Chapter Text
The hierarchy of the Union ran parallel to a waterfall: peaceful upstream, slight trouble on the overhang, and finally, crashing waters at the plunge pool.
After Baekjin’s death, the hard rock crumbled like melting icebergs, and suddenly the pressure stumbled out of control.
Top dogs tore through their schools like bloodhounds as Choi commanded them with a money-built whip. Those at the bottom of the pyramid wiggled out fine as long as they kept clear of dark alleyways and overpasses. Those at the overhang—middlemen, regular fighters—were dragged back to the bowling alley. They were demanded to stay, to keep the Union running as if nothing happened. As if a teenage boy hadn’t died.
Keep the hustle, keep the fights, Choi barked at his subjugators. I want this place back in order now, not later.
Or, at least, that was what Seongje heard from bloody, quivering lips before he smashed his fists into them. As far as he was concerned, his association with the Union ended promptly after rejecting Choi’s offer to run it.
Keum Seongje crafted an agenda shortly after Baekjin croaked (by shortly, he meant right after a shiver zipped down his spine when he was told the news): enjoy life to the fullest before death. Life was short, and Seongje wanted to live! Simple!
Seongje liked simple tasks, occasionally. Simple tasks made rewards come to him faster, which meant entertainment would appear just around the corner.
It was a low-risk, high-reward agenda. Seongje had loads of free time now that he didn’t report back to anyone, so he decided to approach the agenda grandly.
What’s grander than beating the shit out of anyone that crossed his path?
What’s grander than recarving his name on the streets into something more ruthless? More horrifying?
What’s grander than becoming a greater danger than that lame-ass Union? Why should the average teenage boy be afraid of that crumbling excuse of a gang when they could be terrified of Keum Seongje?
It was a wonderful, simple agenda.
Keum Seongje reestablished himself as a king, and if the Union ever did return to its former glory, he was for sure to remain the top predator.
— — — — — — —
Seongje sighed dramatically. “Hey, freak. You can’t raise your arms even a little?” He mumbled, poking the body under him with the toe of his shoe.
What came in response was a garbled sob. A moan grumbled into the cement, breath pushing small rocks down the gentle slope of the road. The kid’s friends were lined up off to the side, nursing their wounds with trembling fingers. They all looked like pathetic nerds: stumpy, with rectangular glasses and boiling red cheeks. One of them had a poster under his arm before Seongje snuck up on them. The poster was now on the ground a little ways ahead of them.
Seongje dug his foot under the kid’s ribs and flipped him over onto his back. Before the boy could curl into himself—hide his weak underbelly—Seongje delivered a swift blow to his abdomen with the heel of his sneakers. The kid howled in pain. When Seongje glanced at the boys lining the wall, they were looking away.
Seongje turned back. He removed his foot and crouched down beside the boy’s head, then pinched the boy’s chin between his pointer and thumb and turned the boy’s eyes towards him. “I gave you multiple chances to punch me,” Seongje drawled. “Which was really generous, considering. Why didn’t you use any of ‘em?”
The boy stumbled over an apology, his eyes seeping fat tears into his ears with each load of bullshit that left his mouth. Seongje raised his hand and slapped him across the face to shut him up. Then, he stood up and wandered over to the rest of the boys he’d caught. They shook like thin, dying leaves. Weak, defenseless, and lousy. They disgusted him.
Fury bubbled up into Seongje’s throat. His voice fell into something vicious as he leaned in close to one of the taller, lankier kids. “Do I need to pay you to go to a gym? Will that turn you punching bags into real boys?” Seongje asked. “Should I check, hm?”
He ordered the boys to spread out, legs apart. Then, down the line he went—beating the sole of his shoe into each of their crotches, watching them drop like flies, listening to their baby-ass cries. “I see!” Seongje spoke over them. "You need more than the gym, boys. I guess I just have to kill you next time.” He sauntered over to the poster on the ground, unrolled it and winced at the sparkly spelling at the top. “Graphing Out Loud? What is this corny shit?” He bent down beside the first kid, the crybaby, and shoved the poster into his face. “Hey, when’s this due?”
The boy trembled. When he opened his mouth, the divots of his teeth were red from blood. “Tomorrow,” he stuttered out wetly, sniffling loudly. “We’re presenting tomorrow.”
“Must be worth a lot. You just finished this?” Seongje turned the poster around to look it over once more. It was well-written, very detailed. It was obvious a lot of time and effort had been put into it.
At the kid’s slight nod, Seongje easily ripped the poster in half. Then, into fourths. Then, into eighths. The pieces fluttered down onto the pavement innocently. “Better run back home now, piggies," Seongje mused, "it might take you a bit to restart.”
The kid laid out under him started to cry once more. Seongje watched one, two, three tears drip down onto the ground.
Curiosity suddenly peaked, Seongje brushed a droplet from the tip of the boy’s nose and brought his finger up to his mouth. He licked the tear from his thumb and smacked his lips, taking in the taste of it.
Eh. Salty. A hint of tangy sweat. A slight bitterness, likely remnants of a face cream. Seongje winced. Not pleasant at all. He pooled saliva into his mouth and spat the taste out of his mouth. It landed on the boy’s exposed neck. He, finally, stood up with a slight groan and brushed himself off. “Make sure you go to sleep early, boys! No loitering around on a school night.” He flashed the boys a toothy smile, cruel and curled around the edges.
The kids righted themselves. He watched as they rapidly wobbled away from him, heads ducked in fear, frantic hands gripping each other’s elbows. They vanished around the corner. Footsteps thundered seconds later. They ran off.
Revolting. Seongje dropped his smile. He spat on the ground once more. His teeth clenched in frustration—at himself, at everyone—and his knuckles began to itch from overuse. He shoved his fists into his pockets to avoid looking at them.
