“There are violets in your eyes
There are guns that blaze around you
There are roses in between my thighs and fire that surrounds you
It's no wonder every man in town had neither fought nor found you.”
26th March, 2017 | 11:52pm | Apartment 3B, Red Light Sector
Yoongi pulls on the silk black collar around his neck, sleeves already unbuttoned and folded to his elbows, to loosen it somewhat. A little bit behind him, Hoseok clutches the older man’s suit jacket in the room’s crooning shadow, eyeing him with caution as he creases the velvet black material with tight concern in his grip.
A low murmur of a simmering liquid serenades the room, as all three people present in the moonlit room wait.
Hoseok waits with unbreakable attention, Yoongi waits with hot impatience and…
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, Junghee?”
Junghee waits with understandable fear.
Everybody, this side of the city and the other, has heard the horror stories that surround traitors and assailants against the Mariposa gang in the Red-Light sector: how people go missing, along with organs, limbs or facial features depending on who’s doing it and what sort of mood they’re in.
It’s rare for the boss to take care of the assholes himself, but Yoongi easily made an exception this time.
A smile of twisted amusement disturbs Yoongi’s face and he tsks at the man, leaning back against the solid black marble countertop of his victim’s apartment. It’s a nice place, far, far too nice for someone in his position and, really, Yoongi could’ve taken one look at this place and known that he was a snitch. There’s no way any sort of pathetic brawns of a mobster could afford somewhere this fancy. It was compensation for risking so much.
Yoongi hopes it was nice while it lasted. The man would need a lot of compensation for the risk that had materialised in his joke of a life tonight.
“Trying to bring down my gang with, what? A little bit of poorly guarded information?”
He makes no move to say anything – not that he could anyway with the dish rag stuffed in his mouth – instead, opting to stare Yoongi down angrily. A façade. Yoongi can sense his fear. He can see the tips of his fingers tremoring. His smile widens.
“It certainly amused me. It amused me so much that I called up my little brother and said to him ‘Jungkookie, don’t bother cutting out this sorry motherfucker’s tongue. I’ll do it myself.’”
Junghee’s muscles tighten against the restraints. He gulps. Yoongi adores the way they jitter and tremble under his skin.
“But then I thought, no, I can’t cut out his tongue. Do you know why?”
“Because then how can I find out where this pesky little piece of information’s went? And I’m not stupid, I know you’re not going to tell me. You wouldn’t be able to face your gang again would you?”
Yoongi nods, answering the question for himself before he rounds the marble counter, walking towards the large silver cooking pot with an out-of-place sense of composure.
“Of course not. So, that’s why I’m gonna help you out with that.”
Junghee’s eyes widen curiously. Hope. Yoongi thinks he sees a miniscule spec of hope in his eyes. It’s laughable. In another situation, maybe, Yoongi would feel slightly bad for it – or at least Hoseok would tell him he should – but not now. Not when his body’s almost shaking with anger - and a sick sense of thrill.
“I’m going to make sure they wouldn’t even recognise you if you tried,” he says gently, as if he hadn’t just unleashed the revelation of most pretty boys such as Junghee’s worst nightmare.
Junghee is pretty. He has big brown eyes, a small, high-bridged nose, beautifully thin lips and perfectly fixed copper hair. Or at least it was – now it pertains much closer to being restlessly dishevelled. Like he’d been dragged from one place to another with much protest (Yoongi doesn’t need to wonder why.) Furthermore, he’s got a faultless, doll-like complexion. Smooth, smooth skin that sets a jolt of eagerness through Yoongi’s veins like a lovesick artist before a fresh canvas,
But, really, had he not turned out to be a dick, he would’ve been the exact sort of boy Yoongi would’ve normally went for. It was a shame. But looking at it in perspective, perhaps Yoongi’s night is going to be even more fun than it would’ve been had he met Junghee under different circumstances.
He snaps his fingers at Hoseok who drapes the suit jacket over a solid-wood dining chair and hands Yoongi a small jar. He takes it in hand, thick leather glove making it slightly more awkward to hold than he cares for, before sneaking a knowing glance at Junghee who’s ascended the state of fear – right into complete horror.
