Chapter Text
That night had been a losing battle against sleep.
Last night had been a whirlwind and his nerves had refused to settle down long after he had left the club. No matter how many blocks he had put in between the club and himself, it felt like an invisible thread was tethering him back.
Porchay had tossed and turned, his mind refusing to quiet down. It didn’t help that he still wasn’t accustomed to the new bed that he called his.
Every time he closed his eyes, his mind kept replaying his conversation with Wik.
The sharpness in his gaze, as if he had been seeing straight through his act, scouring every inch as if daring him to continue with his ruse.
And the worst part? He wasn’t sure if he was restless because of the weight of this mission or because of him.
Chay knew that he would have to be on guard in case Kimhant ever arrived, but Wik? That was a variable he had never accounted for.
Not a single report that he had reviewed had mentioned his name. Every surveillance file, every scrap of intel he had been handed, and– nothing.
How Tee had failed to include a write-up on Wik, he had no clue.
Wik was hardly unmemorable.
There was a weight to him, he wasn’t just another dancer in the club. No, he seemed like much more than a pawn in this chess game.
He reached out for the pillow underneath him, yanking it close before burying his face into it, stifling the frustrated yell that threatened to escape.
He always knew that he would in over his head, everyone on their team knew that, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
More than anything, he missed Porsche.
The way his brother’s palm would always ruffle his hair after an annoyingly tedious day at work, the way his annoyingly tight bear hugs had a way of grounding him when his thoughts were running a hundred miles a minute.
The way he always knew how to pull him back, before the world would swallow him whole.
But Porsche wasn’t here.
And Chay knew that if he wanted to survive this, he couldn’t afford to need him.
It wasn’t until past three in the morning that pure exhaustion finally started pressing in, though even then sleep never truly came. It was a shallow, restless thing – constantly teetering between waking up and the suffocating weight of his own thoughts.
So, when the harsh knock came at his door just after sunrise, his heart slammed against his ribs, panic spiking through his vein, before he even had a moment to register what was happening.
No one should know where he lived.
The whole reason their unit chose this squalor of an apartment was because nobody would question his sudden arrival or even wonder where he was.
He moved on instinct, reaching for the knife he had tucked beneath his mattress as he crept toward the door.
Peering through the peephole, his stomach lurched.
Wik.
Leaning casually against the hallway wall, arms crossed, looking as if he owned the damn place.
Porchay took a second to place his knife onto the side-table by the entrance and pulling over a tank-top before unlocking the door and pulling it open, tilting his head in faux amusement, “It’s only been six hours, Wik, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Wik’s gaze swept over him, sharp and assessing, before flicking over the displayed knife.
One corner of his mouth lifted in amusement, “That would hardly be necessary.”
Porchay clicked his tongue, before shrugging, “Force of habit.”
Wik hummed, unconvinced, before stepping past him uninvited. His presence sucking out all the air out Porchay’s already-suffocating apartment.
Porchay shut the door behind him, crossing his arms. “You know, most people usually at least text before showing up at someone’s home at the crack of dawn.”
Wik turned, his expression unreadable.
A slow wave of unease crept up Porchay’s spine. He schooled his expression to one of nonchalance as met Wik’s gaze.
Wik let out a soft, amused hum, “You strike me as someone that would’ve ignored it.”
“Fair point,” Porchay’s jaw clenched, before huffing out, “But in my defense, you told me to get to the club at 8 PM. Not once did you mention an early wakeup call.”
Wik’s gaze flickered with something unreadable as he stepped closer, just enough to make Porchay hyperaware of the mere inches in between them.
“Gotta keep you on your toes, little bird. Most jobs don’t need to test their new recruits to see if they are as good as they claim.”
“And what exactly am I being tested on?”
“Adaptability,” Wik murmured, “How well you take direction. You see, our clients are not easily pleased.”
Porchay’s breath hitched, but he couldn’t let himself falter, keeping his lazy grin firmly in place, “And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to see me again.”
Wik let out a quiet chuckle, low and smooth, sending a small shiver down Porchay’s spine, before finally taking a step back, giving him more breathing room.
