A spy's way of living, Junho decides, ought to be as glamorous and adrenaline-inducingly action-packed as Hollywood makes it out to be:

Blazing gun, the sun reflected off the sleek steel gripped tightly by proficient, steady hands, cocked and aimed at his target swiftly, precisely and without hesitation. His movements seem to dramatically decelerate along with each strained, in slow-motion passing second amidst the rapid exchange of gunfire, but he is stable, running smoothly like a well-oiled machine.

Poised to shoot, every single muscle in his body stiffens and he knows there remains no time to hesitate. Not when, out of the corner of his eyes, he can see his opposite unconsciously mirroring his position, just as ready to deliver the last coup de grâce as he is.

He doesn't hesitate.

The familiar action of producing his weapon passes by before his very eyes in a blur, the sweltering air stills, and his stance widens in disposition, unwavering even in the face of death.

His breathing, sharp and fast before, deepens the more he concentrates.

And it's only a matter of seconds, but time stretches unnaturally long as his last, composed intake of air rushes into his lungs, bringing clarity.
He narrows his eyes, and his finger, sinking and applying pressure, pulls the trigger --

-- The gunshot that rings through his memory like an echo never fails to weaken his knees in excitement, because this-- this could be him.
A fully classified, top-notch agent.  

And while it might sound absurd and childish to some, a great deal of his life has always actively revolved around his firm determination that one day, through hard work, a clean record, and an immaculate entity as a model citizen of his homeland, he, just like his ultimate all-time role model, would be able to serve the country and provide it with his utmost loyalty.

All that and so much more.

He'd be damned if he didn't work his off to get there.

Honor aside, someone as good-looking as him is bound to attract countless of women just with a flash of pearly whites, right?

Right.

However.

This?

This is anything but glamorous.

#

"Why did you apply to DSC?"

It's the standard procedure: Why did you apply? What sets you apart from other potential candidates? Are you willing to die for your country? Yadda yadda yadda.

Junho, suppressing the urge to sigh at the monotonously predictable recruitment test, merely blinks in response, not the least bit intimidated to have the attention of a whole room resting solely on him.

Carefully shifting in the seat strategically placed in the center of the surrounding evaluation committee, his gaze skitters across the room, focusing on the interviewer, "I chose to apply to DSC because I like the reputation that--"

"The reputation?", the case officer, an uncompromising, stern and -- surprisingly -- entirely too young-looking man, cuts him off before Junho even manages to finish his sentence, his thick brows almost reaching his hairline in a mix of mild scepticism and disbelief, head tipped back.

It would've been comical if not for the guy's, admittedly, handsome complexion, and Junho can't help but genuinely wonder for a split second whether it's a precondition in order to be accepted.

Being handsome, that is.

However, it seems that, whatever Junho had attempted to say in the course of a few fleeting seconds, managed to displease him for some reason.

"Surely you must've mistaken us for a scouting agency. Is that why you're here? To gain prestige?"

Momentarily thrown off track by the interviewer's blatant jab, Junho, posture straightening, shakes his head, "I am here because it has always been a dream of mine. To serve and protect the country--"

"That's what 99 % of the competitors claim, along with their undying, honorable love for  the country. Each and every time an applicant steps through this door," he intercepts again, brusque, the pen in his hand pointing at the entrance, but Junho doesn't dare to move his head to throw a look over his shoulder,

"-- the same response."

It's almost insulting, the way he says it, so contemptuously.  

Like he isn't any better than the last idiot that stepped into this building and had the luck to have this guy assigned to be his interviewer, just to leave the way he entered, with the exception that he probably shouldn't bother to apply here ever again.

Scratch that, it definitely is insulting.

And while he appears to be attentive, he doesn't seem all that prone on wanting to know at all when he next asks him, "Tell me, what exactly differentiates you from the rest of them?"

"I--", Junho starts, throat working nervously for a second.

The answer is easy. He prepared it all beforehand, after all:

Serve the country, protect the country, and finally, finally implement his dream.

Voicing it, however, is a completely different story, and he feels resentment welling up inside him for hesitating.

Still, he pauses, and, for the first time since he stepped into the room, throws a look around to watch each of the assembled members in a last attempt of sorting out his scattered thoughts.

They look back at him, curiosity written across each individual face like a blinking neon message board, unnerving him despite what he had claimed prior.

-- Until his gaze finds the case officer's quizzical one once again, and the impatience, the desire to finally finish this absurd joke of a recruitment test that he finds there makes Junho angry, sets something off he didn't intend to let loose.

