperate, shallow pants.

And then, just as Mingi’s hand slid lower, as his weight shifted like he was about to take everything he wanted—Yunho’s eyes fluttered and shut. His body went limp.

He had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, his body giving out under the cruelty and pain.

Mingi froze, his jaw clenching. For a moment, annoyance flashed hot—he’d been denied again. His grip tightened briefly on Yunho’s hip, the urge to wake him and break him all over again sitting hot on his tongue.

But then his gaze dropped to Yunho’s leg, the way it was angled awkwardly, swelling visibly where he’d landed in his attempt to escape. Mingi exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his own face.

“Tch.” The sound was sharp, irritated. “You’re a fucking mess.”

Yet, despite the venom in his words, he reached out. His large hands—so brutal minutes ago—curled carefully around Yunho’s ankle. His fingers pressed into the swollen flesh, massaging gently, testing the injury. Yunho whimpered even in sleep, his face twitching with pain.

Mingi’s expression shifted, a strange tension crossing his face. He hated this man—this prosecutor who had tried to put him behind bars, who had threatened everything he’d built. He *should* hate him. He should break him until there was nothing left.

And yet…

His eyes lingered on Yunho’s face, damp with tears, lips still parted, strands of hair sticking to his flushed forehead. So delicate. So ruinable. So *his.*

Mingi pulled his phone out with one hand, typing out a quick message to his private doctor: *Injury. Come first thing tomorrow. Discretion, or you’re dead.*

He tossed the phone aside carelessly, his hand returning to Yunho’s leg, still massaging slow circles into the injured muscle. Yunho shifted faintly, murmuring in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

Mingi leaned back against the headboard, staring down at him. A predator watching prey he’d already caught. A man who should despise him, yet found himself caught on the hook of how beautiful brokenness looked on him.

“I should destroy you,” Mingi muttered to himself, voice low and rough. He brushed a strand of hair from Yunho’s cheek, almost tender despite the threat. “But God, you’re too fucking pretty.”

The room fell into silence again—except now, Yunho slept curled in pain, his body bearing the marks of submission, while Mingi sat beside him, watching, thinking, plotting.

And under it all, desire still simmered, cruel and unsated, waiting for morning.

---
The morning didn’t come gently. Yunho stirred awake with a ragged inhale, body aching from the night before, his throat raw, his lips chapped. He blinked slowly, the soft rays of dawn slipping past the heavy curtains, his lashes wet and sticky from dried tears. His leg throbbed, a pulsing pain that traveled up into his hip, reminding him of the fall, the failed attempt to escape.

But worse than the physical pain was the awareness of a presence.

Mingi was there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching. His arms folded, his dark shirt unbuttoned low on his chest, his expression calm in a way that chilled Yunho more than the rage from before. A predator in perfect control.

“You look good like this,” Mingi said, his voice deep and unhurried, a whisper that crawled into Yunho’s ears. “Weak. Defeated.”

Yunho’s heart thrashed against his ribs, his body tensing. He shifted, trying to push himself back against the headboard, but the movement only made his leg flare with pain. He bit back a cry, his jaw tightening, eyes burning with humiliation.

Mingi leaned closer, one hand braced on the mattress, the other sliding against Yunho’s jawline. His fingers were deceptively gentle at first, tracing along the damp trail of dried tears.

“Don’t touch me,” Yunho hissed, voice low, shaking with fury and something else he refused to name.

Mingi’s lips curled into a smirk. He bent down, closing the space between them, his breath warm against Yunho’s face. Yunho turned his head sharply, but Mingi caught his chin in a firm grip, forcing him still, and pressed his mouth against his.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, cruel in its mockery of tenderness. Yunho stiffened beneath him, lips clamped shut, but Mingi coaxed, pressed harder, forcing them apart. Yunho’s chest heaved, panic clawing through him. He hated the warmth that bled through, the way his body betrayed him with tremors that weren’t only fear.

He shoved at Mingi’s chest with both hands, breaking the kiss, gasping for air. “Stop—!” His voice cracked, heavy with disgust. “You’re sick—don’t put your filthy mouth on me. I’m not—” His words stuttered, the venom on his tongue twisted by something uglier, rawer. “I’m not like that. I’m not like *you*.”

Mingi’s eyes darkened. The rejection hit him like a strike, sharp and deep, the mention of shame, of disgust cutting through. For a moment, his jaw ticked, his shoulders tense. Then he laughed, low and humorless.

“You’re not like me?” he echoed, before his hand shot up and gripped Yunho’s jaw with crushing force. His fingers dug into the bone, squeezing until Yunho let out a sharp cry. His other hand pressed against Yunho’s chest, pinning him against the headboard.

“Don’t you dare push me away,” Mingi growled, voice vibrating with menace. “I decide when you breathe, when you cry, when you scream. Don’t pretend you’re above me. Look at you.” He squeezed harder, Yunho’s cry breaking into a whimper, his eyes shutting tight against the pain.

Mingi leaned closer until his lips brushed Yunho’s ear, his breath hot and cruel. “You’ll choke on the truth soon enough.”

Yunho’s nails clawed weakly at his wrist, his body trembling, his shame twisting tighter in his chest. He wanted to spit, to scream, to deny—but his voice broke into silence, his body too small beneath the force of Mingi’s hold.

A knock cut through the suffocating tension. Three firm raps against the heavy door.

Mingi froze, his jaw flexing, his gaze sharp on Yunho’s ruined face—red cheeks, lips wet with spit, eyes burning with unshed tears. He exhaled slowly, releasing his grip on Yunho’s jaw, letting his head fall back against the headboard.

“Lucky,” he muttered, before rising from the bed with a stretch, his composure snapping back into place like a mask. He strode to the door and opened it a crack.

“Boss,” came a quiet voice. “The doctor’s here.”

Mingi’s eyes flickered back to Yunho, who sat shaking on the bed, pressing a hand against his bruised jaw, his face twisted in humiliation. Then he nodded once and stepped aside.

The private doctor entered—a younger man in a crisp white shirt and glasses, his bag in hand. San. His gaze swept over the room briefly before settling on Yunho, and for a second his brows pinched at the sight: Yunho trembling, his lips swollen, his leg twisted awkwardly beneath the sheets.

“...He’s injured?” San asked carefully.

Mingi closed the door and moved back to the bed, sitting beside Yunho, his hand resting heavy on the prosecutor’s thigh. He spoke calmly, like nothing had happened. “He fell. Hurt his leg. Check it.”

San hesitated, adjusting his glasses, but set his bag down. “I’ll need him to stay still.”

Mingi’s hand slid lower, brushing against Yunho’s wrist, his thumb pressing softly into his skin. A silent command. Stay. Obey.

Yunho stared down at the contact, his lip trembling. He wanted to pull away, but the pressure of Mingi’s touch pinned him more effectively than the strongest grip.

San knelt at the foot of the bed, carefully lifting Yunho’s injured leg. The moment he touched the swollen joint, Yunho bit hard into his bottom lip, his body jerking at the flare of pain.

“Hold still,” San murmured, concentrating.

Mingi’s hand tightened on Yunho’s, his thumb stroking in slow, almost tender circles over the back of it. The contradiction made Yunho’s stomach twist violently—his abuser’s touch soft in front of another man, like a lover’s comfort.

Yunho glanced at him, confusion in his glassy eyes, and Mingi only smirked, tilting his head as if to say *don’t forget who owns you.*

San looked up briefly, his mouth pressed into a thin line at the sight of Mingi’s hand lingering over Yunho’s. His gaze darted back down, professional mask slipping back into place, though unease rippled in the air.

“Nothing’s broken,” San said after examining. “But it’s badly sprained. I’ll wrap it, prescribe painkillers.”

Yunho whimpered softly as San wound the bandage around his swollen ankle, biting harder into his lip until it bled. His eyes watered, but he didn’t pull away. Mingi’s hand remained against his, rubbing slow circles into his skin, a parody of comfort.

By the time San finished, Yunho’s lip was red and raw from biting, his leg aching but bound tightly. San packed up his tools and rose. “He’ll need rest. No strain on the leg for at least two weeks.”

Mingi nodded, his eyes never leaving Yunho. “Understood.”

San hesitated again, his gaze flicking between the two of them, then gave a short bow and left quietly, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Mingi leaned in close, his mouth brushing Yunho’s ear as his fingers tightened possessively around his wrist.

“You hear that?” he whispered, voice low and dangerous. “Two weeks. Two weeks where you won’t take a step without me. Two weeks where you’re mine, every second, every breath.”

Yunho shuddered, his body trembling with rage and fear and something else he couldn’t choke down. His tears welled again, spilling hot down his cheeks.

Mingi kissed the corner of his jaw, slow and cruel, savoring the flinch it drew.

And the prosecutor understood, with sinking dread, that this was only the beginning.

---
The room was thick with the lingering steam from the shower, the faint scent of Mingi’s cologne still heavy in the air. Yunho sat on the edge of the bathtub, shivering—not just from the cold that ran along the floor, but from the constant, suffocating tension that seemed to follow Mingi like a shadow. His body ached from the fall, the bruises, the endless day of forced stillness, and his pride was shredded down to nothing. He felt hollow, caught between rage, humiliation, and an unnameable yearning that terrified him more than any physical pain.

Mingi had decided, unilaterally, that it was time to clean him. Yunho had protested, scrambling backward on the slick tile, trying to pull his pajama shorts over his thighs. “I don’t want you to—don’t touch me!” His voice was harsh, cracking at the edges, but it had no real power here. Mingi’s smirk didn’t waver; in fact, it deepened, sharp and cruel.

“You’re mine,” Mingi said, his tone low, dangerous, and entirely devoid of patience. “Your fear doesn’t matter. Your pride doesn’t matter. Sit. Now.”

Yunho tried to push him, desperate, but Mingi’s hand shot out with terrifying speed, gripping Yunho by the arm and yanking him forward. The pull sent him teetering on the edge of the tub, and he let out a choked cry. He tried to resist again, his small fists striking Mingi’s chest, but it was futile. Mingi’s strength and control were absolute.

With a grunt, Mingi swept Yunho up, holding him against his chest like a fragile doll. Yunho’s legs dangled, useless, the pain from his sprained ankle flaring with every movement. “Put me down! I can walk—” He tried to squirm, but Mingi’s grip only tightened, pressing him closer. “—I can—”

A hard slap across Yunho’s face silenced him. The sting seared across his cheek, but the fear in his chest, the helplessness curling in his stomach, was worse. Mingi’s eyes were dark, filled with that dangerous satisfaction that only appeared when he was in total control.

“Stop talking,” Mingi growled. “You’ll do what I say. Understand?”

Yunho’s jaw went slack, tears pooling in his eyes, as he nodded weakly. The last shred of defiance had been smothered.

Mingi carried him toward the shower, setting him down with a controlled precision that made Yunho flinch. He peeled away the wet, trembling pajamas, leaving Yunho exposed. Yunho’s hands flew to cover himself, his voice breaking: “No—please, I don’t want you to see—”

Mingi’s patience snapped like a taut wire. With one hand, he grabbed Yunho’s chin, tilting his head up. “Stop hiding. You’re not allowed to hide from me,” he snapped, voice low and vibrating with threat. “I told you, everything about you is mine.”

Yunho’s lips trembled as tears streaked down his cheeks. He felt stripped of everything—control, dignity, safety. He sobbed quietly, pressing his palms to Mingi’s chest in a desperate, half-hearted attempt to push away.

And then, the unexpected intrusion.

