Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Bang Chan wakes up in the middle of the night, he knows that something isn’t quite right.

Outside, the wind howls loudly as rain pounds against his shuttered windows. Chan lies star-fished on a springy mattress, legs tangled in the mess of sheets and blankets, as he contemplates the feeling unsettling his heart.

The chill deep in Chan’s chest has the fine hair on his arms standing on end. His body isn’t exactly screaming danger at him through blaring sirens and blinking lights, yet there is a certain unease there, ice-cold and gripping, that confuses him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything remotely close to this. Sure, there are the darting shadows his paranoia has constructed out of nothing, but this is on an entirely different level.

Resigned to his sleepless fate, Chan sits up and rubs the lingering haze from his eyes. He fishes around for the muscle shirt he’d discarded in his sleep and slips it over his head, before padding off to the small kitchenette. 

Chan’s apartment isn’t exactly the most well-furnished, or in the best neighbourhood, but it does the job. As a personal trainer, work can come in droves one season and dry up totally another. Living in a cheaper place is a good trade-off for a decent pile of cash to fall back on in the event of a rainy day.

No matter what, going back to the life he had before is not an option.

Chan pours himself a glass of water, hurriedly gulping down a few big mouths as if it could erase the intensifying discomfort in his bones. The others had always talked about him like he had a sixth sense, because somehow he always knew when a mission would go wrong. Maybe the skill never really went away, not even after a decade of retirement.

Then, a knock at the door.

Chan freezes with his drink raised halfway to his mouth. His arm flexes, fingers tightening around the cup. 

Chan isn’t expecting anyone. It’s been ten years of hiding, of dodging trackers and settling down when he finally felt safe. His neighbours usually keep to themselves, save for the old lady on the ground level who can hardly make it up the five flights to his unit. The only people who know his address are the management at the gym he works at. There’s no way they’d take the time to make a visit, and especially not one at - Chan glances at the clock on the wall - three in the morning.

Just as Chan is starting to think that it’s all another figment of his imagination, three more knocks follow in quick succession.

Chan blinks, slowly placing his glass on the counter. Despite having drunk from it, his mouth is dry. His eyes dart over to the open door to his bedroom, where a pair of guns are hidden neatly in the bedside drawer. The rest of his kit is locked away, hidden in the suitcase under his bed.

Slowly, Chan curls his hand into a fist. He looks down at his scarred knuckles, observing the way his veins pop out all along his forearm. He’s kept in shape all these years. He boxes, teaches mixed martial arts to egocentric businessmen who come in for stress relief and leave with their pride in tatters. He can handle this, probably.

“Hyung,” A shockingly familiar voice drifts into the dark apartment, followed by more urgent knocks. “Channie hyung, it’s me. Please… please open up.”

Chan is by the door before he knows it, and in a blink he’s already throwing it open. 

A blast of wind and rain hits Chan square in the face, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of the man standing on his doorstep. He’s dripping from head to toe, black hair slicked back and away from his face. His eyes are round and bright, a bruise blossoming on the corner of his mouth and a bleeding cut sliced into his cheekbone.

“Jisung,” Chan breathes. His hand tightens where it has a death grip on the doorframe. 

“Hyung,” Han Jisung grins weakly in return, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. A few wet strands break free and hang into his eyes, but his burning gaze doesn’t falter. “Remember? When you said you would never turn any of us away if we needed help?”

In spite of himself, an amused scoff forces its way past Chan’s lips. He finds himself softening - because why wouldn’t he? He’s always doted on Jisung, just as he’s always done with all the others. They used to call him a father figure, even though they were barely years apart in age.

It's too bad he failed all of them, as a leader never should.

“Come in, quickly,” Chan ushers Jisung into his apartment, humour drained, as he dead-bolts the door behind them. He can’t help but train his eyes on the floor, instead of Jisung, as he mutters about getting a towel.

Chan is someone who lives in his head. He’s always had thoughts to spare, and it’s one of the things the Organisation never truly trained out of him in his youth. They always claimed he needed some of it to lead, and so they left enough behind for Chan to do his job well.

Those embers sparked and grew into flames once Chan left for good, bringing more than half his team with him. Alone and with no one to keep him in check, he began muttering to himself again, spacing out in pockets of free time and allowing his mind to wander. He began being careless, and that's exactly his point, here. 

Chan is retired. 

Sure, he promised to be there for his team - for the boys he helped raise. It’s no lie and Chan has never even thought of going back on his word, but this is different.

Jisung wasn’t one of the boys who left with him, in search of a normal life. Jisung stayed behind. He never gave up that life of lies and violence, of willingly dancing on death's doorstep, which means that the help he needs is probably beyond the scope of what Chan can provide.

Chan clenches his teeth as he pulls a spare towel out of his bathroom cabinet. For now, he'll keep Jisung dry and hopefully find out what it is that brought him here. It's the least he can do, even if he has no other way to help him.

Chan falters in the threshold between his bedroom and the kitchenette, eyebrows pulling together as he spots Jisung. The younger man is still standing where Chan left him in the doorway, head tilted downwards.

In the half-darkness, Jisung's eyebrows are pulled together in a deep, frustrated frown as he stares down at his shaking hands. He tries to clasp them together, knuckles stark white, but they continue to tremble uncontrollably.

“Jisung, catch.”

The words are out of Chan’s mouth even before he realises it. The rolled-up towel unravels mid-flight, but Jisung has no problem snatching it out of the air. 

By the time the towel is in his grasp, Jisung’s hands have stopped shaking and he’s sporting a lopsided grin. He begins wiping himself down, squeezing the water from his shirt. “Thanks, hyung.”

Outside, lightning flashes across the sky and the rain beats down even harder. Chan's arms crawl with gooseflesh, the pit in his stomach only getting bigger. He swallows his discomfort, leaning against the doorjamb to give Jisung a once-over to check for injuries.

