If youâre interested in writing it, I would love to read a part two of âthe one with Chan and the promotionâ! Itâs so sweet and cute and I go back to it when I feel sad or sick and just want someone to take care of me lol.
aw, iâm so glad you liked it! hereâs part two âš
the one with chan and the promotion pt. ii
you needed a ride home after getting your wisdom teeth removed. chan just so happened to be free.
pairing: bang chan x gn!reader
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort
au: fuck buddies to ?
type: drabble
rating: 18+ â minors do not have my consent to interact with me or my work.
wc: 1.3k
cw: readerâs pov this time!; no smut but itâs referenced due to the nature of their relationship; reader had outpatient dental surgery (not depicted); reference to blood/swelling.
a/n: this is a continuation of this drabble, which @moni-logues requested last year. in order for things to make sense, please read pt. i first!
navigation. skz permanent taglist. multi permanent taglist. request rules.
Upon waking up, the first thing you do is take inventory.
The list of things you donât have is the longer of the two: four of the teeth you initially left home with, a blanket on top of you, your bearings, or any substantial memory of the how and when you got back to your apartment.
What you do have is a pair of slippers on your feet where your shoes used to be and a hand in yours, warming your palm. Bleary-eyed, you stare down at the five fingers interlocked with yours while your brain scrambles to load. It doesnât. You swear you hear the Windows XP error noise sounding off in the back of it when your eyes flick up and find Chanâs closed, fluttering ever so slightly as he sleeps.
You donât mean to voice your surprise out loud, especially not above a whisper, but it slips past lips still buzzing as sensation returns. âChrist!â
Chan doesnât startle, which doesnât necessarily surprise you. His roommate, who youâve heard tell of but never met, is apparently prone to sudden shouting, apropos of nothing. He does stir, though, just slightly.Â
âNo,â he mumbles without opening his eyes. Though he doesnât witness the quizzical look you give him, he must suspect your confusion, nonetheless. Stifling a satisfied, albeit sleepy chuckle, he jokes, âMy English name is pronounced Chris.â
Itâs then that his eyes crack open, taking you in immediately and softly, pupils dilating. Heâs never looked at you like that before. You donât know what to do with it.Â
Flustered, you divert your gaze to your hands the way you always do, only to find that one of his is still holding one of yours. You donât know what to do with that, either. To cover the fact that you donât know what to say, you clear your throat, hoping the words will materialize after a bit of stalling. They donât.
Chan, noticing your preoccupation, interjects and sits upright next to you on top of your still-tucked-in comforter. âOh.â
He retracts his hand. A sheepish smile spreads in tandem with a flush of red across his cheeks and neck, so heated with embarrassment you can almost feel it from several centimeters away.Â
âHad a hell of a time getting you through the door and getting your shoes untied,â he starts, laughing awkwardly.
Oh, indeed.
Youâd asked Chan to drive you; called him specifically for that singular task because your other, closer friends â the ones who havenât seen you naked â donât. On top of their collective lack of licensure, you know them all too well to trust any one of them with wrangling a highly medicated person on public transit. Youâd be a liability in and of yourself; your chaperone couldnât be a disaster, too.
Going into this, youâd believed that Chan had his shit together well enough to get you from Point A to Point B in one piece. You were right. He did, and even though he could have, he didnât stop there. Not only did Chan get you inside, but he also swapped your shoes for slippers to avoid dragging dirt into your apartment.
He rubs the back of his neck, continuing, âYou â uh â well, you wouldnât let go after I corralled you in here.â The hand fussing with the hair at his nape gestures vaguely around your bedroom, which heâs seeing in sunlight for the first time ever, not unlike the way heâs witnessing you.
Once again, you search for words and come up with none.Â
There was no expectation of gratitude motivating his powerfully quiet act of kindness. Clearly, he didnât expect to still be here while you napped off the lingering fog from the anesthesia. But he is here.
âI must have quite the grip when Iâm high,â you manage to offer.Â
A way to ask without truly asking: Why are you still here?
Chan snorts, then he shakes his head while he answers, âNah, you moved like you were made of jelly. I just didnât want you to cry again.â
Somewhere, a record scratches. Your eyes go wide, expression otherwise withheld to keep your shock and mortification to yourself.Â
Again?
Vulnerability isnât a thing you do. It took all you had to ask for his help in the first place. Youâd rather drop dead on the ground than cry in front of anyone, let alone the person you keep at armâs length and still sleep with on a recurring basis. Absolutely not. Thereâs no fucking way.Â
âWhat?â You croak. Almost as embarrassing as the crying, your dried-out throat and the hoarseness of your voice leave your face burning. You clear your throat again. It doesnât make a difference. âWhy did I cry? Pain?â
Fuck, you hope so. You pray for some yet unknown, minor surgical complication that would justify this uncharacteristic crack in your armor. For some excuse you can lean on.
âWorms,â Chan chirps with a shrug, as if that explanation truly explains anything.
You balk. âI would never cry over seeing a worm. It didnât even rain this week; there wouldnât be any on the sidewalk.â
He clamps his lips together for a moment, like heâs steeling himself, trying not to laugh in your face. You appreciate the gesture, kind of. Rather, you would ĂąâŹâ if he had a better poker face. The one looking back at you instead looks fully endeared, which makes you more embarrassed than his laughter ever could.
âI ran into the pharmacy to grab your pain meds, and when I came back to the car, you were sobbing. I was freaking out, thinking you were hurt or something, but no.â His grin comes at full force. âYou were scared that worms may not have best friends.â
Oh, my god.
âOh, my god,â you groan, this time out-loud. Instinctively, you drop your burning cheeks into your hands, hissing in pain the second they settle. You jerk backwards, yelping, âOh, my god.â
Proving his attentiveness in real time, Chan shifts closer quickly, like a starting gun has been fired. His hands encircle your wrist gently, prompting you to look at him. Once he has your attention, his eyes scan your face in search of visible injury. A triage of sorts. Worry evident, he checks in: âYou good?â
Yes, and no.
Yes, your gums are especially sore now that youâve put excess pressure on them; but no, there isnât a mouthful of blood hiding behind your tightly pursed lips.
Yes, you feel safe and cared for with him here; but no, youâre not fucking used to it, and itâs making your blurry brain spin.Â
How are you supposed to answer that question? You donât even know which one heâs really asking. Before you say a word, you take inventory again.
What you have is Chan in your bedroom while the sun is still up, fully clothed and above the sheets. Heâs here because when he tried to leave, he gave into your small act of subconscious resistance, too afraid of upsetting you. He stayed. Heâd witnessed you cry about worms, and he stayed â perfectly still at your side long enough to fall asleep.
What you have is medication to deal with the pain you just exacerbated because Chan went out of his way to pick it up from the pharmacy.
What you have is heart palpitations, a different type of nerves blooming when you realize that dispelling his worry now will result in him taking his reactive touch away.
What you donât have is the strength of will to lie to someone who looks at you the way Chan currently is, like he may not be able to breathe correctly unless and until he knows youâre okay.
âYeah,â you eventually sigh. âI am. Iâm good.â
In fact, youâre even better when he and his hands choose â once again â to stay.
while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.
skz permanent taglist: @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @sourkimchi @stayceebs97
multi permanent taglist: @jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz, @notevenheretbh1
152 notes
·
View notes
nyang nyang vlog come back... the people need u
1K notes
·
View notes
Thank you so much!! I don't know why but the 'I love LITERATURE' made me absolutely scream and kick my feet sodifjdoigdfgoidfjg thank you for reading!
Rodeo | lmh (m)
đ©âĄđȘ Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
đ©âĄđȘ Summary: Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Word Count: 18,249
đ©âĄđȘ Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something
đ©âĄđȘ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you donât like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.Â
đ©âĄđȘ A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.
đ©âĄđȘ A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)
đ©âĄđȘ Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024
đ©âĄđȘ Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration
Any work is good work.Â
Minho isnât so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.Â
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the manâs cheek hits the floor.Â
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The manâs entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minhoâs sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. Itâs silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.Â
âReceiving,â a male voice answers. Minho doesnât know who it is - he just knows heâs one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.Â
âCollection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.âÂ
âCollected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.âÂ
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, itâs just a number on a screen that confirms the power wonât go out at his apartment and that he wonât go hungry.