The bathroom door swung open, the harsh light of the hallway slicing through the steamy haze. Wooyoung, Mingi’s younger brother, stood there, arms crossed, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Mingi,” he said, voice teasing, but with an edge of warning. “Brother.”

Mingi froze, the hand gripping Yunho’s chin loosening slightly. His dark eyes flicked toward Wooyoung, irritation and surprise mixing in a dangerous way. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed, low and warning.

Wooyoung’s gaze slid over Yunho, lingering just a second too long. His smirk widened. “And who is this pretty thing you’ve got tied up here?” His tone was playful, but beneath it was something sharp, perceptive. “Hurting him seems… unnecessary.”

Yunho’s chest heaved, his body trembling violently as he sank back against Mingi’s side, shame and fear warring inside him. He wanted to hide, to disappear, but Mingi’s hands were still heavy on him, controlling his every movement.

Mingi’s jaw tightened. The presence of his brother, this unexpected interruption, made a low growl rumble from his chest. “He’s mine,” he said, voice snapping, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn’t been there before, a flicker of vulnerability under the surface rage. “Do not touch him, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung’s smirk didn’t falter. “Relax, brother. I’m just observing,” he said, tilting his head toward Yunho, who was buried partially against Mingi, trembling. “But seriously… where did you even find someone this delicate? And why are you… hurting him?” His eyes sparkled with mischief, curiosity, and a strange, almost protective interest.

Mingi’s dark glare didn’t soften. “He’s mine to control. Understand?”

Wooyoung chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I see that. But just… remember, he’s not a toy, Mingi.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened further, his gaze hardening on Yunho, whose tears spilled freely now, hot and helpless against his chest. He pressed himself closer to Yunho, lowering his face to the back of his neck. “He *is* mine,” he whispered, almost softly, almost tenderly—but the possessiveness underneath was suffocating. “And don’t you dare interfere.”

Yunho whimpered against him, a mixture of relief and terror, and buried his face into Mingi’s chest. The control, the domination, the unrelenting presence of Mingi was overwhelming, yet something inside him, dark and confused, craved it despite the shame and pain.

Wooyoung watched, smirking faintly, then turned on his heel and left, his departure leaving an echo of tension in the air. The door closed, and suddenly the room felt smaller, tighter, hotter. Mingi’s hands slid to Yunho’s back, pressing him down against the tiles. He kissed the top of Yunho’s head, slow and deliberate, before letting a hand trail to his trembling arm.

“You can’t run. You can’t hide,” Mingi murmured, his voice low, vibrating against Yunho’s ear. “Not from me. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Yunho’s chest heaved, sobs escaping, his tears mixing with the steam, clinging to Mingi’s chest. His body was helpless, his heart pounding wildly in terror and something else he didn’t understand. And Mingi leaned closer, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the helplessness, the submission, and the fear in Yunho’s almost translucent, trembling form.

He would push him. He would claim him. And the night was only beginning.

---
The steam hung thick in the bathroom, condensing on the tiles and dripping steadily onto the floor. Yunho’s body trembled, slick with water and sweat, every nerve screaming in a mixture of fear, shame, and something he hated himself for feeling. Mingi’s presence was suffocating, the weight of him pressing down on Yunho as though the very air belonged to the younger man.

“I said stay still,” Mingi’s voice cut low and sharp, each word vibrating with control. Yunho tried to pull back, to create even a fraction of distance, but the cramped bathroom offered no escape.

“I—I don’t want this,” Yunho stammered, his voice breaking. His lip quivered, and tears streaked down his cheeks, mixing with the water running from the shower.

Mingi’s patience snapped. In one brutal motion, he yanked Yunho by the shoulders and slammed him against the edge of the bathtub. Yunho gasped violently, the cold porcelain biting into his skin as water splashed up over him. He struggled to breathe, panic clawing at him, every part of him trembling with helplessness.

“You think you get to resist me?” Mingi growled, pressing closer. His hands pinned Yunho’s wrists to the sides of the tub. “No. You don’t get to choose.”

Yunho sobbed, shaking violently. “M-Mingi, please… I can’t—”

Mingi’s lips brushed against Yunho’s ear, his breath hot and commanding. “You’ll learn,” he murmured. Then, in a swift, terrifying motion, he pressed Yunho’s head closer to the bathwater. Yunho choked, coughing violently, tears blurring his vision as the water splashed over him. Every muscle in his body coiled with terror, yet beneath it all, a confusing pulse of something else—shame, desire, and fear—raced through him.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the chaos. “Mingi! Stop!” came a voice—Wooyoung’s, Mingi’s younger brother, firm but calm.

Mingi froze, his jaw tightening. “Wooyoung,” he said, irritation darkening his tone, “this isn’t your concern.”

Wooyoung stepped in, his gaze immediately softening as it landed on Yunho, who was gasping and shivering, his chest heaving from the mixture of water, sobs, and fear. He didn’t say anything else, but his presence alone was enough to make Mingi hesitate. For a moment, he released Yunho’s wrists just enough to let him catch his breath.

Yunho gasped, clutching at his chest, trying to steady himself, trembling violently as he wrapped the thin towel around his wet body. Mingi, still smoldering with dark irritation, reached for another towel and tossed it at him. “Here. Use it,” he said gruffly.

Wooyoung lingered at the doorway, smirking faintly as he watched the scene, eyes flicking between the two. He said nothing, just observed, a quiet presence that reminded both men of the fragile boundary between cruelty and care.

Mingi’s patience, however, was not gone. He lifted Yunho effortlessly, pressing him against his chest. Yunho’s body trembled violently, sobs muffled against Mingi’s shoulder, entirely at the mercy of the younger man’s control. Every movement reinforced the power Mingi had over him, leaving Yunho feeling utterly exposed—physically, emotionally, and morally.

Once inside the bedroom, Mingi set Yunho down on the bed with deliberate precision. His dark gaze bore into Yunho, measuring his reactions, every subtle tremor, every whimper, feeding the intoxicating tension between them. “You can fight all you want,” Mingi said, voice low and dangerous, “but it doesn’t change anything. You belong to me.”

Yunho’s chest heaved as tears rolled freely down his cheeks. He couldn’t look away from Mingi’s dark, commanding eyes. Shame, fear, and a perverse, unwanted desire tangled together inside him, making his body respond despite his mind screaming to resist.

Mingi sighed, brushing a wet strand of hair from Yunho’s forehead. “Frustratingly beautiful,” he murmured almost under his breath, the words crawling over Yunho like a claim, a declaration of possession. Yunho’s breath hitched; the shame of feeling anything in the face of Mingi’s cruelty twisted deep inside him.

Yunho was left trembling, trapped, exposed, and utterly at Mingi’s mercy as the night stretched on, the dark tension between them thick, suffocating, and dangerous—a slow, relentless spiral into fear, control, and the forbidden intimacy that neither could fully deny.

Chapter Text

The heavy silence of the bedroom was broken only by Yunho’s ragged breaths and the faint sound of water dripping from his still-damp hair onto the sheets. His body ached, his leg throbbing from the injury, his chest sore from being shoved and held down earlier. He lay curled at the edge of the bed, shivering under the thin blanket, his face pale and eyes hollow.

The door creaked open.

Mingi stepped inside, a tray balanced in his hands. The smell of food—rich, heavy, almost overwhelming—filled the room. Steaming rice, slices of meat, broth; simple dishes, but under Mingi’s control, even a meal became another tool. His gaze flicked immediately to Yunho, taking in his refusal to look up, the way he clutched the blanket around his trembling body as though it could shield him from the younger man.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Mingi said flatly, his voice edged with irritation as he set the tray down on the bedside table. “You think starving yourself is going to change anything? You think I’ll let you waste away in my house?”

Yunho swallowed hard, refusing to answer. His pride still clung to the silence, even as his stomach churned with both hunger and nausea.

Mingi’s patience didn’t last long. He reached down, grabbed Yunho by the jaw, and forced his face upward. Yunho winced, his lips parting only because Mingi’s grip was too tight to resist. Mingi scooped some rice with a spoon and shoved it between Yunho’s lips.

“Eat,” he ordered.

Yunho gagged immediately, trying to twist away, but Mingi’s hold was merciless. Tears welled in Yunho’s eyes as he coughed, the grains sticking to his tongue and throat. He struggled, choked, but Mingi didn’t relent—shoving another spoonful into his mouth.

“You’ll eat what I give you,” Mingi hissed. “You don’t get to decide anything anymore. Not when to eat, not when to sleep, not even when to breathe if I don’t allow it.”

Yunho’s body rebelled. His stomach clenched violently, bile rising to his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but the mixture of fear, humiliation, and force was too much. He turned his head suddenly, retching, the food spilling out onto his shirt and the sheets. The stench of vomit filled the air as Yunho collapsed forward, gasping, sobbing, humiliated beyond words.

Mingi froze for a moment, staring at the mess with a tightening jaw. Then his face hardened with fury. He shoved Yunho back against the pillows, the force rough enough to make the older man cry out in pain, his injured leg twisting awkwardly.

“You disgust me,” Mingi spat, voice low and trembling with anger. “Pathetic. You can’t even do something as simple as eat without making a mess of it.”

Yunho clutched at the sheets, trembling, too weak to fight anymore. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his skin clammy. He felt sick, dizzy, his vision blurring with tears. He whispered something under his breath—pleas that Mingi didn’t bother listening to.

The younger man stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked down at Yunho’s broken form, his chest tight with a confusion of rage and something else he hated to name.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, he pulled out his phone and made a call. “Get up here,” he barked.

Moments later, the door opened again. Seonghwa stepped inside, his movements quiet, precise. He carried a cloth and a basin of water, his eyes immediately flicking from Mingi to Yunho, then to the mess on the bed. There was a brief flicker of something in his gaze—pity? confusion?—but he quickly masked it under calm efficiency.

Without a word, Seonghwa began to clean. He stripped the soiled sheets carefully, his hands steady as he avoided Yunho’s trembling form. He dabbed at the vomit on Yunho’s shirt with the cloth, working slowly, almost gently, as though he didn’t want to startle him further.

Yunho stared at him with wide, hollow eyes, lips trembling, too exhausted to protest. He flinched at every touch but didn’t resist.

Mingi stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything with a dark, unreadable expression. The sight of another man’s hands on Yunho made something sharp twist inside him, but he didn’t stop it—he wanted Yunho cleaned, wanted him restored to something he could control again.

When Seonghwa finally finished, he looked at Mingi briefly, as though searching for some kind of explanation. But Mingi’s stare was ice, daring him to say anything. Seonghwa simply bowed his head slightly, gathered the soiled linens, and left the room without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence was suffocating again. Yunho lay limp on the freshly changed sheets, his chest still heaving, his face pale. His wet hair clung to his forehead, and his lips were swollen from being forced open. He looked broken, fragile—and yet Mingi’s eyes lingered on him with something darker than pity.

He stepped forward, crouching at the edge of the bed. His hand reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from Yunho’s face. “You’ll learn,” he whispered, voice smooth, venom laced with something steamy, possessive. “No matter how much you fight, no matter how much you cry… you’ll learn to bend. To break for me.”

Yunho shuddered, tears spilling silently from the corners of his eyes. His body betrayed him, heat simmering beneath the fear, and Mingi’s smirk deepened as he noticed.

The tension in the room thickened, heavy and suffocating, a dangerous intimacy wrapping around them like chains.

And Mingi knew—this was only the beginning.

