Chapter Text
The city breathed smoke and neon that night, the kind of heavy, humid air that clung to skin like oil—especially here, on the edge of the district Sunghoon had claimed as his own. His mansion stood apart from the rest, a cold monolith of dark stone and smoked glass perched high on a hill, its gates reinforced with steel and every inch of the perimeter watched by men who carried guns like extensions of their own hands. To anyone else, approaching it uninvited was suicide. To Jay? It was just another Tuesday.
He walked up the long drive without slowing, boots clicking sharp against the concrete, like he was heading into his own kitchen rather than the stronghold of his most hated rival. The guards at the gate didn’t even have time to shout before he moved—fast, sharp, every strike deliberate, fueled by the restless anger that always hummed under his skin. One man lunged; Jay ducked, drove an elbow hard into his ribs, and swept his legs out from under him before he could hit the alarm. Another grabbed for his arm, and Jay twisted it behind his back until a cry tore out of him, shoving him face-first into the iron bars.
Three more came running, weapons raised, but Jay didn’t flinch. He ducked a swing, slammed his palm into someone’s jaw, and when one got close enough to grab his collar, Jay grinned sharp and nasty, headbutting him hard enough to make his own eyes water just a little.
By the time he stepped past the open gates, the grounds were quiet save for groans. He adjusted his jacket—satin, deep dark red, cut close to his shoulders and dipping low just enough to show the edge of the lace camisole beneath, the kind most people would never expect to see on a man who could break a nose with one flick of his wrist. His trousers were tight, the fabric smooth and shiny, and above his heavy black boots, fishnet socks climbed up his calves, thin and dark against his skin.
He liked these things. Liked how the fabric felt, how it made people stare, how it made Sunghoon’s jaw tighten every time he saw it. It was his, and no one got to say otherwise—least of all the man waiting upstairs.
The front doors were locked, but Jay kicked them open hard enough to crack the frame. The henchmen inside poured into the hall, more of them, better trained, but Jay was already moving. He didn’t fight clean—never had. He ducked behind a marble pillar, snatched a heavy vase from its stand and swung it like a club, glass shattering across the floor. When someone fired a shot, he dropped low, bullets zinging off the tiles above him, and scrambled forward to slam his fist into the man’s stomach before tearing the gun from his grip and tossing it aside.
He took a blow to the side that made his vision blur for half a second, and he roared, turning on his heel to drive his boot into the attacker’s chest. He was breathing hard by the end, knuckles split, hair messy and sticking to his forehead, but he didn’t stop moving until the last of them was slumped against the wall, groaning or unconscious.
He wiped blood from his knuckles on the sleeve of his red jacket, straightened the hem, and started up the stairs. Sunghoon’s office was at the very top, the door thick dark wood, and Jay didn’t bother knocking. He shoved it open so hard it banged against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.
Sunghoon was behind his desk, elbows propped on the polished surface, fingers steepled under his chin. He looked as calm as ever—too calm—his dark hair swept back, his suit sharp and black, every line of him cold and composed. He didn’t even look surprised, not really, though his eyes flicked over Jay’s clothes, then to the blood on his hands, then back up to his face, slow and deliberate.
“You’re late,” Sunghoon said, voice even, like Jay had just stopped by for tea. “I thought you’d trip over your own fishnets halfway here.”
Jay’s temper flared instantly, hot and fast, just like it always did. He crossed the room in three long strides, slamming both hands down on Sunghoon’s desk hard enough to make the pen set jump. “Don’t you dare act like you were waiting for me,” he snapped, leaning in, eyes blazing. “You know exactly why I’m here. What the hell did you do at the docks last night?”
Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, unbothered, and tilted his head. “I did what needed to be done. Your men were sloppy. They left openings. I filled them.”
“Opened nothing but your own greedy mouth!” Jay shot back, voice rising. “That shipment was mine. We had a deal—you stay west of the river, I stay east. You crossed the line. You’ve been crossing every damn line I draw for months now, and I’m done pretending I don’t see it.”