Minhoâs knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.Â
Heâs so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.Â
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasnât given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isnât technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the governmentâs militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.Â
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesnât get a jump or sleep heâs going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.Â
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.Â
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.Â
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.Â
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. Thereâs no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.Â
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows itâll get messy.Â
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that arenât there and the foggy thinking, but they wonât keep him sharp forever.Â
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesnât feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.Â
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.Â
No one enters the car. Itâs just him and the other two sleeping people - he isnât sure theyâre even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
Itâs a unique little knife, snug in the sheath thatâs buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy youâd been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy youâd perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. Itâs saved his life a few times in situations like now when heâs exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.Â
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesnât mind, though. Youâre an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You donât ask the kind of questions that he doesnât want to answer, and youâre always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.Â
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesnât have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.Â
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.Â
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once heâs shown up as a Collection Request. He doesnât know if itâs the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. Itâs probably both, but every time it happens, heâs managed to evade it.Â
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, itâs sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators donât seem to care which Collector murders the other, and heâs never suffered for coming out on top.Â
Any work is good work.Â
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.Â
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.Â
âThe United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-â Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.Â
Immediately the holograms vanish and thereâs just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.Â
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When theyâre pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesnât do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjinâs eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho canât shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.Â
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.Â
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builderâs sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.Â
Agents of disorder and chaos. Thatâs what some say. Minho isnât sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.Â
âHello, Cowboy,â Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.Â
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. Heâs dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
âI donât like when you call me that.â
Hyunjinâs smile makes the hair on Minhoâs arms stand on end. âI know, but I like it.â
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show heâs irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjinâs face, Minho can safely assume he isnât doing a great job. âIs the Builder in or not?âÂ
âWho is to say?âÂ
âJust tell her Iâm here.âÂ
âIf sheâs in, she already knows.â Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. âYou can wait, Cowboy.âÂ
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjinâs uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.Â
When the water comes back, itâs warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. Heâs pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.Â
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
âDonât,â Minho grunts, sipping the water. âNot interested.â
âBut youâre so pretty.â
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, âBuilder is ready for you, Cowboy.âÂ
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesnât show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.Â
Minho doesnât turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.Â
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.Â
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks itâs a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you havenât built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.Â
âDo you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?âÂ
He doesnât mind the name from you. He tells himself that itâs because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesnât dislike you. Youâre easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and youâre to the point. He admires that, and heâs willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You donât look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.Â
âI donât have long,â he says, forgoing the seat. âJust need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. Itâs having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.âÂ
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minhoâs face.Â
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.Â
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. Thereâs a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesnât remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.Â
âWhen is the last time you slept?â
âAre you psychoanalyzing me?â You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. âFifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.â
âNo to the JumpPack,â you say finally. âSleep.â
âI have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.âÂ
âDown the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It wonât kill you.â He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, âIâll be done by the time youâre up. Take off your armor.âÂ
His hands open and close. Youâve never declined a JumpPack before. Youâve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.Â
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons heâs managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.Â
Minhoâs shirt is more armor than a shirt. Itâs made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when thereâs an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. Youâve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.Â
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if itâs not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.Â
Immediately heâs covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. Youâre dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.Â
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.Â
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though youâre going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.Â
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, âThree hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.âÂ
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. âAlright.âÂ
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. Heâs a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but youâre unfolding his armored shirt.Â
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. Heâs never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.Â
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. Thereâs no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
Heâs not in danger here.Â
Slowly, he trods to the cot. Itâs a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minhoâs eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.Â
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that heâll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.Â
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until heâs fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.Â
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he canât shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room heâs in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where thereâs another knock.Â
âCome in,â he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. Youâve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesnât hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff youâve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesnât move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. âI know Collectors donât have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.â
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. âWhy did you bring me food?â
âBecause you look like shit, Cowboy. Donât go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.âÂ
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesnât eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. Itâs not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
âFixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?â His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. âItâs made with durast carbonate. Itâs pretty shockproof.âÂ
âDidnât mean to. Some guyâs goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um⊠took a bullet.âÂ
âHow did they get the jump on you, hmm?â He stares. âWere you tired?âÂ
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. Itâs peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you donât say anything more. Youâve already gotten your barbs in and you donât intend to poke until heâs truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.Â
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.Â
Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, youâve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what heâs asking for, and youâve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but heâd been met with steely silence each time.Â
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. Youâre as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes itâs electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. Heâs not at a hundred percent, but heâs a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.Â
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.Â
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes itâs just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what youâre doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. Heâs still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust heâs established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices heâs only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.Â
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever youâre working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
âHello, Collector. How are you today?â Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, âFine, you?â
âDoing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.â
âMy watch?â
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He canât figure out whatâs so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that heâs used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. Itâs far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.Â
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.Â
Minhoâs fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesnât hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. Itâs abrasive, but he canât imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. Itâs far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
âThe needles,â he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. âDo they connect with me?â
âYes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.â You get up and walk toward him. âYou wonât even feel them. Theyâre the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. Theyâre more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.â
âWhatâs the point, though?âÂ
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. âInside of this,â you instruct, tapping the hard shell, âIs a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles donât push deep, but theyâre high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.âÂ
Minho looks up at you, silent. You donât notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. âBlue is elektrolytes,â you instruct, pointing to it. âGreen is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.â
âAnd purple?â
âJump,â you deadpan. âBut a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you wonât need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since itâs non-addictive.â
Minho stares. âWhat?â
âWhat part didnât you get?â
âThis is for me?â You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. âThis is worth a million United Credits at least. I canât afford it.â
âDo you see a price tag?â
âYou canât give me this for free.âÂ
âOf course I can. Itâs just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, wellâŠâ You shrug. âAt least you didnât pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. Iâve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I donât have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesnât protect you from plasma. This does.â
Minho doesnât buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldnât give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.Â
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? Heâs not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.Â
Minho has peers. Youâre a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.Â
âThe one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.âÂ
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks youâre going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
âFixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.âÂ
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.Â
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesnât move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesnât know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.Â
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minhoâs stomach. He doesnât move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to⊠what? He doesnât know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.Â
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You donât spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.Â
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasnât in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builderâs workshop.Â
Hyunjinâs smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.Â
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.Â
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.Â
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.Â
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while heâs at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer youâd made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.Â
Itâs nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.Â
âReceiving,â he answers, straightening up.Â
âCollection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
âCollection accepted.âÂ
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.Â
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.Â
-
The water runs red in Minhoâs shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.Â
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. Heâd had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows heâs lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, itâs a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didnât have the next twenty-four hours to himself.Â
If the knife had been one of yoursâŠ
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and heâs brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.Â
Yet the ache isnât what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isnât what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows heâs coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.Â
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.Â
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.Â
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.Â
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what heâs looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.Â
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows heâll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.Â
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.Â
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if heâs damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but heâs grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.Â
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.Â
There was crazy, and then there was that.Â
Minho wonders if youâve been charging him fairly, suddenly. Heâs always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows youâre willing to offer something that heâd only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if youâve been cutting him deals.
Heâs never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though theyâre the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesnât trust them whenever it comes to you.Â
Jisung already thinks itâs sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if itâs true.Â
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.Â
Minhoâs memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. Heâs able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after theyâve irritated him, like youâre giving him a gift or saying Iâm on your team.Â
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because itâs bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.Â
Minhoâs fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. Heâs thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesnât jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.Â
-
The ringing of Minhoâs watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where thereâs a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes itâs work calling.Â
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.Â
Clearing his throat, he answers. âReceiving.âÂ
âCollection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
Information flashes on Minhoâs watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. Heâs never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesnât want to see any of it, doesnât want to see when you were born, doesnât want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesnât want to know your criminal history.Â
Minhoâs ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.Â
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. Heâs only ever known your first name, but youâve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho canât remember if heâs ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighingâÂ
Three years and he canât believe heâs never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.Â
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isnât like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.Â
Irreversible.Â
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while heâs unarmed.Â
Now heâs supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or wonât he?Â
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
Heâs only a few steps toward it when he realizes heâs not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.Â
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes heâs having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.Â
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, heâs never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.Â
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
Itâs hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.Â
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that heâs not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.Â
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.Â
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things youâve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.Â
Itâs clinical.Â
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. Heâs always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minhoâs only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for⊠well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.Â
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what theyâre up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.Â
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesnât understand, so itâs difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because heâs in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through youâre defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he wonât complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.Â
Either way, itâs on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.Â
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.Â
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and itâs impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.Â
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesnât consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.Â
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?Â
Maybe itâs even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. Itâs easier than it should be, Minhoâs mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesnât have time to look around every corner or see if heâs being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.Â
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as heâs immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on whatâs going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.Â
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. Theyâll stay out of his way and wonât engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.Â
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.Â
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and itâs only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.Â
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.Â
Itâs full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. Itâs no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjinâs hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.Â
âYour patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.âÂ
Minhoâs heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjinâs dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesnât see. Thereâs a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.Â
Hyunjinâs fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. âWant to try, Cowboy?â
âI need to speak with her.â
âNo.â
âIâm not-â Minho grits his teeth. âIâm not Collecting.â
âDidnât say you were.âÂ
Hyunjin knows. He doesnât know how the Nightcrawler knows youâre a Collection on Minhoâs list, but itâs clear in the way Hyunjin leers.Â
âLook, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.â
âAnd what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if youâre not lying, theyâll come after you too.âÂ
âListne, Nightcrawler-â
Hyunjin grins. Itâs unnerving, and there isnât much that unnerves Minho. âNo, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I donât have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.â He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. âIâm always within my right to make a judgment call.â
âIâd never hurt her.â
âYouâre not friends, last I checked.â Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. âYou donât have friends, right? Thatâs why you reject acts of faith?â
âWhat do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?âÂ
âYouâd be surprised, Collector.âÂ
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minhoâs fingers twitch and Hyunjinâs eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
Heâs that confident in beating me.Â
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesnât make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjinâs eyes flicker and look over Minhoâs shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
âHereâs an act of faith. Letâs see what you do this time.âÂ
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.Â
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didnât arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.Â
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.Â
Act of faith.Â
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.Â
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.Â
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. Itâs nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.Â
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.Â
âThere are eight. Theyâre just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.â
âIs there a way through that door?â
âSure there is. If they want to melt it down, Iâm sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They canât blow it without leveling the street.âÂ
âDoes she have a way out the back?â
âNo, then I would have two doors to watch.âÂ
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they donât come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they donât want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.Â
âArenât you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?â Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. âCan you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.â
âIâm good at not being seen, Cowboy. Iâm not inhuman.âÂ
âOh good, so youâre actually useless when visible?â
Hyunjinâs face darkens. âYouâd be surprised how often you donât see me.âÂ
The threat isnât lost on Minho but it doesnât have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure theyâre behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but itâs only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isnât very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. âItâs a flash grenade,â he snaps. âIâm not going to kill everyone.â He pauses and smirks. âI donât do that anymore.â
âThatâs hardly less settling.â
âYou know,â Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. âOne day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.â
âOne is legal, for starters.âÂ
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. âRight, so what youâre doing right now? This is legal?â
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minhoâs shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and thereâs only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.Â
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collectorâs voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.Â
âI think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.â You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. âRemind me to write that down.âÂ
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign thatâs been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the âRâ tries to fight for its life.
