Chapter Text
i. a death in the family
Run. Faster. Faster.
Jongdae’s breath is coming out in short erratic puffs that tear the night apart with small clouds of steam. His heart is swelling in his chest, pressing against his ribcage until it feels like his bones are cracking under the pressure. Under the fear.
Faster. Faster.
He won’t make it in time. The fear, the adrenaline, his soles repeatedly beating the concrete and his cloak flapping in the night - it’s all too real. His senses are going into overdrive, and his pupils, although glued to his goal, catch so many details that flood his mind. Moonlight seeping through rotten planks, the silvery puzzle it paints on the concrete, the piles of containers spurting out in the dark, and the crane hovering over the docks. He can’t even beg for all of this to be a dream because he hears the swell, he tastes the salt on his lips and he can smell the faint hint of essence left by a day of activity lingering in the air. Heize is sobbing in his right ear, and his left ear can’t stop replaying the Bomber’s cheerful voice as it sings you have thirty minutes, you have thirty minutes, you have thirty minutes, you have — ”
Jongdae’s scream explodes in the night and blood fills his mouth as he bites down on his tongue, desperately trying to push his body harder. His legs are burning, his lungs are collapsing, but he can’t think about slowing down. He can’t even check the countdown on his watch, can’t get his eyes off the warehouse he’s aiming for as he finally barges in the large alley. It’s close, so close, and Jongdae is running faster than he has ever run before. Relief washes over him, more powerful than any lungful of oxygen he could have breathed, and he allows himself a shallow gasp as tears fill his eyes.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he breathes out, hoping that his breathless whisper will reach Heize through the communication device.
He will never know if it did, because Heize’s voice takes over with a broken, desperate cry of Jongdae’s name. He will never know what she wanted to say, but he will spend most of his sleepless nights trying to guess. It’s probably something along the lines of you’re too late don’t go inside. On his worst nights, Jongdae always hears a you’re too late, you killed him.
But Heize’s words drown in the explosion and the roar pulling the night apart. Jongdae’s feet leave the ground as the blast hits him in full force. Red and angry yellow surround him in slow motion. He spots sparkles spurting out of the inferno and up into the sky, and the toxic taste of essence fills his mouth. His body stops flying up and starts falling down and he’s hit with the certainty that he will never ever stop falling down.
Jongdae’s scream dies in the back of his throat as he crashes against the floor. It merges with his tears and ends up in a gargle on which he chokes as he struggles to break free from his sheets. He faintly hears the fabric crack because of his erratic trashing, but it doesn’t stop him. It feels like there are iron hands closed around his limbs and pressing toxic fingers into his flesh. He wants to scream for help, beg for his life, scream the name that has been haunting his dreams, but nothing comes out of his mouth. His lungs feel like they’re about to explode in his chest, and panic floods his veins. It takes him another desperate gargle and a weak weeping sound to finally manage to grip his bedside table. The wood cracks under his grip, but Jongdae doesn’t let go. He uses the piece of furniture to crawl away from the sheets turned snakes caging his body.
Hi bedside table falls over as a new spasm runs through Jongdae’s fingers, and he moans when his hands get crushed. Kicking away his sheets, he rolls on his back and brings his hands up to his face. Through the thick veil of haziness and saltiness blocking his vision, he catches patches of red gnawing his knuckles and bruises blooming on his skin. Then the colours fade away, the bruises shrink and disappear. The pain dies out – it always does – and Jongdae blinks, only to see the fire printed all over the back of his eyelids. A peak of panic has him moan in despair. This pain never leaves, and he feels it, along with the grief, swell in his chest and travel back up his throat. He seals his lips, intent on keeping it all buried, just like it has been for the past five years. He also tries not to picture the body he used to know so well blown apart by the bomb, eaten away by the flames, reduced to ashes by red and angry yellow. No matter how hard he tries, the skeleton is still there, in his mind, still hovering over his thoughts. Still dead.
“Fuck,” Jongdae groans.
He rolls on his side, knocking his head against his bedside table as he does so. He ignores the fleeting flash of white in his vision and presses his palms against his temples while curling up in a ball. His fingers are shaking, knotting his sweaty hair and scratching his forehead, but Jongdae doesn’t pay attention. Instead, he focuses on the vibrations inside his head, the elusive lines and the discreet hints of electricity — the waves.
They come, they go, nervous and agitated peaks of energy. He thinks about what he would do -if it wasn’t his brain but someone else’s — what manipulations he would do so that the agitation would finally calm down. His power is mechanic, instinctive. He would aim for the alpha waves, and he would play with them, tame them until relaxation came, slowly but surely. He tries to picture himself falling into the softness and the peacefulness they bring to other people, but his shaking body, covered in cold sweat, makes sure he remains pinned to the ground with his alpha waves untamed.
Jongdae cracks under the irony. It’s so laughable, it always has been. He can bend reality, he can make people fall asleep with a brush of his fingers, he can make their brains believe everything is fine even when it’s not. But when it comes to his own mind, he’s helpless and there’s nothing he can’t do except try to breathe in and wait for the memories to fade away. He’s been waiting for five years now.
“God,” he lets out in a shaking sob. He opens his eyes and there’s nothing but darkness around him. “God,” he repeats, like a mantra.
He buries his face in his hands, his knuckles now fully healed cracking under the tension still lingering in his fingers. He can still feel the heat of the blast around him, the force that sent him flying upwards, and the cruel realization that he was too late. There’s a skeleton in his mind that once was a body, a body that Jongdae once thought he could save.
He cries as hard as he can, as loudly as his weak body allows him, hoping that eventually, his tears will drown the fact that he was too late for that.
He was too late.
It’s uncharacteristically hot for a mid-June day, and it leaves a feeling of exhaustion in Jongdae’s body. If Port Ville is already melting under the heat even though summer hasn’t technically started yet, he can only dread what August will bring. The sky is blinding as it gets reflected on the thousand windows covering the skyscrapers, and it feels like a dozen of suns are hung up above them, mercilessly aiming for their necks. Jongdae spots a business woman wiping the delicate skin on her collarbones with a look of uneasiness on her beautiful face, and he silently agrees. When he walks past her though, he breathes in a very enjoyable hint of flowery fragrance. He’s pretty sure half of the people in this city – him included – don’t smell that good right now, and it makes him stop and turn around. She looks up, large green eyes catching his, and she smiles, dimples and freckles flooding Jongdae’s vision. It’s a rare sight in Port Ville: a stranger smiling at you instead of staring at their shoes. He considers, for a very brief second, walking to her and asking for her number, or just engage in a nice chat. But it still is Port Ville, and Jongdae knows better. She seems to have learned her lesson too anyway since she looks away first, mildly embarrassed and mortified for having forgotten how deadly this city can be.
Jongdae keeps on his own path, walking down the street in long strides. He soon leaves the business block behind for a much more cheerful one with much smaller buildings. The mall pops up on every signs and people are now carrying shopping bags instead of briefcases. There’s music flooding the streets coming from small shops, and eruptions of laughter taking over the ruckus of the traffic, but Jongdae doesn’t let it fool him. Port Ville by day has always seemed so wrong to him, too thick and surrealist. It’s all make-believe and disguise, and the smaller streets and the darkness between the high buildings are still there, lurking and waiting. No one can run fast enough from it. Port Ville always wins in the end.
Someone bumps into him, and the surprise jolts him out of his reverie. He mumbles a short apology for the culprit who has already walked past him, and shuts down his thoughts. The café terrace is only a few feet ahead, and Jongdae focuses his senses on not getting killed as he crosses the road. The pastel pink sign of the bar merges surprisingly well with its urban surroundings, but nothing lights up Port Ville like Dahye’s smile does.
Jongdae feels his own face splits up in a soft smile as he joins her at one of the pastel green tables. She’s not dressed like the other customers as nothing in her outfit implies distraction or pleasure, but she still greets him with the widest smile and the brightest eyes.
“You look like shit,” she says in lieu of a greeting.
“Hello to you too,” Jongdae retorts.
He sits down and allows himself a pleased sigh at the coldness of the chair shielded from the sun by the large square parasols. When he looks up, Dahye’s almond-shapped eyes are scrutinizing. They’ve known each other for quite some time already, but she only developed that look after her first sessions in the interrogation room at the police station, to Jongdae’s dismay. Pinned down by the intensity of her gaze, he can’t even look away, let alone think of a lie to throw at her when she’ll figure out why he looks exhausted. Because Dahye always figures it out.
“Another dream?” she asks.
Her voice drowns in the noisiness of the warm Friday afternoon, but not before it has reached Jongdae’s ears. She’s extremely efficient, Jongdae has known it for a while now, but his inability to lie to her still frustrates him. He gives her a sharp nod, and she sighs, slowly shaking her head. The gesture wakes up her delicate citrus perfume, and Jongdae can’t help but smile as it reaches him. Today, she’s wearing her long hair down, and the define muscles of her arms are hidden by a jacket. He can’t help but feel a bit jealous of how much she’s grown up in the past five years, of everything she’s accomplished. As though reading his thoughts, she flashes him a severe look.
“You need to let go, Jongdae. You can’t keep on going like this.”
“You sure make it look easy to do,” he snaps back, way more aggressively than he wanted.
Dahye doesn’t look hurt. She’s moved past the hurt point somewhere during those five years of Jongdae being more aggressive than he wanted, but the slight twitch of her mouth is enough to make the guilt swell in his chest. He’s going to choke on it sooner or later, and he’ll die staring at his worst mistakes straight in the eyes. Hurting Dahye will always be one of them.
“I stopped blaming myself,” she says. “And I did everything I could to keep helping this city.” Her fingers instinctively follow the edges of her police badge over her jacket, and determination floods her eyes. “It’s not the same costume now, but at least I’m still doing some good.”
“I know what you’re going to say, please –”
“You need to get back out there, Jongdae. Port Ville needs you.”
“–don’t,” Jongdae finishes.
They exchange a look, Dahye’s eyes strong and judging and Jongdae’s fleeting and tired.
“Port Ville needs Alpha,” she adds in a low voice.
Her voice slightly drops at the end of her sentence, and her eyes quickly scan their surroundings before blinking back to Jongdae. She frowns at the little smile tugging at his lips, and her perplexed look only makes Jongdae’s smile widen. Sixteen-year-old Dahye loved to act like a spy, and it’s no surprise that twenty-four-year-old Dahye still enjoys the rush of adrenaline and the secrecy even though it’s been years since their last secret faded away. She hasn’t lost any of her reflexes, and neither did Jongdae. As soon as the Alpha name left Dahye’s mouth, he was already plastering his best neutral look on his face.
“Port Ville has everything it needs,” Jongdae says. He already feels lighter, brighter and Dahye has everything to do with it. “It already has a badass police detective.”
Dahye snorts. She sits up, and the intimacy she had created with her last sentence dies out.
“The badass police detective is breaking her teeth on her current case. I’m not giving much of my career right now.”
“The jewellery burglars? What are so special about them?”
Old habits die hard, and it’s so easy to fall back on supposedly forgotten patterns. The agitation around them fades out until Jongdae’s senses are all focused on Dahye. She has brought in several criminals but she looks genuinely frustrated about those that newspapers have been calling the Invisible Burglars. Jongdae has followed the headlines with more interest than he should have, but as a police officer, Dahye obviously knows more about the case. He is craving details, and he knows his best friend well enough to read the wrinkles mapping the corners of her eyes. Dahye is about to give him everything she knows.
“All we know for sure is that there are several of them, but we don’t even know exactly how many. They choose the jewellery shops randomly, with a certain liking for smaller ones. They never steal everything, and instead focus on a few items only, which makes them dangerously organized. And very quick.”
Jongdae nods.
“What about their M.O?” he asks before Dahye can say anything more. He needs details, not the same worn-out facts that have been written and rewritten in the newspapers. “How do they manage to get past the security systems?”
She slightly squirms, uneasy, and looks away. Jongdae catches a new wave of details, from her fingers gripped on the edge of the table to the way she bites her inner cheek. He can’t help his heart from speeding up in response, adrenaline already warming his blood with expectation.
“Dahye?”
“They’re using the same M.O Thorne’s henchmen used to.”
The name hits Jongdae like a freight train. He freezes as the adrenaline in his veins turns to poison. There’s an iron hand closing around his heart and pointy teeth scraping his bones. Dahye flashes him a worried look, but Jongdae is already long past the point of reacting. His mind fills with flashes he’d give anything to forget, old ghosts that gladly rise from the dust, and his eardrums shrink under those very same intonations that keep haunting his nights. You have thirty minutes, you have thirty minutes, you have thirty minutes.
He faintly hears a feminine voice ask if they wish to order now, and Dahye’s answer doesn’t reach his brain. Maxwell Thorne, alias the Bomber, can’t have anything to do with those robberies, because he is currently rotting in a cell. Sure, it’s a comfier cell than Jongdae would have wanted it to be, and he gets to watch TV and play board games with other patients, but it’s still a cell. Pleading mental insanity may have saved him from Port Ville’s prison, it didn’t stop justice from sending him to the asylum. Maxwell Thorne got put away five years ago, Jongdae made sure of that. He cannot have anything to do with the thieves.
“Jongdae?”
Dahye’s fingers softly close around Jongdae’s wrist, and the tension he can feel in his tendons clash with her gentleness. When he looks up, feeling like there’s a rope tightening around his neck, she meets his eyes with a sad look lurking behind her dark irises.
“Did you –” Jongdae’s voice cracks and gets drowned by the noisy happiness all around them. He clears his throat. “Did you question him?”
She nods sharply. Her thumb is now softly brushing against the darker veins mapping out the inside of Jongdae’s wrist.
“Twice, but it wasn’t conclusive. I even asked for an outside psychiatrist to run a psychological evaluation, but he gave me the same bullshit than the doctors of the asylum. Thorne isn’t who he used to be, and he is now expressing sincere remorse about what he’s done, blah blah blah.”
I like you, little boy, and I’m going to prove it to you. There are plenty of bad guys in this city that would crush you without a second thought, but good old Bomber? Nay, nay, he’s not like that. I’m giving you thirty minutes, my sweet friend. Isn’t that very nice of me? Thirty long minute to celebrate our new friendship. Thirty minutes for you to try and save an old one.
Jongdae pulls his hand away and Dahye’s nails clink against the metallic surface.
“He’s messing up with you.”
“I know, Jongdae. Trust me, I do. But what am I to do? The Commissioner is getting increasingly annoyed with me. Thinks I’m paranoid, but he doesn’t know Thorne like you and I do.”
Her voice is begging and her eyes pleading. Jongdae doesn’t have to ask her why she didn’t tell him about this sooner, because it’s written all over her face. He wonders what she is reading on his. Anger? Fear? Both?
Now, now. Don’t look at me like that, my boy. You’ve just wasted twelve seconds! My first advice as your new best friend is that you should start running immediately.
“Could he be operating from the asylum?” Jongdae asks.
His whole body feels so rigid that even his tongue struggles to curl around his words. He never realised how violent speaking was. His teeth clash, his tongue hits and his vocal chords snatch the oxygen away from his lungs. His jaws lock and unlock, and Jongdae wonders how much blood is currently dripping down his mouth from the battlefield in his mind. He feels like a time bomb.
“Probably,” Dahye cautiously answers. She keeps scanning him, on the lookout for whatever signs she has learned to recognize during the past five years. “The asylum offers him the perfect alibi.”
Jongdae closes his fists and keeps his eyes on them. There’s a snake whistling in his ears about an old suit waiting under his bed, old weapons that would gladly break free from the thick layers of dust burying them, and an old need for blood and revenge blood to make up for the loss. Jongdae’s breath speeds up.
“Listen Jongdae, I –” Dahye’s voice is hesitating, but the way her fingers crawl back to Jongdae’s hands is firm and determined. “I know you miss him. I miss him too, and I always will. Sehun was my childhood friend. If Thorne really does have anything to with those thieves, I will bring him in, and he will finally get what he deserves. I promise you I will, okay?”
“I can’t do this,” Jongdae snaps.
He needs more distance, he needs more space or he’ll choke to death, and Dahye, with her overwhelming voice and her warm eyes, is sucking up all the oxygen around him. He stands up hastily, his chair scraping the concrete with a low rumble. Dahye holds his gaze with a hint of defiance. Her features look sharper than they have ever been.
“Jongdae –” she starts.
It’s been five years, five years of Jongdaes and clashes, but her voice doesn’t wear any hints of tiredness. If anything, her love for him and worry are the only things radiating from her soft intonations. Jongdae shakes his head, hoping that the sharp gesture will somehow sweeps away the knowledge that he should be doing the exact same thing for her.
“I’ll call you okay? I just remembered I agreed for an extra shift this afternoon, I can’t stay much longer. Take care of you. Next time, I’ll treat you!”
She deflates but still gives him a nod and a smile, to which he barely answers before turning on his heels and putting as much distance as he can between them. Between him and Maxwell Thorne. It’s just wishful thinking and he knows it: he’s been digging that gap for five years already, but it’s never deep enough, never distant enough. Flashes of his nightmare come back and haunt. He feels like his body is still hung up in the air, and his eyes are still fixed on the inferno raging on a few steps ahead. There’s a cold laugh ringing through his ears, and a skeleton growing in his mind. No matter how many times the scene plays in his head, his body never hits the ground. He just keeps on falling. It just never stops.
It never will.
Jongdae's nod comes a second too late for his gesture to appear as polite as it should, but luckily, the couple doesn't seem to mind. The girl flashes him a quick smile as her boyfriend wraps an arm around her waist, and Jongdae steps aside to let them walk out of the room. He follows them with his eyes until they reach the cinema's front doors and step into the darkness of the street. If he remembers well, they were the only ones who bought tickets for the latest showing – a special rerun of Kill Bill Volume I. Week nights aren't the craziest nights, they haven't been in a long time. The opening of a multiplex cinema on the other side of the city didn't help, but people still seem to enjoy the relic Jongdae works in, a remain of a golden age in cinema history. At least, enough do for him to keep his job, which is all that matters. He likes working here.
Despite being one hundred per cent sure no one else is inside the room, Jongdae only half opens the heavy door to slip inside. Light dives into the room, temporarily fighting off the darkness until, at least, Jongdae closes the door behind him. The Kill Bill credits flashing on the large screen are the only source of light left, but Jongdae doesn't need much more to navigate between the rows and check for any forgotten items or empty popcorn packets. The music is loud, thumping against the wall, and the high notes echo in Jongdae's mind. He pauses and looks up to the screen, to the unknown names coming one after another. It is a beautiful song, soft and sad, and Jongdae's throat constricts around words and memories. Dahye's voice pops in his mind along with her pleading eyes and her determination, and he thinks he hears her intonations in the melody. It's a song about loss and revenge after all, and it's so ironically fitting.
The lights automatically switch on, efficiently jolting him out of his reverie. He blinks the impending wave of memories away and gets back to work. His thoughts seem to be hanging to the song though, because his mind is already full of Maxwell Thorne. The anger he felt when he heard that the criminal – the murderer – had managed to avoid prison is still vivid, and now that Dahye thinks he has been using his so-called insanity as a cover, Jongdae can taste a feral bitterness on the back of his tongue. It's the second time today that he thinks about the box hidden under his bed. He tries not to imagine what he could do, tries not to think of a plan but with the pan flute whistling in his ears and Dahye's voice playing with his sanity, it reveals to be harder than ever.
Jongdae straightens up and closes his eyes, hoping that the darkness plastered on the back of his eyelids will help him get back to his senses.
“You can't,” he whispers. “You can't do that, Jongdae.”
Hearing his name in his own voice forces him out of his daydreaming, and soon enough, he is back in good old reality, working the late night shift in an old cinema instead of planning to kill a murderer. Jongdae breathes in slowly as his senses settle down, leaving behind too vivid memories and powerful desires for revenge. He flashes a quick smile that gets lost in the emptiness around him, and draws back his focus to the seats ahead of him.
Just as he bends down to pick up creased movie tickets, his senses suddenly get on high alert. Jongdae immediately kneels down and hides behind the seats. His heart speeds up in his chest and he clenches his fingers on the closest seat, his eyes wide open. There's someone in the room, he'd bet his life on it. Someone who was watching him. He still can feel the slight flicker in the air that comes with people moving around him, and he's almost sure he heard someone breathe. A deep, regular breathing.
Jongdae mentally curses. He's not worried about getting harmed or having to deal with someone trying to steal from the cinema. For someone who can heal from just about everything and who has super senses and the ability to play with brain waves, that would top it all. What if it's someone who knows that though? Someone who knows that Jongdae can do things and who has done the maths and realized who he used to be?
The instruments die down and soon enough the pan flute is the only music left echoing through the room. It goes slower and slower, but the sublime soaring of the melody still takes over the silence. Jongdae can now pick up the unknown breathing. His senses slowly follow the trail, from the light vibrations in the air to the slow breathing, until they reach the source. Behind his closed eyelids, Jongdae easily pictures the stranger, his head turned towards the rows and his body standing by the door. He feels him blink, hears his lashes crash against his cheekbones and his tongue wet his lips. Jongdae's heart slows down, each beat still so strong against his eardrums, and his focus floods his mind, so thick that there's no room left for his own thoughts. He tightens his hold on the seat which creaks under the strength, and opens his eyes. Adrenaline burns through his veins as he suddenly jumps back to his feet.
He's fast. Faster than plain humans, but apparently not fast enough. As soon as Jongdae spurts out from behind the seats, the silhouette, all dressed in black, whirls around with a surprising agility and bolts out of the room. Jongdae curses under his breath and rushes out of the row of seats. He jumps over the steps and sprints towards the still swinging doors. His ears are focused on the hurried steps, his nose picks up a faint smell of musky cologne and his eyes follow invisible whirling in the air trailing after the stranger. He lifts his elbow and uses it to run through the swinging door without flinching when it hits the hard surface. His speed has him crashing against the wall on the other side, straight against one of the multiple frames breaking the monotony of the red velvety wallpapers. He barely registers the black and white poster as glass breaks under the violence of the collision. It digs in his flesh, mercilessly tears veins apart and Jongdae sighs as hot thick blood floods his palm lines.
Someone chuckles in his back. Jongdae turns around, taken aback, only to meet darkness. The silhouette – it's a man, he realizes – is standing at the end of the corridor, in the small zone of shadows between two cones of light thrown by the spots. Jongdae's eyes fill with black – black hood, black leather jacket, black pants, black shoes.
“Who are you?” he asks.
His voice echoes against the corridor's walls. Jongdae refuses to blink, and soon enough the man's body lines print themselves on his irises. Broad shoulders, long legs, slender figure. Holding his wounded hand against his chest, Jongdae takes a tentative step, frowning. The man immediately reacts. He grabs the closest frame and tosses it towards Jongdae. The frame hasn't even reached Jongdae that the man is already out of the corridor, the sound of his soles against the hall's tiled floor filling Jongdae's ears.
He dodges the frame, thrown with so much strength that it literally splatters against the door behind him. Glass falls down in an oddly musical cascade, but Jongdae is more focused on the sounds coming from the man's hurried escape. He hears the main doors open as he runs down the corridor and barges into the hall just as they close after the stranger. Jongdae speeds up and once again uses his elbow to run through the doors. His race comes to a sudden halt as he slides on the pavement on the other side.
There's nothing but darkness on the street, and no other sound than the usual drumming of Port Ville’s night life. Confused, Jongdae scans the surroundings, from the pools of light to the pavements diving into the night.
“What the...” he whispers as he turns around to check the street behind him as well.
There is nothing. The hooded man has disappeared without a trace.
Jongdae freezes. He looks up to the strong silhouette of the building towering over him. It's just darkness against darkness, barely lighter lines separating the night sky from the architecture, but it leaves a deep and unsettling feeling in Jongdae's guts. His eyes stop on the roof, high above his head, and he feels like the top of the building is staring back at him. Nervous, he looks away, checks the streets around him one last time and steps back into the safety of the cinema.
The harsh lights inside reflect on the blood on his hand, and Jongdae mindlessly watches the wound close, his mind running at full power. More than once, he feels eyes digging through the flesh of his back, and his heart explodes in his chest as he jumps around to stare at nothing but emptiness and silence. No one has ever been able to shake him off like that, but the strength and the speed are not what bother Jongdae the most.
No, the chuckle does.
The high-pitched tone barely echoes against Jongdae's eardrum since Dahye picks up the phone almost right away. Her voice fills the receiver in too reactive intonations for what she should be doing at almost two a.m.
“Hey, Jongdae. How was Kill Bill night?”
Jongdae breathes a little too harshly in his phone, and for a short second, Dahye's calm breathing gets drowned in the cracking. Calling her is the first thing he did when he got home, but now that she is waiting on the other side, her attention completely on him, he finds himself at a loss of words. What could he possibly tell her?
