Archive of Our Own

8 years ago 

January 14, 2019

@JINIRETCRAVE: The Palace has begun preparations ahead of Prince Lee Minho’s presentation ceremony. The ceremony will mark the first time that the Prince makes his much-anticipated public appearance. Citizens await with bated breath. Will the prophecy of the prosperous Royal Prince come true? 

Jisung has blood on his hands. 

He’s used to it by now. It’s an occupational hazard. It leaves him antsy, frustrated, restless, conflicted.

In the past, it used to make him feel guilty.

Right now, all those emotions feel like a relic of a forgotten time.

Today, he’s tired.

It's the kind of tiredness that burrows, the kind that sits bone-deep in the foundation of his soul. 

“J1, do you copy?” the voice on comms says. 

Jisung suppresses a frustrated sigh and clicks his in-ear on, ducking into the nearest staff bathroom he sees.

The mission is over. The scapegoat is in place. There’s a car chase brewing right under this building, sending everyone who wants to find the ‘real’ culprit of today’s kill into a wild goose chase. 

No one’s going to come looking for Jisung, so he has the luxury of time. 

He doesn’t bother checking the stalls. He doesn’t do much of anything as he feels a wave of lightheadedness overcome him. He nearly trips on his way to the line of sinks, catching himself against the edge of—thankfully—the least slippery of the lot and feeling the unbending strength of the porcelain, cold against his fingertips.

Jisung’s scent hangs in the air, sour and wilting like a lime gone bad. He hates when he smells like this. He much prefers the sweetness of his usual scent, when it isn’t being weighed down by whatever strange feeling is overtaking him right now, making him want to stare at the drip-drip-drip of the leaky faucet until his eyes go unfocused. 

Oh, he’s so much more tired than he imagined.   

“It’s done,” Jisung says, not really paying attention to the protocol being recited into his ear. 

Drop off at midnight. Pickup at half past. No strings attached. Destroy the evidence once he’s done. 

Jisung knows this rhythm like the back of his hand. 

Once the droning rhythm from the other end of the encrypted communication line ceases, Jisung takes his cue to speak. “Understood. Nice working with you.”

The line on the other end is static before it clicks once. A disembodied, anonymous voice says, “You too.” 

Jisung knows nothing else is coming, so he takes the earpiece out, undoing its parts as he locks eyes with himself in the mirror. Not much of his face is visible with the face mask he has on, but his eyes—

They’re telling. 

He discards the earpiece into his pocket and exhales slowly, his hands returning to grip the edge of the sink tighter. 

Jisung breathes. In and out and slowly, coming to a realisation.

There’s something wrong with his body. His face looks flushed. His hands shake. His vision blurs and refocuses like a faulty camera lens. His skin feels stretched thin. He wants to lie down. He wants to make a stupid decision.

He pulls at the collar of his shirt and inhales again. Slow. 

His scent is stronger than anything else in the bathroom, until…

That. Right there. Something else lurks underneath the crackle of sourness.

Jisung breathes again and furrows his eyebrows. 

There’s someone else here.

Jisung straightens up. The sink groans under his body weight. Then, the doorknob to the very last stall in the bathroom rattles, and Jisung balls his fists up, just in case. 

Please be a random stranger, please be a random stranger, please— 

The door opens. 

The man behind the door stills when he locks eyes with Jisung through the mirror. 

Jisung freezes, as if to match. 

Well, he mostly freezes. His mouth drops open a little, but he quickly averts his gaze and wracks his brain, turning its corners upside down, trying to put a name to the face. It’s a familiar face, he knows that much. One that’s been on TV lately. One that would earn some idol-worship inspired screeching if Jisung were someone else. 

When Jisung risks another look at the man, he’s closer. a forecast of some unknown emotion flickers on the stranger’s face before his eyes lock with Jisung’s—through the mirror once more. “Hello,” the stranger says, pausing momentarily. There’s something like a falter in his steps, but it’s easily corrected. 

The man straightens up and says, “I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I know this is a staff bathroom, I just…” 

“Needed a minute?” Jisung finishes. 

“Yeah.” The stranger sighs. “Needed a long minute.”  

Jisung wishes he could put a finger on who this is. Someone royal. He’s wearing the Kingdom’s haetae as a subtly positioned emblem on his chest. 

Ah, well. Not every mystery can be solved today, can it? This is probably Jisung’s cue to leave. “I should let you be—” 

“It’s okay,” the man says. Firmly, like he knows the limit of what he accepts. He probably does. Isn’t that what being royal is all about? Knowing that the world begins and ends within the lines that you draw. Jisung wonders what it'd feel like to have that kind of power. 

He holds eye contact with the man. It feels illicit, even though he's just looking. It feels like he’s crossing some invisible boundary by just being here, even though this is hardly the most illegal thing Jisung has done today. 

Somehow, the typical post-job melancholy that Jisung has been fighting off today completely dissipates, replaced by fog that only clears when he breathes in the scent in the air. 

It’s ironic that this is the first time tonight that Jisung feels like he’s doing something he’s not supposed to do. 

Silently, they look at each other through the mirror, and Jisung—who can no longer afford to be scared, who dives into dark unknowns every day, who was forged in the same fire that births weapons—finds himself nervous. 

The novelty is exhilarating. 

The stranger gives Jisung a small smile. He walks closer, and Jisung’s whole body braces itself as the sink next to his becomes occupied. 

Jisung tears his eyes away from the mirror and…lingers. Realising that he’s just been standing here this whole time, Jisung quickly switches the faucet on, wetting his hands with no motive, trapped by the persisting desire to stay. To spend a minute more in this moment so he can dissect it in the future. 

He hoards the details. The long eyelashes. A sharp nose. The black polo shirt. One of those smartwatches around his wrist. Wide fingers, small hands. Perfect for—

“Long day?” the man asks. 

“Mm,” Jisung says, snapping out of it. “I’ve been here for a week.” 

Even the man’s laugh is royal. A little lilting. Sweet. There’s a melodic air about it. In another universe, Jisung could see himself capturing that voice in a glass bottle, preserving it.

“I know how that feels.” 

Jisung smiles a small smile under his mask. 

Anonymity is weird. With his face hidden under the mask, Jisung feels comfortable being seen up close. He feels like he could spill all the secrets that weigh on him, like they don’t even count if this man he’s never going to run into again listens to tales of danger and near-death experience spun by a stranger. 

Whoever he is, this handsome stranger is starting to breed an unknown desire in Jisung. To pause. To stop, even if for a moment. To not work himself to the ground, to smell the roses. To speak. To sit down on the cold tile and pass the time. 

Jisung has never been the type to let time go to waste. 

It’s stupid. Jisung rids himself of the loitering urges as soon as they come, but—like all emotion—something stays behind.

Just a morsel of that stupidity is enough to make Jisung stay rooted in the spot he’s standing. 

And also—there’s that damn scent in the air. 

Jisung didn’t notice it, until he did. 

It isn’t overwhelming. In fact, it’s so subtle that it could be some kind of convoluted side effect of Jisung’s own scent blockers, which malfunction sometimes when he doesn’t switch them out for more than 24 hours. Or a figment of his imagination. Or a stray scent from outside intermingling with Jisung’s exhaustion to create some kind of hallucination. 

Whatever it is, Jisung finds himself ready to lie down and fall asleep at the way the scent caresses him. 

It’s something warm. A burst of fragrant smoke, like summer, like ceremony, like the colour of the sky right before the sun sets. 

It’s not…obvious, though. It’s a subtle ebb and flow, like music booming from a distance, like being submerged underwater, like the world whiting out for a few blissful seconds. Here but not really here. 

It’s weird. It muddles with Jisung’s already-so-scrambled brain, making him question whether he's imagining things. 

Surely not. He can’t be that exhausted. 

“I should go,” Jisung says decisively, before this thing can unravel some more and Jisung ends up spilling some kind of truth, lulled by the weird in-between of these bathroom walls. The jobs waiting for him beyond this room are not particularly patient, and they’ll come knocking if Jisung takes too long. 

“I don’t mean to overstep…” the stranger’s voice fades in and out of Jisung’s consciousness as he gets a little closer to Jisung. Pulled by a force beyond reason, Jisung turns to face the man. 

It feels like looking into the sun. Jisung is glad for the mask covering half his face, because he must be gawking. The man’s eyes are clear and bright and his smile is kind. The way he tilts his head reminds Jisung of a cat. His hair is a striking shade of black, dark from root to tip with an elegance that probably does wonders to set him apart. It’s like a crown, Jisung thinks. A crown carried everywhere.

The man looks into Jisung’s eyes, and Jisung forgets how to breathe. 

Jisung stares at the brown eyes focused on him, blinking profusely for a few seconds before they settle into a quiet, intense stare. “...you should be resting,” the man says. 

Jisung blinks. He tilts his head, processes the words. “Huh?” 

“You seem a little flushed,” the stranger says. “Are you in heat?” 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Am I in—?”

He catches himself. Right. He has scent blockers on, so there’s no real way for the man to be able to tell Jisung’s subgender, but…wow. No one’s ever just assumed—

Jisung’s ears ring. 

“Something like that, maybe,” he says with a nervous laugh, ducking his head. Come to think of it, this light-headedness must be his pre-rut. His cycle hasn’t stabilised yet. It’s moody, just like him. It makes for the occasional and inconvenient surprise while he’s on an assignment. 

“You shouldn’t be out here smelling like that,” the stranger says, sweeping his eyes over Jisung’s figure. “Would you like me to escort you out?”

“No,” Jisung says quickly. “That’s okay, thank you.”

“I…apologise if I crossed a line,” he says. 

Jisung hurries to assure him. “No, I—you’re right. I do need to get home. Thank you for warning me.” 

The stranger begins to say, “I can—” 

“We need to go,” another voice interrupts as the door bursts open. 

“Alright, Sullyoon-ah,” the mystery man says to the woman at the door. Then, he addresses Jisung one final time. “It was nice to meet you.” 

Jisung can barely bow his head before the bathroom is empty again, and he’s left wondering what would have happened if the stranger stayed. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: #palacewatch: JIN-IRET received confirmation from the Palace that Prince Lee Minho has presented as an omega. He will wear the mark of the prophecy bearer around his neck.

8 years ago 

November 16, 2019

"J1 on comms?" 

"Check," Jisung says under his breath, smoothing his hands down the waistcoat. It's a little loose around his waist, but as far as disguises go, this one's a classic. 

He opens the door to the storage closet one more time to check if the security guard is still knocked out and then jumps into action. "All clear at entry point 1," he says, and then shakes his hair out of his eyes. "Let's kill this." 

"Stop saying every incriminating thing in the world while we’re online," drones Seungmin’s staticky voice in Jisung's ear. 

"Why should I worry?" Jisung pauses outside the gate and ducks a punch from Yeon Sunho Bodyguard #1. "Aren't these earpieces protected by your unbreakable security walls, Seungmin-ssi?" 

The bodyguard grunts in Jisung's face, making him grimace. Eurgh. Nothing worse than an alpha who thinks he can get out of a fight by making man sounds. The bodyguard’s scent is musky, filtering through the air in waves that can only be described as oppressive. Jisung breathes through his mouth when he gets too close. 

Jisung sidesteps another punch, launching himself off his feet and using his momentum to trap his opponent in a headlock. 

"Get off me, fuckface," Yeon Sunho Bodyguard #1 says. Jisung hears Seungmin laugh on the other end of the line. "Fuckface? Really?" he mutters, otherwise unperturbed as Jisung uses his headlock to flip Mr. Fuckface to the ground. 

He uses the back of his arm to push his body weight down on the man’s throat for a few beats before he stops struggling. When his air supply is adequately cut off, he collapses. 

Distantly, Jisung can hear the sound of someone approaching. He tilts his head, mapping out the sound. It’s coming from the staircases down the hall, next to the emergency exit. 

“Security from first floor are incoming in 90 seconds,” Seungmin says. “SpearB will deal with half of them.” 

Okay, here goes. 

If Jisung times this right, he has two minutes to finish this. 

The door leading into the room is locked. Jisung unhooks the pin from his belt loop and fiddles with it until he hears the sweet click of a job well done. 

“Entering the duck’s den,” Jisung says, slipping into the room.

“It’s weird that you keep calling him the duck,” Seungmin mutters, and Jisung doesn’t want to risk breaking his cover, so he doesn’t remind Seungmin that he chose the nickname for their target. 

It’s dark in here, as expected. Jisung doesn’t usually like doing his job in the bedroom, but the only break in Yeon Sunho’s very public schedule was here, right now. Jisung tried to do this last autumn in Paris, but there was a last minute meeting of chairs at the International Omega Rights Conference, and Yeon Sunho is enough of an asshole to be one of the only alpha signatories who insisted upon his participation in the committee. Then came Kuala Lumpur two months ago, when a layover offered Jisung what seemed like the perfect opportunity to finish the kill until he discovered that Yeon Sunho had access to a private jet. 

Fucking politicians.  

And then, one rainy day, while eavesdropping on Yeon Sunho’s phone line, Jisung heard something about a birthday coming up. 

If there’s one thing Jisung has learned about scummy politicians who have a bounty on their heads, it’s that they never skip an excuse for a celebration.

From there, it was just a matter of gathering the intel on Yeon’s birthday traditions. A hotel room booked at a scenic destination, a golf course nearby, and a guest list for a party full of insufferable people. 

As expected, the party is later tonight.

Yeon Sunho won’t be making it. 

That sickening, overwhelming scent of roses assaulting his nose has to be a sign that his target is here. Jisung wrinkles his nose and ties a cloth over his face to dull his senses as he slinks into the shadows. 

The shower turns off. Jisung listens for any other sounds, confirming that there’s only one person in the room before he takes his position. He taps his earpiece to send Seungmin the signal that he’s on his mark.

Now: the easy part. 

Jisung positions himself next to the bathroom door and takes stock of himself. The gun has the silencer on it, loaded and cocked to kill where it sits in his right hand. 

“Security incoming. 30 seconds,” Seungmin says. 

Yeon Sunho comes out of the bathroom fully clothed, thank god. He’s idle, scrolling over something on his phone before it starts ringing. 

Jisung curses silently. 

Killing someone mid-call is never a good idea. 

NO CALLER ID flashes on the screen. Jisung goes still in his hiding place, grateful that the lights are mostly turned off. It makes his job easier.  

No greeting, no formalities. Yeon Sunho gets straight to business. “Is everything in place?”

Jisung hears frantic whispering from the other end.

Yeon Sunho lets out a frustrated groan. “I thought I paid for the best,” he hisses. “And you couldn’t even finish him off?” 

Jisung strains his ear. From the other side, he makes out the tail end of a sentence.

"…not what we expected."

“We’ll have to push this back,” he says, visibly annoyed as he cuts the call. 

Hm, must be a work call. 

Jisung has too many years under his belt to bother hesitating. 

Footsteps silent, he sneaks up behind his target and delivers a clean punch to the side of his throat, knocking the man out.

This part is simple. Jisung tightens his hold around the gun. Silently, he delivers his final blow. 

"The duck..." Jisung says, hooking the gun back into its holster, "is down."

@JINIRETCRAVE: #JUST_IN: Lee Felix has been spotted leaving the Palace after announcing his intention to renounce his title as a royal.

“I need to carve out my own path. I think the way we treat omegas needs to change, and I want to make my voice heard without the Crown holding me back.”

A kill doesn't come without cleanup.

As soon as Jisung puts the gun away, the countdown comes alive. 

10, 9, 8—

He jumps from the dressing table to the top of the cupboard, undoing the vent and rolling into the small, cramped space. 

7, 6, 5—

The blueprint of the path leading to his exit-point is photographically vivid in Jisung's head. Guided by memory, he takes the first left in the vents.

4, 3—

"The last guest just checked out of the floor. You should be good," Seungmin says into Jisung's ear. 

"Copy," Jisung whispers as he holds his breath and slides out of the vent.  

He tucks his gun under his sleeve, smoothing his hands down his blazer lapels and pressing the button to the elevator. 

Ding.

The doors open. 

It’s crowded. Seoul in the heart of summer is a tourist trap with its jaws unhinged. 

Jisung takes his gloves off and leaves one of them in the blazer pocket of a busy-looking man in the elevator. 

The other glove is disposed of in a woman’s purse, right at the open edge of it. 

The gun is a little trickier, but it disassembles. Half of it stays with Jisung, and the other half gets slipped into an empty cup left on one of the unattended tables next to the bar. 

Jisung would take the elevator over the getaway car anyday. 

They never expect the assassin to walk through the hotel lobby and stop for a welcome drink at the entrance. Jisung gets something too-sweet and puts his sunglasses on. He makes sure all the security on the floor has been rerouted to the fifth floor, as planned, and then sends an email from his burner phone to tip the press off about the most recent assassination on the horizon. 

Right as Jisung makes his exit, he buries a hand in his pocket and finds a slip of paper that wasn’t there before. 

His senses go on high alert. He looks around from under the shield of his sunglasses, finding nothing suspicious to investigate.

He wills himself to stay calm. If someone managed to catch him unaware enough to slip this note in here, it means they’re watching Jisung’s every move. 

Jisung exits the hotel lobby. He’s long past the point of loitering in places he doesn’t need to be. If it comes down to it, he knows how to fight. 

He pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket as soon as the sunlight hits his face. 

Nice work today, it reads. Then, in neatly scribbled handwriting:

Come to The Warehouse @ 9 PM if you’re done being a lone wolf. Ask for Chan.

Jisung bites the inside of his cheek, eyeing the name. He knows Chan as the man who’s been assigning him his recent hits. No last name, no identifying information. Jisung doesn’t usually double-dip, but somehow, someway—he just clicks with Chan’s team. They’re professional, but they’re also constant, which is rare in a profession that has less job security than one might expect.

He doesn’t need to check his calendar to know if he’ll be available, because that isn’t the real question. If you’re done being a lone wolf; the only if in Chan’s message. 

Is Jisung done working alone?

He puts his headphones on and doesn’t play anything as he walks across the city centre. No one’s tailing him so far, and once he’s out in the old town district with cobblestone streets under his shoes and nothing but students surrounding him, he knows for a fact that he’s safe. 

Jisung ducks into an alley and sheds his blazer, pulling out his backpack from where he hid it behind an abandoned scooter. He slips into a grey hoodie, quickly unbuttoning his dress shirt and shoving it into his bag. 

For a moment, Jisung just…lingers. Exhales. Takes a moment to shed the costumes he just put on and allows himself, for a moment, to be Jisung. 

He can feel his scent blockers dissolving, the lime-scented edge of it escaping into the air. It always feels good to let his scent breathe, no matter how limited the downtime he gets might be. 

The streets are busy when Jisung rejoins their hustle-bustle.

He exits the quiet alley with headphones slung around his neck and his hair falling into his eyes. 

He stops at vendor stalls and buys souvenirs he’ll stick onto the fridge of the apartment he never goes back to. It’s a hassle to add things to it, especially because he needs to keep moving in between safehouses almost every other month, but Jisung tries, in many little ways, to think of every place he lives in as home. 

Freedom comes with an exchange. The price is constant vigilance. No boss, no team, just Jisung. It used to feel like a fair trade. It used to feel like Jisung could handle it all by himself, but these days…

Jisung wants someone to rely on. 

On his walk through the city, Jisung thinks about Chan’s proposal, tucked away neatly in his hoodie pocket. 

A team to rely on could mean that Jisung would worry less. He could spend less time sourcing guns and talking to asshole distributors. He could spend more time lazing around in his apartment. He could, most of all, have a group of people to call his own. His team. 

9 PM comes faster than Jisung expects it to. 

The Warehouse looks deceptively quiet when Jisung approaches it from the back. Save for the man mixing a drink under a barely lit section of the bar, there’s no sign of life.

The back door isn’t locked. 

“Hey,” the man at the bar says, his smile dazzling. “Welcome, Jisung. I’m Chan. Come here, take a seat, please,” he gestures to the bar stools. “You got here early.” 

“I…” Jisung looks around, feeling a little lost. “Sorry, I didn’t want to be late.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Chan says. “Sit down, I’ll get you a drink.” 

Jisung notices two cameras on each end of the bar. Neither of them are on. 

Jisung listens, going to sit down, still a little wary. Chan doesn’t seem like a threat, not when he’s been the man behind many of Jisung’s recent hits. They have an equal amount of dirt on one another. It levels the playing field. 

“Is beer okay?” 

Jisung wrinkles his nose before he realises what his face is doing. 

Chan lets out an amused chuckle. His body moves with his laugh, and Jisung gets the impression that he’s the kind of man who carries that infectious joy in his pocket everywhere he goes. 

“Okay, no beer.”

There’s a strong undercurrent of pine in the air, woody and a little smoky. It intermingles with something syrupy. Caramel, Jisung thinks. It doesn’t overlap with Chan’s scent the way it would if the man were mated, but it's a sign of some kind of bond built on companionship, romantic or not. It tells Jisung that Chan doesn’t work alone. That there’s someone else woven into his routine. 

Jisung also files away the fact that Chan opted not to wear scent blockers—a white flag, no doubt. 

The unknown, sweeter scent doesn’t change what becomes immediately obvious with the way Chan holds himself. Chan bows his head to Jisung in an acknowledgement offered from one alpha to another. A token of respect. A promise, unspoken but direct, that there will be no hostility in the moments that follow. 

It’s not always the case that two alphas, strangers to one another, bow to each other in deference. Jisung accepts the blue drink placed in front of him and feels the line of tension in his shoulders slightly dissolve. 

“Han Jisung,” Chan says, pouring some of the drink in his own glass. Jisung notices that, too. Chan seems to be going out of his way to reassure Jisung of something his instincts have been telling him since he walked into the bar—he’s safe here. “You’re great at your job.” 

Jisung raises an eyebrow. “You know my name.” 

“Of course. Do you prefer J1?” Chan asks, leaning onto the counter with his elbows. 

Jisung lets intuition guide him into acceptance. “No, you can call me Jisung,” he says, for the first time in a long time. It feels nice, although weird, although now-unusual, to have someone address him by his name. 

“Okay, well—Jisung, I know a lot of things about you. We’ve been scouting recently, and your name is…at the top of every shortlist, to say the least,” he says with a little laugh. “I’m impressed.”

A little bewildered, Jisung says, “Thank you. I’ve been enjoying working with your team, Chan-ssi.”

“I’ve heard good things about you from everyone in it! I’m so excited about you being here. A little birdie told me that you only work for yourself, Jisung-ssi.” 

The door to the bar rings open from somewhere behind Chan, and a bright, smiling face emerges from the back, immediately wrapping Chan in a half-hug. 

“Chan-ah,” the man who just waltzed into the space behind the bar exclaims, his voice a booming contrast to how open and bright his face looks. There’s familiarity in the way Chan gets pulled into a hug by the other man, and Jisung immediately realises that this is who the scent intermingling with Chan’s pine-oak belongs to. 

“Changbin-ah,” Chan says with a small smile, “Meet Han Jisung.” 

“Han Jisung?!” the man—Changbin—repeats. He looks from Chan to Jisung with slightly widened eyes. “Oh, wow,” he says. “I didn’t think you would actually come.” 

“Really?” Jisung asks, a little amused and very confused. “I’m surprised you both were waiting for me to come. I thought there would be like…a million other people here.” 

Changbin shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be very inconspicuous.” 

Chan bumps his shoulder into Changbin’s. “And—” he says, narrowing his eyes playfully at Changbin, “We don’t want anyone else.” 

Jisung looks in between both of them. 

“Sorry, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Chan says sheepishly. “Okay, introductions first. I believe you know me as Chan through the notes we’ve sent you recently?” 

Jisung nods. 

“Okay, well. I’m Christopher Bahng. You can continue to call me Chan, I prefer it. And this,” Chan points to his side, “is Seo Changbin.”

Jisung recognises the names in one quick flash. “Bahng and Seo?” 

Chan raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you’ve heard of us?” 

“Are you kidding?” Jisung looks in between them, his surprise undoubtedly written all over his face. “You both have…insane records, oh my god.”  

“Please, we’re nothing compared to you,” Chan says. 

“That’s bullshit!” Jisung says with a surprised laugh. “You’re being way too humble. I literally learned half of the things I know because I followed both of your breadcrumbs around the world,” he says.

“Oh,” Chan says, like he’s surprised. 

“Really?” Changbin asks, looking equally bewildered. “That move you pulled in Manila with the decoy trucks? I would have never thought of that.” 

“Which is exactly why we would love to have you on our team, Han Jisung,” Chan says before Jisung can digest that he’s being praised by hitman legacies. 

“You guys are so much younger than I thought you were.”

“We started out when we were too young to be doing this, honestly,” Chan explains. “But thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is!” Jisung’s mouth opens, and then closes. He tries to grasp at words. “I—” he steadies himself, putting both palms on the bar counter. “I can’t believe I’m in the same room as Bahng and Seo right now.” 

“Well, we’d like it if you were in the same room as us often!” Chan says excitedly. “The team is more than just us. You’ve met Seungmin on comms.” 

“Of course,” Jisung says. “He’s funny, I can see how working with him would be fun.”

“Does this mean you’re considering it?” Changbin asks, folding his arms in front of his chest. It’s a little humbling to realise how Jisung would have assumed that Changbin was an alpha, too, if it weren’t for the surprising lack of scent blockers that the omega has on. Jisung clearly has a lot to learn.

Lucky for him, Chan and Changbin (Bahng annd Seo!) are offering to take him in.

Jisung weighs the balance, weighs lonely post-mission nights, weighs watching his back, weighs the promise of everything unknown, and decides: fuck it. 

“I’m doing it,” he says. 

Chan blinks, as if he’s taken aback. “You can take your time deciding, you know?” 

Jisung shakes his head. “I’ve been working for myself for a long time, and honestly…I’m on the verge of burning out.”

Something flashes in Chan’s eyes. It feels like a reflection of Jisung’s own experience. “I’m glad you came here, then.” 

Changbin catches Jisung’s extended hand in a firm handshake. “You can’t take this back, Jisung-ah!” 

Jisung hasn’t been more sure of a split-second decision since the day he decided to leave home, never turn back, and commit himself to this life. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Welcome to the team, J1.”

@JINIRETCRAVE: #JUST_IN: Prince Lee Minho looks magnificent in the behind the scenes footage of his trip to Osaka for the 30th annual three-day IORC (International Omega Rights Conference).

This will mark the Kingdom’s first attendance at the conference.

Present day 

October 18, 2025

Jisung hisses as he presses a swab into the cut under his arm. Absent-mindedly, he tunes in to the only thing lighting up his living room at this late hour. 

"Today on Late Night with Yang Jeongin…" the bright, shining face on TV says. 

Jisung always thought, with the kind of entitlement that only an unassuming member of the audience can have, that Yang Jeongin was much too young when he joined show business. 

He still looks young, down to this moment, boxed into the barely-used TV at Jisung's place. 

Jisung winces, applying pressure to his wound and wrinkling his nose at the never-pleasant aroma of the alcohol swab. A sigh escapes him. 

He supposes he has no right to be pointing fingers at people who started out too young. 

Anyways, it’s too late in the night to think about that. Cleanup is always a bitch, which is why he prefers to not do it in silence. 

"…our guest is the talk of the town, which is why we had to get him here and clear the air. The Kingdom wants to know. Don't we?" 

Cheers erupt from behind the screen. A phantom audience's excitement bleeds into Jisung, helping him get through the litter of cuts on his arm. He makes sure to wipe all the blood off while singing along with the well-worn tune that signals the late night show's guest entrance. 

When he flicks his eyes back up, he has to pause the task at hand. 

"Your Highness," says Yang Jeongin, bowing deeply, his voice almost drowning in the applause as the focus of the camera shifts from the host's slicked-back, charming professionalism to the guest for the night: 

Prince Lee Minho. 

The Prince needs no introduction. Jisung guesses that's why the host didn't do his usual back and forth of hint-dropping before the grand reveal.

In lieu of conversation, applause booms. The camera pans slowly. It starts with the face—immediately recognisable as the Kingdom's darling—before zooming out. 

Every time Jisung sees the Prince, he remembers that there's a world out there that lives on a completely different plane of existence. The Prince is less human, more artefact. He’s beautiful. He’s well-loved. He’s the kind of man who can take Jisung, in all his jaded, post-mission glory, and leave him starstruck, even at this late hour of the night. 

Sure, the Prince is human, too, but it never feels that way. Back in that bathroom, years ago, Jisung didn’t know who he was facing. He didn't know that the man in front of him would go on to become a myth. A prophecy. Jisung recalls that tucked-away memory like it’s something out of a dream, because it very well could be. It’s hard to imagine that Lee Minho was real when he stood in front of Jisung, years ago. Part of Jisung is convinced that he was a pre-rut induced apparition. 

With hair that reflects the light—blonde, hailed as the rising sun, sitting atop the line to the throne, the Prince is a picture-perfect capture of exactly what anyone would like to see on TV.

Something pretty. Something that smiles. Something that looks good from every angle. 

"There's no need for all that, Jeonginnie," Prince Minho says with a coy smile. There's a rosy blush over his cheeks, and the delicate cloth of his regal cape follows his every step, expanding it. Making him take up space. "Is that how you treat someone who's known you since you had braces in your mouth?"

Jisung laughs, feeling helplessly charmed, and then realises what he’s doing, immediately schooling his expression back to something neutral. It’s funny, to imagine someone as proper as Prince Lee Minho as someone with a past. A past full of unknown experiences, a past in which he knows people beyond summits with other kingdoms and speeches on ambassador podiums. 

Jisung guesses that it must be part of the appeal. The not knowing is exactly the kind of mystery that makes people tune in to these late night TV appearances. 

The crowd laughs, right on time. 

Yang Jeongin gives the camera a shy smile, like he wasn't quite expecting the Prince to bring that up. "Ah, the Prince, everybody," he says, gesturing at the man in question with both hands as if to say here he is, look at him. 

"Tell us," Yang Jeongin begins as soon as the Prince takes his seat, "is it true? Does the Prince have his heart set on someone?"

The Prince holds himself like he knows every gaze is fixed on him. His shoulders drawn back, eyes steadily scanning across the crowd. It's the kind of confidence that makes you look. 

Jisung isn't a fool. He has eyes, and he can tell that Prince Minho is hot. It's easy to admit, even though Jisung rarely wastes his time on frivolous celebrity crushes. 

Minho laughs, his eyes crinkling with it. "No," he says, shaking his head. "And I don't know how you expect a different answer from the last time. You know my only loves are—"

"Cat-shaped, of course." 

Minho nods. "And, of course, the kingdom," he says, somehow flashing the camera a genuine smile that takes away the feeling that those words were simply the result of rounds of media training. 

"You know, your answer can change. I’m sure the Kingdom would have no objections if the Prince was to have his heart stolen…"

"You never know," Minho says, looking into the camera and tilting his head thoughtfully. 

"What does it take, then?” Yang Jeongin asks, tongue-in-cheek. "To capture the Prince's heart?" 

Prince Minho’s reply arrives without hesitation. "Is it something to capture?"

Jisung can’t look away. That's always been the thing with the Prince, hasn't it? He has just enough bite to make people want to know more. 

"I know many who would love to capture you," Yang Jeongin says. "But who could you capture in return? Do you have an ideal type, Your Highness?" 

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he doesn't tear them away from the screen. Is this really why the Prince is making an appearance tonight? To talk about his type?

"I like someone who pays attention," Prince Minho says. The camera pans to an audience shot of a woman sighing wistfully. When the Prince is back on screen, the video feed catches the tail end of him smiling sweetly and waving at someone in the crowd. "And someone who's more than a pretty face.”

Jisung can feel the room pause, waiting to get more out of the Prince, but Yang Jeongin swiftly says: "We'll keep an eye out for you, then. Unless you want to pick someone out from the crowd to be your date at the Royal Ball?" 

Ah, Jisung thinks, shaking his head. The real reason Prince Minho's on air tonight. 

No matter the time, the Prince ticks like clockwork. A set rhythm. Creating an identity is a predictable affair. Jisung would know. He puts identities on like costumes, discarding them at his doorstep at the end of the day. 

Jisung can practically recite the rest of the Late Night show segment in his head. He's able to let it slip into the background as he patches up the bigger wound on his torso, hissing into the quietness of his living room. When he turns his attention back to the TV, Prince Minho is looking directly into the camera, the edge of his mouth curved in a playful smile. 

"Before I go, I have an invitation," the Prince says, "for you."

Jisung's thumb, now hovering over the power off button on his remote, stays airborne, as if commanded to do so. 

"At the end of the month, the Palace will welcome dignitaries from around the world for the Royal Ball. We have the honour of hosting the Run once all our attendees have arrived. During the festivities, we encourage you to light your lanterns to celebrate the new and wash away the old.”

“I’m sure everyone here wouldn’t miss it for the world, Your Highness,” Jeongin says. “But I’ll only come if you bring your cats.” 

The audience laughs, and so does the Prince.

Jisung isn't one to romanticise, but...

Caught mid-laugh, the Prince is almost real. The way his shoulders shake, the way his eyes twinkle, the way his teeth peek out through a close-mouthed giggle. It makes him feel human, somehow. 

The glimpse goes as quickly as it comes. “You’ll just have to come and find out for yourself, Jeongin-ah,” Prince Minho says, sounding warm as he reaches out to ruffle the host’s hair. 

Jisung exhales as the band on screen begins to play the notes of the closing number to mark the end of the show. The curtains fall. The Prince disappears backstage, and Yang Jeongin takes a bow. 

9:30 PM on the dot, the ad break begins. 

Jisung yawns, cracking his neck in the process. It’s been a while since he’s gotten to sit down, so he sinks into the couch, and falls asleep, dreaming of charismatic Princes and what could have been.

@JINIRETCRAVE: #JUST_IN: What's in a run? Rumours of a royal mating run have begun to circulate across the Kingdom. Some say it's old-fashioned, others latch on to the potential of romance.

The question remains: can the Prince be caught?

Jisung wakes up to the afternoon sun licking at his face. 

He makes coffee for himself slowly. His fridge is barren save for the milk, bread, and eggs he picked up from the convenience store last night, so he makes do with what he has. 

Growing older has taught Jisung that sometimes he just needs an afternoon of lazing around to return to himself. 

Once he eats and does nothing on the couch for half the day, he goes to the park to breathe in some fresh air before time catches up to him.

Inevitably, someone sits on the bench next to the fountain and leaves a newspaper behind. 

Jisung waits for the stranger to leave. He looks around, makes sure no one’s watching as he occupies the bench and picks up the newspaper.

Jisung chuckles to himself at the 3RA INC. printed onto the top corner of the newspaper. For assassins, Chan and Changbin aren’t very subtle about the way they communicate with him. He’ll excuse them because Chan is apparently on vacation and Changbin is mid-mission, but just in case—he scans the park for any eyes lingering on him. 

Nothing seems out of place, so Jisung holds the newspaper up in front of his face.

Your new mission, the too-small text under the made up headline reads. 

Below it, a picture: 

Prince Lee Minho. 

Jisung blinks. He quickly searches the page for any other clues as to what this means, and finds none. 

“What the fuck,” Jisung whispers to himself.

He rechecks the picture. Yeah, that's Lee Minho. No tricks of the light. No typos in sight. 

To play it safe, he wills himself not to react and reads the dummy article on page 2, making sure not to attract too much attention from anyone in the park as his mind whirs.

Out of all the hits Jisung could have been assigned. The Prince.

Jisung tucks the newspaper under his arm and speedwalks towards his apartment.

As soon as the door closes behind him, he dials Chan’s Korean phone number, hoping that it’s still active. 

One ring, Chan doesn’t pick up. 

Two rings, still nothing.

As he’s toeing his shoes off, Jisung tries again. 

Halfway through the third ring, the line comes alive. 

“Hi,” Jisung says, wasting no time. 

“Jisung-ah,” Chan says, “Sorry, sorry. I was, um. A little busy. What a pleasant surprise!”

“I wish I could say the same, hyung,” Jisung says, lowering his voice just in case. “I just saw the newspaper you sent me.” 

“Ah.” 

“Ah? Care to explain why we’re suddenly printing out pictures of people from families we said we’d never target?” 

3RACHA has had a strict no royals policy since Jisung joined, which is why everything about this mission assignment is just…odd. Unexpected. Confusing. 

“Wha—? Oh, yes. Well, you see, Jisung…” 

Jisung was too caught up in his own surprise about the assassination of the Prince before, but now that he’s listening, he notices that Chan sounds out of breath. 

“Are you in the middle of something right now, Chan-hyung?” 

“No,” Chan says suddenly. “No, whaaat?”

“Dude.” Jisung huffs. “Did you pick up my call while you’re in the middle of a sex vacation?” 

Chan squawks. “Absolutely not,” he says, completely unconvincingly. “Anyways. Moving on! Someone called in a really big favour.” 

Jisung allows the topic to change. “Really?” he asks, incredulous. “All this for a favour?” 

“Yeah, we couldn't refuse them.” 

“I can refuse,” Jisung says. “You want me to deal with them for you?” 

Chan laughs. “No, aegi, it’s not a person we dislike. We...kind of owe them.” 

Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “Do I know this person?” 

“Jisung,” Chan says, with his don’t ask more questions tone, “you know I can’t tell you that.” 

"Just saying! It’s a pretty big favour to ask."

“I know. Trust me, though.” 

Jisung’s response is easy. “I do.”

