Chapter Text
The streets are empty, bathed in the earlier rain and glistening under the dim streetlight. The night hangs over the dingy buildings of Seoul, whose stars are hidden by a thick cloud of pollution.
The only light besides the muddied moonlight is the club, tucked away in the corner of a high-end neighborhood. It’s rather nondescript besides the vibrating walls and the open door that emanates a square of blue light over the damp concrete.
Wooyoung is too many drinks in (and maybe a couple of blinkers, too), judging by the way his cheeks are ruddy and a constant buzz trickles down his every limb. When he waves his hand in front of his vision, the purple and blue lighting follow his fingertips in little trails. A giggle bubbles up out of his chest.
He’s at the bar, doubling over the counter with a wide smile to ask the distorted-looking bartender for another drink, and with a skeptical look the man pours half the amount of booze that he normally would when fixing up another one of those fruity cocktails that Wooyoung had been indulging in all night.
“Thank you,” Wooyoung slurs, taking the drink and wrapping his lips around the thin, green straw, sipping the sour and wincing at the bitter aftertaste.
He’d lost his friends a while ago. They were all here to celebrate Yeosang’s birthday but Wooyoung had wanted to dance. His hazy mind and all of the surrounding, sweaty bodies coerced him into another corner of the club where it was quieter, the bar was smaller, and the dreamy lighting tapered into something faint.
He leans over the bar, some of his drink sloshing over his hand. “Excuse me!” He exclaims to the bartender, volume way too loud when the club’s music was nothing above a small reverb in this part of the club. “Have you seen Yeosang?”
He forgets that the bartender probably doesn’t know who Yeosang is, so he describes his best friend, “He’s average height, bleached blonde hair, wearing a birthday crown?”
The bartender shrugs, wiping a glass clean with a sodden, white towel. “Sorry, haven’t seen him.”
Wooyoung slumps against a bar stool, fiddling with his phone in one hand while sipping on his drink. He’s starting to realize how fucked up he really is, as the words on his screen look like they’re slanted and floating out at him, so much so that he cannot even find his messages app to text Yeosang.
“Fuck,” He mutters, the sudden light of his phone is near blinding, making his eyes burn. He’s starting to feel nauseous, stomach bloated and churning with disgust.
He suddenly puts his drink back on the counter and hunches over with a groan. “Where’s the nearest exit? ‘Don feel good—”
The bartender points to a side door. It blends completely into the wall, unlabeled and painted the same, dark black. He stumbles over to it, swinging it open and welcoming the brisk sting of the cool, night air. He doubles over just in time to paint the stale, alley concrete with his vomit.
His throat burns with it, unpleasant chills creeping up his spine as he heaves. He hears people talking, distantly in his drunken mind, as he falls onto his side in the alley, lips smeared with his own stomach acid.
“What the fuck?” A man’s voice rings in his ears. “C’mon man just give me the batch.”
“Hey!” This one sounds closer, voice more rugged.
Wooyoung blinks his heavy eyes open to see a bald man leaning over him. There’s a colorful tattoo peeking out above his black tee shirt. “The hell are you doing on this side of the club, man? Y’know someone? You a cop or somethin’?”
Wooyoung is fucking confused as shit, whipping his head around to see three men surrounding him. His heart thuds against his chest, a spike of fear bringing him back to semi-awareness.
“Leave him alone, Park, he’s just a drunk kid.”
“He’s pretty though, right? ‘S what the boss was lookin’ for.”
Wooyoung whines, head spinning, trying to scramble to his feet. One of the guys kick him back down, hard in the stomach to the point that the air is knocked out of him. The concrete scratches his arm on the way down, warm blood trickling over the skin.
“Please,” He attempts a weak sob. “Jus’ wanted to find my friend, please, ‘m not a cop, I literally sell weed!”
One of the guys chuckles lowly. “Wow. He’s perfect. If he’s who he says he is, the boss’ll use him. If not, we can just kill him.”
“No, wait, please!” Wooyoung begs, feeling strong hands on his arms as tears begin to bead onto his lashes. “Please, I go to university! M-my friends are here they’ll know ‘m missing! You ‘won get away with this, I swear—”
“God, shut the fuck up.” One of them groans as Wooyoung's legs kick against the concrete, whipping his body around in struggle.
It’s no use, he would still be nowhere near as strong as these men even if he were sober. Wooyoung lets his tears spring free, starting to sob and scream, throat burning even more after he threw up.