“Jongdae? You there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I blanked out.”
Dahye chuckles in the receiver. She doesn't sound as young as she used to in Jongdae's ear. She had a much lighter voice back then, but he can't figure out if it's the growing up or the loss that gave her her more serious intonations, her deeper huskier syllables. He likes her voice, how bubbly and cheerful it can be when it's not nearing delicate topics, and he likes that he can hear her smile in her words even though it's two a.m and she should be fast asleep by now.
He slowly deflates on his bed as she breaks the silence again.
“So I take it it wasn't that eventful,” she teases him.
“That's the least you could say.”
She snorts, but not loud enough for Jongdae to miss the sound of paper ruffling on her side. He pictures her, so small behind her kitchen table, her pale fingers massaging her temples and her eyes scanning over messy writing she probably knows by heart, and something tightens in his guts. He glances at his TV set, the black screen staring back at him, and wonders with a certain dread what it would flash him if he were to turn on the news channel.
“Why aren't you sleeping?” he asks in a tentative, careful voice.
“Something came up and I'm worried,” she confesses in a low voice. “You know me, I can't sleep when I'm worried, so I'm just making sure I didn't miss anything before I go to bed.”
“Something?”
He feels, before he hears, the shift in Dahye's voice.
“Something,” she confirms with a hint of playfulness. “Are you Jongdae? I can't talk to you about it, it's confidential.”
“What are you saying?” Jongdae chuckles. “Of course I'm Jongdae.”
“Pity. If you were someone else like... I don't know, Alpha? Then maybe I would have revealed a thing or two. For this city's safety, you know.”
She breaks before he does – she always breaks before he does – and her laugh rings in Jongdae's ear. It's contagious, even over a phone call, and soon enough Jongdae feels his own lips open on a chuckle. Her childlike hiccups soften the thick night lurking behind his bedroom window and the worry that was creeping up on him. He feels the tension fade out from his shoulders and hears her chair scraping against the floor as she moves away from the table.
“Alright” she finally says with a sigh. Her voice is lighter, and he knows, even without seeing her, that her gaze has let go of the files. “It's actually later than I thought. I should go, tomorrow's gonna be busy.”
“Don't try to lure me in with your big secrets. I don't care what it is.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” she chuckles.
Jongdae snorts.
“See you tomorrow, Dahye.”
She answers with silence that Jongdae instinctively translates with a nod and a smile. He looks up and meets his TV set's huge eye again. On the black surface, a smaller and almost translucent Jongdae stares back, eyes inevitably falling down to the black space under his bed. Jongdae looks away.
“Jongdae?”
He answers with silence that Dahye instinctively translates with a nod.
“Why did you call me?”
“I just wanted to let you know I didn't get killed on my way home.”
“Of course you didn't,” she immediately answers.
Here comes the heavier voice again, the words full of implied meanings. Jongdae would laugh at it if he wasn't so busy trying not to choke on his need to tell her that superheroes do die. Luckily, she hangs up before he gets all poisonous and toxic, but the sudden lack of her voice leaves him oddly helpless and lonely. He puts his phone on his bed as he listens to his own breathing trying to fight the silence around him. He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh as he falls back against his mattress, arms spread out on his sides. There's a teenager searching through his parents' fridge two floors above, a young baby crying somewhere in the building and a couple fighting about some random family dinner. He hears his fingers brush the sheet when his lungs empty themselves, his blood rush into his arteries but mostly, he hears the static electricity running across the TV screen the loudest.
“I won't turn you on,” he says to the darkness painted over his closed eyelids. “I won't.”
No one answers, but the TV set keeps on quietly buzzing. Jongdae sighs and curls on the side while pulling his legs up next to him, suddenly feeling nervous about the space under his bed. He knows what kind of monsters are waiting down there after all. He grabs his pillows and buries his face under, silently hoping they'll give him at least a couple of hours of good sleep before they crawl out and engulf him.
Jongdae stares at the big bold headline on the fresh new issue of the Sailor's Gazette. There's a black and white picture under it and he wonders for a brief second why the photographer decided to drop the colours for that one. There's a hint of symmetry and composition which give the shot what could be a sort of artistic vibe if broken glass and dead bodies lying under white sheets weren't filling the foreground. The article spurting out from the bottom edge of the picture is written in much smaller words, but some of them do pop out quite a lot. Gangs, ambush, settling of scores, no serious leads.
“Hey, Jongdae! How are you doing?”
Jongdae looks up at a friendly cop holding out his fist. He flashes him a smile and offers his own hand for the famous fist bump the young man – Jihoon – is so fond of.
“I'm good,” he says, and Jihoon throws him another bright smile.
He's quite the contrast standing in the middle of a room full of agitated cops, but that's nothing new, really. Jongdae has always thought the uniform looked a bit too large on him. He's still a kid, with less than a year of active duty to his name, but he's been determined and so optimistic since the very first day, which is honestly a true miracle for a member of the Port Ville Police Department.
Jihoon glances at the newspaper Jongdae is still holding and he winces.
“I feel bad but I'm actually very grateful Dahye and Frank are on this case. Wouldn't have wanted to end up on that one, trust me. That stuff is messy.”
Jongdae flashes him a slight smile as he puts back the newspaper on Dahye's desk – on which he is currently sitting.
“Still a proud traffic cop?” he asks.
Jihoon snorts. “Hey, I'm saving Port Ville's grandmas,” he chuckles. “I'm a true hero, if you will.” He nods towards Dahye's desk. “She's in the Commissioner’s office, probably getting screamed at.”
“It's okay,” Jongdae says. “I'll wait.”
Jihoon nods, holds out his hand and gladly takes another fist bump from Jongdae as a very modest goodbye. Jongdae watches him walk away, his right hand hovering over the gun hanging on his hips, and his bait as strong and manly as it can be considering his boyish figure. Jongdae was there for Jihoon's first day, just like he was there when his partner, Joy, called for backup after her and her previous partner were violently attacked in the Bottoms. Detective Kim Heechul didn't make it, Joy barely did, and Jihoon became the new member of a broken team.
Jongdae takes a look around him. He spends so much time here that none of Dahye's co-workers question his presence, but they're all obviously too busy to care anyway. He barely slept a couple of hours, but he looks so well rested next to them, and he guesses Dahye won't look any better. He sighs as he takes another look at the headline.
THE JEWELLERY BURGLARS GET KILLED DURING ROBBERY
Jihoon is right. This stuff is going to be messy.
The wooden door of the Commissioner’s office opens with a bang, and a very frustrated looking Dahye walks out, fire spurting out of her eyes.
“I really do hope I'll never have to say I told you so, Chief, because I don't want to end up cleaning your fucking mess!” she snaps as she glares over her shoulder.
She looks like a fury with her dishevelled hair and the angry patches of red on her face. They all step away from her as she walks towards her desk. Angry Dahye is a rare sight, but Jongdae has to admit that when it does happen, she can be impressive. If the whole situation wasn't so explosive, he'd probably laugh at how everyone is peeking at her with a certain nervousness despite how tiny she is. Deep down though, he can't help but feel proud of her. Being a cop in Port Ville isn't easy, and being a woman makes it even more suicidal, but Dahye has been taking over the police department inch by inch since her very first day. There are times when he likes to pretend he taught her how to be that strong and determined, but it's obvious that she's doing it all on her own.
She freezes when her eyes fall on him, and the burning rage on her face turns to panic.
“Oh fuck,” she curses. “Am I late?”
Jondgae throws a sandwich tightly wrapped in white paper at her. She catches it and casts him a questioning look.
“You're not,” he says with a hint of playfulness. “But I figured you wouldn't have the time for Chinese today so I brought sandwiches.”
She looks undecided for a brief second, her blood probably still boiling in her veins, but she lifts the sandwich to her face and sniffs it.
“Oh god,” she moans. “Is that a chicken curry sandwich?”
Jongdae gives her his best smile, and she deflates, tension leaving her body. She walks up to him, leaves a gentle kiss on his cheek and sits on her desk next to him. Her perfume fills his nose with delicate hints of orange and honey even as she unwraps her sandwich. He watches her profile, from the slight curve of her nose to her red lips as she takes a first bite and hums in pleasure.
“Where's Frank?” Jongdae finally asks. Frank is the oldest detective of the PVPD, and also Dahye's partner. Jongdae has a sandwich for him in his bag.
She glances at him, a leftover of magma burning in her pupils, and nods towards the Commissioner’s office.
“Probably trying to stop Chief Do from firing me. I said some nasty stuff in there.”
“No kidding,” Jongdae mumbles.
She glares at him, but the effect is somehow ruined by her obvious hunger. She licks her lips, her red lipstick fading to a soft pinkish colour, and takes another bite. He watches her blink away from every glance she receives, one second staring down at the wooden floor of the police station and the next one looking up at the dark ceiling. Her fingers work around her sandwich in quick and sharp movements. They tear the paper piece by piece while she pretends that her whole attention is on her lunch, but Jongdae doesn't get fooled. There's a glistening reflection in her eyes that her incessant blinking can't hide.
She feels his gaze on her, and she glances at him, brows furrowed and eyes wet. He knows her too well to mistake those tears for signs of sadness or despair. She's angry and frustrated.
“I guess you know about my something now,” she says, nodding towards the newspaper between them.
Jongdae makes a face. “At length.”
Dahye takes another look at the Sailor's Gazette and her eyes flash angry red for a short second.
“It's that stupid reporter, that Park Chan-something. He had to make a big deal out of it, and now everyone in Port Ville thinks there's another gang war coming our way.” She then glares at the Commissioner's office with so much intensity that Jongdae wouldn't be surprise to see the faint shadow on the other side of the windows drop dead. “He thinks that too, but that's rubbish.”
Jongdae follows her gaze and comes back to the Sailor’s Gazette. He can hear Commissioner’s low voice threatening Dahye's partner – keep her in check or I swear I'll make you two traffic cops – just like he can see scribbled post-its all over Dahye's desk.
“That's not what worries you,” he tells her. In the ruckus going on around them, his voice gets lost, but Dahye picks it up. She looks at him with eyes full of seriousness.
“If I'm right on this whole thing, those burglars are working for Thorne, and now someone is coming after them.”
Jongdae's throat feels like it's made of sandpaper. He flashes Dahye the shadow of a smile.
“You're worried about Thorne breaking out to settle this mess himself.”
She nods, but the simple gesture scares Jongdae so much. He ended this chapter of his life years ago, and pretending that he had moved on has been keeping his mind busy for so long already. The nightmares are bad enough, and the fact that he remembers perfectly well the smell of gasoline, the heat, the raging roar of the inferno will always keep his conscience pinned to that one moment. He can't have Thorne barging into his life again. Not when he's supposed to come from a time that has long stopped existing.
“I'm not happy with him being in the asylum instead of the cell he deserves,” Dahye says. “But at least he's locked up.” She throws a frustrated look around her. “No one believes me. They think I'm obsessed with him.”
I’m giving you thirty minutes, my sweet friend. Isn’t that very nice of me? Thirty long minutes to celebrate our new friendship. Thirty minutes for you to try and save an old one.
Jongdae snorts.
“You have all the reasons to be,” he says.
She nods again, but this time, it is more submissive, as though a part of her had already given up on this. She usually stands so tall, despite being smaller than most people, her eyes fierce and powerful and ready to jump into a fight, but this Dahye looks like she has lost the fire inside her. The soft curve of her back dips down, and her eyes don't throw any spark any more but only ashes as she looks at the dusty ground. She's been with him for the past five years, pushing him, holding him. For how long has she been hiding this case from him? How many nights did she spend losing her sleep on the idea that they never stopped the Bomber at all, despite what he did to Sehun? She even went and questioned him, Jongdae remembers. Two times.
“Tell me what you have,” he says. His voice breaks, fades away in the mess around them, but Jongdae clears his throat and straightens. “Tell me everything,” he repeats.
Dahye's fingers jump from one article to the other, black ink on white paper, white paper pinned on a black board. Jongdae feels like he's reading one of those old comics in which the only colour comes from deadly red of the heroin's lipstick. Right now, the only colour comes from a square picture of a face he hoped for so long he'd never have to see again pinned at the exact centre of the board. Dahye puts her palm on it for support as she tiptoes to reach the higher articles. Jongdae imagines the sound of Thorne's nose breaking, and the feral and heavy odour of blood.
“Here you have the exact date when Thorne's sentence was made public,” Dahye says, jolting Jongdae out of his reverie. He blinks up to the article she's taping with the tip of her finger. “Internment. Mental instability, blah blah blah.”
She glances at Jongdae over her shoulders, a note of uncertainty still glistening in her eyes. The police badge on her belt catches the artificial light of the meeting room she took him in, and the gun hanging on her hips breaks the natural sweet curve of her waist, but to Jongdae, she looks like the sixteen-year-old Dahye who knocked at his door and told him she knew who he really was more than ever. He smiles to her, and the uncertainty fades away. She reads hints like no one does.
“It was seven months after Sehun's death,” she continues. Her voice slightly drops on the name, as though she wasn't sure she was allowed to say it, but she doesn't pause. “And two days later, a gang attacks Wright's club. Frank worked on that case. He told me the booze was gone, and the place was a mess. But they didn't take the cash.”
Jongdae frowns and Dahye smiles.
“I know right?”
Lexie Wright's club is one of the headquarters of Leone Pavoni's gang and probably the place where they launder their black money. It's a very classy club whose thick walls never manage to fully stop the nagging jazz notes that fill the place from invading the streets. Port Ville's high society always have a nice thing to say about Lexie Wright, but the woman is as dangerous and deadly as she is beautiful and mesmerizing.
“Who attacked the club?” Jongdae asks.
Dahye's eyes literally sparkle with delight at the question. She raises a finger, dimple digging into the softness of her cheek.
“No one knows. Pavoni's mob didn't retaliate. Frank told me they thought it was Beaulieu's gang at some point, but the lack of retaliation from Pavoni kind of nipped the case in the bud. And since they didn't take any money anyway--”
“It wasn't an act of war,” Jongdae interrupts. Dahye watches him, excitation flooding her face. “It was a warning.”
She nods furiously. He hears her heart speed up in her chest and reads just as easily on her features what she is thinking. It wakes up old riddles that they solved together in the secrecy of Jongdae's room, their fingers covered with pizza grease. Jongdae can't help the wave of affection and sincere care from flooding him. It's the first time pain doesn't hit him like a freight train as he lets his mind wander to forgotten times.
“Exactly,” Dahye says. “I realised something a couple of months ago when the special Gazette's issue about the last gang war came out. After Thorne's internment, there wasn't any gang war. No one fought.”
“Which doesn't make sense,” Jongdae continues for her. “His gang had a huge territory. Why didn't Beaulieu and Pavoni try to get hold of it after Thorne was out of the picture?”
Dahye steps away from the board, her hand falling back to her waist, and Jongdae's eyes land on the kaleidoscope of colours clashing against the black and white collage. His heart misses a bit.
“That's why you think he's still in activity. Because his territory is still unclaimed even when it was just there for the taking.” He gestures at the article topping everything else. “And you think the attack of the club was a warning from him, that he wanted to make sure Beaulieu and Pavoni knew he was still there.”
“There had been a few attacks in Thorne's territory during his seven-month long trial,” Dahye confirms. “But everything stopped after the club's robbery. I think that Thorne didn't warn them before because he didn't want to risk jeopardizing his trial. After that, it was a piece of cake. The asylum was the perfect alibi.”
Jongdae looks back at the picture. The longer he stares, the scarier the face gets. The man's nose seems to be growing until it becomes as sharp as a blade, and his cheekbones slowly shrink into his cheeks, giving his eyes a dead look completed by heavy eyelids. This is the face of the man who terrorized Port Ville for months before Jongdae and Dahye finally managed to bring him in. It took the PVPD around a week to find every bomb he had hidden in the city, and a lot of them blew up before they even had a chance to defuse them.
“The bombs...” Jongdae whispers. He blinks and draws back his attention on Dahye. “There wasn't a single bomb since he got interned in the asylum.”
Dahye nods. “It would be too obvious, wouldn't it? Robberies followed by bombs blowing up to cover any proofs?” She shakes her head. “No. He's being very clever on that one, but I know it's him. I just do.”
Jongdae slowly nods. She probably has a dozens of arguments ready to be thrown at him, but Jondgae doesn't want to hear what she thinks. There's a giant board, covered in white and ink, and a too detailed picture of Maxwell Thorne and if that alone isn't a proof that Dahye is too caught up in the case, her hungry looks towards the press clippings complete her lack of impartiality. But as Jongdae gets closer to the board, he can feel himself being assaulted by the hundreds of reasons why neither Dahye nor him will ever be objective when it comes to the Bomber. Flashes of Thorne's mad smile when Jongdae finally found him flood his mind. The asshole was singing Alice in Wonderland's rabbit's song. Jongdae can still hear the husky intonations.
I'm late, I'm late for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye--
“This is all you have?” he asks Dahye, his eyes scanning every press clipping.
He doesn't need to glance at her to know she's nodding. He can feel her eyes watching him, but Jongdae keeps his on the board. He goes over every circled word, every note Dahye scribbled. He reads Thorne's M.O several times, follows white lines linking several articles, and stares at Port Ville's map for a couple of minutes. Dahye has highlighted the places that were attacked, circled the one neighbourhood where nothing happened, raised a huge questioning mark above it that she scribbled probably later with bold letters reading Thorne's daughter's house. She doesn't only have arguments, he realizes. She has proofs. She has connections between every case, all of them possibly leading back to Thorne with a little bit of digging. She has proofs that both Pavoni and Beaulieu are keeping away from Thorne's old territory despite being the two most powerful gangs in the city. She has more than enough to be heard by Commissioner Do, but Jongdae wouldn't blame the man for his refusal to accept the idea that Thorne might have played on them all – again. Port Ville's mob has always been so intricately mixed to the police and the high society anyway, making it almost impossible to dismember. It is a kind of disease that doesn't create any cure, but only bring corpses and despair. Jongdae tried to fix Port Ville too. It didn't work so well.
“What is he trying to achieve...?” Jongdae mumbles for himself as he goes over an article about drug trafficking in the Bottoms, Port Ville's less fortunate neighbourhood. It is a small island, connected to the coast by three bridges, and it's also the mob's top market. The article talks at length about this new very addictive drug that apparently wasn't introduced by Beaulieu and Pavoni. It ends with a questioning tone about the possibility of a new gang emerging in Port Ville, and the civil war that might result from it.
Jongdae glances at Dahye, who shrugs.
“Power? Money? What has he ever tried to achieve?”
“But he can't enjoy power nor money where he is right now,” Jongdae argues.
“Hopefully, he will never be able to.”
Jongdae turns around to look into Dahye's face.
“I know it would require more digging,” she says, on the defensive. “But as long as Do doesn't believe me, my hands are tied.”
Jongdae slightly frowns, but then it hits him. Dahye's excitement, the fact that she showed him the black board, and that she let him take a closer look himself. She's not only sharing what has been weighing on her shoulders for the past couple of months, she's luring him. His heart drops in his chest and he steps away from the board. Dahye catches on, and she opens her mouth, her eyes already pleading. Thankfully, this is when the door of the meeting room opens, taking them both by surprise.
Dahye's partner, Frank, walks into the room and Jongdae internally shakes himself.
“Here you are,” Frank greets them both with his usual husky voice.
He's the walking stereotype of a cop from the gangster age, from the hat to the leather holster strapping his chest. He lived Port Ville's last gang war, and many other cases, which makes him a sort of legend amongst the PVPD, especially when it comes to newest recruits, but to Jongdae, he's the surly grizzled man who told Dahye on her first day that Port Ville would probably turn her into an alcoholic, while taking a sip from his own flask.
“Hey Frank,” Jongdae greets him back.
He catches Frank's grey eyes going from Dahye's face to the black board. The cop then empties his lungs with a long and heavy sigh.
“I hope you're here to knock some sense into her,” he tells Jongdae. “She's going to get herself fired and I'll have to find a new partner.”
He points at Dahye.
“D'you hear that? I'll have to find myself a new partner and it'll probably be an overexcited newbie, like Jihoon. I worked too hard on you kid, please, I'm begging you,” he says, linking his fingers in a pleading prayer. “Don't mess it up.”
Dahye snorts, but Jongdae is relieved to see that she also stepped away from the board. Frank has delayed what she wanted to ask him, but she's been tottering around the topic far too many times these past few days for Jongdae to hope that she will drop it. He deems it better to play it safe and run while he still can, so he grabs his jacket and gestures towards the plastic bag with Frank's sandwich.
“I brought you lunch,” Jongdae says. Dahye desperately tries to catch his gaze, but Jongdae's eyes remain glued to Frank's. “Don't be a douche to my best friend, okay?”
Frank lets out a peal of laughter.
“I did save her from getting fired today, didn't I?”
“That's why I'm leaving you the sandwich,” Jongdae answers with a wink.
He turns around, and Dahye's face fills his vision. He can almost hear her thinking about random excuses so that he would stay longer, and he really hopes that she also can hear him silently pleading her not to. She'll re-enter the fray, probably not later than tonight, but his escape will at least earn him a couple of hours to think about what he'll say to her.
“I'll see you later, Dahye,” he throws with his most cheerful voice before nodding towards Frank.
He catches her deflate from the corner of his eyes, but he doesn't let it stop him. He also catches the black board, with its infinity of white stains and the mix of colours at its centre, but he doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate. It was a mistake to ask about her case, a mistake to follow her into that room, and an even bigger one to have looked at that board. Fortunately, he has become quite used to making mistakes which makes him an expert at running away from them. It usually comes with a game of pretend, pretend that he's not being a coward. Pretend he's not hurting Dahye.
Pretend he doesn't catch her disappointed and pleading look right before the door closes.
The horizon line, broken by Port Ville's architecture, looks hypnotizing, nagging. Bright orange and pink streaks reflect against Jongdae’s windows, and he can only watch, powerless, as the day slowly fades out. Minutes pass by on the DVD player, hours die out, and Jongdae looks Port Ville's street lights turn on, one by one. He has always found it easier to fight his demons when it was daylight, because he could see them coming, he could avoid the shadows, but in the night now crawling towards his building, he is an easy prey. Tonight, it will be even harder to win.
Jongdae lets out a soft sigh as he pushes away the book he was only pretending to read. His fingers are numb from the hours he spent gripping the hard cover as though it was vital. His heart is still beating as fast as it was when he came home after his lunch with Dahye. He ran all the way back home, but what he was desperately trying to outrun never left his side. It's right here, and it's calling him.
Jongdae glances at his bedroom door from over the couch. Breathing is harder than it should be. He has no idea how he is supposed to act and feel now that he's learned that Sehun's killer hasn't been stopped at all. Even worse, he could escape anytime now. Justice hasn't been served, and it could start all over again. The Bomber hacking Port Ville's channel at random hours, the terror, the bombings, the deaths...
Jongdae's breath catches in his throat, and the book slips out of his hands. It lands on the carpeting with a soft thump, but the sound echoes in his head, repeatedly stabbing his eardrums. He winces, blinks away from his bedroom and closes his eyes. Darkness engulfs him, and colours soon start staining his eyelids, memories painting themselves on the black canvas. The brain-splitting pain fades away as faces fill his mind. Jongdae can't help a small smile from tugging at the corners of his lips at the grins, the glances and laughter he is reminded of.
His hand knocks into a hard surface, and Jongdae opens his eyes, confused. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize he's standing in front of his bedroom and a couple more to finally give in and push the door open. He steps into the room, his soles silent against the thick carpeting, and glances at the opened window. The horizon is still there, though much darker. There's a faint golden aura rising above the city, thrown there by all the lights, lit-up panels and neon signs. People are coming home after a long day of work, filling Jongdae's ears with tired greetings and relieved chuckles. Life is at its height, noisy and overwhelming, but in Jongdae's room, silence reigns supreme.
Jongdae draws back his attention on his bed as he walks to it. Glancing over his shoulder – a reflex from a long time ago – he kneels down and shoves his hands under the bed. His fingers knock into something cold, metallic, and they run along sharp edges until they close around the corners. Jongdae tightens his grip and pulls his finding out. The carpeting makes it a bit harder, considering the weight and the size of the large box coming out, but Jongdae doesn't stop pulling until it's completely out. When it is, he steps back, still on his knees, and lays his hands on his thighs.
