From an early age Kim Jongin is taught a very vital principal, respect. 

First, a sense of self-respect is instilled in him. Because, if you can’t respect yourself, how can you respect others? And, if you don’t respect yourself, then how do you expect others to respect you?

If someone was to ask Kim Jongin, whose face is plastered everywhere with wanted in bold and million dollar rewards promised for capture in over twenty countries, who do you fear most, who do you respect the most? It wouldn’t be Wu Yifan, who had killed his own father, and could have Jongin killed in the blink of an eye, nor would it be any of the thousand police force, always on the lookout for him. No, it would be his mother. 

One day, in the dimness of their broke down, ratty apartment his mother had handed him all she had, five dollars and twenty two cent, and told him to go buy himself candy, because she knew Jongin had a sweet tooth, and it would make him happy. Fourteen year old Jongin simply did as told, at this point he knew better than to argue with his mother, and with one final glance back at her wobbly, youthful smile, he slid on his ratty converse and headed into their neighborhood, the slums. 

It was for his mother that his criminal career began. She had taught him that women were queens. They were to be respected and well taken care of. The most crucial thing when it came to women, his mother had said, was permission. 

“Jongin, you listen and you listen well. If you like a woman- and I’m saying woman because I know my son and it won’t be until much later that you find that special someone, because you are so special. But, when you do, always wait for permission. If you want to pursue a woman, only do it when you have permission. A woman is a lady, not an object. Treat her with respect. Do you hear me?” 

He had said “Yes ma’am”, and ignored the tear stains from the final time his father had left them. His mother had always been so strict, yet so gentle and loving, so strong but yet so- broken. So, yes, when Jongin had shoved the money in his pocket and stole from the convenience store anyway, and after being chased for several blocks before running into a mysterious blonde haired man with the most gentle smile that somewhat resembled an angel (Jongin finds that looks can be very deceiving) who offers him more money than his young mind can process for a “favor”, he eagerly agrees. It’s for his mother, he tells himself.    

Later that night when Jongin stumbles down the poverty stricken streets, covered head to toe in the blood of a man he never knew, and into his flimsy apartment, his mother should have been waiting, but instead there’s a crinkled note written in too sloppy handwriting, marred with too many tears. All Jongin can really make out is “Sorry” and “I love you”. He figures that’s all he needs though. Because, everything he does is for her. She’s sorry and she loves him, so when he finds her again, four years later, pale and thin as paper, he buys a million dollar house in Malibu, and sends his best friend, Taemin, to care for her, because Jongin is sorry and he loves her too.  

Jongin never mentions any of the ten years of his criminal career, but his mother is far from dense. In fact, she’s one of the most intelligent woman he knows, that and-

“Money doesn’t grow on trees, Jongin.” She had said, voice more steely than he’s ever heard. 

He had just married the girl of his dreams, he thinks, as he’d watched her, all golden curls and sparkling hazel eyes. She smiles when she catches his eye, and it’s so breath taking and beautiful, Jongin has to smile back, because this is the happiest he’s been in a while, but there his mother was, bringing him back to reality. She grunts, cocking her wine glass in his direction as if she doesn’t really know him anymore, and maybe, Jongin thinks, she doesn’t.

“I know your type. I used to be married to your kind. You rise from poverty, get a little dirty money and think you’re so great, huh? Well, I hate to break if to you darling, but this isn’t some fairytale. This is the real world, where real things happen. The real world where people like you don’t last long. You think because you’ve got a little money and you know how to hide like a coward you can outrun life forever? This is not how I raised you! I’m ashamed, I’m disappointed, and I never thought someone could hurt me more than your own lying bastard excuse of a father did. Well, congratulations.”

He watches her slam her glass down and snatch her clutch, storming across the foyer, and he wants to call out, and ask her, congratulations on his marriage or on hurting her in all the worse ways possible? But she’s already whipping around, regarding his wife momentarily, who’s running out into the open alongside Chanyeol and Luhan, like a child, arms spread out to resemble that of an airplane, and when the sun reflects just so in her hazel orbs, smile youthful and radiant, Jongin has to look away because it’s too much.    

“I like her, and I love you, but I will no longer be a part of this.” His mother’s voice snaps him back to this moment they’re having, whatever it is, he thinks. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, hand shaking slightly on the door knob, but she’s walked away from worse. He realizes then that she’s waiting, but for what he doesn’t know. “I’m sorry”? Jongin’s a little tired or being sorry. 

“I’ll pray for you when they get you.” Is the last thing he hears before she turns, and without another glance back, leaves, forever. He doesn’t even believe in forever, but he never sees her again after that, not until he has one foot in the grave and the other in the unknown.    

It hurts more than when Yifan had popped him in the face with the muzzle of his pistol when Jongin had first met him, stings even more than when he’d first been shot. Shakes him to the core more than when he held Sehun’s bloodied, limp body, listened to his last words, heard his last breath.