Not in front of the evaluation committee, anyway.

"I'm a holder of a third-degree belt in Taekwondo. My accuracy rate in 50m pistol shooting adds up to almost 98 %. I'm in possession of a flying certificate for light aircraft, and have a license in car racing," he lists off heatedly, fixing the interviewer with his resolute, unflinching gaze.

Whatever the guy's problem is, Junho sure as hell isn't going to let a measly associate ruin his potential career.

"By all means, Sir," he spits out, agitated, "If there's anyone that has been training specifically for this very profession, it's me. I am confident I can become the best agent, and serve the country with the passion and loyalty it deserves to be provided with."

Another pause sets in, longer this time as they all collectively turn their heads to stare at the case officer.

The former, unexpectedly, lowers his gaze with a weary sigh, the files containing Junho's personal information abandoned with a defeated flick of his hand, leaning back in his seat as if he was the one that had to do endure his taunts in front of an audience.

Junho acknowledges it as a small victory.

Nevertheless, apparently not yet finished, the male turns his attention back to Junho almost immediately, staring him down and raising his hand to point at him for another couple of strained seconds in which Junho, refusing to back down, meets his gaze head-on instead.

"Are you willing to die for your country?"

"No."

His response earns him a surprised look, but Junho goes on without missing a beat,

"I would never die for my country. I will live for it, for my country would never want me to die."

And as the words leave him, painted and spoken with determination, he realizes that they are true. That, once they left him, he would give his damnedest to keep this promise, no matter the circumstances or the obstacles blocking his path.

That he would prove himself, should his time come.

And it will come.

"It would want me to live, to survive, and to dispose of everything and anyone who opposes."

It makes his chest swell with an incredible rush of pride, head held high even as his heart pounds violently enough for him to feel it in his toes, in a much need breath as he pauses.

Let me prove myself.

That, apparently satisfactory and abrupt, to say the least, is the case officer's cue to end this interview, a listless wave of his hand indicating for Junho to leave as he mumbles a weary, "Go," with another long-winded sigh.

"Next."

Quick and more than glad to comply, a brief bow is offered, Junho turning to leave the room without another second glance, the shuffle of paper accompanying him on the way out.

It's liberating, being able to finally leave this damned room, and the knowledge of having the case officer's displeased gaze resting on him the entire time only fuels the intense feeling of satisfaction coursing through his veins.

He did it.

He totally aced it, and if not for his audience, he would have fist pumped the air in celebration, because Jesus Christ did he ace it.

Alas, no can do, but that doesn't stop him from being smug about it, anyway.

Hand on the handle, he pulls it open, stepping outside with a complacent, inaudible exhale of relief, oh so casually fixing the lapels of his expensive suit with a firm tug as he fishes haphazardly in the pockets of his dress pants for his phone, planning to leave.

What he doesn't expect to happen, however, is to run into something solid the second he sets a foot onto the tiles of the corridor, head shooting up upon collision with whatever is blocking his way in surprise, and squinting slightly when he realizes it's a guy.

About a couple of centimetres taller than him, Junho notes critically, with dark, short-cropped and subtly styled hair, a perfectly pressed suit and an expression of indifference and expectance all at once, one eyebrow arched as if waiting for Junho to comment on it, or -- and that is probably the case rather than his initial thought -- apologize.

Junho arches an eyebrow right back, pointedly looking down at the close proximity of their bodies, and back up again to fix him with an equally as unimpressed look, taking a step back out of courtesy, which obviously the other didn't deem Junho worthy enough of giving.

"Watch it," he retorts, snappish, brushing imaginary dust off of his chest and smoothing the bunched fabric down, "That's custom-made."

If anything, his opposite's unimpressed expression only grows more and more unimpressed the longer he stares at him, and as Junho watches him roll his eyes and step aside, he shoots his retreating form a derogatory look.

Rookies.

#

The call comes a few days later.

Junho, busy shoving food into his mouth, feels his phone vibrate in his pocket before his ringtone has a chance to blare through the entire restaurant.

Hastily unlocking the screen with a swipe of his thumb and pressing it against his ear, he attempts to chew as fast as possible,

"Yobose--"

"Lee Junho-ssi," the tinny voice of a female announces at the other end of the line, "Interview number 1468. This is an automatic server message. You have been admitted to the DSC. I repeat--"

Eyes growing wide, the chopsticks holding the rice centimetres before his mouth pause, and, before he knows it, he jumps out of his seat with a scream of victory, muffled by the not-yet-swallowed food as his chair topples back in his ecstatic outburst of excitement, flailing arms sending the plates and bowls on his table flying in all directions and spilling its contents everywhere.

