Chapter Text
***
***
They always said the house wins.
Funny.
Tonight, Wooyoung was the house.
The casino glittered under a hundred golden chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and ambition.
At the far end of the VIP floor, a private room waited—velvet ropes sealing it off from the rest of the gamblers.
Two kings of the underworld sat opposite each other, eyes locked, hands gliding over stacks of chips, counting silently.
Wooyoung adjusted his bowtie, the dark red of his dealer’s uniform a bold slash against the polished black marble floor.
The trick was to look like you belonged.
Confidence first. Questions later.
He slid the deck into his palm and dealt the first card cleanly—steady hands, a lazy smile. Above him, the chandelier glared down like a judgmental god.
He didn’t believe in luck, only timing.
And right now, his timing had to be perfect.
One wrong move at that table and he’d be floating in the Han River by morning.
He shuffled the cards between his fingers, flashing a grin at the man on his right in a tailored grey three-piece suit.
Everything Wooyoung had ever done was a bad idea. Or at least, that’s what people liked to say. But the way he saw it, there was no such thing as bad ideas—only bad execution.
Take this one, for example: Robbing a bunch of self-entitled, filthy-rich businessmen during a poker game while pretending to be their dealer?
Not a bad idea. Brilliant, actually.
You just had to know how to do it.
“Ready?” Wooyoung asked, sliding the cards open across the table, flipping them, then gathering them back, shuffling with elegant ease and professional grace.
Two years dealing cards in nightclubs had given him just enough experience to pass as the real thing. Only he wasn’t here to cheat at poker. He was here for the big prize.
The gentleman on his left hummed.
Kim Hongjoong. Or so Wooyoung had heard. He had the eyes of a killer, that one. Platinum blonde hair, only slightly wavy, neatly combed, falling across his forehead before curving to reveal dark eyes filled with pure, quiet dread. Every look, every move—calculated, graceful, always veiled in a hint of mischief. The way his fingers twitched. The way his lips almost smirked.
Wooyoung knew better than to get on his bad side.
He dealt again.
Cards in hand, Mr. Kim went first.
Raise.
Across the table, the man in grey smiled.
Wooyoung’s mind flicked back to when he entered the room. The name had been whispered the way you whisper shark at the beach.
Choi San.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Deadly.
Bigger than the man opposite him, broad shoulders, suit stretched just right, exuding power, effortless elegance, and calm.
But Wooyoung knew them not by appearance, but by the rumours that slithered through the streets of Seoul.
The first was like a fox—clever, elusive, always two steps ahead.
The second, like a dog—loyal, silent, lethal. Once he’s on you, he doesn’t stop.
Big fish. The kind you don’t want to swim near.
And Wooyoung was right next to them, about to steal their money from under their noses.
Mr. Choi followed Hongjoong’s lead, matching his raise.
Wooyoung turned the cards. With three already open on the table, Hongjoong shifted. Wooyoung barely noticed.
San’s eyes, however, seemed to read him like a book.
Wooyoung always wondered how people did that. How do you read someone who doesn’t want to be seen?
Raise. Raise.
Wooyoung revealed another card.
San’s eyes flicked up to meet his—solid, almost suspicious—then dropped back to his hand.
Raise.
Any second now.
Wooyoung’s target sat right there, casually placed in the chair next to Choi San. Black. Leather. Solid.
A briefcase full of money that could solve every one of Wooyoung’s problems—and pay for a year-long trip to the Bahamas for him and Seonghwa.
He just had to reach out and grab it.
When Wooyoung flipped the fifth card,Hongjoong’s lips curled into a faint little smile. Then he slid his chips forward. All in.
“I gather you always like to have some fun before closing a deal?” Hongjoong said, leaning back in his chair, placing his cards on the table face down.
San was still looking at his own cards, quiet, unreadable.
Wooyoung was distracted by him, almost like he was silently rooting for him to win.
“A little poker never killed anybody,” San said, eyes still locked on his hand.
Then he glanced at the pile of chips in the middle and set his cards down, too. All in.
Hongjoong’s chuckle was low, almost haunting.
Any second now, Seonghwa. Any second now...
Wooyoung’s heartbeat picked up, eyes flicking to the briefcase for a split second before snapping back to the two men. His fingers itched with anticipation, anxiety, excitement.
“True. I see you’ve decided to lose all the money you have tonight,” Hongjoong taunted, that sly grin never leaving his face. With a flick of his thumb, he flipped his cards.