How many bodies would that have been for the day? Ten? Eleven? Does he count all the ones he touched or just the ones he bruised up real bad? Or, just the ones who fought back? How many was that? Three? No, four.
Four sounded right. It had to be.
Seongje began his slow trek back home, his temper flaring dangerously. Sweat began its slow descent down his skin, and once Seongje felt it gather on his brow, he clicked his tongue in frustration. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, then took his glasses out of his pants pocket. Once they were properly perched on his nose, Seongje brought his hands up to his face to observe his knuckles.
Red. Shredded flesh, dried blood. They looked mauled, but, they'd looked worse before.
Seongje wanted them to look worse.
As he passed a convenience store, he stared at his floating reflection in the glass. Untouched skin. No marks. No cut lip. Curled hair. Dark eyes. A chiseled jaw. Unmarred skin. He looked handsome. He looked like his younger self: calm, at peace with himself. Why did it feel so unfamiliar? So contrasting to the whirring storm grinding away in his gut?
Where were the bruises Seongje worked so hard for? Where was the evidence of a well-earned fight? The blood? The effort? The talent?
The joy?
— — — — — — —
Baek Dongha was as snake-faced as ever when he approached Seongje at the PC room. His black uniform cut through the red sea crowding the computers. The hoots and hollers twisted his already pinched face into something sour. His friend, the short-haired one—Seong-something—stood beside him in silence. Seongje watched his eyes flicker from Seongje’s face to Dongha’s, then to the boys crawling about the room.
If they knew they were unwelcome, why’d they show up? Seongje gulped down his annoyance and shifted his mouth into a teasing smirk. “Dongha-yah, weren’t you here yesterday?” He crooned sweetly, “I told you to take me out on a date before you started kissing my ass.” He turned back to the computer screen, his honeyed smile dropping once more into a scowl. His team was fucking losing.
Dongha voiced his annoyance with a nasally scoff. “You think I wanna show up here? If you unblock me, I don’t have to look at you,” he growled, frustrated. “Choi’s getting pissed, Keum Seongje. He wants Ganghak back in the Union.”
Seongje snorts. “Ganghak never left. Last I checked, your boys were using mine as errand runners.”
“That’s not—” Dongha’s voice dipped uneasily. He covered it up with another scoff. “Whatever. You left, and that’s basically all Choi sees of Ganghak.”
Once, Seongje would’ve been all for school pride. A jab toward his colors would’ve earned someone a punch to the face; maybe a crowbar to the shin. It would’ve been a motivated fight. School spirit brewed excitement, passion, and rivalry. Violence. A cocktail made just for him. But, by then, school spirit was not part of Keum Seongje’s agenda. School and enjoying life? Together? Made him gag.
Seongje made an act of looking around the PC room, at the multiple maroon uniforms surrounding them. Some boys were glancing between Seongje and Dongha cautiously. Others were on their feet, watching and waiting. He looked back at the duo, his expression mockingly surprised. “Shit, admitting that in front of my boys? Sounds like you wanna fight me or something.”
“Stop that brotherhood bullshit.” Dongha glared. “As if you give a fuck what happens to anyone but yourself.”
Seongje sent him a cheerful thumbs-up, reverting to his original slouched position in the gaming chair. Dongha’s rat face was depleting his mood—it hurt to stare for too long. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he drawled, adjusted his glasses, and hit play on his game. “Goodbye, Yeonsung boys.”
He hoped the obvious message landed, but a large, tanned hand slammed over his mouse, pinning his fingers in place.
A shadow came over him. Seongje twitched.
“He’s coming for you whether you like it or not, Keum Seongje.” Seong-something spoke this time, his voice deeper than Seongje recalled. It sent an addicting buzz through his ears. “The Union is back, and you either join, or you disappear. This is us playing nice.”
Seongje licked his lips, his eyes staring down at the hand over his. The last time someone had touched him for long enough, he ripped off their fingernails with rusty pliers. This time, he imagined biting each meaty finger off and grilling them as a side for his next ramen cup.
Behind them, Dongha added sarcastically, “Like I said. Choi wants you in." Seonghe heard a tch. "His taste in young boys is a little off these days.”
Seongje jerked his hand away from Seong-something's grasp. The warmth clung to his skin like dried juice, dripping from a fruit squeezed too tight. He tried to wipe the heat off on his pants and when it didn’t immediately dissipate, he stuck his hand into his pocket to avoid it altogether.
He turned to stare at Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. Tried to digest them as people who were part of something apparently way bigger than him. “I’m not into old guys. I like a man that can bend over easily.” Seongje tilted his head. “Is this same petty threat being sent to anyone else?” He smirked. “Park Humin, for example?”
Dongha scoffed, then shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Irritation flickered over his expression. Seongje tried not to laugh in his face—Baku’s wounds on Dongha, from their fight in the spring, were still fresh. “Eunjang was the reason the Union died in the first place. No one's reachin' out to that asshole,” Dongha said unhappily.
“Ah, okay.” Seongje deemed the conversation useless right then and there. No Eunjang, no fun, and therefore, no point. His voice dropped dangerously. “You know your way to the door, mamushi? Or should I walk you out myself?”
It was a dare. You don’t want me getting out of this chair.
Seong-something crept closer, leaning in, one hand on the table, the other on the back of Seongje’s chair. Too close. His breath smelled like half-dissolved gum. Spearmint? The freshness had receded. The disgusting stink of dehydration easily overpowered the menthol. Seongje almost recoiled when warm air brushed past his ear. “This is us playing nice, Keum Seongje.” The short-haired boy repeated, hovering over Seongje; a circling buzzard. “Join the Union.”
Seong-something drew a familiar black card from his pocket. He flipped it once, twice. Slow and deliberate.