Then thereâs you.Â
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjinâs hand resting on top of his gun.Â
âYou gonna kill me, Cowboy?â Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell youâre upset that it does.Â
âNo. I want to help.â Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? âConsider it an act of faith,â Minho offers and Hyunjinâs snickering turns to curiosity. âIâve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.âÂ
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. âWhat strange turn of events, Minho.âÂ
Itâs the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minhoâs mouth twitch a little.Â
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjinâs watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where theyâre going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. Itâs far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.Â
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.Â
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.Â
âDecided not to kill me?â you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.Â
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric youâve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.Â
âI was never going to kill you.â
âHard to tell with you.âÂ
âI⊠donât have an argument.âÂ
And he doesnât. He realizes that heâs kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
âI thought we were friends.â That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that heâs stopped, looking at you. âWe stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients donât get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.â
âTheyâre on the house?â
âOf course they are!â you snap at him. âDo you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know Iâm not overcharging you?âÂ
âI stopped looking once I trusted you werenât robbing me.â
âSee, thatâs a funny word coming from you. Trust.â
A whistle catches Minhoâs attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minhoâs face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.Â
âI do trust you.â You say nothing to his comment. âIâm sorry I didnât accept the armor.â
âIt wasnât about rejecting the armor, Collector.â The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. âIt was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.â
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minhoâs stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. Thereâs a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.Â
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.Â
âYou werenât,â he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. âWrong. You werenât wrong.âÂ
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.Â
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.Â
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.Â
âWhat is this?â he asks, looking at you.Â
Itâs Hyunjin who answers, âNightcrawler shit. Youâre welcome.â
âShould we expect any of your former coworkers, then?âÂ
âTheyâre not so bad.â Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. âItâs the Darklings I worry about.âÂ
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if heâs serious or not.Â
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. âHe was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?âÂ
âHave you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?âÂ
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.Â
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they donât run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where theyâre going, but he doesnât,Â
An act of faith.Â
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minhoâs information, heâd gain a little trust.Â
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. Itâs not much to most, but he knows among killers itâs a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.Â
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you donât look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though youâre trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.Â
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. âWhat will you do with your lab?âÂ
Your lips twitch. âChemical fire. Thereâs a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.âÂ
âWho owns that place, anyway?âÂ
âBangchan.â The name sounds familiar. âReformed Nightcrawler.âÂ
âYou keep unusual company.â
âBetter than none.âÂ
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears itâs brighter than the glowsticks you carry. âI deserved that one. Iâm working on it, alright.â
âHow do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?â
âThe same way I deal with them.â You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, itâs just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. âWhat made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.âÂ
âI do, but I donât know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.â You look at him. âI wanted to trust you.â
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. Heâd been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.Â
âWhere are we going?âÂ
He looks up at you. âHyunjin didnât tell you?â
âNo, just said to trust you.â Minhoâs brows shoot up and you snort. âI know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.â
âItâs a safe house on Isla de Suenos.â You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. âMy mother belonged to a very well-off family. Iâm not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.â
âShe didnât choose you?â He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. âNo wonder you donât choose people either.â
Your candor is a relief. You donât tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. âThere are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if sheâd taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.â
âWhat is it now?â
âI donât have one. My father was servant-class. We donât have family names.âÂ
âHe worked for your motherâs family?â Minho nods. âLee. I like it. Will you keep it?â
âMaybe. Itâs who I have to be, now.âÂ
âNo longer the Collector?â He shakes his head. âGood. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.âÂ
Minho bites back a grin.Â
By the time they get to the surface again, theyâre just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.Â
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.Â
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. Itâs caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.Â
Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minhoâs shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.Â
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.Â
âMy mom liked to paint,â Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. âThatâs one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.âÂ
âHmm, I wouldnât say Iâm an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.â
âItâs a kind of art.â
âI suppose it is.â
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesnât open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.Â
He can almost pretend you both havenât thrown your life away to head to some house heâs never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.Â
âDoes it hurt?â he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. Youâre so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. âIf you let me give you better armor, plasma wonât hurt you.â
Minhoâs eyes flutter open. âYou brought it with you?â
âOf course I did.â Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. âI donât want you to get hurt.â
Hyunjinâs voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. âHello, yes, the child and I are still here.âÂ
âIâm not a child!â
âThe child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.â
You whirl around. âYouâre leaving? What do you mean youâre leaving?â
âI have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. Iâm taking the child to stay with Swan.âÂ
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. âYou would do that? Take him to stay with her?âÂ
âOf course. Swan likes strays.âÂ
âI am right here,â Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. âAnd Iâm not a child.â
Hyunjin grins at him. Itâs real and not a leer, something that Minho doesnât think heâs ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. âEnjoy your evening. Iâll be around, Minho.âÂ
âWait!â you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjinâs face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like heâs intruding. âHere.âÂ
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjinâs hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minhoâs side.Â
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. Itâs hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldnât have carried them all, but itâs something.Â
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesnât let go until heâs sure youâre okay, eyes searching.Â
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.Â
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.Â
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. Heâs thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.Â
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.Â
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didnât know he was holding.Â
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.Â
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
âMinho, thereâs a-â
âItâll let us through.â He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping itâs true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then theyâre through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. âItâs biometric.â
âAnd you were sure that was going to work?â
âMostly.âÂ
âMostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.âÂ
It takes a second, but he realizes youâre calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesnât mind the diminutive.Â
Even in still waters, he doesnât remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.Â
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.Â
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isnât holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.Â
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that itâs coded to his biochip and that itâs always been there if he needs it. He doesnât know if itâs stocked or if the electricity is on, or if itâs been raided and taken over. He doesnât even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.Â
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. Itâs made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.Â
It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows thatâs what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but heâs still on edge.Â
At the door, thereâs a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.Â
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. Itâs sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.Â
âYouâve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?â you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. Itâs three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.Â
âI didnât know what was here, honestly.â He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. âI assumed she didnât leave me something grand.âÂ
âItâs a good start on an apology. Sheâs still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.â
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.Â
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. Thereâs a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.Â
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. Heâll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while itâs existed.Â
After youâve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesnât bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. Heâs a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes thereâs no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesnât know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesnât know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.Â
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if youâre okay.Â
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.Â
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you donât expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.Â
Minhoâs lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
âSorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.âÂ
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. âCome on in.â
âAre you sure?â
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. Youâve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. âIâm at your mercy.âÂ
âSorry. I know itâs hurting you andâŠâ
âYou donât want me to hurt,â he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesnât know if itâs his acceptance that youâre more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling heâs always pretended wasnât there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.Â
A little braver.Â
âI never had a chance to thank you.â
âFor what?â You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. âAnything. Everything. I donât think Iâve ever said thank you.â
âThereâs a lot of things you havenât said.â
âSo let me.â You dart a look at him, nervous. When you donât interrupt he continues, âYou were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and Iâve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldnât be hurt. Or hurt others.â
âAnd now?â
âI realize it was silly.â
âHmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.âÂ
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you donât move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.Â
âWhyâd you offer me that armor?â
âI was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Whyâd you reject it?â
âI didnât want to hurt you.â
Thereâs a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. Youâre only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. âWhat if I want you to?âÂ
Minho needs no other permission. Itâs like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.Â
You donât push him away. Worse, you melt into him like itâs natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.Â
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like heâs burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.Â
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.Â
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.Â
You.Â
The one thing heâs let himself trust. The one person heâs let in, even when he didnât want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.Â
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.Â
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.Â
Fuck.
