Chapter Text
Seoul reeks.
It’s a goddamn miracle he hasn’t passed out already, considering the body count and the clouds of cigarette smoke in the room. The sun is shining outside; Bobby would say it’s a nice day to close an agonizing month-long deal with one of the most dangerous drug dealers in Seoul- well, someone who used to be one of the most dangerous drug dealers in Seoul. Bobby gives the lifeless body a little kick, sauntering out the door, before he remembers-
“Ah, fucking shit. These are my Berluti’s. Alligator skin too,” he says. However, it’s not so much the soiled million-won shoes that piss Bobby off but rather the fact that he had needed to open fire at all. Hyunsuk’s haul was not worth all the bloodshed that occurred today. There’s a figure at the door, attentive posture against bored eyes, waiting for him to say something.
“We need more guns. I want one for each of us- no, two actually. This needs to not happen again.” Hanbin just nods. “Also, goddamnit, my shoes,” Bobby sighs as he leans against the wall to take a deep breath, eyes closed.
When he opens his eyes, Hanbin’s kneeling at his feet with a handkerchief, ready to wipe off the bloody streaks. His ears are the faintest tinge of pink. If they were in the cold winter air, it could be passed off as a natural reaction to the chill, but right now they’re inside the penthouse of some rich fuck’s apartment building, and Bobby notes a light sheen of sweat along Hanbin's forehead with interest. Maybe, Bobby thinks, like he’s testing out a theory, and he gently pushes Hanbin’s hand aside with a shoe, and then slides that same blood-streaked shoe under his chin.
“Bobby-"
“What am I gonna do about these, Hanbin?” Bobby asks. Sure, Bobby could buy another pair at any time of the day with no trouble. He probably has more offshore bank accounts than the president does. He just likes watching Hanbin squirm. Hanbin carefully pushes away his foot, facial expression undisturbed, and finishes wiping the blood off his shoes.
“Boring,” Bobby mutters under his breath. “The red looks nice on you, though.” And that’s all he says as he leaves, designer shoes clacking impossibly loud across stark quartz tiles.
- beginnings
The Goldmoon Hotel is a trillion-won monster, the design garish and hopelessly decadent. It doesn’t fit in with Seoul’s modern and postmodern high rises, and yet based on value alone, it probably fits the best of all. He stands at the entrance, pulling at the lapels of his best suit, before pushing open the glass doors.
Bobby’s doing quite well for being fresh into the crime scene, and it's clear at least one other person thinks so too, seeing how he's climbing up the stairs to meet, well supposedly, the boss. He'd been given a room number, date and time by a handler during one of his last errands in Mapo-gu. So far Bobby's only means of communication has been through phone calls and other people, so he would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling nerves at all. More than nervous though, Bobby was incredibly curious. There's potential, so much potential, the man with the card had said, looking at Bobby and seeing so much more than an ill-fitting Dolce rip-off suit and a bloody wrench.
The reveal is quite anti-climatic, really. The boss turns out to be Secretary Kim of Seoul, and while Bobby had been mildly surprised, a part of him knew that there was no way he could have gotten away with half the things he had done had there been no one high up in the government who was, at the very least, on the payroll of the organization.
Secretary Kim nods slightly, and another man enters the room from the side, dressed to the nines.
“This is Hanbin. He is going to be giving you the assignments and the rundown of everything from now on,” and that’s all the explanation Bobby receives before Kim is called away, no doubt to maintain some aspect of the sprawling underground network. “Introduce yourselves and Hanbin, get him started if you want,” Kim finishes from down the hall.
Coiffed hair, dark brown eyes, face set in stone— Hanbin’s face reminds Bobby of one of those Easter Island statues. Bobby nodded, by way of greeting, and Hanbin just looked him up and down with a disinterested eye before he pulled out his phone and started organizing documents.
Judging by the lack of general emotion in the past two minutes of their acquaintance, Bobby had bet that Hanbin’s heart was equally stoney, intense gaze focusing on Hanbin’s face without realizing it.