“Get dressed,” he said, moving for the door, “Your first lesson is about to start in ten.”
Porchay waited until the door clicked shut before letting out a slow breath, forehead leaning against it as his heart hammered against his ribs.
Fine, he could do this. Everything will be coming up Chay’s.
He exhaled sharply, pushing off the door and rubbing his hands over his face.
This wasn’t his first time bluffing his way through a situation—he had spent weeks preparing for this.
But he couldn’t deny, there was something about Wik that unsettled him, like the man could see past every practiced smirk and well-placed tease.
He strode toward his tiny bathroom, the fluorescent lighting casting a harsh glow.
His reflection in his mirror looked just as exhausted as he felt, dark circles adorned his skin, proof of the restless night he had spent chasing sleep.
Great. Exactly the way he should have been seen by Wik.
He scoffed at himself before peeling off his wrinkled top, before casting it onto the floor. He quickly washed his face before putting on minimal makeup to make himself look decent enough.
A swipe of gloss really made him look decent.
He reached for a cropped top that fit snugly against his frame, accentuating the lines of his stomach.
If he was being forced to play the part, he might as well commit fully
Still as he stared at himself in the mirror, something twisted deep in his gut. Chay knew what he was doing… for the most part.
So why did it feel like Wik was already three steps ahead?
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Wik was leaning against a sleek black car parked at the curb, checking his phone.
The morning sun was barely up, casting long shadows across the street.
He hadn’t acknowledged Porchay at first, seemingly lost within the void of his device. It momentarily let Porchay observe him, the way his tousled dark hair framed his face.
The way
Porchay couldn’t deny it, if Wik had been his senior in college, he would have long been fascinated.
“Nine minutes,” he said simply, “Not bad.”
He forced a lazy grin, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What can I say? I aim to impress; it’s why I applied for the job.”
Wik let out a small, amused hum, opening the passenger door. “Get in.”
Porchay slipped into the seat, the scent of expensive leather filling his nose. The car was just like Wik—sleek, sharp, and impossible to read.
Even with his generous earnings with the Special Ops Unit, there was no way he could even begin to imagine saving up to pay for a vehicle of this caliber.
For a few minutes, the car ride was silent save for the hum of the engine. Then a familiar melody drifted through the speakers—low, smooth, but unmistakable.
Porchay blinked, barely stopping from reacting.
“You listen to Kim” He stated before could think better of it.
Wik glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, “That surprising?”
Porchay huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. Of course. Even with something as simple as music, Wik managed to stay elusive.
“Well… yeah, Kim is still pretty indie. I never thought my boss would also be a fan.”
For a moment, Wik didn’t say anything. Then, almost imperceptibly, he turned the volume up.
Porchay couldn’t help but relax a bit more.
It wasn’t until Wik pulled onto a rather vacant road, Porchay finally asked, “So, what exactly does this ‘first lesson’ entail?”
Wik’s hands were steady on the when, his expression never changing, “Observation.”
“Observation of what?”
A ghost of smile, played at Wik’s lips. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Porchay kept his posture relaxed, but inside his mind was racing.
Observation?
So, this is about what Wik expected him to notice – what Wik already knew.
They wove through the city, past the narrow alleyways and traffic-filled streets. Porchay recognized the district they were heading towards—an area known for high-end clubs, discreet backroom dealings, fronts that Yok often had Porchay researching.
When Wik finally pulled up in front of a café, it was anything but what Porchay had been expecting.
It was small, but elegant. Each cup of coffee probably costing at least half of his hourly wage. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with a handful of early morning patrons sitting inside, adorned with obvious brands that Porchay would never even dream of owning.
A slight blush heated his lips, he felt severely underdressed.
It was far too quiet, too normal for what he had assumed Wik had planned.
Wik stepped out of his car without a word, so Porchay followed, slipping his hands into his pockets as he took in his surroundings.
Wik led him inside, opting for a table in the corner near the window.
Porchay couldn’t help but muse to himself, Wik looked right at homme, leaning back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table as his sharp eyes scanned the room.
