Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1900s Joseon

The American advisor’s house in Hanseong no longer looked like it belonged to a man of foreign prestige.

Heavy boots struck against polished wood splintering it with each careless step. Rough hands tore open cabinets, flipped over marble tables, and sent porcelain vases shattering across the floor. The grand sitting room once filled with imported furniture and expensive wine was reduced to a wreckage of glass, splintered wood, and torn paper.

Alpha men moved like hounds in a pack, their harsh and loud Japanese shouts echoed through the rafters as they stripped the house apart in search of something only their leader had named: a document. 

They pulled drawers loose, ripped bedding apart, even pried open floorboards with the edges of their knives, leaving gouges in the wood.

In the chaos, a small figure crept quietly from the shadows. A gir, probably fifteen, thin wrists wrapped tightly around a tiny infant, moved with the careful silence. 

Her head bowed and her heart thundering, she carried Logan Taylor’s baby against her chest. The boy whimpered, and she hushed him, pressing her sweet scent to the baby’s cheek to calm him down.

She slipped out through the half-broken front door, into the courtyard. And there, at the gate, leaning casually against a wooden beam as though this choas were a passing play put on for his amusement, stood Kim Seokjin.

He was tall, his presence immediately commanding despite the ease with which he lounged. His eyes, sharp and cold, flicked lazily to the girl.

The omega froze, clutching the infant tighter.

“Who… who are you?” her voice was timid but edged with a demand for confrontation.

Seokjin tilted his head, a half-smile present at his lips. “Me? I’m the one in charge here. Their leader.” He jerked his chin toward the house where the sound of breaking wood and loud orders continued. “Which means I get the pleasure of staying outside while they do all the heavy lifting. Being a leader has its perks, don’t you think?” His tone dripped with sarcasm, as though mocking his own authority.

The girl blinked at him, uncertain. He studied her for a moment, then asked, “You work for the Taylors?”

She nodded stiffly.

“Mm.” His gaze sharpened, though his posture stayed lazy. “Tell me then, how do you think my men are doing in there? I told them to turn the place upside down.”

The girl shifted on her feet. “They’ve… broken everything. The furniture. The dinnerware. Even the floors.”

Seokjin chuckled low, a sound that was more cruel than amused. “And yet you care? Strange. Those things don’t belong to you.” His smile lingered, cold.

Just then, a group of his men burst out of the house, speaking quickly in Japanese. Their tones were fast, tense. One bowed slightly before reporting.

“Sir. We couldn’t find it. The document isn’t here. We’ve already sent men to follow the widow to the graveyard. We’ll join them now.”

Seokjin’s expression did not change. Only the faintest crease of annoyance tugged at his brow. He exhaled through his nose and muttered, almost to himself, “Hopeless. Can’t even tear apart a house properly.” Then, louder, he added with sly mockery, “So it either vanished into thin air… or someone” his gaze slid deliberately to the girl “thought to hide it somewhere safe.”

The omega girl went stiff but said nothing. He wondered if she knew Japanese or was it his stare that got her. He bets it’s the latter.

With a wave of his hand, Seokjin dismissed his men. They scattered quickly, their boots pounding down the dirt road, leaving only him and the child with the white baby in the broken courtyard.

For a long moment, Seokjin looked at her in silence. Then, casually, he asked, “Are you sad? Now that your white master is gone?”

The girl’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t answer. But in her arms, the infant began to cry, his wails high and frightened. It annoyed him slightly, he hated babies and not to mention this tiny demon, was white.

Seokjin’s eyes flicked to the baby, then back to her. Despite the slight annoyance his smirk deepened. “Hm. It seems the child understood my question better than you.”

The girl swallowed hard. “He’s just… scared.”

“Scared, is he?” Seokjin’s voice was soft, amused, but sharp like a knife. “And why should he be? I don’t kill people when there’s no money to take from them.”

With that, he pushed off from the gatepost, straightening to his full height. For a moment he looked like he might say something else, but instead he only cast one last mocking glance at the trembling omega and the crying child.

Then, with a faint scoff, he turned and walked away.

____________

Logan Taylor had been many things in the short years he spent as the Joseon foreign adviser, scholar of trade, even self-proclaimed friend to the crown. But behind every handshake and every lesson in English lay a secret ledger.

He had first made his name in Japan, working in Nagasaki under the pretense of trade consultation. It was there he learned the power of information on paper was worth more than gold, and that the highest bidder was always the most dangerous man in the room. When he came to Joseon, welcomed as a guide to Western knowledge, he simply shifted his market.

Selling secrets of Joseon’s defenses, its waterways, even whispers from the palace itself, Taylor’s pen wrote not for his hosts, but for the Japanese officials who lined his pockets.

And somewhere, within the walls of his home, was proof. A documen, records, or a contract that tied him to Japan beyond denial. The proof Japanese were desperate to recover, the proof his Yakuza were paid handsomely to retrieve.

That was why Seokjin’s men had gutted the house, and followed the grieving widow to her husband’s grave.

Seokjin arrived at the burial ground just as dusk painted the hills in its usual colour. A small gathering of foreigners and Korean servants surrounded the fresh mound of earth. The widow, veiled in black, knelt and wept openly, her wails loud and clear overpowering the quiet murmurs of prayer.

From a distance, leaning against the shade of a tree, Seokjin watched. His two Korean men lingered at his back, Jungkook with his arms folded and Namjoon standing like a shadow at his side.

Seokjin’s eyes narrowed slightly, not with pity, but with something mocking.

“So that’s it,” he murmured. “The end of Logan Taylor. A greedy bastard.” His lips curved in the faintest smirk. “wonder which brave soul shot him in the head as he lay sucking onto joseon breasts at the whorehouse, brave assassination I must say. Not many in Joseon would dare touch a white man or hold a fucking gun.”

Jungkook shifted beside him. “The document still hasn’t surfaced though. We searched the widow’s rooms as well. Empty.”

Namjoon added flatly, “It’s gone. Either burned… or hidden well beyond our reach.”

For a long while, Seokjin said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the grieving white widow. Then at last, he pushed off from the tree and straightened, dusting his hands together as though already closing the matter.

“It hasn’t vanished,” he said calmly, almost bored. “Nothing ever does. And whoever holds it will show their hand soon enough.”

Finally, Seokjin turned, his coat brushing against the earth as he moved. “The Japanese officials pay us to find it, and we will. If I have to gut every rat in Hanseong to see whose belly it sits in, I will.” 