“Well, if—”
“I don’t fuck guys.”
Bobby’s if you don’t have anything to say I’d like to leave now was left unfinished. The words were definitive, and Bobby stops short, momentarily speechless. He hadn’t thought, he wasn’t thinking of that, and he certainly didn’t realize he gave off “I fuck anything and everything” vibes, but he reevaluated Hanbin’s face, which was devoid of any emotion but full of some kind of energy, and promptly decided on something. “Yet, darling,” Bobby replied, a smile curved into his face like a scythe. There’s no perceptible change in Hanbin’s facial expression but Bobby’s taking the pinking of his ears and refusal to make eye contact as a small victory. As Bobby exits the room, he gives a noncommittal wave.
“Looking forward to working with you,” Bobby calls, and surprisingly, finds that he means it.
+ dead mouse
A year ago, no one in Seoul knew who Bobby Kim was. A year later, everyone does. It’s hard not to, when half the Seoul underground quakes at the mention of his name. Not that many can put a face to that name, but a face is hardly necessary when the weight of his name hangs more like an omniscient, intangible presence.
In swanky restaurants, not quite Gangnam, word flies around. The words themselves are never reliable but always reliably fast.
“I heard he made a man cut his own finger off when the poor guy tried hitting on his… his…,” and the girl pauses conspiratorially, not quite sure what word to use, “Kim Hanbin. Hanbin and Bobby Kim. I don’t know what relationship they have with each other but...” Bobby turns to take a look at the girl. Either late teens or early twenties, if he had to guess. Quite the gossip too. He’s surprised that they know about that, considering that the only time Hanbin himself had tagged along was on an casual errand a month ago. He knows her type though, loudmouths who spend words like social currency, blurting whatever they think will keep people’s attention. He’s going to have some fun with this, he muses, sliding out the seat to loom right behind her.
“It was a hand, actually, and Hanbin’s my knight...” Bobby flashes her a disarming grin, one too many teeth showing. He remembers that incident. The unfortunate bastard did more than just hit on Hanbin though; he was the reason twenty shipments of coke suddenly went missing. But that isn’t quite relevant right now, and Bobby focuses more on how the blood drains from her face when she realizes that not only has he been sitting in the booth behind her for the past ten minutes, he’s got her ID in his hands. The look on her face confirms her as Choi’s daughter.
“S-sorry?” Her lip quivers.
“The gentleman got his hand cut off, and Hanbin over here is my knight in shining armor,” Bobby says, knowing full well that she had heard him the first time. Hanbin squints, almost imperceptibly, and Bobby resists the urge to laugh. They both know who does the fighting between the two of them, and it’s not Hanbin, but Bobby’s words never fail to provoke a reaction out of people. It’s fun, finally getting Hanbin to join him again this time. When Hanbin had first asked to come today he hadn’t been so sure about it, but now Bobby definitely thinks it’s worth it.
“I’m looking for Choi Seunghyun, does anyone know where he might be?” The room vibrates with silence. Bobby sighs, and then fishes out a gun. The poor girl in front of him is slightly trembling as the crowd trickles off the premises. One of the good things about being active around the area is that everyone knows when to get lost.
“Relax, sweetheart, this isn’t for you,” Bobby says, but his tone is like that of sugar-coated barbed wire, or something equally confusing and dangerous, and his words do nothing to assuage the girl’s fears. He saunters to the front of the bar, looking straight at the man cowering behind the impassive bartender. “He’s one of ours,” Hanbin motions towards the bartender, and Bobby nods approvingly. Hanbin’s thorough. He’s always assured at least that much. A shot glass drops and shatters on the floor, sound reverberating through the bar, and the bartender steps aside to reveal the man, pale-faced and clutching the wall behind him.
