[ i. ]

 

Never, not even once in his life, had Seongwoo ever imagined one of the lowest points of his life would be holding a collapsed ex-criminal to his chest; even as the sound of world crashing echoes around them, even as the walls begin to collapse in on them.

“Stay with me,” The three words are the ones he repeats. A mantra, a lifeline, something to clutch him into reality.

A pool of blood never stops expanding underneath Hwang Minhyun’s collapsed form. Warmth seeps into the fabric of Seongwoo’s bottoms, the smell of blood a stark contrast with the damp, nearly moist air.

Minhyun is ghostly, already white skin growing paler by the minute, the redness of his blood accentuating the near fantasy-like portrait his crumpled, broken body makes. His breathing comes out in ragged, short breaths; eyes glossed over, as if they could close forever in any moment.

“You bastard, you’re not going to die on me—I’m not allowing you to die on me so hold on, no don’t close your eyes—Minhyun!”

 

 

 

 

There’s a steady thrum to Seongwoo’s veins as he’s faced with the front page of this morning’s newspaper. July 3rd, the date is written on the bottom right of the page, and he finds his eyes drawn towards the article on the utmost page of the newspaper.

Yesterday, the article was about the latest top star couple exposed to the public. He remembers watching their movies, remembers the way the both of them lingered too long around each other during the snippets of the press conferences that’d been shown on the television. There was always something different that separated them from other onscreen couples, so when he’d read the article yesterday, there was no surprise. Seongwoo glimpsed the title of the article with a smile, almost knowing. Then he’d flipped the page, finding his attention held by the article in the crime corner about a missing woman in Jeju-do. (He sent in an anonymous tip to the police after he finished the article, and his tea. Try to look into the neighbor. The one with a basement. He has yet to check on another update of the case, but Seongwoo would bet his Benz they’d have found the woman in the basement. Alive, but maybe worse for wear.)

That was July 2nd. The day Naver’s search engine ranking would only show anything related to the top star couple, because that is the type of front page worthy scandal that never fails to make noise.

July 3rd’s front page is not about the couple. It’s not even about a new celebrity couple, although the past few days, the newspapers have been publishing articles left and right about the ‘hottest blind items’, and other things that would entice the average reader, but never holds Seongwoo’s attention for longer than a few minutes.

Instead, it boasts a picture of a jewelry display box, the glass gone and in the place where a jewel should be, a note is placed. The bolded headline reads, Jewelry Exhibition Cancelled After Jewel Theft! and there are passing mentions of no fingerprints left behind (as any decent thief would), and almost no leads to go by. The latter is written in a manner that mocks the capability of the country’s police while bringing up South Korea’s own justice system. That’s when Seongwoo flips the page of the newspaper. It’s barely shy of eight AM, and he deals with articles that hold undertones of political agendas after lunch—and only after lunch.

Any time before that, he would analyze the piece written regarding the downfall of Nokia’s stock prices instead. No matter how much the amount of statistics and numbers and generally just data involved are enough to invoke pain that isn’t unlike a bad hangover. 

He’s in the middle of the Nokia article, brows furrowed in his trademark look of concentration, looking over each sentence multiple times in a struggle to comprehend them to the best of his ability, when his phone plays the theme of Mission Impossible. He knows who it's from immediately; it's the only ringtone he has on his phone that's different from the others', so without even checking the caller ID, the identity of the one on the other line is already clear as day.

Seongwoo picks up the phone, and presses it close to his ear.

“I’m going to need you to come in.”

“What, do I not get a ‘hello’? You hurt me, Jaehwan. More than anything else, you wound me, irrevocably, irreversibly—”

“Has anyone ever mentioned how big of a pain in the you are, Ong?"

He bites down his grin. “You do. Every morning, and yet, you keep coming back for more,” he purrs.

On the other line, Jaehwan makes a gagging noise. “You’re a vile human being and you disgust me. Asshat.” He hangs up after that, and Seongwoo looks back on all the times he’s done that. Every time Jaehwan calls, now that he thinks about it. Knowing Jaehwan, it’s either something about a need to always get the last word in, or wanting to get Seongwoo to shut his big, smart mouth.

Maybe it’s a mixture of both.

 

 

 

 

Here’s the 411 on Ong Seongwoo:

In the year of 2014, he’d made it at the top of Forbes’ list of the richest men in the world under the age of thirty. There’d been a media outrage at the time the article was published, a sudden onslaught of articles questioning the validity of Forbes magazine. Is This Really the World We Live In? is the article with the most clicks, posted on the site of a retired Wall Street author. The article points out Ong Seongwoo’s accomplishments, making sure the readers know that when compared to the others on the list, this kid, this little trust fund baby who the world has never heard of until now (does he even have Instagram?) has never worked a day in his life. He doesn’t have a company under his belt. He isn’t the inventor of a site like Facebook ( you, Zuckerberg!), and he sure as hell isn’t an actor who can make a million a day and blow most of it on .

Who’s Ong Seongwoo? A nobody who’s only there because of mommy and daddy’s death, that’s who, the article points out, vicious in its approach. 

Had it been any other person, maybe they would’ve gotten upset. Cried over it and eaten pints of ice cream while watching and reciting all the lines of Titanic, or jump off a building, whatever it is that people do when they’re depressed and have their worlds crashing around them with nobody present to be a beacon ray of positivity and all things nice. Then again, Ong Seongwoo’s not just anybody, so he’d used the article as an excuse to (in the simplest words possible) get off his and do something with his life and all the money he has that he doesn’t blow on drugs (anymore). Or any other illegal activity (once again, anymore), because he’s a trust fund baby who had some pretty rough times in his life, but now, likes to think of himself as clean enough to function. If the media thinks he’s going to let them walk over him like that, then they can their collective, metaphorical , because Ong Seongwoo’s hobby is proving people wrong by succeeding and pissing them off in the process. 

(It’s a perfectly dignified hobby, okay?)

This is Seongwoo’s Revenge (the capitalization is a must) in chronological order: 

 

Send an email to the author if Is This Really The World We Live In?and point out the errors that litter said article. Nothing linguistics-wise, but the inaccuracy of his personal details had been a pain to read through. Dissing him is one thing, but dissing him with false facts is a one-way ticket to a lawsuit that he’s not bothered enough to give. (Lawsuits, lawsuits, lawsuits. If he has one for every negative article he’d gotten because of that damned list, his reputation would rival Taylor Swift’s.) Use his deduction skills for anything further than sending in anonymous tips for the police whenever they prove themselves to be lazy and/or wrong. He set up a website, boasting his credentials (a BA in political science he doesn’t know what to do with but displays anyway) and skills of observation. He also makes sure to write down, in bold and underline, that his fees are flexible. Depending on the complexity of the case, and (this he adds with a smiley face emoji), if he’s in a good mood, might even do it for free. Everyone likes freebies, right? Subsequently prove to the world that he’s more than his parents’ money by becoming one of the best detectives of his time, as well as proving himself to be the police force’s biggest pain in the for stealing their cases. How is it his fault if they’re incompetent and the public trusts him more with their mysteries? It’s not, that’s how.

 

He’d been working independent, choosing his own cases and keeping all the money for himself (and taxes), up until the fateful day when he’d received an Email from a friend who, frankly, he assumed to have gone missing. That thought was not because of ill will, but because this is the same friend nobody caught any word of since graduation.       

 

 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Coffee?

 

It’s been a while. I’m in town, and we should—no, we have to—catch up. There’s something I have to talk to you about.

Your old friend, 

Kim Jaehwan. 

This is where something happens—the turning point, if you must call it—because the something that Jaehwan wanted to talk to Seongwoo about is in regards to project funding, and it’s a project the both of them have talked about in the past, although years have passed. “So,” Seongwoo drawls. “You want me to help you fund an independent crime-fighting agency? And then you’re going to be my boss?”

To his credit, Jaehwan stays undaunted, even if there’s a taunt in Seongwoo’s words. That’s something Seongwoo’s always admired in Jaehwan, the obvious confidence that Jaehwan carries himself with and how he never lets anyone bring down his mojo. “It’s going to be big, and I’m going to need all the help I can get.” 

“Okay.” Seongwoo puts down the file, having made up his mind. “I’m in.”

So, here are the words to describe Ong Seongwoo: rich, brilliant, modern day non-fictitious Sherlock Holmes without the Watson, a crucial member slash funder of Jaehwan’s Angels. (That’s not the real name, but that’s what Seongwoo wishes was the real name. Kim Jaehwan’s Crimebusters Incorporated is nowhere as cool as Jaehwan’s Angels.) 

Ah, and here's one thing a person must never forget, when they're tasked to describe Ong Seongwoo: he's handsome. Never forget the handsome.

 

 

 

 

Because Kim Jaehwan has horrible taste (not only in building but also in clothes, and Seongwoo would say men if it wasn't for the fact he hasn't seen Jaehwan date anyone in what feels like years and are probably years), the 'super secret hideout' for Kim Jaehwan's Crimebusters Incorporated is located smack-dab in the middle of Seoul. It's something about hiding in plain sight and learning to be subtle around the locals, though Seongwoo wouldn't say having a flower shop that offers the most limited assortment he's ever seen to be necessarily subtle. The only redeeming thing about their hideout is the fact that it makes him feel like he's a part of a spy movie, what with the whole secret headquarters thing going on, but the novelty's worn off after spending a couple of years going to the same place and doing nearly the same thing every other week.

"Hello, Seongwoo," the reception lady chirps, and Seongwoo has to look at the name tag to remember her name. They seem to change every two weeks, though Seongwoo would blame that on Jaehwan and his prone to temper outbursts kind of personality that never fails to drive people away.

"Morning"—he squints to read the nametag—"Irene!”

"That's Irene noona to you," the reception lady chides.

"You don't look a day older than eighteen, though," Seongwoo says in return, laying on the charm.

To her credit, Irene doesn't even blink. "I'm five years older than you.”

"Whoops!" Seongwoo's lips curl into a sheepish grin. "Sorry, but I did say you don't look a day older than eighteen. I mean it!" He finger guns, because he can and he's insufferable like that, and waltzes away into the cleaning room that functions as the gateway between the flower shop (that has an entire office in the back, it's really miraculous how nobody's noticed? Like, wow much?).

There's an elevator hidden behind the stack of room cleaning appliances, and Seongwoo presses on the arrow that points downwards. There's actually only one button, everything else being underground, because Jaehwan thinks it'd be cooler. (Don't tell Jaehwan, but Seongwoo thinks the same way, too.)

Inside the elevator, the most recent Twice song is blasted, and Seongwoo taps his feet to the rhythmic beat. Jaehwan collects girlgroup memorabilia in his bedroom, Seongwoo would know, as he's paid visit to said place multiple times before. (Nothing in that way, mostly in a 'where have you been for the past few days, the ?' kind of way, and somehow he always finds Jaehwan in his bedroom whenever that happens, looking more catatonic than anything. They don't talk about those days.)

When the elevator doors open, he's greeted by the sight that is his workplace, workers (both agents and non-agent operatives) dressed in their everyday attires. The best thing about having Jaehwan as a boss is his hatred for uniforms, so he allows them to wear whatever they want, as long as they're office appropriate. His excuse is, "Just in case anyone needs to go undercover all of a sudden!" but anyone who's had a conversation with Kim Jaehwan would know that he just really, really dislikes stuffy business suits that regular jobs would dub as appropriate work attire.

Jaehwan's office is located right next to the bathroom (boss privileges), and Seongwoo finds Jaehwan waiting for him there, feet rested on the top of his table. No shame, as per usual.

"So, what do I have?" Seongwoo prompts, taking the empty seat on the other side of the table. The seat is wooden and unstuffed, and in contrast, Jaehwan's seat (or what he likes to call "The Boss Seat") has wheels, is made of faux leather that still feels comfortable, and is padded. No wonder Jaehwan has a tendency to fall asleep on the clock.

"The jewel heists," Jaehwan gets straight to the point, passing a file to Seongwoo. "I didn't think we needed to step in, but a friend called me. Apparently the case is most likely connected—and don't give me that look, I know you've come to the same conclusion, you smartass—but it's going to be difficult to apprehend the criminal if each country's laws have their limitations regarding areas and... all that. That's where we come in.”

"'And all that.' You could be a writer with that vocabulary, have you ever considered a career change?”

"Shut up, Ong.”

Joking aside, Seongwoo moves to open the folder, and Jaehwan doesn't say anything nor does he move to stop him. Jaehwan only watches, quiet and observing.

"This started two months ago?" The first thing he sees is the date of the first heist, and it was on May 4th, 2017. The picture is of a green jewel, the shade similar to that of an emerald’s.

"Yeah. That one—The Emerald Dragon, and why do people give fancy names to jewelries anyway? —was stolen in Shanghai. From a museum, so you'd think they'd have better security, but apparently all the security cameras were hacked. Our thief's good, managed to get in without setting any alarms, though that might be the job of his hacker." Jaehwan's mouth twists into a grimace. "They checked the system after they lost the jewel. Anything security-related was turned off, and there was no trace of it at all.”

"Wow. Clean job, huh?" Seongwoo whistles.

"Yeah," Jaehwan murmurs. The clean jobs are always the headache-inducing jobs, because the people involved are meticulous in those. Meticulous not to leave any evidence, meticulous to not get caught. At some point though, anyone is bound to slip up; and that's the opening Seongwoo would use to swoop in, figure out the case, and save the day.

(The day is metaphorical, because sometimes, it's not even a day he saves. It could be a week, or in other occasions, a life. Those are always the best kind of saving.)