The metallic surface of the box catches every hint of light, from the red glow of Jongdae's alarm clock to the neon pink of the sign in front of his bedroom window, but nothing radiates from it. If anything, it looks cold, lethal, as though nothing would ever be able to warm it. Jongdae reaches out and follows the outline off the heavy padlock which locks the box. His fingers slowly close on it, and he tilts it as his other hand plunges under his shirt to seize the key hanging low around his neck. His necklace rattles against the box's side as he slides the key into the keyhole. With a light flick of his wrist, Jongdae unlocks the padlock. It opens with a click that echoes in the room.
Jongdae stares, his blood turned to ice. It's been so long since the last time he opened that box that he can see little specks of dust whirling around the padlock. He follows them as long as he can, but when they inevitably disappear in the shadows or land softly on the carpeting, he has no other choice than to face the box again.
“Okay,” he whispers. He rubs his palms together and takes a deep breath before grabbing the edges of the top. “Okay.”
He closes his eyes, locks his jaw and opens the box with too much strength. The top knocks into the bed frame and bounces back, but Jongdae opens his eyes just in time to catch it before it falls back on top of the box. He chuckles slightly. His heart is beating so loudly in his chest that he can't even hear any other sound coming from the streets, and adrenaline floods his veins, burning his muscles one after the other. He's feared that box so much for the past five years, to the extent that it has turned his room into a sort of temple with silence and nightmares as holy beings; it represented everything he had lost and it was there, threatening him under his bed with a voice of its own. Jongdae opened it, and the world hasn't ended. He opened Pandora's box, and now that he's staring at the bundle of tissues, the pictures and other relic of his past, he feels more alive than he ever did those past five years.
He takes the press cuttings lying on top of everything and puts them away without a single glance at the bold titles. (Warehouse blows up in the docks: where is Alpha? Second week without Alpha, criminality level rises. Are Alpha, Heize and Nightblade dead? Six month anniversary since last Alpha apparition: Port Ville mourns her hero)
His fingers then graze a smooth and light fabric, and Jongdae can't hold back a smile. He grabs the neatly folded piece of clothing and takes it out. The weight on his palms feels familiar, and it welcomes Jongdae with hundreds of memories of the time when it was weighing on his shoulders, engulfing his body in darkness and flapping behind him as he was running on Port Ville's roofs. It still carries the faint smell of sea, with an even lighter hint of gasoline and ashes. Jongdae remembers when he ripped the cloak off his shoulders after Sehun's death, but he also remembers those times when Sehun smoothed it out on his collarbones or when Dahye made sure it wasn't inside out.
He turns the cape around to check the other side, but his eyes catch another old friend in the trunk. Jongdae lets go of the folded cloak and shoves his hands into the box to pull out an empty pair of eyes staring back at him. He lets out a faint chortle as his fingers automatically find back their spots on the mask he is now holding. The black vinyl material looks alive under the artificial light, almost liquid. Jongdae slowly tilts it on one side, then the other, before drawing back his attention on the box. He straightens up on his knees and rummages through the mess inside, until he finds what he was looking for. His breath catches in his throat, and he reaches out to take two other masks. The dark purple one has softer curves and stretched out edges. It goes a little lower than the other mask, the material mimicking the outline of Dahye's nose. She looked like a bird with this on, like a fierce eagle, all sharpness and precision, and she probably would have made it her code name if it wasn't for the Sailor's Gazette naming her Heize for her constant use of smoke grenades.
The other mask is dark blue, the exact same shade of the night draping Port Ville, right between the golden glow of the city and the thick black of the sky. It has nothing of Jongdae and Dahye's masks' curves, as it looks much more chiselled. Even the holes for the eyes are made of straight and sharp lines, the inner corner dipping down a bit, to fit Sehun's natural eye shape. Everything on his mask screams blades and knives – he wasn't called Nightblade for nothing after. Jongdae turns it between his fingers with a soft smile. He slowly lifts it up and presses it on his face. The material feels as familiar on his skin as the cape was between his hands, but Jongdae is too aware of the difference between his mask and the one he is wearing. He remembers Sehun's eye smile, how his eyes would turn to slits, the wrinkles hidden by the mask but the mischief still obvious all over Sehun's face. His throat constricts and he pulls off the mask. He carefully puts it on top of the cape.
He looks inside the trunk again, arms dangling over the edge, and his fingers shakily close around an old photograph. Three smiling faces stare back at him, bodies huddled together and limbs tangled. A seventeen-year old Dahye is on the far left, her face somewhat rounder, her features softer. She used to curl her hair back then, so light waves frame her face. She flashes white teeth at the lens, her arm wrapped around Jongdae's waist. He too looks much younger, with his middle parted hair, result of laziness and a sudden lack of caring, and his smaller frame. He follows his own arm to the wide shoulders it is wrapped around, and his heart misses a beat when he catches pointy teeth, soft lips and pale skin. Then it speeds up drastically in his chest when he dwells on the button nose, the roundness of the cheekbones and the playfulness of the eye smile. Jongdae watches as seventeen-year old Sehun laughs at the camera he's holding above the three of them, and it breaks his heart.
He lets go of the trunk and sits back on the carpeting, his eyes still trailing on the picture. They fall on his nineteen-year old self's arm around Sehun's shoulders, and that is only when he notices Sehun's free hand curled around his wrist. It looks tight and almost desperate, his index finger pressing against the inside of Jongdae's wrist while the other fingers dig into his skin.
Dahye and Sehun had been by his side for a year only. Jongdae had been Alpha for three years. Sehun had two years left to live.
And Jongdae makes up his mind.
Lexie Wright's is a place with no name, no sign. It doesn't need any. People know it because they've been told how amazing it is, or because they stumbled upon it in the dead of night, drawn to it by mesmerizing jazz melodies. For the wealthiest, Lexie Wright's is a handwritten invitation in a golden envelop which mysteriously ended up in their mail box despite the lack of stamp. For Jongdae, it used to be a source of information, whether he was expecting it or not. He can't remember how many cases he solved just by losing himself for a couple of hours in Lexie Wright's. Whoever you are, the club never meets expectations: it goes beyond them, and it never ever fails to deliver.
Jongdae stands on the opposite street, his eyes jumping from one client to the other at the front doors of the club. A woman is singing inside, her voice husky and drawling but mesmerizing as it hits every note perfectly. Jongdae can't make out the lyrics over the chatter inside the building but he'd bet his life on a love song. A sad, broken song, for those who don't pay attention, but an implied threat for an ex-lover, a promise of revenge, for the others. Lexie Wright never plays only a game at a time, she uses levels and layers like no one else so that even what sort of game she is playing remains a mystery. Jongdae doesn't even want to know how many men have lost their heads – both metaphorically and literally – trying to fathom her.
He sighs, thinking about the headaches she gave him back then, and finally steps forward. He steps out of the circle of light thrown on the concrete by a lonely street lamp, and walks into the golden glow luring new clients in. The double doors open easily, and Jongdae is sucked into the club by softened lights, luxurious decorations and the comfortable aura the oval room has. It's like travelling back in time; days of glory, frivolity and pleasure brought back to life by the ceiling built in a dome shape and the few columns circling around the room. Small round tables are meticulously spread out, red candles and crystal glasses waiting to be picked up presiding over every single one of them. Everything is simplicity and delicacy, from the wooden stage to the neatly organized wall of alcohol bottles behind the bar, but it is merely a disguise for the inexperienced eye. Nothing has been left to chance. This wouldn't be Lexie Wright's club if it had been.
Jongdae keeps his head low, his face hidden by the large hood he's pulled up. He has to reach his goal as fast as possible, because his ripped jeans and hoodie clash horrendously with the fancy evening wears surrounding him, and he knows from experience how efficient Lexie's men are. He makes his way between the groups of people, slipping between bodies high on adrenaline and alcohol, and dozens of perfumes engulf him. Pieces of conversations fill his mind but none of them stop on him. He hurries up, going from column to column, his head still low. He knows the way by heart, so he stays focused on the very slight frizzling he makes out under the usual background noise of Lexie Wright's. It's easier for him to catch it than to make out the exact words of the too numerous conversation going on around him, because it comes from a communication device, and, well, waves are kind of his things.
Mid-twenties daddy's boy at the bar acting up, a low voice says over the radio frequency Lexie's security guards are using.
Jongdae presses himself against the back of the column, dipping into the shadow just before a very tall man walks by him. He glances at his broad back and the muscles flexing under the high quality suit and pities the spoiled brat who thought he could rule the roost here. Jongdae is also grateful, because it means one less guard to deal with.
He walks out of the shadow and hurries towards the very discreet door now only a few steps ahead. Another guard is guarding it, even taller than the first one. His piercing eyes scan the room under furrowed brows, and they flash danger when they land on Jongdae. His right hand immediately flies to his belt, under his fancy jacket.
“Sir –” he starts, but Jongdae jumps over the remaining distance and presses his fingers against the man's temple.
The man's expression turns blank and his arm falls back against his thigh. Billions of connections, waves and frequencies are now opening to Jongdae, welcoming him inside the man's mind, and he plunges deep into it. He pushes the right buttons, triggers the nerves he wants to and distorts the smallest of waves. Then he withdraws with a soft whisper.
“Tell her I'm here.”
The man doesn't blink, doesn't react. When Jongdae pulls his hand away, the tip of his fingers still tickles from the energy and the hints of electricity he handled. He can't help the smile blooming on his lips. It was easy, merely a push, but it has been so long and, it feels like his body is waking up after centuries of sleep.
The man steps aside, and Jongdae shoves his hand in his pocket as the guard opens the door for him. He puts the mask on his face in one swift motion and steps forward. It's so easy to fall back into old patterns, so easy, and so relieving, like breathing in a lungful of fresh air. Adrenaline floods his veins, makes his skin crawl under his clothes, and tenses his muscles. He glances over his shoulders as the guard closes the heavy door behind him, and finally draws back his attention to the hallway stretching at his feet. Something crackles on the back of his head, and a blank voice raises over the radio wave.
M'am, Alpha coming in.
Jongdae takes in a deep lungful of air. He feels his chest expand, then shrink in as he breathes out. It is time, he thinks, time to go back to what he was five years ago. He blinks, gathers his courage and looks up at the camera he knows is already on him. He stares at the black eye for a couple of seconds, while trying not to let the red cold iris at its centre freeze him on the spot. No one talks back in the radio, but nothing else happens, which is his cue to start walking. He follows with careful steps the narrow corridor, white wallpapers closing in on him. The club's background sounds fade out more and more with every step he takes, the soundproof walls a too powerful obstacle for Jongdae's senses. He could vaguely hear the clatter of cutlery coming from the kitchens when he first entered the corridor, but they're long gone now, along with everything else. Jongdae tries not to focus on his breathing as it slightly speeds up, his nervousness taking the best of him. The sinister metallic creaking of the cameras turning towards him then following him down the hallway doesn't help at all, but the artificial eyes stuck on his nape at least force him to keep his cool. Lexie Wright has never done anything to harm him, or at least not that he knows of – which is actually very different when it comes to her – but she's still part of Port Ville's mob. She has blood on her hands, and probably several police officers watching her every move, waiting for her to make a mistake. Jongdae can't help but feel like he's walking straight into the lion's den.
He finally reaches the end of the corridor, and he stops in front of the only door there. The cameras all tilt back to their original angles, and Jondgae braces himself. The door opens without a sound and two dark eyes dig holes into his face.
“Baekhyun” Jongdae greets with a slight nod.
The man staring at him answers with a smile. He has changed quite a bit over the last five years. His hair isn't silvery, like it used to, but now deep black and cut shorter, which gives his piercing eyes even more intensity. Right now, they're wandering on Jongdae's body, from his shoes to the tip of his hood, and when they stop again on the darkness covering Jongdae's face, a playful smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Fully dressed in black, and probably carrying dozens of weapons on him, Baekhyun, Lexie's right-hand man, radiates danger and power.
“You're not dead,” a light, musical voice says behind Baekhyun. The latter finally steps aside without a word, slightly bowing when Jongdae steps inside the room.
He's been in Lexie's private office a countless of times before, but he was expecting the years to have changed the place. When he glances around him though, he feels like he's jumped back in time. Everything is there, from the green lamp on the large wooden desk, to the sparkling necklaces hanging from a dozen of nails on the wall behind, without omitting the heavy red velvet curtains hanging here and there. The air is still and thick, heavy with tension and secrecy, both reinforced by the lack of windows. It is really a den, but no lion is sitting on the throne here. Instead, it's a lioness flashing her white teeth at Jongdae in an intense crooked grin.
Jongdae takes in the woman standing a few feet before him. She's like she's always been: impressive, hypnotizing, and dangerously beautiful. Her golden blonde mane frames her face in wild curls running down her bare back and following her curvy frame, sometimes getting mixed with the sparkling dress she's wearing. She's the oddest mix between innocence and power, her round cheekbones clashing with her long fake lashes and the cold and clever blue of her eyes, but just like the rest of her club, nothing in her appearance has been left to chance. Despite the obvious lack of weapons hidden in her very tight dress, Lexie Wright stands before Jongdae like she’s heavily armed.
All things reconsidered, she's more of a dragon than a lioness.
“You seem pretty alive yourself too,” Jongdae finally says in lieu of a greeting.
Lexie Wright's red lips spread into a somewhat flirty beam. She raises a hand, curls her fingers into thin air and winks at him.
“I'm a resourceful woman,” she says, almost singsongs, with a playful note in her voice.
Something pops behind Jongdae, and he whirls around, heart jumping up in his throat. Baekhyun smirks at him with a raised eyebrow, his long fingers holding a bottle of champagne he just uncorked. Jongdae forces his breathing to calm down while he recomposes a neutral expression for his face. The hood may be hiding most of his features, he'd rather still not show any weaknesses here.
“I'm not here to drink with you, Lexie.”
She completely ignores his words, sweeping them away with another smile. Her eyes, whose intensity is beautifully enhanced by the golden eyeliner following their almond shape, burn Jongdae's face. He has never known if she found out who he really is, but that wouldn't even surprise him. She looks at him like she knows each one of his secrets. Which she may, for all he knows.
“You could have sent me a card,” she continues. She presses a hand on her heart while frowning. “I was so sad.”
She glows, both literally – from the discreet hint of light delicately spread over her soft cheekbones, to the golden dress she's wearing – and metaphorically, her aura suffocating. She's pinning him down with her icy blue eyes. He feels himself shrink until he's smaller than her when she barely reaches his shoulders, even with those vertiginous high heels she's wearing.
“I saw you,” he tells her. “At the memorial service they did for me.”
Lexie bats her eyes, looking very pleased at Jongdae's words. She's wearing so many masks that he has trouble reading into her and trusting the too obvious sincerity she's displaying on her face. He feels very aware of his surroundings, the lack of emergency exit for him, and the fact that he's never needed one in the couple of years he's come to her doesn't do anything to reassure him. He's also painfully aware of Baekhyun as an outside atom to their conversation. Feeling the skilled assassin move behind his back makes him nervous, so when he catches his scent getting closer, he glances over his shoulder.
Baekhyun meets his eyes, obviously as pleased as his boss was to see Jongdae that nervous, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he put a half filled flute of champagne between Jongdae's fingers and joins Lexie in a few strides. He gives her the other flute, which she accepts with a graceful gesture.
“Thank you, Baekhyun,” she says, her eyes turning soft for a short second as they land on the only man she might trust. When they fly back to Jongdae, they're playful again. “That's how serious I am about my friendship, darling,” she says.
She raises her flute in front of her and smiles at him.
“To friends who never die,” she cheers, before taking a sip of the sparkling liquid, her gaze still glued to Jongdae. The latter feels the silent compulsion laced in her irises. He raises his own glass and lets his upper lip sink into the alcohol. Baekhyun smiles behind Lexie, and Jongdae wonders for a short second if they poisoned him, before internally laughing at the idea. If there's a thing he knows for sure is that Lexie never plays with such simple rules.
She draws the flute away from her lips, and turns her head towards Baekhyun. The pair seems to be working with a silent bond that Jongdae cannot grasp, since Baekhyun immediately reacts to her silent order. He takes her flute away from her hand and stands there while she takes a first step towards Jongdae. He visible tenses, and she laughs lightly as she stops right before him, leaving only a few inches between them. Jongdae tilts his head on the side to bury it deeper into the darkness thrown over his features by the hood, and Lexie's smile widens. She lifts her hands and smooths out Jongdae's hoodie on his collarbones.
“If you're not here for the champagne,” she whispers. “Is it too daring to think that you're here for me?”
Jongdae keeps quiet. It's as though the past five years didn't even exist as she plays her favourite game to play with him. He catches the blue sparkles of her eyes from the corner of his, still intent on not meeting her gaze, and the light catching on her highlighter. He can't help but wonder how many men found themselves in his position before being stabbed by her adorable, thin veiny hands.
Lexie stares at him and the silence thickens around them. Jongdae distracts himself with the regular beating of her heart. It never speeds up, never slows down. She's always calm and in control. Finally, she sighs and steps back.
“I like you better in your full costume,” she says. “Don't you want people to know you're back?”
Jongdae chooses not to answer her question. He has lost too much time beating around the bush, and he now reckons that he has humoured her long enough.
“I need to ask you something,” he begins, but she interrupts him with another dismissive flick of her wrist.
She looks into the darkness under his hood for another couple of seconds and finally turns around, back to Baekhyun.
“I know why you're here,” she says. Her voice has lost the playful note and the flirty intonation. She glances at Baekhyun and takes back her original spot next to him. “I knew you wouldn't be able to resist your past calling you.”
Jongdae freezes. Coming to Lexie was obviously a good idea as she is always aware of what is going on in Port Ville, whether it concerns her gang or Beaulieu's mob, but he wasn't expecting her to confirm his biggest fear with such a patronizing indolence. He thinks about Dahye's black board and the white press cuttings, and ice runs through his veins. He still had a flicker of hope that Thorne wouldn't be involved at all, but Lexie's expression is adamant. Jongdae feels himself getting blown away by the warehouse explosion all over again.
“You mean – You mean Thorne really is behind it?”
Something close to confusion flickers through Lexie's eyes, but it’s too quick for Jongdae to be sure. Even if it had stayed along with the lighter blue splinters of her irises, he wouldn't have been able to read it anyway. He feels her tense though, and catches the smirk on Baekhyun's lips fall from his face.
“Thorne?” she repeats. She glances up at Baekhyun, the latter towering over her and draws back her focus on Jongdae, her playful smile back on her lips. “You know the rules, sweetheart. You only have one question, and trust me, it's not the question you want to ask.”
Jondgae frowns. Once again, he's painfully aware of the connection the two share, and how it pushes him away, making him an easy prey for their sick-mind games. Jongdae doesn't want to play anymore, he just wants the truth.
“What question should I be asking then?” he snaps at her, and her smile only widens.
“Darling” she soughs in her most beautiful honey voice. “What you really want to know is when and where the other members of the so-called Invisible Burglars gang will be going at it again.”
Her eyes stand out against the beautiful blonde of her hair and all the gold she's wearing, two irises so blue they're almost white.
“Trust me,” she says with a wide, so wide smile.
Jongdae lands smoothly on the fire escape stairs, crouching down until his palms press against the metallic surface. It's still warm from the long hours of ruthless sun shining down on Port Ville. Jongdae's landing has sent vibrations through it, making it crawl under him like a snake. He follows the vibrations down to the first floor, and lets his senses crash on the harsh concrete with them. From what he can hear, the alley under him is empty, except not for the cat currently tearing a bin bag open with its claws. Jongdae listens to the feline purr as mountains of fast-food wrapping cascade from the hole it has made, but he quickly draws his attention back on the rest of the street when he remembers the reason of his presence here at this ungodly hour.
He can see the jewellery shop's front window at the corner of the street, clean and almost opaque as the street lamps reflect against it, and he mentally sighs. He was hoping Lexie's indications would be false just so he could then gather the courage to barge into her club again and demand to know everything she does. Her knowing smile as she gave him the address of the shop is still raising big bold question marks in his mind, and he can't shake the feeling that she has played him somehow. His mission comes before his ego though, and if she's right – which she probably is – he'll be able to kill one bird with two stones tonight: he'll stop a robbery and he will get to interrogate some of Thorne's men. With a bit of luck, the whole case will be closed by tomorrow and Thorne will end up once and for all in Port Ville's prison.
In the meanwhile though, Jongdae has to grin and bear it. Aside from the usual nocturnal sounds of Port Ville's night life, the street is silent and still. The lack of action has Jongdae sighing again, this time out loud, as he gets back up on his feet and decides to sit on the railing. The vinyl of his costume slightly creaks at his movements, and Jongdae imagines it to be his suit protesting at the five years it spent sleeping in his trunk. It still fits him though, albeit larger at some places like his thighs and arms – where he used to be much brawnier. Other than that though, both the black jumpsuit and the long cape felt nothing but familiar when he put them on.
But it's temporary, Jongdae has to remind himself. He just wants to send Thorne where he belongs, and then it'll all go under his bed again. He locked the Alpha part of his life in the trunk for a good reason after all, and he's not ready to face that reason again.
Feeling himself stumbling closer to topics he does not want to explore, Jongdae mentally shakes himself. He grabs the very large hood still dangling on his back and pulls it up on his head, his features now hidden by both the mask and the thick shadow thrown over them. The street is still dead under him, but he knows better than to hope. Those nights spent waiting for something to go wrong have always been the longest, even when he had Heize's voice joking in his ear, and Sehun rambling next to him. There was one night though, that ended up being very different, and Jongdae cautiously unfolds the memory, his legs dangling off in the void lurking behind him. This is not safe, his mind warns him, this should stay in the limbos of your head for it is lost forever, but for the first time in five years, Jongdae suddenly yearns to have it back. The rain, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Sehun's lively laugh ringing close to him, the look he had given him –
Jongdae straightens up, his senses suddenly on full alert. He grips the railing on both sides of his thighs and leans forwards. He's heard something on the other side of the alley, he's pretty sure of it. It was discreet, barely distinguishable, but it was there. He internally curses himself and his daydreaming, his eyes now glued to the rooftop across from him. Someone was walking up there, he would bet his life on it, but this doesn't make any sense. The Invisible Burglars gang – or whoever they are – use Thorne's M.O which means van and ground crew, so why would there be anyone on the rooftop?
Jongdae silently untangles his legs as his knuckles tighten on the railing. He uses his hands for support as he crouches down on the railing. The few feet of void under him thicken, waiting for him to make a mistake and fall over, but Jongdae's balance is stronger, and his eyes too focused on the rooftop to care about the ground anyway. He bites his lips as he mentally jumps on every sound he hears to decipher it. There's his cape hanging down to the metallic platform behind him, the slight breeze ruffling through the detritus on the street, the engine getting closer, and the numerous TV sets blasting news or movie dialogues, but nothing coming from the rooftop.
Jongdae's eyes go from the top of the fire escape stairs he's currently sitting on to the rooftop on the other side of the alley to gauge the distance. It's an easy jump, one that he could take on his worst days, and he finally decides to go check it for himself. For some reasons, he can't stop thinking about the black silhouette who visited him in the cinema the other day, and it’s making him uneasy and fidgety.
Just when he stands up on the railing, his cape wrapping around him and his leg muscles tensing so that he doesn't fall, a whole bunch of other sounds erupt in the alley under him. Jongdae startles, taken aback by the proximity, and he glances down only to catch six men being very active around a black van. He curses himself and his constant inability of paying attention to everything around him, and immediately forgets the rooftop as he crouches down again on the railing.
“This time we only go for the wedding rings,” one of the men says in a husky, low voice.
“It breaks my heart to leave all those diamonds behind,” someone grunts, and Jongdae catches one of the men elbowing another.
“You can stay to steal everything if you want, but don't come crying when the cops will frame your greedy ass.”
Jongdae follows the conversation, eager for a name, anything that would give him the start of a clue. Adrenaline burns his veins as it shoots through his body. He waits perfectly still, like a shadow in the dead of the night until he deems it right to fall on them, like a curse coming from the sky. He mindlessly bites his upper lip as his body keeps leaning forward, inches by inches, until he's feeling gravity gnawing at his calves. The men are now walking away from the van, and getting closer and closer from the stairs Jongdae is sitting on. A few more steps, and he'll have them all at his reach, just a few more steps, a few more inches and he'll be able to take down at least two of them. He tenses, narrows his eyes at the men and readies himself. In five, four, three, two–
A wild scream tears the night apart as one of the man on the back crew is suddenly pulled up, his legs erratically beating the emptiness under his soles. Taken aback, Jongdae watches him as he struggles like a puppet in the night, and it takes him a few blinking to make out the very thin cable and the metal claws in his chest holding him up. The five other mobsters start screaming, pulling their guns out and gathering under their still struggling buddy. His screams have grown thicker and more desperate as blood fills his mouth.
“Take me down, take me down!” he begs his friend, hands convulsing around the grappling iron in his chest, his intonations ending in a hopeless sob.