He’s dealing again with Choi Seunghyun, a pub owner who doesn’t seem to understand that payment on the 11th doesn’t mean payment on the 12th or 13th, it means payment on the 11th. The wrench he takes to his knuckles hopefully gets the message across. “Sorry,” Bobby frowns at Hanbin in the car, but he doesn’t sound that sorry. “Usually they just hand it over.” Bobby’s met with a frown in return. Hanbin’s eyebrows are furrowed and he pauses a bit before speaking.
“There’s only so many times you can break someone’s fingers before they decide to pay someone else to protect them from you.” Bobby lifts an eyebrow. That much is true, but “What, are you proposing that we ask them nicely?”
There’s a glint in Hanbin’s eyes as he says, “No, I’m just saying that we could have reported the dead mouse back behind the kitchen.”
There wasn’t a dead mouse in the kitchen. In fact, it was disgustingly clean, one of the most spotless kitchens he’s ever seen. Bobby’s slight confusion only lasts for a second and then he sees it with clarity. Bringing Hanbin along was extremely useful after all. “Fuck,” he laughs, “Right, the mouse.” Biting his lip, he holds back a smile as he makes a call.
“Hayi? It’s very important. Who in the health department supervises health hazards in restaurants in Yongsan? Mmn, around Itaewon.”
+ nonviolence
As he adds a few more people into their circles, steamrolls a few more government officials, Bobby finds that not everything has to be resolved with violence. It’s pretty easy to, yes, but the clean up is just fucking tedious. Which is why he’s waiting for a certain contact to show up. Director Ho Shinwon, head of recreation, runs into his office at exactly 10:37 PM, his breathing laboured and hair a mess. The ugly analog clock now reads 10:38 PM from the desk in the far back.
“You’re late.” Bobby had been planning on scaring the man, but aside from a little jump, Shin looks tired and annoyed.
Shinwon heaves as he pours himself a glass of whisky and sits down on a chair opposite of Bobby. “What can I say, I’m a busy man. You don’t know how many middle schools want to run their Sports Day on the same day in the same locations.”
“We made this appointment a week ago,” Bobby sighs, picking at his nails with a switchblade.
Shinwon snaps. “Look here, Bobby, my people found a fucking body in the river last week. That’s why you’re here. I can’t have this going on anymore.” To his point, Bobby grimaces. That hadn’t been a pleasant errand at all. Said body had already lost function of both his legs; it was supposed to be a simple matter of delivering the killing shot and dragging him back from the banks, but that was before the tenacious motherfucker had used his arm to hurl himself down the river. Firing a few shots to the back of his head was all Bobby could’ve done to ensure the man wouldn’t live to tell any story.
Bobby ignores the complaint. “We’re planning on carrying out activities in the park tomorrow and the day after. Have your men on standby.” It’s easy enough to secure positions for Bobby’s men on the payroll. The clean ups have been easy and quick and Bobby wants to keep it that way. A few well chosen words can get Shinwon’s blood boiling, but it’s not like he can do anything about it.
There’s a twisted gleam in Bobby’s eyes. “No one needs to know right? That the massage parlour you visit very regularly.”
“What are you talking about? What massage parlor?” Shinwon asks, tone a shade too defensive. The feigned innocence makes Bobby want to laugh and puke at the same time. Shinwon’s knuckles turn white from his grip on the arms of the leather chair.
“You are considering running for reelection, are you not? It would be a shame if someone were to find out about your transactions there... somehow.”
Shinwon sputters in indignation.
“There’s a certain lady who’s more than willing to comply with us and I do have a reporter on stand-by, waiting to publish any story I want to in the Hankook Ilbo at a moment’s notice. So tomorrow night. Are we clear?”
Shinwon glares at Bobby, fists clenched, slightly shaking, but his eventual defeated sigh is all the answer Bobby needs.
+ habits
It takes maybe three more weeks to finish taking half of Seoul. In the meantime, when Bobby’s not busy ordering people to supervise drug deals and manage rigged sporting events, he’s taking Hanbin to the shooting range.
