The first time Mark meets Jackson, it ends with him dying.

Of course, this isn’t his first brush with Jackson, per se. He knows Jackson, sure, through case files and extensive research and a couple of trips in and out of Interpol. He knows Jackson as the supposed miracle worker Jaebum keeps telling him about, the one that’ll guarantee success for a majority of their future “jobs”. He knows everything about Jackson, except what he’s like.

They’d done a standard interview- Jaebum had approached Jackson, pitched the job to him, calm and relaxed, just like he’d done for Mark. It turns out Jackson specializes- he’s a forger, and Mark’s later research confirms this. Then Jaebum had taken his leave, saying they’d contact him later.

(Contact meaning, of course, that they’d knock him out and chuck him into the dream state with one of them to see if he’d be able to get what was going on before they extracted something from him.)

Mark’s job, then, as a stranger to Jackson, had been to extract a secret from Jackson. He’d gone under with Bambam, Jaebum’s protégé and a bright junior back from college, an entire strategy laid out in his head, positively sure he’d have to go easy on Jackson if this guy were to have any chance at all of success.

If he’s to be honest, back at that time, he hadn’t exactly been all too comfortable with the idea of someone else joining them. Before then it’d just been him and Jaebum doing small-time jobs, then Bambam, at first when they’d needed an architect and Jaebum felt like being lazy, then for all future jobs after that because it turns out Bambam’s even better than Jaebum.

Mark had liked it that way. Change had never really appealed to him, especially changes in people, especially in a job like this. The more links to a chain, the higher the probability it’ll break. Because everyone knows a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link.

So he goes under with Jackson and Bambam that day not expecting much. Of course, this ultimately leads to his downfall, however you want to look at it. Because he realises Jackson is, unfortunately, really good.

(That’s completely up for interpretation as well.)

*

They’re in South Korea, in a half-forgotten corner of Daejeon, where Jackson used to study. The student hostel they’re in is musty and the air is as stiff and stagnant as a layer of wet fabric over their noses, but Jackson seems right at home.

“Seen the news lately?” Bambam pipes up from the weathered old couch in the common area. Mark winces from the water cooler, where he’s filling up his bottle. He hopes the kid’s as much of a natural in extraction as he is in architecture- they’d never let him handle the subjects directly, per se, till now, because he’d been too young and they’d honestly never found the need to. But now’s as good a time as any to start training.

“News?” Jackson’s in a loose college tee and shorts, flipping through a magazine indifferently. “You mean like the riots?”

“No, the break-ins!” Bambam shakes his head, still ever chirpy and curious, looking up from a paper over the wicker coffee table. “They’re everywhere!”

“Everywhere?” Jackson leans over to take a look, disinterest still evident.

“You’d think places would have more security,” Mark sits beside Bambam, taking a long drink from his bottle. He watches Jackson eye him for a moment, before shrugging. They’d scrounged some information from the people they’d spoken with, projections of Jackson’s subconscious, and the changes to the layout of the rooms and the people, but Mark still needs something vital filled in in the equation before he can make any use of all that. “These people must be losing a lot.”

“Can’t be helped,” he says, leaning back, half a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “They just aren’t protecting their stuff well enough.”

And I suppose you would know all about that.

“Tragic,” Mark says instead, a little more drily than intended. “Look, this guy lost his entire savings in one go,” he pauses. “I’d choose a place a lot safer than the cabinets if I were him.”

“Somewhere no one’d think to hide their ,” Jackson shrugs.

He’s watching Jackson’s eyes, waiting for some sign of movement, but when nothing comes he decides to speak himself.

“The school ought to think about investing in safes of some sort,” he continues.

“You think?” Jackson scoffs. “They wouldn’t be able to invest anything if they tried. Capital flow into this place is dry as anything. They might as well start pouring in scholarships for everyone.”

“That’d come in handy,” Mark nudges Bambam gently with his knee, and the younger boy launches into a barrage of complaints about the school, one Jackson reciprocates with only half-hearted interest, on cue, while he excuses himself.

Mark traipses down the corridor, walking up a flight of stairs to the next level, Bambam’s detailed instructions on the labyrinth he’d created clear as day in his head. The layout’s getting cleverer and more solid each time- Mark makes a mental note to compliment Bambam once they’re finished proving Jaebum wrong about how great Jackson is.