“Shut the fuck up!” one of the men yells at him.
They're all aiming at the rooftop, turning on themselves and scanning the night sky with their eyes, the tips of their guns jumping from one shadow to the other. Jongdae is climbing up the fire escape, jumping from one railing to the other, his heart beating loudly in his chest. He grabs the edge of the roof and hauls himself up in one swift motion, his gaze still focused on the building on the other side of the alley. The man has stopped screaming, but Jongdae still hears him quietly sobbing. At least he's still alive. As for the five other thieves, they're still erratically searching their surroundings, guns loaded and fingers hovering over the triggers. Jongdae hears their hearts beating so loudly in his ears that it almost jeopardizes his focus. He gains momentum and sets off without hesitating. His legs gather speed and strength, and when he reaches the edge of the roof, he pushes hard on them. He feels his cape fill behind him as he jumps over the alley, his body ripping through air until he lands smoothly on the opposite building and immediately comes to a halt. The cape wraps itself around his limbs, engulfing his body in a cloud of darkness before it finally falls back in place as Jongdae's head snaps on his right.
He catches a heartbeat too late the silhouette jumping off the roof, but he does hear the screams, as well as the guns shooting.
“Fuck.”
Jongdae rushes to the edge of the rooftop and glances down, only to catch the silhouette jumping from one man to another, body graceful and lethal, as each impact ends up with a thief collapsing. He moves so fast that Jongdae is pretty sure none of the dozens of bullets shot have reached their target; so fast that by the time hops on the low wall running around the rooftop, the five thieves are down, and the silhouette is standing in the middle of the circle of bodies. He looks up, faceless face aimed at Jongdae, and the latter can't shake the feeling that under the hood, he’s smiling at him.
The man whirls around, so fast that for a short fleeting moment, Jongdae only sees black on grey. He pulls out something from his belt. It catches the yellowish glow of the street lamp at the corner of the street when it raises, and Jongdae immediately tenses.
“No! Don't!” he screams, but the man doesn't even flinch.
He throws the blade, and it cuts the cable neatly. The sixth man falls with a loud thump and a pained moan at the man's feet who, once again, looks up. Jongdae finally jumps off the roof. His body takes in the shock when he lands on the concrete, the vibrations sent through his bones and shaking down his spine, but he straightens up without any harm, and faces the man. He's dressed exactly like he was at the cinema – black hood, black leather jacket, black pants, black shoes – and Jongdae thinks he even catches black eyes under the hood.
The man slightly tilts his head, seemingly curious as he takes in Jongdae's appearance, and it's quite unsettling.
“Who are you?” he asks, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. There are three heartbeats ringing in his ears, which means that the man did kill the five thieves. The sixth one is currently bleeding out at his assailant's feet, whose heartbeat is even calmer than Jongdae's.
“Who are you working for?” he asks again.
This time, his tone is harsher, threatening, but it does nothing to break the man's composure. Instead, he straightens and suddenly bows down, with his arms open wide on each side and his head still up towards Jongdae. The obvious playfulness of his posture sends a chill down Jongdae's spine that the low chuckle coming from the man's throat does nothing to ease. He remains in that position for a few seconds, danger and grace sticking to his body lines, from the way his gloved fingers curl up in the air or how his long legs are crossed, and it looks so out of place, so unexpected that Jongdae can't help but stare, mouth agape.
“What do you think you're doing?” he snaps as the man straightens.
He takes a first step towards the stranger who reacts in a heartbeat. He grabs Jongdae's wrist and pulls him close with so much strength that Jongdae stumbles forward. His face crashes against the man's elbow who then lets him stagger as an unexpected peak of pain flashes through his nose. Jongdae shakes himself and whirls around, but the man is already running down the alley, towards the lit-up street. He curses under his breath and sets off as well, determined not to let this mysterious man shake him off a second time. He grabs one of the small handle-less blades from one of the thieves’s chest, and speeds up as he aims then throws.
The hooded man has almost reached the end of the alley, but when Jongdae throws his blade, he turns on the right, and jumps up, his body turning around mid-air before he lands smoothly on a pile of pallets. His hands shoots up, and his fingers close around the blade in a perfect catch.
“What the fuck,” Jongdae gasps. He clenches his fists and speeds up, adrenaline now flashing white in his eyes.
The man doesn't waste a second either. He throws the blade back to Jongdae, jumps off the pallets and rushes out of the alley. Jongdae dodges the weapon, and flinches as it easily slices through his cape, but it is nothing in comparison of the disturbing sound it makes when it runs into a body behind him. Jongdae slides down to a halt and looks over his shoulder. He immediately catches the blade now popping out of the sixth thief's chest, exactly where his heart is.
Jongdae draws back his attention to the man, now perched up on the old street lamp, crouched down on the metal bar who overlaps the road and ends with the dirty glass box containing the powerful bulb. He lifts his fingers to his temple and greets Jongdae with them before he gets back on his feet, runs to the tip of the bar and jumps over to the opposite street lamp across the street. Jongdae grits his teeth as he sprints towards the lamp himself. It takes him less than a couple of seconds to climb it, and even less to jump to the street lamp upstream. The man is still on the right side of the street, jumping from one light to the other, and Jongdae gives his everything to catch up with him on the left side of the street. He doesn't fail to notice that their wild race is taking them closer to more lively streets of Port Ville, and he pushes even harder on his legs with a groan, desperate to catch the man before he reaches the fuller streets.
He thinks he hears the man chuckling as they run now perfectly in sync, both on their side of the street, and it only infuriates him more. He grabs one of his own knife in his belt and throws it the best he can while still running and jumping from one street lamp to the other. He hears the blade hit a metallic surface with a tinkling sound. When he glances over, the man is already staring at him, frozen on his street lamp in what Jongdae likes to think is a surprised posture. The blade is merely an inch away from his foot.
Jongdae stops on his lamp, high on adrenaline and anger.
“You weren't expecting that, uh?! Guess you're not the only one who knows how to throw a knife!” he screams.
The man seizes the blade, and Jongdae sees him struggle over it for a few seconds as he tries to pull it out of the metal bar, his frustration quite obvious. Jongdae would relish on the sight, but he would enjoy catching him even more, so he doesn't waste any more time. He tenses his muscles and jumps over to the street lamp the man is still standing on. He catches the latter's hooded face shooting up at him mid-air, and he already feels the pump of victory ringing through his body – but when he lands on the street lamp, the man has already left it with a graceful jump, the blade in his hand. Jongdae curses loudly as he watches the leather-covered back running down the street. He jumps off the street lamp and sets off after him.
They have gotten closer to the City, aka Port Ville's business centre, but it also means residential buildings leaving place for nightclubs and other distractions that are now thrumming with life. The crowd thickens around them, the roads fill themselves with cars and busy cabs, and dozens of voices, of smells and faces rain down on Jongdae, attacking his focus inch by inch. He tries not to mind the loud gasps, the pieces of conversation and the confused interrogations he catches, his eyes going from the man's back to the people he mindlessly pushes away as he elbows his way through them. He needs to catch him fast, before something bad happens, and the urge grows in his chest until it pumps anxiety through his veins.
As if reading his mind, the stranger randomly throws Jongdae's blade over his shoulder, and Jongdae has to slow down to push a couple out of the way. He bumps into them with his shoulder, and hears the man's bone cracks before the pair topples over with a scared yelp.
Jongdae slides to a halt, wincing. He rushes to the man's side, his pained moans filling his ears as his girlfriend tries to help him up.
“I'm sorry,” Jongdae blurts out, apologetic. He kneels down next to the man and helps him as the latter sits up on the pavement. “I'm sorry,” he repeats.
He freezes when he catches, through the crowd closing in on him, a white limo driving away, the hooded man sat crossed-leg on the roof. He waves at Jongdae, probably a wild smile on his face, and Jongdae's heart jumps up in his throat.
“It's you,” the man he bumped into says, and Jongdae draws back his attention on him. He looks pale and dazed as he holds his shoulder with his other hand. “I can't believe you're really back...”
His girlfriend is also watching with wide eyes, her short hair sticking out because of the fall. She's fallen on her face, crushed by her boyfriend's weight, and the concrete has torn apart the delicate dark skin on her cheekbone. Jongdae sends her a sorry look which she probably does not catch because of the hood. He hopes she's not sporting any more wound, her boyfriend's most probably broken shoulder already bad enough.
“I'm sorry,” Jongdae repeats.
“Don't be. You saved us,” the man hurriedly says. The longer he stares at Jongdae, the more fidgety the latter gets, and the now roaring sound of cameras clicking around him does nothing to ease him. That wasn't part of his plan, at all.
The man gestures at the blade lying on the pavement a few feet away with a nod. Jongdae follows his gaze and hastily fetches the weapon. The last thing he wants after this disaster is someone walking around with something like that in their pockets. When he draws back his attention on the couple, they're both still staring at him, but the confusion has left room for two warm smiles that, for some reason, make Jongdae's throat constrict. He slowly gets back on his feet, his cape falling back into place around his body, caging him until it hides his whole body. He sees dozens of faces around him, all watching, gasping or whispering.
“Where were you Alpha?!” someone screams. It's not bitter, it's actually quite the contrary, and a couple of other voices raise to agree.
Jongdae doesn't answer. He looks around him, at the smiles thrown his way, and all he wants to do is scream at everyone. He wants to tell them not to get their hopes up, but every time he opens his mouth it ends in a breathless whisper the roaring of the crowd easily drowns. It's so loud that it rings in his ears and echoes through his whole body, so loud that Jongdae almost misses the police siren getting closer. He winces, his thoughts immediately snapping away from the cold lethargy that was creeping up on him to flash Dahye's face through his mind.
He steps back, and looks down at the couple.
“Will you be okay?” he asks them.
The girl gives him a reassuring nod. She's holding her boyfriend against her, and her other hand is already on her phone, probably to call for an ambulance.
“Go,” she tells him.
Her voice is so strong, so unfaltering and full of trust, and Jongdae isn't sure what to do with it, or how to feel. He opts for a short nod towards them before he walks to the right side of the crowd, hoping they will get the message and step aside for him. They move in unison, the wall of people opening easily as he walks up to them, and their eyes heavy on his nape. His skin prickles under his suit, and the need to get the hell away from here grows stronger and stronger until it finally seizes his legs and forces him to run. People cheer behind him, probably seeing in his sudden burst of speed something worth being excited about, but Jongdae knows the truth. He hears himself hyperventilates as he dives into a backstreet, he hears himself choking on a quiet sob when he climbs over another fire escape, just like he hears himself giving in to the pending wave of anxiety as he jumps from one roof to another.
There's nothing heroic about him right now, there hasn't been since Sehun's death. He may wear the suit, he's not Alpha. He's not who he was five years ago, and the realisation fucking hurts. Trying to stop Thorne will only be justice, but it won't mend the past, it won't fix anything. Some things are just lost forever, but Jongdae misses them, so much that he feels like he can't breathe. He hasn't breathed in five years.
Dahye, sweet beautiful Dahye, makes her presence known in Jongdae's whole building through enraged knocks on Jongdae's door at four in the morning. He's heard her get out of her car with a long list of curses hanging from her lips, and she was probably counting on it, because she's been mumbling wait 'til I kick your ass, Kim since she stepped out of the elevator, all her anger and bite in her voice. Jongdae considers letting her waste her outburst of energy against his door, but then his eyes fall to the suit lying on the floor, and he knows that he needs her by his side more than she needs to scream at him. So he gets off the couch, steps over the Alpha costume, tries not to wince at the memory of his nails scratching his skin because of how desperate he was to take it off, and he opens the door.
Dahye's burning eyes fall on him. Her hair is dishevelled, long strands stuck in knots on the back of her head, and she doesn't wear any make up, but Jongdae knows she's been called to work a few hours earlier. She is, after all, the detective in charge of the Invisible Burglars case.
Jongdae steps aside wordlessly, and she comes in, just as silently. She freezes upon seeing the Alpha costume on the floor.
“So it was you,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly flat, surprisingly low. When she looks back at Jongdae, she looks more hurt than angry. “I can't believe you… Why didn't you tell me?”
Jongdae shrugs and closes his door. He glances at the costume, the black spread over the white of his carpeting, and he thinks about Dahye's board back at the police station.
“You didn't tell me either,” he says. He looks up at her, and she frowns, confused. “You didn't tell me about your investigation on Thorne.”
Her eyes widen, and Jongdae can hear her breath in deeply as she opens his mouth.
“That's not fair, Jongdae. I was trying to protect you.” Her own words seem to reach her mind with a delay, because her sentence ends abruptly and she considers Jongdae with a sombre look on her face. “You can't do this to me,” she says. “We're in this together. I want Thorne to be stopped just as much as you do. I grew up with Sehun.”
Her last words are cutting, bitter, and accusing. They hit Jongdae in full force, but he knows he deserves the blow. She's been through just as much as him, but when she lost her childhood friend, the boy she shared everything with, she became a police officer so that she could save other people's best friends. Jongdae gave up on Alpha, he gave up on three years of fighting with Dahye, and even longer on his own. He just gave up, and she kept fighting his battles in addition to hers.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers. He clears his throat, and breathes in deeply. “I'm sorry,” he repeats.
She watches him, silent but so intense. It's still pitched black outside, so the neon signs facing Jongdae's windows are as flashy as they can get. Pink dances on Dahye's hair and compliments the faint blush she still wears on her cheekbones from her hurried race to Jongdae's apartment door. She doesn't look as angry any more, not even disappointed, she's just... Dahye. Strong and present.
“It's okay,” she finally says. She blinks, watches Jongdae and sighs as she deflates.
“I really am, Dahye,” Jongdae continues. “I guess I didn't know how to tell you...” He pauses and tries a tentative light smile. “You did spend the last five years trying to convince me to put the costume back on, and I always said no.”
Dahye snorts, but Jongdae can spot a few wrinkles popping up on the corners of her eyes.
“I did, didn't?” she says. Her eyes naturally fall back on the costume lying on the floor, and she looks distant for a short second, contemplative. She looks almost envious, almost longing. “How was it?”
Jongdae slowly shrugs.
“It was amazing. And then it was just scary.”
She nods with a little understanding smile.
“I can imagine,” she whispers, probably more to herself than for Jongdae. It takes her a few seconds to come back to her senses and to draw back her attention on Jongdae. This time though, her eyes are those of the detective she's become.
“I'm gonna make ourselves some coffee,” she says. “And then you tell me everything.”
And Jongdae does. The coffee mug grows cold between his fingers as he talks, and his eyes trail on the costume more often than not. He tells her about the picture and how happy they all looked – and when she smiles, he makes a mental note to give it to her – he tells her how easy it was to remember how to deal with Lexie Wright, and how thrilling walking into the club was, how alive he felt. He explains Lexie's clue, and how it took him to the alley, and the Invisible Burglars. She frowns at the mention of the hooded man and sighs when Jongdae sheepishly confesses about their first meeting at the cinema, but she keeps silent even when Jongdae mentions how fast the man was, even compared to him, and how agile and precise he was, how deadly. He only stops when he gets to the couple on the street, and the sound of the broken collarbone fills his mind. When he looks up at her, she gives him a slight smile.
“He's okay,” she says before he can ask. “He was taken to the hospital when I got there. He didn't look like he was in pain to be honest. The guy was smiling like it was the best day of his life, and don't get me started on the girlfriend.”
Jongdae makes a face. The neon pink reflects on the dark surface of the coffee, giving it a strong chemical look that knots his already upset stomach.
“I didn't want anyone to know,” he says.
Dahye doesn't say anything, but he feels her getting closer on the couch where the two of them are now sitting on. Her shoulder softly bumps into Jongdae's, her thigh pressing into his, and when he looks at her, she flashes him a sorry smile. She runs her fingers through his hair.
“I wish I could do something,” she apologies. “But that Park Chanyeol reporter was already there, and there's no way I can make him shut up – trust me I've tried before.”
“Don't worry about that. It was my fault anyway.”
Dahye looks like she wants to argue, but she drops it with a small sigh. Her fingers slide down from Jongdae's hair to his nape, and she finally wraps her arm around his waist. Jongdae instinctively scoots closer as Dahye snuggles up against his side. Her cheek feels warm but soft against his shoulder, and her breathing is quite calming. Jongdae focuses on the slow rhythm of her heartbeat as he watches the costume lying at their feet. It looks like a broken body on the carpeting, like it has been thrown there to mark the finding of a murder victim. The black hood is splattered over the floor in a dark puddle that could be thick blood, and it seems to be staring back at Jongdae.
Dahye lets out another sigh as she straightens up. She lets go of Jongdae's waist, and grabs the cup of coffee he's still desperately holding on. She throws him a glance heavy with implied meanings, and walks to Jongdae's microwave.
“Who's that guy anyway?” she asks as she presses a few buttons. Jongdae hears the appliance's waves tingle in his mind, like they always do. “And why would Lexie Wright send you to him?”
Jongdae shrugs helplessly.
“Whoever he is, he's obviously after Thorne. There hasn't been any body drops on Beaulieu or Pavoni's sides, has it?”
Dahye shakes her head as the microwave rings. Jongdae replays Lexie and Baekhyun's exchanged look in his mind when Lexie gave him the location as Dahye walks back to him. She shoves the cup in his hands and throws him a severe look he completely misses, lost in his thoughts.
“Thorne is obviously the weakest out of the three mob leaders, being in the asylum and all,” he thinks out loud. “Maybe there's a new king wannabe in town. Taking down Thorne is probably a lot easier than Beaulieu or Pavoni at this point.”
Dahye frowns.
“If he's after Thorne's territory, he could become a threat for Beaulieu and Pavoni, and that would explain why she sent you after him.” Dahye's thinking face clears for a half amused half jaded one. “Would that be surprising? Nope. The woman never gets her own hands dirty.”
Jongdae chuckles. Dahye has a point though, Lexie probably expects him to go after the hooded man, which is most surely what he'll do anyway. Someone that dangerous and deathly shouldn't be allowed to wander freely in the city, and bringing him in would take Jongdae a step closer to his goal – which is, and always will be, taking Thorne out of the picture
“She may not have given me anything against Thorne, she didn't refute when I mentioned him either,” he tells Dahye, and she lets out a frustrated sigh.
“Of course she didn't” she mumbles. She instinctively grabs Jongdae's wrist and lifts his arm to have him take a sip of his coffee. “Thorne is behind those robberies, we know that. We're just lacking some serious proofs to bring him in once and for all.”
She looks into Jongdae's face, a moment of silence stretching between them. Jongdae can hear Dahye's heart speeds up ever so slightly, and he catches the familiar sparkle in her eyes. His own body reacts to her, and adrenaline burns through his veins as he lowers his cup of coffee again.
“We should go talk to her again,” Dahye says, each one of her words revealing a bit more about the smile she's trying hard to restrain. “And make her give us some useful answers.”
“You know how she works, Dahye. She won't give us more until I've returned the favour. Plus, it's different now, you're a cop. If you're seen mingling with Port Ville's mob...”
“I won't be,” Dahye hastily interrupts. Her smile widens. “Because I won't be going as Jang Dahye. I take care of Baekhyun, and you dig into Lexie's brain for our proofs against Thorne.”
“We're trying to prevent another gang war, not start one,” Jongdae chuckles.
Dahye sighs, her lips falling into a light pout.
“So what now?” she asks. “What do we do?”
Jongdae blinks away, thinking. The top priority is making sure Thorne doesn't get out of the asylum. Once that risk cleared, they'll be able to focus on finding solid proofs against him. It inevitably makes the hooded man their priority, and maybe they'll even learn some useful things when they'll question him. Pictures of the man waving at him from the limo, or bowing down to him flash through his mind. He hasn't forgotten about the low chuckle in the cinema either, or how fast and scarily efficient he is, and something tells him that trying to stop him could be at least as complicated as finding evidence against Thorne.
He breaks himself out of his reverie and looks back at Dahye, whose deep eyes have never left his face. The worried wrinkle crossing her forehead smooths itself out upon meeting Jongdae's gaze. She flashes him a light but understanding smile even though a dark bitter veil falls over her eyes.
“So I guess we're going to protect Thorne's territory now,” she sighs.
She reaches for Jondgae's cup of coffee and drinks a long sip.
“I will,” Jongdae corrects her as she hands him back his cup.
She throws him a nasty look, but freezes before Jongdae can say anything. He frowns at her wide eyes and the upward corners of her lips, confused.
“Dahye?”
“You're right,” she says, excitement unfolding all over her face. She looks like she's just had a revelation which could be a very good – or a very bad thing.
“Am I?” Jongdae says in a small hesitating voice.
“I am a cop.” She grins. “I know exactly what we have to do.”
Captain Do Insung hasn't come at the Police Station before five am in a very long time. Being at the top of the PVPD has its advantages – alas too few for the number of cons – and his long-time favourite has always been the absence of night shifts on his work schedule. Being a cop in Port Ville is hard enough, but being a cop during the night in Port Ville is almost suicidal, and he sure doesn't miss the lingering tension, the lurking threat. How are there still young people signing up to the police academy is a mystery to him, but Do Insung has long stopped trying to make a sense of this God-forsaken city.
Although this is exactly what is expected from him right now.
He greets the few policemen left in the station on his way to his office, the lack of sleep still heavy on his face. This case has every cons possible and absolutely zero advantage, because here he is, entering his office at the ungodly hour of four and fifty in the morning. Another attempt at robbery, six bodies, an old rumour coming back to life, and he's the one supposed to clean the mess.
Do Insung freezes, his fingers hovering over the switch of his office, the wooden door closing behind him. His eyes fall on the dark silhouette standing next to the window, and he feels even more aware of the tiredness gnawing his muscles. He lets out a sigh as his arm falls back against his hip. His wrist knocks against the familiar shape of his gun hanging on his belt, but he doesn't even try to draw it out.
“Oh that can't be a good sign” he says with a hint of bitterness in his voice.
The silhouette looks up at him, and even though the sun is merely just a hint of light on the horizon line, Do Insung manages to make out the outline of a black mask he'd never thought he'll see again. He glances over his shoulder and locks his door before making his way to the desk. Wrapped in his cape, the man follows him with his eyes, still and silent.
“I have men all over the city looking for you,” Insung says once he's sat at his desk. The chair creaks as he spins on it to face Alpha. He links his fingers over his abdomen.
“I hope they're also looking for the man who killed those thieves,” Alpha says.
It's the same voice. Of course, it is. He was there for the memorial service the mayor threw for Alpha when it became clear the latter wouldn't come back, and he even said a few words. As he was honouring Alpha's five years of loyal and honest service, he never really believed Port Ville's superhero was dead though. Retired and finally realizing leaving Port Ville would be healthier maybe, but not dead. Obviously, he was right. Not about the leaving part though, but that is Alpha's problem, not his.
“I have witnesses telling you were after one man only. Did he kill them all on his own?”
Alpha nods slowly, and Insung sighs. It's going to be a very long day.
“You should be careful,” Alpha tells him, his voice tense. “Your men shouldn't engage if they see him. I've seen him fight, and he's stronger, faster than any of you could be.”
“Amazing, we have a super villain in town” Insung deadpans. As though they didn't have enough on their plate with that new drug ravaging the Bottoms.
He looks back at Alpha, who remains quiet and motionless, but Insung has been there too many times before to take that for the end of their talk. They rarely worked in team, even back when Alpha had no partners on his own, but when they did, Insung was always sure to find the superhero in his office, with obviously much more data than what he was willing to give away for the PVPD. The past five years blur in Insung's mind. It's like they didn't even happen.
“What do you know about him?” he questions.
“We – I think he's after Thorne.”
Insung doesn't answer at first. He looks into the little he can see of Alpha's face – black eyes, thin lips and an angular jawline – and he sighs.
“Thorne is locked up.”
“And you're one hundred percent positive he can't harm anyone anymore?”
“Sure I am,” Insung snaps. “Look, we're all pretty busy here, so what don't you tell me why you're here?”
Alpha considers him for a couple of seconds, but Insung keeps a straight face. No matter what capacities the guy has, he's still a civilian, which means that Insung would never go on and on about police work with him. He literally doesn't have the time to deal with rumours right now, not when they have a dangerous killer on the run, and ninety-nine other problems that should have been taken care of two weeks ago. It’s too early anyway and he’s not in the mood.
Alpha doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even blink. Insung lets out a deep sigh. Night shifts or not, being a detective was much nicer.
“Okay,” he gives in. “What do you have on that mysterious killer guy?”
“My guess is, he's been hired by someone new and very intent on sitting amongst the biggest of Port Ville's mob, so he's attacking the weakest of the three kings. Which is obviously Thorne.” He raises his hand to nip Insung's protestation in the bud. “Don't believe me if you don’t want to, but you can't argue with me here. He's obviously after one guy only, and that is the person leading the Invisible Burglars.”
