“So what’s the reason for yours?”

Mark looks over the plate of samgyupsal at Jackson, before taking a pensive sip from his champagne. They’re at Jaebum’s condominium, celebrating a job well done with grilled meat and lots and lots of nice wine (that Bambam is taking full advantage of) and by some means of witchcraft everyone’s found a reason to go indoors, leaving Mark and Jackson alone on the balcony deck chairs.

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific,” Mark sets his glass down, before reclining on the chair, closing his eyes. He hopes he doesn’t fall asleep, though it’s not like he hasn’t crashed at Jaebum’s place countless times before, and it’s not like Jackson will go thirty seconds without blasting something in his ear anyway.

(He doesn’t know whether or not he likes the idea of those things becoming the norm. He eventually decides that he wouldn’t particularly mind if they did.)

“Your totem,” Jackson says casually, like he isn’t probing into one of the best kept secrets in the business, and Mark lets out a cross between a dry laugh and a snort, rolling his eyes under his eyelids. It’s almost impolite to ask such things, but for some reason Mark isn’t surprised at the question (probably because it’s Jackson).

“Thank you for asking me to compromise on my pivot to reality,” Mark deadpans, eyes still closed, and Jackson chuckles.

Mark startles out of a comfortable stupor half a minute later when he feels the thin chain of something metallic, but warm from body heat, press itself into his palm. He glances down to see what Jackson’s put in his hand, then jerks his eyes away instinctively, heart hammering, irritation and confusion rising like fumes to combat with the alcohol in his head, but the damage’s already been done.

“This is yours, why would you-…” Mark splutters. “Only you’re supposed to know what it looks like, now you’re going to have to get a new one-…”

“Chill, seriously,” Jackson rolls his eyes, and Mark feels indignant. That sort of (kind of) fades when Jackson turns to him with a smile, an open, soft kind of expression that makes his heart do somersaults in his chest. “I don’t show it to everyone.”

“Oh,” Mark feels quite dumb. “But you can’t show it to me, I’m in the business, what if I-…”

“I trust you,” Jackson says, cutting straight through whatever else Mark’s about to say, and the older man looks over derisively, about to bite out a sarcastic wow thanks, until he sees the sincerity shining in Jackson’s eyes.

“Oh,” Mark wonders if he should record him saying that and just play it in the future for convenience. “Uh.”

“This one, it’s an heirloom, of sorts,” Jackson explains, turning the pendant over in his fingers, running a thumb over the complex engravings in the gold surface. “Passed down from my grandparents in Shenzhen and everything.”

“Heirloom?” Mark forgets himself for a moment, curious. He hesitates, unsure of how to broach the subject when it comes to this. People are sensitive about their totems- Jaebum’d been particularly prickly about his, and Bambam followed whatever Jaebum did, so Mark had sort of grown in the industry assuming totems were something of a secret shame. “Aren’t there, I don’t know. Copies of it everywhere?”

“Yeah, there would be,” Jackson lets out a laugh. “If this were the real heirloom, that is.”

Mark blinks. He feels another oh looming in the distance, and cuts it short in favour of inquisitive silence.

“See, usually stuff like this goes to the eldest in the family, so naturally my big bro got the real thing from my dad when he was ten,” Jackson says, with a sort of fondness in his eyes that makes something that feels a lot like nostalgia (and possibly homesickness) rise at the back of Mark’s throat. “And being the ty little brat I was I couldn’t help but want one too, you know? And my dad gave me other things, clothes and toys and stuff but all I wanted was what my brother had.

“So my mom,” he laughs a little here, but it’s more of a breath than a laugh and suddenly it’s more of a sigh than a breath. “After three months of me whining and sulking and being a brat, she went out one day, and you won’t believe this,” he rolls his eyes. “She went out with my brother’s pendant to the goldsmith and asked for one just like it. And it’s not even like we had a lot of money at that time- heck, we were poor, almost. And she just went out and got this for me,” he flips the pendant, and the light from Jaebum’s living room catches on one of its edges for a millisecond, making it glint, like the sparkle in Jackson’s eyes.

“Oh,” Mark really thinks he ought to get that recorded and have it on a button for ease of use next time. 

“Of course, you can’t replicate heirlooms like this so easy, though,” Jackson grins. “The goldsmith messed it up. So every time I touch it in a dream,” Jackson runs a thumb over the surface fondly. “It’s the real thing. Correct. Proper. And I know I’m dreaming, because mine’s the only defective one in existence.”