Then, he flicked the card into Seongje’s face.
— — — — — — —
Sometime later, Seongje knelt and patted Seong-something’s body down. He found a wallet in one pocket, and a pack of spearmint gum in another.
Seongje stood and pocketed the gum. “Throw ‘em out,” he told the group, glib. He flipped open the wallet. “Leave ‘em somewhere with heavy Union foot traffic.”
No one moved. The circle of Ganghak boys stood frozen, eyes locked on the two Yeonsung boys on the floor. Their gazes traced the unnatural shape of their bodies. Two ropes tangled and dropped in a heap.
An unspoken question thickened the air: Are they dead?
“What are we waiting for? An invitation?” Seongje clicked his tongue in annoyance, then grabbed a nearby boy by the collar and shoved him to the center of the circle. “Get them out of my sight. Drag ‘em if you have to," he snapped.
The boy in the center stumbled into a crouch beside the bodies. He checked for a pulse. When he found one, then another, Seongje heard a quiet breath of relief escape him. The boy beckoned for others to approach. Slowly, they followed Seongje's orders. The open space emptied out; some boys carried out Dongha and Seong-something’s groaning bodies, while others returned to their seats.
Meanwhile, Seongje rifled through Seong-something’s wallet. He easily found his school ID. Do Seongmok. So that was his name. Seongje brought the ID closer to his face and squinted. His photo wasn’t half-bad for someone so plain-looking.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the reception desk, Seongje cut Do Seongmok’s ID in half. Then, he cut up his debit card, random gift cards, and business cards. He pocketed the cash and flicked the coins aside—they hit the tile with a series of empty clinks. He even unfolded every receipt and read them over, just for his own curiosity. One from an unfamiliar hotpot restaurant caught his eye. Do Seongmok ordered three extra servings of beef brisket for his broth. Must’ve been tasty. Seongje tucked it away.
Then, wedged in a corner of the wallet, Seongje found a small plastic baggie. Powdered drugs? He hadn’t done any in a while. He tugged it out. What he found instead were a few delicately dried flower petals neatly arranged inside. When he broke the seal, a syrupy, opulent scent rushed up his nose—almost too rich, too sweet. It crawled down his throat and left a sour film on his tongue. He threw his head back and tried to cough the taste out of his mouth.
Gross. He was never a big flower guy, but it must’ve meant something to Do Seongmok if he kept it in his wallet. Seongje shoved the baggie into his pocket. He’d figure out what kind of flower it was, and then throw it out. Sounded like a fun little puzzle!
When he was finished, Seongje dropped the gutted wallet in the trash. He returned to his seat, finally about to resume his game. He reached for his mouse, then froze. The black card was still there, wedged beneath the keyboard. Beside it sat Seongje’s glasses, where he’d tossed them earlier in his rush to punch Do Seongmok.
Inevitable anger surged through him like water racing down a slope.
The Union sent their little mutts into Seongje’s territory. Like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t a threat. Like he didn’t bite.
If he saw Baek Dongha or Do Seongmok again, he’d declare war. No more warnings. No more fruitless beatings.
He caught up to the group of boys carrying them off. Without a word, he jammed the card deep into Do Seongmok’s mouth, ignoring his choked coughs and pathetic gagging as the sharp edges scraped the back of his throat.
Disgusting fucking mutts.
A clap of thunder cracked in the distance as Seongje turned and walked back to the PC room.
His mind was made up.
— — — — — — —
Hyuntak whistled loudly as he flipped some images down on the board. He had a good feeling about this round.
Suho glared at him from across the table, his board still cluttered compared to Hyuntak’s. “Does your guy have highlights or not?” He asked gruffly, annoyed.
“Nope.” Hyuntak hid his grin behind his hand as Suho slouched and angrily flipped some images down. The clicks of the plastic frames hitting the bottom of the board sent Hyuntak’s ego souring.
Still, he kept his laughter in. He couldn’t celebrate too early, no matter how much he wanted to see Suho’s face when he bought Hyuntak his promised barbeque.
“Does your guy have,” Hyuntak tapped his chin subconsiously, “green eyes?”
Suho clicked his tongue. “For the last time, Gogo, and I can’t fucking tell if their eyes are blue or green.”
“They look pretty different to me.”
“Well, they don’t look different to me.” Suho slouched back into his chair and gestured lazily at his board. “Pick something else,” he said.
Hyuntak narrowed his eyes but said nothing. “Fine.” He stared down at his characters. “Is your guys’ right eyebrow raised? Does he look like he’s up to no good?”
“No," Suho snorted. "And that’s two questions. Stop cheating.”
“I’m not cheating!”
“Yes, you are. Ask another question.”
Hyuntak stared at him incredulously. “Are you trying to get me to ask another question so you can avoid losing?”
“No, I’m making sure you aren’t fucking cheating.”
“Stop fucking with me.”
Suho threw a used napkin at his face. “I’m not fucking with you!” he shouted. “You’re literally cheating!”
The fiber stuck to Hyuntak’s mouth—still sticky from tteokbokki sauce—and he spat it out with a disgusted grunt. “I’m not—”
The door to Suho’s room slid open slowly. Sieun walked in, his expression pinched in annoyance. He approached their table quietly and dropped into the empty seat between them. “Do you have to be so loud?” he grumbled. “The nurses were looking at me funny.”
“Ahn Suho is a dirty little bastard and I hate him, Sieun-ah,” Hyuntak declared. He dodged another dirty napkin and slapped Suho’s outstretched hand in retaliation. “He thinks he’s hot shit ‘cause he doesn’t use a walker anymore.”
Suho stood, chair scraping against the tile. “Don’t make me go over there,” he growled, his fists clenched at his sides.