Something in the report catches his eye. "There was a note left?”

Jaehwan's head dips into a nod. "Yeah. There's no picture of the note, because apparently it's too hard to get my orders right when the only thing I'm asking for is a picture of all the ing evidence, but it's a good thing I've got some eyes there. Apparently, there was nothing written. Just a picture of a moon.”

"A moon?" How peculiar. "Why would someone leave behind a moon?”

"I don't know, that's why you're the detective instead of me, Ong.”

Seongwoo waves him off. "Right, right. You can tell me if you're jealous, you know. I wouldn't mind letting you snoop into my, uh, mystery busting process."

The look on Jaehwan's face is priceless. If it were any other person, Seongwoo might've felt offended by how horrified one looks upon being flirted with, but this is Jaehwan, so really, Seongwoo would feel the same way if he were in Jaehwan's place. He's only doing the whole flirting thing to see Jaehwan’s reactions. It’s a pastime. "Stop flirting and start working on the case, we don't know if the thief's going to strike again."

Because he's a Professional™ Seongwoo is quick to sober up, catching up with the details of Jaehwan's words. "You said thief. So, you're sure this isn't some kind of Ocean's 11 thing going on?"

"I’m sure. Call it a gut feeling."

"Gut feelings are useless when there's no proof to back it up. See, this is why I'm the detective, and you're the boss. You fire and hire people with your gut."

“That doesn’t even—“ Jaehwan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I even bother. Get out of my office and get to work.”

Seongwoo does a lazy salute, a cheeky smile painting the lower half of his face. "Roger that!"

 

 

 

 

This is the way Seongwoo works:

He finds a nice place to sit down. Nice is relative, so while in one occasion it might be the eatery down the street (completely adjacent to a white collar bank, it makes a nice place for part-time people watching as well), while in other times—read: most of the time—said "nice" place is the little meeting room in the office, where no one comes in because no meetings are actually held and Jaehwan only added one in as a formality. The office barely does any kind of official, work-like things, with Jaehwan preferring to inform them of their jobs personally, and their group chat using an application Jaehwan had hired someone to make (with near state of the art security and high-profile encryption) as their primary form of communication. One for technology, zero for healthy work environment communication skills. (Ding!—If you haven't realized, that's Seongwoo's attempt at a buzzer from a game show.)

So—meeting room. There's a clinical cleanliness aspect to it, considering the janitor still comes by to clean the room every day (and night) despite its rare usage; the room, square-based and as big as Seongwoo's guest room back at the manor, smells like a wet mop and floor-cleaning formulas. The cheap ones that you can find at a convenience store, not the ones you'll only find at high-end supermarkets. A single plant decorates the room, a potted silk areca palm tree imported from the States, and how it hasn't died is a mystery that even Ong Seongwoo can't solve. The janitor hates greenery, for some reason, and everyone else could care less. If he were superstitious, maybe he'd say this is all the work of a Casper-like ghost who'd most likely been a botanist in their life. But he isn't superstitious and the meeting room's CCTV is faulty at best, so he's accepted not knowing the mystery behind the potted plant of Kim Jaehwan's Crimebusters Incorporated's meeting room.

A taxi has crashed in front of the white-collar bank, and though there are no casualties, the driver has taken it upon himself to conduct what is essentially an interview from nearby bloggers waiting for a scoop at the eatery that is the alternative to the meeting room. There's a crowd of the driver, the bloggers, and the regular eaters (as it is morning after all, and the eatery's pancakes are famous not just in this district, but in Seoul in general), and Seongwoo can't be bothered to wait in a line that could last as long as half an hour. 

The meeting room it is.

"You're the only person around here who uses this!" A lady who breezes by, carrying a stack of papers that seem too heavy for her wispy arms, makes sure to say.

"Better than it being a waste of space. And money," he retorts, and his brows knit. "My money."

(There's the reason why he uses the meeting room. It'd be a waste of the money, and to be more specific, the money from his inheritance he'd blown on an idea that most would consider as 'ing crazy.' Because there's a reason why spy movie plots are movies instead of reality. Jaehwan was probably crazy when he thought of this idea, and what does that make of Seongwoo who must've been out of his mind to fund it? A product of boredom gone bad mixed with an entanglement of capitalism, that's what.)

The meeting room is empty and Seongwoo's seat (technically Jaehwan's but does Jaehwan ever use it? Nope!) is, by extension, empty as well. The seat is right next to the window that overlooks one of Seoul's busiest working districts, skyscrapers adjacent to each other, paved roads leading to traffic lights and the bustling pedestrians at any time of the day. Seongwoo's heart soars at the sight of the city, his city (and is he sounding like some Batman towards Gotham right now or what?), in the current state it is at now; jostling with life, and maybe not the safest when you've still got your pickpockets every once in a while, but in all accounts, for a metropolitan city it's safe and this is why Seongwoo does what he does. He wants to keep them safe, keep them busy and make sure their worries are only about what to eat for dinner or where to bring their dates for tomorrow.

Leave the big bad criminals to him, leave him to weed out whoever does the dirty crime little by little, and let the people worry only about the little things. That's why, when someone tells him that he could be doing so much more with the money he has—could build something like a weapons company or even a tech one because that's where the money's at—Seongwoo never feels an ounce of regret towards his chosen career path. Unconventional and not necessarily always high-paying (as if the murder of a grocer pays the same as a government official, though that isn't necessarily what Seongwoo agrees with because at the end of the day all humans are the same, but that's the way the world works) but it makes him feel like he's doing something to make his city a better place.

(God, he sounds like a protagonist, and for all the bravado he puts on for being cocky and essentially feeding every trust fund baby trope there is, behind the money and the publicity, that's who Seongwoo really is.)

The stolen jewelries might not be based in Seoul, and Seongwoo would be lying if he said he had the same attachment to these places instead of here, but that's the thing about working with a global crimefighting company: you don't always get to choose where your cases are at, and sometimes, even if you dislike a certain place, you still have to do something to restore a semblance of peace there. Do it for the people, and all that, because even if Seongwoo's mostly in it for Seoul, everyone deserves a shot at having a life that isn't made abnormal by murders and robberies. 

He places the files down on the table, and picks up a pen and an empty piece of paper to jot down his notes. He's the type of person to write as he goes, to note down every single piece of information he deems relevant, to draw graphs or underline the details one could consider as "fishy." This case isn't any different, and as Seongwoo proceeds to read through the report, all short and factual sentences, the notetaking and pen scrawling is exactly what he does.

It isn't until he's reached the documentation on the stolen jewel from London that the moon, along with the dates, spark an idea into his head. "Let's see," he says under his breath, using his phone's search engine to look up a specific occasion that happens on the dates of the previous heists: May 4th, June 3rd, and the latest, July 2nd.

He holds his breath, and once the results show (thank you, fast internet that he may or may not occasionally use for Netflix whenever Jaehwan's not watching!) a grin that isn't unlike the Cheshire Cat's from Alice in Wonderland surfaces onto his lips, completely overtaking the straight, focused line it had been. 

Bingo.

 

 

 

 

"So, what you're trying to say is that our thief only strikes on the dates of full moons from 2004?" Jaehwan asks flatly, his eyes trained onto Seongwoo’s notes that were thrown together in haphazard. 

“Exactly. It all matches up, see?” Seongwoo gestures at the little notes he’d scribbled in blue ink. Jaehwan tilts his head, and tilts the paper as well, and yet, he still has a difficult time making it out. The smartest people always seem to have the worst handwriting—or maybe that’s not the case, but that’s what Seongwoo uses as an excuse for his ty excuse of one.

“It’s not really what you’d call a strong lead.” His face contorts into a frown.

“Hey, it’s our only lead.”

“God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“You must hate every passing moment of your life, then.” Seongwoo snickers, barely avoiding a thwart over the head with his own piece of paper. Good thing he’d avoided it, because being attacked by your own sheet of paper is, in Seongwoo’s not humble opinion, a new low.  

“If your guess about his next target is correct—”

“Which, you know, it probably is.” 

“—as I was saying before you interrupted me, if you’re right, then that means you’re going to have to work fast to make sure it doesn’t happen. I’m assigning you with a partner.” Jaehwan puts away the file into the storage underneath his table.

“Yeah! Wait, what? A partner?” Seongwoo’s euphoria is short-lived, the tonality of his words going from an upbeat trill to one of an outburst, mixed with a healthy tinge of confusion, in a matter of seconds. There’s a reason why he’s one of the only ones here who hasn’t been assigned a partner. Seongwoo works terrible with others; whenever Jaehwan would send someone to work with him, back when the both of them had been new to this thing, Seongwoo had the ability to scare them away within 72 hours, or less. Less, a majority of the time. Interns going in fresh-faced and then submitting the resignation form after facing his ego and his general lack of nicety for others, and Jaehwan ended up getting fed up with having to recruit new people nearly everyday—so in the end, they reached to a compromise, where Jaehwan would stop finding new people to work with Seongwoo as long as he proved himself capable of working solo.

It hasn’t been a problem for the past few years. So when Jaehwan announces, more sudden than the forced loveline in that new drama airing every Monday night, that Seongwoo would have a partner on a mission that doesn’t present itself at anything special—it becomes a problem.

“Jaehwan, you know I don’t play well with others,” Seongwoo says all of this with a gaping mouth. If Jaehwan, the er, had a camera, Seongwoo’s sure he would capture this moment right now as a memorabilia of the time he’d managed to drive Ong Seongwoo into shock.

“You’re not going to solve this one alone,” Jaehwan says, conviction lacing his every word.

And, sure, the words sting. Seongwoo’s never failed Jaehwan before; his cases are a clean track record, and he’s never failed to apprehend the criminal, never failed to uncover the truth of some deeply shrouded web of government-level secrets. Knowing Jaehwan doesn’t trust him enough to let him do this one case on his own—and really, how could this case compare to the time he’d discovered a drug ring in a country’s government? That’s Seongwoo’s biggest case, the one that got him on the map, and that’s bound to be more difficult than finding a jewel thief, right? —knowing that, it . Seongwoo thought he’d gotten rid of disappointment now that he never has his hopes up, because that’s a surefire way to get yourself sad a lot (the world constantly proves itself that it hates Seongwoo and never fails to let him down, but at least there’s consistency there). He thought he’d gotten rid of that kind of despondency, but Jaehwan must be a miracle worker, because there’s some real bitterness that Seongwoo finds in the burrow of emotions he calls his heart.

“What, you don’t think I can solve this on my own?”

“No,” Jaehwan is blunt with his response, and Seongwoo’s bitterness fades, anger growing in its stead. “To catch a jewel thief—one that’s as good as our guy because you can’t say he’s bad when there’s barely any clue as to who it is—you have to think like one.”

“I can think like one just fine. I watched a documentary on a jewel thief so I’m pretty sure I can get into character, or maybe—”

“Shut up and let me talk!”

Seongwoo shrinks into his seat. A pout that resembles that of a pungent child wobbles on his lower lip. “Fine." 

“Trust me on this one. It’s not about me doubting your abilities.” So, maybe Jaehwan’s a mind-reader, or maybe (and this is a case that’s like hood of happening is higher than the mind-reader possibility) he’s known Seongwoo long enough to read him like an open book. “I don’t want to take any chances, and one of my contacts recently gave me the whereabouts of someone who might be able to help.”

“Any chance the person’s already here? Maybe waiting behind your curtain or something?” The curtain, beige and washed out by the sun’s blinding rays, is hiding no one. It’s also not even drawn. “Guess not?”

“Convincing him to do the job will be your responsibility.” Jaehwan gives a conniving smirk, leaving Seongwoo to groan, because why him? He’s terrible at having people stick around him, much less convincing them to help him. “I’ve got his address already, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Yeah, because tracking’s always the hard part,” Seongwoo grumbles, the sarcasm evident like the blinding ray of a flashlight in a pitch-dark closet. 

Jaehwan checks his watch, one of Seongwoo’s birthday gifts, a Rolex Antimagnetique model that looks as complicated as a Rolex can be. “Stop whining, you’ve got a plane to catch in—oh, an hour. The boarding gate closes in forty minutes, so I think you should run. Take a cab and then run, no need to pack.”

“No need to pack? What, am I supposed to wear this the whole time?” Had he known, he wouldn’t have chosen to wear the combo of the white shirt and the ripped denim jeans. He wouldn’t believe himself if he tried convincing said “himself” that he was a world class detective with a global case to crack.

“I never said anything about you staying there for multiple days. Just recruit the dude, and go back here with him so I can have a word and all that official jargon you know I can barely stand. Thirty-nine minutes until the gate closes!”

 

 

 

 

The plane (that he'd been lucky enough not to miss, though his name was called in one of those "the boarding gate will shortly be closed" calls, no thanks to Jaehwan) takes him to New York. Amongst the thrall of suits and business skirts sitting in first class, Seongwoo sticks out like a sore thumb with his casual, near effortless attire. This is, once again, no thanks to Jaehwan. 

"You can get a cab there or something," Jaehwan had said, as if saying that would take the burden off his shoulders. Which, technically, it does. "Here's your address." His boss slash friend slash the person who maybe secretly hates him or loves him hands over a business card, scented with perfume Seongwoo is unable to recognize. Maybe it's Hermes. Seongwoo doesn't have one of those. 

The Art House is written on the card with Times New Roman, likely 12pts, italicized and bolded, the words dipped in gold. A silver border surrounds the three words. Seongwoo flips the card, and finds an address along with a single name, romanicized. Hwang Minhyun.