“You like coffee, right? Everyone with an ounce of decency in them does,” Yoongi says casually, his tone conveying nothing more than an absentminded hustle of small talk; which entirely contrasts with the look of outright wickedness on his face.
He scans the label of the jar in his hand with a disapproving gaze.
“This is the sorta type that tastes burnt, you shouldn’t drink this.” He says seriously, lips curling downwards in partial disgust. He should’ve known that the prick had no taste, “Of course,” he adds slowly, devilish smile creeping back, “perhaps it’s fitting for the moment.”
Yoongi lifts the heavy metal lid off of the cooking pot and steps back from the overwhelming heat that erupts in steam when he does.
“I’ve never used this brand, obviously, so I don’t know how much you put in it… but…”
They both watch the entire content of the jar pour and dissolve in the pot. Yoongi drifts back towards Junghee, crouching to maintain proper eye contact as Hoseok stirs the concoction with a large metal spoon.
“You look tired. Caffeine would be great right now, wouldn’t it?”
Junghee likely tries to disagree but the sound comes out as nothing but a gargle. Yoongi nods.
“That’s what I thought.”
Yoongi holds out his hand, “Hoseok, if you would…” and he grins when he feels the heat of the heavy kitchen utensil even through the leather.
“Did your mom ever tell you to be careful with these because they get hot easily?” Yoongi now asks, dragging close with the spoon propped sturdily in one hand, the other, gloveless, and hovering above the end of it. The heat from it is quite surprising. This is the first time Yoongi’s done this with kitchen utensils, making it a little more interesting than the other times, he supposes. He’s not a fan of blood, way too messy, too pungent. He’s here to make the mess, not clean up, so if he’s gonna be doing something himself, he makes sure that it’s virtually mess-less. As mess-less as torture can be, naturally.
Junghee makes another noise, but Yoongi doubts he was answering his question anyway.
“Mine didn’t. She was too busy getting shitfaced and burning me with half-smoked cigarettes when she felt like it to worry about something stupid like that.” Yoongi tilts his head at him, “It explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
More muffled sounds.
“It’s okay. We’ll both learn that lesson right now.”
Yoongi places the tip of the utensil on Junghee’s bare knee, them having already stripped him down to his underwear much earlier - it made everything a lot easier later on – and he almost chuckles at the agonising scream that barely escapes past the rag.
Tears threaten at the man’s eyes as Yoongi says, “Hey, I’m teaching you a valuable life lesson!”
As Hoseok sets down the cooking pot beside him Yoongi begins to wonder what will happen. He’s burnt people before, of course, using a variety of methods. But this is the first time he’s thought of using boiling coffee from water in a cooking pot.
He keeps hoping that someday he’ll see something more than just swelling and peeling skin because that gets old rather quickly. Seokjin keeps telling him that you can’t exactly melt skin, but that doesn’t deter him from wanting to try it.
Yoongi puts the large spoon back into the pot, swirling it around languidly as he looks Junghee in his petrified pretty eyes.
“I’m hoping we’ll at least see some bodily fluids leaking out from the burns but I’m not sure what temperature we’re at. You don’t have a thermometer, do you?”
Yoongi’s colleagues (for lack of a better word) often tell him how fucked up it is that he talks to the people he’s threatening like this, but what they don’t understand is that he has to keep up appearances of being a psychotic-ass bastard in order to keep his gang on top. People wouldn’t have the same level of fear of him if he just slit a few throats and moved on.
Hoseok, at least, gets that. In fact, he understands that so well that he also understands that Yoongi could go overboard at any second. So, he watches attentively lest the older man tries to light the place on fire again. That was a lot messier than it needed to be. Yoongi tries to keep that in mind as focuses again on Junghee.
And, the result is slightly disappointing at first.
Yoongi pours some of the pot over Junghee’s head, and the skin on his face and torso swells and reddens and blisters in time to the excruciating cries that creep from his mouth like it always does but it’s disappointing.
“Hoseok, hold his head back.”
Yoongi rips the rag out of his mouth, immediately clamping it over with his hand as he sharply tells him to shut the fuck up before he does cut his fucking tongue out.