Insung makes a face.
“I hate that stupid name,” he mumbles.
He thinks he sees Alpha flashing a quick smile that he has the decency to quickly erase before he continues.
“We both have no idea who's behind those robberies, and between the two of you, I'm the only one who might have something.”
“Yeah, but that something is Thorne.”
“Commissioner, please,” Alpha sighs.
His gloved hand is still raised mid-air, and Insung is reminded of the power sleeping in those fingers. Port Ville's beloved son has never used his powers on him – or if he did he made sure Insung couldn't remember which is still a good point for him – and that is probably half of the reason why Insung trust, or at least, respect him. He sighs and gestures at Alpha to continue.
“I want you to help me watch over Thorne's stashes.” He doesn't react to Insung's mumbled they're not Thorne's anymore, and instead keeps going. “Where his men still operate, where he hides his money, all those places. I want to catch that guy, which means I have to be there when he'll attack Thorne again.”
Insung's eyes trail from Alpha's face to the window behind him. The sky is getting lighter with every minute passing by, and with the hints of orange and pink painting the horizon, Alpha's silhouette becomes clearer. He's wearing the same large cape he’s always worn, the same large hood pulled over his head and which seems to never slip off of him. It's the same mask staring at Insung, and even the same shadow stretching over his features. It's as though he's never disappeared, but he did. He did, for five long years, right after he helped them catch the Bomber.
“Listen, I have no idea what Thorne did to you, but it's over now. You can go back to whatever you were doing, kid. Leave that mess behind.”
He feels the air thicken with tension, but he holds Alpha’s eyes, determined.
“I have unfinished business,” the man says, his voice more of a whisper, and Insung feels the heaviness of his words deep inside of him. He sighs and straightens against the back of his chair.
“Let's say you're right, what you're asking still is impossible. I don't have enough men. We already have to deal with this drug issue in the Bottoms. I can't afford to lose men over a mere possibility.”
“What if they volunteer?” Alpha immediately counters, and Insung can't help but feel like he's been played and ended up saying exactly what Alpha wanted him to say. “What if they offer to take more shifts for that mission only?”
Insung snorts. All in all, it's a beautiful idea, but he can't see anyone who would do that. Be in stake out means night shifts, after all.
“You've been gone for too long. I think you forgot what happened to altruism in this city.”
Alpha takes a first step towards him, thus reducing the distance between them for the first time.
“But would you say yes?” Alpha insists. “If some were to accept, would you let them?”
Insung swallows nervously. There are still a couple of feet between him and Alpha, but he feels like the latter has him pinned down on his chair. He has to mentally shake himself to remember that he's the one in charge and that he could have Alpha arrested in the blink of an eye if he wanted to. Somehow, it doesn't bring back his confidence.
“Good luck with that,” he manages to croak. He makes out a faint smile on Alpha's lips, and he feels himself relax a bit. “But don't go around forcing my guys,” he says in a much more assured voice, his intonations stronger and lower than what they usually are. He clears his throat, a bit embarrassed at his need to take back control over the situation, and pretends to turn back to his desk, his heart beating loudly in his chest. (Damn, can the boy hear it?)
“You don't want us to be enemies,” he mumbles. “I want those officers to tell me loud and clear that it's what they want, okay?” He pauses as he rearranges his desk to hide his nervousness. “Are we clear?”
There are no answers. When Insung turns around, he is blinded by a particularly fierce ray of sunshine hitting his window right where there was a cloaked silhouette barely minutes ago. Frowning, Insung stands up and takes a first step towards said window, but he freezes. He already has the very unpleasant feeling that he's been played, and it's not even six am yet, so his ego begs him not to start dancing that very old dance Alpha has always lead. He lets out a long sigh that empties his lungs and checks his watch. The hands are taunting, evil, and Insung sighs again, for good measure.
It is going to be a very long day, he thinks, as he steps out of his office and starts screaming orders at whoever is unlucky enough to be there. It probably won't be the day he'll get to go fishing with Kyungsoo.
Port Ville slowly wakes up at Jongdae's feet, street lights turning off, windows suddenly lighting up. It's a sight he's seen countless of times before, when he used to wander through the city by night and forget how lively and beautiful it can look by day because of a messy sleep schedule, but he never got used to it. Right now though, he doesn't let the city take his breath away: his eyes are focused on a piece of paper he's holding between gloved fingers. Dahye's voice rings in his head – I know who would gladly accept – clashing with Do Insung's words – I think you forgot what happened to altruism in this city. The latter has been a cop for too many years, and the ones he spent with the title of Commissioner weighing on his shoulders have finally ruined his trust, but Dahye, Dahye is still young, still hopeful. And she had no hint of doubt in her eyes when she wrote down those names.
Dawn has always been such a pretty sight in Port Ville, probably Jongdae's favourite moment of the day. Today he won't get to admire it though, for he has work to do. He smiles as he shoves the paper in his pocket, his mind already reaching for the first name.
Pyo Jihoon.
Dahye's little schemes pay dividends. They find themselves, a few hours later, watching a wobbly-looking building as the night stretches out around them. Officially, Thorne's old stashes have been taken by other gangs, for other illegal activities such as free fights and things that aren't considered a priority for the PVPD. Dahye's black board has hints about each one of them still being linked to Thorne though, which makes them all possible targets for the hooded man.
“And he was just standing there, on my doormat.” Jihoon's voice trails off with a little sigh, one that makes it so obvious that he's grinning hard. His huge smile can be heard even through the radio crackling in Dahye's car. “Alpha just knocked on my door at five thirty in the morning and politely asked for my help.” Jihoon chuckles. “I mean, the guy's a superstar. He's a superhero. I thought he was like, always using windows as doors and never paying any visit to people like me.”
Jongdae glances at Dahye and she welcomes his gaze with a lopsided smile. When she showed up to work earlier, she went straight to Do's office to tell him how Alpha had made an offer to her, and she pretended to be surprised to find six other officers there, all of them with the same story to tell. Of course, Do Insung wasn't pleased, but he was also bound by his words which led him to put Dahye -the oldest officer out of all seven of them – in charge of this new team, and beg of her to keep silent about PVPD's new collaboration with newly returned superhero Alpha. Jongdae wasn't surprised to learn that Dahye's plan had worked to perfection.
“Doors as windows,” someone else snorts through the radio. This time, it's a female voice, soft but deep and consequently calmer and more clear-cut than Jihoon's overexcited one. “He's bound by laws too; he can't just break into someone's apartment like that.”
Dahye chuckles behind her wheel, dimples pressing into her skin. They've been in stake-out for the past three hours, but with her radio turned on, and the six other cops' voices filling the vehicle, Jongdae hasn't felt bored a single time. They've been bantering and keeping every possible second of silence at bay, their voices wandering between professional and private talks. It makes their lack of experience obvious, but neither Dahye nor Jongdae mind. If anything, it feels refreshing, and it even allowed Jongdae to grow more familiar with the six young cops Dahye chose, although the past thirty minutes Jihoon spent blabbering about Alpha weren't the most comfortable ones. Dahye definitely looks like she enjoys the irony though, her eyes turning into moon crescents and throwing silent if they knew Alpha himself was listening to them right now at Jongdae.
“Well, if he did he wouldn't be Alpha anyway,” another woman says. Jongdae recognizes the hint of huskiness lurking behind the intonations. This is Ahn Hyejin, the youngest. Dahye teamed her with Kang Seulgi, who happens to be the only other detective of the team, although she was promoted less than a month ago.
“But it was him, right? I mean, it was the same guy under the hood and not some wannabe dude,” Lee Jooheon asks, his voice low and crackling through the radio. His question brings a brief second of silence that has Dahye raising her eyebrows at Jongdae, her smiling face mimicking mystery and suspense. Jongdae clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, but he can't help his lips form curling up.
“Of course it was him!” Jihoon answers vehemently. “I'd bet my life on it.”
Jung Soojung deeply sighs in the background, the sudden rush of air emptying her lungs letting loose to a static storm in their radios.
“My God, he loves you so much,” Dahye cheekily says to Jongdae which earns her a playful hit on the shoulder from the latter.
“What about you, boss?” Kim Namjoon asks hurriedly, before Soojung and Jihoon, who share the same car on the other side of the City – Port Ville's business block – start fighting again. “How did Alpha ask you to join him in this nonsense?”
Dahye grabs her radio, her mischievous eyes and her wide grin making Jongdae frown.
“Don't say anything stupid” he warms her in a whisper although she hasn't pressed the button yet.
She winks at him, and he glares at her before reaching out to try and grab her talkie. She keeps him on his seat with a stretched out arm, her palm pressing on his chest as she brings the device to her lips.
“Me?” she says. Jongdae winces at how giggly her voice sounds. “I was sleeping, but when I opened my eyes, he was in the corner of my bedroom, and he was watching me. Probably waiting for me to wake up.”
She lets go of the radio just as Jongdae wades in with a muffle scream of protest. He immediately goes for her side, pressing his fingertips everywhere he knows her to be particularly sensitive. She erupts in laughter as she tries to dodge his attacks by squishing against her car door just as Hyejin's voice fills the vehicle with a disgusted groan.
“Don't tell me he's a creep,” she moans.
“He's not!” Jihoon snaps, then squeaks as Soojung most probably pinches him.
“Relax, kiddo,” Seulgi – who is actually younger than him – butts in. “She was probably kidding.”
“Of course you were,” Jondgae groans from where he's tangled with Dahye. She's hiccupping against him, her breathing raged from all the laughing, and her legs somehow where Jongdae's should be. His left one is under her, the right one dangling from her right arm. His fingers are deep under her shirt though, nails ready to aggressively tingle again, which definitely makes him the winner of their fight. Dahye gives in with a breathy chuckle and reaches for the talkie again. She groans when Jongdae tries to bite her hand as her fingers fly before his face.
“Okay, you win,” she whines. “Stop trying to bite me!” She hits him lightly on the cheek and Jongdae lets go with a pleased smile. She pushes his body away as she untangles herself from him.
“Boss?” Namjoon asks again, unsure.
“I'm here,” Dahye finally answers through the radio. Jongdae smiles at her as he straightens up on the seat and makes sure his hood is still up. Sitting in another cop's car isn't the most cautious behaviour, but it was Dahye's terms: if she couldn't wear her costume she still wanted to take part to whatever could happen.
“You all can call me Dahye though,” she continues. “And I was joking. It happened the same for me than it did for you, guys. He knocked on my door, told me he thought someone was after Thorne and that it could provoke a new gang war and asked me if I wanted to help him. And I said yes. The rest is history.”
Jihoon doesn't even tries to hide the nervous chuckle he lets out, and it makes Jongdae smile slightly. He was sixteen when he started the whole Alpha thing, and back then, it was half a desire to do good and half excitement. He didn't even think when he created his second identity, it just seemed like the right thing to do, at least according to the numerous comics and movies going at length about it. It didn't take him too long to realize that the hood and the mask had become a symbol amongst the people of Port Ville though, and then, it wasn't about him anymore. It was about this symbol being a good thing – and remaining a good thing for those who needed it.
“I'm kind of sad Heize wasn't the one who contacted me,” Hyejin says. “I loved her. She's the reason why purple is my favourite colour.”
Dahye's eyes open wide and she proudly beams at her radio. Jongdae catches her fingers curling towards the talkie, as though she was hitching to grab the device and reveal her biggest secret to her colleagues.
“Oh my god,” Jooheon intervenes. “Heize was so badass. And you know who else was? That Nightblade guy. Damn.”
“Nightblade was my favourite,” Namjoon says.
His words are followed by another of Soojung's famous snort, and a muffled boys. Dahye and Jongdae exchange a glance. Jongdae watches the flash of emotion go through her eyes, and it takes him everything he has to reach for her hand. Her fingers curl around his, and she smiles softly at him.
“Where do you think they are now?” Seulgi asks. “I mean, if Alpha's asking for our help, does it mean he doesn't have a team anymore?”
“I don't know,” Soojung answers. “Maybe Nightblade and Heize got married, who cares. Maybe they just decided to drop it and go to the Bahamas or whatever. Port Ville is a lost cause anyway.”
Her words harshly come out of the radio, and they bring with them a sharp silence. Jongdae feels it dripping from the device, thicker with every second passing by, heavier. Soojung implied it more than she actually said it, but she probably just worded what they were all thinking. Jongdae glances at Dahye, whose eyes are already on him, and whose fingers tighten around his.
“They think you're dead,” Jongdae whispers, and she nods with a light smile.
“If only they knew,” she says, using the same tone as him.
They're partially right, Jongdae muses. He doesn't have a team anymore, because he doesn't want one. Because he's not back. That symbol that made Port Ville stand up to the darkness years ago is gone, and Jongdae can’t endorse it again. He hasn't much hope left for himself, after all.
“I hope they'll come back,” Hyejin says, in a much lower voice than before. “They're the reason I became a cop.”
“Likewise,” Jihoon whispers.
Jongdae feels his throat constrict, and something heavy leaving his body through his pores. All in all, it hurts, like he's been torn inside out, but the pain is also freeing, healing. Dahye lets out a shaky breath next to him, and he glances at her, at her light smile and deep eyes. In the darkness pressing against her car windows, the hazel hint of her irises has dropped to a darker colour, and Jongdae is currently staring at it, marvelling at how bright it glistens.
“We inspired them,” she whispers. “Sehun inspired them.”
Jongdae refrains a snort. If they knew what happened to their inspiration. He blew away in a warehouse. Sehun was flesh and bones, he was all flaws and perfection, and then he was burning alive, blowing to pieces. Just like Jongdae, Sehun isn't much of the symbol he used to be. The thought draws a smile from Jongdae. He still can picture the playful smirk Sehun would flash him, just like he can hear his low voice chuckling as he'd shrug it out - hey at least we're doing this together..
Jongdae can't help his smile from widening a bit. Dahye's fingers leave his only to slide up his palm and go straight under his leather sleeve where they press against his skin. The softness of her touch breaks Jongdae out of his reverie, and he looks back at her, smiling a bit wider when he catches her own curled up lips.
“Something's happening,” Jooheon's voice suddenly cracks in the radio. Jongdae immediately tenses at his seriousness. “Two trucks just came out of the warehouse.”
“They look armoured,” Namjoon immediately adds.
Jongdae watches Dahye as she frowns and lets go of his arm.
“This is new,” she tells Jongdae while her hand curls on the talkie.
Jongdae stops her hand, adrenaline flooding his body. He feels his senses grow more sensitive as his heart speeds up in his chest. He was right all along.
“It's a bait,” he says. “It's too obvious. They're trying to lure the hooded guy.”
He hears Dahye's heart speeds up in her chest. He lets her go and turns around gets out of the car. He's already in the street when he catches her voice coming out in harsh intonations through the radio waves behind him.
“Do not engage,” she says, her detective voice on full display. “Namjoon, Jooheon, I repeat, do not engage, it's a trap. Follow them but stay covered. Where are the trucks heading?
Jongdae zooms out of the conversation as he runs into an alley. He winces at the foul smell engulfing him, but doesn't let it slow him down. His legs tense, and he hops on the closest dumpster, the plastic lid slightly bending under his weight, then he reaches up to the fire escape stairs. His senses are now on full alert, and he makes out dozens of conversations, dozens of different smells and sounds. His powers do come in handy, but they also require a lot of focus that Jongdae can easily lose. This time though, he keeps his eyes on the sky above him, and his thoughts on the adrenaline running through his muscles. He climbs the fire escape, jumping from one rail to the other.
Dahye's voice is still cracking in the back of his mind when he hauls himself on the roof. He shoves a finger in his ear to make sure his earpiece is still there, and he dashes off towards the edge of the roof.
“Talk to me, Dahye,” he says between two breaths.
Dahye's voice fills his ear just as he jumps on another roof.
“They're circling the block.”
“Waiting for the hood to show up,” Jongdae mumbles as he tenses his muscles again and jumps over another alley.
Namjoon and Jooheon were the nearest team, which is a good thing, but the warehouse they were watching happens to be dangerously close to a very lively neighbourhood. There's probably nothing in those trucks, nothing that the hooded guy could steal anyway, but Jongdae doesn't doubt that Thorne's men are heavily armed, and impatiently waiting for their target. They don't care about casualties, nor does the hooded guy, so Jongdae has to stop them before they reach the bars and the pedestrian streets. And he has to do it before it can be used against him again, like the hooded guy did when they last met.
“Jongdae, I sent Hyejin and Seulgi to the closest bars” Dahye's voice crackles in his ear. “Jihoon and Soojung are on their way too, but they were near the airport so it's gonna take a while.”
Jongdae doesn't bother answering, and he knows Dahye isn't waiting for an answer anyway. If everything happens like they both have carefully planned, this whole mess could stop tonight, and Jongdae could go on living his life as though nothing happened. Two trucks popping out of an old Thorne stash won't probably be enough for Do Insung, especially since it has become a sort of rallying point for illegal race participants the last couple of years, but it is for Jongdae. No matter how Thorne makes money now, it's still him, and once that hooded dude will be out of the picture, Jongdae will be able to focus on Thorne. Those two trucks were a mistake. He's making it easier for Jongdae. Everything could be over so soon.
Jongdae comes to a halt with a slide after jumping on an umpteenth building. His breath comes out in short and erratic pants, and his muscles burn under the leather, but all in all, he feels alive, he feels powerful. Cars are driving all around him, he catches angry honks, playful chats and hundreds of soles hitting the concrete.
“Dahye, I'm here,” he says as he steps closer to the edge of the building to check the streets under him.
It's one of the oldest blocks in Port Ville, and the buildings aren't as high as in the City, but it's still high enough for Jongdae to look for the two trucks. He crouches down on the low wall, a hand hovering the stone for balance as he scans the surroundings. The heat left by the cloudless sky is still lurking up there, crawling out of the concrete in invisible waves. Jongdae's nape itches under the hood.
“Apparently the trucks are still circling the block,” Dahye answers. “Do you see them?”
“Not yet,” Jongdae answers. His eyes travel to the corner of the street. It's too noisy for him to be able to make out the roaring engines he's after, but if Dahye's colleagues are right, then the trucks should pop out of there.
“Still no trace of -”
The end of Dahye's voice drowns in the back of Jongdae's mind as a hissing sound fills his ears. His heart jumps up in his throat as he looks up just in time to see the blade flying towards him. He dodges it, but his mind remains focused on it. When it hits the roof door behind him, he feels the vibrations in his whole body, and his muscles tense at how strong the impact was. Jongdae immediately turns around, squinting at the darkness around him until he catches a black silhouette standing on the roof across the street. His vision flashes red when the hooded man waves at him.
“Jongdae?” Dahye asks.
“He's here,” he groans. “I'm looking at him right now. He took the bait.”
“Be careful,” she says, her voice a bit lower than usually.
Jongdae leans over the void beneath him and gauges the width of the street and how much time it would take him to climb to the opposite roof. He could do it in less than thirty seconds, but considering how fast his enemy proved to be before, it wouldn't be of any use. Locking his jaws, Jongdae glances at him, and he silently fulminates upon seeing him sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling in the void. The nonchalance he's wearing in thick layers infuriates Jongdae, but it also leaves a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He shouldn't be so calm, he shouldn't act like everything was planned, like he was expecting Jongdae and the poor attempt of an ambush from Thorne. Jongdae gulps as he glances at the street one more time, his eyes unwillingly stopping on the numerous heads beneath.
“Dahye, there are so many people here,” he whispers.
She answers in waves of statics that Jongdae's mind can't make any sense of, because at the exact same time, a low chuckle reaches his ears. He freezes and looks back towards the hooded man. Jongdae should be able to make out his features, but his face remains in the shadow thrown by his large hood and the black mask he's wearing on the lower half of his face. Black strands of hair hide the other half, but as the light breeze of Port Ville's rooftops ruffle through them, Jongdae manages to catch the outline of a crescent shaped eye. The hooded man is smiling at him.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Jongdae mumbles, squinting at the figure across the street.
Dahye says something, but once again, Jongdae doesn't pay attention. He leans in, his fingers curling on the edge of the roof, and he gathers his senses, every hint of power he owns, to throw them at the man. He blocks the traffic noise, the chattering, the breeze, everything, until he feels himself reaching the hooded man. His heart slows down in his chest, and everything disappears until only the hood and that almost complete eye are the only things left. And then Jongdae hears it. Amplified and slow, regular, the hooded man's heartbeat thrums against his eardrums. His pants rub against the concrete as he dangles his legs in the void beneath him. There's a faint wet sound that Jongdae recognizes as the sliding of lips against teeth as they draw up a smile. He can't help but feel like his enemy is aware of the intense examination he's undergoing, but if anything, he looks amused by it. He tilts his head, and Jongdae's ears fill with the sound of the hood rubbing against the man's hair, and his eyes immediately zoom on the brief apparition of the outer corner of an eye. It's fleeting, but it burns Jongdae's retinas. It's sharp, curled up, mapped with laughing wrinkles, but it doesn't feel as cold and dangerous as it should. Without realizing, Jongdae leans closer and closer, his c ape flapping in the air.
“JONGDAE!”
Dahye's roaring voice startles him, and he almost topples off the edge. His heart jumps into his throat as he clenches his hands on the concrete, and he winces at the feeling of burn in his arms.
“What?”
“The trucks! They're here!”
Her voice is angry, cutting, and Jongdae only then realizes that she must have been talking to him for several seconds already. When he glances at the hooded figure, the latter is up on his feet, his gaze away from Jongdae, and Jongdae can't hear neither his heartbeat nor his breathing in the ruckus around him. It almost confuses him, the quantity of noises and colours, but when he looks down and catches the trucks engaging in the street beneath him, his focus forces back its way to his mind.
“Okay I'm gonna focus on – fuck!”
The hooded man has already jumped off the roof, with no string whatsoever, his arms opened like wings on each side of his body. Jongdae groans as he jumps on his feet and starts running on the low wall, his eyes still attached to the trucks. The man lands smoothly on the second one, with no apparent wounds – which Jongdae wasn't counting on anyway – and he crouches down as he shoves a hand in his pocket. He pulls out something that catches the green light of the Irish pub sign the truck is driving by, but Jongdae doesn't manage to make out what it is exactly. It's only when the man sticks it on the truck and hurriedly crawls away that he realises.
He feels the blow from where he is, the vibrations hitting his body in violent waves, and he almost loses his balance. The explosion whistles in his ears long after it's over, and the sudden rush of burning air which flies up brushes past him. It's not as bad as it feels, fortunately, and when Jongdae glances down, he sees that only the back of the truck has been blown away. The driver hasn't even stopped, and what's left of the trailer is now opened on several armed men who look pretty pissed. A police siren tears apart the rumbling panic taking over the street, and Jongdae winces upon catching Jooheon and Namjoon's car, thrown at full speed behind the trucks.
Jongdae bites his lips. He glances at the edge of the roof ahead of him then back at the trucks on his right.
“Jongdae!” Dahye groans in his ear.
“I know!”
He finally reaches the edge of the roof, but he doesn't slow down. Carried away by his momentum, he aims at the opposite roof and lets himself fall past the edge. His body hits the hard wall, and he uses the contact as a support to propel himself backwards. The alley beneath him is barely as wide as a car, which makes Jongdae's jumps from one facade to the other extremely easy, and fast enough so that when he finally lands on the ground, the trucks haven't driven past the alley yet. He doesn't waste any precious second sighing with relief – although relief definitely washes over him – and immediately dashes off towards the street. Guns start shooting, closer with every second passing by, and people start screaming. The police siren is ear-splitting, but it's also invasive and powerful enough to drown everything else out. Jongdae focuses on it as it crashes against surfaces, cars and bodies, and he draws an image of the scene in his mind. His timing needs to be perfect.
He jumps on the parked car outside of the alley, and the alarm goes off. It jolts him out of his focus, and the chaos around him swoops down on him, but it's too late to analyse his surroundings again. His body goes taut, and he leaps.
He sees the scene in slow motion, how his hands clenches on thin air as the first truck drives past him a few feet ahead, and how hard and dangerous and lethal the concrete is. Then it disappears, engulfed by the second truck's huge tyres, and the world comes back to its usual speed. Jongdae crashes against the driver's door, his hand closing on the wing mirror. He hears his cape brushing against the concrete, and he gulps, heart thumping against his temples.
“What the fuck?!” the driver exclaims.