Hyuntak stood too. He was taller than Suho, and therefore fearless. “Or else what? You gonna kick me, baby-ass?”
Sieun sighed and took out his headphones. He didn’t bother stopping Suho as he rounded the table and grabbed Hyuntak by the hair. They screeched at each other, flinging half-hearted punches and tugging at each other’s clothes. With a jab to Suho’s armpit, Hyuntak broke free first. He backed away.
Suho faked a lunge. Hyuntak flipped him off from a few feet away.
The door slammed open again. Juntae rushed in, panting hard. “Sieun-ah!” He called. “Did you hear—”
He paused, taking in the scene, observing Suho and Hyuntak in their defensive stances. “What’s wrong?” He asked.
“Suho attacked me,” Hyuntak tattled, ignoring Suho’s offended scoff.
“Oh." Juntae took off his backpack and sweater in one go. He walked over to the far wall and dropped his bag beside Hyuntak’s, then hung his sweater up on the nearby rack. “That's nice. Are you two playing games again?”
Hyuntak was pulled into a headlock. The smell of disinfectant and minty muscle cream told him it was Suho, even before his face was mushed into the hoodie. He started to wriggle free, then paused when Suho’s weight pressed heavily against him. Through the bangs in his eyes, he noticed Suho’s knees shaking slightly.
He stopped struggling. Let Suho roughhouse him a bit, just once. “This is the last fucking time I play anything with this little shit,” Suho muttered, tugging Hyuntak’s bangs one more time before letting him go.
Hyuntak rubbed his scalp and turned to watch Suho slowly walk back to his seat. He sat down with a grimace. A pang of guilt caught in Hyuntak’s chest—he reminded himself not to push Suho too much.
Juntae patted Hyuntak's back on the way to Suho's hospital bed. “You said that last time,” he chirped at Suho. He settled down cross-legged on top of the covers and said, “Anyway. Sieun-ah?”
Suho called Sieun’s attention by tapping his shoulder. Hyuntak walked to the cabinet in the corner, found a heat compress, and turned on the faucet. He tested the water with his hand.
“What is it?” Sieun asked just as the water started to warm. Hyuntak leaned his hip against the cabinet.
“I wanted to ask if you heard about Yeonsung,” Juntae continued.
“Who?” Suho asked.
The water reached the right temperature. Hyuntak filled the compress with hot water.
“Yeonsung High, they were part of the Union,” Sieun explained softly.
“Ah.”
A chair creaked. Suho must’ve shifted. Hyuntak bounced his leg, willing the compress to fill up faster.
“Yeah,” Juntae continued, “Remember Do Seongmok and Baek Dongha?”
Sieun hummed. “The guys that attacked you and Hyuntak.”
“Well, apparently, they were beat up real bad yesterday.”
The water hit the fill line. Hyuntak capped it and dropped it into Suho’s lap on his way back. Suho pinched his ear affectionately. “Where’d you hear this?” Hyuntak asked, sitting back down in his seat.
Juntae drooped. “Hyoman,” he mumbled, ashamed.
Hyuntak scowled. “You’ve been hanging out with him again? We talked about this, Juntae-ah,” he snapped.
Juntae shook his head quickly. “No!” He pulled out his phone sheepishly. “He just texted me, is all.”
Hyuntak sighed. Sieun began cleaning up the Guess Who? boards. “You know he’s just trying to rope you into his class president paperwork bullshit again, right?” he told Juntae, side-eyeing him.
Juntae held his arms up. “I’m not falling for it, I swear.”
Hyuntak raised a brow, then nodded. “Good.”
With the game cleaned up, Sieun turned back to Juntae. “Did he say who did it?”
Juntae adjusted his glasses nervously. "Um, yeah." He paused, eyes sweeping over them. "Keum Seongje.”
Silence fell. Hyuntak almost choked on his breath.
Keum Seongje. Every time he heard the name, it felt like walking through a ghost. Everyone was aware of Keum Seongje, it was hard not to. Every week there was another rumor: Keum Seongje had beaten another kid. Take a pick which school he hit that time!
Suho coughed. “I mean,” He adjusted the heat compress on his lap. “It’s not like Baek guy and Do guy didn’t deserve it.”
“They can crawl into a hole and die,” Hyuntak hissed. Sieun smiled at his snark.
“I agree,” Juntae said. “But, the thing is…”
“What is it?” Suho asked.
“Hyoman said…” Juntae shuffled awkwardly. “Um.”
Sieun furrowed his brows. “Is it bad?”
“Just say it, Juntae,” Suho insisted.
“Hyoman said…” Juntae hesitated. He stared at his phone. “He said that Keum Seongje put Do Seongmok into a coma.”
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the large windows, warming the back of Hyuntak’s neck. He rubbed the sweat gathering at his collar.
A bird chirped outside. A car alarm blared, then stopped. Someone sniffed. Hyuntak looked over.
Suho stared at the compress with unreadable intensity.
Sieun stared at Suho.
Hyuntak cleared his throat. “Hey,” he forced out a chuckle, “He’s probably exaggerating, right? It’s Hyoman. He’s dramatic as hell.” He shot a Juntae a look.
Juntae understood the message. “Right, I thought so, too!” he said quickly. “Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise out of me—”
“Does he have proof?” Sieun cut in. His voice trembled on the edge of something raw. He was no longer looking at Suho.
“Huh?” Juntae croaked.
“Hyoman," Sieun repeated. "Did he see it? That Seongmok’s in a coma?”
“He said his friends saw the fight happen when they were walking home.”
“And Keum Seongje?" Sieun pushed. "Hyoman saw him do it?”
“Uh…" Juntae shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable. "He said his friends saw Seongje… choking… Seongmok. Outside the, um, PC room.”
