Chapter Text
“What’s all the fuss about?”
One of the many boys Jimin has scattered across Seoul’s grimiest districts asks, trying to sound casual.
They’re young—too young to be this deep in the business—but that’s how things go there.
The other boy doesn’t speak right away. He simply jerks his chin, gesturing for him to lower his voice and come closer.
“They caught two of us. Kissing.”
The whisper is sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade. The boy’s face pales. He doesn’t need more explanation.
“Fuck. He must be furious.”
“Locked himself in the office. Hours now. Hasn’t said a word.”
“Shit.”
A sick heaviness settles in his stomach.
Working for Min—as Jimin calls himself these days—is usually simple. Sometimes even kind. He listens. Sometimes he laughs. And he remembers things like birthdays, or gives them days off.
He's almost human.
Almost.
Out of all the bastards leading drug rings, he’s the least of a bastard.
But there’s one rule.
One golden rule.
The only one he’s ever been dead serious about.
And they broke it.
So all of them have been summoned to the Green House—a crumbling apartment Jimin owns, one of several. It serves as a base, a hiding spot, a war room, a place to crash. There are drugs in the fridge and guns under the floorboards.
No one asks questions.
They know that too well.
Don't ask Jimin questions.
If you don't wanna see Jimin react to them.
The boys are scattered through the living room, fidgeting, whispering, pretending to be busy.
But the tension clings to them like smoke.
You’d think they’d rather be out hustling than waiting here like animals in a slaughterhouse queue.
Finally, the door makes that same unpleasant, squeaky sound it always does, and everyone straightens up instantly, rising to their feet like they’ve rehearsed it.
And then he appears.
Jimin.
Somewhere around forty.
Lean but solid, the kind of build that comes from learning to survive more than to thrive.
He’s dressed head to toe in black.
It’s not a look. It’s an uniform.
Permanent mourning for something he never names.
A scar runs down his left cheekbone—a pale slash against sun-warmed skin. No one dares ask where it came from.
There’s something in his face that demands attention, but also quietly hurts.
Like he might’ve once been beautiful, before the world carved that softness out of him.
And his eyes… they’re dark. But not just in color. They watch you without blinking.
Measure without emotion.
And when they land on someone, the air itself seems to tighten.
His most trusted man approaches, bowing his head slightly.
"Min."
“Who are them” Jimin growls, voice low and rough, just above a whisper—but disturbing enough to make everyone swallow hard at the same time.
The second-in-command turns slowly and points toward the corner. Two boys. One can’t lift his gaze. The other stares back with reckless defiance.
“You two. Come with me.”
That’s it.
That’s all he says.
But it’s more than enough.
They follow. And the door shuts.
The second-in-command steps out for a cigarette, his hands trembling.
He knows how important that rule is for Jimin.
He's the only one there who knows the real reason for it to exist.
And he understands.
Maybe it's not rational, but it comes from a deep pain, from trauma, from an inhuman suffering Jimin goes through.
So he understands.
Inside, the room is silent until Jimin’s voice fills it.
“Out of all the godawful places you could work in this city,” he begins, tone low, calm—too calm, which makes it worse, “this is the best one. And out of all the shitty bosses you could’ve ended up with, I’m still the best deal. Don’t you think?”
They nod.
He steps close. Presses his forehead to theirs. They all hear their own hearts clearly. They are all sweating.
Jimin analizes them. One boy shivers like prey. The other glares like a wolf.
And that makes him even more bitter.
Because they were like that too.
He was the trembling one. The weakest. The one to take care of.
And Yoongi...Yoongi was the defiant one. The strong one. The one who took care.
Too much care.
Too much.
“The streets aren’t made for everyone. I know that pretty well. And the rules?” He laughs, darkly. “They’re not either. But I don’t ask much. And I pay well. I give you food. Shelter. Doctors. Dentists. I give a fuck. That’s more than most, don't you think? Back in the day...when I was your age, or even younger...things were different. I saw people I worked with die in front of my eyes, and our superiors didn't give a damn fuck. We couldn't even...take a moment off to bring fucking flowers to their graves. That's why I do things different.”
His voice drops lower.
“But I have one rule. Just one. What is it?”
He jabs his finger into the chest of the defiant one.
“Don’t date each other. Don't kiss.”
“Don’t date each other,” Jimin repeats, as if reciting scripture. “Don't kiss. Because when friends do, things fall apart. Because love clouds judgment. Because it kills operations. Because I know what happens when you break that rule.”
His voice cracks—but just for a second.
“I lost everything once. I will not—will not—go through that again. So whatever the hell you two have? It ends. Now. Because friends don’t fucking kiss. Not here. Not on my watch. That’s not a request. That’s an order.”
Silence.
Suffocating. Punishing.
They leave. Shoulders stiff. Mouths tight with resentment.
Jimin hears them outside, cursing him under their breath.
And he understands.
Because he would’ve done the same.
Because he would've died if necessary, but he would've never stopped loving Yoongi.
No matter how, when or why.
So he understands why his rule sounds stupid and it's itchy.
But they, also, need to understand.
Later, when the weight of it all is too much, he retreats to the back of his office. A locked cabinet. His trembling fingers fumble with the key.
He closes his eyes before facing the small altar. There are candles and dried flowers inside. Yellow, they were his favorites.
And in the middle, a single photograph, warped by humidity.
Of his best friend.
His only friend.
And the love of his life.
The man he loved with everything he had—and still loves, because there’s no end to this kind of love.
The unfinished one.
The one that leaves pieces of itself on your hands.
The one that burns so deeply all you want is to scream and cry.
The one that won’t let you breathe.
There’s no cure for that kind of love.
And he knows damn well.
“Hey,” Jimin whispers softly, his words brushing gently against the paper of the photograph. “I've been an asshole again, huh?
You were right. Being a boss fucking sucks. But this is your legacy, and I’m keeping it alive. You’d be proud. Or pissed. Maybe both?”
He laughs softly. Then his smile dies.
“Are you okay up there? Still getting into trouble? I am so sure you are.”
His voice breaks.
“God, I miss you. I fuckin'...miss and hate you. And myself. I fuckin' do hate myself.
I keep thinking these days...if you hadn’t talked to me that day...or if we hadn’t kissed...if we hadn’t crossed so many lines...would you still be here?”
No answer, of course.
Just Yoongi's photo, staring back.
Frozen in time.
But Jimin stays there a while anyway.
Eyes closed. Knees to the floor.
Letting the silence do what it always does: hurt and soothe all at once.