It’s an isolated training facility for the Seoul PD, manned by a young cop, Jinhyeong, paid enough to send Bobby’s men a list of the guard rotations, so they know when to come.
“How are you doing today, sir? And the guest?” he smiles, and Bobby avoids the question with his own genial smile. Jinhyeong’s only fault, if he had to pick one out, would be that he pries a bit too much for his own good. Bobby has a pretty good feeling that he’s going to end up having to put a bullet through his head one day— he’d just prefer it be later rather than sooner. The kid’s honestly kind of cute, in an earnest, clueless way.
“And how’s your family, Jinhyeong-ah?”
A shadow flits across Jinhyeong's face. Wrong question to ask, Bobby can tell. “Not so well. My mother’s got some kind of disease that’s not going away and the bills are really expensive.”
Oh. For a moment, Bobby’s almost sorry for the kid, but he ignores the urge to say something placating that he doesn’t mean and instead grabs two pairs of headsets and shooting glasses. “We’re going outside,” Bobby says, and manage the radio feed is left unspoken, but Jinhyeong is smart. He may be discontent with a post out in a shooting range in the middle of nowhere, but he’s got nothing to lose being so lowly ranked anyway, and the pay that Bobby gives him is nothing if not generous.
Bobby reaches into his waistband, pulls out a shiny new Colt 1191 .455 auto, nickel-plated and everything. He checks the magazine and hands it to Hanbin.
“I’m not— I don’t—” Hanbin had said when Bobby had taken the wheel in the morning and stated his destination. At the end of the day, Bobby doesn’t even know why Hanbin even protested. His grip on the gun is unexpectedly firm, and it’s not until he realizes Bobby’s narrowed gaze is focused on him that he loosens his grip on the gun and looks more like someone who’s never handled a firearm more than maybe five times a year.
Regardless, he hits the target at least sixty percent of the time, which is more than Bobby can say for his own first few tries a couple of years ago. However, there’s a slight tremor in Hanbin’s hands, and his stance is unnatural, like he’s trying too hard yet not hard enough at the same time. That won’t do.
Slowly, Bobby guides Hanbin’s hands into textbook-perfect position, with one hand supporting the butt of the pistol grip and another prying his finger away from the trigger. They’re close enough now that Bobby can smell the kind of shampoo Hanbin uses and see the beads of sweat that form at the edge of his hairline. ”Hey,” he says, “you just need to focus,” and Bobby enjoys the rush of Hanbin’s pulse fluttering in the midst of his invasive proximity. Bobby presses down on the trigger. The shot rings through the air and a flock of birds burst from the far end of the shooting range, circling the sky in chaos. Hanbin’s chest is thumping and Bobby can tell he wants to bolt, not because he’s afraid of the shooting, but because of him. Bobby just cages him in further.
“Stop running. It becomes a habit.” Bobby feels Hanbin shiver.
“I’m not running. It’s just been a long time since I’ve fired a gun,” Hanbin says, even though he attempts to dislodge himself from Bobby’s arms wrapped around him. Bobby waits until Hanbin calms down before trying to get him to shoot again. Hanbin doesn’t hit the target, not even a single time, for the rest of the day.
+ interrogation
“That’s funny. You were a lot more confident earlier.”
“I-I don’t—”
The manager was a lot tougher earlier, when Bobby had come in with some questions. Most people don’t know what Bobby looks like, even if they know who he is. He likes the power of his reputation, but being flashy about it isn’t an advantage and Bobby hates not having the upper hand. The easygoing eyes and the carefree smile all give off the impression that Bobby’s some low-level lackey, tagging along as expendable backup. If Bobby had a drink for every time Hanbin’s gotten an accidental “Mr. Bobby Kim?” he’d probably be clutching his liver in the ER. Although, there are worse ways to get in there. He would know.
The manager is not so tough right now, with a gun aimed at his head and a foot in his face.
“Your answers aren’t coming fast enough.”