And then, he feels a cold object thunk hard against his head before he’s out cold.
❈
Wooyoung wakes up to a throbbing pain creeping up from the back of his head to his skull. He reeks, and he tries to rub his itchy eyes until he feels like his hands won’t move anymore. He soon realizes he’s bound to a chair, and immediately he starts to struggle, screeching the legs across the floor.
He looks around, eyes foggy but noticing that he was in some kind of hotel with ornate decorations. He tries to take in as many details as he can, panic rising into his throat; there’s a possibility that it may also be more bile.
There’s two men in the front of the room, standing still with guns, watching him. Wooyoung starts to cry again, carving little paths down the small amount of dried blood that had trickled down from his forehead due to the earlier impact to his head. He can barely remember it.
But the man in the corner is recognizable; the bald one with the rugged accent. The other guy is one Wooyoung doesn’t recognize. He has long thick hair, and it’s pulled into a bun with the bottom half shaved into an undercut. His face looks rough, scars around his cheeks and mouth.
Wooyoung wants to scream, but there’s tape across his mouth. So all he does is cry, sobbing weakly in his gagged state.
“Yeah he’s up. Go get the boss.” Manbun says to the other guy, who just nods his head and disappears behind the double doors that Wooyoung is sitting directly in front of.
His entire body is thrumming with anxiety. He knows he’s in danger, but he also doesn’t know what to do in this situation. He’s so scared, his phone is gone, and distantly, he hopes Yeosang has called for help upon realizing that he never made it home safe instead of trusting that he went to sleep with some random guy. He also tells the universe that he loves his brothers, just in case he dies today.
He knows that he has a tendency to be a little aloof, a little too trusting, but he never thought he’d find himself in a situation like this. He’s injured, but the adrenaline stirs in his blood as it pumps through his body vigorously.
He’ll fight back, he’ll make it count.
Suddenly, he’s startled, body jumping and making the chair scratch the floor with an unsatisfying screech as the doors burst open behind him.
The ‘guard’ is back, and behind him is another man. He’s dressed in a full, gray suit unlike the others, no weapons in sight. He fixes his tie as he walks in. He radiates a dominating aura that makes Wooyoung shake against his restraints.
The man looks annoyed when he walks in. Wooyoung assumes he’s the boss. “Really? You put him in restraints?”
The bald man sputters as he goes back to his position by the door. “We didn’ know if he was an undercover cop, boss.”
The boss walks towards him, Wooyoung flinches in his restraints, he thinks he might pee himself. He didn’t even notice the ache in his bladder until now due to fear overtaking all of his other emotions.
“Let’s ask him, hm?” The boss drawls lowly, crouching in front of Wooyoung’s chair and ripping the tape off of his mouth without hesitation.
Wooyoung knows better not to scream, pressing his lips in a tight line, flinching away from the boss when he leans closer to him.
“Are you a cop, kid?”
Wooyoung shakes his head desperately. “I’m not! I’m not, I promise I’m not! I sell weed, if you look at my phone or my wallet I can prove it to you—I have a medical marijuana card, I promise I'm not a cop!” Wooyoung’s sobbing, tasting his salty tears that seep into the cracks of his dry lips, a metallic bloody aftertaste sits on his tongue.
“See? He’s not a cop.” The boss states simply. He pulls a sleek, golden oblong out of his pocket, and with a swift push of his finger a sharp knife springs out.
“Boss! You can’t just believe him! Look through his phone first!”
The boss holds a hand up in the air and the guards are instantly silenced. He runs his finger along the sharp blade of the knife with his other hand.
This is it for Wooyoung. He’s about to be fucking tortured to death, and he pisses himself before he can stop it, the warmth seeping into his dirty jeans and getting into the nice carpet of the supposed hotel. More warm tears spill past his eyes. “‘M sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He whimpers, “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to fucking hurt you.” The boss mumbles, clearly vexed and slightly disgusted.
Wooyoung doesn’t exactly believe him, so he holds his breath.
“Park, Jin!” The boss shouts back to his men, turning around. “Get out. Now. You scared the fuck out of him.”
The men leave instantly, and the boss turns back to him, taking the knife near Wooyoung’s wrist, he immediately tenses and tries to squirm away despite his restraints. He feels so uncomfortable, so scared, so helpless; all he can do is fucking cry. He’s pathetic.