Full House. Not bad.
San, still unreadable, took a deep breath.
Wooyoung almost felt bad about robbing him now.
“I never lose money in my own house,” San said, flipping his cards to reveal a straight flush.
Hongjoong, just like Wooyoung, was stunned.
It was weird finding the moves of a man you’re about to rob hot, but the quiet elegance of San, his calculated looks and movements, were overwhelmingly intriguing.
And just from less than an hour shared in this marble room, Wooyoung was more impressed with him than with any of the riches around.
Any—except that gorgeous black suitcase.
Hongjoong was not impressed. In fact, the frown on his face held a subtle hostility. Wooyoung almost pitied the guy.
But then again, they both had money to throw around, so really, Wooyoung didn’t give a shit who won or lost.
San reached for the suitcase, lifting it and setting it on the green table.
“Now, let’s get to more pressing matters.”
Hongjoong adjusted his blazer, regaining his cold composure, his attention shifting to the case.
“As we discussed before, this alliance would be strictly business-related. All communication goes directly through us,” San continued, ignoring Wooyoung entirely.
C’mon, Seonghwa. What’s taking you so long...
If they took Wooyoung out now, he wouldn’t be able to get to the case.
“I’m aware of that,” Hongjoong confirmed with a nod. “I do hope, however, that once business with The Big Man is over, you and I will remain in touch.” His smile almost felt sincere.
San’s expression gave nothing away. “I look forward to it.”
Then San looked to the side, at Wooyoung, and Wooyoung glanced down at the cards, picking them up, busying himself, shuffling.
“You can leave us,” San said.
Panic shot through Wooyoung’s chest. If he left too early, it would all be in vain.
Shit. He had to think of something.
Seonghwa, you son of a bitch, you better-
And then it came.
Loud. Distressing. Distracting.
The fire alarm blared through the casino, down the halls, into every room, echoing off the marble walls.
San looked up, then at the guards by the doors, who immediately stepped out to check the commotion. Hongjoong stood too, slightly confused. His bodyguards started moving toward him.
San reached for the suitcase.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck.
Oh well. Fuck it.
Wooyoung got there first, snatching the handle right before his eyes.
San looked at him, eyes wide.
There. Wooyoung could read that look. Unfiltered shock.
He couldn’t help but smile.
And in the next second, he bolted.
He ran, shoving past the guards, into the growing chaos outside the private room.
He wasn’t tall or built, so he easily vanished into the panicked crowd.
Behind him, San yelled.
Wooyoung glanced back just enough to see him and his guards pushing through, shouting, alerting others.
Shit.
Wooyoung’s blood surged, adrenaline propelling him faster, sharper. The lights of the casino blurred past as he sprinted through the crowd, a sleek black briefcase tucked under one arm. Shouts rose behind him, angry, urgent. The bodyguards were close. Too close.
He grinned to himself, weaving effortlessly between startled gamblers and towering slot machines. His heart pounded, but adrenaline honed every movement, every thought.
Almost out. He just had to reach the emergency exit.
A sharp shout rang out behind him. Heavy footsteps thundered closer. Wooyoung cut a hard corner into a narrow corridor—a service hallway lined with cleaning carts and dim lights. The air reeked of sweat and stale beer.
He barely made it ten steps before two men in black suits burst in after him, thick-necked and furious.
No time for finesse.
The first guard lunged. Wooyoung shifted his weight and slammed the briefcase full-force into his face. The man staggered back with a grunt, clutching his nose as blood spurted between his fingers.
The second guard didn’t hesitate, grabbing Wooyoung by the shoulder. Wooyoung twisted, ducking low, feeling the man’s grip slip from his jacket. He struck back fast with a tight punch to the gut. The guard wheezed, but recovered quicker than Wooyoung liked.
A fist flew at his face—he dodged, almost. The punch grazed his jaw, pain flaring sharp and hot.
“Fuck off already!” Wooyoung snarled, driving his knee into the guy’s ribs. The man gasped and stumbled. The first one caught him, then both grabbed for Wooyoung, hands bruising his arms. They grappled, grunted, fists flying in wild, brutal arcs.
Wooyoung took a hit to the ribs—white-hot pain—then slammed his forehead into the man’s nose, feeling the cartilage snap beneath his skull.
The guard stumbled back, dazed and swearing.
And from the far end of the corridor, a shadow detached itself.