He wasn’t completely oblivious; he took his cue and sat next to Wik.
His gaze drifted casually over the café. The barista behind the counter, looking down in the corner of the counter, probably streaming his work day. A woman near the entrance, mindlessly scrolling through her phone, her body turned slightly toward the door, her head lifting every few seconds, as if she were waiting for someone. A man at the far end, reading a newspaper – two coffees laid in front of him untouched and the pages in his hand hadn’t turned in a while.
Wik finally spoke, voice low but clear, “Tell me what you see.”
Porchay exhaled slowly, leaning in over to half-whisper into Wik’s ear. “ A guy pretending to read a newspaper, probably scoping out to see if there’s anyone he could take home.”
Wik’s lips curved slightly, in what Porchay could only argue was amusement, but said nothing, waiting for more.
Porchay glanced toward the entrance. “Woman by the door—waiting for someone. Looks nervous, maybe on her first date,” he muses, “Wouldn’t be surprised if its with another woman, look at her nails, her index is a dead giveaway.”
As if by some ordained being wanted to throw him a bone, another woman entered the café, beelining directly towards the other’s table.
Porchay smirked, leaning back slight, “Right on cue.”
Wik didn’t react, at least not in any way that Porchay could see.
He let out a soft hum, turning his head slightly, tracking the way the woman’s expression shifted relief smoothing out the tension her body had held. “She’s been checking the entrance every twenty seconds. Hands scrolling through her phone, mindlessly like she’s debating whether to text or not. Then her freshly manicured nails with one shorter than the other? Definitely a first date.”
Wik hummed in acknowledgement, “Go on.”
Porchay didn’t need any further encouragement, his eyes sweeping across the shop until they caught on the man with the newspaper, his fingers drumming against the wooden table in an erratic rhythm.
“That guy? Probably waiting for his date, someone that he has been seeing for some time,” Porchay noted, “ He’s relaxed, but his leg keeps bouncing. Overconfident, but he can’t concentrate on what he’s reading. His date is late, but he hasn’t checked his phone once since the moment we walked in. Means he’s sure she’ll show up.”
A quiet chuckle, something almost approving, slipped through Wik’s lips. It tickled something inside of Porchay, though he was unsure of exactly what.
“Not bad, little bird.”
His first instinct was to deflect, brush it off with some cocky remark.
“The world is an easier place when you know how to read people,” he said, giving an easy shrug, “I wouldn’t have made it this far if I hadn’t.”
It was a carefully measured response, so he settled for offering up a half-truth.
If he hadn’t learned how to read people, to observe as much as he could and learn to charm when necessary, he and Porsche would have spent a lot more nights going to bed hungry.
It had meant survival.
Porchay had learned at an early age, people were puzzles, and the better he was at solving them, the less illicit work Porsche had to find himself in and the better their odds of getting by.
But now, sitting next to Wik, his instinct kept telling him that this man was one of the hardest puzzles he had ever encountered.
Wik tilted his head, eyes never leaving him. “So tell me,” he mused, his voice still carrying that smooth, melodic quality that was both exhilarating and deeply unsettling, “what do you think people see when they look at you?
His stomach twisted in apprehension, the type that came when stepping on thin ice, waiting to see if would be able to bear the weight pressured onto it.
“Depends who’s looking.”
A single brow lifted – a silent invitation to continue.
“If it were someone like him—” Porchay inclined his head toward the man lingering in the corner, seemingly reading the same page of his newspaper for the hundredth time. “He would see someone easygoing, harmless.”
“And if it’s someone like me?”
Porchay’s fingers curled slightly against the denim that covered his legs. “You’d see someone trying very hard to look like they belong, because they really need the job.”
Half-truths.
Wik’s lips quirked, not quite a smile, yet still seeping with palpable amusement. “Now that’s the first truly honest thing you’ve said all morning.”
Porchay subconsciously clenched his jaw.
It was another test.
The thought made his stomach twist even further. He was supposed to be in control of the illusion here—managing perceptions, playing his role like a well-rehearsed script.