“It’s not defective,” Mark says suddenly, the most impulsive thing he’s probably ever done, so even Jackson looks over in surprise. “It’s-…it’s just different. That’s not bad. It’s unique. It’s yours.”

There’s silence for a moment, until Jackson breaks out into one of the widest smiles Mark’s ever seen.

“I don’t need it so much totem-wise anymore, though,” he grins, leaning over. “Not when I’ve got you.”

Mark stares, trying to figure out the meaning behind whatever ridiculous thing Jackson’s trying to say now. He almost reaches in his pocket to feel for his totem, check if everything’s real, but then the sliding door whooshes open and Bambam topples out, arguing loudly with Jaebum about how much he’s had to drink so far and that Jaebum’s not his dad and has no right to dictate his drinking habits, and the moment’s gone, shattered into irretrievable pieces across the floor.

Mark can’t deny he’s disappointed (what for, though, he’s got no idea) but then Jackson’s supporting Bambam and laughing at Jaebum’s disapproving father face and the younger man glances over once to throw a wink over his shoulder, before disappearing inside, dragging a grumpy Bambam along with him.

And then Mark’s not so disappointed after all.

*

“Hey.”

Mark winces. That’s a bad hey. All such heys have resulted terribly in every past experience. He takes a break from sending concerned glances at an extremely hungover Bambam, and steels himself before looking over at Jackson.

“Yes,” he sighs, wondering why he’s even bothering to respond anymore.

“If you have in a dream,” Jackson says thoughtfully, looking completely serious. “Do you in real life?”

Mark draws a pained breath. “Jackson.”

“Hey, legit questions, okay,” Jackson snorts. “If we’re gonna work so hard to do all this dream , might as well have fun doing it, right?”

“Fun,” Mark says drily, taking his cold coffee from the table. “We have very different definitions of the word.”

Because fun in Mark’s dictionary includes spending time in solitude watching pointless cat videos and bad variety shows, but Jackson doesn’t need to know this.

“Hey,” Jackson says again. Another bad hey. Two in succession square the effects. “Wanna try?”

Mark chokes on his coffee. Jackson thumps his back sympathetically.

“Try what,” the older man eventually wheezes. “? With you?”

“Well, yeah,” it strikes Mark, as how oddly hesitant Jackson’s voice goes at that. He supposes he should come up with an appropriate response, but then Jaebum clears his throat loudly from the opposite end of the room.

“,” Jackson grumbles, getting up to keep practicing, leaving Mark relatively confused and sort of relieved (but at the same time strangely disappointed).

*

He gets a text at eleven thirty that night.

From: Jackson
btw it’s tru man, you do irl

He does a double take, before typing out a response.

To: Jackson
you tried???

From: Jackson
nahhh I hacked our dream log

From: Jackson
u noe all those “tests” jj have been doing lately

Mark groans.

From: Jackson
jb’s such a hypocrite istg

*

“Everyone is hooking up,” Bambam whines.

“Uh,” Mark studies the printer, wondering where his copy of the latest dream technology updates are and why the printer has decided to eat it. “Okay.”

“Don’t you think so?” Bambam presses on, and Mark half-nods absently, now poking all the buttons.

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it annoying?”

“Indeed.”

“Well?” the younger boy demands. Mark sighs in frustration, slapping the printer.

“What, what is it, Bambam?” he grits out, opening it to check the toner. The younger boy deflates.

“Nothing.”

“And not everyone is hooking up,” Mark digs a hand into the innards of the printer. “Don’t pay attention to Jaebum and Jinyoung’s PDA. You’ve got me. And Jackson.”

Bambam snorts so loudly it echoes around the cavernous room, attracting the alarmed attention of Jinyoung, who’s standing some distance away, looking over the maze for their last job.

“What’s up?” Mark looks over, slightly disturbed. Bambam shoots him a scathing look.

“Nothing, hyung,” he says, tone dripping so heavily with sarcasm Mark feels like he’s drowning in it. “Certainly not Jackson’s when he looks at you.”

Mark sticks a finger in his ear, thinking some of the printer ink must’ve leaked in and gotten stuck there. “Jackson’s what?”

Bambam looks stricken with disbelief.

“Damn, when he told me you were dense, I had no idea it was this bad,” he grumbles loudly, before sauntering irritably over to Jinyoung to drape over him and continue his whining.