---

The room was suffocatingly quiet after Seonghwa left, the fresh sheets taut and cool against Yunho’s fevered skin. He lay motionless, but his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, his lashes sticking wet against his cheeks from the tears he hadn’t managed to wipe away. Mingi sat at the edge of the bed, watching him like a predator watches a wounded animal—dark eyes gleaming, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned down, his hand sliding over Yunho’s chest, pinning him softly but unmistakably, weight bearing down until Yunho’s ribs ached. Yunho whimpered, his body jerking weakly beneath him, but Mingi’s hand only crept higher until his fingers curled under his jaw again, forcing Yunho to look at him.

“You’ll break beautifully for me,” Mingi whispered, lips brushing Yunho’s trembling cheek. “You already are.”

Yunho’s throat worked, a sob tearing out of him, the sound raw and hoarse. He tried to push Mingi away, his hands weakly pressing against the younger man’s chest, but Mingi barely felt it. The resistance was nothing more than a reminder of Yunho’s fragility—fragility he owned.

Mingi leaned down and kissed him, crushing Yunho’s lips under his own. Yunho gasped, twisting his face away, but Mingi caught his chin, deepening the kiss until Yunho gagged on it, the taste of bile still sour in his throat. Mingi pulled back with a low groan, his tongue flicking across his lips, and Yunho’s face twisted with shame and disgust.

But before Mingi could escalate further, before he could finally push Yunho past another boundary, a sound echoed through the house. A harsh knock. Then another. Voices—loud, commanding, echoing through the grand hall below.

Mingi’s head snapped up, fury flashing across his face. He stood abruptly, his weight leaving Yunho’s body, and stalked to the window. Blue and red lights flickered faintly outside the estate walls. Police.

The news had spread—Jeong Yunho, the young prosecutor who had been building a case against Mingi, had gone missing. Everyone knew who the first suspect would be.

The door to the bedroom flew open without a knock. Yeosang entered first, his face sharp, eyes scanning the space like a hawk. Jongho followed, broader, heavier in presence, a warrant in his gloved hand.

“Mingi,” Yeosang said coldly. “You know why we’re here.”

Mingi smirked, unbothered, lounging against the dresser like he’d been expecting them. “You’ve always been quick, Yeosang. But you’re wasting your time. Do you see Yunho here?” He spread his arms, mock innocence written across his face.

The officers fanned out, searching every corner of the room, opening drawers, pulling at curtains. They ripped open closets, slammed doors, checked beneath the bed. Yunho’s body shook violently where he was, every sound echoing too close.

Because Yunho wasn’t in plain sight.

Mingi had dragged him minutes earlier, forcing him toward the farthest side of the suite, where a small hidden panel in the wall disguised a narrow, suffocating crawl closet. He had shoved Yunho inside, locking it from the outside before snapping the panel back into place. The space was barely large enough for him to crouch in; Yunho’s long legs bent painfully, his injured one throbbing mercilessly. The air was thick and stale, pressing against his lungs until each breath came shallow and quick.

He was hyperventilating, his sobs muffled into his sleeve, sweat dripping down his temple as he tried not to scream. He wanted—needed—to let them know he was there. To bang against the panel, to shout until Yeosang and Jongho tore it open. But when he tried, his hands pressed against the wood, shaking, it didn’t budge. The lock Mingi had fastened was absolute. He pushed harder, nails scratching, but all it earned him was silence.

The muffled sound of voices carried through. Jongho’s deeper tone: “Check the basement. He could’ve hidden him there.”

Yunho’s heart pounded, each beat louder than the last. He opened his mouth, desperate, but no sound came out but a choked sob. His throat burned. He bit down hard on his lip until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, tears dripping into it.

Outside the panel, Mingi’s smirk didn’t falter. He leaned lazily against the dresser, arms crossed, as though nothing could touch him. “You think I’m stupid enough to keep a prosecutor in my house?” His laugh was dark, sharp. “He probably ran away with his tail between his legs after realizing what he was up against.”

Yeosang’s eyes narrowed. He moved closer, staring directly into Mingi’s face, as if searching for a crack. “If you’re lying—”

“You’ll what?” Mingi cut in smoothly, his voice low, threatening. “Arrest me? Without proof? Go ahead. But you’ll find nothing.”

Behind the panel, Yunho’s body convulsed with another sob, his chest aching, lungs screaming for air. He pressed both palms against the wood desperately, but it didn’t even creak. His leg throbbed so badly he thought he might faint, the cramped position only digging the injury deeper.

He tried to imagine Yeosang’s sharp eyes turning toward him, Jongho’s strength tearing the wall down—but the minutes dragged, and the voices grew more distant. The search yielded nothing.

“Clear,” Jongho muttered reluctantly.

Mingi’s grin widened as he walked them back to the door. “See? Nothing here. You’ve wasted your night.”

Yeosang lingered at the threshold, his gaze raking over Mingi one last time, suspicion burning in his expression. But with no evidence, there was nothing they could do.

The door shut behind them.

Inside the hidden panel, Yunho broke down, his nails clawing at the wood until they split, his voice breaking as he let out muffled, incoherent pleas. He could still hear the faint sound of cars outside, doors slamming, engines roaring to life. They were leaving. His chance was gone.

And Mingi?

Mingi stood on the other side of the wall, his palm pressed flat against the panel, smirk still curling his lips as he listened to Yunho’s muffled sobs. The power in the moment was electric, cruel, intoxicating. He closed his eyes, savoring it, before whispering low enough for only the trembling man behind the wall to hear:

“You’re mine. And no one will save you.”

---
The silence after Yeosang and Jongho left was suffocating, heavier than the pounding of Yunho’s frantic heartbeat in the dark closet. The echo of their boots fading down the hall was like a death sentence. Yunho sat hunched in the cramped space, his body trembling uncontrollably, nails still clawing at the wood until they ached, his lips raw from biting down to stifle screams. He couldn’t breathe—air felt scarce, too hot and thick—and the panic clawed at his lungs until every inhale came broken, shallow, useless.

The sudden metallic click of the lock turning sent his whole body rigid. The panel creaked open, light flooding the suffocating space, and there he was—Mingi, filling the doorway with his tall frame, eyes dark and wild from the rush of adrenaline.

For a split second, Yunho thought Mingi might drag him out and beat him bloody, maybe worse. But instead, Mingi crouched down slowly, predator-smooth, his smirk widening at the sight of Yunho curled up, red-eyed, face streaked with spit, sweat, and tears.

“Look at you,” Mingi murmured, his voice low, dripping with cruel amusement. “Shaking like a cornered rabbit.”

Yunho pressed himself back against the wall of the crawl space, but there was nowhere to go. His chest heaved with sobs, words spilling out jagged and raw:

“P-please… don’t—don’t rape me… please, I’m begging you—”

The plea cracked something inside the air. Not pity. Not compassion. But a deeper, darker hunger.

Mingi’s smirk faltered, his jaw tightening, nostrils flaring as if the words themselves lit something primal in him. He reached in with one arm, seizing Yunho by the wrist and yanking him out of the cramped closet like he weighed nothing. Yunho’s injured leg buckled instantly, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping.

Mingi loomed over him, eyes burning with something violent, his breathing heavy from the adrenaline still coursing through him. He could kill a man without hesitation, without blinking, and yet Yunho’s tear-filled eyes, his body trembling with terror, pulled at a different cruelty in him.

He crouched again, one hand gripping Yunho’s chin hard enough to bruise, forcing his face upward. Yunho’s lips trembled, spit wet on his skin, his eyes glassy with panic. Mingi’s thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth almost mockingly, and then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed him.

Not gentle. Not tender. A claiming. His mouth pressed hard against Yunho’s, swallowing his whimper, tasting the salt of his tears. Yunho squirmed, panic twisting every nerve in his body, but Mingi didn’t let go. He deepened the kiss for a long, agonizing moment, tongue brushing Yunho’s lips, forcing them apart.

Yunho let out a strangled sob, trying to pull back, whispering against Mingi’s mouth, “No—please—don’t—”

The panic was real, sharp, but it only made Mingi’s blood thrum hotter. He pulled back just enough to look at Yunho, his hand still bruising his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“You think begging will save you?” Mingi asked softly, voice vibrating with dark amusement. “It won’t. But it makes you so damn pretty.”

Yunho’s chest heaved, every breath shallow, a full panic attack ripping through him. His body trembled violently, tears streaming down as he choked on air, vision blurring. He whispered again, barely audible, “Please… don’t…”

And that was the moment—the tension held, cruel and electric. Mingi could have taken him. He wanted to. Everything in him screamed to push further, to see Yunho shatter completely, to own every part of him.

But something else tugged. Not softness—Mingi wasn’t wired for softness. It was control. The exquisite pleasure of withholding when he could take. The power in stopping just when Yunho thought he’d be destroyed.

So instead of forcing him, Mingi sighed, his grip loosening slightly. He leaned forward again, but this time his lips pressed against Yunho’s wet cheek, kissing his tears instead of his mouth.

“You’ll break for me eventually,” he whispered, words hot against Yunho’s skin. “But not tonight.”

Yunho’s entire body went limp with confusion, exhaustion, fear. His eyes fluttered closed, his panic leaving him trembling and spent. He didn’t understand—didn’t trust it—but he couldn’t fight anymore.

Mingi exhaled sharply, irritated with himself, with the strange restraint he’d chosen. He hated it—hated the prosecutor, hated the way those terrified eyes clung to him like some twisted drug. But he couldn’t look away.

He picked Yunho up easily, carrying his limp body back to the bed, laying him down on the clean sheets Seonghwa had left earlier. Yunho murmured something incoherent, too tired to resist.

Mingi sat at the edge of the mattress, staring down at him for a long while, expression unreadable, before finally muttering, almost to himself, “Sleep.”

And Yunho did, confused and broken, drifting off under the gaze of the man who owned his cage.

---

The morning broke cold and pale through the high windows of the mansion. The air was still, the silence deceptive, but Yunho didn’t sleep soundly—he hadn’t really slept at all. He woke with his body trembling, his chest heavy with the memory of the night before, the taste of Mingi’s cruel kiss still clinging to his lips, the feel of that bruising grip on his jaw like a phantom burn. His eyes opened to see Mingi sprawled on the other side of the bed, chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

It was the first time Yunho had ever seen him so still, so unaware, and his heart thundered. This was his chance. His only chance.

He bit back the sob in his throat, pushing the sheets away carefully, every movement measured and slow, terrified to wake the man. His leg ached, the injury still raw and swollen, but adrenaline carried him forward. He limped, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, eyes darting toward the door like it was the last light in a drowning world.

Each step felt like it took a century. His breaths were shallow, his chest tight, his throat raw from holding back any sound. He reached the door. His fingers closed around the handle. Hope, sharp and painful, pierced his chest—

But the second he pulled, an arm hooked around his waist, iron-strong, yanking him back. Yunho’s body slammed into the hard chest of one of Mingi’s guards.

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty boy?” the guard’s voice rasped in his ear, deep and mocking, his breath hot against Yunho’s skin.

Yunho froze, panic surging up his throat like bile. He kicked out weakly, but his injured leg betrayed him. His wrists were caught easily, twisted behind his back.

The guard chuckled darkly, leaning down, his mouth grazing Yunho’s temple. “Mingi’s a lucky bastard,” he whispered. “Owning something this sweet.”

Yunho’s breath hitched as the man pressed closer, his body grinding against his. He turned his face away, tears already springing to his eyes, but the guard didn’t care. He dipped his head lower, lips brushing against Yunho’s jaw, then his mouth, rough and insistent.