“Okay, Junghee. In about six seconds I am going to dump this entire thing down your throat until you pass out from pain or drown. You have until then to tell me where the info is.”
Junghee shakes and yells and whimpers because Yoongi’s one bare hand is now making contact with the very fresh and painful burns on the skin around his mouth - but it’s fruitless.
Yoongi is staring back at him with a bored expression. This is the part he hates: waiting.
Hoseok’s hand taps the wood of the dining seat, impatiently.
Junghee stops resisting.
He lifts his hand from his mouth. Hoseok lets go of his head.
“It’s not here. I don’t have it.”
Yoongi’s smile drops. Crashes to the floor, angrily.
“You… don’t have it?” He repeats, voice thick with malice suddenly, chasing the faux-casualness that was presence before hauntingly.
“No! But, I-“
“Hoseok,” Yoongi gestures to his friend, and the man pulls his head back again.
“Wait- I’ll tell you who does!”
Yoongi takes the large utensil into his hand again, hovering it right above a particularly nasty burn on Junghee’s right cheek. His face isn’t pretty anymore. Yoongi feels a certain sense of achievement from being the cause of that.
“Th-there’s a kid. Down in a nightclub not far from here. H-he’s got all of it on a pen drive.”
With Junghee himself being clearly young, he briefly wonders just exactly how young this boy must be for him to call him a ‘kid.’ Yoongi and Hoseok exchange unspecific glances.
“A pen drive,” Yoongi drawls, grip tightening on the utensil as he holds it near Junghee’s cheek. Never in all his years has he heard of a gang keeping crucial information on one pen drive in a dingy little club. With a kid, no less.
His blood is starting to heat up. Boil, to fit tonight’s theme. “I hate liars, Junghee. You undoubtedly should know that by now.”
He shrugs against the rope, ineffectively, “I’m not lying!”
Junghee’s chest puffs in and out like he can’t quite get enough air in it. Maybe he made the restraints too tight. Regardless, Yoongi continues to eye him with a bored expression.
“I c-can prove it. My text messages. Check my phone- the texts …”
Yoongi agitatedly waves Hoseok off with a roll of his eyes to collect the phone from the man’s jacket, partially ripped and thrown onto the floor. Yoongi keeps firm eye contact with Junghee. Many times in the past have people tried to fool him like this: telling him fake information to try and save their ass. It never works; Yoongi kills them no matter what they say, because nobody that falls into Yoongi’s hands is a good person. And bad people don’t deserve mercy. But all humans thrive on hope, he guesses.
However, there’s something unmistakeably genuine in Junghee’s eyes. Fear. And that makes Yoongi want to consider believing him.
“Password?” Hoseok asks, and Junghee tries to twist his head to look at him, but Yoongi grips his jaw and pins it right back to his direction.
“Zero, three, two, six,” he spits, staring Yoongi down like he had earlier in the evening – before the ugly burns. Earlier the look had sent an approving shiver down Yoongi’s spine, lips quirking upwards. Now he just feels irritated.
0326. Hoseok punches it in, fingers tapping and scrolling until he comes to stand beside Yoongi, handing him the device, and taking the metal spoon from him, carefully, by the plastic handle.
The latest (and only) message on it is from a ‘M.S.H.’ and Yoongi’s eyebrow quirks at it.
Moon Seonghyeon. Leader of the Syndicate. Probably sitting on his insignificant ‘throne’ in the Crescent Sector now, sneering or barking at something. He’s a disgusting excuse of a man, of a mob boss. Picking fights with weaker gangs and innocent people just to make himself feel powerful.
That’s not what a rebellion group should do. It’s the fucking ‘government’ that are the ones they should all be fighting against. The assholes that break up families and take money from the poor and beat down any sign of resistance. The ones in Amenity and the Highway Districts, the Desolation District. They’re the real bad guys.
And if he has to kill off a couple of low-life mobsters from a rival gang of bastards with sticks up their asses and blind hatred in their eyes just to get a chance at being able to reach the asshole in charge of this wasteland of a city – then so be it.