The difference between the man standing in front of him and the boy he left behind ten years ago is stark. Jisung has finally managed to pack on some muscle mass, even if his legs still fit in skinny jeans. His jawline is a little more pronounced, the baby fat in his cheeks gone. With his eyes crinkled in a smile, the crows feet around them carve deeper than Chan remembers - just as it is for Chan. He’s not the only one who has aged after a decade of separation.

“Jisung,” Chan sighs, running a hand through his bed-head in more of a stress habit than an attempt to tame it. “I want to help you, I really do. It’s just- the kind of trouble you’re in, at least what I’m thinking of, well- I don’t know how I can.”

Jisung allows him to finish rambling. He doesn’t worry his lip, doesn’t fidget or tap his foot. He’s too well-trained for that. Instead, he folds the towel neatly into a square and opens his mouth. “The Organisation is gone.”

Chan feels the shock take him like a strong hit to his face. His thoughts go dark, he stumbles back and his knees wobble.

Jisung is by his side in an instant, hands gentle and cold as he holds Chan by the elbow. Chan grips back, ignoring the way Jisung’s jacket squelches. 

“What- what do you mean, Jisung? That can’t-” Chan inhales sharply, cutting himself off. This close to younger man, he can clearly feel the guns holstered beneath Jisung’s chunky jacket. It flicks a switch in Chan’s mind, one that has him going rigid. “005, report.”

At the mention of his codename, Jisung takes a step back, snapping straight into military posture. “0300 hours yesterday. All comms went dark at headquarters. After further inspection, I found that we were under attack. Most operatives, including 002 and 004, were mid-mission. There were no further instructions given. All staff at the base are assumed dead.”

“Any possibility of a prior evacuation?” Chan asks, too sharply. His heart is beating in his throat. “Do we know who’s responsible?”

“Negative, sir, I checked as many bunkers as I could,” Jisung shakes his head regretfully. “As for who’s responsible, I do have an idea. MIROH.”

Chan feels out the arm of his couch before allowing himself to collapse into it. He buries his head in his hands, the familiar name twisting his intestines into a knot. When he speaks again, his voice is just barely louder than a whisper. “MIROH? They’re still around?”

While the Organisation generally strived for peace, albeit with morally questionable methods, MIROH only valued one thing above the rest - money. It didn’t matter where it came from, or what they had to do to get it. The Organisation took Chan and the others in, and while Chan does have his own issues with the way they did this, he was never left wanting. MIROH didn’t take in children and train them into the best of the best over years, no, they stole children off the street and cloned the ones that lasted the longest. They were the very antithesis of the Organisation.

“The MIROH you knew isn’t the same as it is now,” Jisung says, a scowl breaking through his professional facade. Chan never enforced it as much as any of their other superiors, and Jisung has always liked to test his limits. “They’re more power-hungry, more ruthless. They’re greedy as pigs but as undying as a fucking cockroach.”

“Language,” Chan murmurs absently. Waking up that morning, MIROH was only a distant nightmare; a failure from the past. Just knowing that they still exist, that they actually succeeded in bringing down their biggest rival, makes Chan want to throw up. He finally raises his head from his hands, eyes focusing on Jisung’s clenched fists, and then the set of his jaw. “Why did you come to me, Jisung?”

Jisung falters at the question. He looks uncertain, for the first time since he showed up at Chan’s door. “You have it- the recall transmitter. You can call them all back.”

Chan’s face must have betrayed how mortified he is by the statement, because Jisung rushes to speak again.

“Hyung, the Organisation never fully let all of you go. You must know that,” Jisung says, coming to kneel in front of him. He lays his hands on Chan’s knees and squeezes. “They forbade us from looking for any of you, for any reason, but the information was there. It was always there, and that means that it’s there for MIROH now, too.”

Chan feels his face go numb, chills running up his spine as he realises what Jisung is getting at.

“They only need to crack the codes before they find the locations of every agent the organisation has ever had,” Jisung says, shaking him once as if he could knock the very meaning of his words into Chan’s skull. His voice takes on a hint of desperation. “They’re going to hunt them all down if we don’t do anything about it first!”

Chan can still remember the last, disastrous mission they went on as a team. Even on the offensive, all eight of them barely escaped from MIROH with their lives. If they're caught off guard now, isolated and out of practice, there's no way they'll stand a chance.

It makes sense why Jisung came to him, now. Chan’s the only one outside of the Organisation who can reach out to so many agents at once.

Chan swallows. “We can try, but even then it’s conditional. You know that. The signal needs to be reciprocated. We don’t know how many of them even kept their trackers and-”

“Please,” Jisung’s grip is growing too tight. The wrinkles between his brows deepen, determination shining in big eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan pauses, concerned. Jisung has never been one of their more earnest members. He always knew when to get serious, but his easy talent and natural affinity with the team meant more instances he got away with goofing off. It was only during the lulls between fights, in the downtime between missions, that Jisung preferred sorting through his feelings alone. In those moments, he only really allowed 002 in.

“Jisung,” Chan begins, placing a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “Where’s Minho?”

Jisung flinches, so slightly Chan might not have noticed if they weren’t touching. Then he hangs his head, hiding the vulnerability that his eyes betray. “I don’t know.”

Chan bites his lip. He’s probably hit the nail on the head, here. 

Lee Minho. 002. The vice to Chan’s captain. The second oldest amongst them, with the shortest training period, and yet with the most vicious hand-to-hand combat skills Chan has seen. Of course Jisung would have reached out to him first, rather than head straight to Chan. The fact that Jisung is here, alone, is a thought that troubles Chan but isn't something he has the time to linger on.

It's pure reflex that Chan ducks down, pulling Jisung with him as the nearby window shatters. 

A black-clad man lands heavily on the floor, quickly accompanied by two more. All of them are armed with guns, but what actually scares Chan is the set of full-faced white masks they're sporting. A half-moon over the forehead, a beak-like curve over the nose bridge and dark fabric over the eyes all identify them as MIROH clones.

As one, Chan and Jisung heave the couch over and flatten themselves to the floor. A barrage of bullets pierces through cushion, the sound rattling loudly into the night.