Yunho cried out, muffled, thrashing desperately, trying to wrench himself free. “No—don’t—please—”

But the guard’s grip was merciless. “Shh,” he murmured, mocking, pressing Yunho tighter against the doorframe. “Stop fighting. You should be grateful anyone even wants you.”

The kiss turned harsher, invasive, and Yunho’s heart broke with it. His entire body trembled violently, shame burning in his veins. The pressure of the man’s hips against him made bile rise to his throat. He whimpered, voice cracking, “Please stop… please…”

And then—

The sound of a gunshot split the air.

The guard’s body jolted violently, then went slack, collapsing against Yunho before sliding to the floor in a heavy, lifeless heap. Blood sprayed across the wall, across Yunho’s face, his throat, soaking his thin shirt in a sickening warmth.

Yunho froze. His vision tunneled. His hands flew to his chest, shaking violently as he stared down at the red splattered across his body. His lips parted but no sound came out—only the ragged rush of hyperventilation.

Across the hallway, Mingi stood, gun still raised, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. His face was stone—cold, calm, as though he’d simply swatted an insect.

“Clean it up,” he said flatly, without even glancing at the corpse. His voice carried down the hall like a blade. Two other guards appeared instantly, bowing their heads before dragging the body away, their expressions unreadable.

Yunho couldn’t move. His chest heaved violently, sobs breaking past his lips. His hands clawed at the blood staining his shirt, the sticky warmth clinging to his skin. He wanted to tear it off, scrub himself raw, anything to erase it.

Mingi finally lowered the gun, tucking it back into his waistband. His eyes slid toward Yunho, unreadable. He took slow, measured steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing on the marble.

Yunho stumbled back instinctively, pressing himself against the door as if it could save him. His body trembled violently, tears blinding his vision. “Y-you… you killed him—” His voice cracked into a sob. “His blood— it’s on me, it’s on me—”

Mingi stopped in front of him, towering over him, his expression carved from stone. Then, with a heavy sigh, he bent down, one hand curling around Yunho’s trembling wrist.

“Stop crying,” he murmured, almost irritated, his thumb brushing through the sticky blood staining Yunho’s skin. “He touched what’s mine. He deserved worse.”

Yunho flinched at the word *mine*. His stomach lurched violently, but before he could even react, Mingi bent down and lifted him easily into his arms. Yunho kicked weakly, his sobs spilling unchecked, but Mingi didn’t waver. He carried him as though he weighed nothing, his grip secure, unyielding.

They passed the crimson trail staining the marble, Yunho squeezing his eyes shut against the sight. He buried his face in Mingi’s chest not out of choice but sheer panic, trying to block out the stench of blood that clung to his clothes.

Mingi didn’t speak again until they reached the bathroom. He set Yunho down on the edge of the cold tub, his grip lingering on his jaw, tilting his face up. Yunho’s cheeks were streaked with tears, his lips quivering, his skin pale and slick with sweat.

Mingi stared at him for a long moment, his thumb brushing idly against his bloodied cheek. Then, slowly, he smirked.

“Let’s get you clean,” he said, voice low, cruel amusement curling through it. “Can’t have my pretty prosecutor looking like a butchered pig.”

He reached for the faucet, the rush of water filling the silence. Yunho’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breath, but his hands still trembled uncontrollably, his mind stuck on the image of the guard’s lifeless eyes, the spray of blood.

And Mingi watched him the entire time, eyes sharp, dark, savoring every broken tremor.

Chapter Text

Steam filled the bathroom, swirling around the two of them like a ghost of what had just happened. The sound of running water drowned out the silence between them, a silence heavy enough to suffocate.

Mingi’s hand hovered near Yunho’s shoulder, his jaw tight. There was something in his eyes—something jagged, furious, but uncertain. Yunho trembled, his body stiff beneath the spray. When Mingi’s fingers brushed against his skin, Yunho flinched like he’d been struck.

For a moment, Mingi didn’t move. Then, with an exhale that sounded more like a growl, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Yunho’s—slowly, deliberately. Yunho froze, tears spilling instantly, body shaking. Mingi pulled back with a hiss, eyes narrowing as he looked at the tears.

He could hurt him again. He could destroy the last of that fragile defiance—but something in Yunho’s face stopped him. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t like it.

So instead, he stepped back.

“Enough,” he muttered, voice low. He grabbed the showerhead, guiding the water down Yunho’s body, washing away the blood and the grime with movements that were harsh at first, then oddly gentle. His fingers lingered too long on the bruises, his thumb tracing over them like he was memorizing each mark.

When it was done, he turned the water off, stepping away as if nothing had happened. “Go,” he said, motioning toward the door. “Get dressed.”

Yunho’s legs were weak, but he nodded. He grabbed the nearest robe and wrapped it tightly around himself, fingers trembling. He didn’t look back when he left the room, too afraid of what he’d see in Mingi’s expression.

Back in the bedroom, the air felt colder. The world had gone unnaturally still, the weight of the mansion pressing down on him. Yunho could hear the distant hum of voices—guards outside, footsteps down the hall—but none came near his door.

And Mingi hadn’t followed.

Yunho’s eyes fell on the bedside table. Mingi’s phone lay there, black screen glinting faintly in the dim light. His heart hammered. Every part of him screamed not to, that Mingi would kill him if he found out—but he didn’t care.

His hands shook violently as he picked it up, the device heavier than it should’ve been. He hesitated only a second before unlocking it—no password. Mingi hadn’t thought he’d dare.

Yunho’s breath hitched as he dialed. The numbers blurred through his tears.

9–1–1.

He pressed the phone to his ear, chest heaving, the ring echoing in the silence. Every beat of his heart felt like thunder in his ribs.

A click. A voice.
“Emergency services—”

But the line went dead before he could speak.

He froze, staring at the phone. On the screen, a message appeared:
**Call terminated. No signal.**

Yunho’s eyes widened. He tried again—once, twice, three times—but each time the same thing. No connection.

Then a soft sound behind him—water shutting off in the bathroom.

Yunho’s blood ran cold.

---
The sound of footsteps came first—bare, slow, deliberate.
The bathroom door creaked open.

Mingi stepped into the room, hair damp, a towel hanging loosely around his shoulders. Steam still clung to his skin, tracing the outline of his tattoos like smoke. He froze when he saw Yunho kneeling on the floor, the phone clutched tight in his trembling hand.

The silence stretched for too long.

Then Mingi laughed—a low, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Yunho’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The phone slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Mingi crossed the room in two strides. The crack of his palm against Yunho’s cheek broke the silence like glass. Yunho hit the floor hard, one hand flying to his face as tears instantly burned his eyes.

Mingi stood over him, breathing hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You just don’t learn, do you?” he said, voice quiet, dangerous.

Yunho’s voice came out hoarse. “If you hate me this much,” he whispered, “then just kill me already.”

For a second, Mingi said nothing. Then he knelt, his expression darkly amused. “Kill you?” He tilted Yunho’s chin up between his fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Yunho’s chest heaved. The look in Mingi’s eyes was worse than any threat. It was *control*. Pure, unshakable control.

Mingi’s tone turned colder, stripped of mockery. “Now tell me something, Prosecutor Jeong.” His fingers slid from Yunho’s chin into his hair, tightening until Yunho winced. “Who else did you tell about me?”

Yunho shook his head, tears streaming, refusing to speak.

The grip tightened. “I said,” Mingi growled, “who did you tell?”

“Another prosecutor,” Yunho gasped out finally. “Hongjoong.”

The name hung heavy between them. Mingi went very still. His hand loosened, but his eyes hardened to something unrecognizable.

Hongjoong. The one man Mingi couldn’t bribe, couldn’t threaten into silence.

Mingi released Yunho suddenly, standing upright. He paced a few steps away, running a hand through his wet hair. The air around him seemed to crackle—anger restrained only by calculation.

When he turned back, his voice was low. “You just made this much worse for both of us.”

Yunho sat on the floor, trembling, every muscle coiled tight. He didn’t know what Mingi meant—worse how? For who?

Mingi crouched in front of him again, leaning close enough that Yunho could smell the faint scent of soap and gunpowder on his skin. “Listen carefully,” Mingi said. “You’re not leaving this place until I know exactly what Hongjoong has.”

“I won’t tell you anything else.”

Mingi smirked faintly. “Then you’ll stay here. And every day, you’ll wish you had.”

He stood, glancing toward the blood-stained shirt still lying in the corner from the morning. Without another word, he grabbed it, tossed it into a bin, and called down the hall: “Seonghwa! Bring fresh clothes.”

Yunho watched him, disbelieving, as if still expecting Mingi to snap—to end this. But Mingi’s composure had returned, his mask of calm restored. That was the worst part.

A few minutes later, Seonghwa entered quietly with folded clothes. His eyes flicked to Yunho, then to the faint bruise blooming on his cheek, but he said nothing.

When he left, Mingi closed the door again and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“You’re going to cooperate, Yunho,” he said, voice even. “And maybe—maybe—you’ll walk out of this alive.”

Yunho looked up, eyes dull. “And if I don’t?”

Mingi’s smirk returned, colder this time. “Then you’ll find out what happens to people who try to ruin me.”

Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, a storm beginning to build. Inside the mansion, Yunho sat motionless on the floor, the taste of blood and salt still in his mouth, realizing there was no one left who could hear him.

And Mingi just watched him—silent, calculating, and for the first time since this began, uncertain of why his own pulse was racing so fast.

---
The mansion was quiet that morning, almost too quiet. Yunho had spent the hours pacing the dim corridors, his leg still throbbing from previous injuries, the faint marks on his arms and neck reminding him of Mingi’s control.

He couldn’t sleep, and the oppressive silence made the walls feel like they were closing in. Every shadow seemed to move, every creak a threat.
Mingi had been silent too, watching from the shadows, letting Yunho fidget and squirm with helplessness, his gaze sharp, calculating, assessing.

Yunho’s eyes kept flicking toward the windows, imagining escape, imagining even one small victory. But he knew better. Mingi’s presence was everywhere—looming, suffocating, controlling.

By the afternoon, Yunho found himself in a rarely used corner of the mansion—a small library, lined with tall shelves. His leg throbbed as he tried to steady himself, leaning against a bookshelf. He whispered under his breath, just to have something to break the silence. “I have to get out… I have to…”

The sudden sound of the front doors opening made him freeze. Footsteps echoed sharply through the halls. Police. Jongho and Yeosang. His heart skipped violently, both with hope and fear. He ducked instinctively, scanning for a hiding spot—but Mingi had anticipated this. He was never far.

Outside, Yeosang’s voice tore through the mansion’s halls like a lifeline. “Jongho! This way, quick! I hear him!” His footsteps pounded closer, echoing with urgency. Yunho’s pulse raced at the hope that salvation might actually come. He slammed against the walls one last time, forcing himself into a desperate lunge.

The door creaked slightly, then snapped open, and for a single, brilliant instant, Yunho felt the intoxicating surge of freedom. He darted out, legs trembling, his chest rising and falling as he gasped in relief. A small, fleeting smile flickered on his lips—the taste of liberation so sweet it almost made him forget the pain.

Then, cold metal pressed against the back of his head.
The smile vanished.

Mingi’s arms snaked around his waist from behind, unyielding, suffocating, every muscle coiled and taut as if he were a predator claiming his prey. The gun at the side of Yunho’s head glittered ominously, its cold barrel pressing into his temple. Panic slammed into Yunho, and he froze mid-step, eyes wide, limbs trembling. “No—please, don’t—” his voice cracked, swallowed almost immediately by the crushing proximity of Mingi’s presence.