Minhyun, Hwang—the name sparks a warning bell in his head, but for what exactly, Seongwoo cannot remember. 

"Are you going to get me to work with a—what's this—an art curator?" He purses his lips at Jaehwan, who looks like he's short of bursting into the maniacal cackles he calls laughter in a matter of seconds.

Jaehwan, that er, folds his arms on the top of the hardwood. "Don't tell me you don't recognize the name."

The warning bells transitions into sirens. "I don't." Seongwoo narrows his eyes in suspicion, first at the card, then at his employer. 

"One of my top men doesn't recognize Hwang Minhyun? Have you not been reading all those super secret archives? I'm shocked. Really, I am." The hand that'd been folded primly on the table crosses over his heart. Jaehwan's face contorts from one of mock surprise, removing any trace of the neutrality that was just there. 

Seongwoo raises both of his hands, waving the palms as if to say, 'just spit it out.'

"He's a retired jewel thief." Jokes aside, Jaehwan goes straight to the point, putting his arms down and folding them on his lap, under the table. "Used to be one of the best, but his leg got shot—never could get back to the hang of things. Remember the Pink Panther case?"

The Pink Panther case. Three years ago, that was all the news talked about, as if the world had stopped revolving since the thievery of one of the most well-protected jewels in the whole world. Something straight out of a movie, the case seemed, what with the manner it'd been taken (in the dead of the night, all the guards taken out with a blow dart and the security systems bypassed and shut down just like that) and how no suspect was ever apprehended despite the media coverage that the team, composed of some of the best detectives and profilers in the world, received. It's a cold case, now, although there are websites dedicated to the solving of it; a fruitless effort when the thief proved himself (or herself) to be meticulous in covering their steps. 

"What do you take me for, a hermit? 'Course I remember." Seongwoo scoffs, reclining on his seat. "Wasn't that case everywhere? The media was going crazy about that. Even Won Bin's dating rumours were nothing in comparison—and that's Won Bin."

"Grow out the hair and you could pass as a hermit," Jaehwan mocks. Seongwoo resists the urge to throw a tissue at his head, because that'd be a waste of the tissue, and by extension, the environment. "Hwang Minhyun was the culprit. At least, that's what we caught on three years late, and there was no sufficient evidence to put him behind bars." His lips twist into a grimace. "Doesn't matter now, though. He's retired, as I've mentioned before. Isn't really a thief anymore, just an art curator in New York."

"Then how'd you figure out it was him?"

"Someone fessed up. A little bit of snooping done in the criminal underworld added more anecdotes to the original statement." Jaehwan unfolds his hands, and lays them out on the table. Like he's laying out cards. 

"Alright, then," Seongwoo drawls. "But how am I supposed to get him to help me? I mean, I know my good looks are devastating, but maybe not to the extent they'll break some kind of jewel thieves’ bro code. If that exists. Probably does, anything's possible nowadays," he mutters the last thing to himself, dark brows furrowed in thought.

"You're smart," Jaehwan says, sounding almost begrudging. "Figure that part out yourself."

The detective crosses his arms in front of his chest, although the image of authority is ruined with that of petulance as lips jut out into a pout. "You're a terrible boss, you know that?"

So, that's why he's in New York City; the sun is gone by now, swallowed by the night, but this isn't the city that never sleeps for nothing. Even in the night, when no stars shine anymore and the moon is obstructed by dark, polluted clouds, the city's radiant, bursting with the colours from the lights from all around the city.

Seongwoo finds a cab with no problem. They're everywhere, he figures, and as he hops into one, he's stuck with his hands metaphorically crossing his heart, hoping the driver won't recognize him. It leads to questions, and questions lead to unnecessary conversations. All Seongwoo wants to do is rest, maybe sleep for a day or two, but he can't, obviously; he's a man on a mission and he's not going to start failing his missions now.

(And yes, the questions; one should find it curious how one of the richest men under 30 in the world goes around New York without a limousine or whatever it is the top percentile use, but he can't say "Kim Jaehwan is the reason behind all this and also world hunger, probably!" could he?

Wait—he could. Why hasn't he done that?)

"Where are we headed, Sir?" The cabbie asks once Seongwoo has gotten in the car, closing the door with an audible thud. He settles into his seat, and like any good passenger would, puts on his seatbelt. 

"Madison Avenue, please." He can find the location on his own from there, and a little room to stretch his legs after a long flight is something that his near numb feet are in desperate need of. (That's the reason why Seongwoo loathes long plane rides; as the type to be quick on his feet, figuratively and literally, that kind of discomfort is—pardon his french—the ing worst.) 

The cabbie drives as if they're fugitives on the run from the police, that is to say, he drives fast. Maybe it's the New York traffic (and wanting to avoid it whenever they're not stuck in a long, long line or stopped by the spread out traffic lights) or maybe the cabbie's a thrill seeker who ended up scraping the bottom barrel in terms of thrill seeking by using a cab to do that, who knows? Not Seongwoo, nor is he someone who makes small talk with strangers, so he settles for accepting and hanging on tightly to the arm grip underneath the car window. Whenever the car takes a sudden sharp turn, or when the thrall of cars zoom by in what can be described most accurately as a blur, the only thing he can do is hold on tighter and pray the mission won't end (tragically) before it even started. 

He’ll never admit this, especially not to the people who won’t ever let him live it down, but the moment the cab comes to a stop, he thanks every deity there is out there that he knows of in his head. Thank you Jesus, thank you Buddha, thank you Zeus, and thank you Beyoncé.

“We’re here,” the driver announces, and Seongwoo takes some money out of his wallet, adding a little extra as a tip—common courtesy more than anything. The driver accepts it with a smile, bidding him, “Have a nice day!” as Seongwoo gets out of the car, closes the door, and never looks back. There goes the wildest cab drive of his life, not just in New York, but also all the places he’d travelled using a taxi.

Maybe he’ll take the bus next time.

In accordance to the business card Jaehwan gave him, Hwang Minhyun’s art gallery should be located right across James & Co; though not the most helpful indicator, considering the similarity of the architecture of the buildings around Madison Avenue (and Manhattan in particular now that he thinks about it), it’s better than nothing. Seongwoo walks along the borough, Google Maps guiding the way on his phone—the battery reads 38%, so he makes do with what he has, and turns off the notifications for this texts. Even if that leads to the consequence of at least 500 missed texts from Jaehwan (who is known to double text, almost terribly, to the point of endangering Seongwoo's battery to the point of 0, if the notifications are left on.)

The coloured lights cast reflections on the path he takes, puddles from the rare onslaught of rain turning (predominantly) red and yellow, following the neon signs and city lights that hang around the streets. Seongwoo has never been much for sightseeing or picture-taking, a majority of his overseas trips being one of work-related activities instead of a leisurely kind of visit (this time not being an exception), but if his battery wasn’t dying, he’d take a picture—or two—of the scenery. Maybe pose underneath a street lamp, if he ever found a stranger who doesn’t look as if they might run off with his phone. But, that doesn’t happen, and all the strangers that walk by never give him a second look, each of them busy living their own lives. So, there goes that plan; botched and foiled.

“You have arrived at your destination,” a robotic female says, as soon as Seongwoo finishes following the directions left by the application. He looks up from his phone, and finds that he has to look up even more to read the sign on top of the building—two stories high, painted jet black as if to fit in with the night. The Art House, the plaque reads, the golden writing standing out over the porcelain canvas. Behind the door, the open sign has been turned around to a ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’, but Seongwoo still sees that the light is still on, and when he tugs on the door, he finds that it’s unlocked. 

An unlocked door is practically an open invitation for him to enter, regardless of the business hours, so Seongwoo comes in, right foot before the other. 

“We’re closed,” someone calls out immediately, and Seongwoo closes the door slowly, confusion growing in his head. There’d been no door bell or any other noise to signify he’d come in, so how’d the person heard him? 

Then again, if said person is Hwang Minhyun, supposedly a legendary jewel thief (before he retired, but what are semantics anyway? —alright maybe he shouldn’t be saying this as a detective who’s supposed to look at semantics), then that was a question with an automatic answer. 

"I'm here to see a Hwang Minhyun?" Seongwoo calls out, as he inspects the interior of the gallery. Considering the nature of his job as well as his interest in art (that is to say, none), the creme-themed design—a stark contrast from the darker shades that make the exterior—make the place seem… posh? Is that the right term? Seongwoo imagines, if classical music started playing all of a sudden, it wouldn't feel out of place at all. Paintings, all of them displaying different art styles and having nothing except beauty in common, are hung all around the room, with little details plaqued underneath them.

He's in the middle of inspecting a painting from France (the detail put into the paintings are nowhere short of impeccable, reminding Seongwoo of his own eye for detail when working on a case) when he hears a tap of a foot on ceramic floor from behind him. He flinches, because Seongwoo doesn't do jumping in fright, because if that had been a life and death situation whereas he hadn't noticed someone sneak up on him—he could've died. And Seongwoo doesn't need to die before the age of thirty, as only the good die young, and Seongwoo falls away from that category almost terribly.

Dark brown eyes meet lighter ones as Seongwoo turns around, finding himself adjacent from a man—slightly taller, this he notes with no lack of envy—wearing slacks and a loose, white shirt, a glint of amusement shining within his orbs. "Come back tomorrow if you're interested in the art."

"I'm not," Seongwoo denies, as if he hadn't been observing the artwork a few seconds ago. "Like I've said, I'm here to talk to Hwang Minhyun." He squints at the taller. "Are you Hwang Minhyun?" That's a trick question, because Seongwoo has taken the time and liberty to look through Hwang Minhyun's file from Jaehwan's archives, and the man standing before him fits the physical description (and picture!) of Hwang Minhyun to a T.

(By that, Seongwoo means the man is handsome, not in a way like Seongwoo’s where his face looks like a literal Greek God, but Minhyun’s beauty reminds him of the edge of a very sharp knife.) 

“Yes,” Minhyun admits, although his lower lips twist, and he looks at Seongwoo with no small amount of suspicion. “Why were you looking for me?” 

“Wow, you’re not going to offer me tea, or anything else to drink?” 

“No.” 

“I’m—” The look Minhyun sends is his way is that of someone who just wants to go home, and Seongwoo returns it with a look of petulance. “I was just joking,” he whispers under his breath, and if it were possibly to say something ‘poutily’, that would’ve been said like that—poutily. 

“So?” Minhyun prompts, patience wearing thin by the minute. Or second. (Most likely the latter, judging by how he doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance shining through his well-sculpted facial features.) 

“I’m Ong Seongwoo. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” The resounding look does nothing to answer that, because Minhyun has a hell of a poker face that even Seongwoo finds difficulty in deciphering. “Anyway, I’m working on a case right now. You might’ve heard of it, if you still like the shiny things in particular—” He particularly enjoys the way Minhyun’s eyes widen a fraction, the first sign of discomposure he’s shown during the entire conversation, “—but a bunch of jewels have been stolen. Me? I don’t know anything about stealing jewels. Murders are usually my specialty, and I won’t lie; I’m one of the best in that field. But give me a case about stolen gems? Even I need… help.” 

Help that his boss forced him to undertake, but, help is help. That counts, right? It should.

“How did you find out?” Minhyun asks, his voice soft and nothing short of gentle, yet there’s something undeniably dangerous underneath the saccharine layers. It makes Seongwoo feel uneasy, knowing he’s in the company of someone who’d been a criminal, and on top of that, the kind of criminal who’d gotten away with his crimes.

“I’m working with an independent crime agency, if you will.” Seongwoo makes a gesture with his hand, turning his palm upwards, and Minhyun’s face remains stoic. “I was going to say something about me figuring it out because of my intellectual prowess—”

 “—well, it’s a good thing you didn’t,” Minhyun cuts him short. A ghost of a smirk shapes his lips, and Seongwoo’s not sure whether he likes this, or the straight line it’d been better.

Both looks have something in common, however: they’re both intimidating, and that’s saying something, considering Ong Seongwoo rarely ever gets intimidated by anyone or anything that isn’t his own reflection in the mirror when he’s wearing his best Sunday clothes.

“Rude,” Seongwoo says, aghast. Minhyun doesn’t bat an eye. “Long story short, I know about your past as some kind of master thief or whatever you claimed yourself as—”

Minhyun frowns. “I didn’t label myself as anything.”

 “—and, let me finish, I need your help on a case,” Seongwoo finishes, in spite of the interruption from his single audience. “We’ll split the reward and everything, the money’s pretty good, but somehow, I don’t think that’s the deal-breaking reward for you, is it?”

A cat ate the canary grin forms on Seongwoo’s lips as Minhyun tenses, a small movement that the untrained eye wouldn’t have seen, but this is Ong Seongwoo. He practically lives and breathes details—it’s how he stays on the top of his game.

Not seeing a response coming any time soon, Seongwoo carries on, mindful of the other’s reaction to his every word. “I’m sure you’d find it up to your liking if your… past colleague’s current work stayed out of the press.” This isn’t blackmailing, or at least, that’s what Seongwoo’s telling himself; it isn’t as if he’d go and out the information he withheld now to the nearest TMZ office (or Dispatch, whatever) if Minhyun refused his offer, but—judging by the widening of Minhyun’s eyes, and the way he seems to harden his resolve, the likehood of that happening grows smaller with every passing moment.

“I don’t know what you mean.” It’s a valiant attempt, but still, Seongwoo’s got Minhyun all figured out now; trying to go against that is futile.