“I need to get to the bedroom,” Chan hisses, adrenaline racing through his veins. His eyes dart warily around the corner, then back to Jisung. “Lay some cover fire, would you?” 

“‘Course,” Jisung grins back, all paper-white teeth, as he slips two handguns from his shoulder holster. He spins them round his pointer finger once, a nervous tic he never managed to get rid of, before popping over their makeshift barricade and unloading his clip.

Chan takes the chance to crawl over to his bedside table. He reaches into the drawer first, stuffing the first gun into the back of his sleep shorts and sliding the other over to Jisung. He fishes around for a moment before finally finding his key. Chan holds it up triumphantly, yelping when a stray shot ricochets too close for comfort.

“Careful, hyung,” Jisung mutters, the words punctuated by the click of a new clip sliding into place. He hits one of the clones the next time he pops up over the couch. Chan can hear it cry out in pain. He’s too busy to glance behind him, however, preoccupied with dragging a large suitcase out from under the bed.

It’s been a long time since Chan last opened it. He has to suppress a strong wave of nostalgia as he unlocks it and flips it open, coming face to face with an organised mess of wires, weapons and old memorabilia he could never display in a glass cabinet. 

Jisung curses again, muttering some sort of taunt at the remaining two. Chan doesn’t fully register it, digging past an old painting Hyunjin gifted him to find the recall transmitter. It sounds more impressive than it actually is - an old, obsolete piece of technology that works on radar. It looks like a pretty impressive compass, though, even if Changbin called it the epitome of ‘big red button’ the first time he saw it.

Pressing said big red button now, however, would be more satisfying if it were in different circumstances.

The recall transmitter pings softly, numbers springing up on a flickering green grid. A big, blinking green dot marks himself out as 001. 005 is mere steps away, and the red hue of his tracker fades to green just as Jisung presses the button on his receiver - a small, fingernail-sized chip that had begun to blink in time with Chan’s transmitter.

Chan can’t see all of their locations, but he knows when 004 acknowledges the call. 006 and 007 turn green one after the other. He waits for a drawn-out moment, heart beating hard and fast in his chest, but there’s nothing more.

Jisung must have realised the reality of the situation, because he crouches back down behind the couch, panting. “We’ll just have to- hah, hunt them down first, right?”

Chan nods once, stretching his lips into a toothless smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his old brass knuckles sitting at the bottom of the suitcase. He picks them up tentatively, running fingers over the cold metal. Slipping them on is almost like wearing a second skin.

When he turns around again, Jisung is grinning at him. His smile is still adorably heart-shaped, even at their age, and it warms Chan’s heart.

They wait quietly behind the couch, long enough for the last two of their assailants to approach. With a burst of strength, Chan tips the couch back onto its legs, catching the nearer clone by surprise. It gets trapped long enough for Jisung to hop over and shoot it once in the face. 

The moment the clone goes limp, Chan leaps over the tattered ruins of his sofa and decks the last one in the face. He relishes in the feeling of finally being able to exert his full strength, of the cut of metal against this skin and the rough press of his fist against the clone’s jaw. He knows bruises will blossom all over his knuckles, knows that they’ll become sore and bloodied and that it will hurt like hell when he pours antiseptic over his wounds, and yet.

Chan knocks the last clone out with a single punch, and it’s the best he’s felt in years.

Chapter Text

It takes Yang Jeongin twenty minutes to realise that he has a stalker.

That’s twenty minutes of sitting out on a nice bench right on the edge of the park, eating a sandwich whilst watching an old variety program on his phone. He’s always liked the classics better, as compared to the ones that play on TV nowadays, but that isn’t to say he’s so distracted he forgets himself in such an open space.

In that sense, the stalker isn’t exactly a stalker, but rather someone who has almost certainly been watching him from across the street. Jeongin still thinks it counts, though, eyes blinking nonchalantly past the dark-hooded figure as he stuffs the last of his lunch into his mouth.

There’s nothing wrong with wearing black from head to toe. It's not illegal to loiter around the trees in a public park, either - even if the tree in question is right outside a kindergarten - so Jeongin ignores them for the time being; crushing the paper sandwich wrap in hand and slipping his phone back into his pocket.

As Jeongin heads over to the park bin, the dark figure detaches from the tree to follow him. When he takes the hard left back to the kindergarten, the person doesn't skip a beat and winds through the pathways behind him.

If there were any doubt about it, then Jeongin knows for sure now. Unease curls like ice in his gut.

Jeongin reaches the kindergarten just in time for the end of his break. It’s still play time, so it’s quiet as Jeongin slips on his indoor slippers and pads down the hallways.

Since the kids are all outside, going wild in the playground, Jeongin chooses to tidy up the deserted inner play area instead. He hums softly to himself as he ties his apron over his clothes. It’s a bright yellow, with the name of the kindergarten printed in blocky letters right above a kangaroo pouch, and he’s attached a badge to the top corner that proudly proclaims his name to be Teacher Innie.

The badge is also glossy enough to be reflective, so Jeongin can clearly see the dark-hooded figure standing a distance away from the window in his line of sight - one that’s on an entirely different side of the building from the entrance.

Jeongin is a twenty-nine year old kindergarten teacher. It doesn’t get more boring than that, and he likes it that way. His youth had been too full of excitement and danger, so much so he’s entirely put off by it now. It’s also exactly where he expects this new form of trouble has come from.

Muffled crying becomes piercing as one of the other teachers carries in a child with a scrape on her knee. Jeongin darts away to get a first aid kit, and when he comes back the child - one he recognises as Nana, one of the four-year-olds - is thrust into his arms. The other teacher rushes back outside with a loud yell of “Dongho, take that out of your mouth-!”

Jeongin smiles in amusement before beginning to gently rock Nana from side to side. Previous occupation aside, a few years dealing with crying children has only made him all the more unfazed by the unexpected.

Once Nana's crying tapers off into soft whimpers, Jeongin wipes away the few tears left on her cheeks and props her up on a colourful plastic stool. He flips open the first aid kit, long fingers swift and skilful as he applies antiseptic cream on the scrape. Finally, he covers the small wound with a bright orange Garfield band-aid.