“Move. One step, and I’ll end this right here,” Mingi’s voice was ice and fire rolled into one, low and dangerous, his grip around Yunho tightening, a cruel, possessive force that left no space to breathe. “You hear me? Do nothing, say nothing, and you stay alive. Otherwise…” He let the threat hang, unspoken but unmistakable, as his fingers dug into Yunho’s side, restraining every instinctive twitch, every panic-driven movement.

Yunho’s eyes darted wildly toward Jongho and Yeosang, hope and fear clashing violently. “You have to leave!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t make them—don’t make me—”
“Shut up,” Mingi hissed, his cheek brushing against Yunho’s ear, the cold steel of the gun pressing into the back of his skull, his body flush against Yunho’s. The weight of him was suffocating, commanding, and terrifyingly intimate all at once. “If either of them so much as thinks of coming closer, you die. And you know I mean it.”

Yunho trembled uncontrollably, hyperventilating as the reality of his position sank into every nerve. The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in, the oppressive darkness Mingi brought with him wrapping around Yunho like a living thing. Every thought he had was a jumbled mess of fear and strange, confused adrenaline, the closeness of Mingi’s body against his own making his chest rise and fall in ways he couldn’t control, every nerve raw from the heat and pressure, the cruel tension between them unrelenting.

Yeosang froze, eyes wide, and Jongho’s steps faltered. “Mingi…” Yeosang’s voice was strained, trembling slightly, “you can’t—he’s just a prosecutor—”
Mingi’s smirk was slow, cold, and terrifying. “I don’t care who he is. You want him? You go through me. Right now. Step any closer, and he’s gone.” His other hand moved, gripping Yunho’s jaw, tilting his head subtly so he could see both men clearly, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, possessive fire. “Do you understand? Every breath he takes, every second he moves… it’s mine.”

Yunho’s breath came in broken, desperate gasps. He wanted to scream, to run, to collapse, but Mingi’s body was everywhere—crushing, commanding, almost impossibly close. His hand trembled as he pressed against the barrel of the gun instinctively, then froze as Mingi’s thumb brushed lightly along his temple, a mockery of gentleness that only made the terror sharper.

The seconds stretched into eternity, the three men outside frozen by the threat and intensity, as Mingi’s presence dominated the space, the tension crawling into every corner. Yunho’s chest heaved, tears streaking his face, eyes fluttering as he tried to process the impossible, dark heat of the moment. The sheer proximity, the danger, the intoxicating control Mingi wielded—it was suffocating, terrifying, and strangely consuming all at once.

Mingi adjusted his hold, letting Yunho’s body relax slightly against him, his voice low and dangerous, just enough to scratch at every nerve. “You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered, almost casually, “not until I decide. Not until I say.”

Yunho’s body shook against him, a mixture of panic, humiliation, and something he didn’t want to name, as the world outside seemed to blur. The mansion felt smaller, darker, every heartbeat amplified, the air thick with the scent of fear and dominance, sweat and tension blending into an intoxicating, impossible weight.
And yet, even in the panic, even in the suffocating pressure of Mingi’s control, Yunho’s mind, wild and chaotic, began to fracture under the tension—helpless, exposed, consumed, and entirely at Mingi’s mercy.
The tension in the mansion was suffocating, almost alive, as the standoff stretched on. Yunho’s chest heaved violently, his leg still throbbing from previous injuries, sweat slick against his skin, tears streaked along his pale face. He was older than Mingi, but the power dynamic, the sheer physical and psychological dominance Mingi wielded, rendered that irrelevant. Every inch of the room radiated danger, darkness pressing in from the walls, the shadows curling like serpents around Yunho as he trembled, a mixture of panic and helpless anticipation coiling in his stomach.

The gun in Mingi’s hand was pointed not at himself, not even at the fleeing officers outside, but directly at Yunho’s temple, cold steel reflecting the dim light. Yunho’s fingers twitched, weakly reaching for it, almost mesmerized despite the fear, a trembling smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he played with it despite the knowledge of the danger. He whimpered, a high, broken sound that echoed through the room, heart pounding in his throat. “P-please…” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

Mingi’s smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, a predator savoring the fear radiating off Yunho like heat. He circled Yunho, each step measured, deliberate, like a hunter closing the distance, his shadow swallowing the boy’s figure as he crouched slightly to meet Yunho’s gaze. “You’re trembling,” Mingi murmured, voice low and smooth, with that strange, intoxicating mix of cruelty and fascination. “Look at you… older than me, and yet… so small. So… fragile.”

Yunho’s body jerked involuntarily at the words, heat and fear igniting a tight coil of panic in his stomach. His breaths came fast, shallow, and Mingi leaned closer, letting the gun’s weight press lightly against Yunho’s temple, just enough to draw a shiver of terror. “Do you like this?” Mingi whispered, the words more teasing than questioning, though the sharp edge beneath them promised punishment if Yunho dared answer incorrectly.

A shuffling behind them drew both of their gazes. Two of Mingi’s guards appeared from the shadowed doorway, guns raised, aimed directly at Jongho and Yeosang who had just entered, scanning, calculating. Yeosang’s jaw tightened, and his voice carried that sharp edge of resignation mixed with stubborn pride. “Kill me if you must,” he said, voice raw, “but I won’t leave this house unless Yunho is safe.”

Jongho’s hand came to Yeosang’s arm, gently but firmly, and he whispered, tension straining every word while staring at Mingi, “Don’t. I’ll say nothing, neither will Yeosang. So don’t spill more blood than necessary. Let us and him live, and give us something, some money at least”

Yeosang’s eyes flickered with resistance, but Jongho’s grip silenced him, the authority in that single touch enough to prevent escalation. Mingi’s smirk widened slowly, the cold amusement in his eyes reflecting the darkness of the mansion itself. He let the two officers leave, allowing the tension to settle briefly, but only briefly.

As the door slammed behind them, a suffocating silence filled the room again, broken only by Yunho’s ragged breaths. He sank further to the floor, his body weak, trembling, a puddle of fear and exhaustion. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, hot and unrelenting, his sobs stifled into shuddering whimpers as the reality of his helplessness washed over him like a tide. He curled slightly, hugging his own knees, head bowed, utterly consumed by panic, fear, and the strange, unnerving magnetism Mingi’s presence evoked.

Mingi’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, intense and calculating, before he turned, letting the gun rest at his side and stepping back with a slow, deliberate sigh. The cold control in his every movement was absolute, a predator fully aware of the prey at his mercy. Without a word, he left the room, moving toward his office, leaving Yunho alone on the floor, the darkness and silence pressing down like a tangible weight.

Yunho’s chest rose and fell in ragged, exhausted bursts, body trembling not just from the physical exertion and pain, but from the psychological hold Mingi had cemented over him. His panic didn’t subside; it only deepened, curling in tight coils of dread and confusion. Every thought was fragmented, every breath a reminder of how thoroughly he had been rendered powerless. He pressed his trembling hands to his face, trying to stave off the tears, trying to ground himself, but the dark, lingering heat of Mingi’s presence, the control and cruelty he wielded like an extension of his own body, refused to release him.

Even alone, even in the silence of the mansion’s shadowed corridors, Yunho felt the tension coiling tighter, a living thing pressing him further into despair and helplessness, the residue of fear and dark intimacy lingering in every nerve. He was older than Mingi, but none of that mattered here—age and rank dissolved into something darker, more primal, as the slow burn of Mingi’s dominance wrapped around him, intimate, suffocating, unrelenting, and impossible to escape.

Mingi’s shadow receded into the office, but the weight of his control stayed, a dark pulse against Yunho’s fragile body. He remained on the floor long after, sobbing quietly, the mansion empty yet oppressive, the lingering echo of fear and the unspoken promise of Mingi’s return wrapping him like a shroud. Every thought of escape was met with the inescapable knowledge: Mingi’s eyes, his hands, his presence—it could touch him, break him, and claim him in ways no one else could.

Yunho curled on the floor, trembling, his body still weak from the relentless control, the bruises on his legs and arms aching with every shiver that wracked him. Tears blurred his vision, and the dark corners of the mansion pressed closer as though the shadows themselves were conspiring to suffocate him. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, panic and helplessness mixing into a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Every sound—the faint creak of the mansion, the echo of his own sobs—felt amplified, a constant reminder of how completely trapped he was.

Suddenly, a presence broke through the oppressive silence. Seonghwa stepped into the room quietly, the faint scent of soap and the soft rustle of his uniform cutting through the stifling air. Yunho’s eyes, red and raw, widened for a split second in disbelief. The cleaner, the man who had silently moved through the shadows of the mansion, now stood before him. Before he could react fully, Seonghwa crouched and extended his arms, offering a warmth Yunho hadn’t felt in days. Without thinking, Yunho collapsed into them, crying freely against the stranger’s chest.

“Shh… it’s okay,” Seonghwa murmured softly, his voice low, calming, yet carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much and endured even more. Yunho clutched him, trembling, his sobs muffled by the cloth of Seonghwa’s jacket. But almost immediately, panic flared anew. He pulled back, tears streaking down his face, his eyes wide and frantic. “No… no, Seonghwa… Mingi… he’ll get mad if he sees me… hugging another man,” he gasped, his voice breaking under the weight of fear and ingrained submission.

Seonghwa tilted his head, biting his lip, a mixture of understanding and silent anguish in his gaze. “I get it,” he said quietly, nodding. “I’ll… I’ll keep my distance.” His tone was gentle, almost reverent, but the shadows in his eyes betrayed the quiet fear of the life he had resigned himself to—a life indebted to Mingi, bound to the mansion and its dark master.

Yunho blinked through the haze of his tears, voice trembling as he asked, “Why… why are you working here? Alone?”

Seonghwa’s throat tightened. “My family… we’re in debt,” he admitted, voice low. “This… this is the only way to repay Mingi. I clean… the whole mansion… by myself.” His eyes dropped to the floor, ashamed, weary.

Yunho’s heart clenched painfully. The thought of someone else trapped here, forced to serve this dark world, sent a fresh wave of guilt and helplessness through him. Yet, even in this despair, a fragile thread of hope emerged. “I… I’ll… I’ll free you,” Yunho whispered hoarsely, shaking, fingers trembling as he reached toward Seonghwa. “As soon as… as soon as I can… I’ll get you out.”

Seonghwa let out a soft, rueful chuckle, the sound tinged with sorrow. “I… I believe you,” he murmured, but the corners of his eyes betrayed the deep fear that neither of them could yet escape.

The fragile moment shattered like glass the instant Mingi appeared. The man’s presence was a violent storm, and before Yunho could react, he felt the merciless grip of Mingi’s hand on his hair. A sharp slap cracked across his face, red blooming on his cheek as his body jolted violently. Yunho’s sobs tore from his throat, raw and pained. “Stop… please… Mingi…” he begged, voice trembling, breaking.

Seonghwa’s voice rang out, steady but tight with desperation. “Mingi! Stop it!” he demanded, stepping forward. But Mingi’s glare turned on him, sharp and imperious. With a single, deliberate push, he sent Seonghwa stumbling back, his jaw set, eyes dark and storming.

Yunho’s body slumped under Mingi’s grip, but Mingi’s own breathing was uneven, uncharacteristically harsh. There was a flicker of something unfamiliar in his gaze, a restless heat, something that went beyond mere possession or control. He didn’t fully understand it himself. It wasn’t jealousy in the human sense—he barely allowed himself to think in those terms—but the intensity of watching Yunho cling to another, the fragile human connection, sparked a dangerous, animalistic irritation within him.