This was a different kind of hurt though. All those things had hurt Kai, but this- this had hurt Jongin, Kim Jongin, the boy with the ratty converse and the brightest smile in the slums. 

It hurt. 

When Wu Yifan was seven years old, he wanted to be a police officer.

Their uniforms were his favorite shade of blue and he really wanted a badge. Badges were cool. At school he had been taught that policemen were heroes, like firefighters and doctors, and he wanted nothing more than to be the equivalent to Batman, a hero.

So he spends the rest of his youth carrying a toy gun and badge, and bowing at the policemen he happens to catch on the street, who stare at him oddly, because who is this weird, raven haired Chinese boy missing two front teeth? Yifan’s days are spent pointing out every vehicle with red and blue lights overhead, wishing, and hoping that someday, he’ll be behind the wheel.

This all changes one hot, sunny day in July.

Yifan steals a five carat Cartier Bracelet for his mother’s birthday. It all happens in a blur, really, how one minute he’s being chased by several cops to standing in a pool of his beloved mother’s blood. Whenever he looks back at it, he thinks it’s quite funny, really, how fate had always been so cruel, spitting in his face like that, but his ten year old self hasn’t quite gotten there yet so he screams, kicks, and sobs, but his mother is just as limp as when her body first hit the ground.

An ambulance is never called and he’s not spared another glance as he cries out hysterically, because they’re just immigrants. His mother’s English had been too poor for the impatient officer to understand, and now Yifan aches every twentieth of July. 

The streets welcome him with open arms, the concrete becoming his new pillow and the chilly wind his new blanket. At age eleven Yifan is homeless, starving, and possibly, dying, but not for long, not for too long, he remembers.

His savior comes in the form of an extremely pale, thin, sickly looking boy with the darkest crop of black hair and the bright smile Yifan has ever seen. He’s munching happily on a bag of potato chips, skipping merrily down the street when he all but trips over Yifan’s legs, tumbling to the ground with a choked cry.

“Watch where you’re going, kid.” Yifan grunts, rising slowly to a stand and shuffling forward to offer a hand to the fallen boy.

He accepts without a second thought, and with how young the boy looks he’s surprised he’s not outright crying, but the elder is more surprised with how the other had accepted his dirt smudged hand.

“Why are you napping in the middle of the sidewalk?”

He pauses then because the boy is so innocent, staring up at him with twinkling dark brown orbs, genuinely curious, but before he can really say anything a dark haired man comes hurrying up, fussing over the small boy.

“Yixing, why did you run off like that?” He scolds, checking the boy for any injuries, letting out a relieved sigh when deeming him fine. 

“Who is this?” Finally, he notices Yifan’s presence, eying him quizzically.

“My new friend-“ The boy, Yixing, chirps, tugging Yifan’s hand.

“Yifan” He supplies, and the older man pauses, before repeating it.

“Yifan”

Yixing and Mr. Zhang become his new family. There’s no Mrs. Zhang and Yifan never asks, because when he had been born there had been no Mr. Wu.

Mr. Zhang treats Yifan as if he were his own, scolding him when necessary, but cheering him on every step of the way as he grew and learned the ways of life. Yixing was like the little brother he never he knew he wanted, always coddling and cuddling up to him. There was never a moment of doubt within the little brick house tucked in the corner of the street, and there was always love, laughter, and happiness, without much of a pursuit, but Yifan comes to learn that nothing good stays.

Yifan is fourteen and Yixing is nine when Mr. Zhang passes. Natural causes, the doctor says before he leaves two minors in the house with a dead body. Three days pass and Yixing doesn’t leave the room, doesn’t leave his father’s side, even when he’s stopped breathing a few days ago.

Yifan, being the eldest, takes it upon himself to do something, figures going out to get food will be a good start. So, he grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and out the door, into the chilly evening.

He hasn’t even left his porch yet when a blonde man approaches, in the most immaculate suite with one of the heaviest looking fur coats Yifan has even seen, slung casually over his shoulder. He smiles up at Yifan, but it’s not returned.

“Is Mr. Zhang here?” He asks.

“He’s dead” Yifan says, rather bluntly. The blonde seems a bit crestfallen then, glancing at the pavement before regarding the younger with a somber smile.

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a really good friend of mine.”   

There’s a small pause before the stranger turns to leave. Yifan watches him wearily, the way his blonde locks are ruffled by the wind, and how expensive the watch on his wrist must be, but then said stranger is whipping around with an undecipherable look.

“Say, how about you do me a favor? My name is Suho.”

Yifan comes to learn that Suho’s “favors” include a lot of blood, but he pays well and Yifan is young and excitable. Two million dollars for this guy’s head, half a million if this man doesn’t make it to work the next morning. When he’s not playing top assassin, he’s shadowing Suho, learning the ropes first hand. The blonde man reminds him of Mr. Zhang, because he’s so kind, and often times Yifan finds himself wondering why all of these people decided to do Suho, of all people, so wrong.

