“You missed a lot.”

Jaebum wrinkles his nose as he sits down next to Youngjae for lunch, only half-focused on whatever the younger man’s saying to him. “Uh huh.”

“They say Seunghoon-hyung’s got a new girlfriend.”

“Eurgh,” Jaebum prods unconcernedly at his kimchi with his chopsticks. “Tragic.”

“I know.”

“Hyung!” a protest from across the table makes them both look up- Seunghoon shoots Jaebum a betrayed look. “That was total bull, why’d you even listen to that?”

Jaebum’s about to raise the fact that they’d just been trading wild stories about a certain Busan transfer that morning and Seunghoon certainly hadn’t been opposed to listening, when Minho lifts an arm to wave over at someone, a wide smile on his face. Jaebum only has to turn his head an inch before someone swaggers into view, and he groans audibly.

There goes one peaceful lunchtime.

“Move,” Minho orders Seunghoon, who obliges, grumbling. He cracks up anyway when Jackson makes a comment about how his isn’t that big, as he turns around to check.

“You again,” Jaebum mutters into his rice, and Jackson makes an affronted noise.

“This coming from the guy who couldn’t even be bothered to ask his new partner over for lunch on the first day?”

Jimin looks delighted. “Have you gotten to know each other much?”

“What do I need to know?” Jackson slides into his seat, sending a sly grin across the table. “Other than the fact he’s apparently got the biggest stick in the world up his .”

Jaebum lets out a long-suffering sigh, while the rest of the table chortles into their food.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you for the next quarter,” Jaebum says indifferently, and Jackson puffs out his chest.

“I’ll have you know many people consider that a privilege.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Oooh,” Jimin smirks over at Jackson, and there’s something dancing behind those dark eyes of hers that suggests she’s about to do something less-than-innocent. “Why don’t you sit back and let us fill you in on everything you need to know?”

“There’s nothing he needs to know,” Jaebum sends a warning look across the table that effectively shuts up everyone but Jimin.

“Let’s start on how his love life has been dead since the day we knew him.”

Jaebum presses a hand to his forehead, and the table breaks into barely-suppressed mirth, except for Jinwoo, who looks around, slightly confused.

“Wait, isn’t he already married to-…owch, what was that for?” he pouts at Seunghoon, reaching under the table to hold his foot, presumably where Seunghoon’d kicked him. Everyone ignores him.

“Our most valiant efforts to hook him up have been in vain,” Jimin says dramatically, a hand to her forehead, before turning to Jackson. “It’s up to you now to get him laid, understand?”

“This is so unnecessary-…” Jaebum hisses, but Jackson’s already cackling, a look of rather sinister delight on his face, and Jaebum points at him threateningly. “Don’t even think about doing anything, understand?”

“It’s alright, we’ve all got our own issues,” Jackson pretends to extend a comforting hand across the table, speaking so gravely it’s hilarious. “Don’t be ashamed of your problems, hyung, we’re all friends here.”

“So-…done, I swear,” Jaebum sends a glare at everyone at the table. “This is all your fault, Park Jimin.”

“Just stating facts, oppa,” Jimin raises her hands in mock surrender. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Exactly,” Jaebum says levelly into his food. “There’s nothing wrong with not bothering to date- or not broadcasting your love life to the world, for that matter,” he sends a pinning look at Jimin, who has the audacity to look insulted.

“Well, if there was a love life to broadcast in the first place-…” Youngjae adds drily, and Jaebum sends an accused look his way, while the rest of them burst into laughter.

“You too, now?”

Youngjae shrugs, apparently satisfied, and Jaebum grumbles, choosing to return to his food. He can find better things to spend his time on than this.

He deliberately turns a deaf ear to whatever nonsense Jimin attempts to fill Jackson’s head with about him after that, instead shovelling down his rice as quickly as possible, his mind on the work laid out for him for the rest of the day.

Jackson shoots a disappointed look his way when he stands five minutes later, grabbing his tray.

“Done already?” the expression is mirrored on Seunghoon’s face, and Jaebum’s pretty sure they’d already had some idiotic thing planned out for him in the short span of time Jackson had been here.