“Deal?” Sunghoon laughed, soft and cold, and stood up slowly, rounding the desk until he was standing right in front of Jay, close enough that Jay could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, sharp and expensive. “You think I make deals with people who can’t hold what’s theirs? If you wanted it so bad, you should have fought harder to keep it. Instead you let your boys get cornered like scared rabbits. Cute outfit, by the way. The red makes you look like you’re already bleeding—fitting, don’t you think?”
Jay’s face went bright red, anger coiling tight in his chest, and he shoved Sunghoon hard in the shoulder. Sunghoon didn’t stumble, just caught his wrist before Jay could pull back, his grip firm and unyielding. “Don’t touch me!” Jay snarled, yanking, but Sunghoon didn’t let go. “And don’t you dare make fun of what I wear! You’re just jealous you’d look ridiculous in anything that isn’t a boring old suit like you crawled out of a catalog for funeral directors.”
“Jealous?” Sunghoon’s lips curled into that faint, infuriating smirk, the one that always made Jay want to punch him. “I’m impressed. Most people try to hide every soft thing about themselves when they’re running a crew. You walk around like this, looking like you do, and still manage to break half my men before you even get to the door. It’s confusing. Makes me wonder what else you’re hiding under all that satin and lace.”
Jay ripped his wrist free, his hands shaking now, half from rage and half from something else he refused to name. “I’m not hiding anything!” he shouted. “And I’m not losing to you! Not the docks, not the territory, not any of it! You think you’re so cold and so smart, but you’re just a coward who hides behind walls and waits for other people to do the fighting for you! I fought my way up here. What did you do? Sit up here and count your money while your men got knocked out?”
Sunghoon’s expression shifted, just for a second, the amusement fading into something sharper, darker—but he didn’t shout. He never shouted. That was what made it worse. “You think this is just about fighting?” he said quietly, stepping closer again, until Jay had to force himself not to step back. “You think being loud and angry and throwing punches is all there is to it? That’s why you’ll always be one step behind me, Jay. You don’t think. You just burn. And I love watching you burn—especially when you get this worked up over nothing.”
“Nothing?” Jay gaped, breath coming fast. “You stole my shipment! You threatened my suppliers! You sent those idiots to patrol my streets like you own the whole damn city—”
“I do own it,” Sunghoon cut in, calm as anything, “and so do you. That’s the problem. Two kings on one throne. Someone’s bound to bleed.”
Jay glowered, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk, and looked away for half a second before snapping his eyes back to Sunghoon’s. “Then stop playing games,” he said, voice low and fierce. “If you want a fight, have it properly. Don’t sneak around and cut pieces off me when I’m not looking. Meet me face to face. Just you and me. No men. No guns. Whatever you want.”
Sunghoon stared at him for a long time, silence stretching between them thick and heavy, until his gaze dropped again, lingering on the fishnet socks peeking out above Jay’s boots, then dragging slowly back up to his face. “Oh, Jay,” he said, and his voice was soft now, almost too quiet to hear. “I’d love nothing more than to fight you properly. But I don’t think you’re ready for what happens when I stop holding back.”
The next few days passed in a strange, suspended sort of quiet. No shipments were hijacked, no lookouts went missing, no angry texts blared across their screens—though that didn’t mean either of them was resting easy.
Jay spent almost all his time wandering the highest floors of the city’s most exclusive malls, pushing past velvet ropes and glass display cases like he owned every item inside. He didn’t care about the logos or the price tags; he cared about the cut, the texture, the way the leather caught the light. He ran his fingers over deep burgundy crocodile, matte black lambskin, deep cherry patent leather—all sharp, rich shades that matched the satin he liked to wear.
He picked out bags with gold chains and delicate buckles, shapes that curved soft and feminine but felt solid and heavy in his grip, slinging one over his arm just to see how it sat against his jacket. The sales staff trailed after him, quiet and nervous, too afraid to ask if he’d actually buy anything, too mesmerized by the way he carried himself—sharp, fiery, unapologetic. He ended up walking out with three, leaving them wrapped in dark tissue paper like secrets.