Heâs greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.Â
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. Youâre a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.Â
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and heâs drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on whatâs between yours instead.Â
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesnât yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell itâs been for him to pretend he wasnât yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.Â
âMinho,â you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. âPlease.âÂ
âYeah?â he switches legs, biting your calf. âWant it that bad?âÂ
âNeed it.âÂ
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound thatâs almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.Â
âHmm. Sweet.âÂ
âBet itâs better from the source,â you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.Â
âTrue,â he agrees, leaning forward.Â
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. Youâre warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesnât mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.Â
Itâs wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.Â
He doesnât have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.Â
âFuck,â you gasp. âFuck fuck fuck.â
âCome on,â he mouths against you. âTake what you want, baby.âÂ
The endearment slips from him more natural than anything heâs ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.Â
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
âMinho,â you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. Youâre eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. Youâre going to kill him. âMore.â
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. Thereâs nothing he wouldnât give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like youâll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until thereâs nothing left.Â
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between youâre legs. Youâre a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.Â
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. Youâre putty in his hands but heâs a mess in yours, too. Heâs shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.Â
Minho looks up at you. He already knows thereâs no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. âAre you sure?â
âIâve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.âÂ
âWhat a stuipd man I am.â
âYes,â you agree. âBut mine.âÂ
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.Â
Youâre warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
Itâs not delicate, but it isnât the same ferocity as earlier. Itâs something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.Â
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but youâre both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldnât leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.Â
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.Â
âMine,â you growl as though you can read his thoughts. âEven though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.â
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until youâre sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. Youâre his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.Â
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. Heâs still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesnât care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where heâs used it. Heâd been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesnât care. Heâd do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands donât let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.Â
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesnât want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that heâs all in, he wants to stay all in.Â
âWe should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.â He cracks an eye open at you to realize youâre hiding a grin as you look up at him. âYou know, since we canât go back to Neon Rodeo.â
âWhat is it with you and rodeos?âÂ
âYou find Cowboys at the rodeo.âÂ
âOh?â
âAnd youâre here⊠so⊠itâs a rodeo.âÂ
He blinks at you. âYour intellect is astounding.âÂ
You laugh and itâs like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.Â
âWhat do you say then, hmm?â he growls, nipping your bottom lip. âWant to go for another ride?â
âThat joke was terrible.âÂ
âYou know what they say. When at the rodeo.âÂ
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.Â
-
TAG LIST:
@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako
537 notes
·
View notes
Thank you SO much - I appreciate this soooo much. I had so much fun writing this so I'm really glad that you liked it. The weapons and the technology were lowkey my favorite part of figuring out what they should be called and how they should function! My goal is always to make sure the smut makes sense which is why I end up soooo plot heavy - I'm so glad it pays off here.
Thank you again for reading and saying such nice things, I am thrilled that you liked this!!
Rodeo | lmh (m)
đ©âĄđȘ Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
đ©âĄđȘ Summary: Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Word Count: 18,249
đ©âĄđȘ Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something
đ©âĄđȘ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you donât like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.Â
đ©âĄđȘ A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.
đ©âĄđȘ A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)
đ©âĄđȘ Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024
đ©âĄđȘ Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration
Any work is good work.Â
Minho isnât so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.Â
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the manâs cheek hits the floor.Â
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The manâs entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minhoâs sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. Itâs silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.Â
âReceiving,â a male voice answers. Minho doesnât know who it is - he just knows heâs one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.Â
âCollection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.âÂ
âCollected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.âÂ
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, itâs just a number on a screen that confirms the power wonât go out at his apartment and that he wonât go hungry.
Minhoâs knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.Â
Heâs so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.Â
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasnât given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isnât technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the governmentâs militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.Â
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesnât get a jump or sleep heâs going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.Â
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.Â
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.Â
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.Â
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. Thereâs no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.Â
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows itâll get messy.Â
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that arenât there and the foggy thinking, but they wonât keep him sharp forever.Â
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesnât feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.Â
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.Â
No one enters the car. Itâs just him and the other two sleeping people - he isnât sure theyâre even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
Itâs a unique little knife, snug in the sheath thatâs buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy youâd been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy youâd perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. Itâs saved his life a few times in situations like now when heâs exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.Â
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesnât mind, though. Youâre an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You donât ask the kind of questions that he doesnât want to answer, and youâre always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.Â
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesnât have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.Â
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.Â
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once heâs shown up as a Collection Request. He doesnât know if itâs the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. Itâs probably both, but every time it happens, heâs managed to evade it.Â
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, itâs sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators donât seem to care which Collector murders the other, and heâs never suffered for coming out on top.Â
Any work is good work.Â
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.Â
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.Â
âThe United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-â Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.Â
Immediately the holograms vanish and thereâs just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.Â
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When theyâre pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesnât do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjinâs eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho canât shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.Â
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.Â
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builderâs sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.Â
Agents of disorder and chaos. Thatâs what some say. Minho isnât sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.Â
âHello, Cowboy,â Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.Â
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. Heâs dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
âI donât like when you call me that.â
Hyunjinâs smile makes the hair on Minhoâs arms stand on end. âI know, but I like it.â
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show heâs irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjinâs face, Minho can safely assume he isnât doing a great job. âIs the Builder in or not?âÂ
âWho is to say?âÂ
âJust tell her Iâm here.âÂ
âIf sheâs in, she already knows.â Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. âYou can wait, Cowboy.âÂ
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjinâs uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.Â
When the water comes back, itâs warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. Heâs pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.Â
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
âDonât,â Minho grunts, sipping the water. âNot interested.â
âBut youâre so pretty.â
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, âBuilder is ready for you, Cowboy.âÂ
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesnât show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.Â
Minho doesnât turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.Â
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.Â
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks itâs a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you havenât built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.Â
âDo you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?âÂ
He doesnât mind the name from you. He tells himself that itâs because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesnât dislike you. Youâre easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and youâre to the point. He admires that, and heâs willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You donât look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.Â
âI donât have long,â he says, forgoing the seat. âJust need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. Itâs having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.âÂ
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minhoâs face.Â
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.Â
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. Thereâs a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesnât remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.Â
âWhen is the last time you slept?â
âAre you psychoanalyzing me?â You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. âFifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.â
âNo to the JumpPack,â you say finally. âSleep.â
âI have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.âÂ
âDown the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It wonât kill you.â He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, âIâll be done by the time youâre up. Take off your armor.âÂ
His hands open and close. Youâve never declined a JumpPack before. Youâve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.Â
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons heâs managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.Â
Minhoâs shirt is more armor than a shirt. Itâs made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when thereâs an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. Youâve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.Â
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if itâs not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.Â
Immediately heâs covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. Youâre dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.Â
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.Â
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though youâre going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.Â
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, âThree hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.âÂ
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. âAlright.âÂ
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. Heâs a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but youâre unfolding his armored shirt.Â
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. Heâs never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.Â
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. Thereâs no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
Heâs not in danger here.Â
Slowly, he trods to the cot. Itâs a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minhoâs eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.Â
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that heâll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.Â
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until heâs fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.Â
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he canât shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room heâs in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where thereâs another knock.Â
âCome in,â he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. Youâve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesnât hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff youâve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesnât move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. âI know Collectors donât have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.â
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. âWhy did you bring me food?â
âBecause you look like shit, Cowboy. Donât go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.âÂ
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesnât eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. Itâs not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
âFixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?â His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. âItâs made with durast carbonate. Itâs pretty shockproof.âÂ
âDidnât mean to. Some guyâs goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um⊠took a bullet.âÂ
âHow did they get the jump on you, hmm?â He stares. âWere you tired?âÂ
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. Itâs peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you donât say anything more. Youâve already gotten your barbs in and you donât intend to poke until heâs truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.Â
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.Â
Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, youâve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what heâs asking for, and youâve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but heâd been met with steely silence each time.Â
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. Youâre as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes itâs electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. Heâs not at a hundred percent, but heâs a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.Â
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.Â
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes itâs just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what youâre doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. Heâs still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust heâs established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices heâs only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.Â
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever youâre working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
âHello, Collector. How are you today?â Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, âFine, you?â
âDoing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.â
âMy watch?â
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He canât figure out whatâs so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that heâs used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. Itâs far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.Â
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.Â
Minhoâs fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesnât hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. Itâs abrasive, but he canât imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. Itâs far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
âThe needles,â he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. âDo they connect with me?â
âYes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.â You get up and walk toward him. âYou wonât even feel them. Theyâre the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. Theyâre more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.â
âWhatâs the point, though?âÂ
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. âInside of this,â you instruct, tapping the hard shell, âIs a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles donât push deep, but theyâre high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.âÂ
Minho looks up at you, silent. You donât notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. âBlue is elektrolytes,â you instruct, pointing to it. âGreen is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.â
âAnd purple?â
âJump,â you deadpan. âBut a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you wonât need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since itâs non-addictive.â
Minho stares. âWhat?â
âWhat part didnât you get?â
âThis is for me?â You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. âThis is worth a million United Credits at least. I canât afford it.â
âDo you see a price tag?â
âYou canât give me this for free.âÂ
âOf course I can. Itâs just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, wellâŠâ You shrug. âAt least you didnât pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. Iâve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I donât have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesnât protect you from plasma. This does.â
Minho doesnât buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldnât give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.Â
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? Heâs not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.Â
Minho has peers. Youâre a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.Â
âThe one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.âÂ
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks youâre going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
âFixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.âÂ
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.Â
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesnât move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesnât know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.Â
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minhoâs stomach. He doesnât move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to⊠what? He doesnât know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.Â
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You donât spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.Â
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasnât in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builderâs workshop.Â
Hyunjinâs smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.Â
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.Â
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.Â
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.Â
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while heâs at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer youâd made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.Â
Itâs nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.Â
âReceiving,â he answers, straightening up.Â
âCollection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
âCollection accepted.âÂ
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.Â
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.Â
-
The water runs red in Minhoâs shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.Â
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. Heâd had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows heâs lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, itâs a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didnât have the next twenty-four hours to himself.Â
If the knife had been one of yoursâŠ
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and heâs brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.Â
Yet the ache isnât what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isnât what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows heâs coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.Â
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.Â
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.Â
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.Â
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what heâs looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.Â
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows heâll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.Â
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.Â
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if heâs damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but heâs grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.Â
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.Â
There was crazy, and then there was that.Â
Minho wonders if youâve been charging him fairly, suddenly. Heâs always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows youâre willing to offer something that heâd only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if youâve been cutting him deals.