Jongdae dodges the first bullet the driver's partner shoots at him, but the window shattering almost makes him lose his balance. His left foot slides off the metal step on the side of the truck, and he winces as the wing mirror becomes his only support for a fleeting second. The metal cracks and bends under his fingers, but Jongdae holds tighter and finally manages to stand on the step again. He lets go of the mirror and grabs the edge of the window. The few shards of glass still there tear his skin apart, and the wounds heal almost right away, only to reopen when Jongdae shoves his right arm inside the truck. His hand closes on the driver's shoulder, and a feeling of ecstasy runs through his body. It's a short-lived victory though, because he then blinks up to meet the cold iris of the driver's partner's gun.
Jongdae presses himself against the side of the truck, but the speed has him hitting the cold surface harder than what he planned. He groans as his arm cracks under the unusual angle but at least his fingers are still clenched on the driver's shirt. Jongdae closes his eyes, forcing himself to forget the howling wind and the guns shooting at the back of the truck only to focus on the physical contact between his hand and the driver. When he feels like his whole being is hovering that specific spot, he lashes out every inch of power thrumming through his body, the small, but efficient electrical storm shooting through the driver's mind. And then Jongdae lets go.
The speed has him falling off the step before throwing him against the trailer. He grabs the edge of it and pushes as hard as he can to slide himself in the few inches between the truck's cabin and the trailer. He lands on his knees, his breath coming out in short erratic puffs, and his eyes open wide. He gulps and glances at his broken arm. He can already feel the bones mend, cells slowly sewing themselves together, and he lets out a shaky sigh. In the cabin behind him, he can hear the two men struggle and groan as they throw punches.
“Dahye,” he says as he feels his arm with the tip of his fingers. “I got the driver. He's gonna take the first on the right and take us to this huge construction site. It should be empty.”
“Okay. The other truck will probably turn around so be careful.”
A muffled moan and a low thump in the cabin tell Jongdae the driver already did half of his job, which means one gun down. Considering the storm of gun fire raging on at the back of the truck, it's probably not much, but at least no one will try to stop the driver now. Jongdae closes his fist and bends his arm, on the lookout for the tiniest hint of pain, but his articulations run smoothly and he doesn't seem to be suffering from any loss of mobility. His heartbeat has also slowed down, and his senses are slowly coming back to a less hectic state. Which means he now can hear very distinctly every gasp, every bullet, every moan.
Jongdae jumps back on his feet just as the truck turns right. His feet slide on the dirty platform but he hops and grabs the edge of the trailer before he gets ejected of the vehicle. He hauls himself on the trailer then crouches down against the cold surface to take in the situation. The back of the trailer has been severely damaged by the blow, and the edges are jagged and sharp. The hooded man is nowhere in sight, but there are fighting sound inside the trailer. Jongdae grabs the first blade on his belt and hurries to the end of the trailer still crouched down, his other palm hovering the metallic surface just in case. A bullet tears apart the material inches from his finger, and Jongdae jumps back just in time. He watches it in slow motion as it shots through the air right where his chin was not even a second before.
“Alpha, Alpha! ALPHA!”
Jongdae looks up, surprised, and sees Namjoon and Jooheon's car still tailing the truck. He notices with a peak of worry the numerous holes on the car body but the two officers don't look wounded. They're both frantically waving, even Jooheon who only has one hand on the wheel. Jongdae grabs the ripped edge of the trailer, frowning as Namjoon repeatedly points his index finger at the trailer, his eyes wide opened.
“You can talk to him, idiot!” Jooheon screams next to him, his voice at least two octaves higher than usual. “He can hear us!”
Namjoon gasps in realization. He brings his hands to his mouth.
“HE'S GONNA KILL HIM HURRY!”
Jongdae's head snaps toward the trailer beneath him, and another burning shot of adrenaline has his body going taut. He closes his fingers tighter on the edge, not minding the shards digging through his glove and lets himself falls forward. He swings straight into the trailer.
Another gun shoots just as he lands on a still body. He looks up just in time to see another man fall to the ground, at the feet of the hooded man who stands tall and unfazed by Jongdae's appearance. His right hand is closed on a steaming gun and his head slightly tilted as he takes in Jongdae. He raises his left hand and stretches his fingers. Jongdae hears his knuckles crack.
He slowly gets back on his feet, his eyes still carefully attached to the hooded man. The trailer's floor is paved with bodies, and the ferrous smell of blood is heavy on the back of his tongue. They were paid to kill him, and judging by the number of weapons he can see lying around, they didn't underestimate the threat, but it wasn't nearly enough. How many were they? Jongdae throws a quick glance around them. And the hooded man doesn't even look wounded.
“You knew it was a trap,” he says as he draws back his eyes on the leather-covered figure. “So why did you come?”
The man doesn't say anything – of course he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps staring at Jongdae, his breath slow and regular, his heartbeat controlled. Jongdae tries again and again to see through the hood, to guess the features under the mask and to solve the puzzle, but his eyes only catch darkness and black, leather and complete stillness. Frustrated, he takes a small step toward the man without even realizing, and it breaks the connection. The hooded man raises his arm again, and presses the trigger without an ounce of hesitation.
Jongdae spins to dodge the bullet, but he's a heartbeat too late and it rips through the fabric on his thigh. The sting is burning, seizing, but not nearly as much as the rush of fear when he realizes it has also touched the front right tire of Jooheon's car. Jongdae loses his balance with a gasp, the burn on his thigh growing as he falls on all four, and his heart thumping against his ribcage. He watches, powerless, as Jooheon loses the control of his car and drives off the road. The car crashes against a street lamp with a roar of sheet of metal bending. Jongdae leans closer to the edge of the trailer. The truck is already driving away, and the engine is too loud, Port Ville is too loud, and Jondgae can't hear anything, no heartbeat, no voice, nothing, and-
He gasps as a strong hand closes on his neck and he immediately throws his elbow backwards. It crashes against a sharp hipbone, and the hooded man moans, pushed back by the violence of the collision. Jongdae jumps back on his feet and throws his blade before dashing off towards the man who, as expected, dodges his weapon. He doesn't manage to avoid Jongdae though, and the latter crashes against him. He grabs his shoulders and knees him in the crotch before punching him, his knuckles crashing against the man's temple. The latter falls to the side, but he manages to kick Jongdae on the side of his knee as he does so. Jongdae's ears thrum with the sound of his bone breaking, and he moans as he falls down on his knees.
“Hey!” Dahye screams in his ear, and Jongdae knows she's heard him. He also knows she's not using his name any more in case the man can hear her. “Are you okay?”
Jongdae winces as he cups his knee. He pretends it has already healed as he gets back on his feet with much difficulty, his body reeling. He groans but lets go to take another blade on his belt. He's too late though, and this time, it's the hooded man who crashes against him. He pushes Jongdae against the side of the trailer with so much strength that Jongdae is sure he felt the metal bend around his body. He lets out a husky moan when his opponent swoops down on him and closes his hand around his neck.
“Fuck,” Dahye's voice cracks in his ear. “I'm on my way.”
The hooded man towers over Jongdae, his fingers digging into the soft skin of Jongdae's neck, but although his hold is definitely stronger than the one of a human, it is definitely not strong enough to choke Jongdae. It successfully stops him from avoiding the man's elbow before it crashes on his jaw, but Jongdae didn't even try to dodge it. His whole being is focused on the warmth radiating from the man's hand, and soon enough, he feels himself slip out of his own body. The energy prickles on the inside of his veins as it shoots towards the hand. He can feel this other mind, so close to his, but foreign and still distant, and he pushes harder on his power.
The man suddenly lets go. Jongdae catches a hint of fear just before his conscience is sucked back into his head.
“Stay the fuck out of this,” the man threatens. He speaks in a low husky voice that he's obviously disguising himself.
Jongdae glares at him and steps on the man's foot. He gathers all his strength in his sole and presses it on the man's toes as hard as he can. Once again, he hears bones breaking, and once again the man hits him. Blood and pain fill his mouth as his face crashes against the wall, and before he knows it, his enemy shoves his fingers in his ear and tears the earpiece off. Jongdae grabs his wrist, intent on keeping the contact long enough this time, and throws his other fist at the man's face. His power roars as it rushes down his arm, straight to the man's wrist, and the latter lets out a desperate yelp. He shoves Jongdae away and uses the surprise to break free. Jongdae readies himself to jump back onto his prey, but the hooded man is faster. His shoulder crashes against Jongdae's chest with so much force that it knocks the air out of his lungs, and the man's momentum is more than enough to have Jongdae fall off the trailer.
The fall is short, not nearly long enough for Jongdae to gasp in fear at the idea of his body hitting the concrete, but just as long for him to be surprised at the hollow sound his body makes when it lands on a car hood. He whirls around to grab the edge of the hood, and finds himself face to face with a dumbfounded Jihoon holding tightly to his wheel and a just as stunned-looking Soojung.
“Oh my god!” Jihoon exclaims in a high-pitched voice. “I did it, I saved Alpha, oh my god!”
In other circumstances, Jongdae would have definitely laughed at the look on their faces, but the speed roaring in his ears and the very serious threat of the hooded man both make the chuckling much harder to let out. He can't believe the man threw him away as easily as he was nothing more than a puppet, but it at least gave him a few precious seconds to allow his body to recover from their violent encounter. Jongdae still can taste the blood in his mouth though, but instead of pain and fear choking him, it's a burning rush of anger that seizes his heart. Determined, he slides up the car hood and hauls himself up on the roof. One glance tells him the hooded man is now climbing on the trailer's roof.
Jongdae grabs the edge of the roof of the car for support and he slides closer to the edge to take a peek at Jihoon through his window. The latter jumps in his seat when Jongdae knocks on the window, and the car dangerously sways, threatening to throw Jongdae off. It at least brings Soojung to her senses, and she curses loudly.
“I swear if you get us killed -” she begins.
“Wait!” Jihoon shrieks. He looks completely overrun, but despite his lack of control, Jongdae doesn't spot any trace of fear in his eyes. “Alpha wants to talk to me!”
Jihoon presses on the button with shaky fingers, and the window rolls down. Soojung tilts her head to take a better look at it.
“Overtake that truck!” Jongdae screams at them so that they can hear him over the wind now engulfing in the car. At least, he doesn't have to worry about Jihoon possibly recognizing his voice when he himself can't even hear Soojung's heart beating.
Jihoon steps on the accelerator, his eyes now back on the road and focus smoothing out his exhilarated features. Jongdae's body slides on the roof, and he immediately straightens. He keeps his left fingers curled around the roof edge, but uses his right hand for balance as he goes from lying flat on the car's roof to crouching down. He draws his attention back on the figure now cautiously walking on the trailer's roof. Despite the speed of the truck and the vehicle bouncing on holes and bumps, his balance is perfectly controlled. Both his arms are open wide on his side, gloved fingers curling up in the air. Jongdae locks his jaw as he draws out one more blade from his belt. His fingers curl tightly around it and his eyes go over the hooded figure, looking for the perfect spot to hit.
Jihoon's car is howling in the night, and he finally swerves it as the tires eat a few precious inches with every second. Thanks to Jongdae's earliest suggestion, the driver has taken them to a much emptier street, and Jihoon seems to be aware of it. He doesn't even hesitate as he drives past the white line on the road to overtake the truck. He keeps a straight trajectory, his hands now more assured on the wheel than before, and Jongdae mentally thanks him. His eyes stop on the top of the trailer, and he prepares himself to jump, his vision still flashing red with anger and frustration. He throws a fleeting glance at the road ahead for any pothole, but his eyes meet something else, and he freezes.
The other truck is blocking the end of the street, the trailer parked across the access to the construction site Jongdae implanted in the driver's mind. They must have made a detour to ambush them after they saw the other truck leaving the convoy. The most worrying isn't the idea of facing more armed men though, no, it's the huge lateral door on the side of the trailer opened on a man kneeling down with what looks like a bazooka on his shoulder.
Jongdae gasps. He frantically hits the roof of the car, hoping it will be enough to draw Soojung and Jihoon's attention on what's ahead of them. Jihoon hits the brake so abruptly that Jongdae is propelled forward. His arm shoots up in a last desperate reflex, and his blade catches in the hood of the car. It tears the metal with a grating howl, and finally gets stuck, slipping out of Jongdae's fingers.
He gets a strong sense of deja vu as his body flies up and up, and it leaves a false feeling of comfort in the back of his mind. Maybe if he keeps going up, he'll never have to fall down. But then gravity grabs him, sinks claws in his flesh and pulls him down before throwing him against the concrete. It burns through the leather of his suits, it burns through his skin and it breaks his body, gnaws it. Up and down merge together as Jongdae spins endlessly on the road. His healing power may be taking the worst of it, knitting together his ribs before they dig into his lungs, new waves of the pain erupt all over his body just after it's been healed. It's a never-ending spin of torture, and it feels like years when he finally slows down. His back hits the ground with a thump for the last time, and Jongdae is left chocking on the feeling of death lurking around him. The whole world has been drawn out, buried in a thick layer of blood that Jongdae can feel running from his nose and ears. He winces as he tries to breath in. Something is whistling, and fear explodes in his heart at the idea that it comes from his throat. Panic seizes his heart, and he moans at the idea that his own throat is producing that sound. Maybe he can't heal from anything, and maybe there's a hole hovering over his Adam's apple that will force him to spend his whole life gasping for air, choking to death and coming back to life.
Jongdae's body goes into spasm as he lifts his hands to clench his fingers at his throat. The world is passing by slowly, or too quickly, and his senses seem to have abandoned him. He can't hear a thing, can't smell a thing. All is left is the taste of blood in his mouth and the whistling which gets stronger and stronger. Jongdae gasps, convinced that death has finally found him, when it reaches a level so high it feels like a thousand needles stabbing his eardrums, but then something flies over him, throwing a fleeting shadow on his face. Reality swoops down on him as his mind identifies the shape, and he gets everything back just in time to see the rocket hit the concrete in front of Jihoon's car. Jihoon loses control of it and the blow has the vehicle leaving the road with an ear-splitting screech of tires.
Jongdae gasps as he painfully gets on all four. He lets out a shaky yelp when his leg gives way under his weight, and he feels bile burning the back of his throat upon seeing a fragment of his shin-bone peeking out through his pants. He looks up towards the bazooka man just as the latter collapses, a very distinct red hole between his eyes. Jongdae draws back his attention on the truck on whose roof the hooded man is still perched and isn't surprised at all to see the latter holding a gun. He jumps from the trailer to the roof of the cabin while the men in the other truck hurriedly aims at him. One of them throws himself on the ground to take the bazooka. Jongdae looks back at the hooded man, and even though he can't hear his heartbeat through the thrumming in his eardrums, Jongdae would bet his life that it's as slow as it always is, as controlled and regular.
The hooded man aims between his feet, just above the driver, and presses the trigger. He whirls around, dashes towards the end of the truck and jumps off the trailer, his body flying through air with grace and something that could be delicacy if Jongdae hadn't witnessed him kill a dozen of people. At the exact same time, the guy with the bazooka shoots, and Jongdae catches his horrified eyes when he realizes that the truck thrown at full speed towards them and that he just aimed will never stop. The whistling sound fills Jongdae's ears again, and he presses himself flat on the ground to protect himself from the upcoming blow.
Heat engulfs him as the ground shake under him, and Jongdae clenches his hands on the back of his head, fingers catching in the fabric of his hood. He hears the flames roaring, the bodies burning and the bits and pieces falling all around him. And then he hears soles stopping just next to him. Jongdae's breathing slows down and seconds turn to ages as he braces himself. He focuses, his eyes wide open on the concrete he's still lying on, and the slight sound of leather rubbing against fabric sends a powerful shot of adrenaline through his veins. He rolls around, his hand flying to his belt, and draws out one of his blades to throw it at the hooded man towering over him. It clinks against the latter's own blade when he uses it to parry Jongdae's weapon.
He clicks his tongue when Jongdae makes to take another one, and the latter freezes. He catches the hooded man's look towards his wounded leg, and expects the latter to finish him neatly, like he's seen him do several times already. To his great surprise though, the man keeps staring and time stretches out. Jongdae thinks about Jihoon and Soojung who both could be dead only a few feet away, and he thinks about Dahye probably still screaming in the earpiece. He hopes Jooheon and Namjoon have both gotten the help they could have needed, and that they will all be okay. But as his eyes are drawn to the black mask staring down at him, his mind slowly goes blank, and he finally stops hoping and thinking. There's something oddly comforting in the slow heartbeat filling the man's chest. It's so regular, so controlled, as though nothing had happened, and Jongdae remembers that the only time it actually sped up was when he touched the man and released his power.
As though reading his mind, the hooded man carefully steps back. Whatever he was planning to do next is interrupted by another screech of tires though, and he whirls around, his body between Jongdae and the new car who just stopped before them. Jongdae hears the faint sound of the glove rubbing against the trigger and he rolls on his side to see who just got out of the car.
Dahye's eyes open wide when she takes in Jongdae lying on the ground and the hooded man threatening her with his gun. Her hand flies to her belt, and Jongdae tenses.
“No!” he screams, terrified. The sound of the glove rubbing against the trigger fills his mind, and he feels himself crumble away. “No, please don't! Don't!”
Dahye slowly lifts both her hands up in the air, her black eyes glued to the hooded man's. She doesn't look half as afraid as she should be, but actually defying. Jongdae internally curses as he makes a mental note to kick her ass if they both survive this mess, and he desperately tries to crawl towards the man.
He doesn't shoot. He doesn't even keep Dahye in focus. He lowers his arm, and stares at her for a little more. Then he kneels down, puts his gun on the ground, and whirls around. He doesn't even deign to glance at Jongdae's fingers inches away from his ankle, and dashes off towards the nearest alley. Jongdae follows him, confused, until he disappears behind the corner. Soft thumps tell him that he's hurriedly climbing up the walls, thus reducing Jongdae's chances to stop him to nothing. Even if he were to put his bone back into his leg, it would take too long for his leg to heal. Whatever hopes he had for tonight, they're long gone, vanished into the darkness with the hooded figure.
“Oh my god Jongdae, are you okay?!” Dahye gasps as she rushes by his side.
Her fingers hover over the open fracture, but she doesn't dare to touch him. Jongdae grabs her hand and nods at the damaged car behind her.
“Jihoon and Soojung,” he tells her. He doesn't even have to end his sentence for her to turn around. She curses and jumps back on her feet to join them, her fingers already tapping on her phone.
Jongdae watches her back walk away. He lets himself fall back on the concrete with a sigh. The trucks are still burning, and Port Ville is still living around them. He should put that bone back in his leg so that he can be gone before the sirens get too close eventually, but his body feels heavy and stiff. It was such a heavy defeat. He got nothing – neither the black hood nor Thorne's men – and he may have had several officers killed.
Not symbol material at all.
Port Ville is beautiful by night. It's alive, thrumming and almost fairy-tale like as neon colours highlight forgotten corners, and main spots turn into forgotten places. Jongdae has always liked the atmosphere falling on the city with the night's cloak, the slight tension and the intense freedom pushing back any boundaries drawn during daylight. He knows the city is dangerous, haunted by evil and darkness, but it still stands strong. It fights back, and Jongdae – well, Jongdae is the weapon, and he loves that feeling more than anything else. This is where he belongs, to Port Ville’s night.
He lands on the roof of a building, his soles splashing water around him. If Port Ville by night is beautiful, nocturnal Port Ville under the rain is stunning. It looks like tiny magnifying glasses falling all over the city and reflecting the most vibrant colours on the darkest walls, and the sight always leaves him breathless. The rain blurs Port Ville's edges, and gives life to its curves so that the city appears to be crawling, undulating with life, which, for all Jongdae knows, could be the truth. During nights like these, he can't help but feel like Port Ville has a soul, a heart, and a smile that sometimes makes him feel protected. Why would he be the only one hiding in the darkness, after all?
Another cloaked figure lands next to him in a flash of dark blue, and Jongdae smiles at the face hidden under a large hood of the same shade – that exact same shade lingering between Port Ville's golden glow and the night's darkest black.
“I won,” he brags.
He sees way before it touches him the gloved hand flying towards him, but he does nothing to dodge it. The contact is fleeting, playful as the hand slightly shoves him, but it's also heavy, tingling, and Jongdae's smile widens.
“Of course you did,” the faceless man snorts. “You have superpowers.”
His voice is deep and layered with implied meanings. Jongdae hears the joke, but he also catches the hint of tension in the intonations and the jolt of electricity. They're both high on adrenaline and victory, their hearts still beating fast in their chests.
“It was a good night,” Sehun says. Jongdae hears his hair ruffle against the fabric of his hood as he turns his head to glance at the city spreading at their feet, and it makes him all tingly.
“It was,” he nods, but contrary to Sehun, his eyes never leave the latter.
The tip of his hood is pointier than Jongdae's or Dahye's, just like the shape of his mask is sharper, but the eyes he lays on Jongdae are soft and tender.
“We didn't beat our record though,” Sehun says. “We only rescued five people.”
“Let's try again tomorrow,” Jongdae offers, even though his voice does not wear the questioning tone it should. Maybe it's the height, maybe it's the adrenaline or the grateful words they received all night long, maybe it's Port Ville being beautiful and mesmerizing, and being his, or maybe it's just Sehun with his tender eyes and soft lips, but Jongdae isn't afraid. He doesn't feel unsure, nor does he doubt. The electricity is still lingering around them, probably due to an upcoming thunderstorm, but tonight, he wants to think that the universe has shrunk down to him and Sehun. They both are causes and consequences, and it makes him feel so powerful, so confident, so unafraid.
He offers his palm to Sehun to seal the deal, and Sehun puts his hand against Jongdae without an ounce of hesitation.
“We will,” Sehun nods, smiling.
Dark blue fingers slide between Jongdae's black ones, and the glove does nothing against the burning sensation on his skin. It shoots pure fire through his veins, and Jongdae slightly shudders, his breath catching in the back of his throat. He suddenly realizes what night it is, what will happen next. Their first kiss, the ecstatic giggling, their second kiss, and their hands brushing on their way back to Jongdae's apartment. He remembers everything, how soaked they will be, how comfortable and warm his place will feel, how deep the kisses will be. He feels like he's been set ablaze, his skin turning into an inferno as sparkles spurt out from their intertwined hands. Jongdae even tastes gasoline on the back of his tongue, the smell toxic and heavy and that's when his heart jumps into his throat.
He gasps and looks up at Sehun. The latter's hand tightens like a claw around his as Jongdae tries to break free with a hoarse scream. There's nothing left of Sehun's sharpness, nothing of his softness either. It's just burned flesh, blistery skin and jutting out bones. Dark blue has become angry red, and the cape looks like it's merging with Sehun's back, thick black blood sealing them together. Jongdae whimpers as lidless eyes glare at him.
“I'm dying tomorrow, I'm dying tomorrow, I'm dying tomorrow,” the thing – it's not Sehun any more, it can't be – chants, and its voice sounds just like Thorne's.
Jongdae starts screaming as the left eye slowly liquefies, the sticky liquid running down the thing's face. He's still screaming when it pushes him off the edge of the roof, and he keeps screaming as his body falls, sucked in by gravity and void. The certainty that he will never ever stop falling down just makes him scream louder.
Jongdae wakes up with a start, his breath coming out in erratic puffs. He startles when the blanket slips off his body and lands on Dahye's carpeting floor with a low thump that explodes against his eardrum. He clasps the back of the couch he's currently sitting on but the material cracks under his fingers, and it whistles in his mind. He winces with a slight moan and puts his palms against his ears as he curls into a ball. He presses his fingers against his knees and tries to forget how detailed the couch looks, how he can catch specks of dust whirling around, and how his own breathing sounds like a storm raging on against his ribcage. The tip of his fingers dig into his temples, and he locks his jaws as he lashes his power against his own mind, in vain. He's never been able to overcome his own defences, but how he wishes he could. He pictures the rush of electricity, the neuronal connexions, and the thoughts he would change, what he would delete, what he could heal, and it takes him back to a calmer state. He lets out another long breath which ends with a sigh, and he finally closes his eyes as his palms slide against his forehead.
“Damn it,” he manages to croak.
His voice feels like sandpaper against his eardrums, but it's not as loud as everything was a few minutes ago. His heart has slowed down to a much normal rhythm and breathing has become easier already, but Sehun's burnt face is still printed all over his eyelids. He rubs his eyes, swallowing down the tears that were threatening to take over him and then wipes the cold sweat from his nape with a long sigh that empties his lungs. His back cracks when he straightens, and he shudders. It brings back memories of the morning, when a sobbing Dahye was helping him pushing his shin-bone back in his leg, her hands covered with his blood. He glances at his shin and slightly wriggles his leg. At least there's no pain any more, but it still feels stiff.