San.
He walked toward them with the steady, predatory calm of someone who didn’t know how to lose. His sleeves were rolled up, knuckles flexing as he sized Wooyoung up. Under the dim lights, his dark eyes gleamed—sharp, unreadable, hungry.
“You’ve got guts,” San said, voice low, rough, vibrating in the cracked silence. “I’ll give you that.”
Wooyoung flashed a bloody smile, cocky and cruel. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”
San didn’t waste time. He moved like a viper—fast and lethal.
Their bodies collided, fists meeting flesh with sharp, echoing cracks. San’s knuckles split open on Wooyoung’s cheekbone; Wooyoung’s elbow drove into San’s ribs. The air tasted like copper, sweat, and rage.
San’s slicked-back hair had fallen loose, strands hanging into his eyes. Wooyoung’s blazer slipped off one shoulder.
San grabbed a fistful of his jacket and slammed him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked.
Their faces were inches apart, mouths parted, panting, a flash of teeth.
“You must have a death wish,” San hissed, words hot against Wooyoung’s skin.
Wooyoung only laughed, reckless, wild. “Or maybe I just like pissing off pretty boys.”
San bared his teeth in something that wasn’t a smile and drove his knee into Wooyoung’s stomach. Pain lanced through him. Wooyoung dropped the briefcase, coughing, but twisted out of San’s grip like smoke slipping through fingers.
He was fast, faster than San had expected.
Wooyoung ducked a brutal swing and slammed his shoulder into San’s injured side, forcing a grunt from his throat. Blood from their skirmish slicked their hands, their clothes, glistening dark in the flickering light.
For a heartbeat, they moved like a violent dance, limbs tangled, breathless and savage.
San’s hand fisted in Wooyoung’s hair, yanking his head back. Wooyoung retaliated with a punch to San’s kidney, so hard San’s vision blurred at the edges. The impact slammed them both into the opposite wall, bodies colliding with a brutal thud.
“I’m going to tear you apart,” San snarled into his ear, voice raw, vibrating with fury.
Wooyoung twisted free with a vicious smile, snagged the gun from one of the fallen guards, aimed for the chest—and fired.
The shot cracked like thunder in the narrow corridor.
Pain exploded across San’s face. He grabbed his thigh with a loud groan, stumbling, snarling, blood already pouring down his leg, hot and wet.
“Fucking bastard!” San spat, clutching his thigh as he staggered against the wall.
Guess he missed.
Wooyoung didn’t spare him a second glance. He kicked the fallen briefcase back into his grip and bolted, feet pounding down the hall, escaping without a shred of remorse.
“GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” San roared after him, voice like gravel and fire, echoing through the corridor.
The bodyguards hesitated, ready to give chase.
But the next time Wooyoung turned to look, no one was following. He still ran as fast as his legs would carry him, body denying pain, drunk on adrenaline. His mouth tasted like blood and his heart threatened to explode, but Wooyoung didn’t stop running.
The moment he was out, he slipped off the red blazer, ducked into the crowd, eyes scanning—searching for Seonghwa. He found him, exactly where they’d said. It was easy to lean on Seonghwa. He never disappoints.
Wooyoung slipped into their car with a grunt, immediately slumping low into the seat, out of sight. Seonghwa shifted gears and they were off.
Seonghwa’s eyes widened when he caught sight of Wooyoung—split cheek, bloody lip—but Wooyoung was grinning wide. Wild.
“What the hell happened?” Seonghwa asked, speeding through the streets, faster than he should. He was one of the best drivers Wooyoung had ever known.
“What do you think?” Wooyoung panted, trying to catch his breath.
“Who rearranged your face?” Seonghwa glanced between him and the road.
“I’m fine,” Wooyoung dismissed it, waving a hand. “No pain, no gain.” He turned to Seonghwa, beaming.
“You’re fucking insane.”
And yeah. Wooyoung was a little insane, but nothing to worry about. He had the money, and he was about to disappear off the face of the earth.
Life was good.
So fucking good.
***
The first blow cracked across Wooyoung’s jaw like a gunshot. He staggered, tasting blood, and grinned, teeth gleaming red.
The boys closed in, five of them, all polished shoes, pressed school uniforms, fists wrapped in privilege and muscle. True posh boarding school specimens.
They moved like a pack, trained and precise, rich kids who thought taekwondo made them kings.
Wooyoung fought like he lived—dirty, fast, ruthless.