Heâs never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though theyâre the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesnât trust them whenever it comes to you.Â
Jisung already thinks itâs sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if itâs true.Â
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.Â
Minhoâs memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. Heâs able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after theyâve irritated him, like youâre giving him a gift or saying Iâm on your team.Â
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because itâs bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.Â
Minhoâs fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. Heâs thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesnât jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.Â
-
The ringing of Minhoâs watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where thereâs a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes itâs work calling.Â
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.Â
Clearing his throat, he answers. âReceiving.âÂ
âCollection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
Information flashes on Minhoâs watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. Heâs never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesnât want to see any of it, doesnât want to see when you were born, doesnât want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesnât want to know your criminal history.Â
Minhoâs ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.Â
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. Heâs only ever known your first name, but youâve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho canât remember if heâs ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighingâÂ
Three years and he canât believe heâs never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.Â
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isnât like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.Â
Irreversible.Â
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while heâs unarmed.Â
Now heâs supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or wonât he?Â
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
Heâs only a few steps toward it when he realizes heâs not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.Â
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes heâs having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.Â
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, heâs never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.Â
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
Itâs hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.Â
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that heâs not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.Â
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.Â
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things youâve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.Â
Itâs clinical.Â
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. Heâs always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minhoâs only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for⊠well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.Â
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what theyâre up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.Â
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesnât understand, so itâs difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because heâs in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through youâre defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he wonât complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.Â
Either way, itâs on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.Â
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.Â
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and itâs impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.Â
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesnât consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.Â
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?Â
Maybe itâs even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. Itâs easier than it should be, Minhoâs mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesnât have time to look around every corner or see if heâs being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.Â
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as heâs immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on whatâs going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.Â
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. Theyâll stay out of his way and wonât engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.Â
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.Â
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and itâs only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.Â
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.Â
Itâs full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. Itâs no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjinâs hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.Â
âYour patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.âÂ
Minhoâs heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjinâs dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesnât see. Thereâs a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.Â
Hyunjinâs fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. âWant to try, Cowboy?â
âI need to speak with her.â
âNo.â
âIâm not-â Minho grits his teeth. âIâm not Collecting.â
âDidnât say you were.âÂ
Hyunjin knows. He doesnât know how the Nightcrawler knows youâre a Collection on Minhoâs list, but itâs clear in the way Hyunjin leers.Â
âLook, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.â
âAnd what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if youâre not lying, theyâll come after you too.âÂ
âListne, Nightcrawler-â
Hyunjin grins. Itâs unnerving, and there isnât much that unnerves Minho. âNo, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I donât have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.â He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. âIâm always within my right to make a judgment call.â
âIâd never hurt her.â
âYouâre not friends, last I checked.â Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. âYou donât have friends, right? Thatâs why you reject acts of faith?â
âWhat do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?âÂ
âYouâd be surprised, Collector.âÂ
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minhoâs fingers twitch and Hyunjinâs eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
Heâs that confident in beating me.Â
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesnât make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjinâs eyes flicker and look over Minhoâs shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
âHereâs an act of faith. Letâs see what you do this time.âÂ
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.Â
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didnât arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.Â
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.Â
Act of faith.Â
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.Â
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.Â
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. Itâs nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.Â
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.Â
âThere are eight. Theyâre just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.â
âIs there a way through that door?â
âSure there is. If they want to melt it down, Iâm sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They canât blow it without leveling the street.âÂ
âDoes she have a way out the back?â
âNo, then I would have two doors to watch.âÂ
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they donât come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they donât want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.Â
âArenât you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?â Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. âCan you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.â
âIâm good at not being seen, Cowboy. Iâm not inhuman.âÂ
âOh good, so youâre actually useless when visible?â
Hyunjinâs face darkens. âYouâd be surprised how often you donât see me.âÂ
The threat isnât lost on Minho but it doesnât have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure theyâre behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but itâs only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isnât very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. âItâs a flash grenade,â he snaps. âIâm not going to kill everyone.â He pauses and smirks. âI donât do that anymore.â
âThatâs hardly less settling.â
âYou know,â Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. âOne day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.â
âOne is legal, for starters.âÂ
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. âRight, so what youâre doing right now? This is legal?â
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minhoâs shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and thereâs only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.Â
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collectorâs voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.Â
âI think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.â You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. âRemind me to write that down.âÂ
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign thatâs been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the âRâ tries to fight for its life.
Then thereâs you.Â
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjinâs hand resting on top of his gun.Â
âYou gonna kill me, Cowboy?â Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell youâre upset that it does.Â
âNo. I want to help.â Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? âConsider it an act of faith,â Minho offers and Hyunjinâs snickering turns to curiosity. âIâve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.âÂ
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. âWhat strange turn of events, Minho.âÂ
Itâs the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minhoâs mouth twitch a little.Â
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjinâs watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where theyâre going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. Itâs far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.Â
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.Â
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.Â
âDecided not to kill me?â you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.Â
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric youâve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.Â
âI was never going to kill you.â
âHard to tell with you.âÂ
âI⊠donât have an argument.âÂ
And he doesnât. He realizes that heâs kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
âI thought we were friends.â That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that heâs stopped, looking at you. âWe stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients donât get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.â
âTheyâre on the house?â
âOf course they are!â you snap at him. âDo you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know Iâm not overcharging you?âÂ
âI stopped looking once I trusted you werenât robbing me.â
âSee, thatâs a funny word coming from you. Trust.â
A whistle catches Minhoâs attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minhoâs face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.Â
âI do trust you.â You say nothing to his comment. âIâm sorry I didnât accept the armor.â
âIt wasnât about rejecting the armor, Collector.â The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. âIt was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.â
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minhoâs stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. Thereâs a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.Â
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.Â
âYou werenât,â he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. âWrong. You werenât wrong.âÂ
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.Â
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.Â
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.Â
âWhat is this?â he asks, looking at you.Â
Itâs Hyunjin who answers, âNightcrawler shit. Youâre welcome.â
âShould we expect any of your former coworkers, then?âÂ
âTheyâre not so bad.â Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. âItâs the Darklings I worry about.âÂ
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if heâs serious or not.Â
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. âHe was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?âÂ
âHave you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?âÂ
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.Â
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they donât run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where theyâre going, but he doesnât,Â
An act of faith.Â
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minhoâs information, heâd gain a little trust.Â
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. Itâs not much to most, but he knows among killers itâs a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.Â
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you donât look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though youâre trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.Â
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. âWhat will you do with your lab?âÂ
Your lips twitch. âChemical fire. Thereâs a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.âÂ
âWho owns that place, anyway?âÂ
âBangchan.â The name sounds familiar. âReformed Nightcrawler.âÂ
âYou keep unusual company.â
âBetter than none.âÂ
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears itâs brighter than the glowsticks you carry. âI deserved that one. Iâm working on it, alright.â
âHow do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?â
âThe same way I deal with them.â You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, itâs just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. âWhat made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.âÂ
âI do, but I donât know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.â You look at him. âI wanted to trust you.â
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. Heâd been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.Â
âWhere are we going?âÂ
He looks up at you. âHyunjin didnât tell you?â
âNo, just said to trust you.â Minhoâs brows shoot up and you snort. âI know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.â
âItâs a safe house on Isla de Suenos.â You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. âMy mother belonged to a very well-off family. Iâm not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.â
âShe didnât choose you?â He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. âNo wonder you donât choose people either.â
Your candor is a relief. You donât tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. âThere are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if sheâd taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.â
âWhat is it now?â
âI donât have one. My father was servant-class. We donât have family names.âÂ
âHe worked for your motherâs family?â Minho nods. âLee. I like it. Will you keep it?â
âMaybe. Itâs who I have to be, now.âÂ
âNo longer the Collector?â He shakes his head. âGood. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.âÂ
Minho bites back a grin.Â
By the time they get to the surface again, theyâre just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.Â
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.Â
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. Itâs caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.Â
Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minhoâs shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.Â
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.Â
âMy mom liked to paint,â Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. âThatâs one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.âÂ
âHmm, I wouldnât say Iâm an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.â
âItâs a kind of art.â
âI suppose it is.â
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesnât open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.Â
He can almost pretend you both havenât thrown your life away to head to some house heâs never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.Â
âDoes it hurt?â he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. Youâre so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. âIf you let me give you better armor, plasma wonât hurt you.â
Minhoâs eyes flutter open. âYou brought it with you?â
âOf course I did.â Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. âI donât want you to get hurt.â
Hyunjinâs voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. âHello, yes, the child and I are still here.âÂ
âIâm not a child!â
âThe child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.â
You whirl around. âYouâre leaving? What do you mean youâre leaving?â
âI have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. Iâm taking the child to stay with Swan.âÂ
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. âYou would do that? Take him to stay with her?âÂ
âOf course. Swan likes strays.âÂ
âI am right here,â Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. âAnd Iâm not a child.â
Hyunjin grins at him. Itâs real and not a leer, something that Minho doesnât think heâs ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. âEnjoy your evening. Iâll be around, Minho.âÂ
âWait!â you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjinâs face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like heâs intruding. âHere.âÂ
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjinâs hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minhoâs side.Â
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. Itâs hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldnât have carried them all, but itâs something.Â
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesnât let go until heâs sure youâre okay, eyes searching.Â
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.Â
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.Â
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. Heâs thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.Â
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.Â
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didnât know he was holding.Â
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.Â
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
âMinho, thereâs a-â
âItâll let us through.â He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping itâs true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then theyâre through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. âItâs biometric.â