Meanwhile, high up in his hilltop mansion, Sunghoon barely left his study. The room smelled of expensive tobacco and old paper, the curtains drawn low so only thin slants of afternoon sun cut through the gloom. He sat behind his desk, one arm resting on the polished wood, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he flipped through ledgers, case files, and intelligence reports.
He marked territory lines in red ink, noted names of turncoats, and tracked every movement Jay’s crew had made in the last month—though he’d never admit he was paying that much attention. Every so often he’d pause, stare at a photo of Jay mid-punch, red jacket flaring, and let a small, unreadable smile touch his lips before he turned the page.
Then the call came.
It wasn’t a message, wasn’t a coded note left on a car windshield. It was a direct line—one only the highest ranks knew—and when Sunghoon picked up, the voice on the other end belonged to Jungwon.
The head of the entire syndicate. The man who ruled over every faction, every territory, every rival like they were pieces on a chessboard.
“Both of you. My office. In an hour,” Jungwon said, flat and final, and hung up before Sunghoon could even speak.
When they arrived—Sunghoon in his usual tailored black, Jay in that dark red satin jacket and new cherry-red bag slung over his shoulder—Jungwon didn’t waste time on greetings. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and looked between them like he was already tired of what he had to say.
“There’s a new player moving in,” he said, sliding a thick file across the desk. “A high-ranking boss from overseas. He’s got enough dirt on all of us to burn this whole city down. But he’s careful. He only trusts people who look… ordinary. Unthreatening. So you two are going to give him exactly that.”
Jay frowned, crossing his arms. “What the hell does that mean? We’re not bodyguards, and we’re not spies.”
“It means,” Jungwon said sharply, “you’re going undercover. He’s setting up operations in a quiet, upscale residential neighborhood—perfect cover for what he’s hiding. You two will move into one of the houses there. You’re a married couple. Newly moved in. Quiet, loving, completely harmless. You’ll get close to him, earn his trust, and find where he’s stashing his evidence and his accounts. Once you have it, we move in.”
For a long second, no one spoke. Then Jay let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A couple? Us? Are you insane? He’s my worst enemy! I’d rather shoot myself than pretend I’m in love with him!”
“Enemy or not, you’re the only pair I can use,” Jungwon said firmly. “No one expects two rival bosses to be living together as husbands. It’s the perfect cover. And before you complain more—this isn’t a favor. It’s an order. Refuse, and I’ll strip both your crews and your territories straight out from under you. Choose."
Sunghoon leaned against the wall, watching Jay’s face turn bright red with rage, and smirked. “Well,” he said, quiet enough only Jay could hear, “could be worse. Could’ve asked us to be circus clowns.”
Ten minutes later, still reeling, they were shown the stack of clothes and supplies waiting for them in the next room. Jay stopped dead, his mouth falling open.
There were soft knitted sweaters in cream and dusty pink, flowy blouses with lace trim, high-waisted pleated skirts, delicate pearl necklaces, soft sheer tights, and pairs of cute little loafers and low heels. All exactly the kind of thing a sweet, bubbly housewife would wear.
And there was a note on top, written in Jungwon’s neat handwriting: Jay, you play the wife. Sunghoon plays the husband. Act the part perfectly, or the deal’s off.
Jay spun around, eyes blazing. “The wife? Are you kidding me? Why can’t you be the wife? You’re the one who sits around looking pretty and doing nothing!”
Sunghoon stepped closer, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair off Jay’s forehead—slow, deliberate, just to make him flinch. “Because, baby,” he purred, that teasing glint in his eyes, “you look so much better in soft things than I ever could. Look at you—pretty enough to turn every head on the street. You’ll be the most convincing wife this neighborhood’s ever seen.”
“Don’t call me that!” Jay snapped, swatting his hand away, but his cheeks burned hotter. “And I’m not wearing skirts! Or frills! Or anything that looks like it came out of a doll’s closet!”
“Rules are rules,” Sunghoon said, unrepentant, picking up a pale pink sweater and holding it up against Jay’s chest. “Besides, I think it’ll look lovely on you. Princess.”