He ducked under the first punch, elbowed a kid in the ribs so hard he heard the breath rush out of him. Another came at him from the side. He caught the fist, twisted, drove his knee up into the soft spot behind the elbow.
Fighting was an art, and Wooyoung painted in bruises and broken skin.
He spun around, fluid and instinctive, a dancer in a symphony of violence.
But there were too many.
Too many trained hands.
Too many boots slamming into his ribs when he dropped to his knees, coughing blood onto the pristine, neat gravel pathway of the school gardens.
A fist drove into his gut, knocking the air out of him.
Another cracked across his temple, white heat flashing behind his eyes.
He collapsed sideways, the world tilting.
Someone grabbed his hair, yanking his head up just to slam it back down against the floor.
He barely registered the sharp laughter, the sneering voices.
"Street rat," one of them spat.
"Go back to the gutter where you belong."
Wooyoung tried to rise again. Stupid. Stubborn.
A foot planted itself viciously in his side, sending him rolling onto his back, gasping.
He blinked up through the haze of blood and found a boy standing apart from the chaos.
Arms crossed, back straight, black hair neat and gleaming under the harsh light.
Unbothered. Almost bored.
He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t moving to join in.
He was just watching. Eyes cool, mouth a slight curve of something unreadable.
The others grew bored eventually. Wooyoung heard footsteps retreating, the cruel edge of laughter fading down the hall, their anger spent.
He lay there, the ache of his body sharp and furious, his heart hammering against cracked ribs.
Every breath hurt. Every blink dragged fire behind his eyes.
When the silence settled, the other finally moved.
Leather shoes clicked softly against the gravel. He crouched down beside Wooyoung, elegant and slow, like he had all the time in the world.
Wooyoung squinted up at him through swollen eyes, coughed blood, and managed a snarl of a grin.
"You gonna finish the job or just stare at me like a freak?" he rasped, voice wrecked.
The boy smiled. A soft, almost tender thing. "No," he said quietly. "I think you had enough." He held out a hand.
Wooyoung eyed it warily for a second, then, with a grunt of pain, grabbed it.
He pulled him up with surprising strength, looping an arm around Wooyoung’s waist to support him. Wooyoung hissed through his teeth, every step a dagger in his ribs.
They started walking, slow, painful.
"You’re reckless," pretty boy said conversationally, like they were discussing the weather. "And stupid."
Wooyoung laughed weakly. "Yeah, well. I'm also charming."
The boy’s mouth twitched again into something almost resembling amusement.
They turned a corner, the nurse's office still a painful distance away.
"What’s your name?” Wooyoung asked,
“Park Seonghwa.”
Wooyoung hissed again, pain shredding through him. “I’m Jung Woo-”
“Jung Wooyoung. I know. Your reputation precedes you.” Seonghwa walked slowly, careful of Wooyoung’s limping leg.
“I see. What can I say, I’m just that unforgettable.” Wooyoung laughed, but it was a mistake since his ribs hurt like hell.
Seonghwa snorted. “You’re messy. Loud. With too much heart and not enough technique."
Wooyoung looked at him, smile mixed with interest. "Are you offering to teach me to fight or just here to insult me while I bleed out?"
Seonghwa stopped walking for a beat, turning his head to look at him fully. There was something oddly serious in his gaze. Like he was deciding something.
"I’ll teach you," he said finally. "If you want."
Wooyoung, bloodied and beaten and stubborn as hell, grinned wide despite everything.
"Cool."
Seonghwa adjusted his grip, steadier, and together they limped towards the light.
It was the beginning of everything.
***
The briefcase sat open on the floor, stacks upon stacks of fresh yellow 50,000 won bills. They hadn’t counted it yet. Seonghwa had insisted on taking care of Wooyoung’s bruises first, but Wooyoung couldn’t take his eyes off it.
“I’ve just never seen this much money in one place,” Wooyoung said as Seonghwa cleaned the cut on his cheek with rubbing alcohol.
“It’s just money,” Seonghwa dismissed him, focused on Wooyoung. “It was reckless to do this. I knew you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s easy for you to say. You have money. I’m fucked,” Wooyoung sighed, turning back to look at his friend.
“You’re not fucked. You just won’t let me help,” Seonghwa said, reaching for a band-aid.
“I’m not a charity case,” Wooyoung frowned. “I can take care of myself,” he added.