“Innie saeng, you so good at hurts,” Nana murmurs, lightly wriggling a finger over the band-aid. She looks so fascinated by the cat print that Jeongin can’t help but let out a short laugh.

“Well, Innie saeng used to have many, many hyungs, and they would always get hurt,” Jeongin says softly, picking Nana up with hands under her armpits. “It used to make Innie saeng so angry.”

“Innie saeng angry?” Nana gasps, looking worried. “Nana hurt too…”

Jeongin is quick to reassure her, shaking her head and smiling as he tucks her closer and allows her to wrap her legs around his chest. 

“No, of course not, Nana,” Jeongin says. His jaw clenches involuntarily at the sudden influx of memories - of dark blood dripping onto the floor and the bad arguments that always followed after. “Sometimes, people look like they’re angry, but they’re actually really worried.”

“Why they angry if they wo-worried?” Nana probes, swinging her legs. Jeongin pulls her away, lifting her up into the air, before they can catch him right between the ribs. The other teachers have always marvelled at how he never has a scratch on him even after a hectic day at work, but Jeongin would be a disgrace to himself and the hyungs who helped train him if he let himself get kicked in the face by a three-year-old in the midst of a temper tantrum.

“Well, no one wants their family to get hurt, right?” Jeongin shrugs, watching Nana giggle sweetly as he bounces her gently in his grip. Children are always more perceptive than most people give them credit for. He’s still surprised from time to time, even after years of working with them.

It’s odd to think that Jeongin was once a child too, too naive and innocent for the world he was thrust into. As the youngest amongst his team, his family, they always made sure to take care of him. Even if it was in all their own, different ways. Jeongin knows now, but that wasn't always clear to him. There was a time Jeongin took offence because he thought they believed him weak, that they thought he wasn't good enough to share their burden with.

It made things much more frustrating when his hyungs would return from missions with tired smiles, ruffling his hair and laughing off his concern even though Jeongin could clearly see the blood staining their clothes and the awkward, disjointed movement of broken bones. 

Jeongin’s hands clench into fists as he allows the old memories to roll over him. He doesn’t want to go back to that. Sure, it might have been exhilarating to be so close to danger - to death - day after day, but Jeongin doesn’t think he can live knowing the people he cares for might be gone without a trace with a single twitch of a trigger finger.

Before Jeongin returns the first aid kit back to its place on a high shelf, he slips the single pair of trauma shears into his pocket. He yells that he’s going to get more band-aids from the local pharmacy, leaving only when he hears the all-okay from one of the other teachers.

As expected, the dark-hooded figure trails after him dutifully. They remain a good distance away from Jeongin through the park, feet treading quietly but purposefully. The footfalls almost sound familiar to Jeongin, and he frowns, unable to place it.

The stalker only makes their move when Jeongin turns into a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Their steps grow hurried, feet slapping harder onto pavement as compared to leaf litter. It makes Jeongin’s heart rate speed, his hands sweating where they reach for the one weapon he has.

It’s been years since Jeongin last fought for real, but muscle memory makes it easy for him to snap the metal scissors in half. He spins around, the arc of his arm smooth as he throws the blade at the hooded figure. It would have landed, too, if they hadn’t dodged at the last moment.

Jeongin brandishes the remaining half of his makeshift weapon in hand, twirling the handle round his middle finger before catching the blade in his palm. “Next time, I’m not going to mi-”

Jeongin cuts himself off, eyes bugging out and mouth dropping open as his stalker’s hood falls off their head. His gaze falls from dishevelled curly hair, to sleepy eyes and lips that are slowly lifting into a sheepish smile.

“Ch- Chan hyung?!” Jeongin stammers, hands dropping to his sides in shock. With the way Bang Chan dimples back, it’s hard to believe they’ve not seen each other in a decade. “What… why?”

Chan doesn’t give Jeongin any time to process his sudden identity reveal. Instead, he barrels forward without warning. Chan is still built like an absolute tank, which means Jeongin can't do anything but get his breath knocked out of him as he’s caught around the stomach and heaved over a thick shoulder.

“Sorry about this, Iyen-ah,” Chan pants, legs pounding as he accelerates into a run. Jeongin feels the blood rush to his head, fingers curling into the material of Chan’s jacket as he tries to fight off a powerful dizzy spell. “Although,” Chan takes a sharp breath here, clearly worn out. “I wouldn’t have had to do this if you just kept your tracker, maknae.”

Jeongin groans, head bumping against Chan’s hard-as-steel back. Is that what this is about? The goddamn recall receiver? “I got rid of it precisely because I didn’t want something like this to happen!”

The screeching of tires on asphalt is the only warning Jeongin gets before Chan comes to an abrupt stop. He’s tossed into the back of a van like a sack of potatoes, but he saves himself from a rough landing with a quick somersault that returns him to his feet. Chan’s climbing into the back, too, surprisingly, and they’re speeding off again the moment he slams the door shut.

“You don’t know how rusty I am at hot-wiring shit,” A familiar voice calls from the front. Jeongin’s gaze turns from where Chan is unzipping his jacket, over to the driver’s seat. “Honestly, I’m surprised I even got it to go.” 

Jeongin’s mouth drops open again. It closes and opens a few times, until Jeongin is finally able to squeeze out an incredulous, “Jisung?” 

Han Jisung glances back at him, grinning around a painful-looking bruise. “Oh hey, 008. It's hyung to you!”

Overwhelmed and shaken by the use of his old serial number, Jeongin plops down onto the floor of the van. He doesn’t understand how the both of them are acting like this is normal, as if it’s not the first they’ve seen of each other in ten years. 

There was maybe a chance Jeongin would see Chan again, but he had never dared entertain such thoughts for Jisung. Nor did he for Minho, or Hyunjin.

Leaving the Organisation created a clear disjoint between Jeongin’s past and his future, which meant acknowledging that he would never see the ones who chose to stay behind.