He glanced at his two men, his expression cool and sharp.

“We’ll find it,” he said simply. “Eventually.”

And with that, he walked with his back to the grave, leaving the widow’s sobs behind him and his men followed. 

___________________  

The market of Hanseong was like a living beast, loud annoying and ugly. Seokjin hated that heavy smell of rotten dried fish and freshly dyed cloth.

Merchants, or mostly poor commoners shouted their prices, children ran between fruit stalls, hoping the venders would throw a nearly rotten fruit at them.

Thieves and thugs however couldnt linger as it was Seokjin’s turf, his presence enough to keep the order, his name heavier than the swords tucked at his men’s belts. Everyone knew who owned this street since his return from Japan.

He stood lazily at the mouth of the road, one hand resting on the hilt of his katana, gaze sweeping across the crowd when his sharp eyes caught movement at once, a palanquin of metal, lacquered black and shining beneath the sun, carried on the shoulders of four bulky alpha henchmen. A fifth walked beside it, he was a short beta, chest puffed out with the pride of one who believed himself important by association.

The reaction was immediate.

“Ah, young master!” a fisher women cried, a hag and yet bowing so low that her forehead nearly brushed the ground.

“Young master Jung, may your day be bright!” called a vegetable seller, pressing his palms together.

“Is your health strong, young master?”

 “Young master did you rest well?”

 “Young master, the rice you sent helped. my children slept full for the first time in weeks!”

The greetings swelled, dozens of voices overlapping each other, the entire market turning as if one body to honor whoever rode inside.

Seokjin’s expression did not change. Flat, unamused, his lip curling only slightly. He leaned his weight against the wooden post of a stall, watching the people fall over themselves with affection.

“Fools,” he drawled in a low voice, just loud enough for Namjoon and the others at his side to hear. “They treat nobles like gods for breathing the same air. Do they not tire of bowing and wagging their tails?”

Namjoon’s eyes, always steady, flicked to the passing palanquin. “It is foolishness no doubt,” he answered softly. “But it’s also gratitude i must say.”

Seokjin tilted his head, mockery sharpening his tone. “Gratitude for what? The sight of silk and perfume? Tell me then who is this exalted little prince they carry on their backs? Who smiles unseen, yet is loved more than the food these peasants cannot afford to choke down?”

Namjoon’s lips curved the faintest bit, respectful, almost reverent. “That is Jung Hoseok. The young master of the Jung clan. The last grandson of Lord Hosung.”

The name struck the air like a blade. Seokjin’s body went still, so suddenly that even Jungkook who was leaning idly nearby, glanced at him. His shoulders stiffened with his jaw tightening, eyes darkening as though a shadow had passed over them.

But Namjoon, focused on the crowd, did not notice. He went on.

“Lord Hosung was mentor to King Gojong himself. An honored official, praised for his integrity. The Jung name still carries that weight. The young master… he carries it too.”

Seokjin said nothing, but his eyes never left the palanquin, its curtains drawn tight.

Namjoon’s voice softened, a note of something like admiration bleeding through his usual sternness. “They adore him because he adores them. When the famine struck last winter, he opened his own family’s rice stores. Had his servants deliver it quietly at night, sack after sack, until the starving bellies of Hanseong were filled. These people bow to him because he gave them not just words, but grain.”

Seokjin’s hand flexed once at his side.

“And,” Namjoon allowed himself the faintest smile, eyes following the trail of bows and bright faces, “ he is a young omega of beauty. He is gentle. When he sits to study at the town hall, still and focused, he looks as if he were painted, like a flower in may. He is Sheltered. Ignorant of the world outside those silken walls. But he smiles with kindness at every one, a smile too personal and fond, making the crowd go mad.”

Seokjin’s voice came low, almost mocking as he repeated 

“…Ignorant.”

He let it sit there, tasting it as if the syllables offended him.

Namjoon gave a small, wistful shrug. “perhaps ignorance suits him.”

Seokjin’s gaze cut sideways, sharp as a blade, locking on Namjoon’s fleeting smile.

A dangerous silence stretched between them. Namjoon finally noticed the other alpha’s stare and bent his head down immediately, muttering a small apology.

Then, without a word, Seokjin pushed himself off the wooden post. His boots struck the earth heavily as he walked away, shoulders taut, eyes dark with something unspoken.

The palanquin passed, the people bowing lower still, their voices soft with love.

All while Seokjin’s figure disappeared into the crowd, his thoughts unreadable, the air left colder in his wake.

_______________________

The palanquin swayed gently with each step of the alphas carrying it, the small creaking of palanquin metal was loud but blended with the sound of boots against the packed dirt of the marketplace.

Inside, behind the thick curtains of embroidered silk, Hoseok sat with his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his fingers twisting the folds of his pale blue hanbok. His breaths were measured, his chest carried the weight of a secret he could never whisper aloud.

He could still see it when he closed his eyes: the flash of his rifle, the acrid bite of gunpowder in the air, the muffled gasp from the whorehouse bed as Logan Taylor’s skull snapped back, the stain of blood spreading across the white sheets and the omegas around him screaming in horror.

An American official who was celebrated and feared, silenced with a single shot by an omega’s hand. Hoseok’s hand.

The memory brought him pride but also a strange hollow trembling.

He had aimed… yes true, but even now he wondered if his wife knew her husband’s last breaths were not in devotion to family or country but taken in lust, his lips locked around an omega courtesan in a darkened room. Hoseok’s gaze softened at the thought of her, probably mourning at the grave. Did she deserve such a grief? Did her infant child deserve a fatherless faith ? inherited from a man who sold Joseon’s secrets to Japan?

His thumb traced circles against the silk on his knee. He was proud no doubt, what had to be done was done, but thoughts always lingering in his head each time…would the palace learn the truth?

Would word slip out that the noble Jung’s omega grandson himself had pulled the trigger from a rifle, that he was secret member of the righteous army, a faceless rebel in the shadows. 

No, he reassured himself, they would never know, they underestimated omegas. And even if they did, he would stand proud. He swore his life to the righteous army and he will live so forth in its glory.

The palanquin halted suddenly as the sharp noise of a passing tram split through his thoughts, rattling the palanquin and shaking the ground. The sound was modern, alien, a reminder that the streets of Hanseong were no longer ruled solely by the scent of steamed rice or ink shops but by iron wheels, imported steel, and Western dreams. 