But Seonghwa was quiet. They’d had this conversation too many times for it to be worth arguing over again.
“By the way, you were four minutes late with the alarm,” Wooyoung pointed out, though there was no anger in his voice.
“Sorry. I got... distracted. My dad called,” Seonghwa muttered, frowning as he pursed his lips.
Wooyoung’s face fell slightly at the words, wincing as Seonghwa pressed the band-aid to his cheek.
Seonghwa’s relationship with his parents had always been strained. They didn’t send him to boarding school because he was a rich kid, but because he was a troubled one. He didn’t fight just because he was angry, he fought because he didn’t know where the line was. And when he snapped, he was unhinged. Over the years, he learned how to keep it at bay, but Wooyoung could see how lost he gets when he’s throwing punches.
Back in school, people used to say Seonghwa’s parents sent him away because he killed a kid. Later, Wooyoung found out the truth from Seonghwa himself. He didn’t kill him, but he did put him in the hospital. For good.
Wooyoung never found out why, but whatever the reason, it was a guilt Seonghwa carried quietly. That’s why he didn’t fight as much. But he sure as hell knew how. Over the years, he’d taught Wooyoung more than a few things about that.
They never really talked about feelings and deeper things, and Wooyoung knew sometimes, Seonghwa would go and disappear for a few days, but he didn't ask questions. And neither did Seonghwa when Wooyoung came bloodied and bruised or with more stolen things. That’s how they worked. They were there for each other, no questions asked.
After boarding school, Wooyoung’s parents didn’t really give a shit about him, so he had to find his own way. He got into shady business and theft, and it turned out he was good at it. Wooyoung could steal pretty much anything he set his mind to.
After a few years of bouncing between nightclubs, heists, and shady deals, Wooyoung managed to establish some lame excuse for a life. Seonghwa went to college. Wooyoung couldn’t afford it. Not that he needed it. Now, Wooyoung’s 27, bouncing around like a ping pong ball.
“So, what are you going to do now—with the money?” Seonghwa handed him a glass of water and some painkillers.
“I’ll go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.” Wooyoung smiled. “I’ll travel. Maybe settle somewhere cheap. A house in a village. Get some goats, cows...”
Seonghwa snorted. “You? Country life? Please...”
He wasn’t wrong. Wooyoung was anything but modest or lowkey. He loved the luxuries of life. Even if he couldn’t afford them, he loved chasing them. Most likely, he’d blow the cash in Vegas, drink and gamble it away, and die in a ditch happy and fulfilled, wearing Prada and smelling like Versace.
Ugh.
Wooyoung looked at the money. “Yeah... you’re right.”
“You can pay off your debt to Beomseok. Get him off your back,” Seonghwa offered.
Wooyoung groaned internally. That whole thing with Beomseok, it was never going to end, was it?
Sure, Wooyoung owed him money. But he’d paid it off. Countless times already.
Beomseok was just a bully with too much money and too many people behind him. Yes, Wooyoung had borrowed from him, just to get an apartment, to get a start in life. But he’d paid it back. In thefts. In favors. In all those nights he’d had to spend with him...
“Don’t mention him,” Wooyoung frowned, not willing to go any further into that topic.
“You two used to date, Young-ah. You need to settle it once and for all. Give him money, and he’ll be off your back.”
Yeah. Like Beomseok would ever just let him walk away.
“You know what, fine. I’ll deal with that later. But right now, I really don’t want to think about any of that shit.” Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna buy us a trip to Europe. I’ll get some new clothes, celebrate at the most expensive club in the city, and after I’ve had my fill of fun, I’ll deal with the scum. Let me enjoy this. I haven’t had a win in a long time.”
Wooyoung’s voice almost pleaded. He just wanted to breathe for the first time in... well, forever.
Seonghwa’s eyes softened. “You know I just worry about you.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Wooyoung muttered, rolling his eyes and slumping back onto the sofa.
Seonghwa looked at him for a moment longer, then sighed, and shifted in the sofa. He laid down, settling his head in Wooyoung’s lap. Wooyoung rested a hand on his head and closed his eyes.
“So? How’d you end up looking like a bruised plum?” Seonghwa asked after a beat.
“It’s not that bad. You should see the other guy,” Wooyoung smirked. His mind drifted back—to the fight, to that godawful guy who shoved him against the wall.
I’ll tear you apart.
Tsk. Wooyoung would like to see him try.
“The other guy?”