“Yes, don’t look so down, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to embarrass me this quarter,” Jaebum rolls his eyes, before taking the file he’d brought down and waving it. “I need to submit this to Home Affairs.”

“You know,” Jackson calls obnoxiously after him, apparently oblivious to the concept of noise pollution. “There’s this thing called a fax machine.”

Jaebum pretends not to hear that as he drops his tray off and heads out.

*

The sun seems to be beating down on the pavement when he leaves the building, and Jaebum squints, wishing he’d brought out a cap or a pair of sunglasses, or something. He quickens his pace, checking his watch for the amount of time he’s got left before Wooyoung beheads him for being late.

Then again, Jaebum’s never late, but it doesn’t hurts to be careful, right?

People mill by, all rushing about during their lunch hour, but Jaebum’s mostly given a decent berth. He wonders if it’s the investigator’s outfit and the badge, or the fact they recognise the face that’d been broadcasted so publicly on South Korea’s 9pm news one and a half years ago. He decides it doesn’t matter- not now, when more important things are at stake.

The thought’s just passed his mind then, when someone bumps into him, almost knocking the file from his hand, and Jaebum hisses, mostly from surprise, mostly from the fact that someone could wind him like that just by brushing against him.

That surprise is doubled when he looks up to see that the face of the man- no, the boy, who’d bumped into him.

“A-ah, sorry Officer!” Jaebum blinks at the timidity of the boy’s voice. Someone with strength like that could probably speak coarsely to anyone and get away with it. It’s plain to see from the softness of his features and his mannerisms that he’s still a youth, from the way his eyes dart nervously to the fidgeting of his fingers, but one look at the build of his body, well hidden under the loose folds of his knitted sweater, would send most hostilities scurrying in the other direction.

“No, it’s fine,” Jaebum gives his file a glance to check it’s still intact, before looking over in concern. “You okay?” he asks, though he’s quite sure the other boy’s fine- bumping into him had been like walking into a wall.

“Oh!” the boy’s turning red from embarrassment, backing away nervously. “I-…I’m fine. Sorry- I wasn’t looking where I was going, and then I-yeah-…”

“It’s fine, really,” Jaebum says, amused. “Better watch it, though, kid, you might actually injure someone if you’re not careful.”

The boy’s eyes widen in alarm. “I-…I’m sorry! I-…”

“I was joking, relax,” Jaebum chuckles. The boy looks curiously over, then, eyes still questioning, and Jaebum’s stomach clenches a little before he even speaks his mind.

“I-…I’m sorry to ask, but are you Officer Im? The one that took down that gang a couple of years back?” he asks, and Jaebum winces, lips thinning involuntarily.

I should’ve known.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, I am,” Jaebum does his best to maintain a formal tone, does his best not to turn and walk off right then and there. “There a reason for asking?”

“Oh! N-no, just curious, that’s all,” the kid’s gaze flicks away again, stammering in his anxiety. “You-…you did a really great job taking them down, sir.”

Jaebum feels something cold and hollow and empty stir in his chest, even after all this time. It’s even harder to brush it off now that it’s coming directly from someone standing in front of him, not a vision in a nightmare or another vivid memory.

“Thanks,” he says stiffly. “But I didn’t, not really.”

Then he sees uncertainty flash across the boy’s face, however, and suddenly feels obliged to say something else, something that’ll justify the coldness in his tone. Hopefully.

“You’re a good kid,” Jaebum forces the smile, patting the boy on the back. “What’s your name?”

The youth gives him an incredulous look, before it disassembles into nervous laughter. “Yugyeom,” he says shyly.

“Well, Yugyeom, thank you for that compliment,” Jaebum says respectfully. “But there are a lot of things many people don’t know about that night,” he nods slightly, stepping aside. “Have a nice day,” he gestures, before going on his way, waving slightly as he heads on.

He’s had this conversation too many times, with too many people who don’t understand, and he’s quite sure every single one after will be no different.

Keyword here being quite.

*

In another part of the city, however, far away from any signs of police activity, someone else is extremely sure of himself. So sure, in fact, it’s a shame, really, what happens next.