“Kim Jonghyun,” Seongwoo says, and the two words have the effect he’d just so expected. Minhyun clenches his fist, sharply trimmed nails digging into his skin. “You don’t want to play that game with me. I know when you’re lying, and when you’re not,” he almost coos, but the icy glare Minhyun directs as him makes him fall short of that. In retrospect, that might’ve saved him from being strangled to death by the same person he was trying to recruit, but it’s not like Seongwoo knew Kim Jonghyun would’ve been that touchy of a subject.

“What are you going to do with him?” Minhyun prompts, and there’s something so inherently cold about his manner; this isn’t to say it hadn’t been cold before, but if Seongwoo puts it into words, it’s as if he’d gone from plus to minus degrees in temperature.

“Nothing,” and this, what Seongwoo’s saying, is truthful. The earnest, he makes sure, shows in his face. “But it’s the nothing that should concern you. The government has some files on him—it’s only a matter of time before they use his name as a distraction for a scandal and drag him to jail.”

“They wouldn’t do that; they’ve got dating news.”

“Sorry to say but they’ve released all the dating news in the arsenal.” That shuts Minhyun up, leaving him gaping like a fish out of water. “So, they’re going to turn to crime next. If you choose to help me, you’ll have my word that I’m going to do everything I can to ensure all of those files are deleted.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you, just like that?” Minhyun scoffs, sneering down at him.

“Well…” Seongwoo knows this might not be the most professional move, but he can’t exactly help it, so he rubs the back of his head, ignoring the judging kind of bafflement that comes from Minhyun at the action. “Yeah. My face’s enough guarantee, isn’t it?” He adds cheekily.

Minhyun doesn’t even look moved. “No, it’s not. How am I even supposed to know that the government even has files on him? You could be lying.”

A groan is what comes out from Seongwoo’s mouth as he hears Minhyun’s reply, and he unlocks his phone, opens a video, and hands it over to Minhyun who snatches it out of Seongwoo’s grasp, albeit not without a look of genuine curiosity. “You ask a lot of questions. How paranoid,” he mumbles, as if he isn’t paranoid himself. “Just look at the video I’ve got there. It’s what the government has too.” Seongwoo yawns, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Or, his arm, considering he’s not wearing a sleeved (long-sleeved, to be more precise) shirt—eh, whatever.

The video is barely a minute long, but it has incriminating evidence; Kim Jonghyun caught by a camera as he steals a pretty gem, taking it and sneaking away within a small timeframe. It would’ve seemed like the perfect crime had it not been caught on camera—alas, it was, and Minhyun watches all of this with a blank face, although Seongwoo can see the traces of his hardening resolve.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“How’d you get this,” Minhyun hisses, demeanor turned hostile as soon as the video ends. Seongwoo wonders if he’d give his phone back, if Seongwoo asked.

“We have our ways,” Seongwoo says airily, knowing that mentioning Jonghyun had been set up—for the sole purpose of catching him in the act to lure Minhyun, apparently Jaehwan can think things through and had decided to do this sometime after the second robbery—would serve to jeopardize his mission.

Silence follows Seongwoo’s statement. It leaves Seongwoo to wonder if Minhyun would take the offer, or if he’d think of all of this as a fluke, but he finds himself spared from the thoughts as Minhyun sags his shoulders, a wary, but accepting look already flashing in his eyes.

“Fine,” Minhyun mutters begrudgingly, and hands Seongwoo back his phone with no little amount of reluctance.

Seongwoo is no psychologist, but it doesn’t take one to realize that he and Minhyun are far from getting off on the right foot; for one, the only reason why Minhyun decided to help him was because of a threat on behalf of someone evidently important to Minhyun—and Seongwoo, though you could call him a self-centered, egoistic bastard all you want, can understand where Minhyun’s coming from. But there’s a line between personal feelings and a job, and Seongwoo would rather not cross that line. He needs to remind himself that he’s dealing with an ex-criminal here, one who could sneak away with Seongwoo’s phone and maybe even trace the video if he wanted, no matter how mundane Hwang Minhyun’s dressed like at the present moment.

“We have a deal.” Seongwoo beams. The glumness of Minhyun’s face is a stark contrast from the blinding ray of Seongwoo’s wide-toothed smile. “I hope you've got a passport with you, because we’re leaving as soon as I book a ticket for the next available flight.” There’s no sign of Seongwoo joking from his words, and Minhyun’s left gaping, the tightly bound composure, for once, broken full-blown. Maybe Seongwoo should be proud of that.

“…You’re ting me, right.”

“Nope! I didn’t even bring my luggage with me when my boss pulled the same so consider this as misplaced revenge.” Seongwoo grins toothily, much to the obvious dismay from Minhyun’s part. “Come on, I’ve got to brief you on the mission. Speaking of which, I can’t believe you decided to help out without even hearing the complete details; like, what if I was going to ask you to help me kill a president?”

The retired gem thief shrugs. “If you’re asking me to help impeach the president of this country, I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad.”

 

 

 

 

This time of the year, the full-booked plane tickets are to the places where the sun shines best; places where coastal residences are of abundance, places where the sea is glittering green and groups of families are scattered all around the beach, children building sandcastles and adults tanning under the sun’s rays.

(Seongwoo’s talking about places like Hawaii, Bali, or even Florida—though that’s a stretch, because don’t people go there for the amusement parks?)

Unsurprisingly, it proves to be easy for him to find two tickets to Seoul, expensive as it is for being first class seats. He and Minhyun depart the following morning, taking the first flight that leaves at the crack of dawn. It leaves little time for packing (in Minhyun’s case, though Seongwoo had been interested in seeing how light the curator traveled, and this he credited to past experience of being on the run from authorities), although there’s enough time for them to loiter around the airport, eating meals in the dead of the night and going window shopping (for Seongwoo; surprisingly, the detective is the one with an eye for the pricey things, as opposed to the thief.)

Time passes as fast as it possibly can when a stranger’s in company of another, and when the both of them board the plane, they’ve both known each other for a total of less than 12 hours.

In a mixture of curiousity and amusement, Seongwoo tries to conjure how his sixteen-year-old self would react had he been told that, in less than ten years, he’d be going on a plane with a stranger he barely knew. Knowing his past self, Seongwoo reckons he’d wave it off—after all, he’d always had an adventurous streak that bordered on lunacy. 

“I take it this isn’t your first time flying first class?” Seongwoo attempts to start a conversation after seeing how Minhyun seemed to be familiar with all the perks that came with flying first class; from the way the chair reclined to the little button to call upon the flight attendants.

Minhyun doesn’t look at him as he responds, too busy adjusting his seat’s reclining options until he was comfortable. “No.” The response is curt and to-the-point, though Seongwoo doesn’t know what he’d expected. It’s not as if Minhyun seemed the type to open up to strangers right after meeting them, especially if said stranger had practically blackmailed them into coercing to an offer.

“That’s… nice?”

“You don’t seem very sure of yourself.” A wry quirk settles on the edges of Minhyun’s lips. It’s the most emotion Seongwoo has seen from the retired thief.

Something Seongwoo dislikes in a conversation is when he’s resorted to having the lower hand. It’s a dislike that stems from how used he is to controlling the conversation; he’s the one questioning instead of being questioned, and his first instinct when someone tries to turn the topic on him is to pout. Far from the professional front Jaehwan can only wish Seongwoo had, but disappointing Jaehwan isn’t what one could consider a new development. 

“Whatever,” Seongwoo mutters sulkily, opting to asking the flight attendant for a glass of wine instead. Unhealthy since he hasn’t eaten anything that could be considered as ‘proper breakfast’, unless chocolate ice cream constutes as that (but he doubts it—though that’d be welcomed, he’s not going to lie), but he’s going to die one day anyway. A glass of wine isn’t going to change that, unless one of his enemies managed to slip some poison into it, which he doubts; he’s just being ridiculous. (Or is he? —but then again, after taking a sip of the drink and containing his grimace because since when was wine supposed to be that strong, he’s just being dramatic. Really.)

 

 

 

 

A chauffeur is waiting for them when the both of them have disembarked from the plane. Seongwoo’s worked with this chauffeur before on several cases, and gladly goes down a brief trip down memory lane on their occasional liaisons; not necessarily appropriate workplace behavior, but the both of them keep things under wraps and unattached. Last time Seongwoo’s heard, the chauffeur has even began seeing someone (seriously, not the ‘we’re screwing around but there’s no labels so no pressure’ thing he had going with Seongwoo), and Seongwoo’s only complain to that is, why haven’t I been introduced?

“Daniel!” There’s a thrall to Seongwoo’s words, the words complimented by a grin so wide it hurts his cheeks.

Kang Daniel, nowhere short of awkward at the presence of his ex… something, makes a show of tugging at the buttons of his jet black uniform. The uniform looks like something a spy would wear more than what an actual spy wears (as proven by the casual attire that runs rampant amongst the intelligence department of the organization). 

No matter how visible Daniel’s nervous habits are, however, a smile that makes his eyes disappear into crescents is still present on his face. That’s the thing about Daniel—he’s almost always smiling, even when there’s no reason for him to be. Seongwoo’s watched Titanic once with Daniel, on a whim, and while Seongwoo didn’t burst into tears, Daniel still grinned from ear to ear from the beginning of the movie until the moment Jack died; it was at that moment that Seongwoo figured he could put on The Shining and still have Daniel smile like an idiot even at the goriest moments.

“Hello, Mr. Ong,” Daniel greets, tone still guarded even as the smile he wears says otherwise.

“Come on, there’s no need for formalities with me.” Seongwoo rolls his eyes, and he opens his arms, readying himself for a hug that never comes. It leaves him to pout as he pointedly ignores Minhyun’s wry smirk. “Wow, okay. I guess I’m not even deserving of a hug anymore,” he complains, and even then, Daniel refuses to relent. “Suit yourself.” With awkward movements, Seongwoo returns his arms to their former position, a metaphorical dark cloud looming above him.

“Do you have any bags for me to carry?” Daniel prompts, completely disregarding Seongwoo’s previous fuss. Seongwoo splutters, resembling a fish taken straight out of the water, while Minhyun shakes his head even as his fingers are curled on the handle of his suitcase. Daniel’s eyes are drawn towards the suitcase, and as he moves to take it out of Minhyun’s grasp, the man waves him off.

“No need for that, please.” Minhyun flashes Daniel a disarming smile.

The crowd continues to walk (or run, in some cases) all around them, the people consisting of large groups of families to businessmen traveling light and in solitude. Though the chatter and announcements make for noise, between the three of them, nobody speaks—at least, until Daniel breaks the silence, still wearing that ever-present smile.

“Well, let’s not loiter, shall we?”

 

 

 

 

Unsurprisingly, Daniel drives them to headquarters, not complying to any of Seongwoo’s (whined) requests to stop by a McDonalds drive through, or even to go to a gas station because he really, really needs to pee. (“You flew first class. You’re trying to tell me you didn’t bother to take a piss there?” Daniel had asked, much to Seongwoo’s chagrin and Minhyun’s mirth.)

Jaehwan awaits them at his office, a pensive look drawn across his features. He has files stacked on his desk, not a single paper out of sight. The look is uncharacteristically serious of him, and that coupled with the heavy silence does nothing to alleviate any of Seongwoo’s worries.

“Did the thief strike again while I was away?” Seongwoo tries, and Jaehwan shakes his head to deny the guess. “Someone spit on your coffee?”

Not so subtly, Minhyun jabs Seongwoo’s ribs with his elbow. It isn’t too harsh, but there’s enough force behind it to remind Seongwoo to behave. (Which, by the way, is totally uncool—Minhyun has the guts to defend Jaehwan, a stranger, instead of letting Seongwoo live? Ugh.)

“Don’t worry,” Jaehwan says after a silence long enough to cover the intro of a song. “I just had a thought. If it turns out to be relevant, I’ll share later—”

“To hell with that!” Seongwoo’s surprised by his own outburst. Judging by the way Minhyun stiffens, he is, too. “That’s never stopped you before. Don’t think I can’t remember the time you gave out intel that turned out to be false, even when the source hadn’t been confirmed when you’d told me that.” He huffs.

“Maybe I’ve learnt from that,” Jaehwan mutters underneath his breath, and Seongwoo doesn’t quite catch onto his words, leaving him to peer at his boss in confusion. “Learn to control that temper of yours.” He waves his hands airily and sobers up, mustering a very Jaehwan-like smirk and looking more like the Jaehwan that Seongwoo knows than he had less than ten seconds ago. 

As glaringly obvious as it is, Seongwoo’s not convinced, but he lets the matter drop. Instead of pursuing the topic, he gestures Minhyun’s way. “Whatever. This is the guy, by the way.” 

Minhyun sniffs, unpleased at being referred to as ‘the guy’, but having known Seongwoo for several hours now, understands it’s more or less futile to argue with the eccentric billionaire.

“I assume you’re the one who asked him to fetch me,” Minhyun speaks up, the strange mixture of boredom and acceptance on his pretty face. “I’ll have you know I don’t appreciate being threatened.”

“You say that as your words convey a threat of your own.” Jaehwan intertwines his hands, and locks them underneath his chin, elbows propped onto the table. “If the two of you can work well enough, you won’t have to worry about the... threat, at any rate. I give you my word, Hwang Minhyun.” 

The retired criminal narrows his eyes. “We’ll see about that.” 

Seongwoo gapes at the exchange, although mostly, the gape is directed at Jaehwan. “Wow, who knew you had it in you to be so serious. And official. I thought that side of you was an urban legend.” 

Just like that, it’s as if Jaehwan’s previous composure is shattered, and in its place is the Jaehwan that Seongwoo knows so well; the Jaehwan that’s completely done with his (Seongwoo’s) . 