Meanwhile, the printer finally decides to choke to life, and Mark comes to the conclusion that Bambam’s the issue, hence completely forgetting any prior conversation about any hookups whatsoever.

*

They manage to fall into a comfortable routine. As usual, especially with a bigger team, now, they break off to fill in gaps in other teams, to familiarise themselves with other people, form connections, but whenever Jaebum makes the call for another job offer they’ve received, it’s unsaid that this takes precedence, first priority over all their other jobs.

Mark sees a hint of respect in the eyes of the new people he works with, even seasoned players of the game, hears the question marks in their voices when they run through their plans with him, as if asking for guidance, feels the solidity of their confidence when they go under with him because they know he’s covered all the bases as their point. The five of them pool their contacts: Mark’s well known in Taiwan and California, now, and Bambam frequents the dream business circles in Thailand, but all of them quickly learn that no one can beat Jackson, or the thriving market for dream-stealing in Hong Kong and China wrapped up neatly in his pocket.

Mark doesn’t think much of Jackson’s history in the Chinese market until the forger comes to him with a job offer a year after they’d met, after learning Mark could speak Mandarin as well as he spoke Korean. Mark only learns how big the job is after they touch down on an illegal runway somewhere in Guangzhou, and are greeted by three stretched -out limousines driven by seemingly identical, silent men in suits.

“So you’re Yi-en,” Fei, a tall, imperious looking sort of lady, with dark eyes like razors and lips painted red as blood, barely touches Mark’s palm in a handshake, her Mandarin impeccable and accentless, once he meets her in the foyer of the huge, almost mansion-like property that they’ll be working in for the next month or so. Mark thinks about Jaebum and their stupid ratty old warehouse, and tries very hard not to make a face. “Jia-er’s told us a lot about you.”

“Has he,” Mark replies, slightly uncomfortable, eyes flicking over to where Jackson’s chatting animatedly with another lady some distance away.

“We don’t usually work with new people, so I hope you’ll understand why we’re taking a smaller job this time around,” Fei gestures carelessly to the grandeur surrounding them in the lobby, and Mark wonders if she’s trying to play up her achievements or if these people are really all that great. “Though if you’ve worked with Jia-er before I suppose you’ll be able to catch up.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” Mark replies drily, returning the sharpness in her following gaze with an equally as impassive expression.

Fei breaks into a subtle smile, then, before reaching over to pat his shoulder. “I think we’ll get along well.”

It’s here where Mark learns that Jackson’s a legend in the Chinese dream-sharing market, known even in the innermost of circles with a sort of grudging respect, one of the best forgers in the business. He wonders, irritably, for a moment, if Jackson had recommended the job just to show that off to him, but Jackson doesn’t seem to even be aware of his great fame in the market- still the same old Jackson cracking lame jokes and getting excited over ual innuendoes, except this time in a mixture of accented Mandarin and Cantonese instead of broken Korean.

Jackson does follow him to Taiwan and LA a few times, in turn, for jobs, and Mark laughs when Jackson gets sick over the strong taste of Taiwanese food and disturbed by LA weather.

“How do you eat this,” Jackson gapes, regarding his chou dou fu in distaste, drawing titters from several passing locals that he completely ignores. They’re spending the evening strolling around the night market, and Mark’s introducing Jackson to all the different unhealthy snacks peddled by noisy hawkers on the street. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in ages, he realises. “It smells like . Literally.”

“Just eat it,” Mark comments lazily, enjoying the sight of Jackson’s suffering more than he probably should be, chewing languidly on his own stick of blood sausages.

“This is payback for that time I put chilli in your noodles in Macau, isn’t it,” Jackson blanches as he nibbles the edge of the tofu, before pulling back with a grimace.

“You said it, not me,” Mark shrugs, grinning when Jackson gingerly sniffs his fingers, and starts coughing violently.

So Mark supposes it feels good, feels great, even, branching out, learning more about the job, despite the proximity with all the people he doesn’t know, especially now that Jackson’s by his side.

But what feels even better is driving back to that old parking lot behind the convenience store that he’s used so many times that he bets his tyre marks have worn down into the asphalt, walking back into the warehouse holding a cup of coffee (a venti Americano, no cream and three sugars) and seeing Bambam look up to complain about his latest design (aka try to show off his architecture skills to anyone who’ll listen), Jaebum and Jinyoung trying very desperately not to openly flirt with each other (and failing terribly) and Jackson, Jackson, swaggering around to look over people’s shoulders and offer witty comments about their work, sniggering into Mark’s ear about JJ’s (that’s the codename Jackson had developed for them) or loudly teaching Bambam horribly inaccurate things about Hong Kong that run vaguely along the lines of ridiculous local drama serials. Just Jackson.