Chan hums. “Hey, last page. There’s a few papers we stuck on there you could use to get yourself close to—”

“So this is really going to happen,” Jisung says, still wrapping his brain around his next hit. 

“Jisungie, take the paper out and turn to the last page. Check the number on top.”  

Jisung listens, turning the page and promptly feeling his eyes pop out of his head. “Oh, wow,” he breathes. “Is that even a real number?” 

“You bet your ass it is.” 

“Who even has this much money?”

“Are you reconsidering, then?”

“Hyung…” Jisung trails off. “I’m a little worried. You know this is a high profile thing, right? I can't just sneak in and finish the job. I'll need an alibi. I’m going to end up making media appearances.” 

“We’ll take care of that,” Chan says. “Your face is protected. You can use it, if you want. No one’s going to link it back to your name. Just focus on getting close.”

“Okay,” Jisung says, his mind already on overdrive, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. The Prince is basically untouchable. The Royal Family is steeped in tradition. Jisung would be taking out the nation’s sweetheart. 

He has absolutely no chance of fucking this up. 

“Jisung, you know I wouldn’t give you the name if I didn’t think you could do it.” 

“You think I can do everything, hyung.” 

Chan laughs. “Is it a crime to believe in my dongsaeng?”

Jisung shakes his head. Chan hasn’t let the whole dongsaeng bit go since the last time they were both finishing up a job together and some unassuming, sweet music label employee took one look at Chan and Jisung’s play-pretend of a musical duo on tour and said, You both are so precious. Chan-ssi, you must keep taking care of your dongsaeng, okay? 

“And I know you can do it, Jisung,” Chan’s voice says, ringing clearer in his ear than before. 

“Thank you for having faith in me,” Jisung says, softened by the sincerity in Chan’s voice. 

“Of course.” Chan pauses. “But also, fair warning…” 

“Hyung, no.” 

“I haven’t even said anything yet!” 

Jisung shakes his head fondly at Chan’s responding giggles. “I can already hear what you’re about to say.” 

“Okay, okay,” Chan says. “No, but actually. Be careful, okay? This is the first time you’re going to deal with someone you…have a liking for.” 

Jisung’s defensiveness speaks before he can spare it some thought. “Who said I have a liking for him!” 

Chan giggles again. “Jisungie, you get very, very quiet when anyone mentions him.”

“Hyung,” Jisung whines. “This is not how you should talk to your star employee.” 

“I’m just saying,” Chan says, and Jisung can imagine the way he’d be shrugging if he was in front of him right now. “You sure you can handle this?” 

Jisung’s response comes easily. “Of course.”

And really—the mission isn’t the problem. Prince Minho is a sheltered omega, one who represents everything royalty has to offer. 

Jisung knows his own pitfalls as an alpha, but he also knows exactly the kinds of strings he needs to manipulate to pull a reflection of those same weaknesses out of an omega. It’s wired into him. He knows the moves. He knows this will be easy. “The target was never my worry.”

Chan hums. “Feeling cocky today?” 

“I get to be a little cocky after the nation’s best tracked me down, don’t I?” Jisung says cheekily. 

“Of course you do. Alright, then. I’ll let you get to it.” 

Once the call clicks with the telltale sign of its end, Jisung stands up and stretches his arms over his head. 

He feels the itchy restlessness of the start of a new hit settle under his skin. The rush of having everything stretched out in front of him, ready for him to dive into. 

There’s no way Jisung’s going to be able to take it slow anymore. 

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, and seeks out the blackboard he keeps tucked away at the back of his closet. 

It’s time to figure out how to get close enough to deliver the final blow to the revered Prince of the West—Lee Minho. 

__

@JINIRETCRAVE: #JUST_IN: His Highness Lee Minho (pictured backstage) confirms the upcoming Royal Ball and Run on Late Night with Yang Jeongin. Rumour has it that alphas from far and wide will be in attendance in hopes that they can steal the young royal’s heart and #tietheknot.

Lee Minho might be an unlikely target, but he isn’t an unfindable one. 

Jisung’s seen it all. People hire hitmen like him to take the trash out when they can’t do it themselves. He’s chased down elusive arms dealers and people who make folklores out of themselves, leaving Jisung to collect stories passed down from one person to another and piece together a narrative. 

Lee Minho, on the other hand, is an open book. 

Winter is on its way to the West Kingdom, and with it comes the Royal Ball. One of the Prince’s most public appearances. A bridge in between the public and the royals.

Jisung needs to find a way to get inside the Palace and finish the job. 

Luckily, he knows exactly where to begin. 

#1: Research 

The great thing about being assigned a hit that involves a public figure is that the research stage is a walk in the park. 

Prince Lee Minho has been the most talked about royal since the day he presented. The great Prince of Prophecy, all the headlines read. The Queen protected her son from the public eye until the young man turned 19, after which everyone knew it was time for the Prince to become what he was destined to be, once and for all. 

The only blind spot in the royal records is any sign of the Prince’s childhood. What little exists of it is only revealed through interviews of him talking about exploring the Palace and growing up in the heart of the city.  

So, Jisung begins his research by scrolling all the way back to the time of the presentation ceremony. 

October 25, 2017. A feature in the newspaper, simple and celebratory. Castle lights up for Prince Lee Minho’s presentation ceremony.

Jisung scrolls through pictures of the Prince, his face not that different but softer.

The kingdom lit up in shades of red to celebrate the confirmation that Lee Minho was, of course, what he was born to be: the omegan Prince who would herald good fortune. 

Predictably, the press flocked to the prophecy faster than a superstitious aunty. 

Peace talks conclude at the West Summit. Neighbourhood township reports bountiful harvest. Student performance peaks at local university. 

All the top headlines from the weeks that followed the announcement of Lee Minho’s omegahood are rife with tales of prosperity. 

Jisung huffs. Whoever was working PR in the castle really knew what they were doing. Every small story of success coincidentally started receiving a spotlight. Mentions of the Prince and the good fortune he brought to the kingdom multiplied. 

The Prince’s life after his presentation seems to be a whirlwind. 

Jisung keeps reading, steeping himself deeper into the well that is Lee Minho. 

The Prince is a little older than Jisung. He’s recognisable no matter the crowd because of his regal strut and his striking almost-silver hair, which Jisung will admit is really working to the Prince’s favour. 

The mystery, though, lies in the before. The Prince’s teenage life is a phantom thing. There are no records of how he looked, how he felt, or what he was like on the eve of his presentation. 

Except—Jisung knows. Jisung’s only encounter with the Prince was before his presentation, so he knows something that the blogs and the newspaper articles can’t tell him. For whatever reason, Lee Minho had pitch-black hair when he bumped into Jisung in that bathroom. And, for whatever reason, he was kind to Jisung. 

Outside of that small, hidden-away interaction, there’s nothing else. No posts, no gossip websites, no Reddit threads. 

It’s as if an egg cracked open, and out came a confident, self-assured young man, tended to by the Palace and perfectly groomed to be the symbol that he is today. Prince Minho bows his head at the right times and carries himself with all the softness one might expect from a regal omega, mirroring his mother’s natural charm and adding a little something of his own to it. 

It’s hard to look away from the Prince. In fact, as Jisung dives deeper, he finds that it’s easy to get lost in the trap that sharp eyes and an even sharper nose lays out for the world. 

Paparazzi pictures, surprise appearances, press tours, interview stills. There’s no shortage of media coverage when it comes to the Prince. 

No one should look that good when they’re photographed mid-speech, but Lee Minho makes it work. He wears lighter colours often, whites and beiges. Pink, sometimes. Colours that soften the sharpness that lies in that distinct face. 

Jisung can see why people are so head over heels for the man. 

Jisung finds other things. Thousands of Twitter posts picking apart how good the Prince looks, how well-spoken he is. Many love confessions tucked away on personal faceless fan accounts. Multiple Reddit forums filled with slick-thirsty alphas and betas (and the occasional omega). All of it coming together to highlight the obvious—the Prince is a catch. 

And of course—the most useful of them all: hourly update accounts that track the Prince’s every move.

Out of all the digital powerhouses dedicated to the Prince, there’s one that’s been the most consistent in keeping the public informed about the royal family’s every move since the Prince came into the spotlight:

JUST IN. The Impartial Reporter for Everything in Town. JIN-IRET, for short. 

JIN-IRET is a pain in the royal family’s asses. A journalistic beast. The blog runner’s identity used to be hidden, but rumours (i.e., committed fact finders and royalists on r/unveiljiniret) solved the mystery sometime in 2020. 

r/unveiljiniret ◉ 5y ago
omega_rights_defender
Hwang Hyunjin is Jiniret

I was in the crowd for the Prince’s annual address on emancipation day when I saw Hwang Hyunjin in the press area. I know we dismissed him as jiniret early on, but I just searched all the way through all 100 of the pages that come up when you search his name, and there’s no other news of him being involved in journalism. 

A reply to the post reads: 

I agree. I saw Mr. Hwang show up to an afterparty exactly 10 minutes before His Highness the Prince arrived. None of the attendees were influencers-turned-models, other than him. Plus, the party was hosted by a perfume brand that the man famously ripped apart just the week before. He left moments after the Prince arrived. 

And from there, the reveal was just a race to see who gets to it first. The internet started noticing a certain blonde head of hair at the scene every time @JINIRETCRAVE posted never-before-seen pictures of the Prince. 

Of course, there were competing theories—that Jiniret was just a palace employee with too much time on their hands, or one of the Prince’s bodyguards. Popular contenders included Kim Jongin, working at Levanter Press, the kingdom’s most highly circulated newspaper. Or Im Nayeon, editor-in-chief at high fashion magazine twilight. Or, ridiculously enough, the Prince’s own brother, hailed as a monarch in his own right despite being famously anti-Crown and living in residences far, far away from the palace—Lee Felix. 

In the end, it was a simple caption on Hyunjin’s Instagram post—a selfie, winking at the camera—that confirmed Jiniret’s identity:

#JUST_IN: Surprise, bitches. I’m the only JIN-IRET in town. 

And if any skeptics remained after that post, Hyunjin followed up his announcement with a video that left no doubt as to his affiliations with JIN-IRET. 

Jisung pulls up the video. 

Unexpectedly, the thumbnail is a still of Hwang Hyunjin with a mic in his hand and…the Prince. 

“JUST IN—this is Jiniret reporting from the red carpet of Hwang Yeji’s new hit release: Gold. I’m joined by...the Prince!” Hyunjin turns to face the man in question. “How does it feel to be on the verge of watching a cinematic masterpiece, Your Highness?” 

“Please, call me Minho.” 

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Yes. I’ve been keeping track of your journalistic work.” 

“Oh!” Hyunjin says, and then clears his throat. 

“It’s wonderful to meet the man behind the articles.” 

Either Lee Minho’s media training is really deep-rooted, or he’s being sincere. Jisung can’t read any lingering tension between the two men on screen. 

“Thank you,” Hyunjin says with a slight bow of his head. 

The rest of the interview passes as expected, and Hyunjin ends up making for a wonderful interviewer. 

For once, the Prince isn’t asked about love or relationships or who he came with tonight. 

Maybe Jisung has the benefit of foresight, but Hwang Hyunjin makes perfect sense as the face and creator of Jiniret. There’s almost no one else with enough social clout to get into the biggest events high society has to offer while also having an artistic vision so strong that it manifests as a journalistic empire. 

The Jiniret website is a spectacle of its own, which makes sense. It has to be something special to inspire this much attention from the Kingdom. Jisung knows how hard it can be for independent news sources to go mainstream, but Jiniret seems to be a standalone, one-man production. 

The blog’s most recent post is another video. This time, Hyunjin is sitting at some kind of desk, and the background behind him is greenscreened to show a picturesque view of mountains and greenery.

“Welcome to today’s Jinire-port,” Hwang Hyunjin says, looking straight into the camera with a face that looks like it was always meant to be seen. He’s wearing an ornate-looking shirt and his hair is tied back, a few blonde pieces falling into his face. 

Jisung would definitely mistake him for royalty if he didn’t know what he was watching. Still, despite his opulence, there’s something about Hyunjin’s face that pulls the viewer closer. Maybe it’s the slightly sly look he always has in his eyes, like he’s always on the verge of revealing a secret. 

On the top left of the screen is a floating animation that reads Days to the Run: 7.

“Today, I come to you with the latest updates from the Palace, starting with everybody’s favourite topic—Prince Minho. The Prince has been spotted taking a vacation in a resort in the mountains. While the location remains undisclosed for the young royal’s safety, it is likely that he’s collecting blessings from the elders in preparation for the great search for his future partner.” 

Jisung sits up straight. 

“You heard that right. The Prince is officially on the market. We received communication this morning that the Ball in a weeks’ time is going to bring together suitors who hope to capture our very own Prince’s heart and his hand—in marriage. The dance will be followed by the Run—a token of the old times—where eligible alphas will attempt to catch the Prince as they make their way through the forest nearing the Palace. Of course, only time will tell if the Prince can be caught. Infamously, the young monarch has never been spotted on a romantic outing, sparking rumours across the land. After all, with how soft and gentle he is, it’s only expected that the Prince must have stolen many hearts. And yet, no jilted lovers or ex-flings have popped up on the horizon.” 

Jisung bites his thumbnail as an inkling of a plan forms in his brain. 

It’s a route he’s never taken towards a kill, but the Prince might just be the perfect candidate for Jisung to use…different skillsets. 

“Some say he isn’t interested, and others say his standards are too high. If you ask me…” Hyunjin leans closer to the camera, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow, “high standards are the bare minimum. An omega should always expect the best.” 

Jisung chuckles. 

“Critics of the Ball say that the Prince should be allowed more choice. What if the alpha who wins isn’t the Prince’s fated mate?” 

Fated mates. Jisung can’t remember the last time he heard someone talk about those. The skeptic in him doubts that they even exist, but…it's nice. The idea seems romantic. 

And unattainable, his mind offers. But what does Jisung know about matters of the heart? Far be it from him to tempt fate and its whims. 

“Stay tuned for further updates as the Prince prepares to make his return to the heart of the city. Until then, we’ll be counting down to the Run. We’re @JINIRETCRAVE on everything.” Hyunjin gives the camera a two-fingered salute. “Until next time.”

The screen goes pitch black, and Jisung finally hears the full frequency of what he needs to do hit him. 

Jisung needs to get close. Close enough to understand what’s going on, close enough to deliver the blow, close enough to decipher the central question:

Why would someone put a hit on the Prince? 

It’s the dilemma that’s been buzzing underneath Jisung’s skin since Chan’s phone call. He tries not to get involved in the why and just do his job, but the Prince just seems like...an unlikely target.

Jisung rereads through the file and searches for something, anything. Evidence that the Prince has his hands bloodied with an act that warrants a hit planted on his head. 

There’s nothing to that effect. 

Jisung isn’t in the business of moralising his kills. 

Maybe it’s a fellow royal. Maybe it’s someone who hates the monarchy. Or maybe there’s a missing thread, one that Jisung can’t see because he doesn’t know enough. 

Jisung doesn’t concern himself with good or evil. But, in the grey area of the Prince’s life, there’s a mystery. 

Jisung’s gut instinct is telling him that he needs to get closer. He needs to find a way to get his hand through the crack in the Prince’s walls. It’s the only way to satiate the newfound hunger that bubbles under Jisung’s skin. 

The Ball. The suitors. The Run. The Prince’s search for the one. 

The threads come together to sew the perfect window.

If Jisung needs to get close, then he knows exactly what he needs to do.

He needs to put himself in the running for Prince Lee Minho’s hand in marriage. 

#2 - Find the Prince

Hwang Hyunjin only ever reveals details about the Prince that are safe for the public to consume. 

For instance: 

The fact that Prince Lee Minho is at a resort in the mountains right now would be a complete violation of his privacy if the mountains weren’t home to a dozen resorts. 

The average member of the public wouldn’t get as far as singling out which resort the Prince is in. It’s a journey and a half to get there in the first place, and then there's the matter of entry. The mountain resorts are some of the most cliquey places in the Kingdom. There are requirements to get in, and being rich is among the topmost of them. 

The average member of the public would just fill out the application Jiniret just posted, caught up in their dream of courting the Prince, and continue with their day. 

Jisung, on the other hand, knows that doing something like courting the Prince is a...face to face affair. 

Jisung brings out his corkboard and worries his bottom lip, staring at the names of the 12 resorts spread out across the mountains.

Hm. He has his work cut out for him. 

He fishes out his phone and dials Seungmin’s new number. 

“Seungminnie,” Jisung greets. 

The sounds of the keyboard clacking greet Jisung, after which Seungmin’s voice says, “I hear you’re overthrowing the monarchy.” 

“Something like that. Maybe.” 

“Hmmm.”

“You sound like you’re doubting me.” 

“You never say maybe,” Seungmin replies coolly. “It makes me think you have something else up your sleeve.” 

“Wellllll.” Jisung paces from one end of his living room to another, and then back. “Do you happen to know who sent in the hit?” 

Seungmin responds exactly how Jisung expects him to. “You know we don’t get that information, Jisung.” 

“I thought I’d ask anyway,” Jisung says, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of his living room window and wondering, still. He can’t stop wondering. It takes significant effort to seek out Jisung—no, J1, to make a kill. You have to go through Chan and Changbin, for one. You have to know how to reach 3RACHA, for two. 

This has to be someone familiar enough with the game that they know who’s who. 

“Be careful,” Seungmin says. “Going off track might send you running in circles.” 

Jisung huffs softly. “You know me too well.”

“I know enough to know you’d rather ask for forgiveness than for permission, so. Just. Carefully, okay?”

Jisung smiles against the window pane. “Aw, you care.” 

Seungmin’s eye roll is audible, and the silence that follows spells his response out: obviously. “Tell me, how can I help you?” 

Jisung pushes himself upright. “I need eyes on every resort in the mountains.” 

Seungmin whistles. “Alright. Check your feed in 10 minutes.” 

“Thank you,” Jisung says, and then pauses. “Do you have a pair of binoculars I can borrow?” 

__

Even without access to the CCTV footage, it’s easy to rule out the resorts closer to the heart of the city, because they’re the ones dedicated to either a) excited hobbyists arriving from out of town for a weekend of sports-playing or b) the overworked professional looking for a vacation without having to get on a flight. 

The Prince is none of those things, so that knocks out the first two clubs off of Jisung’s list. 

Now, Jisung begins his actual research. 

He cracks his knuckles, hooking up the feed Seungmin forwarded him to the monitors in his room. 

The microwave dings in the distance, and Jisung jogs to the kitchen, grabs his dinner, and hurries back to the task. Cheeks stuffed with a hefty first bite, he settles into his desk chair and rewinds all the camera footage back to the day that Jiniret announced the Prince’s travel. 

So, as it goes, Jisung spends the first day of his digital wild-prince-chase meeting several dead ends. He does make a few interesting observations, though, such as: 

Hwang Hyunjin checked into the Collision Resort Club at 7 am in the morning with a cute-looking dog in the huge bag slung over his shoulder. It has absolutely no relevance to the mission, but Jisung files the piece of information regarding Jiniret’s whereabouts in his back pocket, just in case. 

Next, Jisung watches Lee Felix, brother to Prince Minho, checking in to the 5-Star Society Resorts on the same day that Lee Minho’s vacation in the mountains was announced. Jisung does a quick search through every Lee Felix fanpage he can find and notices that this piece of information regarding Felix’s location seems to have been purposefully excluded. 

Hm. 

Jisung zooms in, abandoning the other camera feeds. 

5-Star Society has two entry points. Its back entrance is a complete black-out zone. No cameras, no press, no outsiders. Jisung pulls up the resort’s layout and narrows his eyes. 

If Lee Minho accessed the building through the back door, then he probably still had to go through the arrival area at the back—which does not have CCTV. The back must be for people who prefer to keep their visits private. 

Jisung plants his finger on the layout, considering the different ways the Prince could have gone. 

Although the entrance looks like a regular back door, the arrival area leads up to two staircases. They take up a considerable amount of space—probably because the club anticipated the area being used for high profile entrances. 

The blueprint of the first floor corridor shows that it’s connected to a bridge structure that leads to the front lobby. 

Jisung bites his thumbnail, filtering out cameras #3 to #12 on account of them having no connection to the back of the building. 

Jisung puts his finger to the monitor and traces the paths that could be. Up the stairs, and then either left, or right. The elevators are different for people who enter from the back, he can’t rely on the footage from the elevators intended for the general public.

Cameras #30-Left and #32-Right have a clear shot of the bathroom up the stairs, which lie opposite to the back door elevators. Jisung leans forward, his chair creaking with the movement as he brings the toggle to around 2 p.m., a few hours before Lee Felix’s arrival at 5-Star. 

A thorough investigation of the timestamp at 1400 hours yields…nothing.

Jisung cracks his neck and sighs loudly. If this is a dead end, he swears he’s going to go—yell into a pillow, probably. Take a nap, definitely. 

Then: 

In the grainy camera feed, a shadow passes through the area next to the elevators. 

Jisung pauses the feed. Squints. 

He checks the videos for someone ascending the main lobby stairs at the same time as the shadow. 

No one. The stairs are empty, and everyone in the lobby at 15:02 stays in their exact same spot at 15:03. 

Jisung brings up Camera #15-Centre and #30-Left on his screen.

He zooms in and runs it back to 15:00. 

15:01, and the shadow hasn’t passed through the passage near the bathrooms yet. 

15:02, on the dot—#30-Left catches the shadow. 

15:03, and there. Right there, on #15-Centre. A blonde head of hair atop the blurry figure that passes through the space in between the hallways. 

Jisung stops breathing, almost. 

Another zoom in. He runs it back, again. 

15:01: Nothing

15:02: Nothing. 

15:03. Bingo. Same hair, same outfit, same time window. 

Prince Lee Minho is at the 5-Star Society. 

__

Jisung celebrates his successful investigation with a congratulatory head pat delivered to himself by his own hand and a good job, Jisung-ah sent by Changbin, who is well-used to receiving random mission updates from Jisung, and even more used to feeding Jisung’s need for well-meaning praise. 

It helps with the hollow feeling that used to overtake Jisung when he felt like he was dedicating himself to doing something that doesn’t really matter. It helps to know that there are real people—people he cares about—who are willing to take out time of the varying high stakes hits they’re involved in to send Jisung a simple text congratulating him on the small things. 

Please get some sleep now, Changbin’s next text says. I’m sure nothing will change by the time you wake up. 

Jisung grumbles to himself when he receives the text. There’s still so many questions. What is the Prince doing at 5-Star? How should Jisung introduce himself to him? What corners of the Prince’s life are open enough for Jisung to squeeze into? 

He startles right before his face almost hits the hardwood desk and then sleepily walks his way to bed. 

As soon as the back of his head hits the pillow, the curious beast in Jisung’s mind amps up a notch. He grabs his phone from the nightstand, squinting as he takes in Jiniret’s most recent update—shots of the Prince from a photoshoot. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: #JUST_IN: Prince Lee Minho looks stupendous in new photos. 

Jisung yawns, but his eyes don’t close. He takes in Lee Minho in the photos, perched on a seat in one picture and laying down in the other. 

His mind buzzes as he lets himself stare, feeling nervous the same way he did years ago, when faced with the three-dimensional reality of Lee Minho. He’s been trying not to think about that almost-moment all this time, but like this, two blankets deep and head sinking into the pillow, it’s easy to let his mind lead him astray. 

The Prince probably forgot about the interaction as soon as he left the bathroom. 

Jisung, though—Jisung never quite managed to let go. He didn’t even realise it was the Prince he was talking to until hours later, when he went down a royal family-shaped rabbit hole. 

He searched everywhere. Corners of the internet with blurry pictures, official Palace photographs, archives upon archives upon archives. 

He found nothing. In retrospect, he knows that it’s because it was before the Prince had presented. 

Jisung wonders if…

Jisung pushes the thought away. The Prince probably doesn’t remember Jisung. It’s foolish to think otherwise. Jisung had a mask on. Jisung was in the bathroom for maybe a total of 5 minutes. Hell, Jisung looked different.

Jisung was younger, back then. He had glasses on over his mask. His hair was dyed blonde for the mission. He used to be lankier in his youth, overcompensating for what he didn’t have in strength with brashness and detachment. He used to think he needed to bite back all the time. 

So much has changed, but some things—

Jisung can imagine some things remaining the same. 

What would it be like, now, if the same scene were to repeat? If Jisung knew that the man who walked out of that stall—the handsome, arresting man, the man whose presence mingled with that mysterious scent in the air to push Jisung closer to the edge he didn’t even know he was on—was the same man he’d be tasked to kill?

Back then, Jisung was going into rut. 

It was bad timing. And to be trapped with someone on the verge of their presentation while straddling that line of desire…it feels illicit to even think about it, but it happened.  

Jisung’s eyes flutter as his mind reconstructs the scene, this time in a new light. 

The what ifs spill out of Jisung like a waterfall, following the movement of his hand. Down, caressing the slopes of his chest. Down, ghosting over his waistband. 

What if Jisung had turned around earlier? What if his scent blockers wore off all the way? What if the Prince was locked in the room with Jisung? What if that spark of interest in those brown eyes bubbled over and became something else?

Jisung’s hips buck up into his hand. He gasps, surprised at the intensity of his reaction. He loses the last thread of reason in his desire-muddy brain and slips into the space where everything becomes a chase—to push his waistband down, to slide a hand under his briefs, to wrap a loose fist around his already drooling cock and gasp. 

“Ah,” Jisung whimpers into the quiet room. 

What if Jisung closed the distance? What if Jisung stayed and let his rut consume him? Would Lee Minho take it? Or would he fix Jisung with that almost-impassive, curious stare, flick his eyes down to Jisung’s hand working over himself desperately? Would he let Jisung…

Jisung’s eyes flash with a vision. His hand speeds up, precum leaking all over his fingers. He gets sticky, wetter than wet. He imagines the version of Lee Minho in his mind inching closer, and closer. 

And then his imagination shatters into many tiny pieces, taking him everywhere, nowhere, ah ah—right there—right…

Jisung’s head tips back, falling onto the pillow. His hips stutter, and somebody’s in front of him. No, behind him. Desire shapeshifts, and then it’s a nose on Jisung’s throat. A tight heat around his cock. A thumb digging into his slit. It’s eyes rolling back and a mouth on his throat. Teeth teasing more, and Jisung begging more, more, more, and a bite right where it hurts, and oh—that one must be Jisung’s favourite because it makes a soft fuck spill out of his mouth. 

The bedsheets get wrinkled under his body’s restless movement. Jisung works his hand up and down his cock, hips moving up to fuck his fist like he’s fucking someone. And then his body tells him no, not really. That’s not what you’re imagining. 

The man of Jisung’s fantasies grabs his wrists and twists him around. 

Jisung would growl, probably. He growls right now at the thought of being manhandled like that. His cock kicks in his hand. A head of silver hair ducks into the curve of Jisung’s throat—bared. 

Jisung moans, his hips convulsing off the mattress, the base of his cock getting thicker. The ring that his thumb and index form around the base of his cock gets wider, swelling with the beginning of his knot. 

Jisung’s mouth rounds out. “Fuck,” he hisses, fantasy turning into countless smaller splinters of feeling. The pressure’s everywhere. He doesn’t know where it begins, how it forms inside him, how it makes him feel like he’s being turned inside out. 

His knot gets thicker in his hold, pulsing and throbbing and god all he can see is Lee Minho. All this time staring at the Prince’s face has granted Jisung’s imagination a frightening, dizzying kind of accuracy. The size of his hands, small. Lips pouty. Just the top lip that sticks out, dragging over skin. Fingers wide, thick, perfect to encircle and hold and press right there—fuck—

Jisung comes all over his hand with a broken sound. 

As he comes down from the best orgasm he’s had in a long time, Jisung stares at the ceiling above him in silence and hopes that this thing, whatever it is, is out of his system. 

—

When Jisung wakes up, he does it in a rush. He grabs his phone from under the pillow and blushes as he swipes the zoomed in picture from Lee Minho's magazine shoot away, instead opening up the one piece of media he knows he can trust to let him know if his target has left the mountains. 

Jiniret’s last few updates remain unchanged.

Okay, everything is the same. 

Changbin was right, after all. Jisung just needed to get some sleep. 

The next thing Jisung does after waking up is eat a real breakfast. Something with nutrients. 

The third thing Jisung does is return to his monitors, which are stuck on the same frame from last night. 

Jisung double checks to confirm that he wasn’t just hallucinating things. Nope. That is definitely the Prince. Or someone with really similar hair to him, but the date, time, and Lee Felix-related coincidences are enough for Jisung to take a chance on his hunch.  

The blonde-haired shadow disappears into the West entrance. The cameras over there aren’t accessible by anyone who’s off-grounds, for guest privacy. 

After that moment, Lee Minho doesn’t make an appearance in any publicly recorded areas. It’s almost like the man knows exactly what areas he needs to avoid to not be seen. 

Lucky for Jisung, the Prince’s brother is his wild card. He’s everywhere. Lee Felix is at the pool minutes after he checks in. He’s socialising with a group of tourists at the dinner area. And at the end of the day, he’s following the same path that the shadow took to the West. 

There’s a keycard pinched in between his fingers. Jisung zooms in, trying to make something out of it with how grainy the footage is. 

Maroon. Jisung crossreferences the colour.

The maroon keycards are reserved for the executive suites at the resort.

How predictable, Jisung thinks. Part of him wishes he was wrong, but the sheltered, royal omega getting the princess treatment at the fanciest suite is...unsurprising. Disappointingly so. 

Maybe Jisung’s just overcomplicating the mission. 

Jisung rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. This job is definitely going to be easier than he imagined it to be. If the Prince likes pretty, expensive, fancy things, then Jisung just needs to put on the costume, get close enough, and take his shot. 

Clean and simple. It should be a relief. 

Why does it feel like anything but that? 

Jisung packs his things and gets into his car, stopping only to pick up the binoculars Seungmin sent to his mailbox. 

The radio comes alive. 

"Tonight on knotFM," the radio presenter’s voice says, "we’re speaking to Lee Juyeon, who’s dead set on winning Prince Minho’s hand. Stay tuned for KnoTalk with Yoo Jeongyeon!” 

Jisung sighs, knowing he should probably listen. For research purposes. 

This is going to be a long drive. 

#3 - The Stake Out 

Jisung expected the drive to the mountains to be longer than it is, but he’s basically there in less than 2 hours. 

En route, he sends an encoded voice message to Seungmin to confirm his hotel reservation at the modest, comfy-looking inn adjacent to 5-Star Society. It’s on the West side, same as Lee Felix and—potentially—Lee Minho himself. 

After a drive full of inclines and winding roads, Jisung pulls into the inn’s car park and checks the latest message from Seungmin. 

Just upgraded your room. You’re welcome. Tomorrow. Trainee at the reception. Do your thing.  

Jisung didn’t even know a place like this did upgrades, but far be it from him to question Kim Seungmin’s ways—which is exactly the thought that echoes in his head when he pushes open the curtains on his fifth floor room and finds that he directly, and almost invisibly, faces the balconies connected to each presidential suite. 

Jisung pulls out the diagram he tucked into his pocket as he sheds his jacket off.  

If he assumed correctly and the hotel’s registry for guests checked in up until yesterday is to be trusted, then the suites that lie to the left of Jisung’s line of sight are vacant. 

That leaves him with the three on the right. 

The rightmost suite is the only one with an occupied balcony. A woman with her hair slicked back looks out from it, her gaze distant as her elbows rest on the railing, a cigarette pinched in between her fingers. 

Jisung can see the open balcony door leading into the room. Empty for now, but who is he to rule out the Prince having a companion during his getaway?

Jisung drags a chair up to the window and settles near it, staring out from between its frames. He pulls out the binoculars and the live feed to the cameras for the path closest to the West Wing entrance, just in case. 

The door to the balcony on the right closes. The woman disappears inside, but not before Jisung can get a fuller glimpse of the inside of the room. He wrinkles his nose at the clear aftermath of some kind of in-room party. 

His attention is stolen, then, by the balcony in the middle. There’s nothing especially revealing about the sliver of light that escapes through a crack in the curtains, but it tells Jisung that someone’s in the room. 

The balcony to the left of the now-illuminated room becomes a pretty simple affair when, about 45 minutes into his dutiful observation, a member of the hotel staff pulls the curtains back and begins fluffing the sofa. 

Okay. One unoccupied. One uncertain. One recovering from some kind of party. 

Jisung absentmindedly chews on a cookie as he waits for the guest in the middle to show themselves. 

Something else steals his attention, though. Sixth floor, leftmost window. The curtains are open, and the door unlocks, painting the room in the soft-wash of the light from the resort’s hallway. 

Jisung doesn’t mean to look for more than a second, but…

He looks. 

Jisung’s attention is successfully stolen. The man behind the window is bathed in darkness, save for the dim light of the lamp in the room, which has been left on. 

The man has quite a structured outfit on. It’s formal. The angles are sharp with something that suggests strength. 

The man sheds the blazer he has on, throwing it onto the bed.

Jisung feels a voyeuristic curiosity possess him, so he fixes the binoculars on the sixth floor window. 

The man at the window turns to the side, stretching his arms over his head. His body bends gracefully. Intentionally. Like a dance. The shadows move alongside his form, revealing lightened hair, a sturdy frame, a sharp nose. 

And when Jisung’s fingers freeze over the zoom toggle of the binoculars, he knows. The shape of that nose, the jut of those lips. Hair that curls just slightly at the nape of the elongated neck. Intuition tugs at Jisung’s gut. This is it. 

When the man moves to turn the other lamp on, golden light unfurls in the room to confirm exactly who Jisung’s looking at:

Prince Minho.

The Prince looks different like this, in the soft light of a room where he thinks no one’s watching. His hair is ruffled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. He unbuttons the collar of his shirt, turning his body just slightly. He’s probably looking into the mirror next to the bed. 

The angle works to Jisung’s favour, showing him more than he expected to see. 

And Jisung knows—he should probably put the binoculars down. They're just a tool to confirm that the Prince is, indeed, in there.

But temptation is a mousetrap, and Jisung can’t wring himself free. It moulds his senses, transforms his objective. 

The slow unbuttoning of the Prince’s shirt continues. From where Jisung is watching, he can see an exposed stretch of neck, a hint of collarbone. 

Like this, the Prince looks so focused. So…engaged. Single-minded. He works his fingers over the top three buttons quickly. Then, he moves to the buttons on his cuffs. The unveiling of his wrist freezes all rational thought in Jisung’s brain, making it so that he can't look away. The back of the Prince’s hand is decorated with a throughline of veins. 

It’s certainly something, Jisung thinks, feeling his skin heat up, that everyone likes to describe the Prince as soft, gentle, swee​​t, cute. He is those things, maybe, but in this light—the Prince looks like he’s cut from the hardest of stones. Chiseled with purpose. Capable of anything. 

The Prince is always handsome. In that leading man, hair swooped perfectly, heartthrob kind of way. 

But right now, a little rumpled up from the day, Lee Minho doesn’t reflect light, he catches it. His face is open, untouched by any of the layers that make him the personality that he is. He looks like a man. He looks like he could be something more than a prophecy, up there on a pedestal.

Jisung feels his hands get clammy around the flimsy plastic of the binoculars. 

Jisung drinks in the details. The Prince’s hand is adorned with a single ring and a gold bracelet. It looks almost vulnerable in the softness of the limited vision the binoculars grant him. 

With his cuffs now undone, the Prince’s chest rises and falls slowly, like the release of a breath long-held. Like relief. Like a line of tension dissolving. He seems tired, a little worn down. 

He walks backwards, turning to face the window so that his back faces the bed. When he sits down, he does it with another exhale. This one doesn’t reveal itself through the rise and fall of his chest, but rather the soft opening of his mouth. The slightest tipping back of his head.

Jisung’s mouth goes dry, his eyes tracing down the line of the Prince’s throat, the pulled-apart collar of his shirt, the shifting back of his hips, the spread of his thighs. 

Does the Prince always look so inviting? Jisung feels his own hips shift slightly at the sight.

Jisung exhales. His straying attention snaps at him like a rubber band. 

Jisung’s eyes flick back to the Prince’s face.  

And then—

Prince Minho meets Jisung’s gaze. 

Jisung freezes. Blinks. Doesn’t dare to move. 

The Prince straightens his arms behind him, bending his elbows to lean his weight back onto the mattress, sprawled out casually. 

Jisung double checks if the first, translucent layer of curtains in his room are still closed. If the lights are still off. 

Everything’s in order, and yet, the Prince’s gaze stares out of the window like he’s searching for something—someone.  

Part of Jisung can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but look into the Prince’s eyes. Maybe this is some higher power’s way of getting Jisung used to looking the man in the eyes. 

Of course, the Prince can’t actually be staring back at Jisung. Stakeouts can feel a little nerve wracking when they’re new, but Jisung has enough experience to know that the subject of his attention is simply looking out of the balcony. 

Logic doesn’t stop Jisung from feeling like he’s being looked at, though. 

Jisung’s view shifts as the Prince brings his hand back over his chest, undoing another button on his dress shirt. It’s black. Jisung notices that for the first time. He also notices that the sleeves of his shirts are rolled up. That his head is slightly tilted, like a question. 

If Lee Minho's body were a conversation, it would start simple. Straightforward. Like what you see? 