Jay shoved the sweater back at him hard enough to make Sunghoon take a step back, his hands clenched into fists. “I hate you. I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone. I’m going to mess this up on purpose. I’m going to be the worst fake wife in history.”
“Sure you will,” Sunghoon said, amused, already imagining it. “And I’ll be right there beside you, holding your hand, calling you my pretty husband—sorry, wife—every chance I get. You can’t hide how cute you look forever.”
The next day had happened before they were due to move into the neighborhood, Jungwon had driven them both straight to a quiet, high-end photography studio tucked away in the city’s most exclusive district—no crowds, no prying eyes, staff vetted so thoroughly they didn’t even blink when the two rival mafia bosses stormed in, radiating enough tension to freeze the air.
“These aren’t optional,” Jungwon said, tossing a thick folder onto the makeup counter. Inside were printed guides, reference photos, and a list of every detail they needed to get right. “Every shelf, every mantel, every empty wall in that house needs proof you’re happily married. Neighbors pop in unannounced all the time. If they see blank walls or strangers in frames, they’ll get curious. And curious people talk. That’s how covers blow. You need wedding portraits, shots of dates, silly little candid moments—enough to look like you’ve been together for years. And rings. You don’t show up as a married couple without matching bands.”
Jay stared at the folder like it contained live snakes. “You want us to pose for wedding photos? Together? Smiling? Like we actually like each other?”
“Like you both are madly in love,” Jungwon corrected sharply. “Or you can explain to the entire syndicate why you two blew the most important operation we’ve run in three years. Your call.”
Sunghoon had already wandered over to the ring display case, leaning down to study the rows of polished gold and silver. “Relax, Jay. It’s just pictures. You’re already pretty enough to be a bride—won’t take much effort to sell it.”
Jay’s face flamed. “Shut up! I’m not being the bride! Why can’t we just swap? You wear the dress, I wear the suit!”
“Because you look better in lace than I do,” Sunghoon said smoothly, tapping the glass to point out two matching bands. “These. Simple, classic. No fancy stones, nothing that draws too much attention. But nice enough that people notice.”
The jeweler brought them out: thin, polished white gold, one slightly wider for Sunghoon, one a little more delicate for Jay, etched with a faint line of tiny leaves along the edge—soft, romantic, exactly the kind of thing a quiet couple would pick out together. When it came time to try them on, Jay hesitated, holding his hand out like the band might burn him.
Sunghoon stepped closer, took Jay’s left hand in his own, and slid the ring onto his finger slow and deliberate, turning Jay’s hand to admire how it caught the light.
“Perfect,” Sunghoon murmured, his voice low enough only Jay could hear. “Looks like it was made for you, pretty thing.”
Jay snatched his hand back so fast he nearly knocked over the display stand, ears burning bright red. “Don’t touch me like that! And stop calling me those stupid names!”
“Stupid names for my stupidly lovely wife,” Sunghoon teased, sliding his own matching ring onto his finger and twisting it into place. “Now go get changed. We’ve got work to do.”
The outfits laid out for them made Jay want to scream. Sunghoon’s was a sharp, tailored black tuxedo—elegant, understated, exactly what he always wore. Jay’s was a deep, rich burgundy suit cut to look soft and flowing, with a silk shirt that laced up the front, delicate cuffs, and a veil made of thin black lace that draped over his shoulders instead of a veil for a bride. It was undeniably feminine, tailored to hug his waist and show off the curve of his neck, but still dark and bold—closer to the things Jay actually liked than the frilly pink nightmares he’d seen earlier. Even so, he stared at it for ten full minutes before he could bring himself to put it on.
When he finally stepped out from behind the changing screen, the room went quiet for a beat. Sunghoon was leaning against the backdrop stand, but he straightened slowly, his dark eyes sweeping over Jay from head to toe, lingering on the way the silk caught the light, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way the delicate band glinted on his finger. A faint, unreadable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Told you,” Sunghoon said softly. “Princess.”