(Always Jackson.)

News of their success spreads and spreads fast- Jaebum’s turning down more job offers than he’s accepting, all of a sudden, and they’re spending a whole lot more time together, preparing for whatever client they’ve got next.

Mark can’t say he minds, particularly, but the work strain’s getting worse, especially as the deadlines grow shorter and shorter with the more demanding customers. Maybe he should demand a raise.

(Or a break, but then again the word doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.)

*

“Hey.”

Mark opens his eyes. He’s staring at a load of blurry ants.

“Hey.”

The ants are talking to him. He feels at his waist for a weapon. He doesn’t need his totem to know he’s dreaming.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” a sharp jab at his side makes him jerk up, and the flapping of paper stuck to the side of his face tells him he’d fallen asleep in the office again.

(Or whatever Jaebum calls the office anyway- more like their dumpy old unlicensed warehouse where he can skip out on paying corporate taxes.)

“Ehm,” Mark peels the paper from his face, frowning when he sees that a spot of drool has smudged his writing.

“You okay? I told you you should’ve gone home with me last night,” Jackson pretends to sigh, before leaning over to leer. “Though I should add the disclaimer that you probably would’ve gotten a lot less sleep.”

But Mark’s distracted by the crinkling of something in Jackson’s hand, the smell of blueberry muffins and the fresh aroma of-…

“You brought coffee?” he croaks, and Jackson deflates a little.

“Yes, because you should stop being an idiot and locking yourself up in here every night,” he grumbles, taking a tall cup out of the plastic bag, which Mark promptly cradles in his hands, inhaling the scent of it deeply.

“You are beautiful,” he mutters, without thinking, and it’s only after his third sip that he realises what he’s just said.

He looks up, only to be met by the weight of Jackson’s scrutiny.

“What’d you just say?”

“I said the coffee was beautiful,” Mark blinks. Shut up and stop hammering, heart. “Are there muffins too?”

Jackson pushes the plastic bag over, taking his own cup of coffee, as Jinyoung steps in, laughing at one of Jaebum’s stupid jokes, followed closely by aforementioned bad joker and a rather neglected looking Bambam.

“Knock yourself out.”

Then Jackson leaves to start wolf-whistling at the other (there’s only one, why is he saying the other) couple in the room, and Mark feels oddly bereft.

*

“We need someone to help Mark.”

Mark looks up, slightly dazed, at the mention of his name- he’s been living off of coffee and glucose sweets for the past 72 hours and it’s making him bleary.

Jaebum’s scrutinising Jackson, who’s completely confident about the bold statement he’d just made.

“Someone else on point? Each team usually only has one.”

“Yeah, well, usually teams don’t take on jobs so often,” Jackson retorts. “We’ve been going back-to-back for the past seven months, and every time it’s Mark who’s working the hardest.”

“Maybe just a temp,” Jinyoung suggests. “Someone who won’t go into the field, necessarily, who’s just around to help Mark-hyung. With the pay we’re getting from each job now I think it’s worth it.”

“Okay, how about you ask him,” Mark’s vaguely aware that Jaebum’s gesturing to him, and blinks. “I’m not the one hung up about getting new people in the team.”

“Mark,” Jackson’s nudging his shoulder, and he turns to see Jackson’s concerned and slightly uncertain expression. “You won’t mind someone helping out, will you?”

Mark doesn’t even remember responding, much less nodding, but then Jaebum’s looking over in serious concern and Bambam looks surprised, even.

“You should’ve told me if it was that bad, geez,” Jaebum mutters later in the day, before he makes a call. Mark makes an irritated noise at him, too tired to react otherwise.

*

“Thanks.”

Mark doesn’t indulge the look of pleasant surprise on Jackson’s face. He’s (sort of) rejuvenated after a solid twelve hours of sleep once they’d finished up with the job and Mark had banked his nice fat paycheck.

“For what?” the other man asks sweetly, all but sliding over to drape himself over Mark.

“For asking Jaebum,” Mark mutters. “One thanks is all you’re going to get, so stop milking it.”