“Go solve the damned case, Ong!”

 

 

 

 

As much as Seongwoo hates to admit it, Minhyun isn’t as terrible as he’d expected the infamous man himself to be. 

Maybe it’s the stigma he has against criminals (even retired ones who now sell art—hopefully legally) in general, or maybe it’s because they hadn’t got off on the right foot; at any rate, he’d expected Minhyun to be rusty in the ‘thinking’ department, because what do art curators do? Seongwoo’s not sure on that, but something he’s sure of is they don’t require the intellect behind planning heists or solving crimes. Memorize the names of the art and their creators, maybe, but there’s a fine line between memorizing and solving something. 

Against his initial expectations, Minhyun isn’t rusty; not at all. He doesn’t fall behind Seongwoo, and Seongwoo is self-aware, to say the least. He knows his thinking is fast-paced, and often jumps from an idea to another, sometimes without figuring out the whole variables in a certain thought. It’s a confusing process that works for him and not for (nearly) anyone else, but while he’s received odd looks from Minhyun, Minhyun never complains. Hell, he never even asks about what Seongwoo means by a certain scrawl, or asks Seongwoo to explain his theories—and it’s not a matter of pride, because Minhyun contributes, and even points out some gaps in his theories when found. 

So, yeah. The guy’s good.

“What happened when you checked the CCTVs?” Minhyun asks, but he isn’t looking at Seongwoo. He’s observing a picture of one of the stolen jewels, something not unlike interest glowing fervently in his eyes.

“There was nothing. Zilch, nada,” Seongwoo complains, even as he turns a photograph he’d been holding in his hand 180 degrees for no particular reason. Still, he squints at the rotated picture.

“Do you reckon he’s got someone working with him?” At Seongwoo’s blank look, Minhyun frowns. “Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t take in the possibility of him having a hacker on his side?”

Seongwoo rakes his hand through his hair. “, I knew I was missing something,” he says, mostly to himself. “We’re possibly not looking for one person to apprehend, then, but two? A guy in the chair?”

This time, it’s Minhyun’s turn to look bewildered. “A guy in the chair? Do you use that term?”

“Well, yeah. Why not? Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”

To his credit, Minhyun doesn’t say anything degrading; in fact, he doesn’t say anything at all, and their half-assed conversation burns out in a slow, painful death.

Minhyun takes the laptop from the chair, and begins to type, almost as if in a trance, in a near-immediate sequence. Seongwoo looks on, half-tempted between walking over to see what Minhyun was doing, and in the end, curiosity takes the crown; so he walks behind Minhyun’s chair and leans over Minhyun’s slightly hunched back, peering curiously at the screen now littered with words and symbols Seongwoo can’t recognize for the life of him.

“…What are you doing?” Seongwoo whispers, just because this seems like the perfect time for whispering.

“Figuring out who’s our hacker,” Minhyun responds, straight to the point. “Be quiet, I need to focus.”

In a rare display of obedience, Seongwoo pipes down, leaving Minhyun to his keyboard smashing (because that can’t be typing, right?) and computer tricks. And, unless it was a trick of the light, Minhyun even smiled—gratefully—for a slight second before it’s wiped away in an instant by the stoic, straight line of his lips.

(He really wants to say something about it, maybe something about how surprised he is over the fact that Minhyun can even smile, but after seeing the concentrated furrow of Minhyun’s brows, Seongwoo decides that’s a comment best saved for later.)

“Found him,” Minhyun says, accompanied by no small sense of pride only a few minutes later. Seongwoo nearly jolts out of his seat because of how quick Minhyun is, but keeps himself in check just in time as the man himself turns to give Seongwoo a look. “I’ve tracked down their address. What’s our next move?”

Seongwoo reads the mapped out location on the monitor. His mind’s already calculating the gas fares they’ll need to get there, but money is far from being a problem to him. “We pay them a visit, of course.”

 

 

 

 

Their hacker resides in an apartment building that’s nowhere short of being called ‘shady’, with its location in the outskirts of a red light district and the barbed, wired fences that make it look more like a detention center than a residence. 

“Sure you got the right place?” Seongwoo has a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the side of his index finger flushed against his brow. “I was expecting something flashier.”

“Something more like you, I’m guessing,” Minhyun says. Seongwoo is shameless with his admittance; a boisterous round of laughter, unbefitting for their current situation, but nobody’s watching. (The CCTV cameras in this area don’t work anymore, and are more accessories meant to scare away those who aren’t aware of their real state more than a proper security measure.)

“Very funny,” Seongwoo deadpans, sounding anything but entertained. “Think we should knock on the door of every apartment?”—at Minhyun’s eye roll, Seongwoo quickly interjects his own statement—“Have I told you about this one time I did that when I was trying to find a serial killer? I bet you can’t imagine the look this old lady had when she heard there was a serial killer in the building, but that look’s nowhere as priceless as the cop with me when he found out that she was the killer all along!”

“The grandma’s the serial killer?” Minhyun double checks Seongwoo’s words.

Seongwoo’s eyes shine with excitement. “Yeah! One of my most popular cases, for obvious reasons. I have a whole file on it back in the office if you want to take a look.”

What Seongwoo expects: Minhyun to flat out refuse the offer, maybe add a blithering comment of ‘ha, would you really think I’d do that, idiot?’ for his own satisfaction.

What Minhyun does: a pensive look of contemplation merges underneath the shadows of his features, and he nods. Actually nods. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer sometimes. It sounds interesting.”

“…You’re letting me live,” Seongwoo chokes out, and the effect is immediate. Minhyun actually flushes in embarrassment, and gives Seongwoo a nasty glare that says it all: “I regret being nice to you.” Seongwoo is paraphrasing.

 “Forget anything I’ve said,” Minhyun is quick to comment. He looks at his phone—an iPhone 7 model, and the case is a soft, jet black, no imperfections seen unlike Seongwoo’s phone with the cracked monitor after he’d dropped it during a chase—for a few seconds, and pockets it when he’s finished. “I know their apartment number. 10A.”

 Seongwoo whistles. “I hope they’ve got working elevators.” He eyes the building, and with the run down, barely held together state it is in, Seongwoo has doubts in his own statement.

 

 

 

 

The elevators are out of order.

When opening the door to the emergency staircase, Seongwoo grunts with effort. “I can’t believe this is the first exercise I’m getting in months.”

Ahead of him, Minhyun’s already on the third floor. He peeks down, and Seongwoo can only see Minhyun’s head. “Stop complaining, we haven’t got all day.” His voice sounds distant from that height. 

“Easy for you to say.” Seongwoo trudges through the stairs. Horror claws at his chest upon the realization that he’s got nine (and a half, considering he’s only halfway through the first floor) more floors to go. “How are you fit? Don’t art curators just… sit around or show people art all day? How the are you in better shape than I am?” 

Minhyun, gesturing at his lithe, but obviously well-toned body: “I work out.” 

Seongwoo, not blushing and definitely not trying to leer at Minhyun: “Oh.”

 

 

 

 

A little boy greets them at the door, looking around ten years old and completely unassuming. If it weren’t for his face, still holding a childlike innocence to it despite the distrustful set of his mouth, Seongwoo would’ve mistaken him as older; what with that height, limbs lanky and awkward. 

“Can I help you?” The boy chirps, though guarded suspicion that’s bereft of a child leaves traces in his eyes. To some extent, Seongwoo figures his pleasantry is contrived. 

“Yes, you can,” Minhyun answers, and he doesn’t even need to bend his knees too much to meet eye to eye with the boy. “My friend and I”—Seongwoo gives a little wave that goes unanswered—“are your dad’s college friends.” A flat-out lie, and a risk they’ll have to take. For all they know, the boy’s father might’ve been estranged. “Is he here right now?” 

The boy wearing the red shirt two sizes too big for him shakes his head. “No, he’s at work. He only goes home after dinner,” he says, matter-of-factly. Interestingly enough, there’s a hint of an accent to his voice, and his pronunciation is slurred together. 

Him and Minhyun share a look. Seongwoo shrugs. 

“We’ll return later, then—” 

“Guanlin, what’s taking you so long—oh, who are you?” 

In Seongwoo’s years of experience, he figures he has seen all the peculiarities the world (or at least, South Korea) has to offer. Upon being confronted by the sudden appearance of the boy with the bubblegum lips and a sweater in the brightest shade of orange that reeks of fashion terrorist and the bad, overtly hipster kind of fashion sense, Seongwoo has his belief stomped on, crushed, shattered into little pieces, and kicked to a fictitious curb. 

“Guanlin, were these guys bothering you?” He frowns. Seongwoo has seen puppies looking more intimidating. 

“No!” Guanlin, the boy, denies. He looks at the other male with a look in his eyes that can’t be anything but starstruck admiration. “They were just asking me about dad!” 

Seemingly satisfied by Guanlin’s answer, Jihoon isn’t outright hostile with Seongwoo and Minhyun, but his shoulders are tense, as if he’s anticipating a moment to come when he’ll have to block a blow from either of them. Flashes of the neighbourhood’s surroundings return full force to Seongwoo’s mind, assaulting him with the grim realization that in a shoddy location like this, these kids are raised to expect the worst. When Seongwoo was Jihoon’s age, the only reason he hadn’t been totally naïve was because of his uncle’s habit of taking him to work—his uncle was (and still is) a commissioner general—and showing Seongwoo just how terrible humans could be.

It helped shape him to be the person he is now. The Ong Seongwoo who makes it a personal mission to help those around him who aren’t as well off as he is (and that category contains an overwhelming amount of ordinary citizens. Not everyone is lucky enough to be born into a wealthy and well-reputable family. Seongwoo is one of the lucky ones. 

“If it’s important, you can leave your message now,” Jihoon informs them, an arm curled around Guanlin’s shoulders, tugging him closer to him and away from the two strange men. If the situation hadn’t been serious, Seongwoo would’ve laughed, because Guanlin is almost as tall as Jihoon. Give or take a year, he would engulf Jihoon’s height with his. After all, Guanlin has to be growing, still. “I’ll relay it.” 

“Actually,” Minhyun starts, a funny looking glint mirrored by the light. “I think we might benefit from a conversation, if you wouldn’t mind—Jihoon, was it?”

Jihoon draws Guanlin closer to him. Without being told, the younger of them moves to hide between Jihoon, although that does little good, considering the ever-closing gap between their heights. 

“Alright,” Jihoon says, warily. He eyes the two figures standing outside his door with distrust. 

“It won’t take too long,” Seongwoo interjects. When Jihoon focuses on him, Seongwoo draws the most genuine fake smile he can muster. From the way Jihoon sneers, it’s not working.

The boy with the odd fashion sense steps aside, and Guanlin nearly trips behind him, only able to regain his footing by gripping onto the hem of Jihoon’s sweater. “Come inside. My neighbours will start wondering what’s up.” The little tidbit, at the end of Jihoon’s mini-tirade, is directed to Jihoon himself; at least, that’s what Seongwoo figures, judging by the way the last few words are muttered instead of said, and Jihoon had peered his head at the surrounding corridors, just to see that none of the other occupants of the floor have gone out of their way to ask about the ruckus. 

Which Seongwoo has his doubts on, because it’s not as if him and Minhyun were kicking up a fuss. They were just being… persuasive, that’s the term.

Inside Jihoon’s apartment (“Mind your heads, the doorframe’s low!”), Seongwoo finds it just as he’d expected. Filled with little trinkets that serve to characterize the living space, even if the wall paint is cracked and the television looks like something out of 2005. There are family pictures on the wall, and in some, those present in the picture are Jihoon, an older male with kind, trusting eyes that Seongwoo assumes is Jihoon’s father, and a woman with striking resemblance to Jihoon. Guanlin is barely in any of the pictures, except for ones that look more recent than the others; he seems to have only started being a part of family pictures by the time Jihoon is around Guanlin’s current age, give or take a year or so.

Though Seongwoo is smart, it doesn’t take someone of genius intellect to form a conclusion that Jihoon and Guanlin are not biologically related. Their facial features are distinct, and with Guanlin’s speaking mannerisms, the likehood of him being foreign is greater than the chance of him and Jihoon being biological brothers.

Adopted or not, Jihoon is protective of Guanlin; some things just can’t be faked, and the concern that Jihoon shows for the younger, whether it’s his worry over two strange men visiting their household or Guanlin wanting to stick around to overhear a conversation that Minhyun has pushed to becoming ‘private’ (the attempts Jihoon is making to ensure Guanlin stays in his room is hilarious, or maybe that’s  just Seongwoo, because for some reason he enjoys seeing Guanlin being baited by the prospect of having movie nights with his Jihoon hyung if he’d only stay in his room for ten minutes). It isn’t hard to miss how Jihoon’s eyes grow tender when he looks at Guanlin, and how they harden just as quickly when faced with Seongwoo and Minhyun. On the same wavelength, it’s just as easy to see the kiss that Jihoon leaves on Guanlin’s forehead before the younger sprints off to his room isn’t a show of fake love; Seongwoo’s seen his fair share of love, and knows enough to know when someone is lying or not about affections.

What he just saw? Seongwoo would eat his own fist if that’d been faked.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Jihoon asks as soon as Guanlin is out of ear range. His eyes linger on the door to Guanlin’s bedroom for a few moments too long, giving Seongwoo the impression of an overly worried mother hen. 

Minhyun drives his hand inside the pocket on his undercoat. A few moments later, he finds what he’s looking for, and presents a picture of a glittering emerald jewel to Jihoon. “Is this familiar to you?”