Jongdae turns towards the coffee table and reaches out to take the bottle of milk sitting on it. Dahye left it here for him, because dairy products always help when he's healing from an important fracture. Jongdae makes a face at the disgusting smell of milk and takes a long sip, internally wincing. He can't even remember the morning clearly. He knows Dahye helped him to her apartment, he knows they've pushed the bone back in his leg together, but even the pain feels distant, like he blacked out a few times. Which definitely could have been the case.
He puts back the bottle on the table, pushing it as far as possible before grabbing the blanket still lying on the floor. He lets himself fall back on the couch before pulling it up on him, until it even covers his face. The fabric fills his vision in tiny repetitive details. The longer Jongdae stares at them, the calmer he feels.
He finds himself tiptoeing around his dream again. It was so vivid, so close to the memories and to reality, and it leaves him with the impression that a black hole is now nesting in his insides. He feels empty right where he used to feel so full, and it hurts like hell. He misses Sehun so much, just like the person he was five years ago. Port Ville somehow felt smaller, like he could hold it in his palms, and he felt so powerful, so capable. He remembers the adrenaline, the delight and the certainty that he was helpful and important. It's all gone now, Port Ville's beauty, the thrill, Sehun and the future they were barely realising they could have together.
Jongdae's phone ringtone explodes in the silent room, and he startles, his breath catching in the back of his throat. He sits bolt upright with a jolt, his eyes wide open as he looks for his phone. He finds it on the carpeting floor next to the couch, and his stomach turns over upon seeing Dahye's name flash on the screen. He throws himself on it and picks up with shaking fingers.
“You're awake,” Dahye's voice fills his ears in relieved intonations. Jongdae still picks up an underlying tension that makes him want to throw up.
“How are they?” he manages to ask, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
“They're okay, don't worry. Mostly okay. Soojung has a concussion, Jooheon a broken arm, and Namjoon a few cracked ribs. Jihoon doesn't even have a scratch. He even came to the police station earlier, but Insung yelled at him so much that he started crying. He had to wait for an ambulance to pick him up and take him back to the hospital because Insung refused to let him drive.”
Jongdae closes his eyes for a short moment, relieved. His insides don't feel like they're crawling up into his throat now that he doesn't have to worry about having killed police officers. He runs his fingers through his bangs as he sits back against the couch, biting his lips.
Dahye's voice is softer when she speaks again, lighter. She knows him so well.
“Insung was pretty pissed,” she says jokingly. “Said that if he were to hear Thorne's name in my mouth once again I would be suspended until I'm eighty.”
“I don't blame him for not believing us,” Jongdae sighs. “I wasn't very convincing yesterday.”
“None of us were,” she retorts. She dropped the teasing tone and the tension is back on her voice. “But that guy, Jongdae... He's dangerous. You told me he was like you this morning, but I don't think he is. Sure, he can heal and run fast and he's strong, but he's not like you, he really isn't.”
Jongdae thinks about the hooded man the night before, how he stopped short when his eyes fell on Dahye, and how he freaked out when he felt Jongdae's power. Which shouldn't even have happened because humans, plain normal humans, never see him coming. It's just his luck though, that when he finally meets someone like him, it ends up being a psychopath intent to kill him.
“I'd give anything to know who he is,” he grumbles.
“I think we should drop it,” Dahye immediately says. If the tension was underlying before, it's now in plain sight, heavy and laced all over her words. Jongdae frowns.
“What?”
“We should stop hunting him down. He's too dangerous.”
“Dahye,” Jongdae cuts her. “Did something happen?”
She keeps silent, and for the first time Jongdae notices how noisy it is behind her. She's probably in the police station, and it's always noisy there, but now, it's a whole ruckus cracking through the phone. Jongdae feels himself tensing as he scoots closer to the edge of the couch, his breath stuck in the back of his throat.
“Dahye,” he repeats, imperative.
She sighs and he braces himself for whatever is about to come.
“Something happened at Thorne's daughter's house,” she begins in a very cautious voice. “She probably locked herself up with all the men she could get her hands on after last night, but-” she trails off.
“She's dead?” Jongdae asks, tonelessly.
“Everyone is dead, Jongdae. I've seen the house. It was a slaughter. There's blood everywhere, and they're all dead. Now, we don't have actually any proof, but it's him, it must be. Insung has made him the department's top priority. Between last night and this, he wants him brought in before the end of the week, and maybe it's for the best, you know. You didn't want to put the suit on anyway, so just-”
“Dahye,” he cuts her. “Don't.”
She sighs, her breath slightly shaky, but Jongdae is too deep in his thoughts to feel her worry. She's right, the hooded guy is definitely behind Thorne's daughter's murder. He's done nothing but taking on Thorne since he's come to Port Ville. The daughter doesn't add up with the rest though, it just doesn't make sense. She may have been the direct hand behind Thorne's men's doings, but she still wasn't at the top of the food chain. Killing her won't make the hooded man the new king of Thorne's territory. So what did Jongdae miss, what hasn't he seen...? He thinks about the hooded man the night before, how he was calmly waiting for the two trucks to drive by the building he was perched on. He seemed perfectly aware of the trap, the guns and the means deployed to kill him, but he still engaged in the fight.
That's when it hits Jongdae.
“It's not about territory at all,” he whispers, frozen. “It's Thorne. He's trying to lure Thorne out.”
“What?” Dahye asks, dumbfounded. “Why?!”
“I don't know.” Jongdae blinks, thinking hard. Why would someone want Thorne out? It's not a friend, obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have gone on a killing spree against Thorne's empire. He's doing everything Jongdae would do if he wasn't sane and bound by laws and – Jongdae's blood turns to ice. “He's lost something because of Thorne. Dahye, it's about revenge.”
“Revenge? But -”
She's cut by a loud voice that Jongdae recognizes to be her partner's, Frank.
“Dahye, come on kiddo, Captain Do asked for us!”
Dahye's breath hitches in the back of her throat. Jongdae can almost picture her fingers tightening around her phone.
“Jongdae,” she begs. “Don't do anything, okay? He's dangerous and he's out for blood, so please, I'm begging you, don't do anything. Or at least, wait for me, okay? We'll work something out together, but in the meanwhile -”
“Hey, Jang you deaf?”
“Jongdae,” she repeats, pleading. “Jong-”
Jongdae hangs up, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He swallows and looks down at his phone, so heavy against his sweaty palm. Dahye's name flashes on the screen again, the ringtone shrilling and ear-splitting, and the two buttons, red and green, stare back at him. Jongdae breathes in deeply and presses the red button. Then he turns off his phone.
Dahye was right. He didn't want to put on the suit again, but he did, and it was for a reason. A very good reason. The man who murdered Sehun could be preparing for his escape right now, and Jongdae isn't going to put his hopes in the psycho who provoked that whole mess. He won't let Thorne put a single toe out of that asylum, and then he'll make sure he's transferred into Port Ville's prison. If it has to be Alpha's last mission, it has to end this time, and not be just paused. He's going to end this, once and for all.
Jongdae pushes the blanket away. He grabs his ankle and brings his previously wounded leg towards him. He winces a bit as the pressure grows in his muscles, but he keeps forcing until his ankle is pressed against his thigh. He breathes in and leans in as he shuts his eyes to complete his short stretching out session. The bone has fully healed, as for his agility, well... it will have to do. His eyes fall on the bottle of milk as he gets back up on his feet, and he hesitates. It's the voice that sounds like Dahye’s in his mind that makes his resolve breaks, and he sighs before grabbing the bottle and drinking what's left inside. He shudders with a wince. He's never liked milk.
It's still early, but Jongdae has to go before Dahye finds a good excuse to throw at Frank and Do Insung to bail out on them and rush back home. Thorne won't probably try anything in broad daylight, but Jongdae could still go and wait on the asylum's roofs. Plus, it could give him a chance to stop the hooded man if the latter has the same idea, which would be killing two birds with one stone. Last night was a disaster, but Jongdae doesn't plan on making the same mistakes twice. Now that he's one hundred per cent sure that the man can take his blows, he's not going to refrain from giving them. Port Ville is his city, no matter how fucked up it is, and that guy isn't going to change that.
Tonight, he's going to end what the three of them started five years ago, and then maybe he'll stop dreaming about Sehun dying or about the smell of gasoline filling his mouth. It sounds good enough a plan for him, so he grabs the Alpha suit left on Dahye's kitchen counter.
It starts raining when hints of darkness begin to loom over the city. Jongdae adjusts his hood on his head, internally groaning. His cape is wide enough for him to wrap himself in it, and it's impermeable, but the rain fills his ears in musical crystalline sounds, droplets splattering on the ground in tiny vibrations that Jongdae's senses can't help but pick up. His focus is already hard to maintain in the plain city background noise, but with the rain howling in his ears, it will be nearly impossible. With his hearing out of the game, all Jongdae has left is his sight, but if the raindrop keeps getting thicker and thicker, even that will be taken away from him.
Jongdae curses as he squints at the asylum's courtyard spreading at his feet, the rain turning into a wall that his eyes struggle to pierce through. He won't be able to wait for something to happen, he realises, and sitting on top of the highest roof of the facility isn't the best option anymore. Thankfully, the asylum is composed of several buildings, most of them smaller than the main one on top of which Jongdae is currently perched. He gauges the distance to the closest building and presses his index finger against his earpiece. He's not Dahye-level when it comes to computer, but finding the frequency used by the asylum's guards was a piece of cake. Having Dahye by his side would have helped him a lot though, but with what happened earlier, she probably still is stuck in the police station – which, all things considered, is definitely a good thing for him. She's probably furious, and that just makes one more reason for his desperate move to work out smoothly.
His eyes still taking in the space between the buildings, he finally sets off. The momentum he's gained is enough for him to reach the other building, several feet lower. The sound of his landing is muffled by the incessant dripping around him. Jongdae slowly crouches down again, the cape closing in on him. He presses his fingers on the ridge for support as he scans the surroundings as carefully as he can. In his ear, voices are going on about yesterday's soccer game, and what they ate for lunch, how hot that new female doctor is, and how boring their job is, but Jongdae doesn't miss a word. Chances are Thorne has men among the asylum staff – which he already proved by having a psychiatrist declare him mentally unbalanced – and any of those guards could be working their way towards Thorne's escape.
Jongdae glances over his shoulders to check the backyard. The site is huge, but since he knows in which block Thorne is locked up, it at least reduces the surface he has to cover. What worries him though is the possible backup Thorne could have asked for. Crooks or not, Jongdae has to make sure no one dies tonight.
He picks up something just as he stands up to walk towards the nearest roof. He freezes and turns around, frowning at the weightless veil of darkness falling over his eyes. It's there, fleeting and slight amid the splattering sound of raindrops against his cape, but Jongdae feels it anyway. It's a faint vibration, something that his brain catches much more easily than his ears. He crouches down, one hand on the ridge and the other against his ear as he immediately starts bending the vibrations reverberating from his earpiece. He winces at the numerous interferences resulting from it, but keeps searching until the device in his ear vibrates in echo with the radio wave Jongdae picked up. It explodes in crackles, and a low, whispering voice finally fills Jongdae's ear.
“- can come, I've got him.”
Jongdae's head snaps up as his heart jumps into his throat. He curses as he scans the surroundings, looking for whoever that message was supposed to reach. It doesn't take him long to find out as one of the asylum ambulance rushes towards the main doors. Even through the wall of rain, Jongdae makes out the deadly metallic glow of guns in the hands of the men who get off the ambulance. He grunts and switches back to the asylum frequency before jumping forward to slide on the roof. The device in his ear crackles with gun fire and screams, shooting urgency and adrenaline through Jongdae's veins. No way he's going to let Thorne put a toe out of that asylum. He'll throw him back into his cell himself if he has to.
Jongdae pulls out a blade from his belt as the gutter gets closer. Between the wind swooshing past him, the rain splattering everywhere around him and the sound of his soles sliding smoothly on the tires, Jongdae misses the sharp thump behind him. He misses the very faint wet sound of lips curling up into a smile, and he misses the slide of fabric against leather. He realizes his mistake a heartbeat too late, when the gloved hand has already closed around his cloak, thus stopping his slide dead and pressing the fabric of his cloak against his neck as he topples over. Jongdae gasps as his back hits the roof with a thud, the shock making him let go of the blade. The hood slides of his head, and he blinks the rain away, arching off his back to glance at the top of the roof. He finds a dark hood unsurprisingly staring down at him as the man holds Jongdae's cape in a clenched fist. He waves at Jongdae with his other hand, and Jongdae sees red.
“You fucking asshole,” he grunts as he flails about to break free.
The cape presses even tighter against his throat, and Jongdae's lungs give a protesting spasm. He tries to use some of the tiles to support his weight, but they're so slippery that each attempt ends in another session of thrashing around, the cape cutting through the skin of his neck. He fumbles with his belt, fingers desperately running along the leather until they close around one of his blades. Jongdae draws it out in a flash, aiming for the fabric tightening around his neck, but a silver sparkle flies right before his eyes, cold and metallic, and pain erupts in his hand. He half moans half groans as hot blood spurts out of the deep cut left on his palm, the sting forcing his fingers open. His blade clinks on the tiles as it bounces down the roof and then over the gutter.
Rage makes Jongdae's blood boil in his veins. He lets the rain wash away the blood on his hand, and lets his cells sew his skin together as he tenses his muscles and grips his cape above his head. He doesn't care about patches of darkness taking over his sight right where there should be pieces of Port Ville's sky, he doesn't care about the air missing from his lungs or the lack of holds. All he knows is that he really wants to punch that guy, and break a few of his bones.
Jongdae uses his hold on the cape to haul himself up. It lessens the tension against his throat, and he finally breathes a lungful of air, relieved. He can feel a bruise blooming on his neck and making his breathing a bit messy and erratic, but he couldn't care less. He glances towards the ridge of the roof as he keeps hauling himself up, and meets the faceless man staring down at him. It's so easy to imagine the latter's eyes go from the cape he's still holding to Jongdae's hands using it as a mean to climb back up, and Jongdae's mind draws the conclusion in a heartbeat. He freezes. The hooded man steps forward.
The tiles are too slippery, and their two bodies are too heavy for the hooded man to maintain his balance. He slides down, which makes Jongdae slips closer to the gutter as well until he is once again stopped dead by the cape tightening around his throat. It draws a broken moan from him that ends in a silent gasp as white sparkles fill the edges of his vision. He looks up only to see the hooded man hanging on to the ridge with one hand, the other still firmly closed around Jongdae's cape. Which makes his two hands very busy, Jongdae realizes. If he had enough air left in his lungs, he would chuckle, but he'd rather send the last atoms of oxygen straight to his muscles instead of wasting them on the victorious feeling swelling in his chest.
Choking or not, Jongdae doesn't fumble this time when his hand flies to his belt. The ripped fabric of his glove catches on a blade, and he secures his hold around it. Above him, the hooded man tilts his head, looking more amused than afraid. Jongdae thinks he hears him groan something, in a tone too light and low for him to catch it in the rain and the cracking in his ear. The gunfire has stopped, and it means only one thing. Thorne is about to get out.
Jongdae raises his hand, the tension in his muscles gathering strength and speed, and he knows he's about to hit the bull's eye. That is, of course, until the hooded man chuckles and lets go of his cape.
Jongdae barely has time to register what is going on before his ankle hits the gutter and his body slides off the edge of the roof. He glances down at the wall of rain opening under his feet, the void sucking him in and the ground getting dangerously close. His fall is suddenly stopped mid-air when the hooded man's hand closes around his cloak again, but this time the tension is too strong. Gravity pulls on Jongdae's ankles, but the cape around his neck refuses to let go. His body is the battlefield, his lungs the bombing site, and Jongdae yields to the darkness crawling on the edge of his vision as he dangles off the roof. As his conscience fades to black, he catches a voice, low and sighing, but oddly warm, oddly familiar.
“Do you ever stop,” it says.
Then darkness falls, and Jongdae does not hear anything anymore.
Salt, Jongdae thinks. It's faint, but it's there, lingering on the corner of his lips. It's obvious enough for him to associate it with the same smell he's been associating it for the past five years: gasoline. His insides flip in his stomach, and uneasiness fills him at the realisation that he's been taken to the docks. His closed eyes stop him from knowing where on the docks exactly, but he keeps them sealed anyway. The darkness painted over the back of his eyelids is his most precious ally right now, so Jongdae lets it keep the upper hand on him. He feels the roughness of concrete against his limp body, feels the wall digging into his back and his hands lying on his sides, unbound – which is very good news. What he hears though isn't much of a celebration-worthy report, but slowly, discreetly, Jongdae still throws his senses at the dozen of sounds he perceives.
Heartbeats are the most obvious of them. There are five of them – four without Jongdae's. Two are agitated, erratic, one is regular, although a bit faster than what's usual, and the last one is slow, controlled, and almost hypnotic. The closest one, which sometimes misses a beat or speeds up unexpectedly, is probably Dahye’s, he muses, as his nose fills with the citrus fragrance of her shampoo. He hears her breathing loudly, shakily, as she struggles to swallow her sobs, and it has him itching to open his eyes to make sure she's okay. The slow heartbeat stops him from doing so though, because that cold, indifferent ticking is all but new to him. The hooded man is in the room.
Jongdae considers playing dead a little longer, just so that he can gather more data, but the idea leaves him itchy and uneasy. Dahye's shaky breathing fills his mind until he can't even hear himself think, and the two unknown heartbeats seem to be taunting him with what ifs. Whatever the hooded man wants, whatever his plan was, it's happening right now, and Jongdae has probably learned all he could from the unconsciousness he's been faking anyway. Not to mention that the asshole literally hung him earlier, and right now, Jongdae would very much like to get back at him.
Dahye sniffs somewhere on his right. He hears her clothes ruffle as she probably switches her position, and Jongdae lets go of the hooded man's heartbeat, of everything that isn't Dahye. How far is she? Could he reach her with his hand? Is she wounded...?
“Please,” Dahye whispers, breaking the silence around them. Her voice is low, almost inaudible, but shaky. “Please, wake up,” she begs. “Wake up...”
Jongdae turns his head on the left and opens his eyes, his heart jumping in his throat. He meets Dahye's red eyes, her long dishevelled hair half out of her pony tail, and her lips trembling. Jongdae catches one heartbeat slightly speeding up somewhere near him, but he's intent on keeping his focus on Dahye.
“Are you okay?” he asks her, and she answers with a sharp nod.
“I'm sorry,” she sobs. “I”m so so –”
Someone clears their throat, and Dahye closes her eyes with a slight shudder. Jongdae's blood boils, his own heartbeat taking over everything he hears as his head snaps on the right so fast, his neck cracks. It's a thing to attack him, to play with him and being all smug and unstoppable, but Dahye is off limits. His eyesight flashes with an angry red that his brain translates in pure shots of fire through his veins, and he feels the poison filling his mouth as he gets ready to lash out on the hooded man.
What he sees though stops him dead in his track. He swallows his anger, and lets the ice taking over his body freeze the adrenaline in his blood.
“Hello old friend,” Maxwell Thorne grins at him, looking exactly like the man he was five years ago.
It takes ages for Jongdae to take in the scene unfolding before him. Thorne is sitting on a chair, his hands bound together by thick ropes and tight knots. He's still wearing the asylum uniform, and it seems to be underlying the heavy madness glistening in his eyes, just like the sharp blade pressed against his throat makes his indifference stand out. Jongdae watches, the air crawling out of his lungs, as the hooded man straightens next to Thorne, the darkness covering his face staring back at him. He's holding a blade in each hand, the first one brushing dangerously against Thorne's Adam apple, and the second one leaving a trail of goose-flesh on another pale neck. Its owner watches Jongdae with huge scared eyes, sweat glistening on his forehead. In the darkness of the bare room they are in –construction site Jongdae vaguely notes – the man's flamboyant red hair stands out, but the fear sticking to his skin is cold, desperate.
It's a sight Jongdae can't seem to make sense of: the hooded man standing with his arms open, blades ready to slice throats at the slightest flick of his wrists, Thorne smiling widely at him, the stranger gripping his chair and looking like he's swallowing down the longest howl ever. Jongdae does understand the danger though, the lurking threat, and that is what breaks him out of his surprise. His hand flies to his belt and he grabs Dahye's arm and brings her closer to him. His fingers close on emptiness, and he looks down, taken aback.
“Why, did you really think our mutual friend here would have left you your weapons?” Thorne chuckles. “Dear, dear, dear, you seem to have softened quite a lot while I was gone.”
Dahye presses herself against Jongdae's back, and the latter chooses to look at her instead of answering to Thorne's friendly tone. His own heart is now beating erratically against his ribcage, each pump so violent he expects to hear his bones crack any second now. She meets his eyes, and he reads the same fear, the same underlying anger in her pupils.
“I traced your earpiece,” she says. “We're in the docks, near Northhill Bridge. But he got me before I could do –”
“Now, now,” Thorne chirps in. “It isn't very polite to start private conversations when you're invited to a tea party,” he singsongs.
Dahye glances at him with disgust, and Jongdae draws back his focus on Thorne. The latter flashes him an innocent look of mild surprise before he glances at the hooded man, who's faceless head is still focused on Jongdae.
“But you are right to be confused though,” Thorne says with a saddened face that brings Jongdae's temper closer to the surface. He was never supposed to see that man ever again. “Because it's not very polite to organize a tea party and not introduce every guest either.”
He ends his sentence with a long sigh that turns into a gargle when the hooded man snaps his wrist to turn the blade between his fingers. He presses the flat part of it harder against Thorne's throat until even breathing seems to be complicated for the criminal. The stranger on the other chair whimpers, shutting his eyes for a short second as though gathering his courage. Jongdae feels the anger rise again.
“What do you want for fuck's sake?!” he bites at the hooded man. “Who the hell are you?!”
Thorne laughs weakly, the blade closing most of his windpipe. The thin flow of air which manages to slip into his throat whistles as it struggles to reach his lungs, but it does not stop the man from breaking into one of the many Disney songs he knows by heart.
“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a-”
“SHUT IT!” the hooded man suddenly snaps.
He's so fast that Jongdae barely catches his gesture. The flick of his wrist is sharp and efficient, and the blade glistens as it flies up, then falls in the blink of an eye. Thick blood spurts out of Thorne's skin who chokes on his melody, the lyrics gurgling in the back of his throat as his eyes open wide. He raises his bound hands and presses shaking fingers on the wound now crossing his throat, and his composure crumbles and collapses as his jaw locks. Jongdae would enjoy the sight, he would definitely soak in the delight of seeing his worst enemy experiencing what it is like to be at the mercy of someone else's inhumanity, but the stain of blood on his vision and the metallic glisten of the blade have flashed danger through his whole body. His muscles are tense, ready to throw him at the hooded man at the slightest signal, and his eyes meet the red haired man's once again. He's pressed flat against the back of his chair, looking like he's not even daring to breathe because of the blade still pressed against his throat, but he doesn't blink, doesn't look away as Jongdae looks into his face. There's something daring in his posture, in the way he wears his fear in such obvious layers, and the longer they stare at each other, the louder the man's heartbeat gets in Jongdae's ears. Thorne's choking sounds die out until the only thing he can hear is the slightly slower rhythm of the man's heart. The left corner of the latter's mouth twitches, and he blinks, slowly but composed. He barely nods, barely moves, but Jongdae gets the message anyway.
He draws back his attention on the hooded man, whose head is tilted on the side, his hand back at holding the blade against Thorne's throat, and Jongdae gauges. He gauges everything. The distance, how fast he knows the hooded man to be, how fast he is, and how violently he could lash out his powers once he'll have a hold on the hooded man. The red haired man's trust is shooting adrenaline through his veins, and even Dahye's hands tightly closed on his chest in a poor attempt to stop him from trying anything won't hold him back. She's pressed against his back, her breath whistling in his eardrums and her heart reverberating through his body. It all dies out though, everything, until all is left is thick utter silence, and Jongdae's slow, calm heartbeat. His eyes finally stop on the hooded man, and his vision comes into focus until he's all he can see.
Something prickles his eardrum, a distant muffled voice, and it cracks Jongdae's focus. It's a whisper, and Jongdae follows the breathless words until he realizes they come from under the hood.
“Should I...?” the man is whispering in the darkness of his hood. “Now?”
Jongdae's blood turns to ice when he realizes his mistake. The hooded man is not alone. He glances around them, searching for another heartbeat, a hint about where his partners might be, and he meets Dahye's frowning face.
“Is it really the time – yes, I think so” the hooded man keeps muttering while Dahye and Jongdae exchange a glance. He hears her lashes brush against her cheeks, and the realization hits him like a freight train.
It's silent, quiet. Thorne's grunts fade out, along with the red haired man's heartbeat and Dahye's fast breathing, until all is left is the hooded man's voice. And that really is the only thing left. Jongdae searches in vain. No radio waves. No crackling voice answering through an invisible earpiece. Just thick and utter silence.