The men’s common toilet for the dorms is dingy, floors covered in an ever present layer of water and greying footprints, with the less-than-welcome smell of ammonia and detergent saturating the room, but Mark notices none of these, instead studying the room. What had been the clue they’d gotten again?

Dry?

There’d been visual and verbal cues, things they’d picked up in the people that represented Jackson’s subconscious, and Mark’s again grateful for the Mandarin his parents had drilled into him as a child. It’s obvious from the language and the mannerisms of his subconscious, even here, that Jackson takes pride in his heritage- something honestly quite rare. But Mark’s not one to judge, he supposes.

The good news: it honestly isn’t that hard checking all the dry places in somewhere this wet. But after Mark’s tried the ceiling, the walls and all the stalls, he’s come to the conclusion that there is not one single dry spot in this entire bathroom. It’s unnaturally damp, like a sauna, the room stuffed to bursting with molecules of steam, no matter how long he holds the door open to let the humidity out. But all this does is clue him into the fact that this room means something, that this room holds the answer.

He’s digging through the cleaner’s closet once more, determined not to let this punk get the best of him down under here, his territory, when he spots something under all the cleaning appliances in the corner, a big, blue machine shaped like a snail’s shell, with a vent at the end, the electric cable behind it wound around its handle like a snake.

Mark doesn’t think much of it at first- then it starts to stand out once he thinks about it properly. It’s something they use to dry floors in hotels and shopping malls, a machine that blows hot air all in sheets over the floor, and why would a school as backward as this have something this luxurious?

Mark’s hands are shaking with anticipation as he brushes the brooms and mops away impatiently, praying that Bambam’s able to distract Jackson for as long as possible, before dragging the blower out of the debris. It’s unlabelled, and now he sees how different it is from the other pails and bottles of detergent, like the contrast in colours is glowing, almost like a correct clue in a video game. Mark lugs it over to the sinks, where he remembers seeing a rotting old power point beside the metal pipes, and plugs it in, before turning it on.

With a few sputtering coughs, the machine churns to life, rumbling as it sends a layer of hot air gushing over the floor, and Mark finally gets it.

Anywhere. The safe can be anywhere in this room, as long as it’s the driest place.

He taps his foot impatiently as the machine does its work, and within moments a spread of tiles are almost baked dry, mud and dirt caking on the floor, and Mark knows he’s done something right. He begins stepping on the tiles, one by one, with the tip of his foot, and the middle tile suddenly gives with a distinct click under his foot.

Jaebum’s going to be sore for weeks, Mark thinks drily as he pops open the tile, dextrous fingers gliding over the glossy silver buttons of the safe, glinting against the polished black metal. And then, he owes me twenty bucks.

Mark tries one combination, then another, then he hears a voice, muffled through the door.

“Hyung!”

His shoulders relax. It’s Bambam, probably having shaken Jackson and now looking for him to help out.

“In here!” he doesn’t turn around, putting his full focus on the safe, trying to make sense of all the numbers. It isn’t unusual that the first few combinations he tries don’t work- Jaebum’s a lot better at this safecracking business than he is. 

The door swings open from behind him and Mark barely glances over his shoulder, expecting to see Bambam, asking him to hurry.

Then he freezes, because what he does see is a gun barrel, pointed dangerously close to the side of his head.

Holding his breath, Mark very cautiously raises his hands from the safe, lifting his eyes beyond the barrel, running over a thousand scenarios in his head. His eyes widen once they land on the person wielding the gun currently pointed at his face.

“Bambam?”

The gun clicks softly in “Bambam’s” narrow hands, the boy’s usually cherubic face twisted into a snide kind of triumph, large eyes alight with a cruel mischief as he reaches behind him. Mark’s distracted as there’s a shadow, and then a bodily thump, as someone collapses onto the sticky floor from behind him.

The real Bambam’s eyes flash up to Mark’s in terror once, mouth and hands bound, and the gravity of the situation hits Mark like a sledgehammer. But by then, it’s too late, and the boy standing in front of Mark now shifts the focus of the gun with lightning speed, pointing at his twin and shooting without taking his eyes off the older man.

The light in Kunpimook’s eyes go out once the bullet goes through his brain, blood splattering across the greying tiles, and the building gives a violent jerk- the tiles crack and water starts to spray from the taps.

That’s it, the dreamer’s dead, we’re out of time.