“My name is San.” The boss speaks calmly, voice soothing which honestly makes Wooyoung’s blood run colder, body frozen like ice, shivering harshly. “I’m going to unbind you, and you’re not going to make a scene. Do you understand?”
Wooyoung nods his head slowly, shakily.
“Tell me you understand, kid, or I’m going to have to make this harder.”
“I understand.” Wooyoung whimpers. “Please just don’t hurt me.”
San glides the knife smoothly over the restraints on his wrists, moving lower to cut the thick tape that hugs his ankles, too. Wooyoung feels the blood rush back to the area, tingling where it once felt raw.
“Who are you?” Wooyoung sobs out, trying to force his voice to sound steady and clearly failing. “Why am I here?”
San stands back up, uninterested in kneeling beside the mess Wooyoung made. “I’m the underboss of the Mob in Korea. You know what that means?”
Wooyoung is frozen in his seat, like a deer caught in headlights, then he nods.
“Good boy. I’ve been searching for a pretty face like yours for a while. That’s why my men brought you in.” San explains.
“What? I-If you wanna fuck me, j-just do it already!”
San stares down at him, amusement making a pair of dimples form on his cheeks, then he chuckles down at him. “That’s not what I meant, baby. Don’t be so eager after you pissed yourself.”
Wooyoung’s cheeks burn red, he hangs his head down, defeated.
“I need a drug trafficker. Someone who’s easy on the eyes, someone who doesn’t look suspicious nor is linked to us. You said you already sell weed, so you know a thing or two about the business.”
Wooyoung lets another fresh tear join the sticky, dry ones on his face. “I’m a plug, I don’t know anything about dealing or,” He hiccups, he’s crying again. “Or trafficking.”
“You’ll be fine.” San replies coldly. “You should be lucky that I’m allowing you to work under me. I’ll kill you if you don’t agree, since you already know too much. Plus, I’ll be paying you, too.”
Wooyoung shakes against his chair, adrenaline reaching his head. “Can I ask for something before I agree?”
San looks shocked too, although he doesn’t show it much beyond the lift in his brows. “Oh? Ask away, pretty.”
“I want to continue living my normal life. I don’t want to live here with you, or your men. You can keep tabs on me, or w-whatever the fuck you do, but I want to keep in touch with my friends and keep going to school.”
San laughs again, ruffling a rough hand in Wooyoung’s hair. “Yeah whatever. Sure, kid. Deal. Now go shower, you fucking stink.”
San points the knife that’s still in his hand at the back corner. There’s a bathroom tucked behind a hallway with a large, walk-in shower. It has gold outlining and decorated glass.
“I’ll wait here.” San orders, walking over to a couch and reclining against it.
Wooyoung’s legs feel like jelly when he stands on them, but he’s able to stumble over to the shower, regardless.
❈
Wooyoung wraps himself in a fluffy, white towel once he’s done with his shower. He feels a lot better, but his chest still clenches tightly with a queasy uncertainty.
As he pads out of the bathroom, steam following, he sees that San is still sitting, legs taking up the entirety of the space in the chair, waiting for Wooyoung as promised.
Wooyoung didn’t think it was quite right to put his piss-soaked clothes back on, so he still has his towel clutched over his body, feeling vulnerable in front of the powerful man.
“Come.” San orders, obviously not caring in the slightest.
Wooyoung shuffles forward, clutching the towel tighter around himself like it’s the last shield he has left. His wet hair drips onto his shoulders, dark strands clinging to his flushed skin. He doesn’t like the way San’s eyes follow him, unhurried and sharp, like he’s memorizing every weak spot.
“Sit,” San gestures lazily to the edge of the couch across from him. His voice isn’t raised, but the weight behind it makes Wooyoung’s legs move on their own, knees buckling as he lowers himself down.
The towel rides higher up his thighs when he sits, and Wooyoung notices it the exact second San does. He tugs at the fabric desperately, wishing he had clothes.
“Relax,” San sighs, leaning back, ankle crossing over his knee. “You’re safe. For now.”
The words should calm him, but instead they coil tight in Wooyoung’s stomach like barbed wire.
“Why me?” He whispers, throat raw.
San tilts his head, amused. “Why not you? Pretty face. Stupid enough to get lost in a club and stumble into my alley. That’s what fate is, kid—an accident that worked out for me.”