Yoongi takes a breath to focus on the current situation. He needs the information out of their hands if he doesn’t want to be end up completely transparent and targetable. A number of messages flood his screen when he taps onto it, the latest ones detailing to go straight to a so-called Étoile in the Galaxy Club on Ruby Street, Red Light Sector and get them to hand over the pen drive, to take to their HQ in the Crescent. At the very bottom, there’s a threat that if he gets caught, he should not mention anything about the location of the information or the mission in general or Moon will personally cut his dead body into tiny pieces and feed them to his fucking dogs.
“Well? What d’you think, Yoons?”
Yoongi’s eyes flicker up to Hoseok, his irises almost glowing in the dark of the room.
“I think he might be telling the truth.”
Junghee sighs with relief, “I am. God, thank you for believing me I-“
Yoongi cuts him off with a sharp laugh.
“Why are you thanking me?” he scoffs, “You’re not getting out of shit.” Junghee’s mouth falls open, “Nothing’s changed; you still stole our information, did you not?" He questions rhetorically, "And, hell, I heard you like to steal things often: money, valuables – from people's homes and shit, right? Do you like stealing from innocent people?”
“Well do you know what I like?” Yoongi continues, cutting the asshole off, “Punishing people like you.”
Yoongi hands Hoseok back the phone, picking up the cooking pot with ease in his gloved hand and smiling cordially. He sees his friend’s mouth form a thin line and he can almost hear the ‘you’re getting weird again.' Yoongi lets his eyes drift to Hoseok, winking at him mockingly before he turns back to the matter at hand.
Yoongi shifts to stand at Junghee’s side, holding his head back himself and grinning maniacally down at him.
“No pleading. There’s nothing you can do to save yourself.”
All he has to do is wait for the right opportunity.
“I told you everything I know! Mi-“
Before he can even finish his name, Yoongi takes his open mouth as an invitation, jarring it open with the rim of the pot and pouring. Pouring. Pouring. Pouring. Screams of pain getting stuck and mangled in the poor man’s throat, his throat getting mangled. Gargling of blood and oh that’s what happens. Blood. Lots and lots blood piling up in his mouth. Yoongi watches it mix with the dark brown liquid from the pot and maybe he overkilled it a little with the amount he made because when Yoongi pinches Junghee’s nose with his other hand, no longer needing to hold his head back because the force of the pot is just fine, it only takes a minute or so for the struggle to slowly come to a halt. Junghee’s prying hands fall by his sides. Blood pouring out of his mouth along with a disgusting concoction of coffee and saliva and what looks to be pus.
Yoongi drops the pot with a large clank on the hard-stoned floor.
“Hoseok, call somebody to help clean up the mess,” his nose twitches at the sight of what he did after getting too carried away. Blood. Yoongi despises blood. He takes off his glove and throws it into the pot, low-heeled shoes clicking across the floor as he goes to collect his jacket from the dining chair Hoseok had draped it over.
“Are you sure you killed him?”
Yoongi gives him a long look over his shoulder.
“If I didn’t, make sure to wake him up and tell him it’s his lucky day.”
Hoseok looks shocked, “And let him go?”
A chuckle trickles out from his lips. It’s cynical and heavy, like something thick and toxic’s mixed in with it.
“No,” he says. “Kill him.”
He leaves Hoseok in the apartment, a faint smile on the younger man’s face in a fond sort of way that wouldn’t make sense to anybody but them.
Yoongi reaches for his own phone in the tight pocket of his leather pants and fuck, it’s too hot for those. He made a huge mistake. He scrolls down his contacts and presses ‘call’ before holding the device to his ear.
“Hyung, wanna come help me ruin someone’s night?”
Contrast to what Yoongi said earlier about being in Mariposa ‘for the greater good’, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy things like this a little too much.
27th March, 2017 | 12:47am | The Galaxy Club, Ruby St, Red Light Sector
“Have you made a reservation, sir?”
Ruby Street itself is dark and dirty looking even with the searing neon lights with tacky words and lettering plastered on buildings. In Korean, in English, in every language that could maybe draw the right kind of attention.