Hoseok startled, pulling aside the palanquin’s curtain to glimpse the tram moving past. With honesty, he did wish to ride the new tram.

Beside the palanquin, Jimin’s voice rose. “there goes another one of those noisy beasts,” the beta muttered, squinting at the tram as though its very existence offended him. “Before long, all of Joseon will be nothing but smoke, rails, and Western coin. Even the taffy sellers are changing their prices, gods forbid a poor man try to keep his teeth sweet.”

Hoseok’s lips curved despite himself, his eyes catching the familiar scolding tilt of Jimin’s brows. The omega’s laughter bubbled up softly, light against the heavy knot in his chest. “Always grumbling,” Hoseok teased gently, his voice melodic. “But you only grumble because you’ve eaten too much of that taffy yourself.”

At this, Jimin straightened, indignant. “Young master! I only eat enough to ensure it is not poisoned. Do you not wish your loyal servant to collapse on your behalf? Shouldn’t i protect you!?”

Their eyes met, and Hoseok broke into another round of quiet giggles, his hand fluttering to cover his mouth. 

Jimin, pleased by the sound, leaned closer and lowered his voice as if speaking a controversy. “Though, if we speak of sweets… there is a new shop just outside the tarot card reader’s house. They say their gobstoppers are the size of quail eggs, and the sugar clings to your teeth for hours.”

Hoseok’s eyes lit at once, curiosity blooming across his face. “Gobstoppers?” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a treat in itself. “How marvelous that must be. Jimin, I should love to try them.” 

Jimin clicked his tongue dramatically, feigning reluctance. “Too expensive. Even for you, young master, it would not be proper, wasting away all of lord Hosung’s treasure on sweets”

The downturn forming on Hoseok’s lips was immediate, his fingers curling against the curtain in protest. Jimin caught it, and his own face softened. “Ah, but what am I saying? Price means nothing if it makes you smile, lord hosung would agree” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he added in the next breath, “We’ll go at once.”

Hoseok laughed outright this time, the sound ringing pure against the hum of the market. The palanquin shifted direction as the henchmen obeyed the signal, carrying him toward the candy shop. Inside, the omega pressed his forehead lightly against the frame of the window, his eyes crinkled with delight.

____________\__________

From the tarot reader’s dim-lit room, Seokjin sat as he always did…shoulders stretched back, legs spread with a kind of loose arrogance, his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. The fortune teller, a beautiful woman with kohl-lined eyes, shuffled her cards softly on the table. She did not look at him, nor did he at her. She was there for the ritual of it, not for words.

What held his eyes was the balcony window.

Beyond the long balcony window, the street rolled with the same chatter, the heat of the day making him sweat slightly under his attire. He could see the market from here- a small confectionery shop, new, he noted mentally, its doorway draped in red banners to catch attention.

Outside stood four tall alpha bearers, the shimmer of a lacquered palanquin still visible, parked at the side, and beside them a beta with a mouth sharp and quick, seokjin could almost hear his loud boastful voice even from afar. And at the center of them all…

Hoseok.

The boy he once knew, someone he could never mistaken, the young omega boy who had helped him once… now has become a young man, framed in pale blue silk, his hanbok collar slipping to reveal the soft dip of his throat, nothing indecent.

A noble’s shine clung to him now, he seemed polished, very obviously adored and spoilt. 

He was laughing, chewing on a glossy candy, his lips red sticky with sugar. The shopkeeper had bowed to him, probably happy that a affluent noble has taken liking to his product. A few passersby chorused blessings with the same breathless devotion. “How is the young master today?” “Does the sweet please your taste, young master?” to which the omega….. smiled

Seokjin’s jaw tightened.

The omega was beautiful now he admitted, afterall he was looked and cared after, noble blood. It certainly did not shock him he expected it. 

But the giggles however….. pulled him deep back down, the way he swayed and laughed at something his servants muttered with exaggeration, the sparkle in those doe eyes, the way Hoseok was adored by those commoners fools as if he were carved from heaven itself, he couldnt tear his eyes off the sight, something irritated him beyond compare.

But Seokjin stared. Stared until his chest ached, until the clink of cards which were being shuffled behind him became an echo in his skull.

Then voice low and bitter, he spoke at last.

“In Joseon, there are also those who must kneel on the ground to speak to commoners. Who’s lives are valued less than that of cattles. They must remain silent until spoken to.” His lip curled, but the voice in his throat trembled. “In Joseon, they’re called butchers.”

The fortune teller said nothing. The only sound was the flip of a single card against the table.

But in Seokjin’s mind,

a flash, a smell, the sting of dirt pressed against his cheek.

He was fourteen again. Young, knees grinding into the dust of the market road, his forehead pushed down beside his mother’s, forehead touching the ground. Two alpha women stood over them, their voices sharp as whips and another beta woman snickering somewhere behind.

At first they stayed ignoring them, one alpha women biting into a boiled potato “in winter no other snack is better than boiled potatoes” she said; her voice muffled as he chewed the potatoe.

The other two hummed in agreement, seokjin wondered how it would taste, all they had everyday were dried millets.

The other alpha women stepped forward now, her shadow blotting out the sun, and with a casual twist she tipped a bucket of gray water over their heads. The filth and dirt soaked their hair and trickled down their rag clothes. 

“How dare the butchers come to market?” she sneered.

His mother trembled but lifted her face, voice fragile, almost pleading. “We were not paid for the meat.”

The other alpha’s eyes flashed, she kept down the potato she chewed on and seized the wooden trough beside her and flung it against his mother’s body, splintering wood across fabric and skin. “How dare she speak back?”

Then the hand. A cloud slap of palm across his mother’s cheek.

Something snapped.

Seokjin lunged, his hands clamping down on the woman’s wrist, stopping the second blow. His voice steady and fierce “Stop.”

At that, rage unfurled in the women’s faces.

All three surged at him at once- feet, fists, nails. His body was nothing against theirs, folded and crushed beneath them. His mother screamed, her tears hot as she threw herself over him, curling her own body as a shield. The blows rained down and never stopped. He could feel her shaking from beneath, her ribs jerking against his cheek, as if her bones would splinter to keep his intact.

And he stayed kneeling. Always kneeling. Always..