A concerned waitress rushes to his table the second she hears the ear-shattering sound of porcelain breaking into thousands of shards on the floor, bending down to pick up the bits and pieces with soft exclamations of worry, and Junho, coming down from his high briefly enough to notice the mess he created around him, apologizes with a rushed bow before taking out his wallet.

Smacking enough money to buy at least two sets of the same dishware onto the soiled table, Junho charges out of the restaurant, fist in the air and laughing as he does so.

Despite the audience.

To hell with the audience, he did it.

#

His ride to the academy is a short one, awfully so as it barely leaves time for him to sort himself, a nervous hand twitching upwards to fix his tie ever so often.

He tries to breathe through the excitement, taking deep, calming drags of air through his nose, resolutely turning his head to stare out of the tinted window to his right in hope the passing landscape might calm his racing heart as the car brings him closer and closer to his most dreaded destination.

To no avail.

It's his first day, of course everyone -- including him, especially him -- is bound to be a little bit nervous. Even the clothes he's wearing feel like they're trying to suffocate him, positively sandwiching his windpipe he's wrapped into them so tightly.

At least that's how it seems like to him.

It has to be.

Frankly, with the way the material keeps scratching the sensitive skin of his damp neck, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd end up with a nasty rash.

They all wear the same ugly business attire, so he guesses no one was spared.

A simple, white button down, black suit pants and jacket, topped of with a velvety, grape-colored tie and patent-leather shoes, oh so liberally provided by the agency. To amplify the feeling of solidarity amongst the colleagues or something.

He'd rather wear the suits specifically tailored to fit him like a second skin than be overly aware of the itchiness of his actual skin.

Completely missing its function, is what it is.

And for whatever unfathomable reason, and to Junho's mild displeasure, the dress code, horrendously ordinary as it turned out to be, has to be strictly adhered to at all times -- a fact Junho is still unable to process entirely, despite trying his best to be as optimistic about the matter as possible.

Then again, he has never really been the patient type.

Clearing his dry throat, squaring his shoulders and clenching his teeth as he inhales again, air rushes out of his lungs in an audible sigh.

It's gonna be fine, you can do this.

This is what you've always wanted.

-- Except, that's when the car stops, and suddenly it's not something he has always wanted.

The driver, sunglasses shielding Junho's view of his eyes, turns around in his seat as soon as they come to a halt, nodding dutifully.

"Sir."

It's now or never.

His lips press into a thin, white line, nodding back.

A second of consideration is all it takes for him, face adapting that of a professional rather than the nervous adolescent he feels like deep down as soon as he fully slips out of the comfortable protection of his car, and into the chilly air, taking his luggage with him as he pauses to look up at the large building drilling hundreds of agents every year.

It stretches out broadly; painted in white, with big, double-pane glass windows, imparting him with the nostalgic feeling of being a fresh student at a new school as the academy, not much different from the local schools back in his hometown, gives off the same vibe, court yard seemingly endless, but completely spotless.

Trainees pass his car, carrying bags, dressed accordingly.

He shouldn't feel like he just returned home from a seemingly endless trip as he takes in his surroundings, nervous and giddy to experience everything familiar anew, but he does, and, surprisingly, it's not a bad feeling at all.

#

They barely have time to occupy their respective seats in the room they all got herded into upon arrival before the disciplinary officer, or rather the disciplinary officers, begin with their initiation.

Junho, allowing his gaze to roam, spots the familiar face of the case officer that had interviewed him for his recruitment test back then, positioned a few feet behind what Junho assumes to be his superior, clad in his respective, beige uniform, his hands folded behind his back as a rather broad, sturdily built man introduces both of them in a curt fashion.

Junho doesn't bother to linger on him for all too long, seeing as his suspicion concerning the interviewer turned out to be right, which is far more interesting, naturally.

"I am Ok Taecyeon, the disciplinary officer assigned to take charge of this group. And this, to my left, is my colleague Kim Minjun," he says, a sweeping gesture with his hand made to present said colleague, who offers merely but a complementary bow.

Minjun, Junho contemplates to himself, cocking his head just the slightest.

Quite the mellow name for someone that looks like he could have you begging for your life while crushing your ribcage with one his massive boots should you even dare to so much as glance in his direction.