The young businessman stands at the bar of a rather well-known establishment, unconcernedly sipping a drink that probably costs the day’s wages of your average white-collar worker. He’s quite pleased with himself, for various reasons. One could include the fact that he thinks he’s the smartest man on Earth for pulling off what was, in his opinion, a feat that many lesser men would think impossible- cheating one of the biggest geondal in Seoul of a chunk of money that would make the richest man in the world impressed.

A few years back, doing the same thing would be impossible, but not now, not while it’s in shambles from what had probably been the biggest gang raid ever recorded in history lead by some hotshot CID officer, who’d then proceeded to disappear off the face of this Earth. Then, it’s up to reputable, upright businessmen like him, of course, to contribute their fair share to help keep the streets safe at night, isn’t it?

By cheating them of a fortune right under their noses.

He snorts. Golden Dragon, indeed. More like Copper Dragon now, and he laughs at his own little joke. But back to the matter at hand. He raises his glass to his lips, hoping the limited edition diamond-studded Rolex watch on his left wrist glints sufficiently in the lowlight, enough to catch the eye of the second reason he feels pleased with himself.

There’s the stab of satisfaction as the dark eyes of his quarry flick over, lidded and hazy with alcohol, just the way he likes them. It’s a boy standing over at the other end of the bar who’d been chatting up the bartenders, with large, expressive eyes and cute, plush lips, glistening with the red liquid of his last drink. The innocence in those mooning doe eyes and the cherubic fill to his cheeks suggests that he’s almost ten years younger than the businessman himself, here with a fake ID, no doubt, but that doesn’t faze him in the slightest- in fact, it just makes him want the boy more.

He lets his eyes rake over the boy’s slender figure, over the tight ripped skinny jeans hugging his shapely legs, the rather expensive looking, yet ill-fitting leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, no doubt given by one of his many rich suitors, to the cute natural pout of his lips, the exotic tint to his skin that confirms he definitely wasn’t born here. It’s alright, though- countless young boys and girls are shipped here from countries like his to fuel the underworld trade, and this one must’ve gotten lucky with his cute looks and become a favourite of the rich and powerful. The businessman his lips as he wonders what the boy’s heritage is- Thai, probably, by the eyes and the skin. His interest is piqued. Another notch to add in his belt, he supposes.

The boy’s eyes meet his when he looks up again, victory, he thinks already. He smirks amusedly as the boy lifts the slender glass of clear red liquid to his lips, still watching him out of the corner of his eye, taking a lazy sip. His breath catches when a drop falls past the boy’s plush lips, and a dextrous tongue flicks out to catch it, before moistening his lips.

So that was how he’d gotten those rich pursuers.

The man raises his own shotglass to his mouth, downing the drink, before setting the glass down and heading right over, straightening the velvety fabric of his thousand dollar suit as he leans over the boy’s shoulder.

“How much?” The words flow, easy and rich and casual, or at least he thinks so, off his lips, whispered into the ear of the younger boy. The boy doesn’t flinch, probably because he’s heard the same phrase in the same manner countless times before in his life, even taking his time to take a final sip of his drink. His eyes are glassy and clouded with desire when he turns around, brow raised.

“How much do you think?” his breath smells like alcohol and cherries, syllables slurred ever so slightly, and the man smiles.

*

These private rooms cost an arm and a leg on reservation, and to get one at such short notice probably costs double, but he doesn’t care, not now that he’s got all the money in the world.

He fingers the remote in his pocket once the embossed aluminium and frosted glass door is shut and locked, distracted only slightly by the press of the boy’s cold fingers into his wrist.

“We should make this a regular thing,” he suggests, testing the lock on the door. “I’m sure I’d be able to persuade you to think around the idea of payment.”

“I doubt that.”

He barely has the time to process the newfound confidence to that statement when he finds himself most strangely pulled forward- the grip tightens to the point it’s bruising, and he stumbles forward, before it feels like he’s falling, except he falls straight towards the opposite wall at an alarming rate and cracks his skull against the wall.

When his vision clears sufficiently and the only thought in his head isn’t ouch, the boy slides back into focus, now straightening the cuffs of his jacket indifferently, walking over at a glacial pace.