Mark’s been in this situation before, he knows how much time he has after the dreamer dies and how these few minutes can prove to be the most vital in a job, but even in the chaos Bambam’s doppelganger hasn’t lost focus for one second. His almost mocking gaze directs Mark to the bathroom mirrors, now cracking and covered in the spray of water.

Except now Mark isn’t looking at some wiry, angelic nineteen-year-old boy anymore, and his eyes flick back at once, gut burning in shame that he’d forgotten this in the entire scheme of things.

Jackson smirks down at him, a scornful, hostile smile, before pressing the gun to Mark’s forehead, and the older man can barely hear the words that follow after that.

“Time to wake up.”

Then with a loud crack, he’s out.

*

Jaebum dubs it Mark’s Eternal Shame. Mark is pissed, not only because he now owes Jaebum twenty bucks, but also because Jaebum had been right and would bring this incident up in every future argument they have for forever and a few more lifetimes.

Bambam sinks into a depression, thinking it’s his fault they failed, and Mark is stuck in the office for two nights wearily reassuring the younger boy that it isn’t, people make mistakes all the time, Jaebum had made especially many, etc. etc.

Oh yeah. Also, Jackson joins the team. Which is possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to Mark.

(The only reason why Mark doesn’t go on strike is because meeting Jackson is also possibly the best thing that has ever happened to him. Not that he’d ever say this out loud before cutting out his own tongue, but you know.)

*

Before this proceeds any further, some background would probably be appreciated. See, dream-sharing, according to Jaebum, anyway, is an art. He’s the one with the vision, the talk, the one who’s going to lead them all into battle and out the other side with the glory speeches and strategies.

Mark is most unashamedly in it for the money.

They’d met in college in South Korea, both experienced in the field of dream-sharing, per se, but not so much in its applications. After sharing a short stint in attempting to further the boundaries of dream sharing and testing its limits, Jaebum had left for Paris, to study architecture, while Mark went home to California.

Then one fine day Jaebum had called, hesitant and rather reluctant, with a business proposal, of sorts. And so the world of extraction had been opened up to Mark.

By the time he got back to Korea, Jaebum had taken Bambam under his wing, a bright but inexperienced liberal arts student, who’d had more than his fair share of brushes with the, for lack of a better word, illegitimate side of dream-sharing back in Thailand. Bambam had loads of contacts, though mostly foreign, and knew how to sniff out low-level jobs better than both of them did combined.

They’d split up at first- joining other teams to scavenge some experience in the field before attempting to do anything on their own, but their first mission together as all three of them had rocketed them to success.

Looking back years later, now, with a rather spotless track record under his name and a bank account total to prove it, Mark decides he’s satisfied.

That it, until Jackson comes along.

*

Jackson is everything Jaebum painted him to be, except with a lot more personality and sass than required in the job description. Like, a lot more.

(Mark thinks it suits him, but you didn’t hear this from him. Really.)

He’s the best forger Mark has ever met, in his ten years of (legitimate) experience in dream sharing, countless identities stolen and memorised and notched on his belt, female and male, young and old, all convincing enough to be real, almost. But things are rarely real, not in their line of work, and Mark’s learned to appreciate this.

“How long have you been in the business?” Jaebum asks amiably, once Jackson’s solidified his position in the team after their first successful job in the bag together, a particularly daunting case that’d typically only be offered to more experienced workers. Having a clean slate and a forger in their arsenal had probably helped a lot with holding down the job. Jackson pretends to scoff at the question, taking a thoughtless drink from the glass of Scotch in his hand.

“It all started when I was thirteen,” he seems to be starting on the premise of some great story, eyes misting over as he stares into the Great Distance. “And my father said, son-…”

“He’s lying,” Mark comments without looking up from his phone, fingers idly twirling the umbrella in his cocktail as he pokes around for their next job. “He was introduced to dream sharing at seventeen and started specialising one year later. And his family doesn’t know about what he actually does- they think he’s a really successful salaryman that has to fly around the world all the time so he can’t spend as much time at home as he’d like.”

Jackson doesn’t seem at all concerned that his wonderful ruse has been ruined- he looks delighted, almost. “Well,” his eyes glint like rough diamond under the dim lights as they fixate upon him in what can only be described as curious elation. “Are you that interested in me, duan xiansheng?”