His voice, low and measured, yet carrying an edge that sliced through the heavy air, whispered close to Yunho’s ear, “You think you can find comfort elsewhere? That’s… not how this works.” His hand gripped Yunho tighter, pressing him closer to his chest, the pressure inescapable. Yunho shivered violently, half from fear, half from the dark, intoxicating tension of Mingi’s presence.

Seonghwa, still reeling from the push, blinked rapidly, unsure whether to act or retreat. His shoulders sagged under the oppressive dominance of Mingi, his own fear battling the instinct to protect. Yunho’s soft whimpers filled the space between them, a sound Mingi inhaled like a drug, compelling him to hold the older man closer, closer still.

Mingi’s mind twisted, a maelstrom of control and compulsion. “You… belong here,” he muttered, though even he didn’t fully acknowledge the meaning of his words. “Every tear, every sob… it’s yours to endure. For me.” He released Yunho just slightly, enough for the man to catch a breath, but the threat of his grasp remained omnipresent, a shadow looming over every fiber of Yunho’s being.

Yunho pressed trembling hands against Mingi’s chest, trying to create distance, but it was futile. The mansion seemed to shrink, walls pressing in with the dark promise of the night, and Yunho’s sobs shook through him, raw and unrestrained. Each movement, each instinctual cry, only fueled Mingi’s desire to push further, to see how far he could take this helplessness before the older man broke completely under his dominance.

In that suffocating darkness, time itself seemed to dilate. Every heartbeat, every breath was a cruel reminder of Mingi’s power, the inescapable gravity that pulled Yunho further into despair. Seonghwa lingered at the edge, helpless, frightened, and yet unwilling to abandon the older man who had become the center of this storm.

And in that silent, brutal tension, the mansion seemed alive, feeding on their fear, their desperation, the unspoken, inescapable connection between predator and prey. Yunho’s sobs echoed in the cold, cavernous halls, a haunting testament to the dominance, the cruelty, and the terrifying intimacy that Mingi held over him.

Chapter Text

Yunho sat very still for a long time after Mingi left, the sound of the door closing echoing through the enormous house. His lungs burned with shallow breaths. It was the first time in days that the room was quiet enough for him to hear his own heartbeat. Every muscle trembled. He could still feel the ghost of Mingi’s hand in his hair, the dull ache on his cheek where the slap had landed. The silence was worse than the noise; it let the fear crawl back under his skin.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry.” The words were almost a reflex—an apology that didn’t even have a clear direction anymore. He said it to Mingi, to Seonghwa, maybe even to himself. He had learned that apologies made the shouting stop, and right now, he just wanted the shouting to stay away.

Seonghwa was still in the room, standing by the wall with his hands clenched around the cleaning rag he hadn’t let go of. He looked uncertain, as if he wanted to help but didn’t know whether help would make things worse. When Yunho finally looked up, their eyes met. Seonghwa’s were soft, frightened, but there was something else too—a flicker of compassion that Yunho hadn’t seen in anyone for what felt like forever.

“I’ll tell him it’s my fault,” Yunho said suddenly, his voice shaking but determined. “Don’t—don’t let him hurt you because of me.”
Seonghwa shook his head, but Yunho was already forcing himself to stand. His legs were unsteady, and the bruises made the movement painful. He straightened, smoothed the robe over his knees, and took a deep breath, the kind that scraped his throat raw. “It’s okay. He’ll calm down,” Yunho whispered, more to reassure Seonghwa than himself.

Mingi’s footsteps echoed once in the hall, then retreated toward his office. The heavy door shut. The sound of a lock turning followed. Yunho’s shoulders sagged. He waited until he was sure Mingi wouldn’t return, then turned back to Seonghwa.

“Seonghwa-hyung,” he said softly, his voice trembling on the honorific. “I’m going to leave. I can’t stay here anymore. You shouldn’t either.” His words came out in a rush, desperate but quiet. “When he’s in the office tonight—when you take the trash out—there’s the gate at the side. We can use that.”

For a moment, Seonghwa only stared at him. Then he exhaled, long and slow. His hands loosened, and the rag fell to the floor. “Yunho-ya,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, “look at you. You can hardly stand.” His eyes moved over Yunho’s thin arms, the hollow beneath his throat. “How are you going to run?”

“I’ll crawl if I have to.” Yunho tried to smile, but it came out like a grimace. “I just can’t stay here anymore. I can’t—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “He’ll kill me if I stay.”

Seonghwa closed his eyes for a moment. He knew Mingi’s temper; he had seen it too many times. When he opened them again, there was a kind of resolve there. “All right,” he said at last. “Tonight. I take the trash out at midnight. The cameras don’t cover the back door when I do. If we move fast, we can reach the wall before anyone notices.”

Yunho nodded quickly, the motion making his head spin. “Midnight,” he repeated, clutching the promise like something solid in his shaking hands. For the first time in days, there was something that looked like light behind his eyes. “We’ll go together. I’ll make sure you’re free too.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened into something that almost looked like a smile. “Then rest,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength.”

When Seonghwa slipped out of the room, the air seemed to settle again. Yunho crawled back onto the bed, his body heavy but his mind wide awake. He could still taste the fear in the back of his throat, but under it, there was something else—a faint pulse of hope, small and fragile but real.

Down the hall, Mingi’s office door stayed shut. The house was quiet again, but it no longer felt endless. Midnight was only a few hours away.
The cold hit Yunho’s face the moment he stepped outside.
For a second, he froze—because it was real. The night air, the sound of the trees moving, the gravel crunching under his weak steps. It had been so long since he’d breathed air that didn’t smell like polished marble and fear. Seonghwa gripped his arm, whispering, “Keep moving.”

Yunho’s breath came out in short, white puffs, the cold biting through the heavy jacket Seonghwa had lent him. It hung too loose on his thin frame, but he clutched it tighter anyway. His ankle ached with every step, sending sharp pain up his leg, but he didn’t care. They were *outside* For the first time in weeks—maybe months—there was open space in front of him. No locked doors. No echoing footsteps behind him. Just the darkness and the distant hum of the world.

Seonghwa’s movements were quicker, more confident. He’d spent years moving through the house’s routines unnoticed. Now, his quiet confidence was the only thing keeping them from falling apart.
“Almost there,” he whispered, when they reached the back wall. “We climb from here. There’s a ladder behind the shed.”

Yunho’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. “He’ll notice,” he whispered. His voice trembled—not from cold, but from memory.
Seonghwa nodded once, his jaw tight. “He will. That’s why we have to be gone by then.”

It took them longer than they thought. Yunho’s injured ankle made climbing the ladder almost impossible. He hissed quietly, biting his lip hard to stop from crying out, and Seonghwa had to half-carry him over the top. They dropped down the other side, tumbling into wet grass. Yunho’s breath hitched as the impact jarred his leg again, but Seonghwa quickly helped him up.

“Run,” Seonghwa whispered. “We can’t stop now.”

They moved into the darkness beyond the estate—through tall grass and uneven ground. The trees loomed around them, a black blur against a deeper black sky. Yunho stumbled more than once, leaning heavily on Seonghwa, who never once complained. Every sound behind them made them freeze. Every gust of wind sounded like footsteps.

Inside the mansion, Mingi had returned from his office expecting silence.
Instead, the emptiness struck him like a slap.
The room was *wrong.* Too quiet. No trace of Yunho curled up on the bed, no soft breathing.
He checked the bathroom. The balcony. The corners.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched, his heartbeat rising—not with fear, but with something sharper, uglier.

“Where is he?” he muttered. His voice was calm, too calm.
The guards exchanged looks.
One started to speak, “Sir, maybe he’s—”
Mingi’s gun went off before the man could finish.

The shot echoed across the marble floors. The guard’s body dropped without a sound.
The others froze.
“Find him,” Mingi said quietly. “Now.”

They searched every room, every hallway. Mingi stood by the window, breathing slowly through his teeth, eyes burning in the reflection of the glass. His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. When one of the guards returned, shaking his head, Mingi didn’t even look at him—he just turned, his coat swirling around him, and stormed out of the room.

The engine of his car roared to life seconds later.

---

The night swallowed the sound of the mansion as Mingi’s luxury car tore down the long gravel road. The headlights cut through the darkness in sweeping arcs, illuminating trees, fences, and empty stretches of road. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. He didn’t even know which direction to take—but his instincts were sharp, cruelly sharp. Yunho wouldn’t make it far. Not with that injury. Not in the cold.

His phone buzzed once on the seat beside him. He didn’t check it. He pressed harder on the accelerator instead, the car growling as it surged forward.

---

Meanwhile, Yunho’s breath came in ragged gasps. He could barely hear Seonghwa’s words over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. His injured leg dragged slightly behind him, leaving uneven footprints in the dirt.
“We’ll rest—just a second—” he tried to say, but Seonghwa shook his head.

“No. Not yet.”

They stumbled into a narrow trail that cut through the forest behind the estate. Yunho could see the faint glow of distant streetlights ahead. Civilization. Safety.
But his ankle gave out again, and he collapsed, the pain flashing white behind his eyes. Seonghwa crouched beside him immediately, his voice shaking. “Yunho, get up, please.”

“I can’t—” Yunho gasped, clutching at his leg. “Just—just go, hyung. I’ll catch up.”

Seonghwa stared at him, horrified. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Behind them, far away but unmistakable, came the sound of an engine.
A car.

Both of them froze.

Seonghwa’s hand tightened on Yunho’s wrist. “He’s coming.”

The headlights appeared seconds later—a white beam cutting through the trees like a blade.

Yunho’s breath hitched. “No—no, no, no—” He tried to crawl, but Seonghwa pulled him up again, practically dragging him along. The sound of the car grew louder, closer, until it was all they could hear—the grinding of tires against dirt, the faint echo of Mingi’s voice shouting orders to the guards who had joined the search.

“Run!” Seonghwa yelled, but Yunho couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move anymore. The pain, the exhaustion—it was too much. He fell again, his fingers clawing weakly at the ground.

The car stopped a few meters away. The headlights hit them directly, blinding and cold. Mingi stepped out, tall and composed, the gun glinting faintly in his hand.

Seonghwa moved in front of Yunho on instinct. “Please,” he said quickly, breathless. “Don’t hurt him. It was me. I told him to—”

“Move,” Mingi said softly.

Seonghwa didn’t.
The next second, Mingi’s hand lashed out, hitting him hard across the face. Seonghwa stumbled, but he didn’t fall. He just stood there, bleeding from his lip, staring back with quiet defiance.
“Move,” Mingi repeated, his tone sharper.
This time, Seonghwa hesitated—and that hesitation was all Mingi needed.

He shoved Seonghwa aside and grabbed Yunho by the arm, pulling him up roughly. Yunho screamed as pain shot through his leg again.
“Did you really think you could run?” Mingi hissed against his ear.
Yunho didn’t answer. His tears fell silently, mixing with the dirt on his face.

Mingi’s grip tightened. “You should’ve stayed in your room.”

And as he dragged Yunho back toward the car, the headlights swallowed them both again—two silhouettes moving through the cold light, one trembling, the other burning with quiet, terrifying fury.

The night air was freezing—so cold that Yunho’s lungs burned as he ran. His legs felt like they would give out at any second, the dull throb in his ankle pulsing with every desperate step. The sound of Mingi’s boots crunching the ground behind him was louder than the wind, louder than the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“Seonghwa—run!” Yunho shouted, his voice breaking, raw from crying.

Seonghwa’s eyes were wide with terror, his breath visible in ragged bursts. “Yunho, I can’t—”

“Run!” Yunho cried again, forcing the word out even as his voice trembled. “Don’t look back!”