Seokjin’s gaze stayed on Hoseok outside. The boy who had never known the dirt, the spit, the kick of boots, the contrast between them struck something deep with him and his lips parted once more, shoulders straight, face stoic and voice low

“While butchers hold knives for a living…” a pause, then he continues, “they could never cut anyone. every day felt like hell on earth”

The fortune teller’s hand paused above her deck, but she said nothing.

And the memory pulled him under again.

It was night. The yard smelled like feaces and raw meat, no proper roof above their head which permitted the moon to spill it’s light through the broken slats of the barn. Seokjin sat in the corner of their shared barn room, knees hugged to chest, his frame shivering. He could hear it through the wall.

His mother’s cries.

They weren’t the cries of hunger or exhaustion that he knew well, these were different. Shattered. The kind that rose and broke and sank into choking sobs.

The last time it happened, he had barged in and tried to save his mother, but got beaten by the man until he couldn’t walk for two weeks. His mother later, had held a knife to her own neck and made him promise he wouldn’t walk in again. 

Beside him, in the faint glow of a hanging lantern, his father’s broad back loomed. The man’s arms swung down, up, down again, cleaver to block the of meat, cleaver to bone. Chop. Chop. The smell of iron and fat thickened the air.

Through the thin boards separating the rooms, the sound continued of a man’s grunt, the slap of fists, his mother’s whimpers breaking into sharp gasps and pleading, then into full fledged cries.

Seokjin pressed his palms to his ears, but it seeped through anyway, filling him, drowning him.

“STOP HIM-” his voice rose. “Do something stop him!” he stood and screamed.

The cleaver fell again. His father didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe a word. Chop. Chop.

Seokjin’s chest heaved. His throat tore as he screamed louder. “Why? Why do you stand there cutting meat? Why won’t you do anything?”

The father remained unmoved and still, the rhythm continued. Chop. Chop. The sound of flesh split on wood.

The boy went around and faced his father, anger seeping in the form of slow tears as he asked, voice low “what does being a butcher mean ?” 

With no reply from his father Seokjin screamed furious “Who am I ? What am I ?” 

Tears blurred Seokjin’s eyes. He staggered forward, clutching the rough fabric of his trousers in shaking fists. “Why did you even birth me,” he sobbed, voice shrill, desperate, “if my life was going to be like this?” 

With no reply his scream echoed into the night. “I don’t want to be a butcher’s son!”

His words slammed against the wooden walls, against the meat stained air, against his father’s unmoving shoulders and returned to him, hollow.

Outside, the cries of his mother did not stop.

Seokjin’s mouth curled faintly, but his eyes were dead as he sat still watching Hoseok chew on those taffies on the street.

“To save their children,” he whispered next, the words dragging long, “mothers in Joseon kill themselves, get murdered… or abandon them.”

The silence of the tarot room thickened. The fortune teller lowered her eyes, her hands frozen above the cards.

And another memory ripped him open again.

The room was lit with sunlight and something else, something deep red. His mother stood before him, hair loose, face red, hands shaking as she gripped a butcher’s knife still slick with blood. Her eyes wild and hollow burned down on her son.

“Leave.” She screamed, her voice like a whip as she pointed the knife at him. “Go. Get lost!”

Seokjin froze where he stood, his chest rising and falling fast. “Eomma…”

Her arm trembled, but she raised the blade higher, the tip wavering between them dangerously. “Die on the streets if you must! Become a gypsy! Join the bandits!” Her scream rattled the wooden walls of the barn. “I cannot—-” her voice broke, “I cannot stand the sight of another butcher.”

The knife shook closer.

“Go!”

Seokjin’s legs locked. His lips quivered, eyes wet. “I—I can’t”

And she struck him with the blade.

A quick slash across his forehead. Shallow, but enough to burn. Blood trickled down between his eyes. He fell back, hitting the dirt.

He paused and felt the blood travelling down his face. Then raised his head and stared at her in shock, shock which was then quickly replaced by fury. Anger twisting through his young face as he stood up

“Fine!” he screamed, voice ragged and raw.

“Fine, I’ll leave! I’ll never come back!” His words cracked into sobs, but his eyes were furious and blazing, mind searching for hurtful words to launch back. 

“I don’t need you. I don’t need butcher parents either!”

He spun and bolted, his feet pounding the dirt as he rushed out in the day light.

From the hilltop path he scrambled up, the barn looked smaller now, dirty looking even from afar. A figure was just coming down. It was his father, the same stoic shoulders, the same cleaver hand, walking towards the barn door.

Seokjin didn’t look back. He kept running.

Inside, the father stepped into the barn. His wife still stood there with the knife, her arms slick, her chest heaving. On the ground lay the crumpled body of the man who had raped her the night before, his blood pooling dark around the straw. He connected the dots and realized the commoners would be here in no time to kill their entire family.

His wife’s knees gave out. The knife she held clattered to the dirt when she sank onto the ground near the dead man.

She pressed her bloodied hands to her face and sobbed, a name tearing from her lips like a prayer with pained love:

“Seokjinnie…”

Seokjin’s gaze did not waver from the young noble omega outside the window through it all.

Hoseok’s laugh carried faintly over the street, bright, delicate, like glass beads striking together. But those glass beads pierced him, the same way his mother had.

Seokjin’s hand, without thought, rose to his forehead. His fingers pressed against the faint ridge of the barely visible scar on his head, the last memory of his mother, her last gift to him.

He lingered there, confirming that the wound had not vanished with time.

The fortune teller, still quiet, spread the tarot cards before him, each card making a tapping sound against the wooden table. She did not ask him a question, nor explain their meaning. She only listened.

Seokjin’s mouth twisted. His eyes never left Hoseok.

“You know I let everyone know,” he murmured, low, as though speaking to the windowpane itself, “that I was a runaway son of a butcher when I came back to Joseon” his lips formed a smirk.

“Because unlike my father…” He leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving the omega on the street. “…I could cut anyone down.”

Seokjin strode through the crowded streets of Joseon, no longer a ragged helpless butcher boy, but a grown merciless assassin clothed in dark Japanese attire. He had fleed Joseon at 14 and worked under a crime organisation in Japan. With days of hardwork, training and bleeding- he had risen ranks and become the leader of the yakuza. Now returned to his land at 25 he had many things to settle.

The lacquered sheath of his sword gleamed at his hip, and behind him marched his armed men. Trained Japanese warriors in formation, their blades glinting in the sun.

The crowd of commoners parted instantly, their heads bowing, bodies pressed low to the ground as he passed. No one dared lift their gaze like they did before. The very air tensed around him. His presence cold and commanding.