Suho muttered a curse under his breath. Sieun stared down at the table, eyes distant, unreadable.
Hyuntak tried to unravel his jumbled thoughts. “Are they sure it was Keum Seongje?” He asked, uneasily.
He wouldn’t go that far, right?
Or, on second thought—Baekjin did.
Maybe Seongje would, too.
“Who else could it be?” Sieun turned to Hyuntak. His eyes were clear now. “The Union’s gone. Seongje’s the only one left causing trouble.”
“Right, but,” Hyuntak shrugged, “All three of them were part of the Union.”
“Personal shit, maybe?” Suho offered. He cracked his neck, first one side, then the other. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned loudly.
Hyuntak licked his lips. He bit back a stray comment on the forced nonchalance.
“A coma, though…” Juntae rubbed his hands nervously. “That’s extreme, for any reason.”
“Yeah,” Hyuntak mumbled. He felt sick. He looked at Suho again.
It’s been just over four months since Suho woke up. Around one since he stood on his feet for the first time. Suho’s pain was still raw and oozing. The timing couldn’t be worse.
Hyuntak licked his lips. Looked from Suho to Sieun. Tried to imagine what they were feeling. He stopped when his saliva went sour.
The door slid open one last time. Park Humin strode in, king of bad timing.
“Sorry, my friends!” Baku grinned, sweatshirt stained, sneakers loose, pajama pants wrinkled. “Got held up. What’d I miss?”
Hyuntak resisted slapping him. The tension in the room could’ve been sliced with a butter knife. Even someone as stupid as Baku should’ve felt it.
“Why the long faces, huh?” he asked, still smiling. He slung his arms around Hyuntak’s shoulders. “Gotak? You say something stupid again?”
Hyuntak pinched Baku’s nose in response. “You just woke up, didn’t you, asshole?”
Baku didn’t even try to deny it. “My dreams are really cinematic, ya know? Had to see how it ended.” He dropped his chin onto Hyuntak’s head. “So? Why’s everyone lookin’ so down?”
Hyuntak sighed. Where would they even begin?
— — — — — — —
It was an unsteady night when Seongje met the Cheongang gang.
The chill of August clung to Seongje’s skin, subtle but sharp. The city around him had settled into nighttime hush: cars passing quietly, students and workers disappearing into their homes. Just the buzzing of the streetlights overhead, and the thumping of Seongje’s sneakers on cement.
Seongje’s exhaustion clung to him tight. His knuckles throbbed from fighting. He had to rebandage them twice that day. His shoulders felt stiff; gone was the usual slouch, the sign of nonchalance. His joints were dry. His skin felt melted down to the bone.
Inside his head, it felt even worse.
Seongje didn’t know how to describe it. Loud in one moment, hollow in the next. His temper flared easily. His thoughts felt electrified, jumpy. He hated how sensitive he’d been. How thin the hair trigger on his attitude was. He wasn’t at his best those days.
He thought he’d made it easy for himself. Have fun. Live life. Forget everything. Fight.
But, why did it still feel like death was stepping on his heels? Tugging on his hair? Taunting him?
He headed to his usual convenience store. He kept his eyes down. Avoided the face in the reflection. The automatic door slid open with a cheerful ping. The kid at the register, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, smiled at him in recognition. Seongje nodded at him as he headed to a corner of the store.
“Hey,” he mumbled tiredly when he was done. He dropped his one product onto the counter.
The boy smiled at him lightly. “Good evening, hyung.” He quickly turned around and pursued the tobacco products behind him. “The usual smokes?” He asked, eager to be of service.
Seongje pointed at the counter. “Not today.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Just this, please.”
The boy looked down. His jaw dropped slightly. He apologized quickly. He said he forgot. Seongje waved him off.
The boy told him his total, and as Seongje swiped his card, he asked, “You really quit smoking, hyung?”
Seongje didn’t blame him for not believing him. Even he couldn’t believe himself. “Yeah,” he grumbled, unhappy with his own decision. “It ain’t too bad.”
The cashier hummed. “I’ve never tried smoking myself. But, I heard quitting’s hard.”
Seongje leaned his weight on one leg. “Don’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” he said unconvincingly. What was he saying? Did he even care?
The boy giggled quietly. “Okay, hyung. I’ll listen to you.” He handed Seongje his receipt and a small plastic bag, the nicotine gum inside. “Good luck!”
Seongje sent the kid a small smile and left the store. As soon as he turned the corner, he unpacked the gum and stuck two in his mouth. The sharp burn of cinnamon hit his taste buds, followed by the metallic tang of nicotine. He shoved his hands in his pockets and trekked on, ignoring the awkward pooling of saliva in his mouth.
As Seongje passed through a dark lot, he tried to wrestle his racing thoughts away.
What was his agenda again?
To live life without regrets? Or, something along those lines.
Had he been living life without regrets? Seongje would say so. Was he living life to the fullest? Well, he was beating the shit out of everyone all day, every day. That was fun.
That was his life, right? Beating everyone? That’s what he wanted, right? That’s what he was doing when he was in the Union. That’s what Na Baekjin wanted from him. And he had fun, didn't he?
Wait. No. He didn’t want to be part of the Union. He was trying to go against the Union, not act exactly like them.
Right. Well. From an outsider’s perspective, Seongje thought the Union was a flimsy excuse for a gang, anyway. So, arguably, he would be better than the Union no matter what course of action he chose to take.
Seongje sighed.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore, so, he focused on the chemical spiciness swirling in his mouth. He tried to blow a bubble with the nicotine gum, but it didn’t work. It pissed him off. Seongje debated spitting the gum out. Returning to the store, and just buying his usual pack. Maybe smoking a few at once.
Fuck. Addiction was hard. He wanted to smoke so bad.