There’s something unexpectedly cocky in the way he takes up space in that executive suite of his. He doesn’t get any smaller when he’s alone. He commands even with no audience, and Jisung has to admit…

He didn’t expect that. 

Maybe it’s a little stereotypical of him to assume, but he thought the Prince would prefer to lean into his softness, especially in private. He imagines it must be a lot—to lead and to be subject to the intense scrutiny that people seem to save for omegas in high positions. He’d expect that someone under that much pressure uses every minute of free time they get to find nooks and crannies of comfort.

The mattress dips as the Prince makes himself comfortable, letting his head fall back as he stares at the ceiling for a few long seconds. Jisung uses the opportunity to direct his sight to the elongated stretch of the Prince’s neck. 

His teeth ache with a phantom want that passes through him with the speed of an apparition in the night.

The Prince drags Jisung out of his straying thoughts when he suddenly stands up. His eyes look out of the window as he does, one hand going to the fourth button on his shirt. 

Jisung feels saliva pool in his mouth. 

He works his fingers over the button, popping it open. One more, and one more. Jisung bites down on his lip, but a high-pitched sound escapes him anyway, like the aftermath of a mean punch to his stomach. 

The Prince’s approach to the balcony doors has Jisung’s hair standing on its ends. 

He doesn’t walk, he prowls. It makes all the sense leak out of Jisung’s head. He looks down, right in Jisung’s direction—

No. It can’t be. He isn’t looking at him.

The Prince's eyes lend to a slippery truth, though, and Jisung isn’t sure if he can keep holding on to it.

The fantasy of it is too appealing, too fresh. Jisung knows what’s logical, but he still feels a flash of fiery, hot, dripping desire take over as yet another button gets undone, leaving only the part of the shirt that isn’t tucked in. There’s barely two buttons in between Jisung and an unobstructed view of the man who makes alphas and omegas go feral with a simple glimpse of his wrist. It feels like he’s doing something he isn’t supposed to when he keeps looking, salivates at the light, dusky hair drawing a path just below the Prince’s bellybutton, wonders how his view might change if he popped another button open, dragged a zipper down—

A movement to the right steals Jisung’s attention. He notices the Prince’s hand outstretch itself, dragging the curtain closed. 

Right before the subject of Jisung’s attention disappears from view, something strange happens. 

Lee Minho pauses. Levels his gaze out of the window, as he’s been doing. Stills. 

And winks. 

The curtains close.

Well, fuck. 

#4 - Observation Infiltration 

Jisung gets up from his seat near the window, drops onto the bed, and decides to sleep on it, listening to the sound of raindrops starting to hit the window, the speed of it outrunning the thoughts going wild in his head. 

Jisung may have gotten himself into many-a-situation in his years of work, but he’s never been caught. It’s his thing. He always straddles the line between careful and reckless. 

He sits up on the bed and stares at the abandoned binoculars on the desk. Goddamn Kim Seungmin.  

There’s a message from Chan waiting on Jisung’s burner phone when he rubs his eyes awake. 

CB97

Choi Jisung. ID at the reception. Told them you lost it and someone’s returning it to you 

J1

And you didn’t come say hi? 

CB97 

Couldn’t :’(

I’m driving to Busan 

J1

Oooohh 

Hot date? 

CB97 

This is a work chat so 

that’s inappropriate 

J1

LOL

Our work is inappropriate bro

CB97 

Not always ㅋㅋ~

But

Yeah, it's a date 

Kind of??

I’m a little confused 

He called me yesterday and said he needs something 

And now I’m driving to him

J1

Ohhhh 

The great big gay road trip 

Maybe you’ll score yourself a boyfriend 

CB97 

ㅋㅋ idk he makes me so nervous ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ 

I’m going to try 

What about you 

How’s your hot sexy hit

You distracted yet?

J1 

Ummmmmmmmm

Gtg

Jisung drops the phone face first onto the bed. 

God, fuck. The heart of the problem pulses in his head, cracking at him like a whip. Did Lee Minho see him last night?

Jisung thinks back to it, and the memory appears to him like a dream. Both of them at the window, distance cutting in between.

It makes no sense. Jisung probably imagined the wink. It was more of an opening and closing of his eyes. A trick of the light, dust in the eye, a fluttering eyelash. A too-quick blink. It could be anything else. 

He clings to logic, pulls at its seams. Picks the image in his brain apart.

No explanation adds up. He’s been tracking the Prince’s every move since the assignment came in. He knows what the view from that window looks like, and he knows that, objectively, the inn’s window would’ve been a barely visible speck, even for someone with 20/20 vision. 

Jisung must be getting paranoid. 

Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t that bad.

Paranoia makes him alert. 

Jisung rolls out of bed and opens up the wardrobe, looking past the bathrobe to find the suit sent into the room before his arrival. 

He pulls out the suitcase stashed in the wardrobe and folds the suit neatly into it for now, saving it for when he actually intends to speak to Lee Minho.

For now, he’s going to engage in some totally detached, objective, and professional tailing. 

It’s weird. It’s only been 3 proper days of recon, and Jisung is already feeling the itch he gets when he wants to get more hands-on. It’s an instinct he tries to avoid, because the clean-up can range from a little messy to oh no I need to call Chan, but it’s fun. 

But, alas. For now, he’ll do some more recon, because getting distracted by the mark is a new experience, and he’s still finding his footing when it comes to Lee Minho and his mysterious charms.  

He puts on his hat and the most basic looking outfit he was able to shove into his backpack before he drove here—a white t-shirt, a zip-up hoodie, and denim—and, just in case, keeps the curtains mostly closed as he peeks from the corner.

The curtains to the Prince’s room are open. 

Okay, he’s awake. 

Jisung stops in front of his mirror to apply the scent blocker onto his neck. He tips his head back just so, and his mind unhelpfully flashes with the vision of Lee Minho’s throat in a similar position. 

Jisung exhales through his nose, impatiently watching the blocker dissolve into his skin, making sure to shine a light against it to check that it’s invisible. 

Then, he heads to the 5-Star Society's property. 

“Hi,” he says to the man at the front desk. Jisung eyes the man’s name tag. Jiwoong. He takes his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m a guest of Changbin’s.”

Jiwoong sends Jisung a neutral smile and greets him, typing something onto his keyboard. 

“We’re pleased to have you here. Can I get your name?” 

Jisung puts his elbows on the desk and leans forward, pasting a sweet smile onto his face. “It’s Choi Jisung.” 

The man nods. “We have you down here for a week’s visit, Mr. Choi.”

“Thank you,” Jisung says, and the elevators ding in the background. He doesn’t look back, but he hears Lee Felix’s voice boom across the lobby. 

“Ah, Hyunjinnie. You should come here!” 

Jisung files that away for later. He tilts his head at Jiwoong, tapping his fingers against the marble-top of the front desk. “Jiwoong-ssi, I have a request, if you don’t mind.”

Jiwoong blinks. He looks a little taken-aback for a moment, and if Jisung were to barter a guess—it’s probably because it’s rare for someone to call Jiwoong by his name in a place like this. 

“Of course, go ahead,” Jiwoong says. 

“I’m going through a bit of a rough time, and my fiancé was supposed to come on this trip with me, but…” he makes his lower lip wobble. His eyes get a little watery. 

Jiwoong’s eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Jisung sniffles, bringing a fingertip to his lower lashline, wiping it gently. “It’s okay,” he says with a shaky voice. “It was Changbin.” 

“Ah…”

“It’s just…we have so many memories in the room he’s booked. And I can’t—” Jisung hiccups, his face contorting with a soundless sob. “I can’t go back to that room. But I can’t be anywhere else…I don’t know what—ah,” he sniffles again, “I just don’t know what to do. I was wondering if you w-would be able to switch me to another—?” 

Jiwoong hands Jisung a tissue and gives him a smaller smile, less neutral, more comforting. “Don’t worry. Please, you’re too good to be crying about someone like that. I…” Jiwoong wrings his hands. “I’m just a trainee, I’m not going to be here tomorrow, but…let me see what I can do.”

Jisung quietly takes the tissue offered to him, his lower lip sticking out in a slight pout. “Thank you,” he says, his voice trembling. 

Jiwoong hums under his breath, looking at his screen for a quick second. “Tell you what, I can switch you out to a new room. Upgrade you, too.”

Jisung pinches his eyebrows the way he does when he needs something done for him. “You would do that?” 

“On the house, don’t worry. You’ll be on the 6th floor, since our suites everywhere else are booked out,” Jiwoong says, waving his hand as if in dismissal of Jisung’s worries. He slides a maroon keycard to Jisung from over the desk. “Enjoy your stay, and forget about that man, okay? He doesn't deserve you.” 

Jisung smiles coyly. “Thank you,” he says, keeping his shoulders close to his body, making himself smaller. “I really appreciate it, Jiwoong.” 

“Any time.” 

Jisung bows his head and takes the keycard, slipping it into his pocket as he bids Jiwoong goodbye and turns to face the elevators that lead to the suites for the general public. 

“Oh, I almost forgot, Choi Jisung-ssi,” Jiwoong says from behind him.

Jisung looks over his shoulder. 

“You’ll need to use the elevators in the back. They’re up the staircase. Would you like me to escort you?” 

“Thank you so much for offering, Jiwoong-ssi. That’s okay,” Jisung says. In his periphery, someone blonde and distinctly Lee Felix-shaped exits the hotel lobby. “I’ll be alright.” 

Jiwoong bows his head in acknowledgement, to which Jisung responds in kind. 

Jisung looks over his shoulder again as he ascends the staircase. He doesn’t want to risk a face-to-face encounter with the Prince this early, so he hurries through it, only stopping when he has to push a button and wait for the elevator.  

The ride to the sixth floor is quick. Jisung pulls his hood over his head when the elevator signals its stop and catalogues the layout of the floor. 

His room is 607.  Right across 608—the leftmost room on the floor, exactly where Jisung spotted Lee Minho last night. 

Jisung smirks to himself. He slips into 607, planting himself onto the desk chair and loading the camera feed. By the time his system is working, he has access to the camera footage of the 6th floor. 

Just when Jisung thought he’d have to wait around to get a full rundown of the Prince’s daily schedule, the door to 608 opens. 

Lee Minho emerges. The tips of his hair are wet, falling into his eyes. He’s wearing a t-shirt and talking on the phone, a small smile playing on his face. 

Jisung startles. Oh my god, he’s real. 

He’s real, and he’s here, and Jisung doesn’t know what’s stopping him from just getting started with his mission. 

Fuck this, he thinks. Sitting around is just going to make him lose his senses. 

Jisung eyes his suitcase. He could move things up. He knows what he needs to know. He knows both the Lee brothers are under this roof, and he knows that he needs to get to the bottom of whatever is brewing before he finishes the job. 

The only thing that Jisung needs to do to begin his pursuit of the Prince is tighten the loose threads of his fake identity. 

Choi Jisung. Who is he? Where does he come from? It has to be something close enough to Jisung’s lived experience so he can make things up on the fly, but rehearsed enough that he doesn’t blank at the first sight of his beautiful target. Which won’t happen. Because Jisung is a professional, and more than that:

Jisung loves stories. 

Choi Jisung seems like the artistic type, based on the suit Changbin chose for him. It’s different. Unique. There’s embroidered detailing on the shoulder, intricate patches falling down to the back. If Jisung squints, they almost look like wings. The embroidery is, coincidentally, in the colours of the kingdom. Red and gold, bright like fire. 

The suit itself is a deep, rich maroon. The lapels are bigger than what Jisung’s used to, and the trim of the sides are curved inwards just slightly. 

Jisung runs a hand down the fabric, feeling its weight, its density, its meaning. It tells the story of a man who cares what others think of him. Who performs, in one way or another. 

Jisung begins to write the story, assuming it as his own. 

Choi Jisung is an ambassador from Incheon—a couple of hours away from Lee Minho’s purview. He’s led quite a reclusive life so far, but one day, he was possessed by the romantic urge to paint something. 

So, Choi Jisung took out a canvas and drew the worst looking flower he’s ever drawn in his life. Startled by his immediate failure, the Jisung of this narrative almost throws the painting away. He almost gives up hope entirely, convinced that this instrument of art isn’t one that can be played by him. 

And then, Choi Jisung sees the Prince on his visit to Incheon three years ago, when summer was just settling in. The Prince walked into the gardens in the main town square, which were visible from Choi Jisung’s window, and there he was—the world’s most beautiful flower. 

The artist found his muse, and his heart set out to paint a new picture.

Jisung flicks his playlist off as he turns the shower water off. 

Wow, that backstory got way too romantic. 

Being an artist comes easily to Jisung. It isn’t that alien to him to behave like one. Jisung has his idiosyncrasies. He hasn’t followed any of the paths that he was supposed to take. He found good in the ugliest parts of life. He carved a family out of bonds built on choice, not blood. 

The costume Jisung puts on also tells the story of someone who observes. Of someone who seeks out finer details. Of someone who goes on romantic road trips to offer themselves up to the Prince, in whatever way he wants to have him. 

With his backstory in mind, Jisung transforms.  

If Changbin were here, he’d probably tell Jisung to go another way. Detach himself. Take your mark, don’t let it take you. 

Jisung shrugs the worry off and puts on the suit, alongside the character. 

Silk shirt, all black. Top two buttons undone. No tie—an affair of the heart demands some absent formalities. Black trousers, shirt tucked in. A gold bracelet, small hoop earrings. The maroon blazer next, so dark it’s almost black. A small, barely noticeable brooch of a rose over Jisung’s heart. 

Finally, Jisung tucks a knife into the waistband of his pants, the way he always does when he’s out on a hit. He traded in the gun for the knife after he joined 3RACHA, and he plans on keeping it that way. As he holds the hilt of his dagger, he toys with the idea of just—finishing it here, early on, when he knows he has Lee Minho nearby. The thought immediately makes his body recoil. 

Absolutely not, Jisung thinks, listening to his instincts. But he keeps the knife on him. Just in case. 

Jisung double checks his scent blocker as his finger coils the front piece of his hair around his index, making sure it falls over his forehead in a curl.

He pauses, briefly considering if he should brush it out. 

In the end, Jisung chooses not to. It feels wrong to let go of the curtain that it offers him, falling over his forehead and sheathing his eyes when he needs it. It should be fine. What’s the point of a convincing alias if he doesn’t infuse a little bit of Han Jisung into it?

When the elevator doors open again, Jisung steps into character. 

He heads straight for the bar at the back of the lobby. It’s hidden from view, but just bustling enough that a Lee brother or two might make his acquaintance. 

He’s proven right only about 10 minutes later.

“Excuse me,” Lee Felix says, with his recognizable voice and a face that deserves the amount of attention it gets. Jisung turns to face him, his expression open and curious; a performance of a chance meeting with a stranger. “I’m sorry for interrupting. Hi! I love your suit jacket. Is it Valentina Rosewood?” 

“Oh!” Jisung says, looking down at the sleeves he has on. “Yes it is,” he says with a bright smile. Luckily, he’s been stalking Jiniret’s socials enough to know a thing or two about Felix’s favourite designers. “I’ve been a fan of hers since she was at the Mad Hatter.” 

To that, Jisung gets exactly the response he was hoping for. “Oh my god! I used to work there, I—ah, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Felix!” 

“Hi Felix,” Jisung says with a wide smile, matching his conversation partner’s enthusiasm. “I was going to compliment you on your outfit on my way out of here, it’s stunning.” 

Felix preens and does a little bow. 

Jisung wonders if Felix realises the way the royal training in him shows through the little things. The way he holds himself up, backrest unneeded because of his pristine posture. The way he laughs, with a hand over his mouth. He can see the similarities between the brothers already. 

Lee Felix is self-assured in the way that he knows he’s warm, soft, sweet—all the things one would expect from an omega. From what Jisung knows about Minho, his self-assuredness is more imposing. Like sunshine and downpour—the siblings assert themselves through different shades of the same colour. 

“So what brings you here, Felix?”

“Ah, I’m just vacationing! It was a family thing but then my mother decided not to show up so it’s just me and my—uh, sibling. I’m actually in the middle of starting my own fashion magazine so I knew I had to come up to you and compliment you. You have taste.” 

Jisung silently thanks Changbin in his head. How did that man even source this suit? “That is so cool,” Jisung says, and it isn’t even something he has to put on. Felix’s excitement is infectious. “I was thinking you look like you’re into something creative, so I’m happy to be correct.” 

“Is that a fun new way of calling me gay?” 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “I—” 

Felix breaks into laughter, reaching a hand out to Jisung’s shoulder. “I’m kidding! I was joking.”

“I’m gay too, if it helps,” Jisung says, recovering from the almost-horror of accidentally offending a royal family member. 

“Oh, I know.” 

Jisung lets out a surprised laugh. “Okay! I see how it is!” 

“Sorry, sorry. We’re even now! Not a lot of people in this building are actually good with style. What brings you here?”

“Well…” Jisung considers it to himself. Felix seems like he values authenticity, so he crafts it. 

Okay, first things first. Establish a line of personal connection:

“I have to be honest, I recognised you before you came up to me. But it wasn’t intentional or anything, I promise!” 

“Oh, that’s really sweet,” Felix says. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to talk.” 

“I’m honoured. Also, it’s hard not to know you,” Jisung continues. This part comes naturally, because it’s the truth. Jisung has a lot of travel time in between jobs, and his favourite pastime is watching TV. “I loved you in Easy. Seriously. The best TV debut I’ve seen in my time.” 

“Stop it,” Felix says, clearly pleased. “You’re just saying that.” 

“I am not! That season finale arc was beautiful. I wasn’t expecting my favourite romance show to handle guilt with so much care, but that’s on me. I should’ve seen it coming with how talented the cast and crew is. Genuinely, it was so good.” 

Felix blinks. “Oh…wow. Thank you. I wasn’t expecting you to be a fan.”

“Of course I am!” 

That earns Jisung a wide smile. “You’re so sweet—Ah! How rude of me, I just realised I didn’t even get your name.” 

“It’s Jisung,” he says. 

“Lovely to meet you, Jisung.” 

“We might have met either way, actually. I was on my way to the Palace. The Prince recently announced the Run, and…” 

Felix’s eyes widen. “Oh!” he looks Jisung up and down. Slightly tilts his head. “So you want my brother’s hand?” 

Finally, the hook: 

“Yes. I’ll be honest.” Jisung feels his cheeks warm up. “I’m an artist. I was going through a really rough period with my art block until your brother came to my city. I saw his face, and…” Jisung thinks of the actual memory of Lee Minho’s face, framed inside the lens of his binoculars. “I was never the same.” 

Felix frowns thoughtfully. Everything about him goes silent, as if in consideration. 

“Oh,” Felix breathes out, the light in his eyes reigniting. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Of course,” Jisung says, agreeing easily. 

“How old are you?” 

“I’m 25,” he says.

“Okay, I’m 25 too,” Felix nods. “You’re wearing scent blockers. Are you…”

“It’s personal preference,” Jisung says. “I don’t like to release my scent in places where I could meet strangers. I think all alphas should follow the same courtesy.” 

“Oh, okay. Good,” Felix says, nodding. “I can’t tell you how many times I get into a crowded elevator and have to breathe through a million different alpha scents.” Felix scrunches his nose. 

“Ridiculous,” Jisung says, suddenly impassioned. He has a genuine gripe with the general alpha population’s tendency to flaunt scent. “I don’t understand alphas that make their scent everyone’s problem. Especially in small spaces.” 

“Exactly,” Felix’s eyes light up again, and Jisung is beginning to think that this is just Lee Felix’s default setting. Sunshine, bright and energising. The kind that hits your face even with the car visor down. 

“I’ve actually never heard an alpha agree with me about this so easily. They usually get insecure and go like, 'I’m not like the other alphas...right?'” Felix makes his lip wobble, garnishing the expression with overly exaggerated puppy-dog eyes. 

Jisung shakes his head, laughing in confusion. "What is someone even supposed to say to that?"

“Right! And that answers my next question, too. So you’re an alpha.” 

“Ah, you’d be okay with it if I wasn’t?” 

“Of course,” Felix says easily. 

Jisung shouldn’t have expected anything else from the Palace’s—what is it that Jiniret called him? Self proclaimed black sheep. 

Jisung knows better than anyone that being the black sheep has little to do with being a bad child, and everything to do with more…fundamental disagreements.  

Royalty isn’t exactly known for its progressive values, but the Kingdom has been trying, lately. And Jisung knows that one of the people behind all that envelope pushing is the young ex-royal in front of him. He may have left the throne behind, but his influence on royal decision-making is undeniable. 

“What about your family, Jisung-ssi? Do you think they’d be okay with you seeking a lifelong partnership with a member of the royal family?” 

“You can call me Jisung. We’re the same age, aren’t we?” 

Felix nods. 

“And no, I am estranged from my family. The only family that matters to me are my two hyungs, who…” Jisung laughs, thinking of what Chan and Changbin would say about this plan. “—they wholeheartedly approve of my choice to make this journey.” 

“Good! Romantic gestures need support systems,” Felix says with a solemn nod. It makes Jisung laugh again. “But also, Jisung, you said you’re going to the Palace. What made you stop here?” 

“It was the storm last night,” Jisung says, pouting a little. “I was on track and then my car broke down and I stayed for a night at the motel.”

“Ahhh,” Felix says, and then he goes silent for a beat, his face morphing into something more serious. “The thing about Minho is that…everyone knows he’s beautiful. I think no one notices that he can be a little lonely sometimes. I haven’t gotten involved in whatever he’s been up to lately but…honestly, you’re the only alpha I’ve met who actually showed up and spoke to your desires so…intently.”

Jisung raises his eyebrows. “I’m the only…?”

“Everyone else communicated through letters and whatever else, you know?” Felix shakes his head. “The diplomacy never ends. You know what, let me order us more drinks and we can talk about this.” 

Jisung sneaks a glance at the watch as Felix orders for himself and Jisung. 5:06 PM. If Jisung is guessing correctly, the video feeds from the sixth floor that he looped before he decided to make the plunge and show up here suggest that the Prince should be appearing in about 3, 2, 1—

“Hi, Lixie,” a warm voice says from behind Jisung. Vanilla bursts in the air. The scent is almost immediate—aggressive in the way it rains down and makes itself known. 

Jisung is helpless to do anything but find the source of the voice, even if it wasn’t addressing him. 

“Hyung!” Felix says. “Hi! I was just waiting for you. This is Jisung, from Incheon. He was making his journey to the Palace when his car broke down.”

The Prince shifts his gaze from Felix to Jisung, and Jisung—doesn’t react normally. He forgets words. He sits there, frozen, staring at this man in all of his dark-eyed, sweet-scented glory, and forgets custom. Proprietary. Tradition. 

“I think he’s great for the season,” Felix says. 

Jisung blinks. Processes Felix’s words. The season? Surely Felix isn’t already putting Jisung forward—

The Prince raises an eyebrow as he looks back at Felix. “You’re making choices for the season now?” 

Felix shrugs. “I’m making one choice,” he says, and then extends a hand to Jisung’s shoulder, “and it’s Jisung—sorry, Jisung. What was your last name?” 

Jisung clears his throat. Gulps. “I…I’m Choi Jisung.” 

“You must have left quite the impression on my brother, Choi Jisung-ssi.” 

Jisung startles. “Your Highness,” he greets, standing up to bow his head. He feels almost embarrassed, bending to a customary tradition he’s never performed before, but he offers the Prince a hand. 

He didn’t think Felix was actually serious about setting Jisung up with his brother. He’s going to have to improvise. 

Jisung almost exhales loudly with relief when the Prince puts his hand in Jisung’s.

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Prince says. 

Jisung takes it and looks at Prince Minho through his eyelashes. 

When their gazes meet, Jisung notices something playful in Lee Minho’s eyes. The vanilla crackling in the air does something Jisung can’t put a finger on, but he’s quickly distracted by the task of figuring out what to say next.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Jisung says softly. His nerves make his words land a little shakier than he intended them to, but it looks like it has the correct effect when he earns a small smile in response. 

“I must be carrying my lucky charm,” Jisung says, thinking on his feet, “I was just on my way to the Palace to toss my hat in the ring for your choosing.” 

“Hm,” the Prince says, not judging, not dismissive. An acknowledgement. “You’ll have competition, Jisung-ssi.”

Jisung lets out a surprised laugh. “Please, call me Jisung. And if that is the case, then rightfully so. I come prepared.” 

“Do you?” 

“I like to think I’m quick on my feet.” 

A beat of silence. A strand of bright-blonde hair, falling into those eyes. “You can call me Minho,” he says. 

Jisung’s words freeze in his throat. “I—” 

“I insist,” the Prince says, the corner of his lips lifting in a small smirk. “Or do you prefer using the title?” 

Jisung traps his bottom lip in between his teeth. 

“I…” he laughs, a little nervous as Minho’s—oh, it’s Minho now, that feels different—gaze flicks down to his lips for a millisecond so small that Jisung is sure no one noticed it. No one except the both of them. 

This is a new kind of performance anxiety. 

He gulps the hesitation down. “My preference depends on the situation.” 

Minho nods. “As most things do.”

“But I’ll do as you wish, of course,” Jisung says, touching his forehead to the back of Minho’s hand—a subtle indicator of an intention to court. 

The hand in Jisung’s turns, palm-up. 

Jisung reads the move for what it is, for what the culture of royal courting deems it to be: an agreement.  

“Jisung,” Minho says, like he’s tasting the name. “Come walk with me in the gardens. Felix, thank you,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly as he looks at his brother. 

Felix looks in between them and huffs. “You’re welcome,” he says. “I—”

“Let’s talk later, please,” Minho interrupts. 

“Fine,” Felix says, but his grumble is playful. “Don’t say I don’t do anything for you.” 

“I am eternally grateful to you, Yongbok-ah.” 

“Oh, I bet. Jisung, I’ll see you later,” Felix says, turning his attention to Jisung, who’s been fighting the urge to tune out the conversation and stare at the long pieces of hair falling into Minho’s eyes. 

Now that he’s allowed himself to use the name, he can’t stop. Minho, with his eyelashes. Minho, with that chain around his neck, falling perfectly into the dip of his collarbone. He can see the hair at the nape of Minho's neck, its private, hidden shape, the details that cameras can’t ever capture. He can make out the Prince’s scent in the air. It’s dulled out, but it’s sweet. Vanilla, ice cream sweet. Vanilla with a simmering undertone of something richer. Jisung wonders how that scent would shift if he stepped closer.

“Sorry, yes,” Jisung says, putting a leash on it. He shakes his head, as if that’ll clear it. “I’ll see you later.” He goes to step back, thinking that maybe Minho didn’t mean it about the gardens after all, before he locks eyes with the man muddying his senses. The gaze that meets his own leaves him no choice but to pause.

Minho’s eyes dance with a light distinct from Felix’s sunlight. 

It glows, inside-out, burning with potential. It’s starlight. Playful and twinkling, ebbing and flowing. Visible sometimes, and carefully tucked under the crescents that his eyes form when he smiles at Jisung other times. 

“The gardens are that way, Jisung,” Minho says, beckoning him with his head. “Come on.” 

Jisung wastes no time in following Minho outdoors. 

“I’m sure Felix must’ve asked you all the customary questions,” Minho says, “but did you always intend to run? Or did my brother talk you into it? He’s known for that kind of thing.” 

“No,” Jisung rushes to say, catching up to Minho as they walk side by side through the cobblestone path in the gardens, zig-zagging across shrubbery and perfectly manicured trees that look like something out of a fairytale. “Not at all. My car broke down a couple of kilometres from here, and I didn’t know where to go. I came here by coincidence! I promise,” Jisung says, nodding eagerly. 

Minho nods. “Of course, I’m not doubting you, Jisung. Were you okay otherwise? With the rain and everything?” 

Jisung nods. “Came out unscratched.” 

“Good,” Minho says, and something goes fizz-crackle-pop in Jisung’s head. He looks to his side, regarding Minho’s side profile and trying not to let his imagination run wild with it. “If not Felix, then why…”

“I want to participate in the Run because I want you, Your Highness,” Jisung says, quicker than he can stop himself. 

Minho looks to the side, stealing the side profile and granting Jisung a full view of his face. 

It’s funny. Jisung’s been watching Minho’s face on camera feeds, social media timelines. Blurry CCTV footage, interview clips. Magazine shoots, newspaper clippings. Through a window, alone in a room, caught in the middle of undressing. 

And yet, this feels like seeing him for the first time. 

“Don’t you think you need to know me a little more to want me, Jisung?” 

“Maybe,” Jisung says. “But isn’t wanting to know you and wanting you the same thing, in this case?” 

Minho cocks his head. 

“I want to know you,” Jisung stresses. “I’d love…” his voice gets meeker, a little shy under the direct focus of Minho’s gaze. “...the chance.” 

When Jisung looks up from where his eyes have become fixed on a rose shrub near the ground, he finds Minho looking at him with an amused smile on his face. 

“You’re shyer than I expected,” Minho says. 

“Well—I. Obviously!” Jisung says, gesturing wildly at Minho. “You’re you.”

Minho huffs, and his eyes do their dance again. “And who am I, exactly?” 

Jisung continues his gesticulations. “You are…you know. Well, besides being the Prince, you…” Jisung, expectedly, blanks. Like he said—a new kind of performance anxiety. Whatever’s rushing through Jisung’s body right now reminds him of the stage fright he got the first time he stole something. He felt like he was getting away with something wrong, like he’d be caught any second. 

Caught. That’s exactly how Jisung feels under the spotlight of Minho’s attention. 

“You have this way of making m—” 

Minho cocks an eyebrow. 

“Making people want to be the best versions of themselves.” 

“You already are,” Minho says, ducking his head under an artfully extended tree branch and looking back at Jisung over his shoulder, their slowed down pace lending to a breathtaking sight of the cut of that jawline. Its edge glints like a precious stone, fit for a royal. 

Minho blinks, and then turns around fully to face Jisung. “If you want to be my suitor, you have to show me every version of yourself.” 

Jisung schools his features into something easygoing. “I’m an open book. Read me as you please.” 

“Mm,” Minho says, the corner of his lip lifting, and then steps to the side. “Please, after you.” 

“I couldn’t.” Jisung says, remembering every manual of royal custom he’s ever read. The omega always walks in front of the alpha. It’s a sign of respect, it’s a marker of tradition. It would be inappropriate if—

“I insist,” Minho says, and it’s firm. Defiant to every rule Jisung has tried to commit to memory.

Jisung almost moves to the whim of Minho’s voice, but grips onto his remaining shard of sense. “Your Highness, it wouldn’t be proper—”

“I only insist on things when I mean it, Jisung,” Minho says, and then gestures in front of him. His eyes tell Jisung something. I won’t repeat myself. “I’ll follow you.” 

Jisung doesn’t find it in him to put up a fight. He wonders if this moment, too, is going to be photographed from some corner, like so many other parts of the Prince’s life. Minho doesn’t seem too worried about being seen, though, and Jisung is…teaching himself to follow his lead. It’s unusual for an omega, but Jisung is enamoured by how Minho’s every move is self-assured. His softness doesn’t take away from what he commands.

As instructed, Jisung walks in front of Minho. 

They end up venturing deeper into the gardens, the greenery around them getting denser as it begins to surround them. It almost feels like an entirely different place from the polished corners of the resort.

“Take the left one,” Minho’s voice supplies from the back when the road forks into two. “Do you like the gardens?” 

“They’re bigger than I expected,” Jisung says, genuine in his wonder. From the outside, from the blueprints—this looked like a small piece of land, sectioned off for some tourist-friendly greenery. 

This place is an ecosystem. Jisung can hear chirps, water gushing, a soft rustle of leaves that sounds like the path of a wayward rabbit. It’s nice. He gets why some people must seek this out to feel like they’ve left the city. 

“I like this part,” Minho says, his voice floating into Jisung’s ears from behind. “It feels peaceful to be in between nature.” 

Jisung hums, letting quiet fall over them. The gardens give way to a neatly arranged path of trees and benches lining the walkway, which widens from the thin, winding trail.

Minho rejoins his spot next to Jisung as they keep walking, and a squirrel darts past them, running from one tree bark to another. 

Jisung breaks the silence first. “Is that why you decided to do the Run?” 

“Hm?” 

“Nature. You said you enjoy its company.” 

“Oh, I do. Especially animals. I’ve always had a soft spot for animals,” Minho says, his eyes following the squirrel’s path up the tree. Light dances his orbs now, too. Just like starlight. 

Jisung feels a little lost for words. He’s killed bad men, men who don’t care about consequences, men who treat collateral damage as part of the job. He’s been in ugly, grimy places when he tries to get close enough to strike his hit and leave. He always does it in one go. He never speaks to the target, let alone strolls in the gardens with them. 

But when Minho watches the squirrel running past them, his front teeth peeking from in between his lips and his windswept hair exposing his forehead, Jisung thinks things that have nothing to do with the job. Jisung thinks, cute. Jisung thinks, beautiful. Jisung thinks, let me know you, let me know you, let me—

“I’m a performer as much as I’m a person,” Minho says casually. Their shoulders brush as they continue walking, and Jisung ignores the way his body buzzes like a live wire, crackling with pent-up energy. “It’s nice that the Run is happening in one of my preferred places, but my favourite thing about it is that it's brought me back home. I’ve been away for the past few months, and..." He breathes softly through his nose. "I missed my room, and my cats. I guess I’m a little bit of an introvert,” he says, laughing to himself, as if shy at making the admission. 

“Me too,” Jisung says, quick to let Minho know he isn’t alone in that feeling. Jisung wishes he had somewhere more permanent to return to all the time. He imagines it must feel the same, because it’s what it comes down to—to be everywhere and to be untethered. 

“I think we need the quiet people as much as we need the loud ones,” Minho says firmly, leaving no room for self-doubt for either Jisung or himself. “If I didn’t spend time alone in my room, I’d end up murdering someone. And that wouldn’t be good for the nation, would it?” 

Jisung pauses, unsure if he heard that right. Minho’s face cracks with a mischievous smile, a slight tilt of his lips that gives the joke away. 

A giggle escapes him. “Ah, we can’t have that,” Jisung says with a fake solemn air, “the nation’s biggest scandal.” 

Then, belatedly, Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “But…do you not want to run, then?"

“Hm. No, that’s not it,” Minho murmurs, twisting his mouth in a pensive frown. It’s startling, how he speaks like every word of his is measured, chosen just for the purpose of having this conversation. It’s so different from Lee Minho, The Prince—the one Jisung’s spent hours upon hours picking apart. 

Prince Minho speaks like his next word is at the tip of his tongue. He isn’t talkative, but he makes it look easy—sharing little things about himself like they’re offhand details, talking about his life and all of its shiny surfaces. 

Meanwhile, Minho—who Jisung has no idea what to expect from, is throwing him off-kilter. He’s an exercise in intention. 

Jisung expected it to be easy to cosy up to the famed omega prince, but Minho’s intensity makes Jisung nervous. His presence, real and three-dimensional, makes every rational thought leak out of Jisung’s ears to boil down to a simple fact: Minho is hot. Cute, sweet, all the things that the press describes him as. 

But also…so hot. 

Maybe it’s something about the fact he isn’t airbrushed by countless cameras and editing software. Maybe it’s the lack of a filter at all. 

Minho is himself, but enhanced. Himself, but toned down. Honest on screen, but even more honest in real life, clearly, if Jisung’s judgment of character is to be trusted. Honest, at least, about the things he chooses to speak about inside the bubble of this moment. 

Minho is hot in the way he’s careful. He speaks like every word is a measured excavation into himself.  

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it. It sounds fun, doesn’t it?” Minho catches Jisung’s gaze, which was fixed on the soft movement of his lips as he spoke, and smirks, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Jisung feels his face going warm as he’s caught staring. “I.” His brain stutters, slows down. He searches for the last thread of the conversation. Right. The Run. “Yeah, it does,” he says, his mind flashing with an image of him in the forest with the single-minded goal of spotting Minho in between acres of green and brown. It has his heart beat pumping. 

The light in Minho’s eyes dances to a new kind of rhythm. “It does?” 

“I…think so. Yes,” Jisung says. “There must’ve been a reason they did it so much, you know—back then.” 

“Hm,” Minho says. “I can think of a few reasons.”

“Ah. You can?” Jisung asks, feeling the blood rushing through his face at how casual this discussion is for something so…intimate. 

“Isn’t it nice, chasing something? Knowing that you’re in it with one goal.” A pause. “To claim.”

Jisung clears his throat, suddenly hot under the collar. Here this breathtaking man is, talking to him about being claimed like it’s the weather. “Do you, uh. Intend? To be claimed?” 

“It depends. Do you plan on finding me?" 

Jisung feels his eyes widen in surprise. “Oh.”

Minho chuckles. “Don’t look so nervous, Jisung.”

“I’m not nervous, Minho,” Jisung says, indignance washing through him. “It’s good that you…don’t plan on making it easy. I’m determined.”

Minho cocks an eyebrow. “How old are you?” 

Jisung's mouth parts, caught off guard by the question. “I’m 25.” 

“Younger than me,” Minho says. “You can call me hyung, then.” 

“I…can?” Jisung says, the surprise in his tone obvious. 

“I guess you were right. Titles depend on the context,” Minho says, “and I’d like it if you called me hyung in ours.” 