For a moment, Seonghwa hesitated—but then he nodded, his lips trembling. “You have to follow me,” he said weakly, his hand brushing Yunho’s arm before he turned and sprinted into the darkness. Yunho watched his figure disappear between the trees, then turned back toward the sound of the car engine approaching fast from behind.

Mingi’s car came skidding onto the narrow dirt road, its headlights cutting through the blackness like twin blades of light. Yunho’s chest heaved. He stumbled forward, every step agonizing, but he could see something up ahead—a glow in the distance, a building.

It was the Prosecutor’s Office.
*Hongjoong.*

Yunho’s eyes filled with tears of relief. He could see the faint gold sign reflecting the moonlight—so close, he could almost taste freedom. His pace faltered, but he kept going, dragging his leg, his entire body shaking with exhaustion and hope.

And then—

Two arms wrapped around his torso, iron-strong, yanking him backward with brutal force.

Yunho screamed, the sound caught between fury and despair. He struggled, kicking out, twisting his body, but the grip around him only tightened. He knew those hands, the sharp scent of leather and gunpowder clinging to them.

“Let me go!” he cried, his voice cracking. “Please, I’m begging you—”

Mingi’s voice was low, almost calm. “You really thought you could run this far, Yunho?” His breath was hot against the side of Yunho’s neck. “You almost made it, didn’t you? So close to your little office.”

“Don’t touch me!” Yunho shouted, trying to claw at his hands, but Mingi’s grip only grew firmer. The struggle made Yunho’s leg twist at the wrong angle, and he gasped in pain, his body going limp for a second as tears spilled freely down his face.

“Keep fighting,” Mingi said coldly, dragging him backward toward the road. “I like it when you fight.”

Yunho shook his head violently. “Please! Let me go, please, Mingi—” He didn’t even realize he’d said his name until the word left his lips, and that only made Mingi smirk.

“Say that again.”

“Please,” Yunho whispered. “Please—”

Mingi leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t even beg properly.”

Yunho’s heart was hammering so hard it hurt. The pain in his leg mixed with the humiliation of being held like this, helpless, powerless. He turned his head slightly, and through the blur of tears he could still see it—the faint light of the office. The hope that was so close it burned.

“Seonghwa,” he whispered under his breath. “Run.”

And Seonghwa did.

He hesitated for only a second, turning back to see Mingi pulling Yunho toward the car, Yunho’s face twisted in terror, and it nearly broke him. But Yunho’s eyes met his for the briefest moment, full of desperate, pleading command. *Go.*

So Seonghwa ran.

He ran faster than he ever had in his life, his lungs screaming, his legs burning. The cold air cut at his face, but he didn’t stop until the grand white building came into view—the same one Yunho had been reaching for. The Prosecutor’s Office stood tall against the night sky, its doors glowing faintly under the streetlights.

He stumbled up the stairs, nearly tripping as he reached the entrance. His hand slammed against the glass door, over and over. “Help!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “Someone, please—help!”

The door opened suddenly. Hongjoong stood there, still in his night clothes, confusion flashing across his tired face. “What—”

Before he could finish, Seonghwa nearly fell into his arms, trembling and breathless. His hair was a mess, his eyes wide and wet. “Please, you have to help—” he gasped out. “Yunho—Jeong Yunho—he’s alive, he’s—he’s being held—”

Hongjoong’s expression changed immediately. The moment he heard Yunho’s name, every ounce of fatigue left him. He grabbed Seonghwa’s shoulders. “What did you say? He’s *alive?*”

Seonghwa nodded frantically, choking on his words. “He—he made me run. He told me to find you. Please, he’s hurt, he’s—he couldn’t keep up, he—”

Hongjoong guided him inside quickly, locking the door behind them. “Calm down,” he said firmly, though his voice was tight with urgency. “Tell me everything. Who has him?”

Seonghwa wiped at his face, still shaking. “A man named Mingi. Song Mingi. He’s dangerous—please, he’s going to kill him if we don’t—”

“Song Mingi,” Hongjoong repeated under his breath, his mind racing. That name had been in Yunho’s case files. He knew it. He’d warned Yunho to be careful around it. “God,” he whispered.

Seonghwa looked up at him, eyes wide. “You know him?”

Hongjoong nodded grimly. “He’s one of the major suspects Yunho was investigating before he disappeared.”

Meanwhile, back on the road, Mingi shoved Yunho into the backseat of his car. Yunho’s body hit the leather with a dull thud, and he curled up instantly, his breath coming out in gasps. Mingi shut the door with a slam, the sound echoing across the empty street.

The headlights washed over Yunho’s face, pale and tear-streaked. His eyes were glassy, distant. He’d been *so close.*

Mingi got in beside him, his expression unreadable. He started the engine, his jaw clenched tight. The road ahead was empty—just darkness stretching endlessly into more darkness.

Yunho turned his head slightly, whispering, “You’re a monster.”

Mingi didn’t respond. He just kept driving, the faint smirk never leaving his lips.

In the distance, sirens began to rise.

---

The mansion smelled like wet leather and cold midnight: a thin layer of rain tracked in through the drive, a lingering metallic tang on the air where earlier violence had left its mark. Mingi moved through the private wing like a man who owned not only rooms but the silence inside them. He was quiet on purpose; noise would call attention, and he had no patience for anything that might ruin what he’d built. He’d driven himself into a fury earlier—one of his men had failed to find trace of the two runaways, and for that failure the boss had set an example. The body was gone now, removed from the scene by men who understood how to make problems disappear; the mansion’s marble floor had been wiped and rearranged like a stage reset for the next act.

He dropped Yunho onto the bed with careful brutality. The prosecutor slid down the sheets, exhausted, a rawness to his breath that said the night had taken everything. Yunho lay there, panting and hollow-eyed, more a ruin than a man in the dim lamplight. Mingi glanced at him with that mix of ownership and curiosity that always unsettled him — a private, secret hunger for power, and an unfamiliar itch when the other man’s face looked so fragile.

The phone in the hallway buzzed. Mingi pocketed his phone with an impatient click and dial tone, then strode to the small study, where the lamplight pooled on black leather and stacks of ledgers. He answered with a clipped, dangerous “Yes?”

Hongjoong’s voice came over the line measured, unflappable, the sound of someone who’d spent a life in trials and had learned how to weaponize words. “Song Mingi,” he said, “you have two choices. You put him down and you disappear — or you put him down and tell me where your signatures are.” The prosecutor’s voice was calm enough that it ached like a blade.

Mingi’s mouth twitched into that crooked smile—dangerous in its own right. “You think you can order me around, public prosecutor? You think I don’t know the difference between negotiating and begging?”

Hongjoong didn’t rise to the bait. He let a long, slow exhale sit in the space between them. “I know two things: one, you need him alive more than you want to admit; two, you’re about to be the lead suspect in a missing-person case and a murder without a shred of plausible deniability. You have men who will trade up the chain for cleaner exits if their heads are on the line.” The words were clinical, surgical. “Kill him and you make it easy to arrest you. Keep him and we make your life impossible. I’ll be into the house within hours with proper warrants and a quiet team. Give me what I need, or I’ll do it without you.”

On the floor Yunho heard muffled speech through the study door: a baritone, an answer cut off by a hiss of struggle. He squinted at the lamplight and tried to move. Every muscle protested. He heard Mingi’s voice, closer now, snarling and low, then Hongjoong’s again — composed, like the steady footfall of a man who could not be rattled. Yunho’s throat closed. He lifted his head and watched the door handle turn, watched Mingi hold the phone a fraction from his ear and feel the tremor of something that wasn’t anger: maybe fear, maybe the first brush of real consequence.

“You think I can’t—” Mingi began, and the sentence collapsed under Hongjoong’s next delivery.

“You can,” Hongjoong said. “You can do anything you like. You can kill him in the next second and throw the evidence into the river. You can shoot the men who know things and no one would be the wiser. But you can’t make the cameras forget. You can’t make the deputies who witnessed you earlier forget. You can’t stop every hungry mouth on the inside from trading the truth away when their families are at risk. You can make decisions, Mingi. I’m just telling you what they are.”

He paused long enough to let Mingi imagine himself cornered: the press, the search warrants, men in uniforms lifting a name off the suspect list and pressing it into paper. Mingi’s thumb drummed on the desk. For a man built on theatre and reputation, Hongjoong’s strategy was an eraser on his carefully public identity: expose him, choke his supply, threaten his freedom. It was a slow strangulation, and for the first time Mingi could taste it.

“When you made that call a little earlier,” Hongjoong continued softer, “I heard something else. I heard a shaking in your voice. People make mistakes when their hands are unsteady. If you kill him, I will get him back. And I will arrest you. And then I will prove what you did to your own father. You can gamble, Mingi. Or you can walk away with what you have left.”

From the doorway between study and bedroom, Mingi watched Yunho’s chest rise and fall. The man looked tired enough to be dead in any other life. Mingi’s jaw tightened. He pressed the phone harder into his ear, as if the weight might injure it.

“I’ll kill him now if you don’t remove the files,” Mingi hissed into the receiver, forcing his voice into a steel tone, trying to sound like a man who lived beyond worry. “I’m not bluffing.”

Hongjoong laughed then—a small, hard sound full of containment. “You’ll do that and you’ll fling your life into ash, Mingi. Kill him if you want to be a monster everyone hunts. Or keep him and we’ll see how long your empire holds together when I ask nice men to dip into ledgers and chat with your vendors.”

Seonghwa sat in a borrowed, fluorescent-lit office down the city street, the white tile underfoot too bright after the mansion’s shadowed halls. He’d described the escape, breathless, to Hongjoong, who’d told him to stay put and lock the doors. Seonghwa’s hands trembled in his lap. He felt like a child in an adult world — but Hongjoong had been calming, firm, placing a hand flat on the cleaner’s knuckle and saying, “You did the right thing. Stay. You are safe here now.”

Hongjoong had closed every loop in his head as Seonghwa spoke. He knew what it would cost him: a public fight, an escalation that local precincts couldn’t handle without creating waves. But he also knew the law’s lever points better than most, and he liked the calculus of pressure: public attention plus legal process could squeeze a concrete man if done right. He’d already begun to place calls: a quiet counsel he trusted to lift a warrant, a liaison to a special operations team who knew how to move without media. He wasn’t a braggart. He didn’t need to be. Threats administered rationally worked better.

Back in the mansion, Mingi’s breathing hitched. Yunho’s face was a map of weariness and something deeper, a lostness that made Mingi’s control feel hollow. He had had a man under him: a prosecutor who’d smiled, who’d argued, who’d dared present evidence in a courtroom. Now Yunho was small and cracked and honest in ways the law never allowed. Mingi stared at him and felt, with an alarming clarity, how fragile the other was. He did not want pity; he wanted possession. But the knowledge that killing him would hand Hongjoong the very leverage he needed gnawed at him.

“You can’t,” Hongjoong said finally, quietly, as if he were telling a story that needed no flourish. “Hung men trade secrets the quiet way. Give me what you want — information you care about, maybe a safe exit — and I’ll make this go away. Kill him and I will move on the evidence with the same ruthless precision you apply under your own orders.”

Mingi’s fingers tightened on the phone. For a second he heard again the way the officers had come through the gate earlier and failed; he imagined them returning with backup, the law crawling like ivy up the pillars he thought secure. He thought of his men; he thought of their wives and children; the ledger of favors and threats trembled in his mind like a house of cards.