“Yeah. It’s not important. I shot him,” Wooyoung said casually.
Seonghwa turned his head sharply, eyes wide with panic.
“You killed someone?!”
Wooyoung snorted. “Relax, wuss. I didn’t kill anyone. Just shot him in the leg.”
Seonghwa exhaled in relief, then frowned. “He didn’t shoot back?”
Wooyoung shook his head, and the question lingered. Why didn’t he?
“He just let you go?”
Wooyoung frowned now, too. “Yeah?” he said, thinking it over.
“That doesn’t sound right.” Seonghwa said, concerned.
“Don’t worry about it,” Wooyoung dismissed, giving Seonghwa’s head a lazy pat before closing his eyes again.
“Yeah, but what if he comes after you?”
Wooyoung chuckled, something steady and confident settling in his chest. “I won’t be here long enough to find out.”
And he meant it. First chance he got, he was gone. He was sick of Seoul and everything in it. The only thing he liked here was Seonghwa—and Seonghwa didn’t have anything tying him down either.
***
It had been a good week.
New clothes. New car. A new passport, with a one-way ticket to Europe burning a hole in his nightstand drawer. Wooyoung had spent the last six nights drinking like a man who had already gotten away with it. And technically, he had.
Like most times in his life, Lady Luck was on his side. Like a worm, Wooyoung managed to wriggle his way in and out of every kind of mess. He stayed alive mostly by chance, and even though he constantly found himself in trouble, something just wouldn’t let him die. He’d been beaten, spat on, strangled, even stabbed—and somehow, he’d bounced back on pure willpower alone. Nobody wanted to live and win as badly as Wooyoung did. But then again, he always seemed to teeter on the edge of life, playing with it, teasing it, daring it to try and end him.
Call it madness. Call it suicidal psychosis. Call it whatever you want. At the end of the day, Wooyoung went to sleep with pure adrenaline running through his veins. And wasn’t that life?
Seonghwa loved the danger too, but unlike Wooyoung, he had a kind of elegance to him. The way he held himself, the way he walked, the way he always had Wooyoung’s back but never even got a scratch. Where Wooyoung was chaos, Seonghwa was cosmos. Where Wooyoung was unhinged, Seonghwa was composed. And it kept both of them alive.
Wooyoung’s body was still warm from the shower, the taste of cheap champagne still clinging to his lips from the club. The apartment was dark when he stepped into the living room, towel in one hand, humming under his breath as he rubbed at his damp hair.
Click.
A metallic breath—cold, intimate—pressed against his temple.
The safety, off.
Wooyoung froze.
He didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, water dripping from his collarbone, his robe clinging damp against his back. His gut dropped. Something primal stirred. He inhaled—once, slow and measured—and let the silence crawl.
Then came the whisper. Smooth and low, like a sin confessed in church:
“Funny. For someone who runs so fast, you live like you’ve already made peace with dying.”
A smirk curled against the fear. Wooyoung had too much pride to cower, especially in front of the man he’d already shot once.
Yes, he knew exactly who it was. Just from that vile whisper and thick resentment, Wooyoung knew which of the many men he’d pissed off had come back for him. And to be honest, it was a little exciting.
“Mmm...” he hummed in mock thought, “Smug and entitled. You must be the guy I robbed and shot. I was hoping you’d show up angry.”
San didn’t laugh. Instead, his other hand gripped Wooyoung’s shoulder, pinning him in place with casual brutality. The muzzle of the gun stayed pressed to his temple, steady, almost reverent. “You think this is a joke?”
“No. I think you’re stalling.” Wooyoung glanced around, already building a plan. San might’ve been out for blood, but the fact that he hadn’t pulled the trigger yet meant he wasn’t here just to kill him.
A beat.
Wooyoung could feel San’s pulse now—calm, but heavy—vibrating through the arm pinning him in place. The air between them was blistering.
San spoke then, low and dangerous. “You stole seven billion won from me. Cost me a man and a deal. Left me bleeding in my own casino corridor.”
Wooyoung was still smiling, breath coming heavier now from the subtle fear, panic, and adrenaline threading through his veins. “And you still came all this way just to see me,” he said. “Kinda sweet, really.”
That’s when San turned him and slammed him into the wall.
A picture fell. Its glass frame shattered. Wooyoung grunted, head bouncing off the plaster, and the gun didn’t waver. It followed, kissed the side of his skull like a promise.
Fuck. His head was ringing just from the force.