He'd probably enjoy it too, judging from the way he keeps shooting everyone these half-assessing, hawk-eyed looks, as if calculating the fastest way to take them out without having to use his hands.

Junho is officially terrified.

"Your perfomance, as well as the achievements you will hopefully attain in the course of your training, will add up to form your final grades. Each field absolved will have its own evaluation, so I would suggest for you to do your utmost and use this opportunity to gain as much knowledge as physically possible.

"The signature, or rather, the alias you will be using from this point onwards is a crucial factor, a focal point as it is the one you shall be addressed with. Never, under any circumstances, expose your identity unless you plan on endangering not only yourself, but the one's around you as well."

Rustling echoes through the rows of trainees as everyone turns their attention to the documents already placed in front of them.

Pursing his lips, Junho gently taps the pen against the paper in a pensive fashion, the steady stream of information provided by the discipline officer an idle background noise to his straying thoughts.

Settling for the name that's been whirring in his head ever since he had to decide on a suited alias, fluently, his hand glides over the paper.

Park Yongje.

Short, inconspicuous. Common, but not /too/ common, unless--

-- An amused snort somewhere to his right rips him out of his deliberations, Junho, annoyance displayed in the way he shoots his obnoxious neighbour a deprecating glance, momentarily freezes in place.

"You", he bursts out as soon as his wordless mouthing stops, gaping at the same guy that had the nerve to bump into him so rudely without apologizing for his immature behavior.

His opposite just turns his head in makeshift, put on innocence, doelike eyes staring back at him in puzzlement, but it's the faint, barely-there upturn of his mouth that betrays him.

"You're--"

"Is there a problem?", Officer Kim's stern voice, menancingly calm, cuts through their rather onesided exchange, sharp gaze zeroing in on Junho.

Junho gets the feeling he prides himself on moments like these; cutting off unsuspecting trainees mid-speech and subsequently scaring the crap out of them. What a nasty habit.

However, it seems to work almost too well on him, the short male jerking to attention instantly.

"No, Sir."

His face, incredibly expressive, Junho notes, is the epitome of unbelieving.

"Seeing as you got time for pointless chatter, I suppose it's save to assume you are done filing your documents. Bring them over."

He stands upon request, gathering his papers in fuming silence as a sideways glance positively pierces holes into the oblivious male beside him, the latter rising to hand his files in, too.

"Park Yongje. That's a little obvious, don't you think?", the taller male whispers almost inaudibly, and Junho, annoyed, hisses "Shut up," back, Officer Kim's waiting hand taking the papers out of his grip none too gently as he eyes them both.

"Mr---- Park," he reads out, pausing as he glances up from the paper in his hands, "I'll ask you one last time. Is there a problem?"

"No, Sir," Junho repeats through clenched teeth, stifling the urge to elbow Officer in the stomach.

Seriously though, what is his deal?

He makes the mistake of sparing a quick glance at the taller male beside him, uncomfortable to stand so close, and, of course, observant as he is, Officer Kim picks up on it, alternating between scrutinizing him and his opposite for a few painful seconds.

The sudden flash of cognition Junho spots in his eyes, however, is, quite frankly, the most terrifying thing he ever had the chance of witnessing, and as an overly jaunty smile curls his plump lips, the strange feeling in Junho's gut worsens with worrying intensity.

"Excellent. Well," oddly enough, his voice rises in volume, addressing not only them, but the group in general, "I'm happy to announce that, from now on, Mr. Lee and Mr. Park are going to form a team."

Mouth opening and closing, Junho struggles to come up with a proper response other than the bewilderment derailing his features, the hooting and cheering of his derisory teammates breaking out around him.

Form a team-- With this guy?

No--

"Does that--"

"Yes, Mr. Park. That also entails sharing a room together, companiable and cozy, if that's what you're referring to. You've read the documents, no? If so, then you should be familiar with the conditions."

Admittedly, he didn't, but that's beside the point--

"But--"

"I'm sure you'll both get along just fine. Now, please."

His open hand gestures towards them, a rotating motion of his pointed finger telling them to turn towards each other, presumably to acknowledge the matter and shake hands to seal the deal.

Forced to face his partner and now new-fledged bunkmate, Junho looks up at him, banked fury reflected in those chocolate eyes.

"I'm going to kill you," he presses out amid general applause of the trainees surrounding them, reaching out to offer his hand.

Lee takes it, crooked smile infuriating enough to make Junho want to punch him as he they exchange a fleeting handshake.

"Please treat me well," he gets in return.