“Okay,” Jisung says softly. He’s never been one to put up a fight at bids for familiarity. Somewhere in here, Jisung’s still a younger version of himself, carving out spaces to belong. And though he has a home now in the form of a mismatched, here-and-everywhere chosen family, he’s still weak to friendly faces. 

It can’t be that bad to get closer to the mark. It makes the job easy. “Okay, hyung,” Jisung says, a beat later, when the silence in between them turns expectant. 

Minho pauses and fixes Jisung with another one of his weighted looks, hard to read but easy to feel. (God, Jisung thinks, taking a moment to repeat the same thought from before: Minho’s hot). 

“Good, Jisung-ah,” Minho says, doing Jisung the benefit of ignoring the way he almost trips over his feet when he hears his name said like that. “Besides, where’s the fun in it if I make the Run easy?” 

“Nothing good comes easy,” Jisung says. 

“I’m happy you agree,” Minho says, resuming their walk. Jisung didn’t even realize they stopped, but he sees a fountain up ahead on their path, surrounded by a circular clearing. 

The continuous stream of the water is the only sound around them for some time, before they come to a standstill right at the edge of the fountain’s basin. 

Jisung peers over it and notices all the coins on the basin floor, glinting in the water’s reflection of the sunlight. 

“Here,” Minho says, handing Jisung a gold-coloured coin. He recognises the royal emblem carved into it—a haetae with its teeth ferociously bared. “It’s the coin my family uses to celebrate good days.” 

Jisung admits he gets a little cheeky when he asks, “Are you having a good day?” 

“Now I am,” Minho says, and then rolls another coin in between his fingers. “Now make a wish. Don’t say it out loud. You never know, it might come true,” Minho lilts, his voice getting melodic with the sentence. 

In another life, Jisung can imagine making a muse out of that voice. Building a life around it.

In this life, Jisung closes his eyes and makes a wish. 

When he opens them, Minho’s looking at him.

“You already made your wish?” Jisung asks. 

“Mm.” 

“Ah,” Jisung watches the way his coin hits the basin floor. “You’re quick.” 

“That I am,” Minho agrees. “You think you can keep up?” 

Jisung turns his attention back to Minho’s face, his lips lifting with a small smirk. “Try me.” 

“I’ll do more than try,” Minho says, straight-faced. “Do you really want to compete in the Run?” 

“I do,” Jisung says easily. “I should be asking you, instead. Do you want me to compete in the Run?” 

“Silly question,” Minho shakes his head. “Have I not been obvious enough already, Jisung-ah?” 

“I’d still like to hear it,” Jisung says, and then adds, “hyung.”

“I want to know you, too,” Minho says, and turns his whole body to face Jisung, leaning against the fountain’s railing. 

“Well…it won’t be just me,” Jisung mutters. 

“Ah, getting a little competitive, Jisung-ah?” 

“Friendly competition,” Jisung says, baring his teeth in something that passes as an almost-smile. 

Minho’s scent, dormant so far, does something. It spikes. It pulls and snaps around him, nothing like the typical uptick of omega-scent. It feels like a wave washing ashore. High tide. Strong current. Vanilla, and something else. Something that makes Jisung want to sway closer into Minho and push in and dig—

There’s something underneath the vanilla. An undertone. It crackles, and Jisung really fucking wants to poke the bear. 

For now, he resists. 

“Isn’t it overwhelming, though?” Jisung asks, picking the thread of the conversation back up. “The thought of all that attention on you.” 

Minho’s lips slant into something thoughtful. “I’m used to that,” he says. “It isn’t me that I focus on, in situations like those.”

“Then wha—”

“You,” Minho says, reaching down to pick a flower, something pink, something Jisung can’t name, and hands it to Jisung, who stares at the offering open-mouthed and looks back up at Minho’s face. “I’ll be looking at you. If you find me.” 

The wires in Jisung’s brain are crossed and going into overdrive, which is exactly why he realises, against all expectation, that the knife in his waistband is still tucked where it was, Lee Minho remains alive, and Jisung is being invited to compete in the Run. “I will,” Jisung says. 

Everything else be damned, he will find Lee Minho in that forest.

Jisung goes to take the flower from Minho, but Minho tsks and brings it up to tuck it behind Jisung’s ear. 

“Pretty,” Minho says, stepping back. 

Jisung falters. His breath hitches, and he doesn’t even have to play up how affected he is by Minho—because he is. He’s never been at the receiving end of such attention. 

Omegas always expect him to take the lead, and Jisung is nothing but a people pleaser. He does it with enthusiasm, eager to be chosen, to be liked. He does everything he thinks will earn him the attention of a pretty omega. 

It works, sometimes. Sometimes they like his whole respectful-slash-desperate alpha deal and Jisung gets to experience what it’s like to go through the early motions of falling into another person. It never becomes anything more than a night shared together, though. Jisung always has a new assignment, and no one has ever made him stay in one place long enough to start wondering what happens after the one night stand. 

But, no matter where, romance has always begun because Jisung decides it does. It’s always Jisung making the first move, Jisung sending the drink over to a stranger, Jisung striking up a conversation. 

Right now, he’s in completely new territory. He has a distant memory of thinking he was going to seduce the Prince, but Minho has successfully overridden every expectation in Jisung’s head, leaving him with a simple, staggering realisation: 

Jisung is being flirted with. 

Jisung is glad he’s wearing his scent blockers, because all this attention from someone as handsome as Minho would make him sweeten unbearably. 

Jisung ducks his head and says, “Thank you.” He risks a look up, stepping into a feeling that feels less like playing a role and more like breathing, and adds, “You’re pretty, too.” 

“Oh. Thank you,” Minho says, his ears ruby-red as he says it. He turns to face the path they just emerged from and clears his throat. “Meet me at the Palace once you come to the city. I’ll arrange for your stay.” 

Jisung’s mouth opens in a small o. “You don’t have to.” 

Minho blinks. “I insist, Jisung-ah.”

Jisung rationalises it in his head. If he stays close to the Prince, he can finish the job easier. “I’m grateful,” he says, bowing his head. “Thank you, hyung.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Minho says with a soft smile, every bit as princely as he’s been built up to be. “Shall we go back?” 

“As you wish,” Jisung says, and wonders if it’s still Choi Jisung speaking, or if it’s the other, more damning alternative. 

#5: The Kill  

Jisung should probably get on with killing the Prince now.

Recon’s done. He has the maps, he has the information. He has access, which is more than other missions have granted him.

He could do it as soon as he moves in. He imagines the Palace has many corners built for secrecy. They could work to Jisung’s advantage. Or even Minho’s bedroom, which Jisung will...

Obviously only see if he breaks and enters. No other reason. 

Jisung should just go to the Palace, get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s made the Prince a target of a 3RACHA kill, and finish the job. 

It’s only a day after Minho leaves Jisung with a see you later in the hotel lobby that Jiniret lights up Jisung’s social media feed again, marking the end of Prince Lee Minho’s getaway in the mountains. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: The Palace has confirmed Prince Lee Minho’s return from the mountains. #palacewatch

Before he leaves, Jisung reapplies his scent blocker onto the skin under his collarbone. He positions it lower than he usually would, sparing little thought to why he chooses to do so. 

When he’s 20 minutes away from the Palace, Jisung stops at his place to drop off the suit and pick up a few other supplies 3RACHA HQ sent in for his stay at the Palace. More IDs, to begin with, because Palace security is a beast of its own. Many changes of clothes, and a sticky note in Changbin’s handwriting. 

Han Jisungie~

You must be freaking out a little, right? 

If your crush grows into something else, don’t fight it. Running away gets tiring after a while. If you need rescuing, call me any time. 

If you don’t need rescuing, then don’t pretend you do. 

P.S.: Good luck for the Ball. I hear Hwang Hyunjin is going to be there. I can’t believe you’re meeting my future wife without me. 

Jisung smiles to himself. Is he that predictable? Being a participant in the Ball wasn’t even a part of the plan, but he should expect his hyungs to know him better than he does, at this point. 

Jisung packs his weapons away into a concealed compartment in his bag and gets back on the road. 

The streets get narrower as he gets closer to the Palace. As soon as he pulls up in front of the main entrance, it takes an entire minute for the ornate metal gates to open and let him in. 

“Hi,” Jisung says, rolling his window down and greeting the first person he sees, who happens to be an intimidating-looking man with the headset and all-black outfit on. 

“Choi Jisung. The Prince is expecting you in the west wing. It’s straight ahead and then left. You’ll go through security before you enter. Thank you.”  

“Thank—”

Jisung doesn’t manage to get a word in before the man walks off. “Damn, okay,” he mutters. 

It’s a little disorienting when Jisung steps out of the car and feels as if he's faced with the entirely of the Palace tower over him, but he’s on a mission, so he swallows the nerves like they're a bitter medicine. He doesn’t have to look lost for long, though, because a familiar voice is saying, “Jisung!” 

Jisung’s gaze travels up the flight of staircases leading to the main entrance, expecting what’s coming but still unprepared for the sight of Prince Lee Minho, standing all the way up there for a grand total of a second before he nearly runs his way down the stairs to greet Jisung. 

And then it’s Minho, not the Prince, speaking to Jisung. 

“You made it,” Minho says, unaffected by the speed at which he just flew down the stairs. “I told Juwon to send you to the west wing right away. You must have seen him?” 

Jisung nods, a little dazed by the whiplash of seeing Minho like this, in his element. His outfit is relatively simple. A light wash jacket with some trousers and what looks like a tank top underneath. His hair still falls into his face, artfully styled, right at the edge of messy and intentional. And he still smells so, so…enticing. 

Jisung wants to put him under a microscope and figure him out. 

His stance is regal. As is custom, the Prince must always make public appearances wearing the Kingdom’s emblem. Jisung didn’t notice it yesterday, but Minho wears the fiery red haetae around his neck inside a pendant, hanging off a gold chain. 

“He’s part of the security team, so he’s a little busy with all the things we have coming in for the Ball. He probably didn’t have much time to say hello. We’ll fix that later,” he continues, and then sidesteps around Jisung to the open boot of the car to take Jisung’s only suitcase out. 

“Oh no, I can do that,” Jisung says. 

Minho clicks his tongue. “You’re my guest.” 

“But…” Jisung looks around. 

“Don’t worry about everyone here. They know I like to get my hands dirty,” Minho says, the open flap of his jacket teasing Jisung with a bite-sized glimpse of shoulder, flexed with the effort of setting the suitcase onto the ground. 

Minho walks in front of Jisung, which allows him to realise just how perfectly tailored Minho’s pants are, snug around his thighs.

Jisung is…

Rethinking thighs. Things. Rethinking things. Maybe it won’t be as easy as he thought it would to take Minho. Take him in a fight. For the mission. Yes, mission priorities. Uh. 

Jisung shakes his head. 

As he was saying, he needs to be prepared to take the target down at any given moment, which means he’s going to have to find out if those muscles can do as much as they look like they can.

Jisung’s thoughts are obviously the result of purely professional curiosity, but he tucks them away for the time being, tuning back into whatever Minho’s been telling him. 

“I wanted to meet you before you got in because there’s a lot of security protocol waiting for you in there. I figured it wouldn’t be the warmest welcome, so…” 

“Oh.” Jisung tries not to let his heart flutter at the thoughtfulness. “That’s very sweet of you.” 

“It’s the bare minimum,” Minho says with a shrug. “And I wanted you to know that you can step back any time you want. If coming here is overwhelming in a bad way…I would care more to know that you’re not forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to.”

“I already told you, hyung,” Jisung says, lowering his voice so his words land in the space between himself and Minho, “I’m here because of what I want. That hasn’t changed.” 

Minho searches Jisung’s face. 

It really is sweet, Jisung thinks, how concerned Minho is. Is this the same kind of attention he devotes to all the other participants of the Run, or can Jisung indulge in his quickly-unravelling daydreams and believe that he’s getting special treatment? 

“Okay,” Minho says, also in the same tone, low, private, just for the two of them. “Ready to go up, then?”   

Jisung exhales, nods, and follows Minho, crossing the threshold into the world inside the Palace. 

—

“Hello again,” the man from before—Juwon—says. “Minho-ssi, please go through the doors. We’re just going to take down some of Jisung-ssi’s information.”

“Be nice,” Minho says, a little stern, a little playful. 

Juwon looks up from his seat, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that could be a smile, but Jisung is actively being poked and prodded at by three different Palace staff patting him down, so he’s a little too distracted to confirm.  

Jisung knew bringing his weapons into the Palace wouldn’t be easy, or wise. 

Luckily, this isn’t the first high-security building he’s walked right into. All of Jisung’s weapons are in the ceramic case he carries in his suitcase, specially built to ensure that no metal detector ever goes off. 

Hopefully Jisung doesn’t get into a fight before he gets a chance to get his knife back out, but he doubts a physical altercation is what he needs to worry about right now. 

“What!” Jisung says when Juwon opens the bag and peers at the makeup stuffed into the first layer of the weapon case. “I need to look good for His Highness.”

Juwon sighs. “Okay, loverboy,” he says, zipping the suitcase shut. “Final questions. Blood type?” 

“Uh. B?”

“Are you sure?” 

“Why do you want to know?” Jisung asks. 

“We need some medical information just in case there’s a first aid emergency during the Run.” 

“Couldn’t you do this through, like, an online form or something?” 

“No,” Juwon says, shaking his head. “Absolute cybersecurity disaster. We do a lot of things offline because I don’t trust the clouds.”

“Oh,” Jisung says. Juwon really looks younger than he is. 

“So, blood type?” 

Jisung’s arguments die in his throat once he realises how serious Juwon is. “B.” 

“Allergies?” 

Jisung shakes his head, peering at the checklist Juwon’s reading from. “No allergies.” 

“Subgender?” 

Jisung raises his eyebrows. 

Juwon checks the time on his wristwatch and says, “These questions are customary, so please bear with them.” 

“Alpha,” Jisung says.

“Okay. In as few words as necessary, what is your scent profile?” 

Jisung bristles, but he can’t lie. It’s too easy to get caught in a scent impersonation, unless you have the right tools. “Lime.”

“Great. We have to let you know before you enter that all public areas of the palace are scent blocker-only.”

Jisung nods. As he expected. 

“Are you taking any medication for pain, birth control, or other persisting issues?” 

“No,” Jisung says, a blush rising on his face. Alpha birth control isn’t popular, and it’s a controversial topic. Jisung is surprised that the Palace is progressive enough to mention its existence. 

“At what stage in your cycle are you currently?” 

Jisung blinks, surprised. He looks around at the other Palace employees casually finishing up their tasks as Juwon uses the entryway as a makeshift interrogation room. 

No one seems to be particularly bothered. “Post-rut. My next is due in 2 months.” 

“Hm,” Juwon says. “Just in case, we have rut rooms in the Palace. You can let any one of us know you need one or text us at 725223.” 

“Oh, you guys have a contact number?” 

“For emergencies only. No phone calls unless absolutely necessary.” 

Jisung nods. “Okay, understood.”

“Alright, straight ahead. Prince Minho is waiting for you down that hall.” 

Jisung bows at Juwon and the Palace staff in thanks and grabs his suitcase, wincing slightly at the sound the wheels make as they roll against the flooring. 

Everything about the Palace is grand, which isn’t a surprise, but it’s different to actually see it firsthand. The walls in the hallway Jisung walks through are covered in depictions of fables passed down between one generation and the next. Jisung never studied the classics, but he knows it in fragments. Loss, victory, deceit. And the common thread in between every story—love. The kind that simmers between slow looks and the kind that lasts, enjoining lives together, founding some kingdoms and destroying others. 

“Jisung-ah,” Minho greets as soon as Jisung emerges from the hallway. “I hope the security check didn’t talk you out of running for me?” 

“It’ll take more than that, my Prince.” 

“Ah, my Prince? That’s a new one,” Minho says, his smile audible. “I like it.” 

“Thank you,” Jisung says, doing a mini curtsy, which earns him a laugh from Minho. 

“Let me show you around,” Minho says, stepping closer. The change in proximity catches Jisung off guard, because it isn’t aggressive—it’s soft. 

Minho moves gracefully, ducking his hand down and grabbing the handle of Jisung’s bag. 

“Come on,” Minho calls, taking a turn into another one of the winding passages of the palace. 

Once Jisung catches up to him, his voice echoes around them. “This is so beautiful,” he says, craning his neck to take in the intricate carvings on the wall. 

Minho hums. “My halmeoni was an artist. She painted a lot of these herself, and other parts were artists that she sought after.”

“Oh, she invited them to the Palace?” 

“Mm. She used to go into little towns and offer them a stay at the Palace in exchange for their pieces on the walls. My parents aren’t as interested in growing this collection, but I want to bring it back.”

“That’d be nice,” Jisung says, pausing as his eyes take in the transition from artwork to a wall of portraits of kings and queens from eras past. “Is that her?” 

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head, and then he tips it closer to Jisung, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial, “All of these people are from maybe…three generations ago? I never really manage to remember their names, honestly.”

Jisung giggles. “How improper.” 

“Oh, I’ve only just begun,” Minho says with a poorly executed wink. 

Jisung puts a hand over his mouth so a louder laugh doesn’t escape him. 

“Come. The rooms are upstairs.” 

Jisung walks through the last stretch of the passageway, admiring the arch towering above him as he climbs up the flight of stairs. His voice echoes every time he speaks, which takes him a moment to get used to. “Has everyone else arrived?” 

Minho pauses at the top of the stairs. “Everyone else?” 

Jisung’s mouth drops open as he looks around the new surroundings of the top floor. The decor here is less regal and more…homey. “The, uh. The other participants?" 

“Ah, they’re not staying at the Palace. You’re here because I invited you.” 

Vanilla twirls in the air around Jisung, leaving him a little dumbfounded. It’s just him here?

“Your room is right opposite mine. I’m over there,” Minho says, pointing across the small sitting area in between where Minho and Jisung are standing and the other side, where there’s two smaller doors and, in the centre, one grand entryway that is, no doubt, a room for a Prince. 

Jisung didn’t expect to be this close to Minho’s room. 

“And this is your room,” Minho says, pushing open the blue door they’ve been standing in front of. 

“Wow,” Jisung exhales. 

“You like it?” 

“Like it?” Jisung repeats, taken aback. The bed in front of him has four posters and a canopy extended above it. There’s a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and a wardrobe big enough to fit Jisung’s whole wardrobe, times three. “This is too much, you didn’t have to…”

“I told you, I want to know you. You should accept that you get special treatment because of it.” 

Jisung swipes at the tip of his nose with his finger, feeling his nerves jitter under his skin.

“Thank you,” he says softly, watching Minho leave the suitcase at the foot of the bed. 

There’s an undercurrent of something darkly sweet in the air. It infiltrates Jisung’s senses, making him want to scent every surface in the room until he finds the source. It’s like a buzz in his ear. An insect he can’t catch, an itch he can’t scratch. He knows it has something to do with Minho, but any trace of his scent—vanilla or not—has receded for now. It must be some kind of scent blocker.  

Minho walks towards the door slowly. Jisung has half a mind to tell him to stop, to stay. To waste some time here, see what happens when they’re both in a room together. 

When Minho’s turning to face him again, he leans against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, looking like something out of another time. He’s handsome like this, his jacket pushed back a little so it’s hanging off his shoulders. 

His face is devoid of any of the neutral masks Jisung has seen him wear, and, come to think of it, Minho doesn’t have any makeup on. Jisung really never would’ve noticed without the close inspection of Minho that he’s performing right now from where he feels frozen, standing at the foot of the bed.

The air feels thick with a question left unasked, but Jisung can’t find it in him to remember what it is. 

Jisung’s instincts flounder, confused and restless and unwilling to let go of Minho—not yet. It feels like stealing time when Jisung leans back against the bedpost closest to him, folds his arms in front of his chest like that’ll hold him back, searches for a replacement question—one that won’t satiate his senses but will apply a fast-acting balm to his racing thoughts—and says, “How was…your day?” 

Minho’s head tilts. “Ah.” He considers the question, silent for a few beats before he continues. “It started out pretty boring. I got back, barely unpacked, and then I had to get fitted for the Ball, which is never fun.” 

“Oof,” Jisung says, wincing in sympathy.  

“Yeah, oof,” Minho says, his shoulders shaking with a small laugh.

“At least it’s over, though.” 

“Exactly. And then…let’s see. I spent the rest of the morning after that giving a very interesting press interview.” 

“Interesting,” Jisung repeats, a little curious.  

“Interesting as in good, actually,” Minho says with the tone of someone who’s used to the opposite. “It was with an old friend. Hwang Hyunjin. You might know him.” 

Jisung should’ve seen that coming, what with Jiniret and its frightening accuracy. It would be concerning if Hyunjin didn’t have any explicit links to the Palace, because that would mean someone was smuggling information in and out of here.  

“I do,” Jisung says. “Jiniret is part of my morning routine.” 

Minho’s eyes crinkle, and Jisung feels another desperate tug in his body to abandon the bedpost and just—get closer. 

It’s strange. Jisung’s been infatuated with omegas before, but the magnetic pull towards Minho is something more foundational. It’s tectonic. It bubbles with the potential to change everything that came before it. 

“Hah,” Minho ducks his head, covering the back of his neck with his hand. “I’m going to have a word with him about the random Minho facts he keeps posting now that I know part of his audience is someone so pretty.” 

Jisung opens his mouth. And then closes it. And then opens it again. “I—” he laughs nervously. “That was sneaky.” 

“Thank you,” Minho says, “I dedicate myself to the cause.” 

“The cause being calling me pretty?” 

“One of my more noble causes.” 

Jisung feels his cheeks warm up. 

“Okay,” Minho says, shaking his sleeve off his wrist and checking his watch. Somehow, he even makes that look good. It’s weirdly sexy, the way the strap of the watch sits around Minho’s wrist. 

“It’s late. I should let you get some rest now,” Minho says. 

It’s weird. Getting closer to the heart of the mission is just making Jisung want different, unusual things. 

He keeps slipping into daydreams, in flashes, of some other world in which he didn’t cross paths with Lee Minho like this. In which they’d be two strangers who knew nothing about one another except their first names. Maybe he’d see Minho across a room and feel the same electric feeling barrelling through his veins that he feels right now. 

Somewhere up here, in Jisung’s softened imagination, there’s another world in which Minho leans against his doorframe and says, just as he says in this world, “Meet me in the morning for breakfast. I can show you around some more.” 

Jisung imagines that the Minho in that world is just as beautiful in this. 

“Okay,” Jisung says, a sigh trapped in his throat. He doesn’t know why the sound stays there, but he has every intention of uncovering whatever Minho’s unlocking in him. 

“Goodnight,” Minho says, grabbing the door handle and pulling it close. 

“Goodnight!” Jisung hurries to get out before the door shuts, leaving him dazed, confused, and—all at once—very, very sleepy. 

Jisung doesn’t waste time before he’s speeding through his makeshift nighttime routine, playing around some of the products laid out on display in the bathroom. He washes his face with something that smells deep and smoky, melting into the skin of his cheeks when he spreads it around. 

Jisung puts his knife under his pillow before he falls asleep. 

—

When Jisung wakes up, his senses get hit with a surge of vanilla-scented air and that something-else buzzing underneath. He slides off the bed in a trance, getting ready for the day as fast as he can before he’s following the path of the scent like a dog to a bone. 

It’s only when he’s peeking into the half-open door next to the entryway leading to Minho’s room that he’s distracted by something brushing up against his calf. 

Jisung’s instincts kick in. His hand strays under his waistband, seeking the handle of his knife before he realises what the thing—no, not thing, is. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung gasps, looking down as his fear is replaced with surprise. “Hi there,” he coos, letting his shirt fall back over his waistband and kneeling down to bring his face level with the cat staring at him from the floor. The cat looks at Jisung unblinkingly, its perfectly groomed orange and white fur a stark contrast to the darker, richer shades of the furniture and the flooring. “I’m Jisung, who are you?”

The slightly ajar door opens fully, distracting Jisung from the cat in front of him. When he looks up, his mouth falls open at the sight of Minho, his arms exposed and his skin flushed with what looks like exertion, and oh, god—he’s wearing sweatpants. 

“Ah. That’s Doongie,” Minho says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and smiling down at Jisung. “Good morning, Jisung-ah. I wasn't expecting you to be up so early.” 

“Hi, good morning,” he says, feeling a little sheepish at being caught. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, his teeth sitting heavy in his mouth now that he’s closer to the source of the thing that brought him here. He remains trapped under the trance of Minho’s scent, even as he continues to talk. “I saw the door was open, so…I got curious. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Should I let you be?”

Minho shakes his head. “Never.” He crouches down next to Jisung, smelling like morning-time, temptation, and sweat. His chest caves, up and down, and Jisung finds it very hard not to look. 

He looks. He also sneaks a glance at the veins patterning the back of Minho’s hand when he reaches out to pet Doongie. 

“Were you working out?” 

“Fencing drills,” Minho says, speaking over the sound of Doongie’s quiet mrrreow. “I like to keep my skills sharp. Ah, he’s saying hi to you, hear that?” 

“I do,” Jisung says, feeling some other glacial thing inside him melt at the sight of how softly Minho handles Doongie. “Where are the others?” 

“Ah,” Minho says, sounding impressed as he turns his attention back to Jisung. “You remembered.” 

“Of course,” Jisung replies easily, resisting the urge to preen. Minho has a way of making an observation sound like praise, and Jisung is…so susceptible. Any other context, and he’d already be pulling Minho closer by the collar of his wrung out tank top and trying to be good in every way his body knows how to. 

Jisung’s hand absent-mindedly finds the position of the scent patch on his collarbone; a nervous tic. 

“Their names are Soonie and Dori.” 

“Hm?” 

“My other brothers.” 

“Brothers?” 

Minho’s eyes crinkle. “Jisung-ssi, are you saying Doongie and I don’t look alike?” 

“I would never,” Jisung says, looking in between the Prince and his cat brother. 

“Doongie must’ve come out because he’s hungry,” Minho says, watching Doongie decide he’s done with this conversation and scamper off behind the meeting room couch. Minho gets up and puts food out for him.

“Really, though,” Jisung says, picking up the conversation. “If you want to finish your practice, I can meet you later for breakfast.”

Minho must keep himself active. There’s evidence of it in the way he fills out his clothes, of the chords of muscle that reveal themselves when he lifts something up. 

And there’s evidence of it in all the press coverage, of course. Prince Minho competed in the national fencing championship a year ago and left every neighbouring kingdom’s champion in the dust. 

“No, please. This isn’t a closed session. Do you fence?”

“I do,” Jisung says. One of the benefits of Chan’s routine fighting technique fixations. “Will his Royal Highness do me the honour of sparring with me?” 

“Only if you ask properly,” Minho says, cocking an eyebrow.

Jisung huffs. “Are you just stalling because you’re not prepared for some friendly fire?” 

“I don’t mind going past friendly,” Minho says, his voice lowering to something suggestive.

Jisung gulps. His eyes stray again, and it’s hard not to pay attention to the way Minho’s pants are straining against his thighs as he’s crouched. 

Jisung doesn’t know whether to thank him or to let out another long-suffering sigh when Minho stands up, bringing Jisung’s face in line with…

Jisung quickly stands up. Not the time, he scolds himself.  

“Do you prefer to put the gear on, or should we do this no contact?” 

“No gear is fine. I’m comfortable playing however you choose.” 

“Ooh,” Minho says, “You must be confident.” 

Jisung smirks. “To the point of cockiness, I’ve been told.” 

“I have dummy blades. They’re sabres,” Minho says, gesturing for Jisung to follow him into the room he emerged from. As soon as Jisung’s in, he recognises the fencing strip in the centre of the room, elongated perfectly for sparring. 

Jisung whistles. “Oh, this is a full setup.” 

“Mmhm,” Minho hums as he strays to the corner of the room and draws two sabres. Neither of them are as sharp as the real things are. Their edges are rounded for practice rounds and novice fencers, which strikes Jisung as odd until Minho explains. “I teach, sometimes.” 

“Oh,” Jisung breathes, noticing the ease with which Minho handles the blades. 

Minho turns to face Jisung. “Allow me to prove myself,” he says, his humility uncharacteristic of a prince. He offers Jisung a sabre, its tip facing down. His hand looks pretty wrapped around the handle, and when Jisung accepts what he’s given, their fingers brush. 

The touch has teeth. It bites at Jisung’s senses, snapping at him to focus. 

“Do you practice every day?” Jisung asks, taking his place on the strip and testing the weight of the sabre. It feels dense. Not sharp, but made of something precious. 

“When time allows.” 

“That’s really cool,” Jisung says, helplessly awed. 

Minho smiles. 

Jisung averts his eyes. He clears his throat, suddenly embarrassed before he asks, “What made you want to teach?” 

“I could only learn how to fence because I’m a royal,” Minho says. “The kingdom’s association of fencers is…” 

Jisung huffs, all too aware of the reputation. “Exclusive.”

“That’s a nice way to put it. They think they’re hot shit.” 

Jisung laughs. “Exactly.” 

“But I’ve always been interested in different forms of fighting, so I always enjoyed my lessons. I box, too.” 

Jisung’s mouth goes dry, and he feels the faintest inkling of the spike in his scent escape into the air, despite the scent blocker.

A beat of silence passes in the room. Minho’s jaw twitches—an almost imperceptible, minute detail. Jisung’s trained eyes catch the movement, along with the slight movement of Minho’s fingers. 

Minho, thankfully, doesn’t react any more than that. 

This isn’t the first time Jisung’s scent has been compromised. Back when Jisung was a rookie, he used to slip between forgetting to wear his scent blockers and not bothering with the hassle. 

Once Jisung grew up, the scent slippage reduced. Everything levelled out. Things stopped surprising him, so there was little reason for him to experience any fluctuations. 

Rut is the only exception. When Jisung’s rut is on the horizon, his scent is a beast unleashed. 

It’s easy to slip into that headspace, but rut isn’t the anomaly right now. 

Jisung’s not so oblivious to his own feelings that he can pretend it’s something else, because it isn’t. Against every odd, against years of experience—Jisung finds himself taken captive by his mark. He wants to see what would happen if he exposed Minho to the full intensity of the sweet lime desire surging through him. 

The warmth in his gut, the itch in his throat, the weight of his teeth; heavy and full of potential in his mouth. All signs that it’s not just Jisung’s scent that’s compromised. 

Maybe Minho’s unaware, or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing when he looks like that. He brushes his hair back with his hand and holds the sabre up. “I taught a few of my friends. I’m still learning to be a better teacher, but I think they turned out pretty well so far.”

Jisung rolls his shoulders back. “Ah, that’s a relief. I haven’t fenced in a long time. I'm out of practice,” he lies. “Will you teach me, hyung?”

Minho assumes en garde. Jisung follows suit. “Sure, Jisung-ah, I’ll teach you what you need to be taught.” 

Jisung doesn’t get to react before Minho kicks off their first fencing round, asking “Pret?”

“Let’s go,” Jisung says. 

One time, Chan told Jisung that you have to be really good at something to successfully pretend you’re bad at it. 

Jisung lunges towards Minho with practiced grace, but he intentionally makes his footwork messy, fumbling slightly on his landing.

“Ah,” Minho says, moving slightly to avoid the hit Jisung almost landed on his shoulder. “Centre your core, Jisung-ah.” 

Jisung pouts. “Am I that bad already?” 

“Not at all,” Minho replies, his voice even as he gets closer to Jisung’s side of the strip, putting his weapon down to step closer to Jisung. “You told me you wanted me to teach you.” 

“I do.” 

Minho steps into Jisung's personal space, only stopping when Jisung has to slightly crane his head to look into his eyes. “Do you work out often, Jisung?” 

Jisung wills himself not to avert his eyes. “I try to.” 

“Hm, I can tell,” Minho says, and that’s when Jisung realises what he put on after he slid out of bed and to follow Minho’s scent to this room. Jisung’s arms are bare, his t-shirt sleeves rolled up. Like Minho, he’s wearing sweatpants. Unlike Minho, Jisung’s shirt is not as baggy around the waist or the chest, hugging every inch of him. 

Minho’s eyes trace Jisung’s silhouette slowly. 

His hands place themselves on Jisung’s shoulders. It’s nothing more than a momentary touch, but it’s so gentle. Jisung is momentarily shocked by it. “You hold all your tension here.” 

Minho’s hands drag down. When they reach Jisung’s elbows, they lift away from his skin and move to hover over Jisung’s stomach. “You should hold it here, instead.” 

Jisung wishes Minho would just abandon the gap and touch him. Push the heel of his hand into his flesh and press down, down, down—until Jisung’s conscience cracks and he gets tempted into wanting to push back. What would happen then, if they abandoned the weapons and got their hands dirty? Would Minho take it? 

“Okay,” Jisung says faintly, stepping back and breaking the distance before he does something stupid, like pushing Minho onto the ground and seeing if Minho would, indeed, take it.

Jisung should want Minho to take it. 

Jisung breathes in, breathes out. Bundles up the energy in his core. “Pret?” he asks, an echo of Minho’s earlier starting call. 

He can’t stop thinking about Minho making him take it. 

Minho takes his place on the strip. “Allez.” 

Another round, this one longer. 

Minho retreats. “Use your wrist,” he says, watching the awkward bend of Jisung’s arm as he attempts to regain control over his weapon. 

“I told you I was a little out of practice,” Jisung says with a strained exhale, hoping he’s selling his performance. 

“No problem,” Minho says, forgoing his position once more. This time, he drops his blade to the floor and steps around Jisung. 

“Give it to me,” Minho murmurs from behind him. 

Jisung can’t remember the last time he willingly handed a weapon over, but Minho, for whatever reason, gets special treatment. 

At the feeling of Minho crowding up against him from behind, the beginning of a growl kicks up in Jisung’s chest. His senses heighten, buzzing with an ultimatum: hunt, or be hunted. 

“What’s wrong?” Minho says, his face so, so close to the bend of Jisung’s neck. “You seem tense.” 

Jisung straightens up. “Not tense at all, no.” 

Minho hums. His arm rises, bracketing Jisung’s lifted hand. He encircles Jisung’s wrist with two fingers, no longer hovering, but touching. 

Minho’s thumb sits on Jisung’s pulse. 

“You’re using your shoulders,” Minho explains, ignoring the incriminating pace of Jisung’s heartbeat. “Use your wrist instead. You’ll be able to control it better.” 

Jisung gulps, feeling his body lock up with all the different things he wants to do. 

“You know,” Minho says, tapping his thumb against Jisung’s pulse, “not a lot of alphas like being taught things like this.” 

Jisung’s fight or flight is replaced by a wave of righteous anger. “That’s bullshit.” 

Minho’s laugh hits the back of Jisung’s neck like something intimate, something secret. “Agreed. But there’s this pride that makes them think they can’t be taught something.”

Jisung scoffs. “Pride or insecurity?” 

“I think we both know the answer to that.” 

Minho lets go of Jisung’s wrist, but his voice stays close. “I’ve had alpha instructors refuse to be in the same room as me when I teach. My brother, he’s an omega. You spoke to Felix the other day, yeah?” 

Jisung’s wrist burns. In a fit of bravery, he chases the feeling of Minho’s touch and turns to face him. When they lock eyes, Jisung knows—there’s something unfurling here. 

“Yes,” Jisung responds. 

“Felix taught me so much more about fighting than any of the alphas in my life. So I always think it’s…hypocritical. Being so limited with your view of a worthy opponent.” 

“And a disadvantage,” Jisung says with a shrug. “I’ve known alphas who’ve had their asses kicked because they think a beta or an omega can’t beat them in a fight.” 

“Been in a lot of fights, Jisungie?” 

Jisungie. Jisung’s heart flutters, silly and stupid. 

Jisung really is doomed. This is a crush. A full-fledged, giddy, puppy-eared crush. 

“A few,” Jisung says, looking down at the floor and kicking at something imaginary. His sudden shyness at being this close to Minho is real—no Choi Jisung performances in sight—but he can pass it off as part of the sheltered rich boy with a wild side act.  

In building a career around lies, Jisung has learned that the truth works wonders, sometimes. “I mentioned it to Felix, actually. I’m not close with my parents. Part of it was because I used to ‘cause a scene’ wherever I went. Really, I was just fighting back when alphas bigger than me thought they could get away with being…”

“Insecure,” Minho finishes for Jisung. “Did it pay off? Fighting back?” 

Jisung smirks. “My battle scars,” he announces, hesitating only for a half a second before he pulls his shirt up to show off the scarring that sits above his waistline. 

“Oh,” Minho says, his voice sounding so level that Jisung would assume he’s unaffected if he didn’t look up in the next second. 

Minho’s eyes are fixed on the scar. His mouth is slightly dropped open, and his breath leaves his mouth like it’s staggered by an emotion, maybe surprise. 

Jisung understands the reaction. It’s not every day that someone covers up a scar with a tattoo spanning from chest to mid-thigh. 

Minho can’t see all of the ink, but he’s dragging his eyes over the lettering that disappears into the waistband of Jisung’s pants like he’s committing it to memory. 

Something happens, then. The frequency of Minho’s scent turns all the way up, and Jisung finds himself toeing the line of a primal instinct that makes him want to bare his teeth. Minho’s eyes flick up, narrowing slightly, like a threat. Like a do that again, I dare you. The unspoken challenge makes Jisung grip onto his shirt so tight that he feels his nails dig crescents into his palm through the fabric. 