Jeongin watches silently as Chan drapes the jacket over the back of the passenger seat, muttering something that makes Jisung smile. He’s only wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts - all black, of course, the same as Jisung’s t-shirt, but a far cry from their usual mission attire. That, paired with the natural curls sitting atop his head, only makes it seem like Chan rolled out of bed just before deciding to stalk and kidnap Jeongin.

“So…” Jeongin blinks, eyes trailing from the gun peeking out from Chan’s waistband, and then the obvious curve in the pockets of his shorts. He thumbs at the broken half of the scissors he’s still gripping in his palm. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to get Changbin hyung,” Jisung explains helpfully, blazing around a corner so fast the van is on two wheels for much longer than anyone in the vehicle should be comfortable with.

“Right,” Jeongin nods, clutching onto the floor for dear life. Then, when the words fully register, he shakes his head, aiming a perplexed look at Chan instead. “Wait, no, I meant- why’d you take me? Why are we taking Changbin hyung too?”

“Short version? MIROH happened. We’re all in danger and time is running out,” Chan says, sitting cross-legged across from Jeongin. He’s smiling again, eyes fond as he surveys the younger man. “I’ll explain more about that later, but for now I’m glad to see you again, Jeongin-ah. You know, I never imagined you as a pre-school teacher, but I can see you really enjoy it. That’s all that really matters, after all.”

Jeongin almost gets a whiplash. He raises a hand, waving it a little as his frown deepens.

“Stop, stop, I don’t think I’d call this a happy reunion, but-” Jeongin senses the sad, puppy-like expression on Chan’s face before he sees it, backtracking as quickly as he can. “I mean, it is good to see both of you, hyungs, but this isn’t exactly the best way to catch up!” Jeongin gasps with sudden realisation, pointing a finger at the man he used to call his leader. “And hyung! You were watching me, all creepy-like. Don’t talk about my job like you weren’t stalking me through the windows.”

Chan looks properly chastised, pouting where he’s flapping his legs up and down. Jisung cackles loudly from the front seat. “Aw, Innie, don’t be too hard on him. You know he can’t help himself.”

Jeongin sighs, hanging his head to hide the flush that emerged from the old nickname. He’s all grown now, but somehow the nickname doesn’t sound odd. Chan reaches over, tactile as ever, to pull him into a hug. 

“Sorry. I know this is.. a lot,” Chan chuckles. His hand is calloused, rough but comforting where he supports the back of Jeongin’s head. “Do you trust us?”

Jeongin stiffens. Trust? He wants to ask them that, too. 

During training, there were countless times Chan reprimanded Jeongin when his evaluation scores didn’t come up to par. They were always followed up with never-ending drills and spars, ones that always ended with a winded Jeongin on the floor; Chan looming above him with frustration written clearly all over his features. 

Sometimes, it got bad enough Minho hyung had to step in. He was no less soft on Jeongin, but where Chan’s temper flared, Minho’s patience lasted. The others tried to help, too, but they tended to mind their own business where their leader’s fury was concerned. An angry Chan is a scary Chan, after all, and Jeongin took the brunt it of it most of the time.

Jeongin never held it against Chan, of course. 

As leader, Chan always had a heavy weight on his shoulders. Jeongin knows clearly, now, that Chan only wanted him to be good enough to stay safe - to be able to hold his own, no matter the mission. As the youngest in the Organisation’s 00 series, Jeongin was always the one being taken care of, not the other way around. It felt like he was never trusted to, even if he knew better.

The hyungs all cared about him. Still care, if the impromptu kidnapping counts. It just hurts, not to be allowed to care for his hyungs like they have done for him.

“Of course,” Jeongin finally says, because it’s true even after a decade of separation. Even if it’s MIROH they’re dealing with. Jeongin's palms begins sweating at the thought.

“Good,” Chan grins, pulling back. He holds out his hand, dropping the other half of the scissors - the one Jeongin threw at him with killing intent - into Jeongin’s open palm.

Jeongin eyes the two halves of a whole, unsalvageable but for a use they were never originally intended for. Quietly, he slips them both back into the kangaroo pouch at the front of his apron.

“Can you handle yourself?” Chan asks, offering Jeongin his gun. He’s always been selfless like that, even though it’s obvious he’s unarmed save for the brass knuckles in his pockets. 

Without hesitation, Jeongin turns the offer down. His aim is good, sure, trained into him by Chan himself, but he’s never liked guns. He’ll make do with the first-aid shears.

The sun is setting as they pull up in front of a tattoo parlour on the other side of town. 

Jisung is shrugging on his jacket when Jeongin joins him on the sidewalk, Chan sliding the van door shut behind them. Jisung, of course, has two guns holstered at his sides and another stuffed into the back of his pants. They disappear under the baggy material of the jacket that Jeongin realises is Jisung’s, not Chan’s.

“Like what you see?” Jisung winks cheekily, once he catches Jeongin looking.

Unfazed, the younger man smiles. “Thirty suits you, hyung.”

Jisung gapes, blinking rapidly. “You little-”

Jeongin turns on his heel, entering the tattoo parlour with a little smirk dancing on his lips. It feels good to be able to tease his hyungs again. The past decade has been pretty lonely without them around. Although Jeongin isn’t sure of the specifics that brought Chan and Jisung back into his life, he begins thinking that maybe, it isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Jeongin holds the door open for his hyungs, holding in a chortle when Jisung reaches to smack him on the butt as he passes by. Chan raises a brow, but otherwise remains silent as they both watch Jisung make his way to the front desk.

“Hey, Changbin works here, right? Mind pointing us in the right direction?” Jisung grins, pulling his jacket just far back enough for metal to glint under the hot studio lights. He leans forward, winking. “It’s kind of an emergency.”

The receptionist takes a moment to raise a trembling finger at a door on the far right. “Up the stairs. H-he has a client now. It’s a private room.”

“Thanks, doll,” Jisung tugs his jacket back over his chest. He looks small like this, bundled in the oversized hoodie that fit Chan just right. The way his legs stick out from under it reminds Jeongin of a popsicle stick, but that is in stark contrast to the low, husky tone of his voice as he tells the receptionist to leave.