San was right there in front of him now. In the low light bleeding through the hallway, he looked carved from shadow, black shirt taut across his chest, coat dark and long, eyes catching the faint gleam of gold.
“You here to kill me... or get off on it first?” Wooyoung never really knew where the line was. But to be fair, pissing this guy off felt too good. The fucker was probably used to everyone doing whatever he said out of fear.
Fuck him.
Wooyoung was going to have a field day with this one.
If he lived long enough.
San didn’t answer. His breath was louder now, jaw locked, rage simmering beneath a surgical calm.
The kind of calm that meant someone had already decided how to hurt you, just not where to start.
But San decided to play the game by Wooyoung’s rules. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Need help choosing?”
San’s fist slammed into the wall beside his head.
The crack echoed through the room.
Wooyoung flinched—just barely—and then laughed.
To be honest, he was slightly terrified.
Usually, he had nothing to lose, but right now things were going good for him, and he wasn’t dying until he saw those goddamn fjords in Norway.
Or the white snow in the Alps.
San gritted through his teeth, “Where. Is. My. Money.”
Ah, yes. Well—fuck.
“You can check my pocket,” Wooyoung said with a little innocent shrug, “but I can’t promise you won’t find something else there.”
He was stalling. Trying to figure out how to get to the kitchen knife on the coffee table.
San, however, had no intention of playing anymore.
The next punch came fast—the butt of the gun crashing into Wooyoung’s cheekbone.
Blood trickled down his chin.
Another hit.
A palm, rough and deliberate, cracked across his face with dizzying force.
Wooyoung staggered, the taste of iron coating his tongue.
His hands came up—weak, defensive—but the panic was setting in now.
The laughter had faded. It was too painful.
His eyes were wild.
The fear bubbled up as he realized he was too dizzy to see straight.
Then came that flicker of pure survival instinct.
Wooyoung decided to risk it all.
Just as San raised his fist again, Wooyoung ducked under his arm, spun, and shoved him backward.
San stumbled into the wall but recovered instantly, the gun whipping back in his direction—
BANG.
It was almost deafening.
San missed.
Wooyoung cowered, but his eyes were already on the knife.
He grabbed it. Relief crashed over him in a wave—
But then San yanked him back by the bathrobe, the fabric loosening around his hips.
Wooyoung whipped around, knife slashing over the fine fabric of San’s long black coat.
But San didn’t flinch. Didn’t lose focus.
He just grabbed Wooyoung’s wrist and twisted it until he dropped the blade, groaning in pain.
San pulled him closer, bodies flush. “Still gonna fuck around, or are you gonna give me my money?”
“You always this dramatic, or is this just foreplay?”
“Don’t worry, you’re not my type.”
Everything stopped for a beat.
Wooyoung watched San stare hard at him, pure, unfiltered rage dripping from his glare.
His hand tightened—
And just when Wooyoung thought San was going to shoot him, he smirked. Huffed out a little laugh.
“You’re too weak.” San’s eyes flicked lower, just for a second, to where Wooyoung’s right shoulder and collarbone were exposed.
And then it was over.
Wooyoung was losing balance.
The punch to the gut knocked the air clean out of him. The pain was sharp, guttural, twisting his stomach.
He fell back into the coffee table, wooden legs breaking beneath him from the force.
San was on top of him before Wooyoung even knew what was happening.
This was when he realized he was truly fucked.
He squirmed immediately. But San took both of his wrists and pinned them above his head with such ease that Wooyoung was almost ashamed of how much stronger he was.
San was straddling him. Wooyoung couldn’t move an inch.
Then, another blow. Right in the face.
It made him dizzy again.
Blood streamed from his nose. His face probably looked like a massacre already.
And it was such a pretty face...
The barrel of the gun was warm now, pressed tight under his chin. It made Wooyoung tilt his head back.
San’s other hand was at his throat—squeezing. Wooyoung’s breath turned fast, thin, panicked.
He grabbed San’s wrist, trying to pull it away, but San didn’t budge.
That’s it.
He might never actually see the fjords.
“Last words?” San growled through his teeth.
Wooyoung looked him in the eye, already imagining a slow and painful death for this motherfucker.
Then he smiled.
Out of sheer spite.
“Fuck you,” he spat.
San’s eyes narrowed for a split second.
Then he smiled back. Almost menacingly.
Pressed the gun harder under Wooyoung’s chin.
And everything went black.