Jackson laughs gleefully. “Don’t sweat it. You looked like , it was my duty as the wonderful friend in your life.”

“Wow, thanks,” Mark says sarcastically. He doesn’t push Jackson away, though- almost three years of knowing the other man has made him immune to all of his weird tendencies and habits.

“Though I have to say,” Jackson says mischievously, eyes glinting. “You always manage to look so gorgeous it doesn’t hurt to be human once in a while.”

Mark scoffs, rolling Jackson off his lap, and the other man squawks when he hits the ground.

“Yeah, like you don’t know you’re like that too,” he rolls his eyes. It only hits him after a while, what he’s said, and he wonders if twelve hours of sleep were insufficient because he’s obviously still spouting rubbish.

“Did you just,” Jackson surfaces from under the table, the look of disbelief on his face almost comical. “Call me handsome?”

“Well, yeah,” Mark can literally feel himself turning red and why, it’s not like he thinks Jackson’s good-looking-…okay, maybe he does, but it’s a fact that Jackson carries himself well, and knows his face and how to work it. He’s a forger, for crying out loud. It’s his job. “You’ve got the right proportions, and everything-…”

“Oh Mark,” Jackson singsongs, leaping onto him and knocking his notebooks off the table. “I love you too-…”

“Gerroff,” Mark’s muffled through the fabric of Jackson’s shirt, and he’s enlightened to how pleasant Jackson actually smells (he really did not just think that).

(Bambam comes in halfway when Jackson’s trying to get Mark to say he’s y, too, and promptly does a 180 and walks right back out, complaining to the world that he’s surrounded by infatuated pricks who don’t care about his existence anymore.)

*

He doesn’t complain for long, though, because Jaebum actually holds true to his promise (for once) and Yugyeom comes into the picture.

*

Yugyeom’s the youngest by far- just a little younger than Bambam and way younger than Mark, so it’s no surprise Mark’s dubious. People like him need experience- you can be born with talent for architecture or forgery but it takes sheer hard work and grit to hold out through the amount of research he does.

They “interview” him though they don’t plan on bringing him into the field that often- just a formality, according to Jaebum, to see how well he fares in dream sharing in case they ever need him for backup.

Jaebum dies in the first two hours he goes under, followed closely by Jinyoung.

This event is later termed as “Jaebum’s Eternal Shame” by Mark, but Jaebum insists that it wasn’t fair because Yugyeom knew all of them through research before he’d even gone under, so it’s not counted, but Jackson still laughs like a hyena anyway, and Bambam looks delighted.

Yugyeom’s quiet but works hard, mostly unconcerned about whatever comes his way, very much a sideline sort of character, not unlike Mark. It’s a relief, not just because of the reduced workload, of course, but also having a kindred spirit to share his woes with when the going gets tough.

“No, look, I swear,” Jackson’s insisting one night, pointing across the table at Mark and Yugyeom, who look over amiably. “The two of them have that gosh you all are peasants thing going on or something, every time I open my mouth it’s like I’m being judged.”

“You’re judged by everyone every time you open your mouth, hyung,” Yugyeom offers. “We’re honestly not that special.”

Jackson gives him an affronted look, while Mark and Bambam almost laugh themselves into tears.

*

It’s really difficult not to notice how Bambam takes to Yugyeom like magic.

Mark thinks it’s the result of years of pent-up loneliness, at first- finally having someone his age around to talk to must feel great, but then there are signs, hints of an undeniable chemistry between the two of them.

Yugyeom is dry, passive, amiable and agreeable to whatever it is that Jaebum or the others ask, slow to react but plagued by thoughts that erupt in his head like ignited gunpowder, towering over the rest of their ideas. Mark knows this because he’s felt the same, except he’s older, more respected, not required to repress his opinions as much as the younger boy is.

Bambam, on the other hand, is a brat. Intelligent and indispensable and perfectly aware of this and how to use it to wheedle whatever he wants out of the rest of them (especially Jaebum). His thoughts have more bandwidth than depth, just like his architecture- which is what makes it stable, makes it real. He goes for the feel of things rather than the integrity of them, saturates his environments through and through with the right atmosphere, be it the breathy spray of a tremendous, crashing waterfall or the prudent, compulsive tidiness of an office.

They don’t click on the surface, of course. Bambam argues with Yugyeom more than he agrees with him, most of these verbal tussles ending with Yugyeom mildly accepting whatever crazy new thing Bambam’s trying to drive towards, letting only a downwards quirk to his lips or a put-upon sigh betray any impatience or annoyance whatsoever.