They don’t stop long enough to watch the girl do just that. Chan is already ushering them forward, through an inconspicuous black door labelled SpearB. Beyond it is a room that joins to a second-floor landing with an open concept. The entire place is painted black from top to bottom, and while a fan is whirring at max speed, it still smells strongly of sweat and blood and ink.

The bed in the middle of the room is occupied by a man who is lying face-down. The five lamps that frame the bed are all focused on the outline of a dragon on his back, one that reaches from his shoulder to his waist. Only half the scales are inked in.

Seo Changbin sits by the bed on a rolling stool, his back bent as he presses a buzzing tattoo gun to his client’s skin. He’s wearing black from head to toe - black t-shirt tucked into black cargo pants, a black belt around his waist and black sneakers on his feet to match the black of his surgical gloves - and the thin cotton of his top stretches tightly around the thick bulge of his biceps. 

Changbin’s eyes remain trained on his work as he speaks up. “Noona, I thought I told you to keep out.”

“Last we met, you called me hyung instead,” Chan clips, stepping further into the room. Jeongin falls in to flank him, well aware of how hesitant Chan is being.

If Jeongin was the one Chan most worried about, then Changbin would be Chan’s problem child. He’d always had different, bolder ideas, ones that Chan didn’t always agree with, but instead of folding under authority, Changbin was always ready to fight back. He was stubborn, but undoubtedly brilliant and reliable.

Changbin’s head snaps up at the sound of Chan’s voice. The buzzing stops, even if the tattoo gun is still clutched tightly in his gloved hand. He stares at them for a moment - popsicle stick Jisung, pyjama-clad Chan, and Jeongin in his bright yellow work uniform.

Changbin raises a brow, twisting his body on the stool to regard them fully. 

“What… the fuck?”

Chapter Text

Seo Changbin thought he knew what to expect when he went into work that day, but it seems like life isn’t done playing jokes on him. He gives himself some slack, though. There’s no way he could have possibly thought this up. 

Even now, it feels like he’s just delirious after staring too intently at tiny ink strokes.

“That’s the first thing you say after ten years? I should’ve known,” Chan snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. It makes him look a tiny bit more intimidating, but the whole muscle-man effect is ruined by his absurdly short shorts. “Honestly, Bin, Jeongin is here.”

Said maknae is inching forwards, gaze catching curiously on the piece Changbin has already spent four hours on. 

At this point, Changbin’s eyes are dry as fuck and his hands are one dragon scale away from shaking so hard the tattoo gun might fly right out of his hands. The yellow monstrosity Jeongin is wearing isn’t helping, either. It only reflects more light off the lamps.

“We’re all like, thirty, hyung, you can’t be serious. Besides, you barged into my appointment first!” Changbin cries in outrage, gesturing to his client - still sleeping like a log, who the fuck does that - and the half-inked dragon sprawled on his back. It’s one of the hardest pieces he’s ever worked on. “How the hell did you find me?”

Chan and Jeongin point at the third in their odd trio.

“Of course,” Changbin groans, placing the tattoo gun back down on the table so he can rub out the wrinkles between his brows. 

Jisung salutes him playfully from where he’s leaning against the railing by the stairs. He’s standing far enough away from the light that in Changbin’s blurry gaze, he looks almost exactly like the boy they left behind ten years ago.

Changbin has always been conflicted about it - about the decision to split up. Their last mission together, as eight, had been disastrous. It left management scrambling, and their hold fractured just long enough for Chan to wrangle an out for them. A vote had been taken, one with a result that had left them divided.

It was devastating to find out that some of their own wanted to stay, that not all of them wanted to take the once-in-a-lifetime chance Chan had gotten them.

At the time, Changbin was angry. He was angry a lot, back then, but knowing that they would have to be separated made him all the more furious. So he packed his bags, spat at the feet of the boys he used to call brothers, and left without a backwards glance.

Needless to say, Changbin regretted it. He wished time after time that he’d said more to them before he left, had a proper goodbye or some kind of closure instead of pushing them all away in his hurt. Before he lost them all for good.

It always stayed a pipe dream, though. 

Changbin never really believed he’d ever see any of them again - least of all any of the boys who decided to stay with the Organisation. 

The knee-jerk reaction here would be to tell Jisung he’s surprised he’s still alive, or to ask Jeongin how he takes care of children when he hardly knows how to be one himself, or even to question why Chan never came looking for him even when they were sure the Organisation had given up on bringing them back into the fold.

But Changbin has also changed, after fending for himself for a decade, and so he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he stands from his chair and jogs down the stairs to stand by the door.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but it can wait until after I’m done,” Changbin says, putting a hand on the doorknob. He’s wrapping up here already, anyway, so they won’t have to wait long. He takes pride in the job he has now - more so than he ever did the previous one. He swings the door open. “You can wait out-”

Changbin’s breath is stolen from him when he sees the barrel of a gun peeking out of the shadows in the doorway. He ducks on instinct, hair standing on end, just as the loud bang of a gunshot is absorbed into the black walls.

A black-shrouded figure steps into the room, gun raised. From the corner of his eye, Changbin sees Jeongin move. A glint of metal flies through the air, before the handle of what seems like half of a pair of scissors lands perfect centre in the gunman’s white mask.

Changbin recognises that mask. It kicks his fight or flight instinct into action, and he plucks the blade out of the mask before quickly scrambling backwards as fast as he can. 

Chan hops the railing, brass knuckles clutched in his fists, as more MIROH clones swarm into the room. He lands in front of Changbin, swinging his fist at the next clone that approaches them. The heavy hit knocks the clone right to the ground, Changbin swearing out loud as he frantically scrambles for a weapon.

“Go back upstairs,” Chan orders, fists held up in front of his face. He’s inching backwards, blocking blow after blow in an attempt to seal off the stairway. “And don’t argue.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Changbin retorts, retreating back up the stairs with Chan hot on his heels. Jisung’s body is pressed flush against the railing, both guns drawn to lay some cover fire. Three of the clones are hit and go down, the other three darting away to hide beneath the loft.