His eyes, sharp and unreadable, fixed on a house. Those familiar walls and doors which he would never forget. The joined home of the three women who had spat, struck, and poured filth upon him and his mother.

Two of the women were seized swiftly, dragged out by his men. Their faces turned white at the sight of him. Their lips trembled soundlessly before their cries rose, shrill and desperate as they recognized him.

The third, the alpha women who had struck his mother, tried to flee. Her skirts tangled and she fell onto the dirt, it felt as if god himself knew her time was up, thus making it easier for his men.

The first two did not last long. Seokjin struck his blade with mercilesss precision. Their screams cut short. Their bodies collapsed at his feet.

The third woman however fell forward to his feet, hands rubbing and pleading fast with tears. She pressed her forehead to the ground, her entire frame shaking.

“Please,” she wailed, her voice breaking with sobs. “Please, seokjin, spare me! I was wrong, I was mental! I will serve, I will beg, I will do anything just spare me!”

Her hands clutched the earth, her face smeared against the ground, just as Seokjin and his mother had once knelt. The same posture, the same pleading.

For a long, terrible moment, he only stared down at her, his shadow falling over her like the end of days.

Then he spoke, his voice calm, cold, unshakable. “You may live.”

Her head jerked up, relief flooding her eyes too soon.

His men wrenched her arms, forcing her down again. A sword hissed. One swift slash across her hand, another across her leg. The blade cut deep, severing nerves, leaving her shrieking and babbling in pain, writhing in the dirt.

Seokjin watched, expressionless.

“You will live,” he said, his words heavy as steel, “but only on all fours. Crawl like the dog you are. Beg in the streets until death takes pity on you.”

Her cries filled the air, high and ragged, as smoke began to curl around the house. His men set the home ablaze, flames swallowing the past in colours of orange and black.

Seokjin turned without another glance. His boots struck the ground with finality as he walked away, fire roaring behind him, the woman’s howls mixing with the crackle of burning wood.

The smell of incense in the tarot shot cut his memories short. Seokjin rose from his seat. His body moved almost absently, though his eyes had never once left the street. He stepped closer to the shop balcony, the loose folds of his Japanese attire falling silently against his frame.

Now standing at the shop balcony he continued watching Hoseok. The omega’s lips were dusted with sugar as he laughed, nibbling at the glossy round gobstoppers that glittered in his palms like jewels.

His beta servant and the loyal alpha henchman lingered nearby, teasing one another, their own mouths full of candy, giggling openly. The sight of Hoseok, his cheeks full, his delicate wrist flashing as he tilted another candy to his lips struck Seokjin again and again like a blade drawn across old wounds. He stayed utterly still, jaw set, drinking in every second of the boy grown into a young man.

A pair of men passed on the street below the window, their conversation rising clear. Their voices carried the harsh edge of Japanese.

“Is that not a noble omega bitch?” one said, his tone sly watching Hoseok chew on the sweets.

The other chuckled, low and knowing. “Look at him. His gentle form. Imagine watching his terrified face as someone holds and pins him down.”

The first man snorted, clicking his tongue. “And that hair. Long enough to grab in a fist and pull back. Joseon omegas… their beauty is wasted on this rotten land.”

Seokjin’s hand curled into a fist at his side but he did not move from the shadow of the window. His gaze, sharp, fixed on the men below.

They kept talking, their voices lowering but still distinct.

“They say omegas here are simple. Easy to break. Once an alpha knots them, they kill themselves out of shame.” A laugh, cold and careless. “Convenient, isn’t it? No aftermath. Just a body to use, and gone.”

The sound of their laughter was like a dirty stain across the air.

Seokjin’s breath dragged slow through his nose. He remained motionless, rooted at the window, his eyes trained onto the two men

Then his voice cut through the incense-hazed air, low and firm. Face still staring forward.

“My fortune for today.”

The fortune woman’s eyes flicked up to look at his back then again down below at her cards. She placed the card down between them.

On its painted surface: Reunion.

Her voice was steady, almost inaudible, but it carried like a bell when she announced

“Reunion: they should not have met.”

The words hung in the room, thick as smoke, while outside Hoseok’s laughter still rang faintly.

Seokjin’s lips curved into a smirk. Not mirthful, not even bitter, just sharp with real amusement.

“You’re good,” he murmured, a smirk still ghosting across his face.

Without another word, his body moved in a single unbroken motion—silent and fluid as he stepped onto the balcony ledge. His boots pressed against the wooden beam for half a heartbeat before he leapt down.

The fall was effortless. His coat flared as he dropped into the street, landing in a crouch, the scabbard of his katana glinting at his hip. When he rose to his full height, his face was still with emotionless severity. His hand rested calmly on the hilt, fingers wrapped around it like a predator flexing its claws.

The crowd shifted uneasily.

Seokjin began to walk, each step slow, measured, people parted without being asked. A shiver ran through the market street. Those who lived here knew this man, and those who didn’t quickly learned from the air around them.

Hoseok, still at the counter of the candy shop, looked up in surprise. His laughter caught in his throat.

From behind the counter, the candy shop owner’s voice broke the tension.

“Oh… looks like someone has irked him again.”

Hoseok blinked, confused. “Irked him…?”

The owner leaned closer, palm covering his mouth almost scared that someone may hear him, with a low voice but not enough to keep the trembling admiration out he informed. “This isn’t just a fight, young master. That’s Seokjin. The Yakuza leader. He controls all of this area, every street, everything in this market belongs to him.”

Hoseok’s chest fluttered with an emotion he couldn’t place, his hand still clutching his half-finished candy. His brows knit together, inquisitiveness in his wide eyes colliding with unease.

By now, the crowd had gone nearly silent. Seokjin’s boots echoed as he reached the two Japanese men. The ones whose words had fouled the air moments earlier. 

The two straightened, a flash of confusing painting their faces along with terror.

Seokjin’s hand moved in a blur. The katana hissed free from its scabbard.

A lash of steel across flesh.

One man’s palm split open in an instant, the cut deep and clean. The man howled loud, clutching at the mangled mess of his hand.

The sound tore through the stillness and Hoseok gasped. Loud, sharp, air escaping his chest before he could stop it.

The round candy slipped from his hand and clattered onto the dirt below, forgotten.

Jimin reacted in a panic. He grabbed Hoseok’s face, covering the omega’s eyes with trembling fingers. “Young master don’t watch! You shouldn’t watch this!”