But Bambam sticks closer to Yugyeom than he’s ever done with any of them, even Jaebum or Jackson, hurling insults and beaming when the younger man offers a scowl or word of dry response.

“They’re so cute,” Jackson pretends to wipe an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, as they watch Bambam force Yugyeom to look through his maze setup and praise his wonderful work. “The kids grow up so fast.”

“Really?” Mark says, barely focusing on what he’s saying, trying not to laugh at the way Yugyeom turns to conspicuously roll his eyes once Bambam shifts his attention from him. “They kind of remind me of us.”

After three full seconds, Mark realises what he’s just said. He sticks a hand in his pocket, flipping his totem over in his hand, and curses silently when he realises they’re in reality.

To his surprise, though, Jackson doesn’t kick his mistake out into the spotlight like he usually does- instead, he feels the gentle pressure of the other man’s arm around his shoulders, the gesture almost painfully familiar by now.

“Glad you think that way,” Jackson remarks, nothing but the snide edge to his voice betraying that he’d actually registered what Mark had just said, and that’s the end of the conversation.

*

They’ve all got their hiccups as people and as team members.

Paris is off limits, for example, because a particularly painful brush with the place still made Jaebum go stiff every time they bring it up for a job. Only Bambam knows what’d happened and even he’d refused to speak about it when Mark brought it up, so Mark doesn’t particularly want to think about what’d happened there.

More than one death threat’s been sent their way because of Jinyoung, ranging from discreet deals to split the price on his head if they hand him over to near silent assaults in alleyways that are harder to get out of every time they happen.

They almost lose Bambam to a particularly rough job in Philippines’ red-light district, one day when Jaebum calls, voice tense, saying that he’d lost contact with the boy after he’d left for a private job back home. Although the underground organisation that’s holding him obviously isn’t prepared when they come for Bambam less than twenty-four hours later, Mark can’t go one minute without worrying whenever the younger man’s on his own for a job, now.

Then there’s that time in Qingdao, doing research for the Beijing job, that Jackson nudges Mark a little too forcefully to be casual, directing him to the car with bright smiles and happy words though the look in his eyes says anything but that. Mark doesn’t question, only following his lead, gut twisting in fear whilst wholly trusting Jackson because he knows the younger man knows his way around here much better than he does. It’s only when they’re on the train back to the capital that Jackson seems to relax, before muttering an explanation about a job gone wrong here three years back, and that he’d thought they were being followed.

But these are things that Mark’s come to handle, come to recognise. Major things, understandable events. So when they approach Yugyeom with the simplest request, he honestly doesn’t expect a refusal.

It’s here they learn that Yugyeom can’t build dreams. Not anymore.

They don’t ask why, not after the purposefully vague response Yugyeom had given of don’t know, I just can’t, but Mark can sense the horrors hidden neatly behind the drawn shades of his eyes when he apologises politely, saying that he’d gladly join to provide support, just never as the dreamer.

They create a messy patchwork of people, the six of them, all harbouring secrets that would otherwise haunt the rest of them day and night, jigsaw puzzle pieces of terrifying experiences broken and stowed carefully in the past, and sometimes Mark doesn’t know how to handle it the entirety of it all.

But then there are also experiences tucked away in nights like the ones where they gather regularly at Jaebum’s apartment for no reason at all, watching bad movies or eating great food or just lazing around on deck chairs on his balcony, and sometimes Mark thinks those just might make up for it.

*

Some jobs are harder than others. Jobs like these, say, when they’re running for their lives in the jam-packed rush-hour streets of Tokyo, trying to secure the hostage and lose their tail before they get to the safehouse at the same time.

The barrel of Mark’s gun digs uncomfortably into his hip for the fifth time as he turns their Porsche sharply into an alleyway. The hostage rolls, hopefully still comatose, in the backseat, and he can hear the click of a gun as Jinyoung reloads.

“I think we lost them,” he half-shouts over the rush of the wind, and Mark nods in acknowledgement, steering them into a garage.

It takes them ten nerve-wrecking minutes after they change cars to reach the office building where they’ll be working, and Mark’s barely pulled up in the underground carpark when the back door’s opened, and Jaebum’s there, face stoic but mouth drawn into a thin line.