Wooyoung’s fists tremble in his lap. He wants to scream, to curse, to tell San to fuck off. But all that comes out is his shaky breathing.
San grins, dimples flashing again, though his eyes stay cold. “Look, I’m also offering you a choice, here. A job.” He leans forward now, resting his elbows on his knees, closing the space between them. “Work for me and live your life like nothing happened while also getting paid a shitload of money? Or refuse and vanish tonight. Which one sounds better?”
Wooyoung’s heart slams in his chest. He thinks about Yeosang and all of his friends and all of the people who’d mourn his sudden disappearance.
He thinks about how badly he wants to go home, but his mouth goes dry. “If I say yes, you promise you won’t hurt me or anyone in my life?”
San chuckles, low and dangerous, then reaches out to grip Wooyoung’s chin between two fingers. Wooyoung freezes, breath hitching as San forces him to meet his gaze.
“I don’t break deals,” San explains simply. “Remember that, and you’ll be fine. But, I can’t just promise you anything without putting any tabs on you. You understand that, right?” San continues lazily, beckoning one of his men forward, who Wooyoung didn’t even notice was in the room until he towers over his chair. He’s holding a long object with a daunting needle sticking out of the front.
Wooyoung pales. “W-What is that?”
“Just a tracking device. Stay still.” San nods his head, and the other man grabs Wooyoung’s arm suddenly with a firm grip. Before Wooyoung can even tense up, he’s being stabbed in the arm with the needle, the device plunging underneath his skin. Wooyoung wails at the pain it causes, feet kicking out, towel riding up further.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” San laughs sadistically, watching the boy in amusement.
Wooyoung looks up with watery eyes, clutching the fresh wound with his other hand. “C-Can I go, now?”
San tilts his head at the question, dimples flashing faintly like he’s entertained. “Go?” he repeats, tasting the word.
Wooyoung’s lips part, but no words come. His chest rises and falls in quick bursts, clenching the hem of his towel with white knuckles.
San pushes himself up from the couch, slow and deliberate. The sound of his shoes against the floor makes Wooyoung flinch with every step until San is looming over him again. He crouches, reaching out—not to touch him this time, but to point two fingers at Wooyoung’s chest, right over his heart.
“You belong to me now,” San whispers softly, like he’s telling him a secret instead of issuing a sentence. “That thing in your arm? It makes sure I don’t lose you. It makes sure you don’t do anything stupid. Understand?”
Wooyoung swallows hard, throat dry. “Y-Yes.”
“Good boy.” San straightens again, smoothing down the lapel of his suit like the whole exchange hadn’t happened. “One of my men will drive you home. You’ll sleep in your own bed tonight, wake up like nothing happened. But—” he pauses, turning back, eyes sharp and glittering in the dim light. “When I call, you answer. No excuses.”
San snaps his fingers, and the bald man—Park—steps forward, holding Wooyoung’s cracked, familiar phone in his palm. Wooyoung’s stomach twists at the sight of it, smeared with dirt from the alley. San takes it, weighs it in his hand, then smashes it against the corner of the table with one sharp motion. The screen shatters, glass scattering across the floor.
Wooyoung flinches, biting back a noise.
“Burn it,” San orders, tossing the ruined device back to Park without a second glance. Then, almost casually, he pulls a sleek new phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a matte black model, thin and spotless, and he drops it right onto Wooyoung’s lap.
“That one only has my number. Use it for me, and only me.”
Wooyoung stares down at the phone like it’s a ticking time bomb. He nods quickly, afraid to even blink too long.
San gives a satisfied hum, then gestures toward the door. “Clothes are in the drawer. Change, and Jin will take you out the back. You’ll hear from me soon, baby.”
As San leaves the room, the weight in the air doesn’t leave with him. Wooyoung sits frozen, hand pressed over the sore spot on his arm where the tracker sits buried under his skin, the new phone heavy in his lap, a sick realization curling in his gut.
He got what he asked for. He was going home.
But he wasn’t free.
The ride back is silent. Jin drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes never leaving the road, not even when Wooyoung shivers in the backseat with San’s phone heavy in his hands. His old one, his lifeline, his contact with his friends was gone, smashed to pieces and burned, like his identity didn’t matter.
The new phone sits too sterilely in his lap. Its matte black surface catches the dim glow of passing streetlights, and when he presses the side button, it powers on instantly. No lock screen, no apps, nothing except a single contact: San.