“Sorry," Jisung says, quickly realising he’s basically revealing himself to an omega—no less a royal one—without any talk of courting or being mated. He drops his shirt and shakes his head, trying to knock sense back into himself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Did it hurt?” Minho asks, his eyes still stuck on Jisung’s now-covered waist.  

“Ah, it was just a fall. You should’ve seen the other guy,” Jisung says with a nervous laugh. Usually, the people who see him half-naked like this just compliment the tattoo for what it is—a pretty, intricate, and bold set of letters across his body. Jisung lets them, rarely motivated to point out what lies underneath, because that would cut deeper than the surface.   

This time, with his scars up front, it feels a little bit like he’s doing everything in reverse. 

Minho blinks. And then blinks again. He takes a moment, eyes unfocusing before he looks back up at Jisung’s face. “I—” He takes a shaky inhale. “You’re beautiful.” 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Oh. Ah. Um, thank you, hyung. I don’t know what I was thinking. I promise I didn’t mean to just, like, flash you…” 

Minho blinks, and then lets out a surprised giggle a beat too late. “Jisung, that is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Really?”

“Mm,” Minho says. The frenzied uptick of Minho’s scent, wild and woodsy, has evaporated into thin air, like it never existed. In its place is a steady, unchanging stream of vanilla that makes Jisung wonder if he imagined everything else. 

“What’s the first thing on your mind right now, then?” 

“Getting you to do that again.”

Oh, Jisung thinks.

“Do what?” Jisung asks, knowing full well what Minho meant. 

Minho huffs, and holds Jisung’s blade up in front of him. Jisung doesn’t step back, characteristically stubborn, especially now that he wants something. And oh, does he want it. Wants to provoke. Wants Minho to narrow his eyes at him like that again. Wants to piss Minho off, just to see what would happen. What does it take to break Lee Minho? 

And more importantly—who does he become once he’s broken? 

The tip of the blade lands at the very centre of Jisung’s chest, not sharp but insistent. Minho holds it there. “I want to get you to do everything you do when I make you nervous,” Minho says. “But I don’t have to try very hard to do that, do I?” 

The blade moves with Jisung’s chest—caving with his inhale, pushing back with his exhale. 

“Let’s go again,” Minho says, not letting the silence turn into something else and unsticking the weapon held over Jisung’s chest. “First to 10 touches wins.” 

Minho’s tone leaves no room for question, so Jisung takes the blade from Minho and walks to take his position on the strip.

“Properly, this time,” Minho says, holding Jisung’s gaze like he sees right through him. “En garde.” 

Jisung listens like it’s an instruction. 

“Begin,” Minho says, skipping the other formalities. 

Jisung abandons his previous act and engages his muscle memory, the world reducing to himself and his opponent. 

Jisung closes in on Minho first. He’s always been good at advances. It’s the thing that attracted him to fencing. The thrill of the approach. Quick, powerful beginnings have always been a common thread tying Jisung’s style together no matter what he does, so taking a step towards his waiting opponent comes easily. 

Minho doesn’t retreat, but he doesn’t get closer either.

Jisung attacks first. Short, sharp jumps that turn into a lunge, pushing Jisung deeper towards Minho’s side of the strip.

Their blades don’t meet at first, but Jisung’s attack doesn’t relent. Another burst of movement, and the distinct sound of two weapons clashing strikes across the room. 

Jisung grunts, matching his footwork to his attack. He withdraws his blade to retreat, a few steps backward. 

And it repeats. The tempo sticks: jump, lunge, attack, block. When Minho blocks, he counters with a tap below Jisung’s shoulder. “Fuck,” Jisung says under his breath, and then he retreats. 

A little different on the third run:

Jump, lunge, attack. At the block, Jisung attacks again; a remise. He manages to land two touches on Minho’s shoulder and chest. 

Minho retreats, which sends Jisung back to his end. Three heavy, suspenseful seconds pass, after which Minho’s advance is faster than light. He lands one, two, three—four. Four touches above Jisung’s waist.  

Jisung exhales sharply from his nose, eager to pull a reaction out of Minho. At the next window, he sharply taps his blade against Minho’s. 

Through the intersection of their blades, Jisung watches Minho raise an eyebrow. 

“Patience,” Minho says. 

Jisung forgets embarrassment, and lets out the tiniest beginnings of a growl. 

Minho clicks his teeth. “Need me to teach you something else, Jisung-ah?” 

He feels it happen exactly when Minho latches onto it—his hold on the blade falters. 

Jisung’s growl gets swallowed by the launch of Minho’s attack. One short burst. An engagement; Minho’s blade brushing up against Jisung’s. Jisung retreats in haste as Minho extends his hand, granting himself the right of way to keep walking towards Jisung. One, two. 

Two more touches to Minho. 

Closer, and closer. Jisung’s vision tunnels. 

Jisung sees Minho’s approach get faster, short bursts of energy until he pauses. 

And then, there’s a rumble. Nothing soft, nothing gentle. Something that reverberates through Jisung’s body like a call. Like a demand. Stand down. 

It knocks Jisung completely off his senses. That isn’t—what was that? His blade accidentally darts out towards Minho, an instinctive defence tactic that makes the tip brush against the bend of Minho’s throat. He sneaks a look over Minho’s shoulder, looking for signs of someone else in the room. 

Then, as Jisung’s blade applies pressure right over the place Minho would place his scent blockers, a pulse of a spicy-warm fragrance fills Jisung’s senses. A push, and it’s like the room gets dipped into the most rich, potent, and alluring scent that Jisung has ever experienced in his life. 

His eyes flutter at the sudden influx. Minho pushes Jisung’s blade away with his own.

“Behave,” Minho murmurs, almost too quiet, something that could pass for a whisper to himself. Jisung isn’t sure if the word is intended for him or the mischievous scent mixing with the sour bite of Jisung’s own, which fights back like it’s part of the spar. Despite the scent blocker, it responds to the sweet-spicy wooden aroma with vigour. The pair of scents go back and forth, as if trapped in an intricate dance. 

“Hyung…” Jisung says, watching a red flush appear on Minho’s ears. Jisung almost says it. Says, what is that feeling? What are you hiding? Why is it escaping?

Half-distracted, Jisung expects Minho to hold the tension in his back leg and lunge. 

Instead, Minho catches him off-guard and finishes his movement explosively, using his front leg to surprise Jisung into backing himself off the strip. 

Minho lands his final 6 touches in quick succession. 

Jisung catches Minho’s blade with his own on the seventh touch, groaning as he tries to fight it off. 

His strength doesn’t hold him up, especially not with the number of questions swimming in his head. He trips, pushing a leg behind him to try to hold himself up.

When their combined strength becomes too much for the blades to stay flush together, Minho and Jisung break apart, falling back in opposite directions. 

Jisung loses his footing, falling onto the cushioned floor behind him. He catches himself on the back of his elbows, unable to look away from how Minho’s chest heaves. 

Minho drops his blade and walks close until he stands over Jisung, taking in another mouthful of air before he says, “I’d ask if you want to do round two, but I think we just spent an hour doing this.” 

Jisung hums his agreement, still dazed by everything that just happened. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask what that was. How would he even begin his question? The scents in the air have already stabilized to the neutrality of scent-blocked vanilla and lime. Everything seems normal, but Jisung knows there was something else. 

He belatedly realises that this would’ve been a perfect opportunity to finish his mission. He could’ve replaced the blade with his knife and finished the job. Set up an elaborate scenario and slipped out. 

“Excuse me,” someone’s voice says from the entrance to the training room. “Forgive me for interrupting.” 

Ah, a witness. How terrible. There go Jisung’s plans to kill the Prince. 

Jisung gets up to his feet and brushes imaginary dust off his thighs.

“Hello, Sullyoon-ah. Don’t worry. We were just wrapping up.” 

“Hi!” the stranger—Sullyoon—says brightly. “Jisung-ssi, a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Sullyoon, the Prince’s manager.”

Minho clears his throat from where he’s standing. “Jisung-ah, Sullyoon likes to call herself my manager, but she’s the Royal Chaperone. She keeps me from forgetting everything I need to do.” 

“Good morning, Sullyoon-ssi,” Jisung says with a bow. 

Sullyoon bows back. “A pleasure to meet you. I came to inform his Royal Forgetful Highness that the rehearsal is starting this evening.” 

Jisung’s eyebrows pinch together. “The rehearsal…?”

Next to Jisung, Minho makes a confused sound. “I thought that was tomorrow?” 

“That was just because we were short one alpha, but you managed to fix that. Everyone else is arriving this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” Minho mutters, running a hand through his hair, which sticks away from his forehead. He’s so red, too. Jisung tries not to think about the fact that Minho probably gets red when he’s worked up in other ways.

“I’m a little busy, Sullyoon-ah,” Minho says, glancing quickly at Jisung. 

Sullyoon shrugs from where she’s standing. “Someone had to deliver the news. You know we have press coming in tomorrow.”

Minho sighs. “I know. I was going to show Jisung around, but…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung says. “We can get back to this later.”

“Exactly,” Sullyoon says. “I’ll give you both some time to get ready. Jisung-ssi, the Prince will show you where to go.”

“You can go take a shower over there, if you want,” Minho says, pointing at the locker rooms connected to the open space. “I’ll just talk to Sullyoon and be there in a bit.” 

Jisung clears his throat, lets out a quick okay and hurries to the locker rooms. 

“There’s an extra set of clothes in one of the lockers!” Minho calls. 

Jisung lets himself into the sizable locker room, his eyes landing on the bench in front of the row of lockers. 

The Palace clearly put a lot of thought into modernising the space, because all the intricate arches and engravings on the high ceiling of the locker room are preserved in pristine condition. 

There are pillars on every corner of the room, making Jisung feel like he’s stepped back in time. 

As Jisung walks towards the lockers, his body practically hums, still running on the adrenalin from the spar with Minho. His hands shake as he finds the clothes Minho was talking about on the bench. 

The shirt looks just about the right fit, but the pants are no doubt going to sit loose for him. He tucks the clothes and a fresh towel from a cabinet next to the bench under his arm and ventures deeper into the rooms, towards the showers. 

Jisung wasn’t expecting it to be so expansive. Each stall has a curtain leading inside. Everything shines like it’s never been used. There are no lingering scents in the place other than the faint trace of Minho’s vanilla, stronger than it should be when there’s more than a dozen footsteps in between them. 

Jisung picks the last shower stall and pulls the curtain back. There’s a bench outside the stall, so he puts away his new set of clothes on it before turning the faucet on, watching a powerful stream of water hit the marble-tiled floor. It takes no time for steam to start clouding his vision. 

Jisung sighs.

He slips his shoes and socks off, bare feet cold against the tile. Faster than he can be rational about it, he decides to take all of his clothes off before stepping into the stall. 

Cold air faintly licks up Jisung’s spine. 

Jisung leaves his clothes on the floor and walks into the stall, closing the curtain behind him. 

Hot water hits the centre of Jisung’s chest first, right where Minho pressed the blade. 

The warmth pulses, travelling down to his legs, and then slowly crawling up his neck. 

Jisung exhales as the hot water washes away the tension from the fight. 

The steam tendrils around Jisung, leaving him loose-limbed enough that he has to lean forward to hold himself up with an arm against the wall. His stomach caves with the deep inhale he takes, eyelids drooping of their own accord. 

He’s been trying to ignore it. The way Minho looked, standing over him. Behind him. In front, all over. Gaining in, getting close, preparing for attack. 

Before today, fighting never felt like foreplay. 

But now—Jisung’s breathing heavily, gripping onto the wall, letting his scent blocker melt away and go down the drain. He places his palm over his sternum, imagining a heavier, more intentional weight touching him. Lower, over the quivering skin of his stomach. Lower, and fuck, Jisung is already half hard. His scent is a thick drip drip drip of citrus all around him, sweet and sour and so intense that he can taste it on his tongue. 

Precum dribbles out of his cock where it stands flush against his stomach, throbbing with need. It’s a familiar feeling, but the shape of what he wants keeps shifting. His hips jerk forward, backward. Controlled movements, bitten down sounds. 

Jisung shouldn’t be doing this. 

This stall doesn’t lock. Minho could come in at any time. His hand has other plans, though. It moves lower, and Jisung makes a loose fist around the base of his cock, trying to stop. 

Jisung bites back a whimper. He really needs to stop. Minho could…

Minho could slip in, take his place behind Jisung, plant a hot breath over Jisung’s scent gland the same way he almost did in the training room, and stop holding back. He could touch him. He could do things Jisung doesn’t even know he wants. Minho could—

Jisung yanks his hand off his cock. 

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, turning the shower faucet all the way to the cold side and biting his tongue when he’s doused under the sudden temperature change.  

The intensity of the lime in the air reduces. Jisung brings his fist to his mouth, biting down on it to rid himself of the last surge of desperation that passes through him.

Jisung turns the shower off and pats himself down with the towel, wrapping it around his waist. 

When he draws the curtain back, he hears footsteps approaching from the line of sinks to the left. 

“Jisung-ah?” 

Jisung freezes. Surely, there’s a limit on how many times you can flash the Prince with your naked torso in one day. He’s already done it once. He stays rooted where he is, unsure whether he should move forward to grab his clothes from the bench or not. 

Minho saves Jisung the trouble of deciding, walking right ahead until he’s facing Jisung. 

“There you are,” Minho murmurs, sweeping his eyes over Jisung slowly. He’s so unashamed. “I got you another pair of pants. Those might not fit you as well.” 

Why did Jisung think Minho would be some shy thing he’d have to draw out of his shell? Minho’s eyes are like a leash, and Jisung has never quite felt like he’s being taken apart with a simple look as much as he does when he’s under this special spotlight. 

Minho’s eyes flick down to the exposed skin of Jisung’s chest, wet and dewy from the shower. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

Jisung laughs nervously. 

“Are you?” Minho asks. 

“Only if it’s working,” Jisung responds. 

Through lidded eyes, Minho looks back up at Jisung. 

“You don’t have to take your clothes off to seduce me,” Minho says, taking a miniscule step closer. He sees the moment that the lingering steam from his shower curls around Minho. For a brief splinter in time, Jisung feels envious of the steam. If only he could wrap himself around Minho that easily. No hesitation, just instinct. 

Minho blinks, his eyes dipping to the line of Jisung’s throat. Lower, and they linger at his waist. Lower, and—

Minho drops to one knee. 

Jisung’s eyes widen. His cock twitches under the towel, embarrassingly excited at the thought of….whatever Minho’s on his knees to do. “Hyung—”

Minho’s back on his feet faster than a moan can tumble out of Jisung’s mouth. 

“You dropped this,” Minho says, bringing his hands to the part of the towel folded around Jisung’s waist and tucking something into it. He pats over Jisung’s waist once, his eyes never leaving Jisung’s face. 

“I’m going to go do boring rehearsal stuff. See you later?” 

Jisung nods slowly.

“Good,” Minho says, eyeing the ink on Jisung’s chest one last time before walking away. 

When Minho’s footsteps recede into nothing, Jisung exhales. He looks down at his waist, curious to see what exactly Minho left there, only to see his own dagger tucked in his waistband. The very same dagger he makes sure to carry around everywhere. 

The very same dagger he was supposed to use on Minho.

Jisung slaps a hand over his face. 

When did he get so bad at his job? 

—

A hurried exit and a locked door later, Jisung asks Chan the same question over the phone, in his room. 

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself.” 

“Hyung, you should be telling me to be harder.” 

“Ummm, no, that sounds kinda wrong, actually…” 

Jisung groans. “Not the time.” 

Chan giggles.  “Jisung-ah, seriously. I told you that this is going to feel different because you like the target so much. It’s okay if you make a few very human, very normal errors. And if you ever feel like you need a rescue…” 

“Yes, of course. I know. I’ll call you. But I don’t feel like I need a rescue, I’m just confused why I’m being like this.”

“See! That means you’re on the right track. You’ve been in this long enough to know when you need an out, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, but…I’ve been acting in ways I don’t usually act. He…makes me feel things. And he knows exactly what to say to make me feel, um. Nervous? Confused? I’m not sure.” 

“Jisung-ah…”

“I know,” Jisung grumbles.

“Okay, see—if we were younger, I would have told you to remove yourself from this situation immediately. But we aren’t. And I know for a fact that whatever it is you’re chasing by extending this mission’s timeline isn’t a kill.”

“Agh,” Jisung groans. “You’re right.”

“I know I am. Remember Bangkok, 3 years ago? You got yourself out of that and came back to Changbin’s apartment in time for dinner.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jisung says with a wince. “That was actual hell.”

“Exactly. And this isn’t! I’m not stressed. You shouldn’t be either.”

Jisung exhales slowly. “Okay, then. I’ll choose to believe you.” 

“Good.” 

“So, how are things going with the Busan hottie?” 

“Uh,” Chan says. The line bursts into a loud static, like Chan’s messing with the speakers. “Y—ou’re—c…ting—out-t, okay byeeeee.” 

Jisung laughs as soon as the line beeps to mark the end of the call. 

He locks eyes with himself in the mirror, straightening his shoulders, determination coursing through him.  

He got back from that one time in Bangkok and stayed alive. A dress fitting for a Royal Ball should be a walk in the park, right?

—

Despite being a literal assassin by profession, Jisung has never felt as scrutinised as he does when he comes out of the shower and welcomes the entire entourage of Royal Tailors into his room. 

It begins with 12 different people showing up. The head costume designer, as she calls herself, tells Jisung, “Hi, I’m Shin Yuna. We’re going to get you a suit for the Ball. Prepare yourself to be fitted.” 

Shin Yuna runs a tight ship. She claps her hands together once, and Jisung suddenly has people poking and prodding and measuring every part of him. There are fabrics and cuts and drapes and lace and words that feel like another language. 

“You have a soft charm about you,” Yuna says, like she’s picking up on a conversation she’s having in her head, “I think we could bring it out with lace. Something non-traditional. Unless you have a problem with that?” 

Her raised eyebrow hides another question. Are you one of those alphas? 

“I have no problem with that,” Jisung says, bowing his head slightly in deference. 

Yuna warms up to him by the slightest degree after that. She whispers something to the beta standing closest to her, setting the room off into another scurry of activity. 

“What about a cinched waist?” Yuna murmurs under her breath. “What do you think, Jisung-ssi? Should we bring the waist in?” 

“Absolutely,” Jisung says, no hesitation. Then, a little cheekily, “I need the Prince to focus on my assets.” 

That cracks a smile out of Yuna. “Ah, if that’s the case...Minnie-yah, can you make sure the suit’s cropped from the back as well? Just above the beltline.” 

Jisung blushes slightly at the implication, and Yuna smirks at him. “Not every alpha likes to flaunt,” she advises. “So forgive me if I’m being too presumptuous.” 

“No, no,” Jisung assures. “Not presumptuous at all.” 

Yuna hums. It sounds approving, which feels like an achievement. 

Jisung stands in the eye of the storm, letting the outfit come together at a speed that feels unreal. Someone unfolds a makeshift table near the bed, bringing out a sewing machine and filling up the room with the rhythmic sound of needles working through fabric.

“What do you think of a little bit of royal red for your suit?” Yuna asks. 

Jisung nods. “I think that’s perfect.” A beat passes. “Do you always make masterpieces this quickly?”

Yuna tilts her head, holding a red cloth up to Jisung’s face while she answers. “Sometimes. This was a request from Prince Minho. He said he wanted us to give you special treatment.” 

Jisung blushes again. “Oh.” He worries his bottom lip, wondering what angle he should take to get a little more out of Yuna. “Did…the other alphas get fitted too?” 

Yuna shakes her head. “I told you,” she murmurs, “special treatment. We outfitted some of them two weeks ago, but not at the Palace, and not for the Ball. The other competitors had suitcases full of clothes sent in yesterday and today. We do last minute alterations for a select few. But for you…” 

Jisung swipes his finger against his nose, a little nervous all of a sudden. “Thank you, then,” he says to Yuna. “Thank you all. I know this is a lot of work. I’m very grateful.” 

Yuna goes quiet, cocking her head as she considers Jisung. “It’s our pleasure. And it helps that you don’t have boring taste.”

Jisung laughs. “Do the other alphas not like colour or something?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Yuna says with a shake of her head. “Most of the alphas we work with say no to colour. Or to shine. Or anything fun.”

“What a shame,” Jisung says. 

“Exactly,” she agrees. “Okay, just sit tight, Jisung-ssi. We’re going to finish making this in an hour.” 

Jisung nods, moving to the side as the well-oiled machine, captained by Yuna, makes an entire three piece suit come to life.

“We’ll hand you the pieces as they’re ready,” Jinsol, Yuna’s assistant, says to him as she hangs a neatly pressed light pink dress shirt on the rack next to Jisung. “You can put them on in a few moments.”

Jisung takes in the details. Crisp. Not exactly bright white, which makes sense, because Jinsol immediately hangs a maroon waistcoat on the rack, which complements the baby pink perfectly. 

The suit jacket gets hung on the rack third. It’s maroon to match, and Jisung’s mouth hangs open when he takes in its shape, coming in at the waist and flaring out towards the bottom. It’s cropped exactly how Yuna requested it, making it different from anything Jisung’s worn. All the buttons on the waistcoat and the jacket are gold, and when Jisung squints—he sees the royal emblem on them. The collars are lined with lace, adding a delicate, soft charm to the suit. 

“Here are your pants,” Yuna says, handing Jisung the final piece. Behind her, Jinsol puts up a room divider and motions for Jisung to step behind it. “You can change there, and we’ll make the final adjustments.” 

Jisung gapes at everyone. “How did you all make a three piece that fast?” 

Yuna shrugs. “It’s all part of the job,” she says, and then laughs. “We had parts and pieces ready to go, we’re not magicians. It’s hard work. Now, go show us our results!” 

Jisung dutifully takes the clothes off the rack, being as quick as possible behind the room divider in taking off his clothes and carefully putting the suit on. 

Jinsol gasps as soon as Jisung comes out from behind the room divider. “Wow.” 

Jisung doesn’t know what he looks like yet, but he lets out a twin gasp as soon as he sees himself in the mirror. “What the fuck,” he says, and then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Forgive my language.” 

Yuna chuckles. “What the fuck, indeed. Flaunting your assets might not be for nothing, Jisung-ssi. I have no doubt you’re going to attract a lot of attention tonight and tomorrow.” 

Jisung stares at himself in the mirror in disbelief as Yuna swoops in, muttering just one thing under her breath. She unbuttons the top two buttons of the shirt Jisung has on. “Okay, perfect.” 

Jisung’s collarbone lies exposed, the shirt’s v-neck mirroring the neckline of the waistcoat. The coat ends a little below where the trousers' waistline begins, the crop working to highlight…everything. 

Jisung turns around to confirm. Yeah, everything. 

Jisung pauses his ogling quickly, a blush rising on his face. He feels like he’s just been readied on some kind of platter for Minho’s consumption. He blushes harder when he realises that’s kind of exactly what’s happening here. 

“Do you like the colour?” Yuna asks, crouching as she gets a thread in between her teeth and works a needle over the cuffed bottom of the trousers.  

“It’s beautiful,” Jisung says. Then, an afterthought makes him hesitate, just for a moment. 

“But…?” Yuna asks. “It’s okay, you can tell us.” 

Jisung meets Yuna’s eyes in the mirror as she stands up, straightening out her blazer. Her heels make her tower over Jisung, which makes it a little intimidating to ask, “Is the colour…allowed?” 

“Oh!” Yuna exclaims, her expression clearing. “I thought you were going to say you hate it.”

“I would never,” Jisung cuts in, his eyes wide with sincerity. “Seriously, this is the best piece of clothing I’ve ever put on my body.” 

The corner of Yuna’s mouth lifts. “I’m glad. And to your question…yes. It’s technically allowed. The royal red is an auspicious colour to wear.”

“Technically?” Jisung asks. 

“Traditional royal stylists rarely dress alphas in red. It has a distinctly…bridal association.” 

“Oh,” Jisung says, his face breaking into an overjoyed smile. How scandalous. He then turns to face Yuna. “Does this mean I have your vote of confidence?” 

Yuna taps a finger against her chin. “Mm. You’ve grown on me.”

“She’s kidding,” Jinsol says as she packs up all the fabrics strewn across the floor. “She’s basically endorsing you.” 

“Jinsol,” Yuna says through a sweet smile, “don’t give up all my secrets so soon. And Jisung-ssi…”

Jisung nods, unable to stop the smile on his face from brightening. 

Yuna huffs. “Don’t let it get to your head, but yes. I think you’re sweet. You’ll be the only alpha in the room wearing red. Is that something you’re comfortable with?” 

“Yes,” Jisung responds easily. “It’s different, not wrong.” 

Yuna smiles—a full blown, proper smile. “See? This is why Choi Jisung-ssi has my endorsement,” she says to Jinsol.

The warmth in Jisung’s heart slightly dims at the reminder that he’s here under pretence. 

“You will need to take off this outfit very carefully at the end of tonight and put it back on tomorrow afternoon. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Jisung nods. 

“You’re free to go join the rehearsal now,” Yuna says, and then picks up the bags she arrived with. 

Jisung doesn’t pause. He tucks his dagger into his waistband, pointedly ignoring the rational voice in his head asking him what he thinks he’s doing by not finishing the job and severing this growing attachment, and he sets off towards the ballroom to find out what this rehearsal is all about.

– 

The rehearsal is chaotic on impact. 

First, it’s the hallway leading to the ballroom. A mess of scents. There’s chocolate and musk and fire and peaches and apples overlapping in the air. Jisung knows there’s a no scent blocker expectation for the Ball, but he chose to wear them anyways for the dress rehearsal. There aren’t a lot of things Jisung is modest about, but he likes to think that his scent is a private part of him. He likes to share it only in small groups. He prefers that scents are a secret language. 

Right now, though, every scent in the room blares. 

Everyone in the hallway waits to be let in, and Jisung leans back into the wall closest to him, trying to wade out all the suffocating, heavy alpha scent concoctions, thinking of the sweet-spicy fragrance from the training room this morning to calm himself down. 

“Hello” a soft, feminine voice lilts from somewhere in front of Jisung. 

Jisung looks up from the spot on the floor he’d been staring a hole into. 

“Hello,” he says, straightening up. 

“I’m Sana,” the stranger says. “I wanted to tell you that your suit is beautiful.” 

“Oh,” Jisung smiles, looking down at himself. “Thank you, Sana. I’m Jisung.” Then, he directs his attention to Sana’s outfit. “Your dress,” he gasps. “It’s so pretty.” 

“Thank you,” Sana says, joining Jisung in standing with her back to the wall. “This is a lot, huh?” 

Jisung exhales. “I didn’t expect it to be so packed.” 

In the background, an announcer starts reading off some kind of script. Miss Park Miyeon of the House of Park. 

A pause, and then. 

The Noble Jeon Soyeon, Gangnam District. 

Another pause, and the announcer continues. Prince Lee Seoham, Jeonju Yi Clan—

“It is,” Jisung says, feeling something like stage fright possess him. These are names he’s only read on tabloids and gossip pages, and now he’s going to be in a room with all of them. “Are they going to announce it this way for everyone?” 

Sana grimaces. “Unfortunately. It’s one of the more annoying parts of these things.” 

That cracks a smile out of Jisung. “Do you go to pre-mating run events often, Sana-ssi?” 

“Ahhh, like you wouldn’t believe. This is my fifth one just today,” she says with a long-suffering sigh that turns into a giggle. “I had to reject a few other offers.”

Jisung chuckles. “An alpha in demand.”

“Of course, have you seen me?” she asks, putting her hands under her chin and blinking profusely. “But yeah, they’ll announce it for everyone. Luckily there are only 8 alphas other than us, so we should be up soon.” 

Eight other alphas. That means Jisung has nine other people lined up as his competition. He glances at Sana, taking her in briefly. Her scent is muted. And sweet. Jisung can pick up on a faint note of strawberry, which seems like the perfect fit for her. She handles herself with princess-like grace, making her flowy black gown look like something she puts on every day. 

“Okay,” Jisung nods, straining his ear for his name. “Thank you.”

“Of course. So, Jisung-ssi. What brings you to the Run festivities?” 

Ah, just killing Lee Minho. “Well…” Jisung shrugs. “I want the Prince.” 

“Oh!” Sana claps her hands together like she’s delighted. “Wait, really?” 

Jisung ducks his head shyly. “Yes, really,” he says. It’s more of a truthful admission than he’d like to admit, but it helps to sell the enamoured suitor act right now. 

“That’s so cute,” Sana coos. Jisung can feel the excitement radiating off her. “I’m here because my parents needed me to maintain foreign relations, you know? I’ve never chased a man in my life, and I plan on keeping it that way.” 

“And you should never have to,” Jisung says. 

“Jisung-ssi, you shouldn’t either,” she says, lowering her voice. “Just because we’re alphas doesn’t mean we can’t like the chase.” 

Jisung blushes. “I don’t mind chasing.” 

Sana hums. “You look younger than me, Jisung-ah, so can I offer you some unsolicited advice?” 

“Sure, noona,” Jisung says, comforted for a moment by finding someone to rely on. 

“You have a very pretty charm.” 

“Oh,” Jisung says, caught off-guard. He knows Sana doesn’t mean it with romantic intention, because nothing about her body language suggests it, but it’s still startling to be told something like that by someone so objectively beautiful. 

“You can have anything you want if you use it correctly, even the Prince. So use it. I’m rooting for you, okay?” 

“I’m honoured.” Jisung bows his head. “Thank you, noona, I—"

The announcer’s voice interrupts Jisung. 

Choi Jisung, Incheon. 

Sana’s eyes widen. “Go, go,” she urges, and Jisung sends her one last shaky smile before finding the entryway to the ballroom. 

When he walks through the doors, faced with the entirety of the dancefloor and most of the competitors, he feels himself freeze. This is intimidating. How is he supposed to pretend he fits in here? To what end is he doing this? Should Jisung just turn around and—

Minho’s voice cuts in through the storm brewing in Jisung’s mind. “Jisung-ah,” he says, ascending the flight of stairs and extending a hand to Jisung. “Allow me.” 

“M—Your Highness,” Jisung corrects, glancing at the number of Palace staff surrounding them. He doesn’t know if Minho wants their informal address to stay that way out in public. 

Minho guides Jisung down the flight of stairs, their hands still in each other’s when they reach the bottom. “I told you to call me hyung,” he reminds him softly, turning to look at Jisung. 

Someone else’s name gets announced, but Jisung isn’t paying much attention to the sounds in the background now that Minho’s in front of him, dressed like something out of every alpha’s wildest dreams. 

Hell, every person’s wildest dreams. There’s no way anyone could stay sane looking at the all-white piece Minho has on—a long overcoat with a silhouette that reminds Jisung of a hanbok, white pants that hug him in just the right places, and a vest with a deep neck. Minho’s hair complements the suit he has on, making him look like a star that fell out of the sky.

The cut of the vest is low, and Minho doesn’t have a shirt on underneath. How is anyone supposed to focus on ceremony and…and, oh, Jisung can see the swell of Minho’s pecs when he moves and…

Jisung’s brain blanks, giving up any hope of forming further thought. 

“You look beautiful,” Minho says, beating Jisung to it. 

Jisung remembers where he is, startling out of his trance. “Wh—thank you, hyung. You…look so good.”

Minho smiles warmly, but god, Jisung can’t even look at his face. Seriously, is this allowed? Jisung’s heart is racing at the mere sight of this much skin. 

He feels like none of the paparazzi pictures he’s seen so far have exposed this much. This must be a first, because Jisung feels completely unprepared for it.

“Thank you, Jisungie,” Minho murmurs. He opens his mouth to say something else, but any hopes of conversation are interrupted by a sudden ringing voice across the ballroom. 

“Welcome, everybody,” says Sullyoon with a headset on and a clipboard in her hand. “The Palace extends its warmest greetings to the attendees of the Ball. Now that we’ve announced everyone, you have an idea of what it’s going to be like tomorrow. Just so you’re aware, press will be on the right side of the ballroom tomorrow until 9 PM, after which the Ball will become a lights out event. We will be handing you detailed agendas with your arrival time for the Ball listed on them. For now, we encourage every participating alpha and the Prince to make their rounds and get familiar. Please feel free to leave as soon as you’d like. Palace staff will be exiting the ballroom now, and security will be posted outside. I hope you all have a good night, and see you tomorrow!” 

Jisung exhales. “Jisungie, I—” Minho begins to say, but he’s interrupted again. 

“Your Highness,” says a dark-haired alpha. Jisung recognises him as Lee Minhyuk, professional boxer and well-loved public figure. 

“Minhyuk-ssi,” Minho greets neutrally, not as familiar as he is with Jisung. “How are you?” 

“Ah, good. I wanted to come convey my greetings before tomorrow,” he says. 

Jisung steps back, giving Minho and Minhyuk the space to continue talking. 

He watches their exchange for a moment. It’s nothing too personal, but Minhyuk is one of the alphas in the room with his scent on full display. Notes of black pepper and cinnamon, overlapping in strong waves. 

The scent makes Jisung want to wrinkle his nose because he’s never been a fan of something so overpowering, but Minho…

Minho shows no visible reaction. 

They talk about something that makes Minho huff out a quiet laugh. A small lift of his lips, nothing like the laughter Jisung drew out of Minho earlier today. 

Jisung feels his mood turn sour. 

Has Minho ever fenced with Minhyuk? Probably not. Minhyuk seems like the type to like hand to hand combat. Is that Minho’s type? Someone bigger than him, someone physically domineering. Someone more traditional. Someone who wears dark brown to the Ball and leads the conversation and says things like, when’s the next time I can take you out?

Jisung feels a sudden, overwhelming surge of something ugly pass through his body. 

“Excuse me,” he mutters, tearing himself away from the conversation and finding the food table. He looks over his shoulder, meeting Minho’s concerned gaze and shaking his head to say I’m alright. A lie. 

As soon as he turns away from Minho, his smile falls off his face. 

Jisung barely resists the urge to roll his eyes as he watches Minhyuk continue to make conversation with Minho. 

Whatever. Jisung could take Minhyuk in a fight. Maybe not if they were boxing, but Jisung literally is a killer, and he knows how murderous intent can make up for lack of skills. 

Jisung shakes his head and grabs a chocolate macaron from the dessert tower, shoving it into his mouth and chewing in contemplative silence. 

Fucking Minhyuk. With his big hands and big shoulders. 

It should make sense, the thought of Minho, the omega prince, with someone like Minhyuk, but it doesn’t. 

Minhyuk seems to have abandoned his conversation with Minho now, and in his place—Lee Juyeon. He’s of royal blood. If Jisung remembers correctly, he’s the same age as Minho. They could be good together, on paper. 

Minho laughs at something Juyeon says, and Jisung shoves another macaron into his mouth. 

Yeah, Jisung doesn’t see this happening, either. 

Another person joins Minho’s conversation. Juyeon steps back. 

The cycle repeats. One more conversation, and another after that, and another after that. Minho makes the rounds he’s expected to make, and Jisung watches in studious silence. 

He scans the room, switching gears to another pressing question. 

Is there anyone here capable of sending in a hit to get Minho killed? Jisung knows he isn’t going to find the source of the hit like this, standing on the sidelines, but he feels rooted in place. There’s something unpleasant that darkens his thoughts. Leaves him unable to do anything except do what’s safest: watch. 

Jisung watches conversations, greetings, and small talk. Jisung watches as the alphas start filtering out of the room. Sana sends him a wave before she leaves. 

Jisung pushes himself upright and approaches Minho’s conversation with the only other person still in the ballroom—Choi Seungcheol. 

...can’t thank you enough for hosting us, Jisung overhears, and then uses a small window of silence before Minho’s response to interrupt. “Sorry, please excuse me,” Jisung says. “I had a question for the Prince…” 

“Ah,” Seungcheol says. “By all means. I should get going, anyway. I will meet you tomorrow for the Ball,” he says, deeply bowing to both of them and turning to leave. 

Once Seungcheol ascends the staircase, it’s just Jisung, Minho, and the echoing silence around them. 

“Hi, Jisung-ah,” Minho murmurs. “You seem like you’re deep in thought.”

“I was just thinking,” Jisung says. “You must be tired.” 

Minho tilts his head, something about his shoulders relaxing from the firm, unbending posture that he’d assumed the whole evening. “A little bit,” he admits. “But it doesn’t seem like that’s what you were wondering.”

In the silence between their words, Minho gestures for Jisung to follow him upstairs. The hallways outside the ballroom have emptied out, leaving just their footsteps, echoing as they seek out the west wing.  

“It’s a little surreal, seeing all the competition laid out like that.” 

“It’s not a competition,” Minho says, like it’s that easy. 

Jisung considers it. Technically, it’s not a competition, but the Run is a race, and the winner has a claim to Minho’s hand. “But it means something, right? To be the person who finds you. It’ll mean something.”

“Are you asking me if it’ll mean something to me?”

Jisung worries his bottom lip. “I’m asking if this is what you want. Are those people…is that the kind of person you want to call yours?” 

The question is followed by a few beats of silence. Minho motions for Jisung to walk in front of him as they go up to the wing with their rooms. 

“I only do what I want, Jisung-ah,” Minho says when they stop outside their rooms. “And when I told you that you’re my favourite, I meant it. I,” Minho pauses, as if to stress his next words, “wanted it.” 

Wanted you, Jisung hears, reading in between the lines. 