âAnd you were sure that was going to work?â
âMostly.âÂ
âMostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.âÂ
It takes a second, but he realizes youâre calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesnât mind the diminutive.Â
Even in still waters, he doesnât remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.Â
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.Â
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isnât holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.Â
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that itâs coded to his biochip and that itâs always been there if he needs it. He doesnât know if itâs stocked or if the electricity is on, or if itâs been raided and taken over. He doesnât even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.Â
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. Itâs made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.Â
It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows thatâs what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but heâs still on edge.Â
At the door, thereâs a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.Â
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. Itâs sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.Â
âYouâve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?â you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. Itâs three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.Â
âI didnât know what was here, honestly.â He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. âI assumed she didnât leave me something grand.âÂ
âItâs a good start on an apology. Sheâs still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.â
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.Â
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. Thereâs a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.Â
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. Heâll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while itâs existed.Â
After youâve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesnât bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. Heâs a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes thereâs no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesnât know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesnât know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.Â
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if youâre okay.Â
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.Â
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you donât expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.Â
Minhoâs lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
âSorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.âÂ
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. âCome on in.â
âAre you sure?â
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. Youâve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. âIâm at your mercy.âÂ
âSorry. I know itâs hurting you andâŠâ
âYou donât want me to hurt,â he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesnât know if itâs his acceptance that youâre more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling heâs always pretended wasnât there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.Â
A little braver.Â
âI never had a chance to thank you.â
âFor what?â You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. âAnything. Everything. I donât think Iâve ever said thank you.â
âThereâs a lot of things you havenât said.â
âSo let me.â You dart a look at him, nervous. When you donât interrupt he continues, âYou were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and Iâve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldnât be hurt. Or hurt others.â
âAnd now?â
âI realize it was silly.â
âHmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.âÂ
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you donât move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.Â
âWhyâd you offer me that armor?â
âI was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Whyâd you reject it?â
âI didnât want to hurt you.â
Thereâs a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. Youâre only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. âWhat if I want you to?âÂ
Minho needs no other permission. Itâs like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.Â
You donât push him away. Worse, you melt into him like itâs natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.Â
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like heâs burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.Â
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.Â
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.Â
You.Â
The one thing heâs let himself trust. The one person heâs let in, even when he didnât want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.Â
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.Â
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.Â
Fuck.
Heâs greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.Â
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. Youâre a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.Â
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and heâs drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on whatâs between yours instead.Â
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesnât yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell itâs been for him to pretend he wasnât yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.Â
âMinho,â you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. âPlease.âÂ
âYeah?â he switches legs, biting your calf. âWant it that bad?âÂ
âNeed it.âÂ
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound thatâs almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.Â
âHmm. Sweet.âÂ
âBet itâs better from the source,â you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.Â
âTrue,â he agrees, leaning forward.Â
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. Youâre warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesnât mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.Â
Itâs wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.Â
He doesnât have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.Â
âFuck,â you gasp. âFuck fuck fuck.â
âCome on,â he mouths against you. âTake what you want, baby.âÂ
The endearment slips from him more natural than anything heâs ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.Â
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
âMinho,â you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. Youâre eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. Youâre going to kill him. âMore.â
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. Thereâs nothing he wouldnât give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like youâll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until thereâs nothing left.Â
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between youâre legs. Youâre a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.Â
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. Youâre putty in his hands but heâs a mess in yours, too. Heâs shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.Â
Minho looks up at you. He already knows thereâs no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. âAre you sure?â
âIâve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.âÂ
âWhat a stuipd man I am.â
âYes,â you agree. âBut mine.âÂ
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.Â
Youâre warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
Itâs not delicate, but it isnât the same ferocity as earlier. Itâs something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.Â
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but youâre both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldnât leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.Â
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.Â
âMine,â you growl as though you can read his thoughts. âEven though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.â
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until youâre sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. Youâre his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.Â
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. Heâs still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesnât care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where heâs used it. Heâd been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesnât care. Heâd do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands donât let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.Â
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesnât want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that heâs all in, he wants to stay all in.Â
âWe should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.â He cracks an eye open at you to realize youâre hiding a grin as you look up at him. âYou know, since we canât go back to Neon Rodeo.â
âWhat is it with you and rodeos?âÂ
âYou find Cowboys at the rodeo.âÂ
âOh?â
âAnd youâre here⊠so⊠itâs a rodeo.âÂ
He blinks at you. âYour intellect is astounding.âÂ
You laugh and itâs like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.Â
âWhat do you say then, hmm?â he growls, nipping your bottom lip. âWant to go for another ride?â
âThat joke was terrible.âÂ
âYou know what they say. When at the rodeo.âÂ
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.Â
-
TAG LIST:
@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako
537 notes
·
View notes
THANK YOU SO MUCH! I am so glad that you enjoyed it and thank you for reading!!
Rodeo | lmh (m)
đ©âĄđȘ Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
đ©âĄđȘ Summary: Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Word Count: 18,249
đ©âĄđȘ Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something
đ©âĄđȘ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.Â
đ©âĄđȘ Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you donât like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.Â
đ©âĄđȘ A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.
đ©âĄđȘ A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)
đ©âĄđȘ Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024
đ©âĄđȘ Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration
Any work is good work.Â
Minho isnât so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.Â
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the manâs cheek hits the floor.Â
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The manâs entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minhoâs sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. Itâs silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.Â
âReceiving,â a male voice answers. Minho doesnât know who it is - he just knows heâs one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.Â
âCollection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.âÂ
âCollected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.âÂ
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, itâs just a number on a screen that confirms the power wonât go out at his apartment and that he wonât go hungry.
Minhoâs knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.Â
Heâs so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.Â
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasnât given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isnât technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the governmentâs militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.Â
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesnât get a jump or sleep heâs going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.Â
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.Â
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.Â
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.Â
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. Thereâs no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.Â
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows itâll get messy.Â
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that arenât there and the foggy thinking, but they wonât keep him sharp forever.Â
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesnât feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.Â
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.Â
No one enters the car. Itâs just him and the other two sleeping people - he isnât sure theyâre even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
Itâs a unique little knife, snug in the sheath thatâs buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy youâd been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy youâd perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. Itâs saved his life a few times in situations like now when heâs exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.Â
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesnât mind, though. Youâre an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You donât ask the kind of questions that he doesnât want to answer, and youâre always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.Â
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesnât have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.Â
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.Â
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once heâs shown up as a Collection Request. He doesnât know if itâs the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. Itâs probably both, but every time it happens, heâs managed to evade it.Â
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, itâs sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators donât seem to care which Collector murders the other, and heâs never suffered for coming out on top.Â
Any work is good work.Â
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.Â
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.Â
âThe United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-â Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.Â
Immediately the holograms vanish and thereâs just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.Â
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When theyâre pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesnât do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjinâs eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho canât shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.Â
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.Â
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builderâs sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.Â
Agents of disorder and chaos. Thatâs what some say. Minho isnât sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.Â
âHello, Cowboy,â Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.Â
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. Heâs dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
âI donât like when you call me that.â
Hyunjinâs smile makes the hair on Minhoâs arms stand on end. âI know, but I like it.â
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show heâs irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjinâs face, Minho can safely assume he isnât doing a great job. âIs the Builder in or not?âÂ
âWho is to say?âÂ
âJust tell her Iâm here.âÂ
âIf sheâs in, she already knows.â Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. âYou can wait, Cowboy.âÂ
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjinâs uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.Â
When the water comes back, itâs warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. Heâs pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.Â
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
âDonât,â Minho grunts, sipping the water. âNot interested.â
âBut youâre so pretty.â
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, âBuilder is ready for you, Cowboy.âÂ
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesnât show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.Â
Minho doesnât turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.Â
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.Â
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks itâs a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you havenât built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.Â
âDo you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?âÂ
He doesnât mind the name from you. He tells himself that itâs because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesnât dislike you. Youâre easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and youâre to the point. He admires that, and heâs willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You donât look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.Â
âI donât have long,â he says, forgoing the seat. âJust need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. Itâs having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.âÂ
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minhoâs face.Â
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.Â
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. Thereâs a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesnât remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.Â
âWhen is the last time you slept?â
âAre you psychoanalyzing me?â You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. âFifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.â
âNo to the JumpPack,â you say finally. âSleep.â
âI have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.âÂ
âDown the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It wonât kill you.â He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, âIâll be done by the time youâre up. Take off your armor.âÂ
His hands open and close. Youâve never declined a JumpPack before. Youâve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.Â
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons heâs managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.Â
Minhoâs shirt is more armor than a shirt. Itâs made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when thereâs an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. Youâve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.Â
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if itâs not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.Â
Immediately heâs covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. Youâre dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.Â
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.Â
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though youâre going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.Â
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, âThree hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.âÂ
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. âAlright.âÂ
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. Heâs a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but youâre unfolding his armored shirt.Â
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. Heâs never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.Â