Bobby’s patience is a flexible thing; he can wait four weeks before deciding whether to take over a neighborhood, but even four seconds is too long for the shaking manager to answer his questions. He’s bored, which is never a good thing. His eyes roam over the room, attention scattered. It’s almost worse than usual, because his anger at wasting time he could potentially use to take care of other things manifests into a kind of impersonal ruthlessness.
“I believe Mr. Kim asked you a question.” Hanbin doesn’t even need to sound particularly threatening. Between his own semi-automatic and Bobby’s Sig Sauer, the guns do enough of the talking for them.
“H-he said something about going somewhere west, somewhere warmer,” the man finally accommodates, which makes everyone’s jobs easier. It just sucks that Jung’s men are going to come in later and torture the same man about Hongseok’s whereabouts again.
“Cut him off before he gets to the airport.” Bobby makes a move to head out, turning towards the entrance.
“Bobby?” Hanbin asks, before glancing down at the squirming man on the floor.
Bobby levels him a look and shrugs. Take care of it.
One of his men steps back and pulls the trigger. The manager screams as the bullet tears through his leg.
+ methods
“Your boss said to get the information, not scare and kill half the population that takes bribes from us.”
“Is there a difference? Also, that motherfucker took bribes from us and he still wouldn’t give Hongseok up?” Bobby props a leg up on the recliner.
“We know where he’s headed now,” Hanbin says. The problem wasn’t that Hongseok was the leak, the problem was it had taken them this long to figure it out and then locate him.
“Yeah, well someone get on it.” One of his men disappears from the room, and Hanbin’s called away by someone, the secretary probably, before Bobby can say anything about the splatter of blood on his ankle.
Bobby wonders what makes Hanbin tick. This whole business really, is finding out what makes people tick. It’s not hard most of the time, a gun, a knife, or a glare just as sharp is enough to get people falling all over themselves in an effort to save their own lives or save the lives of the people they care about. Feelings are a liability in the underground, he admits, but not if you live to see the power of using them. It’s hard to play this game with people like Hanbin, who show about two emotions a year, but Bobby has always liked a challenge.
+ parking ticket
It takes a few moments before he notices the small slip of paper on the windshield of Hanbin’s Benz and the back of an officer heading towards another car.
This guy is short. Bobby’s usually the one who says these things, but this time it’s Hanbin who lets it slip, under his breath. The police officer looks unamused as he turns towards the two men in suits looking over the parking ticket he had just issued not two minutes ago.
“Gentlemen? There’s no parking allowed here.”
“There isn’t?” Bobby lifts a brow.
“No, sir,” the officer says, with a hint of impatience. It’s funny really, because sir is what Bobby should be using to address Officer—Bobby squints— Jinhwan. Jinhwan comes up to about Bobby’s nose, which makes it difficult for Bobby to take him seriously, not that Bobby would’ve taken him seriously anyway, what with enough police already on their payroll to fully operate in Seoul. He briefly studies Jinhwan and idly wonders how much force he’d have to use to knock the shit out of him (it isn’t much), but the officer doesn’t seem to notice.
“You can contest it if you’d like,” Jinhwan says, hand reflexively on his holster, “but it won’t get you anywhere. I mean, it’s a parking ticket.” The last statement is punctuated with a little laugh, but he stops when it seems like neither of the men find the situation amusing. “So it is.” Bobby sizes up the officer again, taking in the soft pale skin and narrow shoulders. Cute. Cute but boring. He looks at it half a second before tearing the thing to shreds, wind scattering pieces everywhere. Jinhwan’s eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth, ready to say something-
“Pleasure meeting you, Officer Jinhwan. Have a wonderful day.” Bobby ducks into the car, the corners of his mouth rising, and Hanbin speeds off before Jinhwan can even utter a single word.
Hanbin’s finger is tapping on the steering wheel, eyes on the road but mind everywhere else. “You could’ve just paid it off, you know.”