“Mr Lee,” the boy comes down to almost eye level with him, smiling pleasantly, still tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. “I see you’re having fun with all your newfound money.”

The man blinks, still trying to get over the blooming pain in the side of his head.

“Who are you?”

He watches the boy roll his eyes, before tugging the flap of his leather jacket off his right arm, just enough for the man to catch sight of the elaborate scales of the dragon tattoo on his shoulder under his thin black tank top.

There’s a pause, and the businessman laughs, despite himself. “Such an honour. That must make you Bambam, then, if my sources serve me well. Did my little business venture piss off your boss so much he had to pull out all the stops to come after me?”

The pleasant smile returns on Bambam’s face. “If you were such an important man, Mr Lee, let me assure you, he would’ve come after you himself. And surely, if you know who I am, you know you’re about to suffer and possibly die, as well. I don’t quite know what you find so funny about that, Mr Lee.”

“Your stupid geondal just disappoints me more and more,” Mr Lee almost spits. “You think I haven’t anticipated a situation like this?” He picks the remote out from his jacket pocket, waving it in Bambam’s face. “While you were wasting your time trying to scare me, I buzzed my security boys over. You should’ve killed me while you had the chance, stupid boy.”

His smile spreads as the frosted glass door opposite opens, and two burly men, both in identical suits and earpieces, step in, before he turns back to look at Bambam, triumphant. “Pity though, I thought the role suited you well. Maybe you should consider that as a permanent profession after this. Though I’m quite afraid no one will be interested in you once my boys are done with you.”

To his surprise, though, the younger boy doesn’t look the least bit fazed. He hadn’t even turned around to look when the two men came in. Instead, he sighs with a little shrug, as though disappointed, pulling open the expensive leather jacket slightly.

The two men step forward, now, one on either side of Mr Lee. They reach down to grab his wrists- to pull him up, he supposes, and he’s thinking of what next to say-…

…-until they drag him up and slam his wrists against the wall, effectively pinning him there, and he hisses, outraged.

“What the hell is this?”

Bambam’s still the edge of his leather jacket, and the businessman sees it properly now-…rows upon rows of small glinting black handles, which appear to be all they are, until the boy’s slim fingers wrap around a particularly delicate one, and he unsheathes a tiny but cruel looking blade, curved and pretty and laced with deadly jagged edges that disappear unless you hold the knife under the right light, much like the wielder himself.

“I’d advise you to check the allegiances of any service you engage, especially those involved in weaponry and black market goods. But, then again, I seriously doubt you’ll be engaging anything after I’m done with you,” Bambam says, almost mockingly, twirling the glittering number in his hand without so much as a glance at it. “So tell me Mr Lee, where is all that capital you stole from the transaction?”

The businessman laughs again, but it’s forced. “You’ll never see it again. I spent it.”

Bambam rests his hand on the man’s shoulder, lazily pressing the blade into the side of his neck. It draws blood with just the slightest application of pressure. “I mean the investments, you stupid . The ones you made with the money.”

“You know about that?” Mr Lee gapes.

“Who do you think we are? Of course we know, we knew since you got your filthy little hands on the money and pumped it into those stocks,” the boy scoffs, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an everyday cell phone, the kind one can buy off a supermarket shelf, almost. “Now listen carefully, and don’t screw up any more than you already have, understand? You’re going to call your lawyer and hand every single one of those stocks over to us, you hear me? You don’t need to worry about him having reservations about what you’re doing- we’ve sent him an, ah, explanation, of sorts. So all you have to do is give your official approval, and we’ll be on our way, yes?”

“You’re all crazy,” Mr Lee shakes his head. “You think it works that way? There’s no way I’ll be able to transfer the stocks like that.”

Bambam watches him for a split second longer, before sighing again, taking his hand off the man’s shoulder. “I was hoping not to get this jacket dirty.”

The man wonders for a moment what that’s supposed to mean, before the boy gestures, and he’s dragged down to sit heavily on the floor. Bambam squats in front of him, still looking carelessly at the knife.

“Hey, Mr Lee, how long do you think it takes for the average man to die of blood loss after, say, his eyeballs are gouged out of his skull?”

Oh. The man swallows nervously, throat suddenly dry.

