The moment Minjae raised his gun, chaos snapped like a wire.
"Get him!" one of the men shouted.
The group of ten surged forward — machetes gleaming, bats swinging — rough boots pounding against the pavement as they rushed him with blind loyalty and sharpened rage.
Minjae didn't flinch.
Bang!
A shot rang out — clean, sharp — and one man dropped to the ground with a scream, clutching his thigh. Another rushed in from the side. Minjae ducked, twisted, fired — bang! — hitting his shoulder this time, sending him spinning back.
He moved like a man who had lived this before. Not just trained, but born in the heat of it. His shots were precise, disabling, never fatal — even as they came at him like a pack of wild dogs. Arms, legs, knees — they crumbled one by one, wailing or cursing, weapons falling from twitching hands.
Inside the car, Jihoon stared in horror and awe, breath held, watching the man he loved turn into something else — colder, sharper, but terrifyingly in control.
And far back, parked among the trees, behind tinted windows, Kangwon watched.
The window was rolled down just enough to let out the slow swirl of smoke from the end of his cigarette. He sat relaxed, elbow resting on the edge of the door, sunglasses reflecting the chaos unfolding before him like a private performance.
Beside him sat Haemin — all soft edges and faded pink hair, dressed in ripped denim and a black choker that caught the sunlight. His legs were folded up in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around them as he watched through half-lidded eyes.
He blew a small bubble with his gum, popping it lazily. "You're not smiling," he said with a teasing lilt.
Kangwon didn't reply. He took another slow drag of his cigarette, eyes locked on Minjae — on every bullet, every dodge, every move.
Haemin leaned closer, cheek brushing Kangwon's shoulder as he grinned. "What's wrong? Scared your men might actually kill your favorite little brother?"
Still no answer.
But Haemin wasn't done. He tilted his head, his voice dropping lower, playful — dangerous. "Or maybe you're scared he'll kill all of them. And then come for you."
He leaned in — closer now — lips brushing just beneath Kangwon's ear.
"Wouldn't that be hot?~"
Kangwon dropped his cigarette.
And in one violent, sudden motion, his hand shot out and grabbedHaeminby the throat.
The car shifted slightly from the force as Haemin gasped, his back arching against the door, fingers clawing at Kangwon's wrist. But he didn't look afraid.
If anything, he was smiling.
"You really haven't changed," Haemin rasped out, voice thin. "Still possessive. Still obsessed."
Kangwon's grip trembled — not from rage, but something colder. Something dangerous. Something broken.
Outside, Minjae had just disarmed the last man, gun trained, chest heaving — eyes scanning for the next move.
Kangwon's grip finally loosened.
Haemin coughed once, rubbing at his throat, still curled lazily in the passenger seat like nothing had happened. A thin red mark bloomed across his pale neck, but he didn't seem to care. His pink hair was tousled now, framing a smug little smirk.
Kangwon's attention had already drifted back out the window. Back to the figure moving like a shadow through chaos — Minjae, blood on his knuckles, smoke curling around him as if even fire obeyed him. His black shirt was torn at the shoulder, one sleeve stained red from someone else's wound. The gun in his hand was still smoking.
There was something in Kangwon's gaze — not rage, not pride, but something haunting.
Something that made Haemin pause, really look at him.
And then he laughed.
Soft, almost amused.
"…Ohhh~" Haemin whispered, the realization sliding out like a secret. He turned his head, lips curling as he leaned in closer again, not to tease this time — but to cut deep.
"So that's it," he said with a quiet scoff. "You were never just obsessed with power, were you?"
Kangwon didn't move.
Haemin licked his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, his voice like a razor in honey.
"You had a crush on him. On Minjae."
Kangwon's eyes widened—barely, but enough. A flicker of something that even he couldn't mask in time.
Haemin's smile turned cruel. "All those years you called him 'brother'... all that loyalty you demanded... it was all just a cover. You didn't want to lead with him, Kangwon. You wanted to own him."
Kangwon turned slowly. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, revealing those dark eyes — now cold as ice and still as a storm just before the lightning.
"Shut up." His voice was low, calm, and terrifying. "Before I snap your neck for real this time."
Haemin leaned back slowly, raising his hands in mock surrender, the smirk never quite leaving his lips. "Touchy."
But his gaze flicked toward Minjae again, now back on his feet, standing over the fallen men — bloodied but unbroken.
And Haemin's voice was soft now, almost pitying.
"…Too bad you don't know how to love someone without destroying them."
Kangwon said nothing. He turned back to the window, watching Minjae lower his gun and check toward the car, his gaze scanning — searching.
Outside, his men were groaning, bleeding, crawling on the road like broken shadows — but none of them dead.
Not one.
He scoffed, a breathy chuckle slipping past his lips.
"Still the same," he muttered under his breath.
He leaned back in his seat, the smoke curling toward the roof as his eyes unfocused—drifting not to the present, but backward, to a time when things were simpler, dirtier, realer.
Minjae was twelve when Kangwon first found him.
He was sitting on the corner of an alley in a torn school uniform, mud-stained and soaked from the rain. His face was blank, lips cracked, cheeks hollow. No umbrella, no bag. Just a black eye, a bruised wrist, and shoes too small for his feet.
Kangwon was thirteen then. A street rat, a nobody with a chip on his shoulder and a plastic bag full of lifted wallets. He paused when he saw the boy — hunched, shivering, eyes staring at the ground like they had nowhere left to go.
Something about those eyes stopped him.
Not scared.Not begging.Just… tired. Like he'd already seen everything.
Kangwon had whistled low. "Damn. You a mute or just real bad at being a runaway?"
Minjae didn't look at him. Didn't answer.
He didn't speak at all, not that day.
Not the next either.
But Kangwon took him in anyway.
They called it the Den — a half-abandoned warehouse tucked behind the train yard.
It wasn't much, but it was home for those with none, runaways, orphans, addicts, no-name kids society forgot. Kangwon was already part of it. A low-born thug with sharp instincts and the kind of charisma that made other strays follow him without asking why.
Minjae didn't talk for a whole year.
But he watched. Always watched. He ate when they gave him scraps, slept in the corner on a pile of coats, flinched every time someone raised their voice.
Kangwon remembered mocking him sometimes, calling him "pretty boy," "rich brat gone soft," trying to get even a glare out of him. But nothing worked.
Until one day, Kangwon tossed a stolen wallet into Minjae's lap and said, "Learn or starve."
He taught him everything.
How to lift a phone without being seen. How to pocket bills in broad daylight. How to slip drugs into the back alley deals and smile like it was just business.
Minjae never said thank you.
But he learned. Fast.
And when he finally spoke — a year and two months after they met — it was in a low, hollow voice that made everyone fall silent.
"I'm not going back."
Kangwon had smirked then, not knowing why his chest felt like it cracked open.
"Good," he'd said. "You're one of us now."
Back in the car, Kangwon blinked, dragged back into the now by the sound of one of his men coughing on the road.
Haemin turned to glance at him.
"You remembering the glory days you told me?" he asked lazily, then leaned his head against the window. "You were always the one keeping him breathing, huh?"
Kangwon didn't answer.
But his grip on the fresh cigarette trembled slightly — ashes falling onto his lap.
And now Minjae wanted nothing to do with him.