Something prickles in Mark’s gut at the confidence of the Mandarin syllables, marred rather attractively by the lilt of a Cantonese accent, so he turns to indulge him with a glance, for the first time, while Bambam looks on with great interest and Jaebum signals for the bill to be brought over.

“Well, you’d have to actually be interesting in the first place,” he replies coolly, and Bambam cheers silently, wriggling in excitement on his seat. “So I guess not.”

“Hey, cool it, we need both of you to be alive for the next job,” Jaebum orders when Jackson gasps in mock hurt, as the waitress arrives with the bill, and Mark rolls his eyes, returning to his phone.

He doesn’t see it coming when Jackson suddenly slides over to squeeze himself into the booth next to him, throwing an arm that’s much too friendly for comfort around his shoulders, bumping him uncomfortably against the back of the seat.

“Don’t worry, Jaebum-hyung, we’re gonna get along swimmingly,” Jackson grins, then, before cooing. “Won’t we, Marky-mark?”

Bambam looks more excited at their proximity than Mark’s comfortable with, and he edges away discreetly, making the hints of a face in Jackson’s direction.

“I look forward to that,” he mutters, trying to look at his phone in peace.

Jackson crows in triumph, and the waiter hurries away once Jaebum’s handed over his credit card, obviously scarred for life.

*

That was two years ago.

But this obviously doesn’t make a difference, because somehow they’ve managed to progress from that all the way to-…

“Does this make my look big?”

Mark cradles his face in his hands.

“I don’t know, Jackson, I’m not the one impersonating the subject’s mistress.”

They’re in the powder room of a women’s bathroom in (if he remembers correctly) Jaebum’s dream, and the eternity mirror is making Mark dizzy.

“Jackson” pouts spectacularly, in his cute sunflower dress and salon-dyed chocolate curls, wide eyes mooning in Mark’s direction to get his attention.

“But Maarrrkk,” he whines, stomping a stilettoed foot, face scrunching up in mock tears, slender fingers balled into fists (though careful not to mess up the manicure). “I can’t mess this up! You have to help me!”

“You’re doing fine,” Mark rolls his eyes. “See, you’ve got the bimbo part entirely down.”

“So do you think he’ll like me?” “Jackson” blinks prettily, doing a twirl. “Mark ge,” he giggles across the room. “Do you like me?”

Mark takes one look at the 165cm fake brunette female with circle lenses, heavy mascara, strappy killer white heels and perky s, and blanches.

“No.”

Jackson deflates, and for a moment he sees the illusion flicker, dress flickering and morphing, skin changing in patches, and feels uneasy.

“Don’t, you’re on once Jaebum gets in here,” he mutters, feeling oddly nervous. “Fine, you look great, okay? Happy now?”

“Delighted,” Jackson rolls his eyes, turning back to the mirror to primp his hair.

Mark opens his mouth, wanting to say something about he honestly prefers Jackson the way he is, without sounding like he’s reading off the script of some really bad shoujo manga, but then Jaebum strides in irritably, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door, and Mark shoves it aside for more important things at hand.

*

There are many things about the two of them Mark chooses not to think about, namely because-…well, Jackson is, simply put, everything Mark is not.

He gives his all in the job, even when it isn’t necessary, burning so bright and excited through the whole thing he’s usually exhausted by the time it’s over, whereas Mark’s honestly contented just completing his research and getting it over and done with.

But then Mark gets the details, Mark sees the tiny gaps in the firmament and actually sits still long enough to fill them in so the world won’t collapse beneath their feet (literally) once they’re in the dream.

“This is the best decision I’ve ever made,” Jaebum had commented one night over his third bottle of soju, after yet another successful mission in the bag. “The two of you are like some dream team.”

“Get it?” Jackson’d nudged Mark a little too vigorously, spilling his soju onto the coffee table in his tipsiness, grinning widely. “He said dream team.”

Bambam laughed, then, but only a little, because he’d still been sore that Jaebum wouldn’t let him go clubbing with the rest of them though he was positive he did more work than all of them combined.

*

Mark’s satisfied, almost, with the configuration- the basic any team needs, extractor, point, forger and architect, and with all the bases covered he thinks the four of them are all they’ll ever need.