Jeongin has shoved Changbin’s client into the furthest corner away from the fighting, where he’s squatting with his hands covering his head. 

To be honest, Changbin’s just glad the guy is awake at all. There was a small chance he’d fainted when Changbin went over his lower back.

“Here,” Changbin passes the blade - that is definitely a broken half of eyebrow trimmers - over to Jeongin, who flicks it to the side to get rid of any excess blood. He reaches into his yellow apron and takes out the matching half. Changbin stares. “You know what? I don’t even want to know.”

“I’m out!” Jisung hisses from the front, slipping his guns back into their holsters. The moment the gunshots stop, the clones emerge from their hiding spaces and climb up the stairs with ferocious intensity. Their body language is incensed, like they’re predators with no other thought than to get to their prey.

The first one lunges at Jisung, who loses his balance and falls flat on his back. Chan is there in an instant, leaving the remaining two to go after Jeongin and Changbin. Their youngest grits his teeth, stepping forward to meet the clone halfway, but that’s all Changbin sees of their fight because the last one is sprinting straight at him with its gun drawn.

Changbin throws himself under his work station, flinching away when he hears the gunshot ricocheting off the metal of his tray. He looks around frantically, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, before his eyes land on the tattoo gun that has fallen to the floor in all the chaos.

That will have to do.

Still crouching close to the floor, Changbin snatches up the tattoo gun. He rolls over just in time to dodge another bullet, putting himself close enough to the clone to reach out and stab him though the foot. It isn’t as clean as it would have been with a real knife, but it does the job. 

Changbin’s training kicks in the moment the clone lets out a pained yelp. He slides out from under the table, tripping his attacker with a hard swipe at his legs. The clone falls, hard, and Changbin doesn’t waste any time. He yanks the metal tray off the table, chucking away everything that was on it, before bringing it down on the clone’s head.

Changbin doesn’t stop, gritting his teeth as the tray makes a loud, metallic clanging every time it comes into contact with the clone’s mask. He doesn’t stop until he feels something crack and give under his strength.

By then, Changbin doesn’t have to check if the clone is still breathing. It might as well not have a face anymore, skin and mask melding together in a pool of blood. Feeling satisfied, Changbin tosses the ruined metal tray away; grimacing at the thick blood that drips onto the floor before looking around to take stock of his unexpected visitors. 

Chan is helping Jisung up by the railings, the clone that attacked Jisung lying at the bottom of the stairs with its limbs splayed oddly. On the other side of the room, the clone that went after Jeongin has had his throat slit. Jeongin is still straddling its chest, wiping off the blood from his blade onto the clone’s shirt before rising to his feet.

Finally, Changbin’s eyes land on his client, who is still cowering in the corner. He sighs, dragging his hand over his face, before going over to tap him on the shoulder. “Appointment’s over, Mr. Choi. You should probably leave.”

Changbin’s client books it out of there, at least as fast as he can with his legs still trembling like a newborn fawn, and then Changbin turns back to the three ghosts of his past. 

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I need an explanation, now.”

Of course, Changbin almost never gets his way, so he finds himself absconding to a suspicious-looking van without any proper understanding of what’s going on. Since Jeongin refuses to let Jisung drive, for whatever reason, Chan ends up in the driver’s seat. Changbin takes shotgun, while the youngest two pile in the back.

“They found us faster than I expected,” Jisung says, coming to lean against Changbin’s backrest. He’s gnawing on his lip, unfazed even as Chan floors the pedal. “I hope the others made it safely.”

“They only sent seven after us,” Jeongin pipes up. Changbin glances back to see him clutching at the floor of the van like a lifeline. “MIROH wouldn’t underestimate us. They sent seven because they thought it would just be Changbin hyung.”

“I could’ve taken them,” Changbin sniffs. 

Jisung laughs, too loud and too close to Changbin’s ear, so he shoves him in the shoulder. Jisung tumbles backwards with the momentum of the van, but he easily rolls himself upright again and crosses his legs under his body. “Anyway, we wouldn’t have had to detour if it weren’t for your missing tracker, 003.”

“What?” Changbin’s eyebrows raise, surprised at being called his number. Then, he frowns as some blurry memories emerge. They’re foggy at best, tinted by anger, but he does distantly remember Chan handing him something before he’d stormed off. “Oh, that little chip thing? I lost it.”

Chan raises his head, as though praying to the heavens, while Jisung makes a sound of disbelief. “You lost it?!”

“Well, it was really small, okay,” Changbin defends, adjusting his cap. He tries to remember when he last saw it, but he fails to recall anything significant. “I wouldn’t have lost it if it were bigger! Or if it were a keychain.”

“It was supposed to be covert, hyung. How is a keychain covert?” Jeongin snorts, drawing his knees up to his chest. “At least I threw mine away on purpose.”

“Im not sure that’s any better,” Jisung mutters, looking like he’s questioning all his life choices.

Changbin stares at them through the rearview mirror while they bicker back and forth, mapping out the differences in their faces. The look older, more mature, the lines around their eyes and mouths more pronounced. Jeongin is taller, now, lean where he used to have pockets of baby fat. Jisung is built bigger, muscles tight and well-used. Changbin can tell, even under the oversized jacket he’s hiding under.

Without warning, Changbin’s heart clenches painfully. He’s lost so much time with these two. It’s almost like he doesn’t know anything about them anymore, like they’re mere strangers, and that doesn’t sit right with him.

Of course, there is also Chan. 

Reliable, diligent, unfailing Chan - even if Changbin knows that their leader doesn’t think the same. Chan, who still has bags under his eyes and a kind, dimpled smile. Chan, who listens in on their fighting with patient curiosity and protects them without a second thought.

Chan, who is still an unfaltering, comforting presence even after ten years out of the business.

“I’m sorry,” Changbin blurts out, suddenly. It comes up like word vomit and he’s entirely unable to stop the syllables from spilling out of his mouth. The memories come rushing up next, fast and intense enough to burn through him like acid.