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. Thereâs no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
Heâs not in danger here.Â
Slowly, he trods to the cot. Itâs a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minhoâs eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.Â
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that heâll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.Â
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until heâs fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.Â
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he canât shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room heâs in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where thereâs another knock.Â
âCome in,â he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. Youâve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesnât hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff youâve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesnât move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. âI know Collectors donât have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.â
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. âWhy did you bring me food?â
âBecause you look like shit, Cowboy. Donât go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.âÂ
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesnât eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. Itâs not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
âFixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?â His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. âItâs made with durast carbonate. Itâs pretty shockproof.âÂ
âDidnât mean to. Some guyâs goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um⊠took a bullet.âÂ
âHow did they get the jump on you, hmm?â He stares. âWere you tired?âÂ
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. Itâs peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you donât say anything more. Youâve already gotten your barbs in and you donât intend to poke until heâs truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.Â
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.Â
Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, youâve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what heâs asking for, and youâve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but heâd been met with steely silence each time.Â
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. Youâre as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes itâs electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. Heâs not at a hundred percent, but heâs a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.Â
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.Â
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes itâs just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what youâre doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. Heâs still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust heâs established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices heâs only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.Â
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever youâre working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
âHello, Collector. How are you today?â Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, âFine, you?â
âDoing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.â
âMy watch?â
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He canât figure out whatâs so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that heâs used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. Itâs far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.Â
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.Â
Minhoâs fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesnât hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. Itâs abrasive, but he canât imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. Itâs far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
âThe needles,â he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. âDo they connect with me?â
âYes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.â You get up and walk toward him. âYou wonât even feel them. Theyâre the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. Theyâre more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.â
âWhatâs the point, though?âÂ
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. âInside of this,â you instruct, tapping the hard shell, âIs a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles donât push deep, but theyâre high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.âÂ
Minho looks up at you, silent. You donât notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. âBlue is elektrolytes,â you instruct, pointing to it. âGreen is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.â
âAnd purple?â
âJump,â you deadpan. âBut a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you wonât need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since itâs non-addictive.â
Minho stares. âWhat?â
âWhat part didnât you get?â
âThis is for me?â You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. âThis is worth a million United Credits at least. I canât afford it.â
âDo you see a price tag?â
âYou canât give me this for free.âÂ
âOf course I can. Itâs just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, wellâŠâ You shrug. âAt least you didnât pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. Iâve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I donât have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesnât protect you from plasma. This does.â
Minho doesnât buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldnât give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.Â
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? Heâs not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.Â
Minho has peers. Youâre a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.Â
âThe one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.âÂ
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks youâre going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
âFixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.âÂ
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.Â
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesnât move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesnât know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.Â
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minhoâs stomach. He doesnât move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to⊠what? He doesnât know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.Â
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You donât spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.Â
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasnât in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builderâs workshop.Â
Hyunjinâs smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.Â
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.Â
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.Â
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.Â
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while heâs at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer youâd made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.Â
Itâs nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.Â
âReceiving,â he answers, straightening up.Â
âCollection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
âCollection accepted.âÂ
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.Â
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.Â
-
The water runs red in Minhoâs shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.Â
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. Heâd had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows heâs lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, itâs a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didnât have the next twenty-four hours to himself.Â
If the knife had been one of yoursâŠ
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and heâs brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.Â
Yet the ache isnât what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isnât what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows heâs coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.Â
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.Â
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.Â
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.Â
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what heâs looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.Â
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows heâll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.Â
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.Â
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if heâs damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but heâs grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.Â
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.Â
There was crazy, and then there was that.Â
Minho wonders if youâve been charging him fairly, suddenly. Heâs always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows youâre willing to offer something that heâd only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if youâve been cutting him deals.
Heâs never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though theyâre the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesnât trust them whenever it comes to you.Â
Jisung already thinks itâs sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if itâs true.Â
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.Â
Minhoâs memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. Heâs able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after theyâve irritated him, like youâre giving him a gift or saying Iâm on your team.Â
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because itâs bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.Â
Minhoâs fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. Heâs thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesnât jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.Â
-
The ringing of Minhoâs watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where thereâs a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes itâs work calling.Â
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.Â
Clearing his throat, he answers. âReceiving.âÂ
âCollection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
Information flashes on Minhoâs watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. Heâs never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesnât want to see any of it, doesnât want to see when you were born, doesnât want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesnât want to know your criminal history.Â
Minhoâs ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.Â
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. Heâs only ever known your first name, but youâve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho canât remember if heâs ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighingâÂ
Three years and he canât believe heâs never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.Â
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isnât like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.Â
Irreversible.Â
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while heâs unarmed.Â
Now heâs supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or wonât he?Â
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
Heâs only a few steps toward it when he realizes heâs not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.Â
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes heâs having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.Â
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, heâs never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.Â
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
Itâs hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.Â
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that heâs not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.Â
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.Â
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things youâve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.Â
Itâs clinical.Â
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. Heâs always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minhoâs only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for⊠well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.Â
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what theyâre up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.Â
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesnât understand, so itâs difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because heâs in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through youâre defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he wonât complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.Â
Either way, itâs on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.Â
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.Â
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and itâs impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.Â
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesnât consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.Â
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?Â
Maybe itâs even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. Itâs easier than it should be, Minhoâs mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesnât have time to look around every corner or see if heâs being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.Â
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as heâs immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on whatâs going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.Â
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. Theyâll stay out of his way and wonât engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.Â
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.Â
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and itâs only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.Â
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.Â
Itâs full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. Itâs no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjinâs hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.Â
âYour patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.âÂ
Minhoâs heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjinâs dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesnât see. Thereâs a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.Â
Hyunjinâs fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. âWant to try, Cowboy?â
âI need to speak with her.â
âNo.â
âIâm not-â Minho grits his teeth. âIâm not Collecting.â
âDidnât say you were.âÂ
Hyunjin knows. He doesnât know how the Nightcrawler knows youâre a Collection on Minhoâs list, but itâs clear in the way Hyunjin leers.Â
âLook, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.â
âAnd what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if youâre not lying, theyâll come after you too.âÂ
âListne, Nightcrawler-â
Hyunjin grins. Itâs unnerving, and there isnât much that unnerves Minho. âNo, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I donât have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.â He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. âIâm always within my right to make a judgment call.â
âIâd never hurt her.â
âYouâre not friends, last I checked.â Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. âYou donât have friends, right? Thatâs why you reject acts of faith?â
âWhat do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?âÂ
âYouâd be surprised, Collector.âÂ
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minhoâs fingers twitch and Hyunjinâs eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
Heâs that confident in beating me.Â
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesnât make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjinâs eyes flicker and look over Minhoâs shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
âHereâs an act of faith. Letâs see what you do this time.âÂ
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.Â
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didnât arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.Â
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.Â
Act of faith.Â
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.Â
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.Â
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. Itâs nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.Â
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.Â
âThere are eight. Theyâre just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.â
âIs there a way through that door?â
âSure there is. If they want to melt it down, Iâm sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They canât blow it without leveling the street.âÂ
âDoes she have a way out the back?â
âNo, then I would have two doors to watch.âÂ
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they donât come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they donât want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.Â
âArenât you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?â Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. âCan you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.â
âIâm good at not being seen, Cowboy. Iâm not inhuman.âÂ
âOh good, so youâre actually useless when visible?â
Hyunjinâs face darkens. âYouâd be surprised how often you donât see me.âÂ
The threat isnât lost on Minho but it doesnât have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure theyâre behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but itâs only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isnât very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. âItâs a flash grenade,â he snaps. âIâm not going to kill everyone.â He pauses and smirks. âI donât do that anymore.â
âThatâs hardly less settling.â
âYou know,â Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. âOne day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.â
âOne is legal, for starters.âÂ
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. âRight, so what youâre doing right now? This is legal?â
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minhoâs shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and thereâs only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.Â
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collectorâs voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.Â
âI think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.â You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. âRemind me to write that down.âÂ
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign thatâs been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the âRâ tries to fight for its life.