Before Jay could snap or storm back to change, the photographer clapped his hands. “Wonderful! Now, let’s start with the formal portraits. Mr. Park—stand a little closer to your husband. Mr. Lee—turn your shoulder just a bit, rest your hand on his waist. Good. Now—look at each other. Not like you want to kill him. Like he’s the only person in the room.”
It was torture. For the first ten shots, Jay’s smile was so tight it looked like it might crack his jaw, and he stood so far away from Sunghoon there was enough space for another person between them. Every time Sunghoon leaned in, Jay flinched. Every time Sunghoon tried to brush a stray hair from his face, Jay swatted his hand away.
“Like this,” Sunghoon said after the third failed attempt, his voice dropping low and teasing. He stepped in close, curled one arm firm and warm around Jay’s waist, and pulled him gently against his side until their hips bumped. Jay stiffened, but Sunghoon didn’t let go—instead he leaned down, his breath warm against Jay’s ear, and spoke so quiet only he could hear. “Stop fighting it. You look incredible. And if you mess this up, we’re here all afternoon. Unless you want everyone in your crew to hear how you threw a fit because you had to look pretty for me?”
Jay glowered, but forced his shoulders to drop. He tilted his head up just a little, and for half a second, he forgot to be angry. Sunghoon was looking at him, really looking at him—his gaze soft, intense, like he was seeing something no one else ever had. When the photographer snapped the shutter, it caught the exact moment Jay’s scowl faded into something smaller, something warmer.
“Perfect!” the photographer beamed. “Now a few more intimate ones—hold hands, forehead to forehead, maybe one where you’re laughing like I just told the best joke in the world.”
They moved through the poses slowly. Sunghoon laced their fingers together, their matching rings pressing side by side, and Jay didn’t pull away. Sunghoon leaned their foreheads together, and Jay found himself holding his breath, hyper-aware of how close Sunghoon was, how clean and sharp his cologne smelled.
When the photographer asked for laughter, Sunghoon leaned in and whispered, “You know, if we ever actually got married, I’d make you breakfast every morning. And you’d still be grumpy enough to scare off the mailman.” Jay barked a surprised, genuine laugh—bright and sharp, nothing like his fake smile—and the shutter clicked again and again, capturing the way his eyes crinkled, the way Sunghoon stared at him like he’d never seen anything so interesting.
Next came the casual date photos. They changed into softer clothes: Sunghoon in a plain white button-down and jeans, Jay in a soft dark red knit sweater, high-waisted trousers, and sheer patterned socks instead of his usual fishnets. They moved through different backdrops: sitting side by side on a park bench sharing a coffee, walking arm in arm down a tree-lined path, Jay leaning against Sunghoon’s chest while Sunghoon read a book, Jay laughing while Sunghoon tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.
By the end of two hours, Jay’s cheeks hurt from smiling, his knuckles were sore from how hard he’d been gripping his own hands earlier, and he was exhausted—but he also couldn’t quite bring himself to admit how much he’d hated it.
When the proofs came up on the screen, Jay stopped short. They looked real. Not like two rivals forced to pretend—like two people who’d built a life together, who knew every little quirk of each other, who fit together even when they were fighting. In one shot, Sunghoon was looking at Jay while Jay looked away, and there was something so open, so unguarded in Sunghoon’s face that Jay felt his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.
Jungwon nodded, satisfied, scrolling through the dozens of files. “Print the best ones. Frame them in every size—big portraits for the living room, small ones for the bedside tables, little magnets for the fridge. Make it look lived in. Make it look like home.”
On the drive back to their temporary quarters, Jay stared out the window, twisting the wedding ring around his finger over and over. He hadn’t taken it off.
“Thinking about how good we look together?” Sunghoon asked from the passenger seat, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the open window.
Jay didn’t look at him, but he didn’t stop twisting the ring either. “Thinking about how if anyone from my crew sees those photos, I’m burying you in the backyard under the rose bushes.”
Sunghoon laughed, soft and warm. “Sure you are, baby. Sure you are.”