Wooyoung swallows. He doesn’t even want to touch it anymore. He can feel the weight of it, like it’s watching him instead of the other way around. His brain whispers the obvious.
It’s bugged. They’re tracking you, listening to you. They’ll know every word you say.
By the time Jin drops him off a few streets from his apartment, his nerves are frayed. “Go straight home,” Jin orders flatly before pulling off into the night.
Wooyoung tucks the phone under his arm and stumbles toward his building as hastily as he can. His hands are still trembling when he unlocks the door.
Inside, the lights are still on. Yeosang is sitting on the couch with his birthday crown tossed carelessly beside him, scrolling his phone with a scowl carved into his face.
“Where the fuck have you been?” He snaps before he even looks up.
Wooyoung freezes in the doorway, damp hair still dripping down his neck, towel pressed awkwardly over his arm where the injection site burns. He feels suddenly seen, and not in the way he wants.
“I’m sorry. I-I lost track of time,” He lies, forcing his voice into something breezy.
Yeosang’s eyes narrow. “You look like shit. Did you throw up? Did you—fuck, Woo, did you get in a fight?”
Wooyoung can’t breathe under the scrutiny. He forces a shaky laugh, tossing the towel onto a chair like it’s nothing. “Just too much to drink, I swear. Some random dude let me shower at his place then gave me a ride back.”
He doesn’t dare mention San, or the alley, or the men with guns.
Yeosang doesn’t look convinced, but he sighs and drops it, muttering about how he should’ve kept better track of him. Wooyoung excuses himself as fast as possible, darting into his room and locking the door.
Only then does he collapse onto his bed, curling around the new phone. His fingers hover over it like he wants to throw it out the window, but he knows better. They’d know. He’d know.
He turns it over, eyes darting across every seam, every tiny hole that could be a microphone. His paranoia sharpens until he swears he hears a faint hum, like the device is alive. His chest tightens.
They’re watching him.
His whole body feels wrong, buzzing with leftover fear, like his skin doesn’t quite fit anymore. The silence of the apartment, broken only by the muffled static of Yeosang’s TV through the wall, should feel safe. Instead, it presses in on him in a suffocating manner.
That morning, his biggest worry had been finding the right shoes for Yeosang’s birthday dinner. Now, there’s a chip under his skin and a deal with someone who could end him with a snap of his fingers.
His throat tightens. He wants to believe it’s temporary, that San meant what he said about letting him leave once the “work” is done. But deep down, he knows better.
People like San don’t just let go.
His mind races through possibilities, all of them worse than the last. Running jobs. Delivering packages. Watching people get hurt. Helping people disappear. He sees flashes of his own body left in an alley, discarded when he stops being useful. The thought makes him choke on a sob, shoving his fist against his mouth to muffle it.
Yeosang is just a few feet away on the other side of the wall. Oblivious and safe. Wooyoung wonders how long that will last. Because if San can find him, San can find Yeosang too.
Everyone Wooyoung cares about suddenly feels like they’re standing in a firing line, and it’s all because of him.
He curls tighter into himself, trying to imagine a way out. The police? No, there's a possibility San owns them. His parents? He can’t drag them into this. Running? The tracker burns under his skin with an ebb of pain, answering him: nowhere.
For the first time in his life, Wooyoung feels completely powerless. His future is not his anymore. He can dress it up however he wants, pretend that tomorrow will be normal, pretend he’ll laugh with Yeosang and complain about classes. But underneath, he knows that every step he takes belongs to someone else.
He wipes his face roughly with his sleeve, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, pulling him into the reality he’s been dodging since he walked out of that warehouse.
His life isn’t about what he wants anymore. It’s about what San wants from him.
And that realization, more than anything else tonight, is what breaks him.
His body trembles with little shudders, arms wrapped around himself like it’ll hold him together. But nothing holds. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees San’s smirk, the glint of the needle, the casual way they destroyed his phone like his whole life meant nothing.
Eventually, the tears leave him hollow. His sobs fade into hiccups, his breathing uneven as exhaustion drags at his bones. His pillow is cold and wet beneath his cheek, but he’s too weak to move, too tired to fight the way his body shuts down.
The last thing he feels before sleep takes him is the dull throb in his arm where the tracker sits, a constant reminder under his skin that tomorrow will be no better.
And with that weight pressing on him, Wooyoung finally cries himself into a restless, broken sleep.