It’s a street packed with twenty-odd businesses, each stuck crushingly beside each other, save for a few allies and turn-ins. Bars, clubs, brothels, drug dens. Any criminal at all in the Red Light Sector that had enough resources to set up somewhere, set up somewhere around this street. He supposes the distractions made it the perfect place to hide some stolen information. If it wasn’t for a snitch with a loose mouth (even looser now) and the fact that the owners of said information’s building was a few short blocks away.
The Syndicate always have been a gang of idiots.
“We don’t need one,” Yoongi says firmly, “Min.”
It’s been months since Yoongi’s done any job like this himself. So, hearing his name come back to him leaves a weird taste in his mouth. A bad taste, a feeling that it shouldn't even be his to say, because he hadn't been the one to say it all those years he'd grown up.
When they'd taken over the gang, Yoongi had passingly expressed his distaste at it and Hoseok had suggested they all used nicknames, instead- Spanish words to fit with the gang name.
Yoongi quickly told him to wise the fuck up, he did not want to have his gang sound like a team of Spanish pro-wrestlers. There’s some strange trend going about Seoul that involves everyone using random words collected from other languages when naming things. He guesses the kid they’re after with the pen drive is one of them. Yoongi thinks owning a gang with one of those names is bad enough, but he can only blame his late father for that one.
Mariposa. It translates to butterfly- and though it's a symbol that he's rarely to never seen referenced, he's sure there's poetic connotations in it somewhere. But his father never told him them. He said it 'just sounded right.'
It would surprise Yoongi that the bouncer hadn’t recognised him, considering in the North of Seoul his face was plastered on just about every lamppost with the writing ‘any sighting of this man in the Northern Districts must be reported immediately to your nearest police station.’ And in the South, people either knew his face because they worked for someone who worked for someone who worked for him, or because they worked for someone who worked for someone who worked against him.
And of course, he’s got Hoseok in his gang – a national treasure in the eyes of the public for his high reputation as a performer and his 'upbeat personality.'
It’s amazing what people choose to ignore based on their observations that ‘they seem nice.’
Regardless, though, it would surprise him any other time, but, right now Yoongi isn’t too shocked because the mask covering the lower half of his face probably makes him a little hard to distinguish in the low, red lighting, anyway.
Besides, the man’s eyes light up right away when he uses his name, which is, again, hardly astounding considering his gang runs the entire Southwest of the city, never mind the Red Light Sector. Seokjin huffs beside him, clearly thinking that Yoongi’s ego needs re-checked as he adjusts the pale pink bomber jacket adorning his broad shoulders.
Yoongi swears that Hoseok and Seokjin have started a rebellion against him to embarrass the gang with their clothing choices (judging by the blue sequin suit jacket Hoseok’d been wearing earlier.) It’s not even the pink that bothers him – it’s the fact he’s wearing a black t-shirt and skinny jeans with it. He looks like a college student.
“Shit, sorry, sir – wh-who was it that you wanted to see?”
Yoongi removes the mask from his mouth, slipping it just under his chin, “Étoile,” he says in a mediocre French accent. Yoongi wonders what it means. French is a language he never bothered to learn. They don’t need to communicate much with the outside world. He knows Korean, enough English and the Spanish that his father taught him before he died. The man had a flair for languages, thought it was necessary for someone in his power, but Spanish was always his favourite.
Yoongi scowls at the memory.
The man nods nervously, taking out something that looks similar to a walkie talkie but with more advanced features and unnecessary lights, and quickly informs the person on the other side that ‘Étoile has a visitor.’
His French is noticeably better.
The man he'd been talking to arrives at the entrance, and leads them down a narrow, sweat-scented hallway that seems to have a level of fog crowding it. Yoongi’s used to this sort of environment, from the amount of dealings that have taken place in them, but this is the first time he’s been here. The lighting continues with the dark, reddish theme that Yoongi supposes comes from the name of the sector – and the only proper illumination in the corridor is a large neon pink sign depicting the words ‘The Galaxy Club’ across the wall. Yoongi’s mouth twitches in disapproval at the name, but at least it’s not in a random language.
The man stops outside a deep mahogany door that looks surprisingly fancy for the club. He turns around and Yoongi notices a bead of sweat on his forehead.
“This is the dressing room. The boy you’re looking for’s in there. We can’t let you into any of the bedrooms without a reservation- so.”