All it take is for Yifan to forget his phone in Suho’s office one day, to learn a vital lesson, that looks can be deceiving. He never talks about what he saw, doesn’t even tell Yixing whom knows Yifan better than he knows himself, but he never quite looks at Suho the same. Nothing changes though, except, maybe, the dynamic of their relationship when just one day after the “incident” Suho calls Yifan to his office for a “friendly chat”.

“I think it goes without saying you are not to discuss what you saw yesterday. Am I understood, Yifan?”

He nods stiffly, and for the first time in his life he actually hears Suho.

“Anyway, that’s not what I called you here for. You see, I see potential in you, great potential. You have risen to the top of my ranks in only two years, a new record! Wonderful, isn’t it? The money, the power, but there’s more. There’s always more and all you have to know is I’m trusting you, Yifan.”

When Suho pushes his brown, leather seat toward him, Yifan seats himself at the desk of an empire. It’s difficult at first, because Suho disappears after that, and no one really wants to listen to a sixteen year old boy, but somehow, Yifan makes things work, because he always had that uncanny ability, to make things work.  

Its two years later when Suho finally returns, a scrawny brunette boy following in his footsteps. If the older man notices the bags under Yifan’s eyes and the way his shoulders slouch slightly, he chooses not to comment, opting for a gentle smile instead.

“As much as I’d like to catch up, I’m afraid more important matters are calling” Is all he says before patting the brunette on the shoulder and leaving abruptly. Yifan notes the boy is shaking and unable to make eye contact- pathetic. 

“What’s your name?”

His voices bellows in the empty office and the boy jumps, staring desperately at the floor, and Yifan has been there before, afraid.

“Jong-“

“Kai”

“W-what?” The boy stammers, meeting the elder’s eyes hesitantly.

“I said, your name is Kai. Now, come get this stupid file and get out of my sight!”

Jongin, apparently not taking too kindly to his attitude glares defiantly up at him, but Yifan is in no mood to deal with insolent brats so he grabs the first thing in sight, his pistol, whirls around his desk and pops the younger in the face with the muzzle. It’s silent as the younger cradles his nose and mouth in his hands, blooding seeping through the cracks in his fingers, breezing past Yifan and snatching the file, then promptly fleeing the room.

Sometimes Yifan has to remind himself, that’s he’s not the bad guy.

Jongin awakes with a jolt, almost toppling out of his chair.

He glances at the girl tucked neatly beside him, but she's just as unconscious as before he had dozed off. Her head is thrown back, eyes screwed tightly shut, and in the moment of admiring her, he reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, but suddenly the plane jerks to the right, and so does Jongin. He manages to catch himself from falling into the isle by holding onto the armrest, gritting his teeth through the turbulence.

It starts to irritate him after a while, the constant jerking of the plane, so he jumps to his feet, sending the unconscious girl one last glance before storming to the captain's pit.

The sight that greets him is very unpleasant.

Not only is the entire pit covered in blood, but the decapitated body of the former pilot is slouched directly by the door, and in his place sits Luhan, pressing various buttons and yanking the wheel to and fro while Sehun holds a cigarette to his lips.

"What the hell are you two doing?"

Luhan jumps slightly before glancing back at Jongin and blowing a ring of smoke, but Sehun just grunts, kicking his feet up and leaning back.

"Oh Jongin, it's just you. What's up man?" Luhan grins.

Jongin doesn't respond, just stares at the slumped body of the now lifeless former pilot. Upon noticing this Luhan waves it off, motioning for Sehun to light him a cigar instead.

"Don't worry about him. He was kind of a smart anyway. We should be landing in thirty minutes"

"That is if we don't crash first" Sehun mumbles, as pessimistic and blunt as ever, Jongin notes dryly.

"That too!" The elder chirps, and as if to prove their point, the plane jerks once more.

Jongin just sighs and tries to ignore the head rolling around on the floor as he exits to return back to his seat. Kyungsoo is there this time, still fumbling on his IPad, and when he notices the other, they share a knowing look.

"Luhan killed the pilot?"

He shakes his head when Jongin nods. He had always thought that, beside him and Jongin, Yifan had the strangest taste in henchmen.

Surprisingly, Luhan gets them to the safe house in one piece, before scurrying off in search of the nearest bar, Sehun using hunger as a meager excuse to follow him.

The sun is sinking low below the horizon when Jongin flops down on the bed, the white sheets crinkling as he stretches. He's a little tired, but there was an important dinner tonight and not only Yifan, but Suho (1) himself would skin him alive if he were absent. Now that he thinks about it, it's been a long time since they all came together.

It was going to be a long night.

A/N:

1. Yifan is the "visual" boss of their crime syndicate, while Suho is the actual, behind the scenes leader. 

2. This story completely lacks order. I cut the original chapter 2 in half because I have a lot of main chracters & I wanted to go ahead and incorporate a little bit of their character background + Jongin's