Wanted so bad he could almost smell the cigarette smoke.
How heavenly it was, fuck.
Seongje paused. Took a deep breath.
He wasn't imagining it. Someone was smoking nearby.
The smell grew stronger, almost acrid. Seongje had half a mind to follow it. Maybe he could ask for a drag or two. Maybe he could beat the guy to the ground after. Knock ‘em unconscious. Taste the splatter of blood on his lip. Rebandage his knuckles when he got home.
The smell was so close. It hooked into his lungs and reached for him like it recognized him. Seongje opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed.
A group of older men stood at the exit of the lot. Nine? Ten? A lot. A suspicious amount for a regular Monday night behind a convenience store. A few blew out sweet-smelling smoke into the night, fogging the air in front of them. Their faces were distorted, hidden in the shadow of a nearby building.
They stood as outlines, with no eyes or expressions—nothing for Seongje to dissect. He felt too exposed under his cold slice of moonlight. He tilted his head down and let the slight breeze sweep his bangs into his eyes. He kept walking ahead. Tried not to brood on the pitiful taste of his Nicorette.
Fuck, he wanted to smoke bad.
“You, kid,” one of them called, gruff and low. Gurgly from years of smoking. His beer belly protruded through his dark clothing. His legs were stubby and clownish. Would’ve been funny if not for the others behind him, watching him.
Gangsters? Seongje never met an old, real gangster.
Besides Choi. He had only known Choi.
These guys felt similar to him.
“You from what school?” The beer-bellied man demanded.
Seongje glanced down. His jacket was glowing neon under the moonlight, loud and obvious. The Ganghak logo gleaned silver against the maroon. “Who wants to know?” He asked, voice dry. If they didn’t already recognize the color, maybe the name didn’t mean much either.
“We’re looking for a guy,” the man said. “Think you can help us?”
Seongje smirked. Falsely pompous. “Probably. I know a lotta guys.”
The man laughed, short and leathery. Then, he called out, “What about Keum Seongje?”
Seongje’s teeth clamped down on his tongue hard enough to hurt. The name tag stitched over his heart felt like it was pulsing. He reached up and rubbed it. Tried to smother it into nothing. Pretended it didn’t exist.
What now?
He looked up, eyes half-lidded. “Who?” he asked, laid-back and absolutely stupid of him. “Couldn’t hear you.”
A pause.
Then, click. The man’s tongue against his teeth.
“You need your ears cleaned, brat.” He took a step forward. “Keum Seongje. He’s tall. Wears glasses.”
Seongje felt his chest pound with something new.
Fear? Was he scared?
He pressed the hand over his name tag harder against his heart. It was pounding with something opposite of excitement. “No,” he lied. “Never heard of him.” His eyebrow twitched.
That felt like the wrong answer.
At first, no one moved.
Then the beer-bellied man stepped out from the shadows. Then the man behind him. Then all of them. They approached him with slow, purposeful steps.
Seongje stood in place and waited to see what would happen next. They stopped some feet away from him.
Seongje’s eyes flickered over their faces. They were definitely older: late twenties, maybe thirties. Some were heavy set, and some were wiry. Some had visible scars. Others had busted noses that hadn’t healed right. Some wore chains, others had sparkly watches. Their postures were loose, relaxed like they’d done this before: like chasing down some high schooler was just another part of their night.
They looked like guys Seongje wouldn’t fuck around with.
“You sure?” Another man, tall and long-limbed, asked. His eyes flickered to Seongje’s hand blocking his name tag. Seongje twisted his body away defensively.
“Don't ring a bell. I’m sorry, hyung,” he slurred casually. Tilted his head innocently. “Want me to pass a message, though? If I ever meet him.”
The long-limbed and beer-bellied men looked at each other. Then, the beer-bellied man raised a hand at the group behind him. Slowly, the group began to fan out. They spread out enough to block Seongje’s path entirely.
“Sure, I got a message for him,” the beer-bellied man spoke once more. He reached into the inside of his jacket. The click of a switchblade split the tension. Black steel flashed as the man flicked it open. “Tell Keum Seongje some of his old hyung’s buddies are in town for business.” He brought the knife up. The metal caught in the moonlight. “Just trying to avoid another accident like Na Baekjin.”
Seongje’s tongue sat heavy in his mouth. His jaw clenched around cinnamon-flavored saliva. He tried for a smile. “Damn,” he muttered. “You guys are quite considerate, huh.”
The man’s eyes were black holes of still water, filled with leeches and deadly diseases.
Seongje took one step back. “Anything else you want me to tell him?”
The man took a step forward.
“Yeah." He grinned. “Tell him to run.”
— — — — — — —
“Say, Gotak, when’s your next appointment?”
Hyuntak glanced at Baku through the steam of his ramen. He stuffed some more noodles into his mouth. “For what?” He asked, mouth full.
Baku motioned at Hyuntak with his chopsticks. “You know. For your knee.”
Hyuntak gulped down his food. He thought about it. “Next week, I think?”
“Yeah?”
Hyuntak nodded. “I don’t remember the day for sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s next week.”
“Okay.” Baku looked back at his ramen cup. He picked it up to his lips and drained the broth down to the undissolved spices at the bottom. “I’ll come with,” he declared between loud sips.
Hyuntak sighed. Not this shit again. “You don’t have to, Baku. It’s nothing serious.”
“I’d rather go than worry about you getting jumped," Baku insisted.
“I can handle myself just fine, thanks."
Baku scoffed. He shoved his empty cup away and scowled at Hyuntak’s annoyed expression. “It’s not about you being able to fight or not. It’s getting dangerous out there, again.”
Hyuntak slurped up some more noodles without waiting for them to cool. The broth stung against his tongue.