Bobby does know. But Bobby also doesn’t care. “He looked fun to mess with. You saw him, he’s probably on his second week of active duty. Parking duty.”
+ finding
“Do you know what you said when you first came to me?” Bobby sits down in the chair across Hongseok, playing with the USB with the leaked information. “You said you wanted to live like a person.”
Bound and gagged, Hongseok glares at him with defiant eyes, and Bobby leans in, amused. “What, you don’t think I’ve helped you do that?” He gives a cursory glance around the room in all its opulence, none of which would be Hongseok’s if not for him. Bobby rips out the gag.
Hongseok heaves a laugh, though it sounds more like a tortured cough. “That- this, all this doesn’t mean I’m living like a person.” If this man thinks Bobby is going to sit and play moral jeopardy with him, he has another thing coming.
Very rarely does Bobby give people second chances, and when he does, he usually ends up regretting it. Hongseok isn’t an exception.
“Well you certainly aren’t above living like a rat,” and if the last part sounds testy, it’s because Hongseok had cost them approximately two million won and five days of blind searching throughout Seoul. “Don’t chew on your lips. It becomes a habit.” Hongseok looks up at him incredulously. “What? It is. We don’t want your lips to be bleeding and raw when we bury you.”
Disposing of Hongseok is a quick job. It’s also one less loose end to worry about.
+ found
Hongseok’s words are still on his mind a few days later. They’re so close, Bobby can feel it. One more district and then Seoul is theirs. Well, not exactly theirs, but Secretary Kim will be pleased to know that his illegal jurisdiction now spreads almost as vast as the mayor’s legal property development. It’s 2:00 AM though, and he can’t stop thinking about it. Live like a person. Bobby’s not one for some kind of internal ethics debate, he’d left that kind of luxury behind the moment he walked into the hotel that day, but he wonders, if he owned Seoul, would he feel like he was living like a person? The glittering skyline taunts him, and he places the glass of wine on top of the counter.
Hanbin wakes up, opening the door to his own room. Bobby hears the creak of the door and Hanbin joins him to look at the city below them.
“I’m still learning,” Hanbin says quietly, finally.
“Learning what?” He doesn’t suppose Hanbin means how to cock a firearm or take care of a shady deal, or the fucked up type of economics that's taught in school but isn’t applicable here. The drawn out silence leaves Bobby so on edge he almost misses it.
“You.” Bobby turns away from the windows to look at Hanbin. Light pollution casts a shadow across their faces, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a fluttering of his pulse, the kind that he usually only feels when shit goes down and the body count begins to rise. “Learning you,” Hanbin says again, as if Bobby could’ve missed it.
He leans in, his face impossibly close, his body even closer. Bobby can feel Hanbin’s heartbeat like he can hear his own pulse rushing in his ear. There’s a ghost of a touch on his lips before-
“You’re not hot enough to do that.”
Bobby snorts. This, he expects. From day one, Hanbin’s words have always either been indirect orders or insults. “You know, that’s a fault of perspective,” he laughs, before starting to pull away.
What he doesn’t expect is the arm pulling him back, the press of lips against his own— Bobby only starts for a moment before he sinks into it. Fuck everything, and his hands curl around the back of Hanbin’s neck, enjoying the way he flinches when Bobby bites his lip. Hanbin breathes his way back to life when he breaks them apart.
“I thought you didn’t fuck guys,” Bobby smiles, tone lilting in a tease.
Hanbin flushes a pink that Bobby didn’t even think his skin tone was capable of turning. It’s startlingly beautiful in the glow of the Seoul skyline. “I don’t. I haven’t.” And then a softer, “But if it’s you-” And Bobby thinks it’s funny how they can extort money, power, and privilege out of just about anyone in the city, whether it be through words or guns, yet when it comes to just the two of them, words fail to do anything at all.
Bobby thinks about how he and Hanbin are very good at many things, but how none of those things are very good.
Well, that too, is a fault of perspective.