But Hoseok did.

Through the cracks of Jimin’s fingers, through the trembling of his servant’s hand, Hoseok’s eyes stayed fixed on the figure of Seokjin. Wide, shocked, intrigued, unable to look away.

Seokjin’s blade moved again, swift and merciless. He swung, his body fluid with skill honed in blood. The man with the ruined hand barely had time to stagger back before the katana ripped through him again. This time however a fatal, clean slice. His body crumpled, lifeless, to the ground.

Gasps broke from the crowd. People covered their mouth in shock, a child whimpered into his mother’s sleeve. But no one moved closer.

The second Japanese man, struck with sudden terror, bolted. He shoved through the bystanders, desperate to escape. But Seokjin was faster.

With the grace of a shadow, he lunged forward, cutting the distance in seconds. His blade found the man’s back, slicing him down. The scream choked into silence as blood sprayed across the dirt and across Seokjin’s cheek.

The alpha’s face was painted red and yet he did not flinch.

With calm precision, Seokjin flicked his wrist. The blood spattered off the katana, staining the dead man’s cheek as he collapsed to the earth. Only then did Seokjin return the blade to its scabbard, the motion slow, final, as though sealing away a deed.

Silence remained. The scent of blood hung metallic and thick in the air.

Seokjin turned. Now standing right in front of the omega he had stared at earlier.

His eyes found Hoseok’s

The young omega’s chest rose and fell with quickened breaths. His eyebrows knit tight, his lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line next. There was something raw and unreadable in his expression - disgust, horror, maybe anger. But beneath it all, his gaze did not break from Seokjin’s. It was intense, searing, a stare that pressed deep into him, even as his servant’s hands shook him.

Seokjin held that gaze back, unblinking.

The beta servant beside Hoseok, caught a true look at the Seokjin’s blood-stained face. His eyes widening. Recognition shot through him like lightning.

With his voice high, urgent, he cried out:

“He—he’s the butcher’s son! The same boy you saved, young master! When you were eleven!”

The words were loud and heavy, hanging in the blood-soaked air but neither of them broke the eye contact. Their stare stretched long, as if making up for the long years they lost. 

____________________

The oil lamps in Hoseok’s chamber burned low, their flames throwing golden light at his room and carved wooden walls. 

The night air was very cold, pressing quietly into every corner of the room, the kind of quiet that only grows after some blood has been spilled on the streets.

Jimin moved carefully about the space, setting up the bed with neat, dutiful motions, smoothing the sheets as if Hoseok’s rest depended on precision alone. His movements were hushed and deliberate, his way of trying to ease the heaviness he knew lingered over Hoseok.

Across the room, Hoseok undressed slowly. Each knot of silk came undone beneath his slender fingers, the layers of his garments falling away one by one until his sun kissed skin glowed golden in the lamplight. He did not rush. His head was lowered, his expression unreadable, his body moving as though caught between habit and distraction.

Naked, he crossed the room and went over to the wash basin. The water inside was cool, rippling slightly as he dipped his hands in.

He let the liquid slide down his delicate wrists, over fingers who had gone rigid under training with rifles in secret for two years now, he rubbed the day’s dust away with quiet strokes. Then, silently, he crouched, washing his legs, the water warm against his calves felt soothing before dripping back into the basin.

His eyes remained lowered, but his thoughts were far away.

He saw, again, the face of the young butcher’s son. The boy with split lips, a swollen cheek and a cut on his forehead that was bleeding. A boy who he helped climb into his little palanquin years ago, them sitting so close their knees had touched.

The boy who had looked at him then with something raw, something wounded and raged all at once. A boy who had changed his entire life that day with his words… 

And then, as though the years folded in on themselves, that face shifted in his memory. No longer a boy, now a man. Seokjin as he stood today, grown, tall, handsome and merciless. Blood splattered across his face. His blade cutting men down without a second of hesitation. The spray of red, the weight of his calm violence lingered in Hoseok’s mind, impossible to wash away.

His fingers stilled in the water. The basin rippled once, then went quiet again.

Jimin approached softly, carrying Hoseok’s night robe. He held it open with a small bow, voice low but careful:

“Master, let me.”

Hoseok lifted his arms without a word. Jimin draped the robe over his slender shoulders, the fabric settling gently against his damp skin.

He tied the sash with delicate precision, his hands quick but respectful, as if trying not to intrude on the thoughts his master did not share aloud.

Once dressed, Hoseok moved to the low stool before his mirror. Jimin followed, carrying the carved wooden comb. He stood behind him and began combing it slowly through Hoseok’s long, dark hair. Each stroke was unhurried, careful not to pull, the strands gleaming under lamplight as they were smoothed into order.

It was then that Jimin finally spoke. His tone was steady, but underneath it ran quiet disapproval.

“That man… Seokjin. He has no gratitude.”

The comb slid through another length of hair.

“He was given his life back once, a second chance at life by you and this is how he chooses to live it? In blood, in violence?”

Jimin’s lips pressed together, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the strands of hair between his fingers. “Young master should not even have to see men like him, let alone cross paths with them again.”

Another slow pass of the comb. The silence stretched, heavy, before he added:

“You must stay far from alphas like that. They bring nothing but ruin.”

Hoseok’s face, reflected faintly in the polished bronze mirror before him. His lips pressed together tightly, his expression calm to the point of stoicism. His eyes did not flicker with agreement or protest. He only stared, fixed into the distance, gaze heavy and unfocused as though caught in some place far deeper than the room around him.

The comb continued its rhythm, the only sound in the chamber, while Hoseok sat unmoving, silent and unreachable. His thoughts about the alpha locked behind the calm mask of his face.

____________________

The week passed the way every week did for Seokjin, which is blood and coin, screams and silence.

The Japanese rich delegates gave orders and gold, and he carried them out with his gang like a shadow across the city. Houses burned, men were dragged out into the streets as their women wept loud, debts collected in steel instead of silver. Yet, in all of it, there was something that refused to leave him.

The omega’s face.

That day at the candy shop, when Seokjin had cut down those two men, Hoseok had not looked away. He saw all of it.

He had pressed his lips together, brows drawn so tight that it was as though he was holding his own chest together. If there had been disgust there Seokjin wasn’t certain of it.

He wondered though, for long… was it disgust or horror ? he really couldn’t pin point. There was something else too, something that unsettled him enough to keep it lodged in his mind.