But then the four of them can only stay as the four of them for so long, because Mark’s positive that Jaebum is an idiot with a weakness for cute extractors, and it isn’t long before-…

“I bet,” Jackson whispers conspiratorially as Mark opens another Excel sheet on his laptop. “Jaebum gets him in his bed by next week.”

Mark scoffs quietly into his notes, watching Jaebum (that idiot) out of the corner of his eye, appearing to be holding a serious conversation with their newest addition to the team. “That’s dumb. He’ll probably need a month, the way this is going.”

“You underestimate his charm,” Jackson raises a hand to the distance. “That passion gets all the ladies.”

“Jinyoung isn’t a lady.”

Jackson snorts. “Guess we’ll find out for sure next week.”

“Can we stop talking about this,” Mark rubs his eyes. “Jackson, don’t you have work?”

“Amateurs do work,” Jackson puffs out his chest. “Professionals rely on their instincts.”

“Shut up and go practice being a girl,” Mark shoves him out of his chair, and Jackson squawks, flapping to regain his balance, and for a moment Jaebum and Jinyoung look over, Jaebum looking slightly annoyed and Jinyoung amused.

“He’s telling you guys to stop flirting,” Jackson says seriously once he gets up, pointing at Mark.

“I was not,” Mark hisses, shooting a venomous look over at the younger man, before sending a dry glare over at Jaebum. “Though less flirting would be appreciated.”

Jinyoung is definitely blushing when he turns back to Jaebum.

*

Jinyoung’s an extractor, just like Jaebum- he’d headed a few teams before a failed operation had cut him off from most of his previous contacts. After that he’d been tentative about starting something new, and apparently Jaebum had heard about him through several old clients he still kept in touch with.

Mark, honestly, hadn’t been happy about the idea.

“He’ll offer fresh perspectives.”

“We don’t need fresh perspectives,” Mark says irritably. They’re alone in the office (or as alone as they can be with Jackson and Bambam listening in through the keyhole) and Jaebum is proving his ry (according to Mark, anyway). “He’s a botched case, Jaebum. A failure.”

“That was one case,” Jaebum insists. “And who’s to say it wasn’t the fault of one of his team members? He could’ve had a careless point man, an architect who wasn’t thorough enough-…”

“You’re only defending him because you think he’s cute,” Mark spits. “He’ll be redundant as soon he gets here, Jaebum.”

“We need new angles on the way we work around our jobs,” Jaebum doesn’t seem to be fazed by any of Mark’s arguments. “We almost lost our last case because we didn’t think the subject would react that way to our approach.”

“We’ve been doing fine, I don’t see why we need someone else,” Mark cuts in, and Jaebum swoops in for the finishing blow.

“And I don’t see why you’re so opposed to expanding the team,” he shoots right back, raising his voice by just a notch to show he’s serious. “You were kicking up the same stupid fuss before we got Jackson in two years back- look, what is your problem with letting new people in?”

“Oh, this is my problem now. Fine,” Mark fumes, heading for the door. “Whatever. Let him in. You don’t even have to audition him, seeing as he’s going to be useless anyway once he’s here.”

Bambam and Jackson are very conspicuously doing their own things once he wrenches the door open and slams it behind him, before leaving the warehouse.

It’s midnight, and Mark’s determinedly alone in his apartment, by the time anyone tries to contact him, and to his surprise it’s Jackson who texts first.

(But then again Jaebum’s a prideful bastard and Bambam’s too scared of either of them to make a move, so by omission it isn’t that much of a surprise, anyway.)

From: Jackson
hey r u alive u idiot

Mark honestly doesn’t feel like dignifying that with a response, but for some reason inexplicable he does, anyway.

To: Jackson
no.

From: Jackson
jb wants to say sorry but he’s a proud so ill just say on his behalf that we’re nothing without u and u gotta come back and we love you to the ends of this earth <3

From: Jackson
also sorry m8 but I think he’s serious abt the new guy. we luv u come back soon <333

*

Things are still tense between Jaebum and Mark during the few days after that, but business goes on as usual, Bambam and Jackson talking a little louder to cover up all the awkward silences in between tense but necessary dialogue. Jaebum takes pains to purposefully leave the office the moment evening falls, probably because he knows Mark will stay to work into the night.

Not everyone follows suit, though.

“What is it, though?”

Mark looks up wearily from his laptop to see Jackson propped on the other end of the table, looking with disinterest at one of the older models of labyrinths Bambam had designed when they’d first started.