But something about Wik made him feel like an open book, like every page had already been thoroughly devoured before he had the chance to turn them himself.
He forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, his posture easy.
“So,” Porchay drawled, “Was this morning just for fun, or were you just testing me before I stepped foot back into the club?”
“Both.”
Porchay couldn’t help but let out a small huff, but before he could press for more, Wik leaned towards him slightly, his breath tickling Porchay’s neck ever so slightly.
He wasn’t sure if the electric shocks that ran through him were because of fear or mild excitement.
“If you want to do well at the club, you need to know what the people want before they do,” Wik murmured, “You need to see them—see what they’re hiding, what they need and what they crave.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he stated, his expression carefully neutral. He refused to give Wik the satisfaction of seeing him pull back first.
“Reading people is one thing,” Wik murmured once more, “But controlling what they read in you? That’s the real skill.”
This was a dangerous game he was playing, Porchay was fully aware, but he couldn’t help but feel than he might as well raise the stakes. A purposeful smirk crossed his lips, “I think I do just fine.”
“Oh, you do?” His eyes flickered over Porchay’s face—assessing and lingering.
He wasn’t sure if it was ego or pride, but he knew that he couldn’t let Wik get the upper hand. So, he exhaled slowly, deliberately leaning in to match Wik.
“You tell me,” he found himself challenging the other, voice lighter than he felt. “What do you read in me?”
Wik watched him for a beat longer, then nodded to himself as if coming to a final decision. His hand reached forward slow and deliberate, his fingers barely grazing the inside of Porchay’s wrist where it laid against his thigh.
It was the lightest of touches, barely there, but it burned with such intensity that Porchay had to do everything in his willpower to not flinch away in surprise.
“Right now?” Wik murmured, his voice dipping lower, “I see someone who knows exactly what type of role he must play, but underneath?” His fingers dragged up, just slightly, to rest against the pulse point in his wrist. “There’s something else.”
Porchay swallowed down the urge to react, before letting out a small chuckle, “I’ve always been an open book P’Wik,” he said smoothly, letting a teasing lilt cover his words like honey, “ Maybe you’re just reading too much into the pages.”
Wik exhaled with an amused hum, something darky indulgent gleam in his eyes. Then, with an easy grace, he pushed himself up from the table, tilting his head toward the door. “Just remember, someone will always be watching.”
Porchay’s lips curved into a small smile, but beneath it, he was left with the uncomfortable realization that despite all his efforts, Wik was already inside his head.
Whether they were words of advice or a simple warning, Porchay was unsure.
Wik left him unbalanced and unteethered. Every conversation, every glance, felt like a carefully laid trap—one where he suddenly found himself hunted.
As he stood up to follow the other, his fingers absently reached up, tracing the cool metal of his piercings. he twirled the studs between his fingers, the rhythmic motion ground him as his thoughts raced.
This wasn't supposed to be the difficult part.
The plan was simple: slip into the club's world, blend in with the other dancers and gather as much intel as he could without raising suspicion.
He had trained for this, spent weeks preparing, memorizing names, routines, and habits.
The job itself—entertaining clients, keeping them engaged while keeping himself invisible—should have been the easy part.
But then there was Wik.
Wik, who saw too much.
Pochay continued to roll the piercing between his fingers again as he got back into the Wik's vehicle once more. He had spent years perfecting the art of being whoever people needed him to be.
He had slipped between masks with ease—good student, obedient brother, charming schoolkid, harmless and unassuming. It hadn't taken him long to learn to mold himself into whatever shape kept him face.
Yet, with just a few words, Wik had turned his world on its axis.
Porchay wasn't sure if he wan—could fix it.
He shook the thought away, staring at all the passing buildings, forcing himself to refocus.
It didn't matter what Wik thought of him, what shadows of doubt the man stirred in his mind.
This was a mission.
He had a job to complete.
At the end of the day, no matter how entangled he became in this world, no matter how many times he found himself caught in Wik's gaze.
Porchay wasn't really one of them.
And maybe, just maybe…
Kimhant was never the one that he should have been worried about.