Yoongi hums, so Étoile’s a boy. Interesting.
“We won’t need it,” Seokjin says dismissively, hand already on the door knob and twisting it before the man can say anything else.
“If you need anything, please-“ They walk in and shut it before he finishes. Yoongi notes how well it blocks out sound. That could come in handy if the kid isn’t willing to play nice.
...Except, the room’s empty when they look around. And it’s not a big room.
There’s some dressing tables housing products upon products, make-up, hair supplies. Yoongi thinks he sees remnants of drugs (a couple of needles, loose powder, ripped plastic baggies) and that doesn’t surprise him, saying people like Seokjin like to supply to places like this a lot.
There’s racks with clothing on them, gaudy, revealing outfits that don’t leave a lot of room for dignity never mind coverage.
There’s a few arm chairs, a rickety looking table, and a small kitchenette with a mini-fridge, sink and two counters.
But there’s no boy.
Not until Yoongi makes a sound of frustration, at the unbelieving fact that they’ve been stood up. Then, two small hands appear from behind the wooden privacy screen at the other end of the room, gripping cautiously onto the edge of it, and then comes the top of a face, eyes blinking slowly.
Yoongi takes one look at him and understands why Junghee called him a kid. God, he looks barely older than Jungkook.
Yoongi would guess that he’s eighteen, maybe nineteen, at best – but it wouldn’t shock him if he was younger, considering that places like this don’t really care about age restrictions.
His cheeks are fairly rounded, tinged with a hint of pink, probably from the warmth of the room and it gives him a youthful sort of look that contrasts strikingly with the chiselled line of his jaw and the piercing, defiant glare of his eyes, ringed very subtly in black eyeliner. Every detail of his face looks somehow carefully considered, as if he was crafted to almost perfection – any ‘flaw’ or unusualness about his appearance only coming together to make him even more… breathtaking.
Yoongi’s sure he feels the air punch out of his lungs for a moment.
His hair glows a warm brown in the sharp lighting of the room, parted messily on his head as he straightens up, seemingly composing himself, and pushes a hand through it, stepping out from behind the screen.
His outfit isn't exactly what he was expecting.
It looks like nothing he’s ever seen on a person of his line of work, nothing on the clothing racks in the room. A long, black and white striped t-shirt drapes down to just below the middle of his thighs that leave a gap of skin exposed before the rest of his legs are covered by plain black knee socks- Yoongi guesses he was in the middle of changing when they walked in.
The only thing typical about his appearance is the thin velvet choker sitting at the bottom of his neck, with a small silver charm on it in the shape of a star.
“Who the fuck are you two?”
Yoongi would be taken aback by the sudden outburst, if he hadn’t heard the words a million times before. It’s a classic line from every self-assured, independent asshole that he’s had the poor misfortune of having to deal with. His jaw clenches slightly.
He nods, a fire in his gaze that makes heat swim around Yoongi’s body, as if it was emitting from the boy himself.
Seokjin stands stiffly and professionally beside him, but that’s never been Yoongi’s style. No, instead, Yoongi walks right over to Étoile, almost prowling, before he sits breezily on the edge of an armchair, not even a meter away from their target.
“I said," the boy seethes, "who the fuck are you?”
Yoongi lightly snickers at his obvious frustration. It's a raw sort of anger that, at first, he never would've betted could have come from the boy. But he guesses that first impressions are, in many cases, bullshit.
"We're the people you stole information of."
Étoile's anger falls flat off his face, replaced with a blank sort of confusion. He cocks his head, arms folded tightly over his chest, "What information? What people?"
People lying is one thing, but playing stupid is a game that Yoongi never has the patience to participate in. He doesn't feel like getting angry in the presence of such a strikingly beautiful boy, especially one that looks as clueless and young as he is, and he most certainly doesn't feel like having to resort to the same sorts of methods of gathering the truth that he normally does.
So Yoongi just sighs, crossing his own arms over his chest and looking evenly at the boy.
"You really don't want to make me angry, I haven't had enough fun tonight yet to make me wanna take my time being nice and patient with you. Tell me where the pen drive is and we won't pull out your fingernails."