On the bed Yunho tried to make his legs work, to move, to be something other than broken. He saw the phone slip into Mingi’s pocket and he felt a cold hollow open along his spine: a knowledge that everything now hinged on a voice on the other end of a line. He had tried to run for Hongjoong’s office. He’d seen the doorway of safety and had the taste of it on his tongue. That taste might still exist.

“You won’t do it,” Hongjoong said to Mingi’s silence, not as a prophecy but as a lever. “You’re better at cruelty with an audience. You need witnesses to fear you. You need men to obey. If you killed him right now, you’d be exposed to the men who protect you from the inside: the ones who get crumbs for keeping quiet. They’ll trade. If you give me what I need instead — you keep your men, you keep your hands. You make an exchange. Walk away.”

There it was: the small, shining cut in the armor. Mingi’s thumb rubbed the phone screen until the glass warmed beneath his nail. He could have killed Yunho. He could have put a bullet into the quiet man and erased the narrative; but the many trajectories from that act were too raw, too unpredictable. Hongjoong’s voice had been designed to leave him a thread to cling to: walk away with your dignity, or keep the piece of paper and lose everything.

Mingi’s chest heaved. He was used to the finality of decisions; he was used to the willingness of his men to carry them out. But the very real threat of the law — the slow, bureaucratic blade Hongjoong summoned — had a different kind of terror. It would take him to a place from which there was no returning. It threatened the very definition of him.

On the other end of the line, Hongjoong finished in a cool, almost conversational tone. “I’ll be there. I’ll be in at dawn with the warrant. You choose.”

The click of the call ending was a pistol shot in the small study. Mingi stood in his coat, jaw tight, the weight of choice heavy. He walked back to the room, carrying a silence like a weapon.

When he entered, he saw Yunho: pale, breath ragged, the lines around his mouth hollowed by exhaustion. Mingi stood for a long moment and then—without theatrics—threw his phone on the side table, where it slid to a halt against a pile of papers. He took a long breath and then sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on knees, and looked down at the man who had terrorized him and challenged him and now seemed, absurdly, to hold him in place.

“I want to know everything that’s dangerous,” Mingi said finally, but not in the way the law might have phrased it. It was almost a bargain phrased like a threat. “Tell me where the signatures are, or give me something I can use. I don’t want to be dragged into a courtroom with a noose of paperwork on my throat.”

Yunho’s mouth cracked into the smallest of smiles that was less than contentment and more a reflex of survival. He was older, yes; but age had nothing to do with how stripped he felt. He measured his words the way a man in a cage measures the space left. “You can’t ask me that,” he said hoarsely. “You have to give me something… proof, guarantees—”

Mingi let the rim of a laugh escape him, humorless and brittle. The balance had shifted enough for concessions.

Outside, in a fluorescent office, Seonghwa sat with Hongjoong across a metal table, a pot of coffee gone cold between them. The light was clinical, and the building hummed with the steady heartbeat of bureaucracy: phones ringing, clerks moving in low-voiced efficiency. Hongjoong’s hands were folded, his face unreadable as he listened to the cleaner explain the sequence again, each fragment of information another thread leading him to an exit strategy. He kept glancing at his watch, at the police liaison he’d told to stand by. He had the wrestle of courtrooms and the skin of negotiation: sometimes you end a case with a sentence, sometimes with leverage. Tonight he’d try leverage.

“Stay here,” Hongjoong told Seonghwa, finally. “Lock every door. Do not let anyone in until I tell you. I will fetch you if we have to move. You did the right thing. You saved a life.”

Seonghwa’s eyes filled, and he nodded.

Back in the mansion, Mingi reached for a glass, poured something amber, and set it beside Yunho. He could still take full control with a single motion — he had proved that already — but tonight the choices were more complex. He had wanted to test the man, break him, find out what lay beneath the suit and the prosecutorial composure. Hongjoong’s words had drawn him into a different kind of theatre: an interrogation in which the stakes were not just flesh but legacy, money, and carefully buried truths about a father’s death.

Yunho, for his part, held his breath and waited. He knew the leverage Hongjoong had hinted at: files, ledgers, phone records that threaded around the murder of a patriarch and the money trail thereafter.

The night wind picked up and rattled the windowpanes. Somewhere in the dark, men prepared to move, to watch, to wait. Hongjoong would come in the morning with warrants and slow, steady force tailored to the law’s exacting standards. Mingi, meanwhile, would have hours to decide whether to burn the world or bargain for scraps of himself.

Yunho swallowed, throat raw. The next hours would be a chess game. He had no illusions about the men he faced—both Mingi’s iron will and Hongjoong’s quiet legal mastery had teeth. But for the first time since the closet, a plan existed: Hongjoong’s bluff had forced a fragment of rationality into the beast that was Mingi. That was enough to make a rescue plausible.

They would speak again before dawn. The city outside was asleep; within the mansion, decisions were already being made. Hongjoong worked in paper and procedure; Mingi worked in instinct and threat. And in the middle lay Yunho, fragile, terrified—and suddenly more than a victim: a figure in a larger, uglier game where law and crime circled each other like predators.

When the clock in the hallway struck two in the morning, Yunho slept a false sleep—eyes closed, breath shallow—but an ember of resolve burned in him. Seonghwa at the office waited in a locked room, phone silent, fingers white where he gripped the storm of fear. Hongjoong called one of his contacts, quiet and efficient

For now, the world held its breath.

---
The mansion was quiet except for the low hum of the city far beyond the walls, a distant reminder that the world was moving on while inside, nothing moved except the tension thickening the air. Yunho sat curled on the bed, thin arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders shaking, every breath catching in a quiet sob. His eyes were wet, his jaw tight, the pulse in his temple pounding as if to remind him of the helplessness that clung to him like a second skin. The events of the night felt heavier than chains, heavier than any physical restraint — the knowledge that even the law could be outmaneuvered gnawed at him.

The door clicked, and Yunho stiffened. His heart leapt violently, only to drop as he saw the silhouette of Mingi step into the room. Mingi’s figure was framed by the lamplight, and in his hand, there was movement: a small, sleek envelope. His posture, relaxed yet undeniably lethal, carried a kind of confidence that made Yunho’s chest constrict.

From the corner of the room, Wooyoung stepped forward, smirking like a shadow made flesh. The younger man held folders and digital drives, carefully gathered and secured — the proofs of the murder of Mingi and Wooyoung’s father, all of Hongjoong’s hard-earned evidence, all of it now theirs. The smirk never left Wooyoung’s face as he glanced at Mingi, who stiffened only briefly before a slow, predatory smile stretched across his face.

“Thought you’d be a step ahead, huh?” Mingi murmured, his voice low and dangerous as he reached out, pulling Wooyoung into a brief, almost possessive embrace. Yunho’s eyes widened, panic flaring across his features, tears threatening to spill over as he understood fully what had just happened. The proofs that had been the leverage to free him, the keys to accountability — gone.

Mingi crouched slightly, tilting his head to examine Yunho, the man’s fragile, trembling frame. His lips curled in amusement. “And you, little prosecutor,” Mingi said, voice silky but edged with danger, “don’t look so scared. You’re… fun to hang out with.” He extended a hand, gently brushing against Yunho’s trembling arm, eliciting a shudder from the older man, who pressed back as if the touch was both comforting and excruciating all at once.

Yunho’s sobs broke through, muffled, desperate. He tried to find a foothold in the chaos, in the remnants of his courage, but Mingi’s presence was oppressive, controlling every space, his shadow swallowing the room. “M-Mingi… you… you can’t…” Yunho choked, words failing him, trembling under the weight of the inevitability of his situation.

Mingi’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up, the envelope of stolen proofs still tucked safely in his other hand. Yunho flinched as Mingi’s expression darkened while dialing. “Hello, Hongjoong,” Mingi said slowly, deliberately, enjoying the tense pause that followed on the other end of the line. “First of all… the police? Corrupted. Jongho, Yeosang… they knew I kidnapped Jeong Yunho , but money… money keeps them quiet. Now, about your proofs.”

Yunho’s heart raced so violently it felt like it would tear out of his chest. He caught Mingi’s smirk from the corner of his eye, and before he could speak, the line clicked into silence, then Hongjoong’s voice returned, tense and incredulous.

“What do you mean?” Hongjoong barked, shoving papers and drawers around in his office, the gleam of his watch catching the lamplight, the sound of his keys clattering against his desk in frustration. “Where are they?! They have to be here!”

Mingi’s laughter carried through the phone like silk threaded with steel. “No longer there,” he said, almost tauntingly. “Every last piece. Safe. And now…” He let the pause stretch, each second a knife against Yunho’s chest. “…I will keep him with me. Even if your precious evidence is gone, he’s… fun to hang out with.”

Yunho’s breath caught audibly. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bed, clutching the sheets, tears spilling freely now, the helplessness and frustration building into a storm in his chest. Mingi crouched next to him, brushing a strand of wet hair off Yunho’s face, leaning in close enough that the older man could feel the heat of his skin. “There now,” Mingi whispered, almost tenderly, though the weight behind the words was oppressive. “Don’t cry too much. It only makes it harder for you.”

Yunho whimpered, voice raw, “Why… why are you doing this… why me?”

Mingi’s hand lingered along Yunho’s jawline, tracing lightly, controlling every movement without force. “Because you’re… interesting,” he murmured. “Because I can. Because watching you squirm, watching you struggle… it’s a game. And you… are perfect for it.”

Hongjoong’s voice cracked through the phone again, disbelief and fury mingling. “You can’t do this! You can’t hold him! The law—”

Mingi cut him off with a soft, deadly chuckle. “I don’t care about your law, Hongjoong. The rules you rely on? They mean nothing here. And Yunho… well, he’s staying. With me. Because he wants to survive, and I decide what that means.”

Yunho shivered, curling tighter into the bedspread as Mingi’s presence dominated every corner of his vision, a storm of dark control and dangerous intimacy. He was older, yes, but here, in this moment, he was powerless, a vessel for Mingi’s cruelty and obsession. Every glance, every small brush of skin against skin, was an assertion of dominance, a reminder that the world outside might still exist, but inside this room, Mingi set the rules.

Seonghwa’s hand found Yunho’s, squeezing tightly, a lifeline amidst the chaos. But even that touch felt fragile against the suffocating aura of Mingi’s presence. “It’s okay,” he whispered, barely audible over Yunho’s trembling breaths. “I’ll get us out… we’ll figure it out.”

Mingi’s smirk widened as he crouched lower to Yunho’s level, the dim light catching the angles of his face in a way that made him look both predator and architect of a terrifying new reality. “You think about escape?” he murmured. “Don’t. I’ll always be faster, stronger… and far more patient than you can imagine.”

Yunho’s chest heaved with sobs, desperation, and fear. The room was silent except for his broken gasps, the faint hum of the city outside, and the quiet, impossible weight of Mingi’s presence — a reminder that even with every law, every ally, every shred of hope, some things could not be controlled. Some people could not be bargained with.

And in that darkness, in that twisted, suffocating tension, Yunho realized the game had changed. He wasn’t just a hostage. He was the centerpiece of a dangerous, intoxicating power play that would test every limit of endurance, fear, and fragile trust.

Mingi’s hand brushed Yunho’s cheek again, gentler this time, almost indulgent, and whispered, “Relax. For now. You’ll sleep. I’ll watch you.”

Yunho closed his eyes, a single, small, shuddering exhale escaping him, and somewhere between terror and exhaustion, between the knowledge of his helplessness and the perverse intimacy, he drifted into an uneasy, trembling sleep.

Outside, the night wind pressed against the windows, carrying a promise of danger, of escalation, of power, and a cruel, unyielding game far from over.