“Are you sure?” Jisung asks, searching Minho’s face for any hesitation. All he finds is the moonlight illuminating his face and the stars, fixed in their twin spots as usual. “You could have any of them.” 

“I could have you,” Minho says. “If you’re asking me why you’re my favourite, well…” 

A cat meows near Jisung’s foot, nuzzling into his calf. 

“There you go,” Minho says, looking down at the little intruder. “Soonie chose you. Isn’t that proof enough?” 

Jisung gasps, leaning down to pet Soonie on his head as he nuzzles into Jisung’s leg. “Soonie, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“You just need to meet the maknae now,” Minho says. “Dori’s a little shy.” 

“I’m sure I can draw him out.”

“I’m sure, too.” 

When Jisung stands up straight, Minho takes a step closer to him, looking him in the eyes. “Jisung,” he begins, his eyes sparkling with something knowing, something sly, “don’t worry about the others. Just focus on finding me, okay?” 

Jisung gulps. “What if I don’t?” 

Minho hums. He reaches out to brush the back of his knuckles over Jisung’s limp hand in an almost-hold. “Do you want me, Jisung?” 

Jisung blinks. He parses through his desire, decodes its meaning, deciphers its language, translates its beating rhythm—badum, badum, badum. 

He wants Minho. He wants to win. He wants to be good—at his job, at the mission, at honouring what he wants. He wants everything. He wants things he cannot name. He wants to hold a knife to Minho’s throat and watch the truth spill out. 

He wants to have a reason to not kill the Prince. 

“I do,” Jisung says, wrapping up the truth into two words. 

Minho takes Jisung’s hand, wrapping his fingers around his wrist lightly and bringing it up to his neck. He pauses, making sure they’re looking into each other’s eyes before he swipes Jisung’s wrist below his own scent gland. 

“There,” Minho says, dropping Jisung’s hand. “Now I’ll wear your scent for the Ball tomorrow.” 

Jisung’s eyes drag down to the hollow of Minho’s throat, letting out a broken, vulnerable sound. “Do I get to wear your scent, too?” 

Minho brings his hand up to Jisung’s face, holding his chin in between his thumb and index finger. 

Time suspends. For a moment, Jisung thinks Minho’s going to lean in. 

Instead, Minho taps his thumb against Jisung’s chin and says, “Be good and wait your turn.” 

Jisung whimpers. 

Minho releases Jisung’s face. “Goodnight, Jisung-ah. Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight,” Jisung replies faintly and thinks, what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

#5.5: Make up your mind 

Jisung wakes up unusually late on the day of the Ball. It’s unlike him, but some force seems to have been working hard to keep him asleep. 

By the time he manages to drag himself out of bed, he has several missed notifications on his phone.

“Hey, Seungmin,” Jisung says, smushing his cheek into the pillow. The thread count on these royal sheets must be insane, because he’s never been on a comfier bed. 

“Hi, loverboy,” Seungmin says from the other end of the call. “I hear you’ve given up your plans to overthrow the monarchy.” 

Jisung groans. “Did Chan tell you that?” 

“No, I just keep tabs. And I haven’t forgotten our last phone call.” 

“It’s just—” Jisung lowers his voice to a whisper. “I don’t get why I should go through with such a high profile assassination without good reason.”

“Hm. That’s not what you said 7 months ago. Or the year before that. Or that one time in—”

“Okay,” Jisung whines. “I know. I’m just confused.” 

“Listen. Chan goes easy on you, but it’s my duty to actually remind you that you need to protect yourself if you’re not finishing the job. Don’t linger.” 

Jisung groans. “Chan does not go easy on me.” 

“You’re literally the 3RACHA baby aegi maknae. Yes, he does.” 

Jisung rubs his face into the pillow again, his head swirling with something slow and syrupy. Maknae. Dori. Minho. Last night. The ugly feeling in his veins. The special warmth of being the last face Minho saw before he fell asleep. The quiet prelude to their faces almost touching. Oh, the weight of a finger against his chin. 

No one’s ever touched Jisung like that before.

Jisung grumbles something under his breath, nearly unintelligible.

Seungmin laughs. “Oh, you’re down bad.” 

“Shut up.” 

“What, am I supposed to say make me? I think you should save the roleplay for your intended.” 

Jisung feels his cheeks heat up. “He’s not my…” 

“He’s not your…?”

“Ugh,” Jisung groans. “You’re insufferable. I need to get ready, let me go.” 

“Oh, for the Ball? Where you’ll seduce your future husband?” 

“Seungminnieeeeee,” Jisung whines. 

“Alright, I’ll stop,” Seungmin says with a laugh. “It’s just the first time I’ve ever seen you crush on someone. And it just happens to be the—” 

Jisung fake cries into the phone speaker. “Can you stop.”

“Sure,” Seungmin says. “For now. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow when I see you in a headline. Mysterious man from out of town caught canoodling with the Prince.” 

“Canoodling,” Jisung repeats, bemused. 

“Mmhm. Or should I call it what it is?” Seungmin clears his throat. “Jisung and the Crown Prince sitting on a tree, F U C—”

“Fuck you.” 

“No, thank you,” Seungmin responds. “Anyway, I’m calling to tell you that you have access to all Palace camera feeds. Security at all access points tonight. Blind spots in the hallway leading up to the wing you’re staying in—” 

“How do you even know that?” Jisung mutters. 

“I know everything. There’s a bathroom on the ground floor next to the east side entrance that also has an escape point with a blind spot. It’s a little small, but I’m sure you can manage. And the balcony near the ballroom is inaccessible without a key, but it’s completely unmonitored. Just in case you find that you need that information.” 

“Thank you,” Jisung says. 

“If you feel like you need to make any big moves, getaway cars are waiting outside back exit doors and through the gardens to the west. Look for yellow. If you’re on foot, find Levanter and ask for Chaeryeong.” 

“Got it,” Jisung says, sitting up and feeling the slow-moving fog in his mind clear. 

“Good luck,” Seungmin says, his voice getting more sincere now, “with whatever you choose to do. You know we’ve got you, yeah?” 

Jisung exhales. “I do. Okay, gotta go, Seungminnie.” 

“Bye bye. Break a leg.” 

Jisung lets out a chuckle and puts his burner phone away. 

He eyes the suit hanging on the closet railing, right where he carefully hung it last night. 

He slides the dagger out from where he keeps it under the pillow and twirls it between his fingers. The holster he uses for more delicate clothing takes a little bit of rustling around to find. 

Jisung stands up. He catches his own eyes in the mirror, looks down at his fingers, the way they handle the knife. He could do it right now. He could cross over to Minho’s room and finish it. He could…

He won’t. 

Jisung breathes out, walking to the closet and fastening the holster into the inside of the trousers’ waistband. 

Make up your mind, he tells himself. To kill or not to kill.

(In the background, Jisung’s heart whispers something that his mind begs him not to decipher just yet.)

—

One impromptu drive later, Jisung makes it back from his favourite florist by 6 PM. 

Jisung has always loved flowers. He loves their language. Loves the colours and the arrangements. Part of him wishes he could stay in one place more often so he could grow them himself, let them bloom into something beautiful and tender under a roof he calls his own. 

Jisung doesn’t have a lot of time to linger, so for Minho, he picks the flowers that instinctively draw him to them. 

Once the flowers are secured, Jisung takes the fastest route back to the Palace. The door to Minho’s room remains closed when he returns, and there are no sounds in the wing. 

Jisung must be alone here. 

An hour spent getting ready passes faster than it should. Jisung knows this, which is why he can’t spare any time doing anything other than making sure he looks like a worthy competitor for the Prince’s hand. 

Jisung places the bouquet on his bed and gets to work. Makes sure that his face shimmers from every angle and coats his lips with a slightly red tint. 

Jisung spends some time worrying about how fast he should be getting ready, but the agenda slipped under his door assures him that he needs to arrive at the ballroom doors by 7:45 PM. 

Then, when the clock eventually strikes 7:30, Jisung smooths his hands over the lapels of his jacket and breathes out. 

He’s really about to do this. 

The hallway leading to the ballroom is not quite as crowded as it was yesterday. 

“Jisung-ssi,” says Sullyoon from where she stands near the closed doors leading into the ballroom. “Welcome. Please stand on your mark.” 

Jisung takes his place in between the closed, wide wooden doors. 

“The bouquet looks beautiful,” Sullyoon says, looking at the flowers held in between Jisung’s hand, up to his chest. “He’ll love it.” 

“I hope so,” Jisung says, and finds that he means it. 

“Now presenting,” the announcer’s voice booms, “Choi Jisung, Incheon.” 

The wooden doors creak a low, ancient groan as they open, unveiling what feels like a thousand eyes on Jisung. 

Jisung sheds his hesitation and takes a step forward, bowing at the crowd before he starts descending the stairs.

Through the large window in the ballroom, Jisung sees a few lanterns take off in a distant patch of the sky. Part of him wishes he was out there. Part of him insists that he needs to be here. 

All of him wishes Minho was guiding him down the stairs today, just like yesterday. 

Now, at the foot of the stairs, inside the belly of the beast, Jisung masks the fact that his heart is dropping to his stomach as cameras start flashing in his direction. 

He advances towards the raised platform at the front of the ballroom, upon which lie two thrones, both occupied. 

“Your Royal Highness,” Jisung says with a deep bow, addressing the Queen first. “It is my honour to be here today. Thank you for inviting me.” 

“The honour is ours,” the Queen says, after which Jisung stands up straight. “You look like a jewel tonight, Choi Jisung.”

Jisung smiles, a little coy. He tries not to shrink into himself despite the urge to do so. He knows that every alpha in here sees him as competition, and the last thing he wants to do is suggest weakness. 

“And you, my Queen, are the diamond, as always,” Jisung says, comforted by the pieces of Minho he finds in his mother’s face. 

Then, he turns to address the other, more familiar throne. 

“My Prince,” Jisung says, and bows. He holds it for 5 seconds, a little longer than customary. When he rises, he continues, “I hope that tonight serves you well. I offer my heart for your consideration. Please accept a token of my affection.”

The bouquet is startlingly soft against the reds and golds of the ceremonial background, and Jisung is glad for it, because it holds meaning that he wants to communicate. Yellow hyacinths, lotus flowers, lavender, and lily of the valley. As he extends his hand and watches Minho accept his offering, he says, also, in no words but through feelings: here is a piece of what I feel. 

“Jisung,” Minho says, and Jisung startles at the lack of honorific. 

When they lock eyes, Minho’s mouth lifts in a small smile. Bold. The Prince is bold as ever. “Thank you. I treasure your heart and your token with the care they deserve.” 

Jisung bows again, hearing conversation return to the ballroom in slow whispers. Camera flashes go off behind him, and then, like a dam, the Palace returns to its full-fledged bustle of activity. 

Jisung exhales as he turns away from the raised platform, his hands shaking with nervousness. He can’t be lingering, no matter how much Minho is the only person in this room who calls to him. 

Jisung takes a total of three steps before there’s a new face in front of him. One that he’s seen in magazines, but never really imagined he’d bump into like this, face to face. 

“Jisung-ssi,” Hwang Hyunjin says, sidling up to Jisung. “Hello, I’m Hwang Hyunjin from JIN-IRET. The press are going to come for you like wolves in a few seconds, so I thought I’d get ahead of the crowd and steal you away for a conversation, if you’re willing?” 

“Hwang Hyunjin,” Jisung greets. At this point, with how often he’s been seeing Hyunjin on his phone, this feels like meeting an old friend. “Of course, anything you want. But before I say anything else, I have to say…I’m a little surprised that you look this perfect in person.” 

Hyunjin lets out a delighted giggle. “Stop it.” 

“No, seriously,” Jisung says, faking a dramatic look-around and pointing at Hyunjin, who’s wearing a long, flowy pink cape attached to a structured corset top, paired with matching trousers. His legs seem to go on for days, and his hair is tied back—a darker blonde than Minho. Pieces of it fall into his face. Nothing about him looks unintentional. “Is this allowed? And you’re single-handedly running a journalism empire?” 

Hyunjin waves Jisung’s words away, his earlier teasing giving way to something more humble, something grounded. “Please, Jiniret is hardly journalism—”

“Sorry, but you have no idea how much Jiniret’s been helping me,” Jisung says, not letting Hyunjin’s thought finish. “And even besides that, it is journalism.” 

Hyunjin averts his eyes, a little shy. In the movement, Jisung finds, unexpectedly, a mirror. It reflects pieces of himself back to him. 

“It’s been helping you?” 

“Yes, of course,” Jisung reassures. “I studied for this. And you’re the number one source for all things Prince Minho, so…” 

Hyunjin guides Jisung towards the press section, snaking through what feels like countless other magazine, newspaper, and blog logos before arriving at the clean, distinct linework that makes up JIN-IRET’s symbol. 

By the time they come to a stop under the JIN-IRET logo, Hyunjin’s momentary shyness has melted away to something self-assured. Jisung imagines that it’s the effect of stepping into his element. 

“You really studied for this?” Hyunjin asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s judging, but he does seem curious. 

Jisung shrugs. “I work hard for the things I want.”

“Hm,” Hyunjin says, pulling out a notepad from his pocket. He doesn’t flip it open, but he looks at Jisung like he’s sizing him up.  

Jisung feels like a deer in the headlights, and his expression probably gives it away, because Hyunjin giggles again. “You can relax, Choi Jisung. Ah, you’re cute. I can see why Minho talks about you so much.” 

The question slips out of Jisung before he can stop it. “He does?” 

“Let’s just say Jiniret doesn’t plan on interviewing all the competitors,” Hyunjin says, leaning forward like he’s sharing a secret. “Unless I’m curious about them. It’s the benefit of being the editor-in-chief and the writer, I suppose.”

Somewhere near the front of the ballroom, from the corner of his eye, Jisung sees Minho make his way down the dais. “You’re curious about me?” 

“Of course.” Hyunjin clicks the back of his pen and straightens up. “Okay, I’m going to ask you a few questions starting now, if that’s okay with you? We’re not allowed to film in the Palace, so it’ll just be us talking. I’ll look down at my notepad sometimes to take notes, but all my attention is on you, I promise.” 

Jisung nods. 

Hyunjin opens his notepad with dramatic flair. “You’re by far the most mysterious contestant of the Run. No previous appearances in the Royal Ball circuit, no social media, no stock photo I can use for the cover of this interview…” 

Jisung chuckles. “Is that your way of asking for a photo?” 

“Maybe,” Hyunjin says, scribbling something down with a smile playing on his lips. 

“Of course. We can do that. But yes, you’re right. I’ve, um. Always been a recluse, pretty much my whole life. I’m an artist. So, in artist fashion, I thought I’d live out a comfortable life by myself, because sometimes…that’s what I prefer.” 

“I understand,” Hyunjin says, “I—uh. I’m an artist, too. I hesitate to use the title for myself, but I paint. It can be peaceful, being alone.” 

There’s something in the cracks of Hyunjin’s persona that Jisung recognises. A longing for something that keeps changing shape, something that doesn’t show its true form. Jisung wonders if Hyunjin’s been able to put a name to the feeling. “All good artists hesitate,” Jisung says, borrowing his wisdom from Chan, who said a similar thing to Jisung when he was teaching him how to fight with a knife. All good assassins hesitate. 

Jisung didn’t understand it back then. He’d never hesitated a day in his life. He’s been on a killing streak since he was 17. He paused only when Chan and Changbin made him take a break. Back then, he’d been working himself to the ground, weeding out the missions that’d get him in too deep. 

These days, all Jisung does is hesitate, and he thinks he finally understands what Chan meant. Hesitation makes things interesting. 

“If you’ve liked being alone so far, why the sudden change?” 

Jisung hums and considers the question through the lens of the character he’s playing. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

Hyunjin meets Jisung’s eyes. For a moment, there’s something bewildered about his expression. And then it clears, leaving only Hyunjin’s blasé reporter voice saying, “I’m a romantic. I’d like to believe it exists. Hasn’t happened to me yet, though.” 

“I’m a romantic, too. But I used to think it wasn’t possible.” 

“Used to?” 

“Used to,” Jisung confirms. “Until I saw the Prince.” 

“Bold admission,” Hyunjin says, his eyes lit up. “So you’re here for...” 

“I’m here for love. I want to know the Prince. I care about him. I used to look at him and wonder how he was real, but now…” Jisung feels the truth lodge itself in his throat. “I wonder how he’s doing.” 

Hyunjin blinks. “Oh, wow.” 

Jisung plays with the button on his waistcoat, trying to distract himself from the urge to run away because of how honest that felt. “Sorry. Too much?” he asks with a grimace. 

“Not too much at all. Just—very different. Ah. That’s…really nice. Min—the Prince deserves something like that, I think.” 

Jisung smiles. “Yeah, I think Minho does too.” 

“Treason!” Hyunjin says with a hand over his mouth. “Just kidding. I call him Minho too. Okay, on to the next question. Tell me a little bit about what you’re wearing tonight.” 

Jisung looks down at his outfit, unused to having to articulate these things. He lets the spirit of Yuna possess him. “I’m wearing a custom three piece made by—well. The amazing team here at the Palace, actually.”  

Hyunjin raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “A Palace custom?” 

Jisung hesitates. Was he not supposed to say that? “...yes?” 

“Oh, it’s not a bad thing,” Hyunjin assures. “Just really rare. No wonder the tailoring on this is so magnificent. Do a spin!” 

Jisung steps back, amused at how excited Hyunjin seems about the outfit, and does a spin. 

“Beautiful. The colour really suits you.” 

“Thank you,” Jisung says. 

“Off the record, just so you know—the royal tailors only ever work for spouses of the royals and close family members. Maybe the occasional lifelong friend. Are you okay with me sharing that they worked on your outfit? It’s going to attract some attention.” 

“I’m all in, Hyunjin-ssi,” Jisung says. “I already told you what I want. I’m ready to accept everything else it brings.” 

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, “admirable. You really have your mind made up, huh?” 

Jisung wishes that was true. “Yes,” he lies. “I’ve spent a long time chasing inspiration, and it led me here.” 

“Speaking of chasing,” Hyunjin begins, flipping to another page in his notebook. “How are you feeling ahead of the Run tomorrow?” 

“Honestly, I’m trying not to think about it,” Jisung says, truthfully. “I get nervous when I think about things too much.” 

“Aw,” Hyunjin coos. “I have no doubt you’re going to do amazing.” He pauses, lowers his voice, pitching it to something comforting. “You know it’s up to him as much as it’s up to you, right?” 

“As it should be, but…there’s also all these other amazing people who came out here to run.”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “I don’t think you have much to worry about,” he says, with the air of someone who knows more than he lets on. Which he probably does. The man in front of Jisung is the kingdom’s secret-keeper, and something tells Jisung that Hyunjin knows the power he holds with everything he chooses to share. 

“If you say so…” Jisung lilts. 

“I know so. I think the dances are about to begin, so I’m going to let you go, but…” 

Music swells in the background as if to punctuate Hyunjin’s sentence. 

“Smile for the picture!” Hyunjin says, holding the camera that’s been around his neck up to his face and pointing it at Jisung. 

Click. 

“Thank you,” Hyunjin says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. 

The dance floor clears to the right of them, and Hyunjin gestures towards it. “It’s time for the press version of me to disappear,” he says, taking the camera off from around his neck. “I’m going to put this away. Most of the journalists will leave now, but hold off on the drama until I’m back, okay?”  

Jisung giggles. “Understood,” he says, waving Hyunjin off with a two-fingered salute. 

“Save me a dance!” Hyunjin calls, and then gets swallowed by the movement of the crowd. 

Jisung assumes that the rest of the night is going to pass by like this—with him rounding the perimeter slowly. He knows who he’s looking for every time he sweeps the crowd. The Queen has long since left the room. The alphas are mingling. The scents mix into the air slowly as bodies come together, pairs taking up the dance floor. 

Minho’s hard to find, until he’s not. 

Jisung stands, still off to the side, watching Minho’s dance with Sana end. She bows her thanks and says something that makes Minho laugh the way he did when Doongie made his surprise appearance at Jisung’s feet. 

It’s strange, the memory of that Minho and this Minho meeting in a place like this. 

This is the Prince Minho Jisung spent hours pouring his mind over. This is the man from the tabloids. This is the prophecy of the nation. 

And yet, when Jisung looks at Minho from across the crowd, all he can hear is the voice he uses when he talks to his cats, sweet and soft and melodic, like the best part of a song. All he sees is the flush on his cheeks when the weather’s too hot. The blush his ears wear when he gets embarrassed. The intensity of his eyes when he flirts, unrepentant, shameless. Call me hyung. Be good and wait your turn. The feel of his fingers tucking a knife into the waistband of Jisung’s towel, the drag of his eyes, the scent—

Minho isn’t wearing scent blockers tonight. 

His vanilla is by far one of the sweetest omega scents swirling in the air, and, if Jisung separates the threads of all the other alphas trying to flaunt their scent around, he can make out himself—tart and citrusy—entangled slightly with Minho. 

Lee Minhyuk walks up to Minho and takes his hand in a dance. The song in the background changes, and the pairs on the dance floor pick up their pace. 

Meanwhile, Jisung picks up a drink and tries not to break the glass, watching Minhyuk attempt to spin Minho around. Obviously, Minho should be leading the dance. 

The bitter taste of jealousy sits heavy in his mouth. He tries to wash it down with wine. It doesn’t work. 

Minhyuk and Minho may look good together, but they don’t work. Minho would probably want—something else. Something that moves with him instead of against him. 

Jisung sets the glass down on the table nearest to him. Minhyuk leans down, close to Minho’s ear, to whisper something into the place Jisung's wrist found a home just last night. Jisung has the urge to stand on a chair and scream everything he's biting back. He'd say something reckless, something cocky. That note of citrus the Prince is wearing? Yeah, that's me. 

Jisung has to bite his tongue to stop himself from growling. He abandons the drink, turning around in completely unsubtle fashion as he walks away from the dance floor. 

The red in Jisung’s vision only clears once he sneaks into the quieter hallways off the side of the ballroom. The empty space is a brief respite, but Jisung tugs at his collar, unbuttoning the third button of his shirt, feeling overwhelmed and trapped all of a sudden. 

As he looks around, restlessly searching for something he can’t name, he looks through the drawn curtains and watches more lanterns escape into the sky in the distance. 

Jisung fishes the lock-pick out from his coat pocket and pulls the curtains back, suddenly desperate to be outside. 

It takes Jisung less than 30 seconds to open the balcony doors. He pushes them closed behind him and breathes the outside air in, trying to wade through all the red-hot emotion coursing through him. He breathes again, this time slower. 

The fog over his mind clears, and he finds himself with his hands on the ledge of the balcony, gazing out at the lanterns illuminating the near-distant skyline. 

“They’re really beautiful, aren’t they?” 

Jisung startles, almost reaching for his weapon before his mind assigns a face to the voice behind him. “Minho-hyung.” 

“Jisung,” Minho says, joining Jisung at the ledge. 

There’s a slight chill in the air, whispering promises of stronger gusts as the night goes on. “How did you find me?” 

“I was watching you,” Minho admits easily. 

Jisung smiles wryly. “You were dancing with someone else.” 

Minho turns, standing with his back against the ledge. “I was saving the best for last.”

Jisung ducks his head, the special kind of shyness that his body saves for Minho taking over him. 

“You know that this is an unfair competition for everyone else, right?” Minho says, reaching out to tuck Jisung’s hair behind his ear with warm, gentle fingers. “No matter where we are, I keep watching you.”

Jisung huffs. “Everyone else should back the fuck off, then.” 

Minho’s eyes sparkle, as if with delight. “Ah, really?” 

Jisung feels embarrassment hit him like a truck. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that out loud.” 

“It’s okay, Jisungie,” Minho says, his hand still warm, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Jisung’s neck. “I understand feeling possessive.” 

The idle fingers turn into a warm hold around the nape of Jisung’s neck. 

Jisung clears his throat, unwilling to linger on the fact that Minho’s hand is flush against the spot that could make Jisung go fuzzy with submission, if Minho wanted that. It’s an intimate place to touch an alpha, and an even more intimate place to hold. 

Jisung blinks slowly. “H-how, um.” 

Minho waits patiently as Jisung attempts to form a word, trying to fight off the urge to growl. To fight. To submit. To yield. 

The chill in the air disappears, replaced by something that runs fever-hot. 

“How are you here? I thought, uh. That, you know. The Ball. I thought you were dancing.” 

“Everyone’s too drunk to notice that I’m gone,” Minho says, and then looks over his shoulder at the lanterns. “And there’s prettier things waiting for me out here.” 

Jisung’s breath hits the air, fogging it up. A shiver runs through his body. “I’ve always loved the lanterns.” 

“Do you want to go and light some?” Minho asks, pushing himself upright as he poses the question. 

Jisung turns, looking at Minho’s face to see if he’s joking. “Huh?” 

“Do you want to go light some lanterns, Jisungie?” 

“Right now?” 

“Yes, right now.” 

“Uh,” Jisung looks around. “How? Is the Palace lighting lanterns this year?” 

“No, but…we could go there,” he says, pointing at the water in the distance.

Jisung raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“I’m serious. Come on,” Minho says, pushing open a flimsy door that leads to a staircase going down from the balcony. “I know a shortcut.” 

–

Minho’s shortcut leads them to some kind of storage room, where Minho tells Jisung to wait as he sifts through a few cabinets. The room smells like old books and archives left untouched, and Jisung runs his fingers through the dusty hardcovers on the shelf closest to him while Minho does whatever it is he’s doing. 

He can’t believe he’s in the middle of sneaking out of the Royal Ball right now. 

“Those books used to belong to my father,” Minho says, flicking his gaze over his shoulder before returning to rustling about. “The man might’ve been horrible, but his taste in literature was unfortunately excellent.” 

Jisung chuckles. “I’ve never heard of some of these titles…” 

“Limited editions, collector’s copies, all of it. There’s a couple of journals from dead relatives. I think that’s why my family insists on keeping these—ah! Here it is.”

“So you don’t get cold, princess,” Minho says, handing Jisung a fuzzy brown sweater.

Oh, okay. Princess. Jisung didn’t even know he’d like that. He’s grateful for the relative darkness of the storage room, because at least Minho can’t see the way his face must be going red at the name. 

Jisung fumbles around, unsure where to change. Through the outline that the darkness grants him, he watches Minho push his suit jacket off, leaving him in only the white silk shirt he has on underneath. 

Jisung gulps. He can’t see the details, but he can see the way Minho’s chest fills the shirt out. And he can definitely see Minho’s hands working to untuck the shirt from his pants, crossing his arms in front of him, grabbing the hem of the shirt, pulling it—

Jisung turns around before he sees anymore than the shape of Minho’s naked waist, soft and strong and oh my god whose idea was it to put Jisung in an enclosed space with Minho? 

Jisung pushes his coat off, unbuttoning his waistcoat as quickly as he can, leaving his shirt on underneath as he hurries to put his sweater on. 

Once Jisung turns around to face Minho, he jerks in surprise, almost bumping into Minho with how close they’re suddenly standing. Jisung almost goes tumbling back before Minho’s hand grabs onto his waist. 

Jisung feels himself shiver for reasons entirely separate from the cold. 

“Thank you. For the sweater. It’s, uh. Nice. I like it.” 

“You do?” Minho asks. 

Jisung breathes the scent that lingers on the sweater. It isn’t strong, but it’s distinctly sensual. It makes Jisung want to nuzzle his face into it. “I like how it smells.” 

Minho blinks. “I.” His face goes on some kind of journey, after which he says, “I’m glad. Are you…” he trails off. 

“Am I?”  

“Nothing,” Minho says, shaking his head. “Ready to go?”

Jisung worries his bottom lip. “Are you sure it’ll…be fine? If you sneak out?” 

Minho has a black zip-up sweater and a cap that casts a shadow over his face, but he’s still him. Anyone could recognise him. 

“What about you, little alpha?” Minho asks, tapping Jisung’s nose and pulling out two masks from his sweater pocket. “You’re recognisable too now that all the press photos are out.”

Jisung’s mouth drops open in a small o. Fuck, he forgot about that. 

“Cute,” Minho murmurs, scratching the bottom of Jisung’s chin and then pulling his hand back, almost as if he’s holding back. 

“Put this on,” Minho says, giving Jisung the mask. “We’ll lay low. Don’t worry, it’s nothing I haven’t done before.” 

Jisung raises his eyebrows. “What have you been sneaking out of the palace for?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Minho lilts. “Hold my hand. I’ll get us out of here.” 

Being led by Minho comes easier to Jisung than anything ever has. 

“This is the back of the palace,” Minho whispers to Jisung. Jisung almost says I know. They walk out of the small gate to the side. If Jisung went looking, he’d probably find the Seungmin-issued getaway car waiting for him around here. 

“You want to walk to the river?” Jisung whispers, fastening his mask around his ears and looking around. 

Minho’s hand is warm in Jisung’s, guiding him to a scooter parked behind the small gates. 

“This beautiful baby is Sullyoon’s,” Minho says, pointing at the scooter with a flourish as he fishes out a pair of keys from his pocket. 

Jisung gasps. “When did you get those keys?” 

“I asked her for them before I came and found you,” Minho says, mounting the scooter. 

It revs quietly when it turns on. The crickets continue to chirp around them, and the music from the ballroom goes thump thump thump—like a reminder, like a memory.

Minho wanted to come find Jisung. Just Jisung. A Ball full of suitors, and Minho brought keys to a scooter to take Jisung to go light the lanterns. The gesture slots itself into the tendermost part of Jisung, making it beat arrhythmically. Badum, says his heart, I think you should keep him.  

“Hyung…you’re something else,” Jisung says, running a hand through his hair, feeling completely knocked off his feet.

This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to him, and of course it had to be with the man that someone out there expects him to kill. 

“Jisung-ah,” Minho whispers, “are you going to get on the scooter or should I drag you on it myself?” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Jisung mutters, nearly shrieking when Minho tries to reach back and tickle him in retaliation. 

“Watch your mouth, Jisungie,” Minho says, his voice singsongey, all the stiffness from the Ball stripped away. 

“Or what?” 

“Or I’m going to leave you here.” 

Jisung huffs. “You’re a liar.”

If Jisung could see Minho’s mouth, he’s sure he’d see a smile on it before he grumbles, “Yeah, yeah. Get on the scooter.” 

Jisung gets on the scooter seat and hesitates for a moment, unsure where to put his hands until Minho’s reaching back, grabbing both of Jisung’s wrists from where they’re hanging limply on his sides, and wrapping them around his waist. 

“Sit tight.” 

Jisung squeezes Minho’s waist, unused to giving up control like this. It’s been a while since he sat in the backseat and allowed someone else to drive him around. 

When the scooter lurches forward, Jisung hides his face behind Minho’s shoulder. 

And then, like he’s done it a million times before, Minho rides the scooter through the narrow walkways outside the side exit, cutting through busy areas with a speed that has Jisung forgetting his initial fear and peering around curiously. 

The wind hits Jisung’s hair, drowning out all sound. The world tunnels into his arms around Minho and a comforting scent lulling his senses, making the alpha inside him purr happily. 

The scooter slows down only a few minutes later, pulling up in front of—

Jisung gasps. “The night market!” 

“My favourite place,” Minho says, parking the scooter. He reaches back and pats Jisung’s thigh once. 

Jisung nearly makes an embarrassing sound at the feeling before he realises Minho’s asking him to get off the scooter. “I haven’t been here in ages,” Jisung says. “My hyungs brought me out here the first time I ever lit a lantern with them.” 

“And now your hyung brought you here for the same reason. Kind of poetic, no?” 

Your hyung. “Very,” Jisung agrees, watching Minho look towards the market. My hyung. The shape of Minho’s eyelashes is visible, even under the shadows of the cap he has on. Jisung takes in his hyung in profile, covered up and almost invisible and still unmistakably beautiful. 

The air seems to ripen with potential of a promise that Jisung could've never seen coming. 

“Come on,” Minho says, holding Jisung’s hand and leading them into the busy street of the market. 

The aroma of freshly fried food and bubbling broth bursts in the air as they venture deeper into the market’s narrow pathways. Every time someone looks in Minho’s direction, Jisung feels a protective surge pass through him, realising that he’d easily turn into the weapon he’s trained himself to become if Minho was in danger. 

Jisung relaxes when the busy local crowds keep bustling about, paying Minho and Jisung no heed. 

Minho tugs at Jisung’s hand after they stroll for a few quiet moments. “Here.” 

They stop in front of a shop that advertises itself as The Home of Prosperity. 

“Good evening, ahjumma,” Minho says, bowing his head, “how much for this one?” 

Jisung looks down to see what Minho’s eyeing to find an intricately woven norigae held in between his fingers. 

“I’ll take this one, please,” Minho says, handing the woman a few coins and shaking his head when she asks him if he needs a bag. 

Minho pulls Jisung off to the side of the path and hands him the norigae. “For you,” he says, holding it out towards Jisung. There’s a cat shaped ornament under its hook. It’s pink coloured, the tassels underneath the ornament blending from a light pink to a bright, vibrant, and deep shade. It couldn’t be more Minho-like if it tried. 

“For me?” 

Minho nods. “A good luck charm for tomorrow.”

“You want me to find you that bad?” 

“I know you’ll find me,” Minho says. “I just want you to stay safe until you see me. Will you do that?” 

“I will,” Jisung says, and takes the norigae in his fingers, handling it gently. “I’ll put it in my pocket to keep it safe.” 

“Good,” Minho says softly, like he’s handling something gentle. “Let’s go get our lanterns.” 

Minho and Jisung find the lanterns at a shop at the very edge of the night market. It takes nearly no time before Minho is handing the vendor some more coins and beckoning Jisung to follow him.

“Hyung!” Jisung says. “I was going to pay.” 

“Jisungie, let me use my generational wealth for good. Follow me.” 

Led by Minho, Jisung walks around the outside of the shop. 

“Uh, hyung…” Jisung says, looking back at the part of the riverbank where everyone’s lighting their lanterns. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me,” Minho says, reaching his hand out behind him. Jisung takes it. “I know a place you’ll love.” 

“Okay, as long as hyung doesn’t plan on killing me,” Jisung says, engulfed in momentary darkness as they pass through a small corridor of trees. 

“Why would I kill you when you need to save me from the big bad wolves tomorrow?” Minho asks. 

Jisung forgets to say anything as soon as the trees clear and to reveal a private section of the riverbank, immediately proving Minho right. Jisung loves this place. 

It’s like a riverbank made just for them. Everyone else from the edge of the night market has disappeared, making it feel like they’ve stepped into their own world.

There’s a boat docked at the riverbank.

“What is this place?" Jisung whispers, cautious not to disturb the peace here. "It’s beautiful.” From the corner of his eye, he catches the twinkle of the stars reflect onto the ripples that the water forms. 

“Yeah, it is,” Minho says. "It's my secret little place. I come here when everything's too loud." 

It is serene here. Quietly so. The world feels like background noise. The night feels expansive, stretching as far as Jisung can see.

Minho's hair almost reflects the light when Jisung turns to look at him. Whatever word that sat on the tip of Jisung's tongue disappears, erased by how easy it is to get lost in the view. 

A beat of silence passes, after which Minho says, “Do you want to get on the boat and then light these?” 

“Isn’t that somebody’s…?” 

Minho shrugs. “We’ll return it once we use it.” 

“Sneaking out and stealing? What else are you hiding from me, my Prince?” 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Minho says, eyes glinting with something Jisung can’t translate as he leans in close enough for Jisung to feel his body warmth radiate. “And it’s borrowing, not stealing.” 

“Sure,” Jisung says with an amused chuckle. “Let’s borrow this boat.” 

“Get in,” Minho says. 

“What? No. Let me help you.” 

“Jisung-ah,” Minho says. “Get in and I’ll push the boat into the water.” 

Jisung hesitates for one more moment, after which Minho is folding his arms in front of his chest. 

Jisung gets into the boat with his metaphorical tail tucked in between his legs. 

“Okay,” Jisung says once he’s seated, gulping down the saliva that pools in his mouth when Minho pulls his sleeves up to prepare to push the boat. “Just be careful and tell me if you need he—ah!” 

The boat rocks into the water, and Minho climbs his way inside, sitting opposite Jisung as they set off on the water. 

Minho doesn’t let Jisung pick up the oars, grabbing them and pulling them back and forth until they’re parked somewhere off the riverbank. 

“It’s really peaceful here,” Jisung says, looking out to the water. He swears he can hear his own voice boomerang its way back to him. 

In the water, he can see slightly distorted reflections of himself and Minho facing one another. 

This is right, Jisung thinks, dragging his eyes away from the water to look at Minho, who’s already looking at him. Jisung and Minho. This makes more sense than any of the pairings Jisung was forced to endure back at the Palace. 

“Wanna light the lanterns?” Minho asks, scooting closer to the edge of his seat. Their knees brush against each other, and the point of contact tingles with potential. 

Jisung nods. 

Minho brings both lanterns to his lap, unfolding one of them and handing the matchbox to Jisung. He pulls his mask down, sets his cap aside, and smiles at Jisung.

“Here, I’ll hold it up for you,” he says. 

Jisung strikes the flame, and Minho’s face gets bathed in gold. “Pretty,” Jisung says, unable to stop himself. 

Jisung pulls his mask down with his free hand and extends his hand to light the candle inside the lantern. 

“To new beginnings,” Jisung murmurs. 