“I know the Union’s gone," Baku continued, "But with all the strange shit that’s been happening—”
“Is this about yesterday?” Hyuntak asked as he stacked Baku’s cup under his. He slid the ramen cups towards Baku’s side of the table and reached for his blue Powerade. “You worried about Keum Seongje?”
Baku picked up the cups with both hands. “Yes!” He exclaimed, the sound becoming trapped within the cup as Baku proceeded to drain Hyuntak’s remaining broth. He dropped the empty cups onto the table carelessly. “You heard what Jun said. A coma, Gotak? You wanna go into a coma, too? You really wanna do that to me?”
Hyuntak took a sip of his sports drink. “You do realize we haven’t seen Seongje in, like, four months, right?” By some miracle, he didn't mention. “Like, I literally forgot about him until Juntae told us about that fight.”
Baku opened his can of cola dramatically. “None of us forgot about him. That bastard made sure we kept our ears open for him with all that careless fighting he’s been doing.”
Hyuntak rolled his eyes. “Saint Baku strikes again.” He said, sarcastically. “He’s stayed outta sight this long. I doubt he’ll show up again anytime soon.”
“Which is why I’m totally coming with you to the clinic—”
“Baku-yah—”
“I don’t care what you want. I’m going! End of conversation!” Baku stood up from his seat. “I’m walking you home, now. Let’s go.”
Hyuntak gathered their trash up and debated kicking the back of Baku’s knee as he trotted past. He opted to slap him when he caught up to him.
As they walked out of the gas station, Baku nursing his now burning back, Hyuntak said, “Go home, Baku. Your dad’ll be worried.”
His friend scoffed and looked away. He rolled his shoulder as he tried to untangle his bag strap. “He’s fine. Working late tonight,” Baku mumbled.
Hyuntak reached over and flipped the strap over. His bag sat comfortably across his torso. “He’ll still get mad.”
Baku’s shoulders tensed. “No, he won’t.”
Hyuntak almost laughed at the absurdity. The metamorphosis of Baku’s father was something he thought he’d never witness. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw the man have a lick of alcohol—or even be drunk—in front of Baku when he came over. But, it wasn’t his place to tell Baku how to feel about that. When they stopped at the crosswalk, Hyuntak offered an ultimatum.
“Well, you either walk me home tonight, or you go with me next week. You can only do one,” he said with finality.
Baku turned to him, face crumpled in betrayal. “You can’t do that!”
Hyuntak shoved him away with a smirk. “I can and I will. You have five seconds to pick.”
“What? That’s so unf—”
Hyuntak started yelling, pettily, “Five, four—”
“Fine!” Baku stomped his feet angrily, on the line of throwing a tantrum. “I’ll let you go tonight, fuck.”
Hyuntak grinned in triumph. When Baku only sulked at him, he sighed and nudged his shoulder against his. “I can handle myself. I’m not impaired, Baku," Hyuntak crooned.
Baku wrapped his arm around Hyuntak’s shoulder and pulled him to cross the street. “No, you’re not. But, you’re my best friend. We gotta look after you.”
Hyuntak failed to stop the satisfied hum that escaped him. A soft smile tugged at his lips—Baku was a really special guy. “And you’re mine.” When they made it to the other side of the road, Hyuntak pulled away from his friend’s embrace. “Go home. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
Baku looked at Hyuntak for a moment longer, his frown large and childish. He only pulled away when Hyuntak glared at him in warning. “Fine,” he finally huffed. He flicked Hyuntak’s forehead before backing away. “Text me when you get home and shit.”
“Sure.”
“And send me the deets for your appointment!”
“Okay, Baku-yah.”
“Okay.” Baku started walking backward, his face suddenly lovey-dovey. “Love you, man.”
Hyuntak just nodded.
Baku paused and stared at him disapprovingly. “Say it back, coward.”
Hyuntak sighed. It sounded more like a laugh. “Why do we always have to do this ritual, Baku, why can’t you just go home?”
“Say it back!”
Hyuntak shooed him away. Baku scrunched his nose unhappily. A moment later, he obeyed.
When his back was turned, Hyuntak mumbled, “Love you too, and shit.”
He hoped it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear, but, Baku heard it anyway. The laugh his best friend let out bounced off the walls like a singing church bell. He sent Hyuntak a finger heart, high above his head, not bothering to look back—like he were some love interst in a drama, or something.
Hyuntak watched him go, his smile glued in place. When Baku turned the corner, he started his own trek home.
His knee was fine. Hyuntak pressed his full weight on it when he stopped at an intersection. A brief piercing pain shot up his knee, then cooled into an annoying, dull throb.
See? It wasn’t bad at all. Soon, it’ll go back to its regular burning-then-cooling feelings, and all will be normal again. The check-ups were just redundant at that point.
Hyuntak huffed. Baku was always thinking too much.
He turned onto another street. His house was just fifteen minutes away. What would he do when he got home? Was his mom home from work? Did he have homework? Maybe he had time to watch that drama before sitting down at his desk to—
Hyuntak stopped.
Footsteps.
Thundering, uncoordinated, fast. Echoing down the alley beside him.
Someone was running—no, all-out sprinting—towards him. From his left. Probably on the next street over.
Hyuntak froze. Half of him wanted to hide, but, why? He hadn’t done anything.
Still, something told him not to be seen.
Hyuntak stepped forward slowly. He peeked down the alley.
A flash of red blurred past.
Blood? No, clothes.
Hyuntak’s thoughts spiraled. What the hell did they do?
Or, what the hell was done to them?
Baku’s voice echoed in his head. A coma, Gotak? Juntae’s grim face. Sieun’s silence. Suho’s clenched jaw. Do Seongmok. Allegedly.
His stomach dropped. Fuck.