“I don’t know.”

Bambam’s large eyes flick up, crinkling into a cute smile. “Gosh, me neither. What a coincidence. Let’s find out together then, shall we?”

He lifts the blade, and the businessman watches it come closer, sweat breaking out on his forehead, as it comes dangerously close to his eye, until the man jerks away, babbling.

“Alright fine I’ll call, I’ll call,” he’s shivering, and Bambam lowers the knife, still smiling.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Mr Lee’s shaking, reconsidering life choices as he calls up his lawyer- true to his word, the senior man seems to expect the request, almost, and assures him that he’ll get it done. Then all that’s left to do is sign the contract that Bambam holds out, already forged and polished and official.

“Wonderful choices you made, Mr Lee,” the boy says pleasantly, once the contract’s been stowed. “And excellent investments, too, I’m sure they’ll bring us a lot of returns. Now then, about your release-…”

Bambam stands, carefully tapping his chin with the hilt of his blade, and Mr Lee holds his breath. If he’s lucky, he’ll make it out in time to gather the remnant of his capital and high tail it out of the country, far away from this gang of nutjobs and start life elsewhere.

“I was going to let you go,” the boy says slowly, as if he’s still thinking about it. “But you really pissed me off back there with all those comments about being a and so on. So I guess I’m just going to have to ah,” he lifts the knife again, looking it over thoroughly. “Reconsider, I’d say?”

Bambam makes sure the man sees the blade coming, makes sure it’s slow enough for the panic and fear to set in before anything else, and slowly and steadily drives it through the man’s eye, unmoved by the screams that echo off the soundproof walls of the private room, until he’s positive he’s got the entire length of it. Then he twists- the screams intensify here- and waits for a moment, before he pulls.

There’s a pause, a lull in the moment that the young boy knows well. Then silence.

He sighs, wiping the blade off on the now unmoving man’s expensive trousers, giving momentary glances of disdain at the specks of blood that have splattered on his jacket from the fountain now pouring from the man’s head. Darn, he was really hoping not to get the jacket dirty.

One of the bodyguards holding the late businessman looks a little green in the face, and Bambam feels slightly sorry for him. This probably wasn’t in the job description when he’d signed up to join this industry.

He plucks the watch off of the businessman’s wrist with two deft flicks of his nimble fingers, before handing it to one of the guards.

“Sell it and split it,” he says, before standing. “You’ve earned yourself a bonus, I’d say?”

The man shakes his head, bowing respectfully.

Bambam smiles, then, impressed. “Good man. I’ll pass a word on to your employer.”

“Thank you sir,” it’s odd, almost hearing this thickset man call a boy almost half his size sir, but Bambam guesses he’s used to it now. Anyone who’s seen what the seemingly fragile boy can do would treat him with respect, too, anyway.

“About the businessman,” Bambam doesn’t have to think about it, having gone through the motions too many times. “Erase him. Have his records suggest he went on a holiday to some exotic country in the West, say ah, until further notice. That’s all you have to worry about for now.”

“Yes sir.”

“As usual, nothing about this to your colleagues or clients, yes?”

“Yes sir.”

Bambam wonders momentarily for a moment if he’s missed anything, stepping aside to let the bodyguards begin their work, before he feels the other phone in his pocket buzz, and he feels a tiny flicker of relief. He pulls the sleek black device out to check the screen eagerly.

Done?

He turns away from the guards, ignoring the sounds of them lifting the dead body in the room, before typing out a reply, a smug grin on his face.

yes leader~ all clear ;)

He wonders if he’s going to get flak again later for his carelessness. But he can worry about that later- honestly, all he wants right now is a long bath and most definitely a trip to the dry cleaners’.

He really likes this jacket.

a/n: omg fast update much wow such rare

cries sorry guys i hope you won't mind the rush of this chapter, the story was really going too slow ughhh ;A; this isn't properly beta-ed but i'm leaving the country soon and i have no idea when i'll next be able to update ;A; but um comments really are appreciated!!! esp since now stuff is actually happening sigh. thank you all so much for all your comments so far <3 you guys are so kind omg ;u; thank you guys really <3  hope you'll enjoy the chapters to come!