The moment of hesitation before Jihoon responds is enough for Seongwoo to find his answer.

“No.” Jihoon looks away from the picture a beat too fast. “It’s a glittering diamond, I guess? But in green? What does that have to do with me?” He scowls at the men seated across him.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Seongwoo says, presenting Jihoon a thin smile, completely unlike the look of friendliness he’d gone for earlier. “We know your involvement in this, Park Jihoon.”

The mask Jihoon had been wearing chips. His fists clench on his lap, and Seongwoo feels the momentary surge of pity, before giving himself a strict reminder he’s working; there’ll be a time for pity later, but right now, he needs to set the feelings aside and focus.

“I wasn’t involved,” Jihoon says through clenched teeth.

If anything, Seongwoo admires Jihoon’s effort.

“Ranked first place in your school. Your IT teacher made sure to put in good words for you. Exceptionally talented, and has a lot of potential—that’s what he wrote, yes?” Seongwoo is simply lining down the facts, but Jihoon grows pasty, already pale skin going sheet white.

The fuming boy lifts his head, and gives a defiant nod. “Yes. But I had no part in, well, whatever you guys are investigating right now. And how could you even make sure it was me? Not saying it was me!” His cherub cheeks turn piping red, and he bows his head, drawing his gaze to his lap. He probably wants to curse, or at least, that’s the general vibe Seongwoo’s getting.

“Just tell us the truth, Jihoon,” Minhyun murmurs, although there’s no trace of pity in him at all. Only a clinical, cold kind of observation, and it’s enough to tickle goosebumps on Seongwoo’s forearms. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Suddenly, it’s not so difficult for Seongwoo to imagine Minhyun during his prime; encountering those who dared to defy him and giving them a tantalizing smirk, and saying the same things he’s saying now. Minhyun is dangerous, and if Seongwoo had his doubts, all of them are scattered in the wind.

“I’d rather not do it at all, thanks.” Jihoon gives them a pinched, sour look. “Whatever it is you think I did—I didn’t do it.”

For a fleeting moment, Minhyun says nothing. Only stares at Jihoon impassively, not even making eye contact with Seongwoo who tries, desperate and futile, to catch Minhyun’s attention without drawing alert to Jihoon.

“Hard way it is,” Minhyun says at last, sounding neither happy nor unhappy about the prospect of doing things in the more troubling way. “What’s in it for you?”

“…Sorry?”

“What’s in it for you,” Minhyun repeats, rolling his eyes. “Are you helping a thief out of the goodness of your own heart? Is that it?”

Abruptly, Jihoon rises from his seat, and splutters indignantly. “I told you I wasn’t involved!”

“It can’t be your father,” and there Minhyun continues saying, completely ignoring Jihoon’s prior outburst. “His records state he works on construction sites—leaving virtually no time to do some of these heists that are done before he even gets home.”

“Leave my father out of this!”

“Can’t be your brother either. He’s too young,” Minhyun dismisses, and Seongwoo’s not sure whether he’s oblivious enough not to notice the venomous look from Jihoon, or if he’s ignoring it; either way, at this point of time, Minhyun is a dead man walking more than anything. 

That was the last straw for Park Jihoon. He grabs Minhyun by his collar, honorifics thrown and forgotten, emotions taken over by the heat of the moment. It makes for a comical sight, what with Minhyun being a head taller than Jihoon, but Jihoon’s glare is ferocious as he glowers up at the older male. “Leave my family out of this,” Jihoon hisses.

Minhyun barely blinks. “Touchy subject, I see. My apologies.” He doesn’t even sound remotely apologetic. “Let go of me.”

Just like that, as if a switch has been flipped, Jihoon’s fingers tremble as he hastily releases draws his hand from Minhyun’s collar, as if the fabric burns through his nimble skin. He gnaws on his lower lip, and his fingers twitch at his side. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, sounding disbelieved that he’d dared to do that in the first place. With stiff, near lifeless movements, he sinks back into his seat.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, Jihoon,” Minhyun says softly, and after a moment of contemplation, offers a hand to Jihoon. Though confused, Jihoon grasps Minhyun’s hand with his, eyes desperately searching for any sign of peculiarities in Minhyun’s expression. “That was insensitive of me.”

(Minhyun, you manipulative little bastard, is all Seongwoo is able to think as Jihoon hangs onto Minhyun’s every word as if they were the gospel truth.)

“I was just taken aback,” Jihoon utters, defending himself. He seems to realize he has been holding Minhyun’s hand for longer than five seconds now, and hastily retreats his right hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist. “I—I’ll admit it. I helped the thief, but it wasn’t because of what you might think.”

“And what do you suggest we might be thinking right now?” Seongwoo leans forward, head tilted in curiousity.

“W-Well,” Jihoon stutters out. It’s really not helping his case at all, but Jihoon looks so much like a deer caught in the headlights, nerves ready to scatter like petals at any time, that Seongwoo doesn’t think pointing it out would make for a good idea. “That I was up to no good. That I was helping out someone for what looks like barely any reason at all.”

“What was your reason, then?” Minhyun’s tone has shifted into something gentle. Gone is the cold interrogator, in his stead a man filled with concern for someone—most likely half his age—who’s in a bad place right now.

From his experience, though, Seongwoo knows there must be a reason. A good one, at that, because every villain has their motive. (But having to call Park Jihoon a villain, even if he isn’t up to any good like a law abiding citizen would, doesn’t make him feel like he’s any better.)

Sometimes, a petty thief steals to supply food for their family. Sometimes, a murderer strikes because they’d been betrayed by someone they thought they could rely their trust in. Sometimes, the man behind the bars has a story that shines a light on him, a light that makes one think, what is the line separating between a criminal and a product of the wrongs of the system?

Park Jihoon, with his ratty apartment where the floorboards groan with almost every step, with his secondhand, worn-out clothes, has a reason for doing what it is he’s doing. Seongwoo can spell it out, the words aching to be poured from the tip of his tongue, but it won’t come to that.

“I needed the money,” and just like that, the truth is said, and Jihoon’s shoulders relax as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “My dad can’t support the family on his own. His job, it doesn’t- doesn’t pay well.” As he confesses, he makes sure to look at Seongwoo and Minhyun, and while his expression is earnest, there’s an undertone of malice to his words; but with malice, comes fear.

Fear of what is to come. Fear of being taken away from his family. Fear of his future, now that he’s caught.

“My family, we…” Jihoon trails off, tongue poking out of the slit of his mouth. “We have more on our plate than we can handle,” he admits, ruefully. “With the money dad makes, he should only be able to support himself and—”

Jihoon never quite finishes his sentence, but the unspoken words hang in the air like miasma. Amidst his inner turmoil, Minhyun and Seongwoo look at each other—the latter at loss on how to proceed, knowing the fragile psyche of a teenager is in their hands right now (and to be honest, they aren’t very capable hands). Minhyun purses his lips, and shakes his head. Let him finish, his eyes speak.

“Someone had to help.” A conviction that hadn’t been prevalent before shows itself. Jihoon’s will grows stronger, visibly, what with the hardening of his eyes. “So, I started getting money for my family.”

“Where does your dad think the money comes from?” Seongwoo barely notices he’s said the words until Jihoon looks as if he’s on the verge of closing in on himself.

To his surprise, Jihoon is stronger than he looks. (It isn’t a very difficult thing to achieve, because Jihoon is the textbook definition of a flower boy; cherub cheeks with a faint pink glow, pouty lips, pretty eyes.)

“He thinks I’ve been taking an internship,” Jihoon says, although his voice wavers. His adam’s apple bobs, and his face twists like he’s forced a spoonful of salt to his mouth, and deeper into his system. “What are you going to do to me?” He looks at the both of them, lingering his eyes on each of them for a moment before looking at the other. His hands have begun to rub together at the face of his knees.

“Nothing, if you cooperate,” Seongwoo says. “Just answer the rest of the questions honestly and stop hacking. It’s illegal.”

“Where am I supposed to get the money now?!” Jihoon splutters indignantly. His cheeks are turning red with fury.

“Get a proper job?” Minhyun offers, dryly. “That’s what the rest of us do.”

Yeah, like how you were a thief, as if that’s a legal profession, Seongwoo laments in his head, though the impassive mask of his face shows no signs of such thought.

“I can’t do that!” Jihoon panics, and rises to his feet. “Someone has to take care of Guanlin, and that person is me.” He points a finger at himself, accentuating each word with a finely timed jab. 

“We understand that you have to support your family, but the law—” 

“ the law,” Jihoon grits out, and he lets his arms drop to his sides. “I know you.” He looks at Seongwoo as he says this, and Seongwoo can’t say he’s surprised. His infamy tends to do that. “You’re Ong Seongwoo. You’re rich—you were born rich—and you’ve never had to struggle with money your entire life.” The bitterness of Jihoon’s words pierce Seongwoo like little pinpricks, and Seongwoo desperately wants to say something, anything to defend himself, but how can he when Jihoon is only saying the truth?

“I don’t struggle with money, you’re right,” he says, after too many beats of silence. Both Minhyun and Jihoon’s eyes are on him, scrutinizing his every move, and he feels as if he’s been thrown underneath a microscope. “But I have my own fair share of problems. They might not be like yours, but I’ve got my own to deal with. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’re struggling, Jihoon.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man who acts like the world revolves around him—”

“You know nothing about me,” Seongwoo growls, and breathes in deeply to remind himself that he’s here on a job, not a social visit, and letting his emotions get the better of him is ideally the number one thing to do in situations like these. “If your problem is that you don’t think you can get a job because someone needs to take care of Guanlin, have I got news for you: daycares exist. You could even leave him with a friend, or take him to your workplace, if you’re so worried. People will help you. Have some more faith in the people around you, Jihoon. You don’t have to carry the weight of everything on your shoulders,” Seongwoo whispers, and gets up on his feet. His hands meet Jihoon’s, and when the younger does nothing, even when Seongwoo grips Jihoon’s palms tightly with his own.

“Help me,” Jihoon chokes out, and his eyes brim with unshed tears. He stubbornly blinks them away, keeping the waterworks at bay. “If you think I need to have faith in the people around me—help me.”

Uneasiness settles like a package of rocks on Seongwoo’s chest. Not because he’s uncomfortable at the prospect of helping Jihoon, because his job entails helping everyone, even strangers, but because of the circumstances that revolves around Jihoon’s life; his lack of trust in his environment, lacking enough that he’ll trust a stranger to help him instead of someone he actually knows, but at the same time, Seongwoo can’t blame Jihoon for feeling this way. His neighbourhood screams, kill or be killed. Maybe the words aren’t meant literally—he’s never seen at the mortality reports around this borough—but in a place like this, it’s every man for themselves. It’s a wonder how Jihoon turned out to be so loyal to his younger brother, adopted or not, and the knowledge of that is enough to convince Seongwoo that underneath it all, Jihoon is good.

“I promise.” The words feel light, although the lightness isn’t there because it’s empty. It’s light because Seongwoo is in his element, saving others, and even though he has a connection with the person he’s looking for, Jihoon is someone who needs help. Someone Seongwoo can save, because Seongwoo has seen enough of people’s sufferings in his lifetime that to know he could be able to save someone from further experience of it (there is no doubt Jihoon has suffered, there’s no way he hasn’t, with everything he’s been through), maybe even safe an entire family—he’d take the chance in a heartbeat.

Finally, Jihoon smiles. It’s small and restrained, as if he’s still doubting his very decision, but it’s more genuine than every other smile Seongwoo has shown him. “I’ll hold you to it.”

 Jihoon takes a few minutes to calm down, and both Seongwoo and Minhyun wait, the latter more patient than the former. Seongwoo has probably used up all the ‘mushy and nice’ emotions he has festered for the day (or maybe a lifetime), but Minhyun is steady, like he always is; even made tea for Jihoon, who was baffled after taking a cautionary sip from the china. 

(“This is the best tea I’ve ever tasted. Are you sure you’re using the tea in the kitchen?” He looks like he’s on the verge of asking Minhyun to reveal the contents of his bag, as if Minhyun would’ve brought a packet of tea along with him.

Though Minhyun has a hefty collection of tea back home—Seongwoo saw them for himself, and is still amazed by the man’s passion for tea, of all things—he hadn’t been able to bring any with him. “I would’ve used something different if I could’ve,” Minhyun sniffs.

He isn’t very pleased with the tea in Jihoon’s kitchen, not at all.)

“Who have you been working with?” Seongwoo questions, phone recording every second of their conversation.

“I don’t know,” Jihoon confesses, and Minhyun frowns.

“How don’t you know?”

“He’s never shown me his identity.” Jihoon shrugs, and takes another sip from his tea.

The usage of the pronoun draws Seongwoo’s interest. “You’re calling the thief with ‘he’, so you at least know we’re after a male?”

Jihoon finishes his tea before answering Seongwoo’s inquiry. “Well, yeah. He distorts his face and covers up whenever he needs to talk to me, but it’s a male, obviously. His figure says so.”

(Then again—Jaehwan had used he while talking about the thief, Seongwoo now remembers. The memory comes up so suddenly in his brain, and he’s wondering if he’d projected his newfound information into his own head, but Seongwoo is confident enough in his memory to give a firm no to that assumption. Jaehwan had said ‘he’, and all of Seongwoo’s detective senses are tingling. He needs to ask Jaehwan about this when he meets him.)

“Huh.”