“What?” Mark asks blandly, though he’s exhausted beyond belief. This job’s leaving him a little more drained than usual, but he supposes he should be grateful- more demanding jobs do pay better, after all.

“Your thing,” Jackson answers, absolutely not testing Mark’s patience. “With new people.”

Oh. Mark’s honestly disappointed, if not a little hurt. Jackson had been the one guy he’d thought wouldn’t push him about this, too.

“If you’re going to start on me too-…”

“No, man, I just wanna know,” Jackson puts the model down, turning the entirety of his intense, brown-eyed gaze to Mark. “You’re okay with working with other teams, right?”

“That’s different, that’s-…” Mark sighs, wondering why he’s even entertaining Jackson’s question in the first place. It’s different with Jaebum and Bambam, and now Jackson, different in a way he can’t put into words or organise neatly into the charts and tables that cover his notes. The people he works with outside of this team are transient, occupying nothing more than a few months of Mark’s life and he knows it, he knows he doesn’t have to care. But he can’t do that, not here.

Not with them.

“…-different,” he finishes lamely.

There’s a silence Mark finds himself hoping desperately that Jackson will understand, and he realises that other than Jaebum he’s come to rely on Jackson as the one who gets him, that despite his inability to phrase his feelings into neat sentences somehow Jackson’s become the one to always listen to him anyway.

Jackson’s biting his lower lip, brow furrowed. “Why?”

Mark flinches. He’d been expecting this. It hadn’t come out particularly unkind- just curious, and that’s probably the reason why the older man bothers to respond.

“I don’t know,” he pauses, biting his lip. It’s been a while since he’s said that. “You know, they might-…they might let you down,” he struggles with the explanation. “But then it’d be your fault, because you were the one who let them in in the first place, right?”

“But they might be great people,” Jackson presses on. “You gonna pass up that opportunity to meet a great person because you’re scared they’ll let you down?”

Mark shrugs. He’s not in the mood to argue- Jaebum already tires him out on that one. “Yeah.”

Jackson presses his lips together, deep in thought, and Mark attempts to return to his work. It’s short-lived.

“Have I let you down?”

Mark blinks tiredly.

“Not yet,” he replies shortly.

He doesn’t look up to see Jackson’s response, but the sound of the other man getting up and leaving without another word leaves him feeling oddly isolated, though he did technically get the last word in the conversation.

So he shakes the thought away and continues to work.

*

Jackson ends up auditioning Jinyoung with Bambam, because Jaebum won’t let Mark, and Mark won’t let Jaebum, because they’re convinced the other will rig the dream somehow. The sting of annoyance when Jinyoung gets wind of what’s going on faster than Jackson had the last time is lessened, somehow, by the sincerity in Jinyoung’s eyes once he accepts the job offer.

It takes Mark time to get used to him, the same way it’d taken time for him to get used to Jackson, but it gets easier (sort of) once they start working together. Jinyoung is undeniably brilliant, if not slightly muddle-headed, possibly even more well-versed in the dream world than Jaebum and Mark are combined. It turns out he’d been exposed to extraction a lot earlier than any of them had- his older sister had been a forger, and they’d shared a lot of connections when he was younger.

They don’t talk about his previous teams or cases, a common courtesy they extend to any of the temporary people that fill up positions they need for a job, and eventually Jinyoung’s the one who brings the failed case up, after their second successful case together.

They’re at some high-end grill and bar on the other side of Seoul, relaxing over drinks and good food under hazy light in the evening air, and it’s Jackson’s turn to keep an eagle eye on Bambam’s alcohol intake so Mark takes the opportunity to recline in his chair, basking in the afterglow of another job well done.

Jinyoung’s uncharacteristically quiet, now, and Jaebum seems to notice, because he calls it a night much earlier than they usually would, ignoring Bambam’s protests, and goes to settle the bill, and out of the corner of his eye Mark sees Jinyoung relax a little.

Through the haze of the bar, though, he sees someone walking up to their table from behind Jackson and Jinyoung, an exceptionally tall man, hair dyed streaks of brown and blond, the expression on his face amused, at best. The moment he stops at their booth, though, leaning on his arms casually against the backrest, Mark’s hand strays to his gun, eyes narrowing.