It's an empty threat, but he's the only one in the room who knows it.
Which is why it's bizarre when Étoile doesn't look scared but enraged again, giving Yoongi a disgusted scan of his figure and spitting, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" at him so venomously, Yoongi wonders if his name's French for a type of snake.
Yoongi gets up, brushes off his suit jacket and gives his tense frame a small shake.
"Okay, then," he says, a small smile creeping onto his lips, "we'll do this the fun way."
In an instant, Yoongi's pinned the kid to the wall, right arm sticking against his windpipe and the other braced against both of his arms. He wedges a leg between Étoile’s and leans in towards his face.
He doesn't struggle much, just growls in frustration at him and snaps, "I don't know anything about a pen drive, for fuck's sake!"
Yoongi's eyebrows shoot up mockingly, “Really?" he asks, "Because we’ve got evidence from your bastard leader to suggest otherwise.” His voice is starting to raise to match the boy’s beneath him, just as the annoyance with this whole situation is starting to reach its peak.
“Leader? You mean Joonho? - the club manager?” Étoile murmurs with confusion, nose scrunching up in a way that somehow looks condescending despite the fact that his head’s currently tilted upwards and pressing against the wall – he should look vulnerable or pathetic, like every other but the spark of wild self-assurance in his glare rinses that out.
“No,” Yoongi pushes on his throat a little and the boy gasps, searing anger audible in it, “I mean Moon Seonghyeon. Your actual boss.”
Étoile’s eyes widen and the anger molds into plain shock. His voice is unexpectedly calm and level when he says, “Fuck, of the Crystal Syndicate? You think I’m involved with those slimy bastards?” The force in Yoongi’s arm quivers for a second at this.
The boy scowls at no one in particular, adverting his eyes to the side of the room instead. “The last time I ran into one of them I got an unwanted ass grab and a torn shirt,” he mutters, tone completely scornful, but Yoongi thinks there’s something slightly embarrassed on his face, cheeks gathering even more colour to them than he noted at first glance.
Yoongi grits his teeth.
“Seokjin, I think we’ve been set up.”
He releases Étoile from his pin and steps back, smoothing out the creases on his jacket again. He had a feeling this entire time that something was off, but he just keep shrugging it off as paranoia. Junghee could’ve been a fantastic fucking actor.
His goddamn password to his phone, Yoongi noticed at the time, was 0326, today’s date – 26th March – probably so that he wouldn’t forget the pin in the moment, but Yoongi just put it down to coincidence. The guard at the door was using the hybrid walkie-talkie he’s only ever seen gangsters and rich nine-year-olds use, but, hey, maybe they were moving up from the regular walkie-talkies and just really needed e-mail and browser access for their job. Then, the decent pronunciation of the boy’s name, as if he’d been told how it was supposed to be said (he doubts he could actually speak any French. About five people in this city actually speak a different language) but maybe it was common knowledge and Yoongi was just ignorant. And the last, perhaps most abstract sign, was the fact that Seonghyeon cares far too much about his ugly, inbred mutts to feed them such a worthless person. And the man doesn’t make empty threats, unlike Yoongi.
“What do you want to do, now?” Seokjin asks, leaning idly against the wall as if they hadn’t just landed themselves in the greatest amount of shit Yoongi’s had to deal with in months.
Yoongi crosses the room with a sense of urgency, pulling out his phone from his pocket, “Get everyone together, we need to figure out who the fucker is that we’re looking for,” he dials Hoseok’s number first, hoping to God he did what he asked and didn’t just wander off and leave someone else in charge of clean-up. Seokjin hums in approval, but then his eyes flicker past Yoongi, over his shoulder.
“What about the kid? What if he’s screwing with us, too?”
He eyes the boy he’d had against the wall mere moments ago with caution, watching as he runs a frustrated hand through his hair to smooth it back into place, how he looks at himself in the mirror with something heavy in his gaze. He doubts it, but his assumptions haven't played out too well, tonight.
“We’ll take him with us,” Yoongi says low enough that his voice doesn’t travel any further than to the man in front of him. “Call Joon, ask him to bring a van and a few guys. I don’t think that kid’ll take kindly to this plan.”