Afterwards, Jihoon shows them to the door, Guanlin following behind him like a duckling after Jihoon had told him he was allowed to go outside his room. (Guanlin had practically sprinted outside, yelling about how much he’d missed his Jihoon hyung in the thirty minute span they were away, and proceeded to throw himself on the older like an oversized pet.) Jihoon hasn’t anything further to tell them, though Seongwoo can’t figure if it’s because doing so would’ve meant Jihoon needed to do more research on certain things, or if Jihoon is holding something back. For all the trust he’s placing in Jihoon, Seongwoo can only hope it isn’t the latter.

 

 

 

 

“Is this where I’ll be staying?”

Minhyun needs to look up to eye the extravagant building with impressible height in front of him, all black painted, high walls, and glass windows. A modern castle, Ong Seongwoo’s abode.

Seongwoo drove them to his home immediately after their visit to Park Jihoon, saying something about how they could talk to Jaehwan again tomorrow; night had befallen upon them, though an empty circle shape remains, surrounded by the stars, where the moon is not. The moon is supposed to be there, Seongwoo supposes, had it not been for pollution and other kinds of global crisis’s. 

The sky, a murky black littered with little white spots, is reflected onto Seongwoo’s swimming pool. Swimming now would feel like swimming amongst the stars, but Seongwoo would prefer not getting hypothermia.

“Yeah,” Seongwoo says, the upper corner of his lip twitching wryly. “I’m sure you’ve seen better.”

“Yeah,” Minhyun mirrors him, smirking at Seongwoo’s gape at the unexpected response. “I was a thief, remember? Luxury isn’t a stranger.”

Seongwoo pouts. “This has got to be the first time someone wasn’t impressed by my mansion.”

“Haven’t you ever had a gala here? I’d have thought your fellow socialites would’ve had the same experience as mine with wealth.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never held a gala,” Seongwoo says. “If I ever had one, I don’t think I’d invite my fellow socialites. Most of them were my parents’ friends. I might invite you, though,” he surmises, rubbing his chin with the pad of his thumb.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Seongwoo leans his head back, and tilts it to look at Minhyun. When he gets a look at the other, Minhyun’s already staring back at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. “You’re not bad company, you know.”

“Thanks,” Minhyun says, dryly. “You’re not so bad yourself… you know, blackmailing aside.”

Seongwoo rolls his eyes, but he breaks out into a ghost of a smile.

“I’m going to ignore that last bit.”

“You can’t. It comes with the first.”

 

 

 

 

Life hates him, because why else would he be hearing ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears first thing in the morning?

(Okay, so Seongwoo was the one who had chosen his own ringtone, but that doesn’t mean he wants his wakeup call to be Britney Spears. God bless her and her old music, though; those were good times.)

“What the ,” he says, his first words in the day being crass and vulgar. Bleary-eyed, his fingers feel around his bedside table for his alarm clock, plucking it and placing it in front of his face to read the time. 04:38AM.

With a groan, he uses his elbows to prop himself into a sitting position, and slams his alarm clock back on the bedside table. His phone continues to play Toxic, having repeated the same few lines over and over again the way ringtones do, until it finally stops when an angry thumb presses itself onto the ‘answer call’ button.

He hasn’t even checked the caller ID, but whoever it is, is bound to get a half-assed lecture from him. Half-assed because he’s in the odd state between sleeping and being awake and he can’t bother to force himself to be more productive, a lecture because all of his friends—and the list isn’t a party list, considering Seongwoo’s occupation and Seongwoo himself—should be informed about his strict ‘don’t wake me up before 6AM, ers’ rule.

“What?” He speaks into his phone’s in-built microphone, voice thick with sleep.

“Sir, Seongwoo Sir!”

The person on the other end of the line is unfamiliar, and Seongwoo takes a moment to place who it is—slurred words, high-pitched voice of a child—but when he does realize who it is, he jolts, fully awake and alert.

Guanlin is on the phone with him, and whatever it is he’s calling about, it can’t be good. Before he and Minhyun left, yesterday, Seongwoo made sure to leave behind his phone number—after giving a pointed stare at each of them, forcing them to repeat the words, “Emergencies only.”

Though Jihoon looked more bored than anything when reciting, Guanlin was terrified, and probably took Seongwoo’s words to heart.

“It’s Jihoon hyung,” Guanlin says, and Seongwoo finally notices something else about Guanlin’s voice he hadn’t been able to hear earlier; a jagged quality, like a poorly sharpened dagger.

“Calm down,” Seongwoo instructs sternly, the grip he has on his phone making his knuckles bleed white. “Take a deep breath”—when he hears the sharp sound of inhale on the other line, he figures Guanlin must’ve taken his advice—“and let it out. Tell me what happened.”

When Guanlin speaks, after the tense smoke of silence, Seongwoo barely stops himself from breaking into a state of distress.

“Jihoon hyung is missing!”

 

 

 

 

There are no signs of struggle in Jihoon’s bedroom. The bedsheets are unruffled, no wrinkles needing to be smoothed down. None of the books stand out of place. Even his coffee mug looks untouched, and after conducting a scan, there was no trace of poison or drug in the drink that could’ve made Jihoon docile.

Even a note is left, saying something about how Jihoon can’t live like this anymore, how he’s going to stay with a friend for a few days. Seongwoo doesn’t believe it, and wouldn’t have believed it even if Guanlin had shown him a post-it left on the fridge by Jihoon about the groceries, how the slope of the handwriting is at the wrong places, further convincing evidence of the forgery of the note. But, even if the note left behind had been written by Jihoon himself, Seongwoo would’ve thought something was wrong, still; he might not have known Jihoon for years, or even months, but there is one thing about Park Jihoon that anyone can see: how he cares so much, maybe too much, about his family. How he would hold up the world like Atlas did if it would help his family in any way.

“Have you alerted the police?” Minhyun asks to a pale Guanlin, whose red, bloodshot eyes stand out in contrast to his pasty skin.

“I thought you guys are the police.” Guanlin looks between them oddly. “Aren’t you?”

Though Seongwoo and Minhyun originally introduced themselves as Guanlin’s father’s friend, at the end of their conversation with Jihoon just yesterday, the partial truth was out of the bag; now Guanlin knows neither of them have anything to do with his father, but knows that Seongwoo is rich, Minhyun is Minhyun, and the both of them are law-abiding citizens who stand up for the law. That’s as close as it’s ever going to get to the truth.

Saving Minhyun from answering, Seongwoo interjects, “Yeah. Totally. Is your dad here, by the way?” The change of subject isn’t smooth by any means, but Guanlin takes the bait, and completely forgets the previous topic of Seongwoo and Minhyun as policemen.

“He’s in his room, he’s not coming to work today.” They all know the reason. “Do you… I mean, would it help you find him, if you talked to him?”

“Yes,” Seongwoo says. “Could you go get him for us, Guanlin?”

Wordlessly, Guanlin nods, and takes brisk steps towards his father’s bedroom. While Guanlin is gone, out to fetch the only adult in the household (and Jihoon’s legal guardian), Seongwoo takes a moment to look at Minhyun; wearing his usual mask of impassiveness, and Seongwoo would reckon Minhyun isn’t worried at all if it isn’t for the tell—the hand he keeps on his damaged leg, as if it’s a clutch to reality.

“God,” Minhyun whispers, and Seongwoo knows the words are directed to him, even as Minhyun presses his gaze to the cracks on the walls. “He even took Jihoon. Jihoon’s just—he’s just a kid.”

“Well, he was a teenager. Kind of a difference there.”

Minhyun stares at him in horror. “This isn’t the time to joke. Someone went missing and you’re joking about it?”

Unable to say anything further that wouldn’t be not insensitive, and realizing the truth in Minhyun’s words, Seongwoo’s face burns from shame. “Sorry.”

The door to the father’s room is pushed open, and outside its confines is a middle-aged man, older than both Minhyun and Seongwoo by another fifteen years or so. He must’ve seen better days, what with his untrimmed mane that stick up in all directions, and cracks rampant on his ashen lips. “Who the hell are you?” He asks the strangers in his apartment with just enough suspicion, and moves to pull Guanlin behind him. (Seongwoo can’t blame him; he’s just lost a son, and must be deathly scared of losing another.)

“We’re trying to help you find your missing son, sir,” Minhyun addresses, polite as ever even in the frazzled emotional state he’s in. That they’re all in.

“I don’t need any coppers investigating for me,” bites out Jihoon’s father, livid. “Load of good you coppers have done for my family, so stay out of my business!”

“Please, we’re just trying to help—”

“I don’t need your help. Give it to someone who does.”

With a tone of finality, he returns to his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that makes the clock that hangs on the wall shake. Guanlin is still there, frozen as if he’s rooted to his spot, and he looks at the men in his living room with something not unlike helplessness.

“I’m sorry dad is—wait.” In the middle of his sentence, Guanlin’s words dry, and leaves behind a mute child. “Before you guys go, there’s something you need to see. Can’t believe I almost forgot about this!”

Guanlin takes off to his room, yelling something about ‘how could I’ve been so stupid?’ and then saying some words in Mandarin that Seongwoo recognizes as curse words. Suddenly, the worries in his head aren’t simply about one kid, but two, because who’s been teaching Guanlin such colourful (and undeniably crass) language at his age? Jihoon would—

Hold that thought right now, Ong Seongwoo.

The little boy with the interesting language returns just before Seongwoo can start beating himself up over his own thoughts (and isn’t that a surprise, because does he seem like the type? No, not really), holding a flashdisk shaped like a minion’s head in his pudgy hands.

“Jihoon hyung gave it to me yesterday—said something like he knew he could trust me with this, but I thought he was joking because he does that a lot and I didn’t think—”

Minhyun rests a hand on Guanlin’s shoulder just before his voice crescendos into a frantic yell, and the effect is immediate. Though not entirely appeased, Guanlin relaxes, just a bit, and takes deep, shaky breaths. “Take it easy, Guanlin.”

“Sorry,” Guanlin apologizes, although he has no reason to. “I haven’t checked what’s in it… I mean, I did.” He blushes at the admittance. “But I didn’t get it—but, I think you guys can crack it. You can, right?” The little boy’s eyes go doe wide, layers and layers of hope shining beneath them.

“We can,” Minhyun says, firmly, and takes the item out of Guanlin’s hands and into his bag, sealing the zipper shut with a satisfied smile. “We’ll do everything we can to find him, Guanlin.”

“I trust you.” Three words, but they’re heavy, and Seongwoo feels the pressure accumulate on his body. “If anyone can bring him home… you can. Please,” his voice breaks into a crack.

His shoulders are shaking, and his eyes redden, like it’s taking every muscle in his too tall body not to cry. “I just want my brother back.”

 

 

 

 

Less than an hour later, they check Jihoon’s message, and it only has one file, but it’s the one file that contains the biggest clue they now have in the palm of their hands.

A location. A tracer, back to the thief’s location, and Minhyun is able to activate it with a certain ease that comes only from experience.

“He’s in Italy.” Seongwoo recognizes the shape of the map immediately, and how could he not? Italy is easy to find and memorize on a map, though for Seongwoo, this is because it’s shaped like a boot. “I’ve heard it’s nice this time of the year.”

“Is it?” The left corner of Minhyun’s mouth quirks. “Then I suppose it’s time for a visit.”

 

 

 

 [ ii. ]

 

“Mom, I’m home.”

The only response he garners is the sound that comes from the television, a re-run of an old soap opera playing in full volume. Hwang Minhyun doesn’t expect anything less.

He takes off his shoes, and puts on his slippers. In the kitchen, he washes his lunch container, as well as the other dishes left in the sink. Empty wine glasses, plates with scraps of this morning’s breakfast. He didn’t have the time to clean those up this morning; he woke up late, and used up most of his time before his ride came to cook breakfast for him and his mother.

(Not that it meant anything, if his mother barely ate any of hers.)

“Did you rest a lot today?” He asks, after he’s finished the last of cleaning and heads to the living room; his mother doesn’t answer, having fallen asleep in the middle of her television intake. This is the third day in a row his mother hasn’t spoken a single word to him, and Minhyun feels something in his clawing in his chest, something that makes it suddenly hard for him to breathe.

What else were you expecting, you fool? It’s been like this for months—and it will continue to be like this, the spiteful voice inside his head spits at him, and Minhyun tries to ignore it, tries to tune it out with the memories of the days when his mother wasn’t a shell of herself, when she still had her spark of life; before the divorce, before his father left the house and carried the happiness of the house along with him, before she fell into the routine of waking up, drinking until she fell asleep, and repeat.

Minhyun takes a quilt from her bedroom, red and handmade by his aunt who’d stopped contacting them after the divorce. (Then again, she never seemed to like his mother that much; even the gift was made for his father, who’d decided to leave it behind when he turned his back on them, a little less than six months ago.) He spreads the blanket over his mother’s curled body, turns off the television because their electricity bill is more than what they can cover, and goes to his room; locks the door, and turns on the radio until it’s loud enough to drown out his demons.

In the middle of the night, when Minhyun finds his stomach growl in hunger, he unlocks his room, and goes to get whatever leftovers he’d stored in the fridge. (He hasn’t had his dinner, and doesn’t make it a habit to cook dinner when his mother won’t even touch her plate; breakfast, it seems, is enough sustenance for her.) When he passes by the living room, he sees her gone, though she leaves the quilt behind.

Jazz music plays loudly from his mother’s bedroom. Minhyun recognizes the voice as Ella Fitzgerald’s. He doesn’t bother to try to open the door, to give her back the quilt, to bid her good night; leaving the quilt where it is, and pads back into his room, his hunger forgotten. In its stead, grows a certain weariness too much for someone who is only sixteen.