He slicked a blade across a man’s throat one night, the scream cut short into a gurgle. Blood spilled warm over his fingers, but Seokjin’s eyes went blank. All he saw, instead of the dying alpha before him, was Hoseok’s trembling lips parting in shock, candy tumbling from his small hand onto the dirt. He stood there still, bloodied and dirty, reminiscing 

Namjoon had to shake him by his shoulders to have him snap out of it. 

Jungkook standing on the other end looked at him with a tinge bit of worry and confusion.

Embarrassed slightly Seokjin cleared his throat, shrugged and walked ahead leaving them to clean the bloody mangled mess- blaming the young master for his state of absent mindedness under his breath. 

The next morning, a debt collector was dragged into the back alley and tied to a post. Seokjin ordered his men to beat him.

The man cried, begged, fell to his knees with his forehead pressed to the earth, and Seokjin should have felt satisfaction. He should have thought only of power. Instead, all he could remember was that young omega’s eyes watching him through the slits of his servant’s fingers…… dark, wide, refusing to shut even when the blood had spattered.

When the Japanese asked him to escort them through the market for protection, he walked at the head with his katana gleaming.

People scattered from his path, the sound of sandals slapping against stone, mothers pulling children away. It was a familiar image but the unfamiliar image was the face that suddenly floated up in the crowd and disappeared, of course it was Hoseok’s, his mind was playing tricks with him, conjuring up sudden thoughts of the omega’s hair falling soft against his cheeks, the crease of his brows so fragile yet so cutting that Seokjin almost mistook it for a blade drawn against him.

At night, in the silence after his men had scattered, Seokjin would sit at the edge of the wooden balcony, sake burning down his throat. He stared into the dark, and the same memory returned again and again. The eyes, that stare which haunted him. That unreadable expression that made him want to grab it, rip it apart, or… understand it. He didn’t know.

Disgust?

Horror?

Anger?

Terror?

Every time Seokjin thought he had the answer, the memory slipped like water through his fingers, leaving only the ghost of that expression pressing down on his heart and mind, heavier than any blade he’d ever carried.

It gnawed at him even when the world bent its head to him. When men bowed, when women shut their windows in terror, when the Japanese patted his shoulder and called him useful. All of it slid past him like smoke. But Hoseok’s lips pressed into that thin line, his lashes trembling, his eyes fixed on him with something he couldn’t read…….. that stayed.

One afternoon, Seokjin found himself walking the same street where it all had happened, the cause of his restlessness, his worry, his troubled mind. 

The crowd wasn’t gathered this time; no screams, no blood. Just vendors trying to sell their goods, some voices cracking in fear when they saw who was coming down the road.

He ignored all of it until his feet stopped before a small shop. The one which had been wrapped in red banners the last time he saw it through the tarot shop.

The shop where the omega had stood, laughing, eating candy.

Seokjin stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of syrup and flour. Rows of sweets lined the tiny counter: sticky, glistening shiny taffies catching the light. His eyes lowered to them slowly, and without meaning to, his jaw tightened. He remembered the image as clear as a day, it scared him how much he remembered…

Hoseok’s lips parting to bite, the soft giggle spilling after, his ridiculous long white teeth sinking into the candy like it had been made for him. The memory struck sharper than any scream ever had.

The shopkeeper, a thin man with trembling hands, stuttered a greeting that barely made it past his chapped lips. His voice cracked in the silence, every word caught between fear and a desperate attempt at politeness. 

Seokjin didn’t respond. He only looked at the candy, then reached out and picked the same ones Hoseok had eaten. Held them in his palm, sticky even through the wrapping. His expression didn’t change. Focused with just a light smirk on one corner of his mouth.

“Pack these,” Seokjin said, his voice flat, leaving no space for refusal.

The man nodded furiously and quick, hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped the paper he wrapped them in. He tied the knot unevenly and pushed the packet across the counter with a bow so deep his forehead almost hit the wood. Seokjin laid the coins on the table.

The man gasped, stammering, “N–no, sir, how could I take money from you? Please—no, no, I couldn’t dare, not from you” His laugh was thin, nervous, scraping.

Seokjin stared at him. Cold. Silent. The kind of silence that made the man’s laughter crumble into nothing. Then, without a word, Seokjin let the coins fall from his fingers onto the counter with a sharp clink then turned and left.

On the walk back, he unwrapped one of the candies. The syrup stuck to his fingers.

He bit into it and grimaced, the sweetness heavy, saturating, too much. “Disgusting,” he muttered under his breath, though he still chewed. The sugar coated his tongue like a sickness. That omega is ridiculous he thought.

But even as he cursed it, the memory came back:- the sight of Hoseok’s lips shining with sugar, the way he had smiled with his cheeks soft, eyes bright. Seokjin took another bite. Then another. The disgust didn’t fade, but neither did the thought. He ate them anyway.

_________\______

The evening market was annoying, the air carried the smell of broth and smoke, of rotting drying herbs maybe. 

Seokjin had gone there for nothing in particular, only to walk through the crowd, to be seen so others remembered who owned these streets. Joseon crowd were forgetful ungrateful fools, they had to be kept under control.

Moving through the crowd with his hands at the back was when he heard it—- two little girls by a stall, tugging at their mother’s sleeves as she counted coins. Their voices bubbled, squeaky, too high-pitched to care if they were overheard.

“I heard the young master is at the town hall today! He’s only allowed to visit and read once a week” one whispered loudly, as though telling a great secret.

The other clasped her hands together. “Today ? we must go Junhee !! He even reads out stories of magical foxes with nine tails to children if asked politely. I wish to hear them—”

“You can’t.” The first pouted, repeating what must have been drilled into her. “Mother says it’s too far. And too late. Girls shouldn’t wander after dark.”

The second girl’s face fell, but then she perked up again, cheeks flushed pink. “I wish to meet him. They say he smiles at everyone. And he’s beautiful, prettier than the women in the silk shops. He even gives sweets to children when they pass!”

Their laughter was quick and giddy, hushed when their mother scolded them for being noisy. Still, they whispered, still they dreamed and talked.

Seokjin had stopped without meaning to. His hand rested on the hilt at his waist, eyes lowering slightly as their voices trailed into the air.

Only allowed once a week to read. Lord Hosung was ridiculous, protective. 