“We’re almost two hours behind schedule,” he says, as Jinyoung slides out the back and goes around to help him drag the subject out. It’s a middle-aged man this time, supposedly the owner of one of the biggest manufacturing businesses in South Korea.

“Sorry, his security didn’t exactly give us a great time,” Mark grits out, shutting off the engine. “What happened to backup? I thought we were supposed to get help after we picked that guy up?”

“Jackson got held up back at the first rendezvous point,” Jaebum nods towards the lift lobby, where he can hear something clicking against the floor, and Jackson rounds the corner, pushing what looks like a stretcher on wheels. “We lost Bambam,” he mutters after that, and Mark’s jaw tenses.

“How much are we getting paid for this again?” he says darkly, helping to pull the stretcher over for Jaebum to load the subject on.

“Not enough,” Jaebum takes to the lift lobby at a slow jog, pushing the stretcher, while Jinyoung runs ahead. “You two take the stairs. Meet us at the third floor, second meeting room on the left.”

Mark finds his gun automatically in his hand when Jaebum and Jinyoung disappear into the elevator, but Jackson catches his shoulder before he can head for the stairs.

“Second elevator,” Jackson’s breathing hard. “I haven’t run this much since I was in high school, geez.”

“Wimp,” Mark mutters, but he jabs the elevator button anyway. “What happened back at the rendezvous point?”

“They boxed us in,” Jackson dabs at his forehead with his sleeve. “I think they knew what we were trying to do- escape and lose our tail and everything.”

“You crash into a blood bank on your way here, or something?” Mark’s casting glances at the red on Jackson’s hands.

The younger man takes a look at his fingers, blinking, as if just realising the blood’s still there. “No. Bambam.”

“Oh, ,” Mark’s eyes are wide. “What happened?”

“Bullet ripped his side open,” Jackson shakes his head, like he’s trying to forget it. “It must’ve hurt like hell for the couple of seconds I couldn’t get to him.”

They’re interrupted by the ping of the elevator arriving, and Mark goes in first, holding the door open for Jackson.

“He’s been doing this for ages, though, he can handle this, right?” Jackson’s rambling, wiping his hands against the front of his pants. Mark pushes the third floor button as the door starts to close, but then straightening instinctively at the sound of footsteps echoing off the concrete floor outside the lift lobby. “Kid’s tougher than he looks-…”

“Jackson!” Mark almost shouts, shoving him out of the way of the tiny spot of red light aimed precisely at Jackson’s shoulder through the gap between the lift doors, gun already pointed and ready to fire.

Mark’s proud to note that he manages to catch the offending projection square in the chest with the two bullets he lets fly before the lift doors shut, separating them, and lift starts to move up jerkily.

He isn’t as proud when he starts to register the slow burn spreading outwards from a spot on his chest, and looks down, noting, with dull fascination, the red blossoming gradually on his white dress shirt.

Jackson’s swearing in every language he knows behind him, turning him around, eyes horrified when he sees the wound, only to compound when Mark coughs, and blood splatters out onto the floor between them, oozing in a slick crimson trail down his jaw.

“You ,” Jackson steadies Mark when he sways dangerously, and the older man vaguely registers him fumbling for his gun. “Why the hell did you do that?”

The lift door opens and Mark’s half-dragged out, collapsing onto the floor the moment they’re in the clear, coughing out another wave of blood. The bullet must’ve punctured his lung, he thinks dimly, as a white starts to cloud out his vision.

“You’re such an idiot,” Jackson’s raving somewhere, voice sounding faraway even though Mark’s quite sure he’s right there. Mark focuses on navigating his hand into his pocket, finding his totem and running a finger over it, breathing increasingly shallow and rapid, and something occurs to him.

“Hey,” he manages to half-choke, half-breathe out, as if surprised. “We’re dreaming.”

Jackson’s rants stop, and Mark sees a strange expression cross his face, already blurred around the edges, a soft frown crossed with surprise and affection, but he attributes it to a result of the piece of metal in his lungs screwing with his brain, because what else could explain that?

So it isn’t honestly that hard to convince himself that the momentary warm softness against his cheek he feels, contrasting starkly with the cold metallic edge of a gun pressed against his temple, is nothing but a trick of the mind as well.

Though when he wakes up and struggles off his reclining chair, breathing deeply to assure himself that his lung’s working and he’s not drowning internally on his own blood, that’s the first thing on his mind, embedding itself his memory like a bullet, almost.