“You're completely nuts,” Jongdae lets out, which stops the flow of whispers from the hooded man.
He turns his head towards Jongdae who can feel the weight of those invisible eyes on him. They're pinning him down, cold and judging, probably as detached as the man's heartbeat is.
“Let me show you exactly what I am,” the hooded man says, in that same oddly familiar tone of his, light and amused, and under Jongdae's wide eyes, he lifts a hand, fingers still tight around the blade, and pulls down his hood.
Jongdae watches black strands fall back over pale skin, over sharp and defined eyebrows. He watches the hand pull down the black mask which was covering the lower half of the face next, he watches soft lips curling into a sharp patronizing smirk and blade-like jawline coming into focus. Something crashes against Jongdae's ears, loud and destructive like a whole building blowing up, and a very distant and detached part of him wonders if Thorne had the time to hide a few of his bombs in Port Ville. Then it does it again, explosive and erratic, and Jongdae realizes it's only his heart repeatedly crashing against his ribcage. Dahye says something on his left, but the commotion inside him is too loud for him to make out her words.
“Meet Park Chanyeol,” says the only voice capable of echoing through him louder than his own blood thumping against his temples. “He's from the Bottoms, but he made it out of that hell hole and became a reporter for the Sailor's Gazette. Why is that, Chanyeol?” Black deep - so deep eyes leave Jongdae's face to glance at the red haired man, who answers with a defying glare, and a burning muttered I'm not scared of you, you know. He is rewarded by a cold chuckle, and Jongdae is taken by those two eyes once again. “You see, Chanyeol wanted the people of Port Ville to know the truth about everything. He wanted justice, and he was ready to serve it himself if needed. Now, Chanyeol is one of the too few people money can't buy in this god-forsaken place. Chanyeol cares.”
Another smile blooms on the pink lips, a feral and ferocious one which cuts through the faint hints of softness lingering on the pale cheeks. Jongdae's heart hurls itself against his ribcage again, and a ferrous taste fills his mouth.
“Do I really have to introduce our next guest?” the voice says. It's chanting, it's playful. It's sharp and icy. “Maxwell Thorne is well known by the police department of Port Ville. Charged of mass murder, killed one hundred and sixty-nine people, and probably even more. Leader of a mob organization, manipulative bastard. Is also called the Bomber. Oh, and he likes Disney songs.”
Thorne grins madly. The cut on his throat has stopped bleeding, but the red now staining his asylum uniform gives him a vampire-like look. Jongdae's heart pushes against his ribcage, punching his lungs as it does so, and the two black eyes fall back on him again.
“As for me... well, you know me,” Oh Sehun says, standing taller than he was when he died five years ago.
“So I guess that makes one hundred and sixty-eight people” Thorne mumbles with a saddened look for his blood-stained hands.
Dahye whimpers against Jongdae’s back, and Jongdae has half a mind to turn around and check up on her, but he can't move. He can't even think, or breathe. When he blinks, the saltiness of his tears blooms on his lips. And he tries, he tries to work his way around that face he knows so well, but he can't. It just doesn't make sense. He has hundreds of sleepless nights to prove his point, litres of shed tears that make this whole situation impossible, but now, he's drowning in scents, and sounds, and lively details, all those things reality is made of and that he can't refute. He feels himself crack, his organs turning to lead.
“You're alive,” he manages to croak out.
Sehun stares at him, so tall, so broad, and so patronizing. Jongdae crumbles, he collapses, he falls to pieces.
“What a twist,” Thorne says. He glances at Sehun, then Jongdae, and breaks into a huge smile again. “How unexpected!” he marvels in a loud voice.
Sehun makes him shut up with another press of his blade against his throat. He looks so much like Jongdae's Sehun, but he's also so different, with his harsh cold eyes. He's taller and broader, his hair is longer, and it has lost the blonde chemical tint Sehun used to splatter on it, but he's also tauter, more still. Sehun was like electricity, he was fast and bright, but now light looks it's sliding off of. He was excited and loud, but this version of him is silent and controlled, and so, so distant. Jongdae can't breathe.
“Sehun,” Dahye finally says. She sounds so sad, so childlike. She sounds like she's nineteen again and screaming in Jongdae's earpiece while an abandoned warehouse explodes. “Sehun, is it really you...?”
Sehun looks at her, and for a fleeting second, that's all he is. Sehun, the boy who would soften around her, who grew up in the same neighbourhood than her, who treated her like a sister, like she was the only nice thing about Port Ville. The boy who investigated with her about Alpha, and who ended up knocking on Jongdae's door with her. It knocks the air out of Jongdae's lungs, and it hurts, it hurts so much to watch Sehun being so tangible, yet so inconceivable.
“You're alive,” he repeats, because that's really all he can say at this point.
This seems to bring Sehun back to his senses, and his head snaps back to Jongdae. He lifts his blades again, with long gloved fingers that Jongdae can now remember curling around his wrists, ruffling through his hair, pressing against his sides. They tighten on the handles and the weapons dig into the soft flesh of Park Chanyeol and Thorne's throats again. The association of Jongdae's memories and what he's now seeing keep colliding inside his mind. He hears himself breathe rashly, his lungs convulsing painfully.
“I am,” Sehun says. “Which brings us to our special meeting. Tonight, Jongdae -” his smile widens when both Dahye and Jongdae flinch at the name. “- you're going to choose who's gonna die.”
Chanyeol's eyeballs bulge out of their sockets as patches of red bloom on his livid face. He forgets the blade against his throat as his body straightens on the chair, hands gripping the armchairs tightly.
“What the fuck?” he protests. His eyes go from Jongdae and Dahye to Sehun and he glares at the latter. “Who the fuck are you anyway? If you think I'm gonna let you kill me, oh man you're-”
His voice cracks as Sehun presses the blade harder against his throat, the sharpness of it digging a bit too deep, and red soon slides along the smoothness of the metallic surface. Chanyeol gulps as Sehun flashes him a lopsided smile and a barely muffled chuckle.
“Sehun,” Dahye calls out. She's finally let go of Jongdae's shoulders, and she's the one leaning forward now. Her palms are pressed against the bare floor, and her body looks like she's waiting for some invisible starting blocks to throw her forward. “Sehun, what are you doing? Please, let him go.”
Sehun loses his composure when he looks at her again, and his brows furrow as he takes her in, black eyes scanning her features. He slightly winces, and his shoulder jolts up, as though trying to block a whisper from blowing into his ear. He slowly shakes his head, eyes growing distant and cold and he looks away, confused and frustrated. Dahye's breath hitches, and Jongdae glances at her. They exchange a look, her eyes heavy and strong, stronger than Jongdae feels. Do something they're screaming at him, urging and desperate. But Jongdae can't move.
“Stay out of this, Dahye,” Sehun hisses between clenched teeth. “It's between me and Jongdae.”
His voice has lost its playful and patronizing tone, and his eyes swoop down on Jongdae with liquid anger. He was cold and frozen a few minutes earlier, now he's burning, boiling, his gaze so furious and harsh on Jongdae that the latter feels it like needles digging into his face.
Jongdae looks away, feeling like throwing up.
“Oh no, Jongdae, you don't get to look away.” Sehun's voice is haunting, angry. “I didn't get to look away, remember? I was in that warehouse, and it blew up. I saw myself die after that asshole beat the crap out of me, and -”
“I'm sorry,” Jongdae breathes out. His mask catches his tears, but they eventually roll down his cheeks, cold and heavy. He dreamed about Sehun so much during those five years, and it's all coming back to him, every haunting burnt face, every look of reproach, and it doesn't even match what is now radiating from Sehun. It's seizing Jongdae by the throat, scrapping and tearing his skin. Jongdae doesn't bleed red blood though, he bleeds guilt and self-loathing.
Sehun squints at him.
“What?”
“I'm sorry,” Jongdae repeats as loudly as his shaking voice allows him to be. He looks up at Sehun, feeling smaller than he's ever felt, and the guilt he's been choking on for five years finally closes in on his heart. “I'm so sorry I was late,” he says again.
His voice breaks when Sehun's eyes light up with liquid rage.
“It's not about that, Jongdae,” Sehun hisses. “You were late because he told you you had thirty minutes to save me, but he set the bomb on twenty.”
Jongdae freezes and Dahye gasps. Thorne chuckles.
“Oopsie?” he says with a soft, innocent voice.
Sehun glances at him, but he quickly draws back his attention on Jongdae. There's a mad delight lingering in his eyes at the horror on Jongdae's face, and the most horrendous triumphant grin tugs on his lips. It last barely a second though, because the liquid fire is too strong, too angry and devouring, and Sehun is soon back at stabbing Jongdae with his eyes.
I’m giving you thirty minutes, my sweet friend. Isn’t that very nice of me? Thirty long minutes to celebrate our new friendship. Thirty minutes for you to try and save an old one.
Jongdae whimpers. The White Rabbit song from Alice in Wonderland pops out, and Jongdae presses a hand against his ear, wide eyes drawn to Sehun. The latter's gaze seems to harden even more.
“But you didn't kill him, did you, Jongdae? So he just pulled a few strings and ended up in a nice and cosy room in the asylum, and it didn't end there, did it? People kept dying, bad things kept happening.” His eyes narrow at Jongdae. “Tell me, Jongdae, did your no-kill policy clean Port Ville? Is everything better now?”
“Sehun,” Dahye whispers. “Sehun, stop.”
“No! You stop!” he snaps at her. His fingers clench around the blades, and he lifts his arms. Chanyeol lets out a short squirm that is cut by the thump of the blade driving into the back of his chair, barely a few inches from his skin. He gulps at Sehun, cold sweat glistening on his forehead, while Thorne throws a mild interested look at the other blade on the back of his own chair.
Sehun throws himself at Dahye, but Jongdae pushes her out of the way. Everything happens in the blink of an eye, how Sehun's eyes fall on him again while Dahye crashes on her side, and how erratic his heartbeat suddenly gets. His momentum has him swooping down on Jongdae in a flash. Jongdae’s muscles tense, and he jumps on his feet, quickly walking back as Sehun keeps running to him. The distance between them decreases in slow motion, and Jongdae braces himself for the impending shock as he raises his palms before him. His fingers clench on thin air, electricity and power curling around their tips and ready to be lashed out on Sehun as soon as the latter touches him. And time gets back to his usual speed.
Sehun comes to a halt with a slide. Jongdae looks up, taken aback, as Sehun glances at the few inches between Jongdae's palms and his chest. They stare at each other, Sehun's heartbeat slowly falling back to its regular speed, and Jongdae's heavy breathing filling the room. He has to slightly tilt his head to take in Sehun's full face, as he is much taller than he used to be, but up close Jongdae spots more similarities than differences. There's the pointy inner corner of his eyes that his Nightblade mask used to highlight so well, the light asymmetry of his lips, the roundness of his nose and the smoothness of his skin. He also smells like Port Ville by night, like rain magnifying neon colours and abandoned roofs. He smells like that night before he died, like shared laughter and longing gazes. Jongdae lowers his hands, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Sehun cautiously steps back as he does.
He flashes another furrowed look at Jongdae then turns around to check on Dahye, who's barely getting back on her feet. For a short second, it feels like he's about to walk up to her, but he finally settles on heading back to the two chairs.
“That was intense,” Thorne chuckles. “You got very fast, didn't you, my boy? Who should you thank for that, uh?”
“Shut up,” Sehun hisses. “Or I'll cut your throat open.”
“Well, that would ruin your lesson, wouldn't it? This turns to be even more endearing than I thought! Don't ruin my fun, you party-popper.”
“Oh my god, will you please shut up?” Chanyeol snaps. Jongdae doesn't miss his worried glance at Sehun.
“You know, I still remember you telling us that we weren't allowed to kill, no matter what,” Sehun says loudly as he closes his hand around the handle of the blade behind Chanyeol's back. The latter flinches when Sehun pulls it out, and it makes Sehun smile. “I remember you lecturing us about doing the right thing,” he continues, glancing at Jongdae.
He stops next to Thorne, his body losing its playful dancing curves for sharper and still lines. His eyes fall on Jongdae again, the coldness cracking open on liquid fire and burning anger, as he pulls out the second blade from Thorne's chair.
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I would have thought that killing the bastard who took me away from you would be the right thing to do.”
His voice has lost every hint of mischief, every note of disdain. There's so much anger in the eyes he is laying on Jongdae, so much resentment and furious bitterness.
“It actually was my last thought. I told myself that at least I would be the last person you'd allow him to hurt, and that you'd stop him once and for all. But the next thing I know I am alive and breathing and so is he. And you, you're not even trying to stop him.” Sehun pauses, and once again, Jongdae spots the boy he used to be lurking in the depth of his eyes. His own heart jumps in his throat as sadness and despair flash in Sehun's irises, and he feels the hitch to reach out. But then Sehun blinks, and it all goes away. Jongdae feels like he’s just watched him die all over again.
“You know,” Sehun continues, defying but somehow hesitant. “I would have ended anyone who had dared to touch you. I would have killed them without a second thought.”
Sehun is raw, all layers of coldness and mastered anger stripped off of him. There's something creeping in on the darkness of his irises, something dangerous and different, something that has Sehun pressing the heel of his right hand against his own temple in a frustrated attempt at easing the monster eating him from the inside. He's not the boy who knocked on Jongdae's door so many years ago, he's not the young man who laughed in the night. He's the body that blew up, the bones that cracked and snapped. Jongdae chokes on his own tears, his breathing now so fast that he's about to hyperventilate. Another flow of breathless words leaves Sehun's mouth and even though Jongdae can't make them out, they scare him so much.
Next to him, Dahye takes a tentative step towards Sehun. The soft thud of her soles hitting the concrete jolts Sehun out of his muttering, and he looks up, eyes narrowing at the woman who used to be his best friend.
“What happened?” she asks him in a weak little voice. Her eyes search Sehun's, pleading. “Why are you doing this? What happened to you, Sehun? How did you -”
“It doesn't matter,” Sehun cuts her. The blades whistles as they whirl so fast between his fingers that they look like liquid metal for a short second. He stops them with a sharp flick of his wrists and presses them against Chanyeol's and Thorne's throats.
“Like the people you killed don't matter?” Dahye counter attacks. She's still shaking, she's still half crying, but right now, she's also straightening and standing tall and accusative at Sehun. She doesn't flinch when he draws back his attention on her.
“They were hardly innocent people, Dahye.”
“Oh don't talk to me like I'm stupid,” she hisses, her temper flashing through her eyes. If anything, it seems to amuse Sehun though. “What about Barbara Thorne, uh? She was no thief.”
Jongdae watches as the raw anger that was seizing Sehun's muscles barely a few seconds earlier dissolves while he flashes her a lopsided smile. Dahye's voice on the phone rings through his mind again, and his insides squirm with uneasiness as he's reminded of her tone, the fear laced all over her words. He didn't see Barbara Thorne's house, but he did see Sehun kill several people without an ounce of hesitation. It was one thing when it was just a hood and a featureless face, but it's now a familiar hand, a familiar pair of eyes. It's Sehun, their Sehun.
“Come on, Dahye,” Sehun smiles. “You're not that naïve. Someone had to give the orders while dear papa was locked up now, hadn't they?”
This seems to knock the anger out of Dahye, and she looks into Sehun's face with glistening eyes, all the colours draining from her face. Jongdae feels the same realization she's going through swooping down on him, but he just doesn't know how to react any more. The sight of Sehun's pointy teeth and the corner of his lips curling up as he's mentioning the slaughter of a good dozen of people just doesn't add up, none of this makes sense.
“Come to the point now, boy,” Thorne intervenes again. His chin is resting against his chest, but his cold blue eyes are focused on Sehun. He has lost the crazy demeanour and his amused look and is now oddly still and controlled. Jongdae picks up his heartbeat, which was erratic before and too fast to be considered calm. It is now slowing down. Uneasiness creeps up on him and he glances at Dahye, but she's obviously too upset to care about Thorne.
“Listen, Sehun –” Jongdae starts. The name feels weird in his mouth, almost unknown to his ears. It's been so long since the last time he said it out loud.
“No, you listen,” Sehun cuts him. “You were so convinced everyone deserved a second chance, weren't you? Let me show you – no, let me teach you that some lives are worth more than others. You didn't want to believe it, and look what happened. People died during those five years he was away, and their blood? It's on your hands, Jongdae. Innocent people died because you just couldn't kill a fucking sociopath.”
Sehun takes a deep breath to regain his composure. He slightly shakes his head, muttering a low and pleading shut up as he does so, and his focus crumbles. Jongdae feels the pull again, the itching need to take Sehun's hands and keep them between his fingers. When Sehun's eyes snap back to him, they're sharp and cutting, but they're right, and they cut right through Jongdae's heart.
“You can only save the innocent if you kill the villain, Jongdae. It’s Thorne or nice and honest Chanyeol. Make your choice, and then you'll understand... yes, you'll understand that justice often requires more than a scowl and four walls.”
Chanyeol bites his lips and Jongdae can almost hear the scream he's holding back leaping into his throat and curling on the back of his tongue. Sehun presses the blades harder against his victims' throats, and Jongdae leans forward, his ears buzzing. How many times has he dreamed about doing it? His eyes slide across Thorne's face, and he thinks about the nightmares, about the random pieces of dialogues still echoing in his mind five years later. How many times has he dreamed about stopping that voice from singing any song forever?
Sehun's hold tightens even more. Chanyeol tilts his head back to try and soften the pressure, and he gulps against the blade, blood dripping out from the tiny cuts. Thorne doesn't move, as though he couldn’t care less.
“So, who should I kill, Jongdae?” Sehun spits, fire and rage heavy in his words. “Sweet, hard-working Chanyeol? Or the mass murderer who whipped out entire families? I'm done arguing and you, you are done pretending that someone like him wouldn't be better dead.”
Thorne snorts. The cut on his throat has started to bleed again, blood blooming all over his jawline as he tilts down his head, his chin following his collarbone. His eyes land on Jongdae, deep and cold, scary and calculating. Angry. Jongdae's instincts scream hundreds of warning in his head. But he could end this. He could turn off the evil light behind those azure eyes.
“You should kill me, boy,” Thorne says, his voice lower, threatening. “Because if you don't, you know that I'll escape, and I'll kill him for what he did to my daughter. Only this time, I'll make sure his heart sits out of his ribcage.”
Jongdae turns his head towards Sehun, his blood freezing. The latter is still waiting, watching him, but something clicks in Jongdae's mind. Maybe there was a reason why Thorne seemed to enjoy this so much, maybe there was a reason why he hasn’t looked afraid to die a single time, and something tells him they now are getting closer and closer to that reason.
“Sehun, please,” Jongdae tries again, but Sehun's eyes narrow at him and he presses the blades harder against Thorne's and Chanyeol's throats. The latter chokes as blood now trickles under his collar.
“It's the two of them or only one, Jongdae. You just have to ch-”
The window behind Jongdae blows up, and something whistles past him, fast and thin, but deadly. Jongdae catches a flash of metal before it cuts through Sehun's leather jacket just above his heart. Then all Jongdae hears is the glass falling on the concrete behind him, crystalline rain filling his ears until it's painful and shrilling. He flinches as Sehun's body falls backward, and his senses shrink to nothingness, driven out of his control by the ear-splitting echo in his mind.
This is when all hell breaks loose.
More windows are shattered, and Jongdae falls to his knees, struggling to get his focus back. Something rolls towards him in sharp, metallic sounds, and his eyes lands on the small, cold device. His heart leaps into his throat.
“Dahye!” he calls out, kicking the smoke bomb away.
He whirls around, throws himself at Dahye, and the grenade goes out. The several detonations follows, and smoke already fills the room. A thick white wall falls over his eyes and his lungs clench in protest at the cloudiness filling them. His body finally hits Dahye’s, the shock drawing a whimper out of her, but her hands close like claws around Jongdae's arms anyway. He grabs her by the neck and presses on it until her legs give up and she has to kneel down, then he bends down and wraps himself around her as efficiently as he can. Smoke grenades open assaults, and they’re never the only weapons.
Something else blows up on the back of the room, and judging by the loud thuds and the vibrations that follow, Jongdae guesses a part of the wall just collapsed. Dahye struggles between his arms, and he curses, pinching her to force her to calm down. Guns start firing, and heavy shoes make the ground vibrate against Jongdae's knees. He turns his head and squints at the opacity surrounding him. Dahye's elbow crash against his crotch, and a jolt of pain takes over Jongdae's body, long enough for her to slip out of his hold. He bites his lips with a slight moan, but doesn't waste any time on the pain already fading out as he chases after her.
Voices are echoing, mixing with guns and groans until it becomes a huge chaos that Jongdae can't work with, not to mention the thick smoke still blocking out his vision. His heart clenches in his chest as he slides to a halt and desperately tries to make out something around him. He tries to pick up her scent, both his sight and hearing obviously useless in the mess around him, but he only smells suffocating chemicals and that same hint of saltiness always lingering on the docks. His mind instinctively throws him back to the last time he smelled it as heavily and panic settles in his chest as flashes of the warehouse blowing up fill his mind. This time though, he gets a new picture when Sehun's body joins the party, bullet hitting him on the chest and blood spurting out of the wound.
“Dahye?!” he calls out. Let them hear him, let them come to him, and he'll deal with them, whoever they are. He was right about Thorne, it was a giant trap. He should have seen it sooner.
Jongdae darts off with his hands stretched out before him, power buzzing around his fingers. The blown up windows are starting to suck the smoke out of the room, and now he catches faint shadows in the distance. Three of them are larger, square and impressive, their outlines almost inhuman because of the gear they're carrying. Jongdae lets himself fall on the ground just before one of them fires at him and immediately starts crawling towards the silhouettes. There's a fourth one behind them, a smaller one, and it's getting dragged away by the three armed ones, hands still bound. Thorne. Jongdae locks his jaws and he jumps back on his feet. Who cares about the bullets, he can heal from pretty much anything anyway. He's not letting Thorne walk away freely, not after everything that happened.
Something crashes against his side just as the silhouettes disappear in the hole in the wall, smoke trailing after them. Jongdae stumbles, struggling to regain his balance until, at least, fingers scrape his throat and close around it, leather rasping against his flesh. They press the air out of his windpipe when he finally topples over, dragging his assailant in his fall with him. His back hits the ground, the shock reverberating through his bones, and another body lands on top of him. Jongdae's breath hitches as Sehun's eyes fill his vision, angry and spitting fire. He freezes when he leans in and takes in Jongdae's face though. Surprise paints all over his face and he jerks away from Jongdae with an obvious scared jolt. Jongdae watches him frantically glance around him as he gets back on his knees. He looks out of his depth and confused, until his eyes land on the hole Thorne used to escape, and then it's back to anger and rage. He looks back at Jongdae for a fleeting second, and jumps on his feet in one swift motion. Jongdae barely hears him run to the windows, but he easily pictures him, body flying through the air with grace and efficiency as he jumps through one of them. Sehun was already feline back then, but now he's bordering on surreal and predator-like.
Jongdae closes his eyes, still lying on his back. Sehun is alive, his mind chants, and Jongdae can't make out the melody, doesn't know if it's a sinister one or a cherry carol. His body feels so heavy he sincerely doubts he'll ever be able to stand up. Gravity’s fingers are wrapped around his ankles, digging painfully into his skin, and for once in his life, Jongdae wishes the pain would never go. He wants to take the blow and bleed and bruise, and he wants it all to stay.
“Jongdae?”
Jongdae's eyes snap open and he sits up before whirling around. Dahye and Chanyeol are both on their knees a few steps away. She has one arm wrapped around Chanyeol's shoulder, her other hand soothingly pressed against Chanyeol's chest while the latter curls up against her side. He is huge next to her even though she appears more fragile than ever. The strong and fierce line of her shoulders is broken, her long beautiful hair dangles sadly on her chest, leftover of smoke ruffling through it, and even her peachy complexion has turn to a grey ghostly colour.
“Is he okay?” Jongdae asks, nodding towards Chanyeol.
Dahye nods. Then she snaps, she breaks and she falls to pieces. She starts crying. Chanyeol looks at her with surprise before slightly wriggling out of her hold so that he can wrap an arm around her waist as well. Jongdae wishes he would run his fingers through her hair and kiss her on the cheek, because that always soothes her. He wishes he could be the one doing so, but he can't seem to be able to move. He's not even sure he still feels his legs actually.
Chanyeol glances at him. His hair now takes over the lingering fogginess around him, the red strands echoing with the red blood staining his pale neck.
“Who was that guy? Do you really know him?”
This is what makes gravity's grip so suddenly powerful, Jongdae realises. He has no answer to that.