He walked forward but their words clung to him more than the usual gossip in the alleys ever did. He had looked away, jaw set, but the sound of their laughter followed him as he kept walking.

His feet carried him past many stalls, away from the crowd, the thought chewing him quietly. And then without deciding, without hesitation—he cut through the streets toward the stables.

The young boy in charge there stammered at the sight of him, nearly dropping the lantern he was holding. On his knees “S–sir, w–what do you—”

“A horse.” Seokjin’s voice was low, panting from the run he made.

The boy scrambled, running into the dark of the stable. The sound of hooves shifting, of leather pulling into place echoed hollowly until at last a mare was led out. 

Seokjin swung into the saddle with a single movement, pulling the reins tight. He didn’t ask if the animal was ready. He rode out before the boy had a chance to bow again.

The road stretched long beneath him, the sky dimming into dark. Wind pressed at his jaw, his hair, his shoulders. He thought of nothing, only the single piece of knowledge that Hoseok was at the town hall. That the omega would probably read aloud for children if asked, narrating fantasy stories he probably made up himself, smiling. 

By the time he reached the wide building, lanterns burned in the windows, the sun was setting and the night was cold.

Outside, the palanquin was waiting, empty, the silk curtains drawn up for the first time, its lacquered wood catching the glow of the lamps, definitely waiting for its owner. The four alpha henchman stood near it, tall and still, their eyes snapping alert the moment Seokjin approached.

He didn’t stop. He walked forward, step by measured step, until he was in front of the palanquin.

and what he did next ? he stood there. Tall, shoulders squared, chest puffed out, his presence heavy, probably annoying. His face betrayed nothing, stoic. His stance, however, made clear what no one would dare voice: he was waiting.

Waiting for the omega to come out.

The wide doors of the town hall finally creaked open after a while, lamplight shining out into the dark.

First came the slight figure of the beta servant, careful in his steps, holding a folded shawl for his master. Hoseok followed, bright yellow robes falling in soft folds around his narrow form, hair loosened at the ends but still somehow looking neat from the long day. 

They had barely descended the steps when the beta attendant froze. His body stiffened, eyes narrowing at the sight of the tall alpha man blocking their way to the palanquin. 

He immediately shifted ahead, placing himself between his master and the figure standing there like a wall.

“Why are you blocking our way?” the beta servant’s voice was sharp, biting. The street was quiet enough for his tone to slice through it, he talked as if seokjin was a dragon waiting to steal away his prince.

“Have you no idea who he is !”

Seokjin however did not answer him, he dint need to. His gaze had already found what it was seeking.

Hoseok, just a step behind, had stopped as well. His face lit up all golden in the lamplight, soft and gentle, but his eyes……

those eyes….. were the same. Intense. Heavy. The look that had burned through Seokjin for nights and days now. That same unreadable expression, stoic and cold, met him and slashed him. Seokjin’s chest ached, it irritated him so much.

For a moment, silence pressed around them. Then Seokjin spoke, voice low, unhurried.

“It has been a long while, young master.” His pause stretched, a shadow of something unreadable on his lips. “Have you been doing well ?” 

Before Hoseok could part his lips, the beta servant snapped forward, his words quick and sharp.

“you’re the butcher from that time!” His voice carried a bite, an insult. The want to demean and shoo him away.

Seokjin turned his eyes to the short man at last. Calm. Almost amused. A smile curled small at the edge of his mouth as he corrected softly, “My parents were butchers.” A small tilt of his head. “I am not. I may wield a blade….but what I slaughter are not cows and pigs.”

The weight of his tone silenced the beta at once. The beta faltered, his bravado shrank as small as a mouse, feet unconsciously shifting back a step. His shoulders pulled up tensed, as though suddenly reminded of what kind of man stood before him. 

That was when Hoseok finally spoke.

“I heard about you.” His voice was flat, each syllable cool as glass. A pause followed, a breath cutting the silence. “…That you returned.”

Seokjin’s jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. 

Hoseok’s gaze did not leave his. “I know how you live. I have seen it for myself.” His tone did not break, though his words were sharp edged, blood still fresh in his memory.

Seokjin exhaled a small, humorless laugh, hurt and anger laced in sarcasm “The world has changed young master” he said, then his voice dipped in something close to contempt.

“Now, all the nobles fear me.” His gaze lowered, then rose again, steady on Hoseok. “But to you I must still be a lowly untouchable butcher-.”

“You are wrong”

Hoseok’s answer came quick, cutting him off before he could finish voicing the thoughts that have been eating him in quite for a week now.

“You are mistaken.” His voice was unwavering, his lips pressed tight. 

“I see you as one of the people. Not a butcher.” His eyes narrowed, the stoicism hardening further. “I don’t know what kind of look I gave you… but get it straight, it was not because you are a butcher.” 

“Then what is it” he asked, more of a demand. 

Hoseok’s voice then dropped, colder now. “It is because you are a traitor.”

The words landed heavy.

Then, without another glance Hoseok shifted, walked down, stepping past Seokjin with quiet dignity. The beta attendant hurried to follow, casting a quick glance back before sliding open the palanquin door for the omega. Hoseok’s form disappeared inside, the lacquered panels closing after him.

The alphas moved swiftly, lifting the palanquin, their eyes carefully avoiding Seokjin’s. The procession began to move, the sound of footsteps fading down the street.

But Seokjin did not move.

He stood there, still as stone, watching until the shadows of the palanquin slipped into the night. His chest should have burned heavier with those words, the cruel “traitor” that the omega launched at him. But instead… instead there was something else.

The weight that had pressed for days eased, the ache from that blade of his sharp stare that had slashed him for nights…… disappeared.

His chest felt strangely light, as though some unseen rope had loosened, leaving him able to breathe again. 

Seokjin stood there for some time more. Shoulders at ease, blade at his hip, his body loose, blood gushing warmly through his entire body. Then, slowly, almost without meaning to…

his lips curled up and formed a smile.

Not a smirk. Not amusement. Just the quietest real smile adorned on his thick lips in the dark. He looked down at his Japanese attire ‘a traitor’ it echoed in his head and he broke into a wider smile, a small laugh.

With the smile stuck to his lips he walked back to his mare. The animal shifted when he approached, ears flicking, probably sensing the strange calm in Seokjin movements, very different from before. Seokjin untied the reins, his fingers steady and with one smooth pull mounted the saddle. 

The butcher’s son, the Yakuza leader, the traitor…rode through the cold dark with a warm smile.