Moon Jongup had never been comfortable around Yoo Youngjae; that was why very few had ever seen them together. Their friendship was not that of strangers, no. They did not suffer from the awkwardness that bound Jung Daehyun to Bang Yongguk, nor Jung Daehyun to Jongup, nor Jung Daehyun to Zelo. The rarity of interactions between Jongup and Youngjae was due to a completely different reason.

The reason was that they knew each other.

More specifically, they had known each other before either of them became a part of BAP (both in their own time). If ever a list of members was ever needed, ordered from the pioneers to the most recent, it would look like this:

Despite having known each other prior, it didn’t make Jongup feel any less edgy around Youngjae; it irritated him more. Let’s just say, Youngjae’s presence had never been that welcomed before BAP, and just plain awkward after the drummer joined the band.

Some thought Youngjae respected Jongup’s decision in never mentioning they’d known each other, but the truth (in Jongup’s version of reality) was, Youngjae simply did not care.

He hadn’t cared when they were in middle school.

He hadn’t cared when they were in high school.

He was not likely to change anytime soon, even now that they lived together.

In fact, Youngjae hadn’t even known Jongup existed, until one fateful day, when they were sophomores at a private school for the privileged. The year had been 2008 and Moon Jongup was resting behind a leather couch, inside an abandoned senior lounge on the sixth floor. He was nursing his bloody nose and broken lip in the dark. His muscles ached from having been beaten up for the third time that week. It was only Wednesday.

Jongup drummed the back of his head against the back of the couch repeatedly, every now and then, letting out a grunt or two out of frustration.

He hated his life; not because he didn’t have parents, not because he lived in an orphanage, not because he was a shuttle for the rich kids. Jongup hated his life because he was alive. Most kids at the orphanage did not go to school. Jongup was one of the very few exceptions, and he hated that too.

Somebody had been sponsoring not only his education but his entire life, and what made him furious was that, they didn’t even know him. Had they ever asked him whether he wanted this?

Sure, Jongup went to a good school—very good school—had better clothes, better meals, but what was the point of all that when these things could easily be earned by money? And if those people had all that money, why not just frigging adopt him? He was angry. After all, Jongup was not somebody’s pet.

Just because some tosspots were filthy rich, they thought they had the right the rule his life. Jongup snorted. The bitter hatred coiled in his stomach, and he found his hands clenching into fists. He stared at the wall and in the cold dingy air through his teeth. If anything, being alone in the dark only fuelled his loathing.

Most of his misery came from school.

The rich kids, Jongup hated them. They made him shuttle, pushed him around, thought they could abuse his rights because they had money and he, Jongup, did not as much as have a family.

So what? He scoffed. At least he would always be more human than they ever could be.

At once, the door to the empty lounge swung open with a nasty creak. Jongup stiffened, holding his breath. His eyes were wide as he sat there, frozen on the floor, behind the couch. He didn’t dare turn around to peek and see who could possibly want to come here. Dread overwhelmed him, and for a second, Jongup thought those tossers had found out where he was hiding.

After all, this week, Jongup stood up for himself. Now, they wouldn’t stop until he doubled over in agony, knees bent, head bowed.

Footsteps, slow and haunting, clacked on the tiles. Jongup heard the door swung shut, and the little metallic click was definitely of someone locking the room. His heart was beating loudly in his ears, as the footsteps eased their way closer to him.

Trembling, Jongup raised his hand to his mouth and tried to feel whether his lip had stopped bleeding. Too frightened to breathe through his blood-clotted nose, he wiped away the stains that trickled down, and breathed in through his mouth, tasting the metal and grit of his own blood. Cleaning his face with the sleeve of his blazer, Jongup sat up, ready to make a run for it once the footsteps moved past the couch.

But that never came. The steps stopped. A weight sunk down onto the couch with an exhausted sigh. Jongup stiffened, frowning. What were they playing at?

“Not long now,” the voice mumbled tiredly. There was only one person.

His eyes widened, heart pounding. He knew that voice. Of course, he knew that voice. It wasn’t one of the those tossers, but that didn’t make Jongup feel any more comforted. Everybody knew to whom this voice belonged to. Every single one here practically worshipped the ground this person walked on.

Jongup gritted his teeth, scrunching his eyes shut. Great. Now I’m stuck in this room with Yoo-ing-Youngjae.

A beeping noise reached his ears. A faint and muffled ring could be heard as though from a phone. He absently wondered what Youngjae was doing here. Shouldn’t he be strutting around the school with his so called friends?

“Kim there?” said Youngjae’s voice in a demanding tone. Jongup wanted to snort. Give it to Yoo Youngjae to be act like a king. All the students here were peasants to him. Some more than others, of course. In this all-boys school, there were only three types of students: the beater, the beaten, and then there was Yoo Youngjae.

Jongup was tossed into the beaten category on his very first day here, and Youngjae, oh lovely Yoo Youngjae, he rose above all of them.

“Fine, then,” said Youngjae irritatedly, “I’ll leave him a message. Tell him he better be there, or I will hunt him down– of course, not that I don’t know where you guys live.” Youngjae chuckled darkly, “Don’t give me that nonsense. We’re both getting the good end of this deal here, so you guys better– yeah, sure. Bring guns, come armed, you frauds.” Youngjae snorted, and Jongup’s blood ran cold.

Guns? Was he serious?

“Yes, fair enough,” chirped Youngjae. “Do go on a run with my money and with my blood on your hands. I’d quite like to know how long you can survive,” His voice turned lighter, like he found the situation very casual. How could somebody make a joke about his own life like that? Jongup frowned, his fear morphing into something else, something he couldn’t name.

“’Kay, I’ll see both of you next week. We’ll figure something out then.” There was a click, then a deep sigh. Jongup tried to slide further down the floor, to make sure his head wasn’t poking out behind the couch. Youngjae was mumbling to himself, “I can do this…”

The sole of Jongup’s right shoe squeaked.

He in a sharp breath, eyes widening. Silence fell over the room so thickly that he found it hard to breathe. He was definitely going to be dead any second, he just knew it. Jongup was already badly beaten, and that was only from the low ranks in this school. This was Yoo Youngjae, he—Jongup—was definitely going to get murdered.

“Who’s in here?”

Jongup swallowed dryly, tasting the remnants of his own blood. The couch shifted as the weight lifted from the seat. Footsteps echoed the room, more intimidating than before, as they rounded the couch. ‘If I have to die, I won’t die on my knees,’ Jongup found himself thinking, with a deep breath, he rose up just as a shadow rounded the corner to face him.

“What are you doing here?” Youngjae’s voice turned defensive as he took more steps towards the younger.

Jongup’s instincts screamed at him to run, but