“Park Jinyoung,” the man says, then, as though surprised, and judging by the way every drop of blood drains from Jinyoung’s face Mark’s suspicions are right. “Fancy seeing you here, of all places.”

“Uh,” Jackson’s looking the man up and down, the hostile edge to his voice unmistakeable. “Who are you?”

“Lee Seunghoon,” the man offers the most condescending smile Mark’s ever seen, barely bothering to hide the scorn in his eyes, and something rings a bell at the back of his mind. “And I suppose you’re the members of Jinyoungie’s new team?”

Mark isn’t surprised to realise that he knows the man- he’d come up in conversation when Mark picked up a job in Gangnam some time back. Seunghoon’s an architect, known particularly for the creative touch he adds to his labyrinths, mostly cruel and mostly effective. Mark hadn’t known he’d worked with Jinyoung before, and certainly not for the Disaster Case.

“What if we are?” Bambam sounds particularly brave when Mark tunes back in, probably because of the alcohol and probably because the rest of them are right there. “What’s it to you?”

“Darn, it’s a little hazy,” Seunghoon sends a charming grin in their general direction, but there’s something about the unforgiving steel in his eyes when he looks at Jinyoung that sets Mark off. “Why don’t you tell them, Jinyoung-ah? How you managed to blunder up one of the biggest cases of the century?” there’s a threatening edge to his voice rising, now, and the tension in the air’s so thick Mark swears he could’ve cut it with a knife. “Not all of us had aliases as conveniently as you did, did we? Not all of us could disappear off the face of this earth and escape the heat, could we?” Seunghoon seems to relax, enjoying the way Jinyoung seems completely frozen. “Hey, under the name Junior, how big is that price on your head, exactly?”

“Is there a problem here?”

Mark feels an inexplicable rush of relief- Jaebum’s striding up to them, eyes flashing in Seunghoon’s direction. He feels the tension defuse at the table in general, now that Jaebum’s back, and Seunghoon straightens, clearly understanding straight away that this wasn’t a fight he could win. Not many people are stupid enough to pick a fight with someone like Jaebum, not while the man’s sizing them up, hand flicking the edge of his jacket away casually to allow a glimpse of the Glock at his hip, and Seunghoon bows this one out gracefully.

“Not at all. See you around, Junior,” he winks, turning on his heel, and out of the corner of his eye Mark sees a doe-eyed boy at the bar slide silently off the barstool, casting an empty look in their direction, before following him out of the restaurant.

Jaebum doesn’t seem to care about the awkward silence hanging now that Seunghoon’s gone. “Who was that?” he asks, quiet and direct, and Mark turns to look at Jinyoung, now looking more pallid than ever.

“Sorry, I just-…” Jinyoung stands, then, and Jaebum steps out of the way, while Bambam looks on in concern. He’s not looking any of them in the eye, voice shaking dangerously. “Excuse me.”

No one has any appetite after that- Jaebum disappears out after Jinyoung, and, eventually deciding that there’s nothing they can do without making things worse, Mark drives Bambam back to his apartment and Jackson follows.

It’s only on the next day, when Jaebum rounds them up for lunch before they can head off on other jobs, that Jinyoung tells the full story, though shakily and hesitating throughout. None of them interrupt- Mark senses this is something he’s been wanting to do for a long time, now.

“Our sedatives weren’t strong enough that time,” he mutters in explanation, head hung, with a sort of shame. “We weren’t able to go deep enough, so we changed track, but we weren’t well-rehearsed enough, so the subject realised he was dreaming and it was all over by then. It-…it was my fault, really, I wasn’t thorough enough with the dry runs beforehand, and I gave in when the client pushed us for the deadline.”

“ happens all the time,” Jackson says airily, clearing the awkward silence easily, and once more Mark is inexplicably grateful. “Just so happened you were working for some powerful- guy that time who came down hard on your team for the slip-up. I think we’ve been ridiculously lucky so far.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mark adds, surprising himself, and feels oddly gratified when Jaebum eyes him in unexpected appreciation, and Jinyoung looks at him with a flash of hopeful apology, while Bambam cosies up to the extractor, chattering bright words of encouragement.

(But most gratifying of all is when Jackson slides closer, the scent of his cologne faint but dizzying, the casual arm he throws around Mark’s shoulders heavy with gratitude and pride, and something evens out between the two of them that the older man can’t put into words, but accepts anyway.)