Then thereâs you.Â
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjinâs hand resting on top of his gun.Â
âYou gonna kill me, Cowboy?â Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell youâre upset that it does.Â
âNo. I want to help.â Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? âConsider it an act of faith,â Minho offers and Hyunjinâs snickering turns to curiosity. âIâve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.âÂ
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. âWhat strange turn of events, Minho.âÂ
Itâs the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minhoâs mouth twitch a little.Â
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjinâs watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where theyâre going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. Itâs far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.Â
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.Â
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.Â
âDecided not to kill me?â you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.Â
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric youâve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.Â
âI was never going to kill you.â
âHard to tell with you.âÂ
âI⊠donât have an argument.âÂ
And he doesnât. He realizes that heâs kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
âI thought we were friends.â That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that heâs stopped, looking at you. âWe stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients donât get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.â
âTheyâre on the house?â
âOf course they are!â you snap at him. âDo you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know Iâm not overcharging you?âÂ
âI stopped looking once I trusted you werenât robbing me.â
âSee, thatâs a funny word coming from you. Trust.â
A whistle catches Minhoâs attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minhoâs face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.Â
âI do trust you.â You say nothing to his comment. âIâm sorry I didnât accept the armor.â
âIt wasnât about rejecting the armor, Collector.â The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. âIt was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.â
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minhoâs stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. Thereâs a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.Â
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.Â
âYou werenât,â he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. âWrong. You werenât wrong.âÂ
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.Â
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.Â
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.Â
âWhat is this?â he asks, looking at you.Â
Itâs Hyunjin who answers, âNightcrawler shit. Youâre welcome.â
âShould we expect any of your former coworkers, then?âÂ
âTheyâre not so bad.â Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. âItâs the Darklings I worry about.âÂ
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if heâs serious or not.Â
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. âHe was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?âÂ
âHave you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?âÂ
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.Â
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they donât run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where theyâre going, but he doesnât,Â
An act of faith.Â
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minhoâs information, heâd gain a little trust.Â
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. Itâs not much to most, but he knows among killers itâs a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.Â
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you donât look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though youâre trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.Â
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. âWhat will you do with your lab?âÂ
Your lips twitch. âChemical fire. Thereâs a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.âÂ
âWho owns that place, anyway?âÂ
âBangchan.â The name sounds familiar. âReformed Nightcrawler.âÂ
âYou keep unusual company.â
âBetter than none.âÂ
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears itâs brighter than the glowsticks you carry. âI deserved that one. Iâm working on it, alright.â
âHow do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?â
âThe same way I deal with them.â You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, itâs just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. âWhat made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.âÂ
âI do, but I donât know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.â You look at him. âI wanted to trust you.â
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. Heâd been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.Â
âWhere are we going?âÂ
He looks up at you. âHyunjin didnât tell you?â
âNo, just said to trust you.â Minhoâs brows shoot up and you snort. âI know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.â
âItâs a safe house on Isla de Suenos.â You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. âMy mother belonged to a very well-off family. Iâm not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.â
âShe didnât choose you?â He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. âNo wonder you donât choose people either.â
Your candor is a relief. You donât tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. âThere are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if sheâd taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.â
âWhat is it now?â
âI donât have one. My father was servant-class. We donât have family names.âÂ
âHe worked for your motherâs family?â Minho nods. âLee. I like it. Will you keep it?â
âMaybe. Itâs who I have to be, now.âÂ
âNo longer the Collector?â He shakes his head. âGood. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.âÂ
Minho bites back a grin.Â
By the time they get to the surface again, theyâre just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.Â
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.Â
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. Itâs caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.Â
Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minhoâs shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.Â
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.Â
âMy mom liked to paint,â Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. âThatâs one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.âÂ
âHmm, I wouldnât say Iâm an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.â
âItâs a kind of art.â
âI suppose it is.â
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesnât open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.Â
He can almost pretend you both havenât thrown your life away to head to some house heâs never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.Â
âDoes it hurt?â he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. Youâre so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. âIf you let me give you better armor, plasma wonât hurt you.â
Minhoâs eyes flutter open. âYou brought it with you?â
âOf course I did.â Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. âI donât want you to get hurt.â
Hyunjinâs voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. âHello, yes, the child and I are still here.âÂ
âIâm not a child!â
âThe child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.â
You whirl around. âYouâre leaving? What do you mean youâre leaving?â
âI have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. Iâm taking the child to stay with Swan.âÂ
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. âYou would do that? Take him to stay with her?âÂ
âOf course. Swan likes strays.âÂ
âI am right here,â Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. âAnd Iâm not a child.â
Hyunjin grins at him. Itâs real and not a leer, something that Minho doesnât think heâs ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. âEnjoy your evening. Iâll be around, Minho.âÂ
âWait!â you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjinâs face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like heâs intruding. âHere.âÂ
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjinâs hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minhoâs side.Â
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. Itâs hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldnât have carried them all, but itâs something.Â
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesnât let go until heâs sure youâre okay, eyes searching.Â
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.Â
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.Â
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. Heâs thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.Â
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.Â
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didnât know he was holding.Â
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.Â
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
âMinho, thereâs a-â
âItâll let us through.â He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping itâs true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then theyâre through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. âItâs biometric.â
âAnd you were sure that was going to work?â
âMostly.âÂ
âMostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.âÂ
It takes a second, but he realizes youâre calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesnât mind the diminutive.Â
Even in still waters, he doesnât remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.Â
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.Â
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isnât holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.Â
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that itâs coded to his biochip and that itâs always been there if he needs it. He doesnât know if itâs stocked or if the electricity is on, or if itâs been raided and taken over. He doesnât even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.Â
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. Itâs made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.Â
It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows thatâs what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but heâs still on edge.Â
At the door, thereâs a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.Â
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. Itâs sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.Â
âYouâve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?â you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. Itâs three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.Â
âI didnât know what was here, honestly.â He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. âI assumed she didnât leave me something grand.âÂ
âItâs a good start on an apology. Sheâs still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.â
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.Â
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. Thereâs a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.Â
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. Heâll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while itâs existed.Â
After youâve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesnât bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. Heâs a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes thereâs no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesnât know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesnât know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.Â
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if youâre okay.Â
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.Â
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you donât expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.Â
Minhoâs lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
âSorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.âÂ
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. âCome on in.â
âAre you sure?â
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. Youâve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. âIâm at your mercy.âÂ
âSorry. I know itâs hurting you andâŠâ
âYou donât want me to hurt,â he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesnât know if itâs his acceptance that youâre more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling heâs always pretended wasnât there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.Â
A little braver.Â
âI never had a chance to thank you.â
âFor what?â You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. âAnything. Everything. I donât think Iâve ever said thank you.â
âThereâs a lot of things you havenât said.â
âSo let me.â You dart a look at him, nervous. When you donât interrupt he continues, âYou were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and Iâve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldnât be hurt. Or hurt others.â
âAnd now?â
âI realize it was silly.â
âHmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.âÂ
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you donât move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.Â
âWhyâd you offer me that armor?â
âI was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Whyâd you reject it?â
âI didnât want to hurt you.â
Thereâs a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. Youâre only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. âWhat if I want you to?âÂ
Minho needs no other permission. Itâs like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.Â
You donât push him away. Worse, you melt into him like itâs natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.Â
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like heâs burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.Â
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.Â
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.Â
You.Â
The one thing heâs let himself trust. The one person heâs let in, even when he didnât want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.Â
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.Â
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.Â
Fuck.
Heâs greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.Â
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. Youâre a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.Â
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and heâs drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on whatâs between yours instead.Â
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesnât yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell itâs been for him to pretend he wasnât yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.Â
âMinho,â you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. âPlease.âÂ
âYeah?â he switches legs, biting your calf. âWant it that bad?âÂ
âNeed it.âÂ
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound thatâs almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.Â
âHmm. Sweet.âÂ
âBet itâs better from the source,â you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.Â
âTrue,â he agrees, leaning forward.Â
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. Youâre warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesnât mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.Â
Itâs wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.Â
He doesnât have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.Â
âFuck,â you gasp. âFuck fuck fuck.â
âCome on,â he mouths against you. âTake what you want, baby.âÂ
The endearment slips from him more natural than anything heâs ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.Â
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
âMinho,â you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. Youâre eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. Youâre going to kill him. âMore.â
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. Thereâs nothing he wouldnât give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like youâll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until thereâs nothing left.Â
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between youâre legs. Youâre a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.Â
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. Youâre putty in his hands but heâs a mess in yours, too. Heâs shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.Â
Minho looks up at you. He already knows thereâs no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. âAre you sure?â
âIâve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.âÂ
âWhat a stuipd man I am.â
âYes,â you agree. âBut mine.âÂ
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.Â
Youâre warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
Itâs not delicate, but it isnât the same ferocity as earlier. Itâs something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.Â
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but youâre both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldnât leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.Â
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.Â
âMine,â you growl as though you can read his thoughts. âEven though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.â
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until youâre sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. Youâre his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.Â
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. Heâs still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesnât care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where heâs used it. Heâd been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesnât care. Heâd do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands donât let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.Â
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesnât want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that heâs all in, he wants to stay all in.Â
âWe should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.â He cracks an eye open at you to realize youâre hiding a grin as you look up at him. âYou know, since we canât go back to Neon Rodeo.â
âWhat is it with you and rodeos?âÂ
âYou find Cowboys at the rodeo.âÂ
âOh?â
âAnd youâre here⊠so⊠itâs a rodeo.âÂ
He blinks at you. âYour intellect is astounding.âÂ
You laugh and itâs like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.Â
âWhat do you say then, hmm?â he growls, nipping your bottom lip. âWant to go for another ride?â
âThat joke was terrible.âÂ
âYou know what they say. When at the rodeo.âÂ
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.Â
-
TAG LIST:
@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako
537 notes
·
View notes
đđđŒ
2K notes
·
View notes