Minho hands the lantern to Jisung before they let it float up into the sky. 

“Your turn,” Jisung says, taking the other lantern from Minho’s lap and unfolding it. “It’s extra auspicious for the young Prince to light the lantern.” 

“Oh, really?” Minho takes a matchstick out and strikes it against the box. Jisung watches the movement of his fingers, his eyes going a little out of focus as he watches Minho handle fire with easy confidence. 

Jisung’s response lags. “...y-yeah.” 

Minho’s face gets bathed in orange-light again. The fire beckons Jisung closer, so he listens, slotting his leg in between both of Minho’s and leaning forward. “Ready?” Jisung asks. 

Minho nods, reaching into the lantern to set it alight. Jisung goes to hand the lantern to Minho, only to realise that Minho’s hands are already holding it from the other side. 

“To new beginnings,” Minho says softly. 

They let the lantern escape into the sky together. 

Jisung watches its path. The light inside flickers, air billowing into it to guide it higher into the sky. 

When he looks back to the man in front of him, he finds Minho’s face right in front of him. Their noses almost brush.

Minho’s hand gently arrives to rest on top of Jisung’s shaking leg. 

“Hi,” Jisung says, and then laughs nervously. 

Minho looks from Jisung’s eyes to his lips. “Hi.” 

Jisung mirrors the movement, dragging his eyes down from the unwavering intensity of Minho’s eyes to the sharp slope of his nose to his lips, distracting and full and so, so tempting. 

“What new beginning were you thinking of, hyung?” 

“The one in which I kiss you,” comes Minho’s answer. 

Jisung’s breath hitches. 

“You want me to kiss you?” Minho asks. 

Jisung looks into Minho’s eyes, and time as he knows it comes to a standstill. 

Breaths exchange. 

Under the stars, the boat rocks. 

No one makes a sound. 

Nighttime cloaks them, carves out a separate place just for their exchanged breaths. 

“You can’t take this back,” Jisung says, his voice trembling. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Minho says, bringing his hand to cup Jisung’s chin and pressing their lips together in a kiss that feels like a thousand little lanterns setting sail across the night sky. 

It’s just a slide of their lips, in the beginning. Jisung hesitates to move, scared that any sudden movements might disturb the peace, but Minho’s hand on his chin squeezes, just slightly, and a sigh tumbles out of his mouth.

Minho deepens the kiss, guiding Jisung’s face to tilt in the opposite direction. 

Jisung makes a sound at the back of his throat, opening up for Minho. 

His scent goes haywire, squeezing fresh lime and desperate desire all over the kiss. 

Minho groans, his hold on Jisung’s face tightening as he licks across Jisung’s teeth. Jisung’s hands dart out to Minho’s thighs, inching upwards and grabbing onto the bunched up fabric of his pants in a hopeless search for something to ground him. 

Jisung whines when Minho’s fingers dig into his cheek, forcing his mouth open. 

“Hyung,” Jisung gasps, catching his breath after they break for the first time. 

Minho nips Jisung’s bottom lip. “Mm,” he hums, and then doesn’t bother making any more conversation. He catches Jisung’s parted mouth in another kiss. This one is spit-slick, and the force of it tips Jisung’s head back, making Minho wrap a hand around the nape of Jisung’s throat to hold him up. 

Jisung moans when Minho’s tongue sneaks its way into the kiss, working over him deftly. Heat pools in his gut, making him claw at Minho’s shoulders, making him push back, trapping a growl in his throat. 

Jisung matches Minho’s strength with his own, almost climbing into his lap in the process. 

Right then, the boat rocks violently underneath them. 

“Fuck,” Jisung hisses, falling back onto his seat with his chest heaving. 

Minho’s slower to sit back on his side. He blinks at Jisung as if dazed, eyes lidded and fixed on his lips. 

“Hyung,” Jisung says, the whine from earlier still colouring the edges of his tone. 

Minho’s eyes flash with something dark. 

Jisung bites down on his bottom lip. “Hyung,” he says again, with a different meaning. 

Minho sighs, reaching out to run a hand through Jisung’s hair. 

Jisung closes his eyes, leaning into Minho’s touch. The feeling trapped inside his chest flutters wildly, and Jisung thinks: wow, I’m in deep. 

“We should go back,” Minho says, sounding like he wants to do anything but that. “We need to get some sleep for tomorrow.” 

Jisung pouts.

Minho pokes Jisung’s lower lip with his thumb, giggling when that just makes Jisung pout harder. “You’re so cute, Jisung-ah. But we have to. They’re going to send people after us if we don’t.” 

“Ughhh,” Jisung groans. 

“Or they’ll think you did something to me,” Minho says with a slant of his lips. 

Jisung freezes for a moment that passes quicker than the speed of light. “Hah. That’s funny,” he says. “Hyung is the one who literally almost drowned me.” 

“Oh, you weren’t complaining when my tongue was down y—” 

“Okay!” Jisung says. 

Minho’s eyes crinkle as he breaks into a fit of laughter that ends with a long, drawn out aaaah. “Okay, let’s go back.” 

Something like an hour later, when Minho and Jisung are back in the west wing, Jisung hesitates outside both their rooms, wondering if he can be a little greedy and ask for…

“We’ll do it all properly once you’re mine,” Minho says, teasing the pad of his thumb over the seam of Jisung’s bottom lip. “I want to do this right.” His touch travels up to Jisung’s forehead, fingers pushing against his temple. 

“Hm. And you do need rest, Jisung-ah,” Minho says. “Go to sleep tonight. I promise nothing ends tomorrow. We’ll do everything, as long as you want it.” 

“I want it,” Jisung says, stifling a yawn. Maybe Minho’s right. 

The fog from the morning is back to overtake his mind. He must be really tired. 

Minho turns Jisung around by the shoulders and walks him to the foot of his bed. “Go to sleep.” 

Jisung plops down on the mattress, wrapping an arm around one of the bed’s posters and blinking wide eyes up at Minho. “Hyung.”

Minho exhales. “I promise I’ll make it worth the wait.” 

“Tomorrow?” Jisung mumbles, nearly falling asleep. 

“Tomorrow. I’ll leave your ceremonial robes on the bed, okay? Goodnight, Jisung-ah.”

“Goodnight,” Jisung mumbles, and then he loses himself to dreams of a knife, a forest, a man, and a beating heart. 

#?: Choose your fate. 

The deep purple of the ceremonial robes trails behind Jisung as he walks up to his starting point for the Run. 

Press isn’t allowed in the forest, but he imagines that whatever celebration will follow will have no shortage of them. The only people present here are the alphas, lined up, and Minho, up ahead, facing the forest with his back to the alphas. 

Jisung’s lips tingle with the memory of Minho’s kiss. I promise I’ll make it worth the wait. 

Minho spoke like he knew exactly how this run was bound to end. 

And Jisung…doesn’t even know where to begin. The forest is wide and open in front of him. He could go anywhere. 

Under his robes, Jisung is wearing a loose blouse and the lightweight pants he always wears when he plans on finishing a mission. A mixture of the breeze and nerves sneak up on him, and his senses sharpen, eyes unfocusing as he lets himself slip into a more primal state of mind, one that begs him to run and chase and catch and fight until he can’t anymore. 

The norigae Minho gave Jisung is nestled deep in his pocket. 

Up ahead, Minho unhooks his red robes and lets them fall to the ground. 

Jisung almost lets out a quiet sound at what lies underneath. Minho’s wearing a deep brown shade that complements the forest, to help him blend in. The Palace’s emblem, ferocious and protective, has been carefully drawn on his arm, which is fully exposed by the sleeveless cut of his shirt. 

Beautiful, Jisung thinks, and then clenches his jaw at the spike of interest obvious in the alpha-scent in the air. 

Jisung balls his hands up into fists and growls softly. 

He doesn’t bother looking to check if anyone else reacts, but the sound earns him the attention of Minho, who looks over his shoulder. 

When their gazes meet, Jisung finds himself feeling chided. He swallows his growl and relaxes his shoulders, tuning back into the voice of the mountain elder as she addresses the gathering. 

“The prophecy bearer wears the mark of the kingdom,” she says, and then walks towards the alphas. “The first alpha to place their hand on the mark will win the Prince’s hand in marriage. Before we begin, each of you will be bestowed with a sigil of protection by the mountain.” 

Jisung can’t hear everything the elder says to the other alphas, but he catches some words. For power. For direction. For bravery. 

When it’s Jisung’s turn, he holds up his hand. 

“And finally, Jisung,” she says, foregoing his family name. “You have great skill. Exercise it with reason, for there is only one winner.” She dips her ring finger into the mountain soil cupped in her other hand and hums a hymn under her breath. 

“For intuition,” she says, looking into Jisung’s eyes as she draws the sigil at the back of his hand, and then steps back. “All the alphas have been marked. The Prince may begin—” 

Minho plants one knee on the cold earth, placing both of his hands in front of him. He lifts the knee behind him, setting his shoulders straight, looking every bit like an indestructible force, one that won’t be caught without a fight. 

The forest towers over them all, waiting to consume.

Jisung exhales, shaking off his nerves. 

“Now.” 

Minho is a blur of motion as soon as the horn blares to mark the beginning of the Prince’s headstart. 

He sprints straight ahead, faster than Jisung can keep track. He’s a ball of energy, deftly jumping over any obstacle that comes in his way. 

The first minute ends, and the sound of Minho’s footsteps turns into pin-drop silence, accentuated only by the rustling of the leaves. 

At the second minute, someone’s knee cracks, mid-stretch. 

The third minute, and Jisung is unsure what route he’ll take once the Run begins. 

The fourth, and he wonders if he should go left. It leads to the water, and Minho has to stop for a break sometime, right? 

The fifth, and Jisung abandons the idea. He needs to lay low. 

The sixth, and Jisung considers the optics of just making sure the other competitors are otherwise…indisposed. 

The seventh, and Jisung decides that knocking 9 other people out is a waste of his time. 

The eighth, and it’s “On your mark. Drop your robes.” 

The ninth minute arrives. “Get set.” 

The tenth, and Jisung leaps into action. 

First, it’s straight ahead, towards the same path that Minho took.

Almost every other alpha has the same idea, which Jisung was counting on. He runs slightly slower than the group, mapping out their positions. 

Two break off to the left. The rest continue straight. 

As soon as the start line disappears and becomes a mess of trees and greenery, Jisung looks over his shoulder. He checks for any sign of Minho in the trees.

Vanilla sits in the air, wafting towards the routes that lead straight and left. 

“Where the fuck am I going to find you,” Jisung mutters, putting a hand on the bark of the tree closest to him. 

Jisung squints. The scent trail is almost too easy. He breathes in, trying to separate all the different alpha scents from the one omega that’s supposed to stick out. 

He furrows his eyebrows. The vanilla is present, yes, but it’s different. Too sweet. Veering on the edge of synthetic. 

Jisung trusts his intuition and takes off to the right, towards the border of the Run’s trail perimeter. He checks the ground for any signs for disturbance to no avail, zig-zagging between the trees as he listens for a sign of life. 

Jisung runs towards nothing for some time, and then he catches it, infiltrating his senses with a woodsy, intense strength that can’t be anything but—

Alpha. 

There’s someone tailing Jisung. 

“Ah, fuck,” Jisung murmurs, speeding up. This is the last thing he needs when he has a Prince to find. 

He doesn’t bother checking over his shoulder, instead pulling the knife out from his waistband and unsheathing it. 

He tries to make out how close the alpha is by the sound of their movement, but all he can gain are fuzzy details. Leaves crunching. The occasional stick being displaced. Footsteps that come and go, never in one place for too long. 

Jisung’s senses light up, his fight or flight kicking in as he darts into a narrower corridor of trees in an attempt to make his pursuer lose their way. 

Jisung’s lungs burn as the trees over him get so dense that not even the sun rays are able to land on the ground. The winter bites harshly at his face, and Jisung resists the urge to growl in frustration, feeling cornered and antsy and at his limit. 

The trees are dense enough that Jisung can’t see his pursuer, but he can hear them stopping on the other side of the corridor, completely blocked from view. 

Jisung barely holds back a frustrated growl as he picks up a rock and throws it in the opposite direction, jogging a few steps towards it. 

The alpha takes the bait and dashes in the direction of the rock. 

Meanwhile, Jisung sprints away from the bait, letting adrenaline speed him up as he zooms past thickets of trees, shedding all of his previous inhibitions about being heard. 

Jisung doesn’t know how much time passes like that. The trees blur around him. 

Through his rapidly tunnelling vision, he can only see the path ahead, winding and asking him to jump over abandoned logs and overgrown roots. 

The first time Jisung almost trips, he catches himself with a hand to the ground. 

As he gets back on his feet, he sees a flurry of movement in his periphery. 

The second time his foot catches beneath a root firmly fixed in the ground, the scent of the alpha from before returns tenfold, gaining on him from up front. 

Jisung yanks his foot out from where it’s stuck, stumbling back as the alpha gets closer, becoming less of a mystery and more of a man. 

“Fuck,” Jisung gasps. 

Jisung walks backward, caught off-guard, staring open-mouthed as multiple things click into place. The scent in the air—it’s sandalwood. The undercurrent that ran through vanilla every time Jisung stepped too close to Minho. It’s the missing puzzle piece. The secret Jisung kept trying to decode. The questions unanswered. The way Minho handled him like no one else. 

An alpha runs towards Jisung, and it’s Minho. 

Minho isn’t an omega. The Royal Prince is an alpha, and he’s coming for Jisung. 

Jisung startles into action, surprise and fear dripping down his spine like gasoline and lighting a fire. The ground under him seems like it gives out, roiling and pulsing like hot magma. The soles of his feet burn, and he turns away from Minho with his heart in his throat, frozen with overwhelm for a millisecond before breaking into a frenzied, haphazard run. 

Holy shit. How did Jisung not think of this? It’s been right under his nose the entire time. 

All the fight in Jisung dissolves, and his thighs burn as he zaps through the trail, trying to outrun the quickly reducing gap between Minho and himself. 

There’s another voice at the back of Jisung’s mind, clear and resonant as the desire in Jisung’s body finally slots itself into place. Give in, it whispers. 

When Jisung’s been running for enough time that there’s a line of sweat dripping down his face and drawing a hot, sticky path down the contours of his body, the sound of Minho behind him whites out into an eerie nothingness. 

Jisung looks over his shoulder, faltering when Minho’s nowhere to be found. 

“Shit,” Jisung gasps, fumbling with the knife in his hand, unsure if he even wants to use it, unsure what Minho wants now that Jisung knows, unsure—

A body slams its way into Jisung’s, pinning him against the tree closest to them. 

“Hi, little alpha.”

“Minho,” Jisung gasps, trying to twist his knife around in his hand. 

Minho’s hands dart out on either side, grabbing Jisung’s wrists and pinning them above Jisung’s head, into the rough bark behind him. He binds Jisung’s hands together with a one-handed hold that doesn’t budge no matter how much Jisung squirms. 

Jisung’s back arches, pushing up into Minho on instinct. Whether it’s to fight him off or get closer to him—Jisung can’t tell. 

No, that’s a lie. Jisung can definitely tell. His body’s telegraphing a want that his brain is still catching up to. “M-Minho,” Jisung whimpers, his eyes fluttering at the feeling of being pinned down. “Hyung, you—I. I thought you were—” 

“An omega,” Minho says. “But you’d have let me claim you either way, wouldn’t you, Jisungie?” he says, his tone still sweet, still melodic, still Minho. 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “I…” 

“You know what this means, right?” Minho says, his breath ghosting over Jisung’s mouth. “You found me, Jisung.”

Jisung moans, soft and small and trembling. He remembers the way Minho held his face last night, rough like he knew exactly where to push. All this time, he’s been wondering why his body feels like a live wire of confusion and attraction when faced with Minho. 

“Hyung,” Jisung breathes out, a new kind of urgency crawling its way up his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You would’ve run away,” Minho says, nosing his way down Jisung’s cheek. The touch shocks Jisung into dropping his knife somewhere on to the mossy ground beneath them. His hands land on Minho’s shoulders, desperate for balance, for grounding, for more. “Just like you tried to run away right now.” 

Jisung breathes in the sweet spiciness of Minho’s real scent and feels an inkling of a growl growing in his chest, itching to fight back against a want he didn’t think was possible. Sandalwood. Rich and sweet, underlined with a distinct sharpness that reveals the depth of the things Minho wants to do to Jisung.

Jisung’s scent responds in kind, taking on the edge of sweetness that it always does when he wants something. He growls, his body warring with the effects of Minho’s scent as it wraps around him in an effort to sedate Jisung’s struggle for dominance. 

“So you decided to tell me during the mating run,” Jisung says, eyebrows furrowed. 

Minho huffs. “Made it a little easier to catch you, didn’t it?” 

Jisung’s chest rumbles again, low and agitated. His body keys itself up, confused at this new thing it wants. “Are you saying it’d be hard to catch me otherwise?” 

“Not really,” Minho says, tilting his head consideringly. “I’d find you, no matter where you go.” 

Jisung almost says it, then. You probably wouldn’t. You’ve told me your secret, but what will you do with mine? Would you chase me if you knew what waited on the other side? 

Jisung breathes through the waterfall of thoughts cascading into his consciousness. 

An alpha has never made Jisung feel like this. Like baring his teeth and wanting to be held down, wanting to be made to give it up. 

Minho would make him give it up, Jisung realises.  

His cock stirs, leaking at the thought, and Minho brings his hand to the nape of Jisung’s neck, his nails scratching against the tender skin there in a movement that’s almost a scruffing. “Shhh,” Minho soothes, “it’s hard, isn’t it?” His voice drips with sympathy and something else, something that makes Jisung cant his hips up, his scent pouring like a lime squeezed to its limit. 

Jisung makes a wounded sound.

“I know,” Minho coos, and then squeezes the nape of Jisung’s neck. Jisung’s eyes flutter, and some of the tension bleeds out of his muscles. 

“Hyung,” Jisung says weakly. 

“Feels better?” 

Jisung exhales. “It does,” he says, his voice lowered as he discovers the novel shape that desire forms inside him, responding to Minho’s touch.  

“I wanted you to come to me first,” Minho continues, unsticking his touch from Jisung’s neck and dragging it down until there’s two hands encircling Jisung’s waist.

“How…” Jisung bites back a sound when Minho pulls up his blouse and places his hands on Jisung’s bare waist. 

Jisung squirms in place. 

He gasps when Minho exerts a little force, pressing Jisung’s hips back and flush against the tree. “How is your scent—ngh,” Jisung cuts himself off, eyes fluttering as Minho hooks his fingers into the waistband of Jisung’s trousers. “How is it different?” 

“I use patches,” Minho says. “They’re like blockers. They take the sweetest part of my scent and match it with something that mirrors omega-scent.” 

“I knew—ah. I knew there was something…” Jisung bites down on his lip, pushing his hips up as he seeks more of Minho’s touch. “Hyung,” he whines. 

“I know, Jisung-ah,” Minho says gently. “Now you know what it is.” 

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, watching the muscle in Minho’s arm strain as he keeps pinning Jisung against the tree.  

“Jisung,” Minho says, his voice taking on a serious edge. “Now that you know, do you still want it?” 

Jisung’s answer comes tumbling out, raw and honest. “I do,” he admits, to himself and to Minho. “I want you.” 

Minho breathes out, his face flickering with something like relief. He ducks his face into Jisung’s throat, and Jisung’s body locks up for a second with resistance before Minho’s saying, “Be good, baby,” and planting a kiss over Jisung’s scent gland. 

Jisung gasps. 

“Hyung.”

“I know,” Minho soothes, using one hand to unbutton Jisung’s pants. “Will you let hyung touch you?” 

“Mm,” Jisung moans. “Fuck, you’re—” his voice breaks, melting into something desperate when Minho sneaks a hand down Jisung’s pants, cupping his touch over Jisung’s drooling cock. 

“I’m...?”

“You’re—so. You. I can never focus. You make it hard to focus.” 

“Oh, I know I make it hard,” Minho says, drawing a defeated giggle out of Jisung. The smile slips off Jisung’s face when Minho starts rubbing over his cock in slow up and down motions, offering him the friction he’s been thinking about since he saw Minho running towards him with that fierce look of determination that made Jisung want to drop everything and run until he got caught. 

And caught, he is. Right in between Minho’s teeth, dangling around like he’s the prize catch. 

“Ah—” Jisung moans, his cock twitching as Minho pulls the waistband of Jisung’s briefs down on the upstroke, using his other hand to push Jisung’s pants down until they’re bunched up at his mid-thigh. 

“Fuck,” Minho says with a groan, looking down at Jisung’s cock as he wraps a hand around it, jerking it off slowly. “Did you plan on fucking me with your cute little cock, Jisung-ah?” 

A shocked moan falls out of Jisung’s mouth as Minho works his hand faster, flicking his wrist and spreading Jisung’s pre-cum around. The wet sound of it makes Jisung want to hide his face behind his hands, but Minho’s looking at him in that way that makes him want to melt away and be handled with firm, knowing hands, and Jisung can’t do anything except let his mouth drop open and gasp. 

Minho raises his eyebrow expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“U-uh,” Jisung whimpers, rolling his hips up into the loose fist around his cock. “I. Um. What? No. I didn’t think I’d be…I thought s-something else,” he rasps. 

“Something else,” Minho repeats, digging a thumb into Jisung’s slit and watching it dribble out more precum. 

Jisung’s cock twitches at the molten-warm drip of Minho’s words. 

Jisung throws his head back, rolling his hips up in steady waves now and whining, “Hyung.” 

Minho slows his hand down and squeezes around the base of Jisung’s cock, which begins to thicken. 

“Already popping a knot, baby?” Minho asks, his tone at the edge of something mean. 

Jisung’s eyebrows pinch together as he nods, trying to push up into Minho’s hand to no avail. 

“Tell me what you thought and I’ll keep going.” 

Jisung bunches up the fabric of Minho’s shirt, digging his nails into Minho’s shoulders. Minho’s eyes flutter, and he lets out a soft, punched-out breath that goes straight to Jisung’s dick.

“I thought about fighting you,” Jisung says, thinking back to his confused fantasies, where he wasn’t sure where things would go if he allowed himself to indulge. “I never won,” he says with a lift of his lips, “and I liked it. Thought about you holding me down. Biting me.” 

Sandalwood flares with frightening ferocity, lighting up the charged air between Minho and Jisung. The spice-edged notes of it go straight to Jisung’s head, muddying his senses, unlocking everything he’d been thinking about when he tried to pretend this isn’t what he wanted. “I thought about being good.” 

“You’re always good,” Minho murmurs, moving his hand over Jisung’s cock in slow strokes and snapping Jisung out of his fantasy-induced daze. 

Jisung whimpers. “I am?” 

“Mm,” Minho hums, pulling his hand off Jisung’s cock for a quick second. Jisung whines, on the verge of complaining, but his mouth drops open around a silent moan as Minho looks into his eyes and spits on his already-wet palm. 

Minho brings his hand back to Jisung’s cock, coating it in his spit and dragging his thumb up the vein on its underside.

Jisung’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the quickly oncoming wave of his orgasm, sudden and intense. 

“Ah—” Jisung moans as Minho’s hand finds a steady rhythm again, jerking Jisung off until his thighs are shaking. “Hyung, hyung, hyung, fuck—fuck. Ah, I can’t—” 

Minho crowds into Jisung’s space, mouthing over Jisung’s jaw and ducking down to scent him, putting his mouth over the most sensitive patch of Jisung’s throat as he grazes his teeth against it. “My Jisungie,” Minho murmurs, sounding almost drunk on Jisung’s scent as he laps over his scent gland, pumping out his own scent into Jisung’s system in slow, lulling waves that make Jisung sink back into the tree, held up only by Minho’s body weight against him. 

Jisung convulses, rambling breathlessly, “hyung, I’m g-gonna, I’m going to—” 

“Good boy,” Minho says, his voice raspier than it was before, “so good. Coming for me already?”

“I…hng, fuck. I can’t help it,” Jisung whines. “Gonna knot. I—fuck—” 

The first spurt of Jisung’s cum is warm as it leaks over Minho’s hand. 

“I know you can’t,” Minho coos. “It’s okay, baby. Let go. Knot hyung’s hand.” 

Jisung moans, shaking through his orgasm as his hands find the nape of Minho’s neck, burying themselves in the grown-out blonde strands.

Minho moans softly when Jisung slightly tugs on his hair, moving his mouth from Jisung’s throat to kiss his way upwards, pulling at the soft flesh of his earlobes. “So pretty,” Minho says with a sigh as Jisung’s knot begins to swell in his hand. “You’re all red.” Minho drags his lips over Jisung’s cheek, ghosting his breath over Jisung’s parted mouth. 

Jisung leans forward and catches Minho’s lips in a breathless kiss, his hips still jerking up as his knot expands. 

“Gonna make you knot my hand like this when I’m inside you,” Minho says in between kisses, drinking in Jisung’s responding moan. “You want that?” 

“Yes,” Jisung exhales, dragging his hand down to the bulge in Minho’s pants and pinching his eyebrows together. “Can I—now?” 

“Baby,” Minho says, “I can’t fuck you here.” 

Jisung blushes. “Can I make you come?” 

“You just knotted, Jisungie. You should take a break,” Minho says, and then pulls the waistband of Jisung’s brief over his knot, smirking at the whimper that falls out of Jisung’s mouth at the slight stimulation caused by the movement. 

Jisung’s hand on Minho’s bulge presses down a little, earning him a hissed out fuck from Minho. 

“Hyung,” Jisung says, adding a plea to his tone. 

“Jisung,” Minho chides. 

Undeterred, Jisung growls; a low rumble in his chest. He pushes himself off the tree and steps closer to Minho in a move meant to intimidate. 

Minho cocks an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

A thrill passes through Jisung, and he growls again—louder this time. He puts his hands over Minho’s chest and pushes him back. 

Minho doesn’t go flying back, but he does take a step back in surprise. 

“Jisung,” Minho says, “what happened to being good?” 

“Doesn’t hyung wanna feel good too?” Jisung asks with a pout, getting close enough that his chest brushes against Minho’s. 

Minho cocks his head. “I told you, we can wai—” 

Jisung pushes Minho back by the shoulders again, but Minho catches his wrists this time. 

Jisung huffs, twisting his hands out of the hold and ducking Minho’s attempt to push back, bringing his face level with Minho’s stomach. He puts his arms around Minho’s waist and tries to push him off balance, but Minho’s reflexes are quicker than Jisung expects. He catches himself with two feet firmly on the ground. 

Minho grabs the collar of Jisung’s shirt, bringing their faces level again. “Jisung,” he says, like a warning. 

Jisung smirks, swiping Minho’s hand off his collar and stepping back. 

Minho doesn’t let him go far, surging forward with his eyes narrowed and slotting his ankle in between Jisung’s feet, effectively tripping him.

Jisung is successful for one second in his attempt to wriggle out of Minho’s hold before—once again—his foot catches on a tree root and both of them go falling down against the ground. Jisung lands on his stomach and promptly attempts to wriggle out from underneath Minho.

Minho huffs a laugh over him, using his body weight to pin Jisung in place. Through their clothes, Minho’s cock slides over the swell of Jisung’s ass, punching a moan out of him. 

“You little brat,” Minho says, sounding breathless. 

Jisung arches his back, pushing up into the feeling of Minho’s bulge. His eyes flutter. Fuck, Minho feels big. 

Jisung’s never…had anything inside him before. He moans softly at the image that flashes under his eyelids and wonders how it would feel if Minho just pushed his pants down and fucked his knot into him right now.  

“You want hyung’s cock that bad?” Minho grits, grinding down against Jisung’s ass and growling in response to the uptick in Jisung’s scent. “Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” 

Jisung whimpers when Minho’s cock grinds down against him again. 

Minho’s hands dart out on either side of him, pinning Jisung’s wrists to the uneven ground. “Is this what you want?” Minho says, shifting on top of Jisung to force his legs apart with his thighs. 

“Fuck,” Jisung gasps, realising that Minho’s mounting him. He feels the rough drag of Minho’s cock like there are no layers in between them.

Jisung pushes his ass up as Minho’s hips start rolling down steadily. “You’re—ah. So. F-fucking pretty like this, Jisungie,” Minho says in between stuttered little breaths. 

“Hyung,” Jisung whimpers. He didn’t expect it to feel so good to have something rubbing over him like this, while still clothed, but the pleasure builds unexpectedly.

Minho drops his forehead in between Jisung’s shoulderblades. “Good boy,” he murmurs, the rhythm of his hips growing stuttery. “Letting hyung use you. You’ll let me fuck you like this too, won’t you?” 

“Yes,” Jisung gasps. “Yes please—fuck.” 

Minho puts his hands on Jisung’s waist and holds him in place as he drags his cock in between Jisung’s ass cheeks. “Good boy,” Minho murmurs. “You’ll look so good when I fill you up right here,” he says, kneading Jisung’s ass cheeks as he punctuates his sentence with a grind. 

Minho smacks Jisung’s ass, spreading his cheeks apart as far as they’ll go while still clothed. 

Jisung moans, overstimulating his knot as he desperately rubs against whatever friction the ground offers him. 

Minho’s hips staccato once, and he moans high and prettily, lips brushing against the back of Jisung’s throat before he goes completely still. 

There’s no sound around them for a moment. Then, Minho rolls off Jisung, landing beside him and gathering him up in his arms. He presses a kiss to Jisung’s forehead. “You provoked me into doing all that,” he says, thumbing what Jisung assumes is dirt off of his cheek with a touch so tender that Jisung feels an ache in his heart. 

Jisung exhales. He can’t kill Minho. He was never going to. He never will. 

“You’re so good,” Minho says softly, pecking Jisung’s lips. 

Jisung tries to ignore the voice yelling at him at the back of his mind. “You’re the best,” he tells Minho, reaching up to brush a blonde strand away from Minho’s eyes.

“Like I was saying before a certain someone distracted me…” Minho begins, his eyes shining. “...are you ready to get out of this forest?” 

“I actually like this,” Jisung says, looking up at the trees shading them from the rest of the world. 

Minho’s looking at Jisung when Jisung turns his gaze back to the star shining next to him. “Me too. But I promise it’ll be nice out there, too.” 

Jisung exhales. He has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do now, but he still says, “I know it will be.” 

“Good,” Minho says, sitting up. 

Jisung follows suit. “So…how exactly are we supposed to let them know that…” 

“Oh, I’ll just send them the signal,” Minho says, and then taps the watch around his wrist. He pushes a button on it, and Jisung doesn’t even get a moment to laugh at the absurdity of the Palace’s signal system before reality bears down on him. 

A horn blares in the distance to mark the end of the Run. 

Minho stands up, offering Jisung a hand. 

Jisung takes Minho’s hand, his knife forgotten somewhere in the woods and his heart officially pledged to the man he set out to kill. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: The Run commenced at 3 PM with all 10 alphas in attendance. Sources state that the Prince was granted a 10 minute headstart. Stay tuned for further updates. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: Sana Minatozaki was rescued by PES (Palace Emergency Services) after venturing off the official Run trail. There were no physical or mental casualties. Sana’s team shared a statement with us.

3:40 PM: “Miss Minatozaki is unharmed and resting at the Palace. She found herself lost on the trail and decided to send a signal to safely remove herself from the Run. She is also delighted to have been able to meet some of the forest’s inhabitants, including the deer and the rabbits that she befriended during what she prefers to call her adventure.” 

@JINIRETCRAVE: The Palace reports that four more Run participants have voluntarily decided to end their time in the forest on account of being unable to find the Prince. 

@JINIRETCRAVE: Choi Seungcheol bumped into us on his way out of the Palace and offered an inside scoop. 

4:50 PM: “I think someone already found the Prince. I heard suspicious noises coming from a safe distance away from me. I didn’t go check what it was because it sounded like the pair was in the middle of something…private.”

@JINIRETCRAVE: 4 alphas standing. The post-Run reception has begun as the Palace awaits confirmation of the final standing alpha.  

@JINIRETCRAVE: The Run came to an end at 5:35 PM on November 4, 2025. Choi Jisung has been declared the winner. 

Jisung is fine. 

Yes, he just won the Run. Yes, he is now, in theory, engaged to the Prince. Engaged to Minho. Yes, he’s fucked up his mission in astronomical ways. 

No, Jisung is not fine. 

He isn’t sure what to do. He walks with Minho to the starting point of the run. He bows deeply as the winning medallion is hung around his neck, like a garland, like salt in a wound he begged for.  

The weight of it around his neck is real. Just as real as everything unfolding around him at breakneck pace, refusing to leave him a single second to actually think. 

When they enter the Palace, they do it through the back. The Press awaits in the front, and so does what feels like the rest of the world, hungry to see who it is that actually managed to find the Prince. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Jisung says suddenly, looking between Minho and Sullyoon, who are the only people in this hallway other than the security posted at their point of entrance.

“Oh,” Minho says. “You don’t need permission, Jisung-ah. We can wait for you.” 

Jisung looks at Sullyoon, who hesitates for a moment before she exchanges some kind of look with Minho. 

“We’ll wait,” she says after a beat of silence.

Jisung doesn’t waste time analysing it. In fact, he doesn’t think much of anything as he lets the memorised Palace map in his head guide him to—

The bathroom with the blind spot. 

He locks the door behind him, looking up at the tiny window near the ceiling. 

He’s escaped through smaller places, so it doesn’t take much for him to tumble outside, falling onto the cushion that the landscaped bushes outside offer. 

Jisung sticks to the wall, pausing to assess if anyone heard his fall. Once he confirms that he’s alone, he ducks into the path leading to the fences bordering the Palace and slips under the railing. 

The back of the Palace is deserted, of course. Jisung tries to ignore that it’s because everyone’s at the front, waiting for the big reveal. Waiting to see Lee Minho and Han—no, Choi Jisung. 

“Shit,” Jisung mutters to himself, eyes roving over the cars lining the street. Two yellow cars. He checks the first one, just in case, to find the doors completely locked. 

Then, Jisung spots the second car’s number plate. 서 1108. 

Jisung needs to remember to talk to Seungmin about making these number plates so obvious. 

Once Jisung reaches his hand inside and unlocks the door, he makes sure no one can see him before he ducks into the driver’s seat. 

The car comes to life, whirring as Jisung steers himself out of the street and sets himself on a road to—

Nowhere, really. Jisung doesn’t know where he’s going. 

He groans out loud to an audience of none, hitting the accelerator as he tries to figure out what his next move is. The Palace gets smaller in his rearview mirror, but reality isn’t as nice. It tailgates him. Tries to overtake. 

Before he knows it, Jisung is taking the familiar route back to the safehouse, back to late night TV appearances, back to when the Prince was up there, on a pedestal, and not down here, in Jisung’s heart, trying to build a home. 

Jisung fiddles with his phone, tapping it twice before the car’s filled with an all-too-familiar voice. 

“Hiii,” Chan lilts, sounding like he’s smiling. “It’s the talk of the town! I just saw you on Twit—”

“Chan-hyung,” Jisung interrupts, his voice threadbare with emotional overwhelm. “What the fuck do I do?” 

“Hm.” Chan pauses. “What do you want to do, Jisung-ah?” 

Jisung takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice level as he speaks. “I…fuck.” Another deep breath. “Chan. The Prince isn’t who he says he is."

Chan hums, sounding completely unsurprised. Jisung raises his eyebrows, confused by the easy acceptance, before Chan asks the same question that’s been ringing through his mind. “And did that change what you think about him?”

“No,” Jisung admits. “It just made it all make sense. Which is why…” he exhales. “I’m so confused.” 

“He’s more than just a mark now, isn’t he?” Chan asks. “You mean something to him, too. You chose each other.” 

Oh, if Chan only knew. “He won’t want me,” Jisung says with a sigh. “Who would want someone who never stays in one place?"

Chan tsks. “You don’t have to be everywhere anymore. It’s been years since we started out. You know you’re allowed to settle down too, don’t you?”

“Hyung,” Jisung says, something defeated lacing his words. “Settle down with the Prince?” 

“That’s not who he is to you.”

“That’s who he is to everyone! Fuck, he has responsibilities. He has all of this, and I…”

“And you’re cutting yourself short,” Chan cuts in, sounding stern. “Jisung, every time you run, the thing you leave behind will follow you.”

“I already said sorry for that,” Jisung mutters, thinking of the last time he had this feeling, the one that made him want to drive towards nothing. Chan was on speakerphone back then, too. 

“I didn’t say that to hold the past over your head,” Chan says. “Just…don’t try to outrun what you’re feeling.” 

“I can’t,” Jisung groans. “I can’t let this—whatever this is—go on. It’s making me want things, hyung. I can’t just pretend to be another Jisung my whole life.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend.” 

Jisung’s on the verge of ripping his hair out. “What’s the alternative?” He keeps talking, thinking all the possibilities out. “I tell him everything and he says, guards, seize him. Or I tell him some things and we live a happy life out together until one day I accidentally slip up and he finds out I’ve been lying to him the whole time. Or I tell him nothing and then we get married and I live with this guilt inside of me that keeps reminding me that I’m lying—”

“Okay,” Chan interrupts. “Put the worst case scenario away.” 

Jisung pulls the car over outside his apartment. Once it stops, he covers his face with both his hands, pressing the tips of his fingers over his eyelids until strange shapes start forming underneath them, playing tricks of light on what he sees. “Okay,” Jisung murmurs, pulling his hands off his face. “Okay.” He sits up straight.