Like mother, like son.

(He runs away the next day, backpack stuffed to the brim with his favourite clothes, his radio, and a worn copy of ‘War and Peace’. Minhyun doesn’t bother to make an attempt to be quiet; he doesn’t try to sneak his way outside, doesn’t smother a single noise, whether from his footsteps, or the telltale creak of the doors.

His mother never comes out of her room through it all.)

 

 

 

 

They are here on a very serious job, with very dire consequences; and so, it makes sense that right after they’ve checked into their hotel room (clean enough to the point Seongwoo finds a little rusted spot in the bathtub, as if it’s been scrubbed too hard), Seongwoo proposes that they orientate themselves with the bustling city of Turin, Italy.

“A child is missing, jewels are missing, and you’re asking me to go sightseeing with you in Turin?”

When Minhyun spells it out, Seongwoo winces, realizing how wrong he’s sounding; after all, the stakes are high, and loitering isn’t doing them any favours—but neither is working too hard, and if there’s something him and Minhyun have been doing non-stop for the past two days, it’s thinking. Using their combined wits to solve the cases, trying to get any hint as to how Jihoon might’ve gone missing in the dead of the night, to find the missing variables to the equation.

“We can’t work ourselves to death,” Seongwoo retorts, meeting Minhyun’s judging gaze steadily. “I know you want to find Jihoon—and I want to find him too, because even I’m not that heartless—but you need to think about yourself, too.” He nearly grins when he sees Minhyun’s resolve crumbling, the other man obviously taking Seongwoo’s words into account. “We’ll get back to work after we sightsee, you workaholic.”

“You, calling me workaholic?” Minhyun scoffs. “Rich, coming from the one who doesn’t sleep sometimes just to solve cases.”

“Hey, how do you even know that?” Seongwoo hasn’t told the story to Minhyun. He’d know if he had, or maybe it might’ve spilled had Seongwoo been drunk, but considering he hasn’t gone beyond tipsy through alcohol since meeting Minhyun, he can’t have said anything while intoxicated. “I’ve never told you,” he says, accusingly.

“That, you’re right.” Minhyun nods, and his response leaves Seongwoo with more questions than answers. “I drew an assumption—and I was right, though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Seongwoo does what he thinks is an impersonation of Minhyun; a haughty sigh, tilting his head until it’s a 90-degree angle. “Because I’m never wrong,” he simpers.

The effect is immediate, because Minhyun looks as if he’s torn on getting angry, or being amused. “I don’t speak like that,” he decides to say in the end. The detective barks out his short laughter, eyes dancing with bemusement.

“Of course you don’t,” he agrees, adding a nod to accentuate his response, though the both of them know he doesn’t mean it at all. “Come on, now. We’ve got places to visit, food to eat, people to flirt with—”

“Seongwoo.”

“Right, sorry! Forgot you were a, uh, celibate nun in disguise.”

“One of these days,” Minhyun starts, and he makes a motion of slitting his own throat with his thumb. “I might kill you in your sleep before we even find our guy.”

Thoroughly threatened, Seongwo ‘eeps.’

(If anyone asks, though, it wasn’t him. It was their hotel room neighbor, a woman in her fifties who was visiting with her Chihuahua—so, they didn’t know if the noise was from her, or her pet. Definitely not Seongwoo, that’s for sure.)

 

 

 

 

According to one of the travel journals that Seongwoo has read before (reading is a pastime he’s grown to enjoy, no matter how much he used to grumble about it as a child, because when you barely have anyone who would tolerate you, books were as reliable as friendships came), the restaurant he and Minhyun are seated in now is one of the best ones in Turin. Their wait outside hadn’t been long at all despite the crowd, although Seongwoo owes that to his name; apparently, the restaurant wasn’t above getting the big names in before the small ones, and as soon as a table had been emptied, the both of them were ushered inside, completely passing the others who’d lined up even before them. Seongwoo caught dark glares here and there, and Minhyun must’ve seen them as well, although neither of them make conversation out of it.

(The closest thing to a conversation about it goes like this:

“You get that treatment a lot?”

“Depends on where I’m at, or if the people recognize me. In Texas, I was treated like .”)

Everything on the menu is expensive, though money has never been a problem for Seongwoo, so he doesn’t look at the price tag for too long and chooses whatever sounds the best (and not foreign) to him; on the chair opposite him, Minhyun is still searching through the menu, much to the annoyance of their waitress, who has begun shifting from foot to foot.

“Minhyun, in case you’re looking, they don’t have kimchi here,” Seongwoo says in his native tongue, knowing how Minhyun, though prone to eating whatever there was (there must be a story behind it, for why else would he have been content with eating a leaf-y thing on the plane? Or eat any airplane food, really?), he always seemed to prefer it when there was kimchi. Seongwoo attributes it to how he mustn’t have been back in South Korea for some time, and maybe it’d been difficult for him to have his fill of a food he’d eaten from his childhood until the day he moved out in a place like New York.

“Trust me, I know.” Minhyun finally stops ruffling through the pages, and the waiter visibly calms down, although she has begun frowning whenever she thinks neither Seongwoo or Minhyun look at her. (And, she’s right; technically, they aren’t staring her in the face, but the reflection of a book makes for a good spying tool.)

“I’ll have a Neapolitan pizza, please.” The smile he gives to the waitress is sweet, as if he’s trying to charm away her anger, and judging by how all of the annoyance disappears in an instant and is instead replaced with a love struck look, Seongwoo would say Minhyun’s manipulating is, once again, a success.

“Would you like any wine, sirs?”

Seongwoo scans through the options, inwardly beaming at all the choices they had; all of them good, and worth their price. Minhyun doesn’t seem to be as familiar with the winery, much to Seongwoo’s surprise, because he’d always come across as a wine guy; then again, he doesn’t know Minhyun all that well (although the slope of his nose, the curve of his neck, and the width of his shoulders have somehow ingrained themselves into his head, making it easy for him to find Hwang Minhyun even in Seoul’s morning crowd), so maybe it isn’t his place to guess—

Ha. Yeah, right. Minhyun himself guessed about Seongwoo’s characteristics earlier, so Seongwoo’s entitled to his own guessing; it’s just that he’s not as successful as Minhyun when it comes to making correct statements about the other.

“Give us your oldest,” Seongwoo instructs, and their waitress turns to smile at him. It’s a fake smile, and obviously, she isn’t as taken with him as she is with Minhyun. He doesn’t really understand why, because Seongwoo thinks of himself as a whole fine buffet while Minhyun’s more of a full course meal (but a buffet is multiple full course meals and you can choose, so?), but some people are into the smaller things. That’s what he reckons.

“Very good, sir.” As she leaves, she smiles shyly at Minhyun, who notices and returns it with a cordial nod.

It’s only once she’s gone that Seongwoo lets the laughter burst from his lips like water from a dam, gripping his hand onto the table as support. “Holy . You’re a real heartbreaker, aren’t you?” He wriggles his brows suggestively, causing Minhyun to groan, dropping his head onto the palm of his hands.

“Please, screw yourself.” The way Minhyun adds a ‘please’, as if to be more respectful, before cursing at him is a little endearing; but Seongwoo thinks of it simply as a fleeting thought, even when his eyes linger a beat too long at Minhyun’s flat, reddish pink ears. He lifts his head after another few seconds, and pointedly looks at the velvety red table dresser. Anywhere but Seongwoo, it seems, whose laughter has diminished into soft chuckles. “What was I even thinking?”

“Maybe it’s a sign that your love life’s been as dry as the middle of a desert,” Seongwoo comments. “I mean, look at your lifestyle: a full-time art curator and part time recluse. I’d be surprised if you’ve been seeing someone for the past few months. No offense,” he adds the last part quickly, just because he notices the way Minhyun’s expression turns pinched. “You’re handsome. Not as handsome as me, but you make do.” Minhyun rolls his eyes. “Just, you know. Your lifestyle.”

Minhyun takes a little too long to respond to Seongwoo. His eyes seem to glaze over for a millisecond before he snaps himself out of it, regaining the cool façade, and serving Seongwoo a little smirk that hadn’t been there just a second ago. “As if you’d know the first thing about my love life.”

“World class detective here?” Seongwoo waves his hands in front of Minhyun’s eyes. “Obviously, I used my world class detective skills to figure out.”

Pale hands push a tanner pair away, and Minhyun’s hands stays on his for a few seconds before he pulls away, though he doesn’t rush. Even after Minhyun’s hands are no longer on his, Seongwoo can still feel the tingles where they’d been, like cool flames waltzing across his skin.

“There’s no appeasing your ego, is there?”

Just as Seongwoo is about to open his mouth to answer (a big, fat no, just as what the both of them expect), the trio of musicians that serve as the restaurant’s entertainment walk to their table, the one on the guitar strumming some chords, not enough to construct an entire song, but just enough to fill the silence.

“Good day, sirs,” The one in the center, presumably the vocalist, says. “Care for a song?”

“Oh no, that won’t be—”

“Absolutely!” Seongwoo cuts off Minhyun’s rejection, and when Minhyun looks at him in blasphemy, Seongwoo’s grin grows wider. It stretches his face, and it hurts, but what he’ll get in return from this should be enough payment for all the pain felt in his cheeks. “Any song?”

The vocalist smiles, all teeth, showcasing his pearly whites. “If we know it.”

“What kind of music do you think he”—Seongwoo jabs a thumb at Minhyun who grows paler upon realizing Seongwoo’s plan—“would like? Whatever you think it is, play it for us.”

Minhyun kicks his shin under the table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Biting back a wince, because for someone with a limping leg, Minhyun has one hell of a kick. “I’m figuring you out. With the help of these lovely gentlemen.” Seongwoo waves his hands at the trio in grandiose fashion, making sure to memorize every line of Minhyun’s face right then, the way the lines of his mouth loosen with shock. “So, just sit back, and enjoy.”

“…Is this how you woo people?”

“Who says I’d want to woo you?” Seongwoo tries to ignore the heat that creeps on to his cheeks. He hopes Minhyun deems it as a trick of the light. He doesn’t like Minhyun in that way—he barely even knows the man other than the fact he has a limp and he can keep up with Seongwoo, sometimes even assist him in filling the gaps his thoughts can’t fill out—but it’s not as if Minhyun is detestable. As much as Seongwoo is grudging to admit, Minhyun is, like him, a textbook example of ‘handsome’, albeit in a different style from Seongwoo’s almost godlike kind of beauty; it’s a more royal kind of handsome, the kind that makes you think of princes or emperors from the times that have long passed. What he’s trying to say is, amidst all that ‘praising Minhyun’s face’ jargon (but trust him, he’s gone on longer about his own face in the past), it’s not as if it’d be revolting of him if he tried to garner Minhyun’s affections. Because Minhyun’s not bad, not at all.

But, he’s not trying to woo him, though. Seongwoo’s just trying o be a tolerable travel companion, because they’ve been stuck in each other’s presence (at first unwilling, later growing lukewarm, currently being pleasant against all odds), and he has no doubts that they might be stuck together for a longer time, considering the state things are going.

“Enjoy our performance,” the vocalist says, and cues the other two to start with a snap of his fingers.

The music grows more and more familiar as the trio progress from the instrumental opening, of which Seongwoo had looked on, lost, while the beginning of realization dawned on Minhyun’s scandalized face. Seongwoo doesn’t understand why until he hears the lyrics, and in that moment, Seongwoo tries his best not to choke out his laughter in the middle of a performance.

“We’re no strangers to love, you know the rules, and so do I.”

There are a few things Seongwoo expected would’ve happened the day he travelled to Italy. Some items on the list include posing in front of the Pisa like your typical tourist (where camerawork would make it look like he was bigger than tower), and eating pizza until his stomach bloated with the added weight.

None of those things include being rick rolled in a five-star restaurant he’d visited on a whim, with Hwang Minhyun, who looks as if he’s trying to count down the seconds until he can wrap his arms around Seongwoo’s neck and most likely kill him before they even find their culprit, as his only company.

 

 

 

 

The food served in the restaurant was great, and certainly a breath of fresh air from the airplane food they’d eaten nearly two days in a row, but it didn’t make up for Minhyun’s sour mood; still grumbling about mischievous musicians and Seongwoo feeding them to keep going. (After ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’, Seongwoo tried his luck and paid them for one more song; they played ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’, which Seongwoo tried his hardest not to show his delight at, because it was a good song. He just didn’t want to get eviscerated on the spot by Minhyun.)

“Where are we going?” Seongwoo whines, after the both of them have left the restaurant. The sky is dark now, with only a few stars casting light, and no moon left behind. Most of the light on the streets come from the establishments that scatter around the roads, as well as the few street lamps that stand tall, maybe has stood tall for longer than both Seongwoo and Minhyun’s lifetimes combined.

A step ahead of him, Minhyun continues to walk in a brisk pace, phone’s built-in navigation in hand. “A bookstore. I thought it was my turn to choose a place to visit.”

“I didn’t say it worked like that,” Seongwoo mutters under his breath, as he’d been expecting to carry both him and Minhyun around Turin, acting like their tour guide (who, in reality, had never set foot in this place before. But the Internet was powerful that way.)

They walk through the cobblestoned path, take a few turns, and even get stopped by the traffic lights. Seongwoo keeps track of all this in his head.

(10: Minutes they walked.

4: Turns they took.

3: Traffic lights.

1: Book store.

0: Energy he had left after they arrived, and Seongwoo’s left panting for breath. Having a full-course dinner before walking tends to do that, maybe