What if they were running from Keum Seongje?
Hyuntak brought his bag closer to himself. He pulled out his phone slowly. His knee throbbed. Sharp, then cold once more. He wouldn’t be much help in a fight, not tonight. He was exhausted. But, could he really just stand there?
A sound erupted behind him. Yelling. Multiple heavy footsteps.
Hyuntak swore under his breath. There was a stampede chasing the red-clad figure. It was a whole ass hunt.
What the fuck was Seongje doing, chasing some kid down? Was he insane?
Hyuntak stared down at his lock screen. If he ignored it, he’d be home before nine o’clock.
He opened Baku’s contact, just in case, and ran.
His knee flared in protest, but he ran anyway.
He reached another intersection just in time to spot the red figure again. They disappeared into a dark side street, a small distance from Hyuntak. Hyuntak followed, heart racing in his chest. Should he call out? Let them know he wanted to help?
The stampede behind him was growing louder. Closer. A low, surging roar of feet and voices. He pushed himself faster, hugging the shadows. If they saw him, he’d lead them straight to the person he was trying to help.
Up ahead, the runner passed beneath a flickering streetlight. Hyuntak saw brown hair, longer and wild. Long limbs. Red blazer, pants. Ganghak uniform? Seongje was beating up his own guys?
Hyuntak gritted his teeth and pushed on. He had to catch up soon. The group behind him was too loud and too close.
He turned at the corner and came to a sharp halt.
The street was empty.
“Hey, kid?” he called out, his voice unsteady. “Are you out here?”
His voice bounced off the walls. No response came.
He lost them.
Behind him, the group closed in.
— — — — — — —
“Hey, kid? Are you out here?”
From the gap between two dumpsters, Seongje watched Go Hyuntak scan the alley, footsteps crunching against the gravel, breath ragged.
Fucking Go Hyuntak. The guy looked relatively the same. Same small eyes, pouty lips, puffy cheeks. His hoodie hung loose and rumpled, hair windswept. His navy Eunjang uniform almost melted into the shadows.
Why was he here? Did he follow him?
Seongje’s thoughts stuttered, caught between confusion and an unusual sense of dread—how long had it been since he'd even seen Gotak?
The Cheongang gangsters rounded the corner like a wave, flooding into the narrow alleyway and blocking Gotak’s way back.
Shit. Seongje sat frozen, eyes locked on the scene unfolding just a few feet away. If anyone looked left, if even one of them turned their head, he’d be done.
Gotak turned and faced them, shoulders tight, chest rising and falling fast.
He had no fucking clue what he’d just walked into.
The beer-bellied man pointed at Gotak. “You. Did you see a kid run past here?”
Gotak's eyes were wide, mouth slightly open as he searched for a response. In front of him, Seongje could see the gang’s frustration boiling over. Their chase had worn them out; they’d run out of patience. The man grabbed the front of Gotak’s hoodie and yanked him in close. Gotak stumbled forward, nearly crashing into the man’s chest.
They were right in front of Seongje’s hiding spot now. So close he could hear the wheezing of the man’s breath. Could see the slight tremble in Gotak’s fists.
One look over. Just one, and Seongje would've been found out.
He held his breath and tried not to criticize his own cowardice.
“A kid in a red uniform,” Beer-bellied man growled. Gotak winced. The asshole's breath must’ve reeked. “Tall, dark hair. Turned this way just a second ago. You see him?”
Gotak tried to pull back, hands grasping the man’s wrist. “Hang on,” he stuttered, “I—”
“It’s a simple question, kid,” the gangster snarled, “did you see him or not?”
Gotak hesitated. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know, I was just walking by—”
“And you didn’t see anything?’
“Wait, can you—” Gotak tried to shift away again. He pulled his body sideways, still trying to release himself from the man’s grip. His eyes flickered over the wall momentarily, and Seongje—
The dread in Seongje’s chest increased tenfold.
Their eyes met. Gotak saw him.
The situation was out of his hands. No matter what came next, Seongje had to be ready to face it. If Gotak ratted him out, he’d run. Then, when he recovered from whatever beating he received from Cheongang, he’d turn up at Eunjang High and kill him.
Good plan. Seongje straightened his back and prepared to dart out of his hiding spot.
He just had to—
“Actually,” Gotak spoke again, halting Seongje's movements. The boy pointed over his shoulder, down the other exit of the alleyway. “Yeah, I think I saw someone. I wasn’t sure at first, but…” He gestured again, more firmly this time. “Down that way. Red uniform. Took a right.”
The man stared at him. His grip stayed tight on Gotak’s hoodie. “You sure?” He asked, suspiciously. He pulled out the switchblade from his pocket with his free hand and waved it around in front of Gotak. “You know what happens if you lie to me, right?”
Gotak glanced at the switchblade. Then, he glanced at Seongje again, his eyes shaky. Seongje stared back at him, challenging him.
“Yes,” Gotak lied through gritted teeth, voice trembling. “Positive.”
A tense silence followed. No one moved.
Then, the beer-bellied man let go of Gotak’s collar.
“Let’s go!” he barked at the group behind him, throwing one last glare at Gotak before pushing past him. The others followed without hesitation, shoes pounding against the pavement as some shoulder-checked Gotak on their way down the alleyway.
Gotak and Seongje remained in place until the sound of their footsteps faded. Seongje felt the dread slowly begin to fade, but he waited. Counted seconds, expected the men to come back.
No one did. Gotak sighed in relief. Then, he turned to face Seongje. He looked down at him, eyes wide.
“What the fuck,” Gotak asked, voice stern but wavering, “is happening to you, Keum Seongje?”
Seongje dropped his head.
Go Hyuntak had just saved him.
Seongje spat his crummy cinnamon gum out.
How fucking pathetic.