“Jisung, I’m telling you this as your friend, not your boss. Don’t run. Think of what you’re leaving behind. Finish what you started.” 

“That’s right,” Jisung says, nodding along to Chan’s words as his brain comes back online. He needs to finish what he started. “Okay, hyung. Thanks for talking me down! I have to go follow your advice now.” 

“Wait, wha—” 

Jisung hangs up on Chan and rushes up to his apartment, grabbing a change of clothes before he turns the car back around.

—

When night falls, Jisung returns to the Palace with a few more tools in his arsenal. 

A rope to throw up the Palace wall. 

A pin to unlock whatever door might come his way. 

A knife, to…

A knife, tucked away in Jisung’s pocket. 

Jisung heaves as he scales the Palace walls, climbing up the west wing from the outside. He’s glad he thought ahead and knocked all three of the security guards patrolling this end unconscious before he started climbing, because the sound of his clothes rustling as he grabs onto the ledge of Minho’s balcony and pulls himself up and onto it is louder than he expects. 

The balcony doors are locked, as expected. Jisung works them open quietly, stepping inside the room on his tiptoes. 

Belatedly, he realises that this is his first time inside Minho's room. 

It’s pitch dark. In the air, Minho’s real scent lingers like it’s coming down from something intense. It’s a comforting flicker in the background, lulling Jisung into stepping a little closer.

In here, moonlight makes itself bare. Jisung can barely see anything until his eyes adjust to the lack of light. 

When they do, he sees him. The Prince. The star. The beating heart. The mark.  

Minho’s bed takes up the centre of the room, and in it—Minho. Laying down, eyes closed. His face is open, honest, serene. Free from any awareness that Jisung is holding a knife in his hand and inching closer to him. 

A blink, and Jisung’s standing at the edge of Minho’s bed. Hovering, hoping that the wind will blow him away if he stalls enough. Lingering, angling the knife over his now-fiancé’s chest, poised to kill. 

Jisung is almost relieved when the next thing that happens isn’t violent. It isn’t loud. It isn’t bloody. It’s just:

“Why are you hesitating now, Han Jisung?” 

Jisung’s breath stutters. 

Minho’s eyes open. 

Minho sits up, the clumsily held knife still on the verge of touching his chest. Jisung’s hold over the weapon turns feather-light. 

“H-how…” Jisung lets out a shaky breath. “You know my name.” 

"I do," Minho says. "Surprise." 

“What the fuck,” Jisung thinks out loud. 

Minho looks up at Jisung through his eyelashes, smirking before he swipes the knife out of Jisung’s hand and pulls him towards him. 

Jisung’s body bounces as he lands on the bed. He looks around, disoriented at the sudden way in which the world tilts around him. 

Everything comes into focus with Minho at its centre. 

Who was he fooling? He’d never manage to kill Minho. Not now, not ever. Not with the feeling that blooms in his chest every time they lock eyes. Not with the way being next to Minho in this moment feels like a headrush, like a fever-dream, like a fantasy. 

“I’ve known your name for a while,” Minho says from underneath him. The position does nothing to take away from the fact that it's Jisung who's frozen and rendered nearly speechless.

Minho cocks his head, sweeping his eyes over Jisung. They look dark. Maybe it’s the room, or maybe it has something to do with the way Minho’s scent hooks under Jisung’s jaw, leaving him no choice but to stay still.

Jisung registers Minho’s words. “How?” he asks, his voice faint as he holds himself up with his palms on either side of Minho, partly to gain some leverage and partly, secretly, in a poor, futile event to clear his head. he can't think when he's this close to Minho. He's barely getting by. It takes everything in him to resist the urge to sink his nose into the bare strip of collarbone exposed by the worn out collar of Minho’s shirt. 

Minho exhales, twirling the knife around in between his fingers. That’s the weapon I was going to kill you with, Jisung thinks.

Minho probably knows that. 

Jisung’s thighs part of their own accord as Minho teases the blunt edge of the knife along the line of Jisung’s throat. 

Minho blinks once, then twice. 

“Do you believe in love at first sight, Jisungie?” Minho asks, his voice blanketing over Jisung’s senses.

Everything dulls out, everything heightens. 

Jisung processes Minho’s words a beat too late. There’s an itch under his skin that keeps trying to steal his attention. “I…” Jisung shifts, feeling the knife brush against his scent gland. “I don’t know,” Jisung responds. 

“I used to be a disbeliever,” Minho murmurs, “and then I met you.” 

Jisung's breath hitches. 

“I saw you before I was the Prince. Do you remember?” 

“I...do. I had a mask on,” Jisung whispers. 

“Mm, you did. But I could see your eyes. I spoke to you. And your scent was…” Minho holds the knife against Jisung’s racing pulse. It seems purposeful, the care with which he leaves Jisung’s skin unharmed. “It was the only thing I could think of for the months that followed. Your scent, your eyes, and your voice. It’s all I had, until—Yeon Sunho.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. 

“You didn’t know, but you got to him right when he was in the middle of trying to kill me.” 

A blurry memory of a harried work call and a silenced gun returns to Jisung. “Kill you?”

“Well, he was really looking for Felix,” Minho says. “The omega prince.” 

“But he found you instead,” Jisung says.

Minho smirks. “And I don’t go down without a fight.” 

Jisung’s chest quivers, taking in their positions. Minho underneath, Jisung straddling his hips, and the knife pointing nowhere. 

“So you knew me,” Jisung says, his throat rumbling with a frustrated growl. “Why…why am I here, Minho?” 

“I saw you, back then. Walking past me in that hotel. I was going to make sure the threat was dealt with, and then I caught your scent. It was faint, but I knew you,” Minho admits. “And I wanted you.” 

Jisung’s thighs tighten around Minho’s hips. “Wha—”

Minho puts a hand on Jisung’s thigh, rubbing the clothed flesh with his thumb—a stark contrast to the tense back and forth of their conversation. “I needed to find a way to bring you here.” 

“So you hired me to kill you?”

Minho looks a little sheepish at that. “There’s not a lot of places where a prince and a hitman could bump into each other.” 

Jisung grits his teeth, feeling…

Annoyed. Worried. Confused.

Strangely flattered. 

Jisung grabs Minho by the collar of his shirt, searching his face in bewilderment. “Do you know how dangerous that was?”  

“I knew you wouldn’t go through with it,” Minho says, putting the flame lacing Jisung’s words out. “Don’t you feel it, Jisungie? That pull. The one that made you want to come back here." 

Jisung breathes out shakily. He does, that’s the thing. He’s felt the pull since before he even spoke to Minho. “Is a feeling enough to risk your life?” 

“It is when it’s fated,” Minho says. 

“Fated?” Jisung repeats faintly. “You don’t mean…” 

“Fated as mates,” Minho says. “Your scent completes mine. Your alpha listens to me, and mine to you.” 

Jisung feels shock pass through him. It shouldn’t be possible. That once in a lifetime fairytale connection, the one that blooms on sight. 

It shouldn’t be possible, but…

Jisung’s heart beats wildly in his chest, and he finally understands the language it’s been speaking this whole time. 

Understanding is one thing. Acceptance, though?

An ember of doubt flickers in Jisung's mind.

“How can you trust fate?” Jisung asks, his hair falling into his face as he leans forward, placing a flat palm over Minho’s heart, holding him down against the bed. “Didn’t fate turn you into the omega prince?” 

Minho puts his hand over Jisung’s and shakes his head. “That was prophecy. And I always thought prophecies were bullshit.” 

Jisung lets out a startled laugh. “Then why do you hide that you’re an alpha?” 

“I don’t hide,” Minho says. “I protect. Felix didn’t want to be the Prince, and I couldn’t stand to see him be forced to do something he never wanted to do.” 

“What about you?” Jisung asks, softening. “What do you want to do?” 

“I want to take care of my cats. Live as simply as I can. Choose my fate.” Minho pauses. “Follow my heart.”

Jisung’s interrogative streak falters. 

Minho’s heart beats truthfully under his hand, as if desperate to prove itself. 

“Besides, I like doing this. I handle responsibility well,” Minho goes on, removing his touch from over Jisung’s hand. He hooks his hands under Jisung’s thighs, holding onto them before he flips them around in a move that knocks the breath out of Jisung’s lungs. “And I like having the power. So,” Minho shrugs. “A little play-pretend isn’t going to take away from that.”

Jisung breathes out shakily. “Don’t you get tired?” he asks, his head falling back onto the mattress, unable to hold itself up. “Of…all this. Of pretending.” 

Minho hums thoughtfully. “Sometimes. Don’t we all?” 

Jisung averts his eyes, trying not to get distracted by how good Minho’s thighs feel around his own, caging him into place. He likes this. He could stay like this for a long, long time. 

“You know, the first time I spoke to Chan about you, the Palace was looking for its next head of security.” 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “You spoke to Chan?” 

“Mm. I’m more familiar with your world than you probably expect, Jisung-ah.” 

Jisung gapes at Minho, his mind reeling as it takes in all this new information. So this is the favour Chan was talking about when he assigned him the mission. 

“I asked him if he had any suggestions for me for the Royal Guard. Your name came up. He turned it down, of course, but I saw your face tucked away in between all those files, and I knew I needed to chase you."

“You didn’t even know me,” Jisung interjects. 

“I wanted to know you,” Minho says, the echo of Jisung’s own words resounding in the quiet of Minho’s room. “I wanted it enough to offer Chan a shot at a date with someone he's been eyeing in exchange for putting a little Han Jisung-shaped bounty on my head.” 

“No way,” Jisung says with a gasp. “So all of this happened because of Busan hottie?” He lets out a hysterical laugh. “I can’t believe you bargained with Chan to get my attention. You could’ve just…” 

“Busan hottie is Yang Jeongin, actually,” Minho says casually, laughing when that makes Jisung sputter. “And what could I have done instead, hm?” 

“I don’t know,” Jisung says, sighing as Minho’s hand pushes his hair out of his face. “You could’ve come up to me at a bar and told me you wanna get out of here.”

Minho’s eyes rake down Jisung’s body, stopping where his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of bare skin. 

“And you’d listen?” 

Jisung bites back a sound. 

Minho exhales a short breath through his mouth. “Want to know what I think? I think you’d run. You’re so good at it, baby. You know exactly where to hide.”

Jisung squirms under Minho. “O-oh,” Jisung exhales, his mind whirring with all the pieces that start falling into place. “Minho. Hyung—ah. Back then, when I looked at you through the window…were you looking back?” 

Minho’s eyes glint, even in the darkness. “What do you think?” he whispers, leaning down to brush his nose against Jisung’s. 

Jisung’s brain whites out. 

Minho ducks his head and finds the hollow of Jisung’s throat, speaking sultry words into his skin. “I always knew, baby. If you ran, I’d have found you in a dark corner somewhere and pinned you in place, just how you like it.”  

Jisung’s body reacts as Minho’s mouth latches on over the scent gland on his throat. His body tries to arch off the bed, but Minho holds him down, soothing him with little whispers of shhh, down. Stay down. 

Hardwired to fight, it takes some resistance for Jisung’s desire to break through his instincts. His struggle turns elastic, finally snapping when Minho lightly presses his teeth into the skin of Jisung’s throat. 

Jisung bares his neck, a moan escaping his mouth as he gives in. “Good boy, just like that,” Minho says, using his hands to ruck Jisung’s shirt up and smoothing them over the quivering skin of his stomach. “You just need a firm hand to keep you in place, hm?” 

“I can’t believe you’re seducing me after telling me all that,” Jisung says breathlessly.

“I can’t believe you came into my room in pre-rut thinking you were going to kill me,” Minho continues, cocking an eyebrow. “You’d do that to your husband-to-be?”

Like it’s responding to Minho’s words, Jisung’s body flashes with a rumbling kind of heat, one that seizes his muscles. 

The sudden flashes of warmth. The slow-moving fog. The impulsive decision making. The way he’s already hard now, just from a little taste of being handled by Minho. 

Fuck. Somehow, in the middle of running away and breaking back in, Jisung missed the signs.

He’s about to go into rut. 

“Hyung,” Jisung says, bringing his hand to his own warm face and hiding behind it. He feels lightheaded. His pulse rabbits like a third voice in the conversation. His hands tremble, full of energy, waiting for permission to do something. “I’m…about to go into rut.” 

Minho gently wraps a hand around Jisung’s wrist and pulls it away from his face. He spares a glance to the shaky state of his fingers and then intertwines his own with them. “I noticed.” 

A dark curtain of hair falls over Jisung’s face, shielding him from the white-hot concoction of embarrassment and desire that Minho’s attention brings. Jisung’s face, neck, ears—everything—feels impossibly hot. 

Minho brings his free hand to Jisung’s hair and combs it away from his face, stripping him away of his makeshift barrier. 

Jisung pouts. “Don’t tease.” 

“Aw,” Minho coos, pressing a soft kiss against Jisung’s lips. “What am I going to do with you, huh?” 

God, Jisung was so wrong about what he came here to do. The butterflies in his stomach run rampant at the soft look Minho directs at him, commanding and firm and sweet—so sweet. Sweet as the day he first met him. “Do you really want me to stay?” 

“Jisung,” Minho whispers. “Have I not been clear enough already?” 

Jisung feels like he’s at the precipice of something entirely new when he says, “Tell me one more time.” 

Minho sits back on his haunches, bringing his hands back to the bare skin of Jisung’s stomach and sliding them up. He ghosts a thumb over Jisung’s nipple, not touching—but almost. 

Jisung shivers. 

Minho looks down at Jisung. Not as the Prince, not as everybody’s favourite, not as the walking prophecy—but as Jisung’s. Jisung’s Minho.

“Han Jisung, where do I even begin?” He steadies his shoulders, holding Jisung against the mattress by the palm of his hand. “The first time I saw you, I wanted to lock the bathroom door and talk to you until I knew everything about you.”

Jisung huffs out a laugh. “Even I didn’t know everything about me, back then.”

“Well, time taught you well,” Minho says. Jisung blushes at the praise. “The second time I saw you, I committed your face to memory, and you visited me every night in my dreams.” 

Jisung softens. 

“The third time I saw you, I decided to orchestrate a Ball, a mating run, and an assassination plot, hoping that you’d come here, and you’d stay. So yes,” he says, his chest caving with the breath he takes. “I want you to stay.” 

Jisung’s rut bubbles under the surface, painting the air with spritzes of lime. It crystallises, sour-sweet on Jisung’s tongue, mixing with the smoky edges of Minho’s sandalwood in a heady twist that weighs him down. Holds him in its insistent cradle, asking—no, commanding. Stay. 

The truth is vulnerable and candle-light warm; melted wax off of Jisung’s hardened exterior, chipping away at all the what ifs, leaving only one admission behind: “I want you, too.”

Minho’s eyes sparkle. “You have me.” 

“I do,” Jisung says, realising that he does. That he could stay, and he’d have this, all for himself. 

“You would work for the Palace,” Minho says, answering the question forming in Jisung’s mind. “Or you could continue working and then come home to me.”

Jisung worries his bottom lip. “I could put you in danger.” 

Minho flicks Jisung’s nipple, giggling at the gasp he gets in response. “I knew what I was getting into the minute I became the Prince, Jisung-ah. I’m not interested in spending my life avoiding danger.”

Jisung’s hips kick up when Minho doesn’t relent, pinching Jisung’s other nipple in between his fingers. 

“Hyung,” Jisung says, feeling his mind slip deeper, feeling a blanket of safety and trust and something deeper start to envelop him. “You’re crazy.” 

“Mm. Finally, some recognition.” 

Minho puts his mouth on Jisung’s nipple, sucking around the hardened brown bud, making Jisung shake under him. “Tell me, Jisungie,” he murmurs, blowing over the spit cooling on the sensitive skin of his chest. “Do you want it?” 

“I do,” Jisung says, thinking of the way he’s been searching for a place to rest his head, the way this moment isn’t a performance, isn’t a costume, isn’t pretend. The way this fits, like a missing puzzle piece, right into Jisung’s heart. Finally, it beats, in between its hurried badum badum badum. 

It’s time Jisung stopped neglecting what his heart’s been telling him all along. 

“Good,” Minho says, and his hand reaches down to palm over Jisung’s cock. He mouths his way down the swell of Jisung’s pecs, rubbing his nose into the curve of it and breathing in deeply, leaving a trail of his thick, rich scent lower, mouthing over his belly button with his eyes drooping like the direct hit of Jisung’s sharp rut-scent is a drug. “‘M going to make you feel good, okay?” 

Jisung nods, moaning when the hand on his cock grows insistent, joined by another reaching for the waistband of his pants and pulling them down. 

Minho trails wet kisses over Jisung’s navel, inching lower still. He throws Jisung’s pants away somewhere behind them, darting down to bury his nose in the soft underside of Jisung’s thigh over his most sensitive scent gland, where his scent thickens with need. 

“Fuck,” Minho growls. The sound shoots straight to Jisung’s dick. His responding growl earns him a nip on his thigh, the spark of pain-pleasure making the wet spot in Jisung’s briefs embarrassingly obvious. “I could eat you.” 

Jisung’s leg kicks when Minho mouths his way upwards over the shape of his hard cock, flattening his tongue over the soaked cloth of his briefs. “Fuck,” Jisung says with a pathetic little whimper that almost makes him sound like another person, “I’d let you.” 

“Would you?” Minho murmurs, removing his mouth’s hot wet warmth from Jisung’s cock for a second before he’s pulling Jisung’s briefs down. 

“Hng. Hyung, I want it. Ah, ah—yeah, yes. Yes,” Jisung rambles as Minho buries his face at the base of his cock, using his left hand to start pumping Jisung’s cock. He kitten-licks at the base, spreading Jisung’s pre-cum all over his shaft. 

“You’re so wet,” Minho murmurs, licking up the underside of Jisung’s cock. A zap of pleasure cuts through Jisung’s body, and he realises he’s already on the verge of popping a knot, just from this. 

“Wanna fuck my mouth?” he asks. 

Jisung nods eagerly. “Please,” he says with a gasp. Minho squeezes around the base of Jisung’s cock. “Hold off on your knot for me, mm? It’ll feel better when I’m inside you.” 

The muscles in Jisung’s abdomen lock up, his stomach caving with Minho’s words. 

Minho sucks around the tip of Jisung’s cock, smirking up at Jisung when they lock eyes next. Jisung’s vision gets blurry as he goes cross-eyed at the feeling of his cock being guided into something warm, wet, soft. His body fights to fuck into the feeling, but Minho’s other hand holds him down in a bruising grip over his waist. 

“Fuck,” Jisung gasps as Minho takes half of his cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks out. “Your h-hands feel so big, hyung,” he whines, squirming when Minho bobs his head in a slow rhythm before popping off. 

Something knowing and dangerous flashes in Minho’s eyes, and Jisung’s thighs shake as desire becomes an abscess inside him, deep and unknown. Jisung stands at its edge, ready to jump. 

“You like feeling small, don’t you, little alpha?” Minho says, grazing his teeth against the underside of Jisung’s cock. Like this, in the near-darkness, his canines glint like they’ve sharpened to turn Minho into alpha he’s been all along.  

“I…what,” Jisung says, dazed. His indignance kicks in. “No.”

“No?” Minho asks, peeling his hand off Jisung’s waist, using it instead to pry his thighs further apart. He swirls his tongue around Jisung, skilled and sultry in equal parts. “Then why do you get wetter every time I handle you—” Minho moves his hands to the back of Jisung’s thighs and pushes them up abruptly, using enough strength that Jisung can’t do anything but let himself be exposed. “—like this?” 

Jisung’s head lolls back as Minho mouths over his cock again, this time taking all of him in until he hits the back of his throat. “Hnnngg—hyung, hyung, fuck, I can’t hold it, I’m going to—” 

Minho hums around Jisung’s cock and then pops off, his lips swollen with the aftermath of sucking Jisung off. “Shhh,” Minho soothes, walking backwards on his knees and undoing the drawstring of his pants. Jisung watches his fingers work like he’s in a trance, mouth open and eyes zeroed in on Minho’s…sizable bulge. “Be a good boy and knot when hyung tells you.” 

Jisung bares his teeth, snapping them at Minho at the order. 

Minho cocks an eyebrow and hooks his fingers into his own waistband. “What was that?” 

Distracted immediately, Jisung pinches his eyebrows, his mouth parting as he watches Minho pull his pants, lower, and lower, and lower, and—

Minho pauses. 

“Hyung,” Jisung whines. “What the fuck, can you take your cock o—”

“Jisung,” Minho says, his voice darkening, underlined with every signal to submit that his body’s receptors know how to process. His fight dissolves. 

Jisung bows his head in deference and whimpers pitifully. “Hyung,” he says, his voice softer now, “can you please take it off?” 

“Better,” Minho hums approvingly, and then does as Jisung asked. 

Minho takes his own cock in hand, and Jisung’s eyes drag downwards, moving slowly until they aren't. It's hard. Hard to resist, that is. 

Jisung’s mouth drops open. He spends a few moments just…staring. 

Minho chuckles. “You’ll catch flies.” 

It's also, um. Hard. In other ways.

“Hyung,” Jisung breathes, his knees knocking together as he feels his cock twitch at the way Minho’s tip shines. Saliva pools in his mouth. “That thing is not going to fit in me.” 

“Oh, you were planning on having it inside you?” 

“I…” Jisung trails off, feeling his cheeks burn. He covers his face with one hand, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s literally what you said you’d do.”

“I know,” Minho coos, surging forward and slotting himself in between Jisung’s thighs to plant a kiss on the back of Jisung’s hand. Jisung separates his fingers to peek at Minho through them and drops his hand completely when the weight of Minho’s cock—bare and red and so hot it makes Jisung stupid—brushes against his ass. 

“You don’t have to worry,” Minho says, manhandling Jisung to push him further up the mattress, until his head hits the pillow. He grinds his hips down, rubbing their cocks together and making Jisung see stars. “It’ll be the perfect fit.” 

“How,” Jisung gasps, watching Minho roll his hips down sinuously. 

Minho doesn’t break a sweat, grabbing Jisung’s face with a hand slotted around his jaw and kissing him. 

“I’ll make it fit, baby,” Minho says, his words going straight to Jisung’s dick. 

“Hyung-ah. Wha—wow. Hyung, I’ve never…” 

Minho blinks. Rears his head back, just a little, unsticking his spit-glossy lips from Jisung’s. “You’ve never had something inside you, baby?” 

Jisung nods. “Hyung’s going to be my first,” he says, a little coy, a little too aware of the effect that those words have on Minho, whose hips kick forward as if of their own accord. 

Minho’s chest rumbles, and Jisung has to strain his ear to make out the distinct sound of his pleased purring. 

Alpha, Jisung’s body sings. My alpha. 

The last remaining thread of Jisung’s sanity breaks, and Jisung slips into rut. 

Minho’s nostrils flare. His jaw clenches before he catches Jisung’s mouth in a frantic kiss, holding him down with enough strength that Jisung feels weightless. Like he’s underwater, sinking deeper, letting the waves wash his body in whatever direction they please. 

“Alpha,” Jisung gasps, earning a guttural moan from Minho, who licks into his mouth with fervour, drinking up all of Jisung’s little sounds. Their cocks slide together, and if Jisung blinks, if he lets his imagination go wild—the sight transforms, blurring. Mashing fantasy and reality, making it look like Minho’s fucking him, driving his hips back and thrusting into Jisung.

Jisung’s cock leaks onto his stomach as the depth of how badly he wants more reverberates across his body. 

Minho plants his hands on either side of Jisung’s shoulders, lifting himself up. 

“Hyung,” Jisung whines, “where are you go—oh.” 

Without so much as a grunt, Minho puts one hand on Jisung’s waist and flips Jisung around. 

Jisung lands on his stomach with an oomph. 

“Such a pretty ass, baby,” Minho groans, palming Jisung’s ass cheeks and spreading them apart. “Has anyone ever eaten you out?” 

Rut softens the edges of Jisung’s shyness. It turns him inside out, wrings out all his embarrassing secrets until they become just—words. Words he needs to say out loud before Minho can gift him with the next new sensation.

He moans into the pillow, spit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “No,” Jisung whimpers. “No one’s ever…eaten me out,” he finishes shyly. 

Minho’s thumb slips in between Jisung’s cheeks, ghosting over his hole. 

Jisung gasps, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Fuck, is this what he’s been missing out on this whole time? “Hyung, again,” he says frantically, arching his back and rubbing his cock against the bedsheets. His body spasms, unsure which direction it should seek its pleasure from. 

Minho doesn’t let the confusion persist. He pushes his thumb down on Jisung’s hole, rubbing over it more insistently. Jisung whines, loud and high-pitched and completely unlike himself. 

All at once, Minho’s thumb is replaced by something warmer, wetter.

“Fuck,” Jisung moans, his shoulders slumping ahead into the mattress as Minho pulls his ass up and licks over his hole. Lime drizzles into the air in time with every swipe of Minho’s tongue, circling Jisung’s rim. 

“Mmm,” Minho’s muffled voice says, getting clearer before he rasps, “taking me so well already.” Minho’s tongue breaches Jisung’s hole, then, fucking into him with abandon. Heat licks up Jisung’s spine, making his thighs fall apart and spread wider. 

Minho spits over Jisung’s hole. “Going to fuck you right here,” he says, curling his tongue inside Jisung. “Mm. So wet for me, baby. Wet like an omega.” 

Jisung hides his face in the mattress, feeling his hips kick into the mattress in a particularly hard thrust. “Hyung,” Jisung gasps. “Fuck, I’m going to come.” 

“Go ahead, baby. Show hyung how you knot.” 

Jisung trembles, crying out in surprise when Minho smacks his ass cheek. 

It’s the final straw. Jisung’s toes curl, he grips at the bedsheets, searching for purchase as his hips stutter. He comes all over the sheets under him while Minho’s tongue keeps fucking his hole loose, the wet sounds of his mouth overpowered by Jisung’s moans. 

When Jisung’s knot thickens, Minho shallowly fucks a thumb into Jisung alongside his tongue.

“You’re already taking me perfectly, baby,” Minho praises, pushing his thumb deeper inside Jisung. 

The stretch burns first. Then, it feels like the most perfect pressure Jisung’s felt in his life. “More,” Jisung gasps, his knot fully expanded, spurting out his last few drops of come. 

Minho eases off the backs of Jisung’s thighs and repositions Jisung just as easily as he got him on his stomach. 

Jisung blinks his wet eyes up at Minho, who takes his shirt off and lets it join the pile of their discarded clothes somewhere on the floor. 

“Minho,” Jisung whimpers. 

Minho smacks the inside of Jisung’s thighs. “That’s not what you call me.” 

Jisung moans, watching his skin turn red. He wonders if he has a matching handprint on his ass and promptly shivers, his eyes finding the hollow of Minho’s neck, right where Jisung could leave his mark, too. 

“Alpha,” Jisung says, and then gulps. “I wanna mark you.” 

Minho’s eyes get sharper. He growls, something possessive and primal that makes Jisung want to bare his teeth at him. 

Jisung bites down on his bottom lip, willing himself to be good. “Do you want that?” 

“Always,” Minho says easily. “I do.” 

Jisung exhales. A sense of rightness washes over him. “You’ll mark me too, right?” 

“Ah, if you think I’m letting you go now, Jisungie…” Minho knee-walks until in between Jisung’s spread legs and slides his cock in between his cheeks. “I’ll mark you right here,” Minho says, pressing two fingers over the scent gland on Jisung’s throat. His fingers move down to Jisung’s heart. “And here.” Then, the reddened skin of Jisung’s inner thigh. “And here.” 

“Please,” Jisung whispers, and then returns his attention to Minho’s dick, which twitches when Jisung spreads his legs, making more space for him. “Hyung. I’m a little nervous.” 

“Baby,” Minho says, laughing a little like Jisung caught him off guard.

“I’m serious. You won’t fit,” Jisung says, feeling his hole clench around nothing as he imagines the drooling tip of Minho’s cock pushing inside him.

Minho reaches towards the nightstand and fishes out a lube bottle. It must be new, because Minho tears open the plastic seal with his teeth and spits it out somewhere off to the side. 

Jisung tries to pretend he didn’t make the sound that just came out of him. 

“I got a new flavour,” Minho explains conversationally, popping the bottle’s cap open and squirting the liquid onto his hand. He warms it up in between his fingers and then gives it a small lick. “It’s citrusy.” 

Jisung sputters. “When?” 

“When you went on your drive,” Minho says with a knowing smile. 

Jisung laughs. “You are so…” he gets distracted in under a second as he watches Minho spread the lube over his cock. 

“Hyung,” Jisung whimpers. “What if you don’t—ngh…” Minho teases his lube-covered fingers over Jisung’s hole, pushing one finger inside. Jisung swallows him up easily, clenching down on what he’s given. “...fit?” 

Minho adds another finger inside Jisung, wrapping his dry hand around the nape of Jisung’s neck and scruffing him with a quick pinch. He smiles, kissing Jisung over his pouty lips. “We’ll start slow,” he assures. “Can you take just the tip?” 

Jisung’s eyes unfocus at the feeling of his body going pliant with Minho’s hand over his nape. He nods, moaning loudly when the angle of Minho’s fingers shifts to press against something that has Jisung seeing stars. 

“Yes,” Jisung gasps, nodding eagerly as his voice turns thin and breathy. “Just the tip, hyung.” 

Minho pulls his fingers out. “Breathe with me,” he tells Jisung. On the inhale, he rubs himself over his hole. On the exhale, he pushes the tip of his cock inside. 

Jisung’s legs shake as soon as the thicker, wider, bigger pressure of Minho's cock is inside him. 

The muscles in Minho’s shoulder and arms are pulled taut while he waits, grinding his hips in a circle as Jisung gets used to the new feeling. 

Jisung rocks down on Minho’s cock, and Minho takes it as his signal to pull his hips back and push his tip in again, a little faster this time. 

Jisung throws his head back, and Minho’s mouth finds the bared line of his throat again. “Hnnnng.” 

Minho pulls back, his chest sliding against Jisung’s, holding him in place. “Fuck,” Minho mutters under his breath, looking down to watch Jisung’s hole take his cock. 

Jisung spreads his legs a little wider, and the movement seats a little more of Minho inside him. 

Minho grunts. “Fuck, sorry,” he gasps, not sounding sorry at all as Jisung’s hands scramble to hold on to Minho’s shoulders. He pulls out of Jisung, and on the next thrust—he pushes deeper. 

Jisung’s eyes are fixed between their bodies. The line of tension running through Minho’s body, the proof of holding back visible. 

“Feels so good,” Jisung moans, watching himself take half of Minho’s cock. Fuck, he feels Minho in his throat. He needs more. He needs him everywhere. 

Minho’s forehead drops onto Jisung’s shoulder as he pants. His voice is strained when he says, “You’re taking me so well. Fuck, good boy.” 

Jisung buries a hand in the bright blonde head of hair visible through his periphery, sinking his nose into the sandalwood-rich space behind Minho’s ear. 

Minho pulls his hips back again. 

Jisung tugs Minho’s earring in between his teeth, shivering at the little moan he teases out of Minho. 

On the next thrust, Jisung wraps his legs around Minho’s hips, digging the heels of his feet into Minho’s back and fucking down on his cock. The combination of movements is enough to push Minho’s control over the edge. 

Jisung’s ears ring as soon as Minho bottoms out inside him. His instincts go haywire, and his teeth itch and ache and suddenly—there’s a sharp pain blooming on his throat. Suddenly, his teeth are sinking into the heart of Minho’s scent and leaving their mark. 

The ground disappears from underneath Jisung. All he can feel is Minho, his hips snapping almost rabidly as he fucks Jisung, the sound of lube and sweat and cum, the smell of sex and their scents, the taste of Minho’s tongue, intertwined with his own. 

“Keep going,” Jisung gasps, lapping his tongue over the bite on Minho’s neck right as his second orgasm hits him out of nowhere, getting both their stomachs messy with his release. 

Minho groans, fucking Jisung harder, pinning him down in place and sucking over the mating bite adorning Jisung’s throat. “Going to keep you like this,” Minho says, his voice rough with want. “My perfect little alpha. You take it so well.” 

Jisung moans, leaving a litter of smaller bites around the tender wound on Minho’s throat. 

“F-fuck,” Jisung whines, responding to the way Minho’s thrusts start to grow uncoordinated. “Come inside me—hng. Please.” 

“Mm, of course I will,” Minho hums, growling into Jisung’s throat, pistoning his hips in and out of Jisung’s sloppy hole. “‘M going to fuck you until you’re bred.” 

Jisung’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “Yes, yes. Yes yes yes yes—please—” 

One final thrust, and Minho’s come paints itself over Jisung’s insides, hot and warm. 

Jisung whines into Minho’s throat, clawing at his shoulders. “H-hyung,” he whimpers. “Fuck, it’s big—” 

The base of Minho’s cock expands inside Jisung, locking them together with Minho’s knot.

Jisung squirms, his body shaking with the new feeling of having so much inside him. His hole gapes open around Minho’s knot.

“Good boy,” Minho praises, lapping over Jisung’s mating bite. Jisung’s body loses its tension at the feeling of the fresh bond in between himself and Minho pulsing. “Good boy, you took it so well, see? I knew you could. Perfect alpha. My baby,” Minho coos, sucking bruises over Jisung’s collarbone to mark him up everywhere his mouth can reach while they’re locked together like this. 

“Mm,” Jisung murmurs sleepily. “Feels s’good.” 

Minho grabs Jisung by the hips, making sure the knot doesn’t budge as he shifts them around so his back is on the bed and Jisung is on top of him. 

Jisung nuzzles into warm skin, his teeth grazing against Minho’s bite. 

Minho’s soft voice murmurs something unintelligible, and it’s the last thing Jisung hears before he gives in to sleep, scent-drunk on Minho’s spicy-sweetness, curling around him like incense smoke.

— 

When Jisung wakes up, it’s because of the pulsing insistence of the bite mark on his neck. 

“I think my mark’s complaining that you’re too far,” Jisung says into the pillow, blinking blurry eyes awake to the sight of Minho across the room. 

Minho gets closer to the bed with a tray of food in his hands. “I was making sure you’d be fed,” he says. 

Jisung’s eyes go from Minho’s face to the bite on his neck. “Lee Minho is bringing me breakfast in bed,” he thinks out loud, a little delirious. 

“Han Jisung is in rut in my bed,” Minho replies. “Insane, right?” 

Jisung puts the tray aside and pulls Minho close by the collar of his t-shirt. “Hyung.”

“Yes, Jisung-ah.” 

“You know you’re stuck with me now, right?” 

“Mm,” Minho says with a sleepy smile, wrapping his hands around Jisung’s wrists and knee-walking onto the bed. “Best news of my life.” 

Jisung’s shoulders shake with laughter. “I thought I was going to kill you yesterday.” 

“Yes,” Minho says. “And I was very, very scared.” 

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Weird,” he mutters, fond. God, when did he grow fond of Minho? It snuck up on him, and now it just—makes sense. 

“Hm?” 

“You’re weird.”

“I’m not,” Minho says, looking completely unaffected. 

“That’s what I like about you. You hired me to kill you to get my attention. It makes me seem so much more normal in comparison.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth lifts, and the sunrays filter into the room from behind him, framing his hair like a halo. “I like normal,” Minho says, like he’s cutting a piece of his heart open and delivering it with three words. 

Jisung’s scent spikes, a rut-induced burst of lime taking over the room. 

Minho cocks an eyebrow. “Heartfelt confessions get you going?” 

Jisung falls back onto the bed, covering his face. “Shut up, I’m in rut.” 

“Aw,” Minho coos, getting a piece of toast from the plate next to Jisung. “First things first. You need to eat. Then, I’ll eat you.” 

“Oh my god,” Jisung groans, something pitter-pattering in his chest as he giggles at Minho’s antics. 

It takes him a moment to translate, but it’s there, alright. Light and breezy and full of potential. Four lettered. Scary. 

Fine, I’ll admit it, Jisung thinks. Sounds like love. 

—

The Royal Wedding takes place on a Friday. 

Han Jisung and Lee Minho’s wedding takes place two months before that, on a bright spring day.

Chan and Changbin are crying as soon as they enter. Jeongin stands between them both, arm wrapped around Chan while Changbin wonders where his boyfriend is. Felix joins the cry-fest soon after. Seungmin’s almost late, but he comes bearing the most heartfelt best-man speech in the world. Hyunjin almost posts the group selfie to the Jiniret account before Jisung confiscates his phone. Changbin makes the first move, and Hyunjin only manages to play hard to get for the first 15 minutes of the ceremony. 

“I now pronounce you,” Felix says, and then pauses to sniffle, wiping a tear from his lashline. “Husbands, partners, equals.” 

“Kiss each other now!” Hyunjin yells from the crowd. 

Minho huffs, and locks his slightly wet eyes with Jisung’s puffy ones. He smiles, unbearably fond. “Should we give them a show, my Prince?” 

Jisung smiles. “When do we not, Your Highness?” 

Thirty years ago, in the height of winter, a prophetic scroll unfurls:

"Years from now, when the summer fades away, there will come an omegan prince destined to bring prosperity to the Kingdom. He will be seen by many, and loved through fracture. His true colours will shine, and capture.

Fear not, young Prince, you will enrapture."