“Changbin, please-”

“Fuck off!” Changbin screams, searing anger rushing through his veins. He stares down his leader - not anymore - and watches his wide shoulders slump in defeat. “I warned you. I told you it was a fucking trap and you didn’t listen! This is on you. Hyunjin and Jisung and Minho hyung? That’s all on you too. Now get out of my fucking way.”

“Wait, please, at least take this,” Chan thrusts out a hand. There’s a small chip lying in his palm, flat and no bigger than an SD card. “It’s for emergencies.”

Changbin surveys the older boy’s haggard expression, the red of his eyes and the downturn of his mouth. He’s too angry to feel anything close to pity, so he only scoffs as he snatches the chip out of Chan’s hand, making sure to shoulder past him roughly as he storms away.

“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for, Bin,” Chan says easily, dimples popping on either side of a tight-lipped smile. It’s in contrast to the haunted look in his eyes, one that tells Changbin that Chan remembers, too.

“No, I- the things I said back then? That was out of line,” Changbin shakes his head. He realises the whole van has gone quiet; the two in the back having ceased their good-natured squabbling. “I was hurt and angry, and yeah, I know that doesn’t excuse what I said, but. You’re a good leader, hyung. You were back then, and you still are now.”

Chan stays silent for a moment. He thumbs the steering wheel, swallowing before he speaks. “If I’d just listened to you, then Felix-”

“Don’t do that, hyung,” Changbin interrupts. He doesn’t want to think of their last mission, doesn’t want to think of what ifs and could haves. “All eight of us survived. You did the best you could with the information we had. It’s not your fault.”

Chan blinks, worrying his lip. “But I-”

“It’s not your fault,” Changbin repeats again, more firmly this time. He nudges Chan in the arm, almost too gently. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Chan keeps his eyes on the road, but Changbin is content with the genuine smile that spreads Chan’s lips this time round. 

Changbin does flush slightly when he sees Jisung and Jeongin staring at him through the rearview mirror, awe and surprise widening their eyes, so he clears his throat awkwardly and settles on watching the setting sun out the window.

It’s late when they reach the safe house, late enough that the moon is hanging high in the sky. 

It’s pitch dark around them save for the dim yellow of the van’s headlights. Changbin can hardly see past the trees caging them in. Chan seems to know where he’s going, even if Changbin doubted it for a second back when they turned off the main road to follow a barely-there dirt path into the woods.

Without warning, the path dips, going into a steep incline. Chan doesn’t seem surprised, not even when the floor changes partway; uneven terrain cut off by smooth gravel. Finally, they come to a stop inches away from the wall of a cave.

It’s silent, save for the chirping cicadas in the far-away woods. 

Chan taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s waiting, Changbin realises, and a camera rotates out of the rocky wall before Changbin can ask what for. 

The camera has its own little arm, which it uses to extend itself closer to the windshield of the van. A horizontal, red light travels down Chan’s face. The camera beeps. “Welcome. Agent 001.”

It moves over to Changbin, and then Jisung and Jeongin, repeating their operative numbers with each scan. After running one last check on the whole van, the camera retreats back into its hiding space.

And then the rock wall in front of them splits open.

Changbin is speechless as he watches Chan speed through the narrow cave road. Sure, he never really heard Chan out when he was talking about emergencies and the recall initiative, but this seems like overkill. Chan really did - does - prepare for anything.

As they drive along, the road and the lights change. Rough gravel becomes smooth cement, harsh yellow floodlights replaced by bright white fluorescent. 

Eventually, the road empties out into a large garage that is all rock and industrial accents. It looks like a huge parking lot with a single flight of stairs leading up to a second floor. There are a surprising number of vehicles already in there, ones pared to the side and wrapped in dusty grey car covers, as well as three sitting neatly in the parking spaces.

Chan slides into the lot next to a beat-up Volkswagen Up. There’s a relatively nice Mercedes C-Class on the other side of the small red car, and then a nondescript Honda Accord with no number plate at the very leftmost lot. 

Changbin peers into the Volkswagen curiously as he shuts the door behind him. There’s a cupcake-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and what looks like a fluffy cloud-patterned cardigan lying in a pile in the passenger seat.

“Hey guys!” A very familiar, very deep voice calls out. Changbin’s head snaps upwards for what feels like the hundredth time in a day, eyes quickly finding the waving figure at the top of the stairs.

Lee Felix grins down at them, clutching at the metal bannister as he hauls almost half his body over it in excitement. His hair is light brown, long enough to touch the back of his neck, with bangs that droop into his eyes. He doesn’t look a day over twenty, even if he is actually a decade older.

“Careful,” Kim Seungmin says, amused, as he pulls on the back of Felix’s pink hoodie with one hand. The other reaches to push thin, round-framed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. Unlike Felix, who’s dressed comfortably, Seungmin has on a blue-striped dress shirt and slacks. With the addition of neatly-cut black hair, he looks straight-laced and ready for a day in an office.

“Took you long enough,” The last person drawls, just loud enough to be heard from where he’s leaning languidly on the safety railing; arms crossed loosely over his chest. Changbin has to double take, he has to, because the long blonde hair, wispy and tied up in a half-up style, is entirely unexpected. 

This man is all dark lace and narrow, fox-like eyes, elegant and graceful and nothing like the screeching little terror Changbin used to know. Hwang Hyunjin commands the attention of the room without trying, and no one misses when he raises a brow at Jisung.

Chan steps forward then, his expression severe, and that’s all it takes for Changbin to know that catching up will have to wait till later.

Chapter Text

“…What?” 

Lee Felix almost doesn’t realise that he’s spoken. His entire face is numb. Chan stares back at him from the head of the table, eyebrows pulled together in an empathic frown.

Across the table, Seungmin lowers his head onto his clasped hands. Beside him, Jeongin turns a yellow pin around and around between nervous fingers. Jisung fidgets, unable to meet anyone in the eye.

“You- you’re serious?” Changbin says, from Felix’s right. The trembling tenor of his voice snaps Felix back to reality and he tenses, ready to jump in should Changbin stand to confront Chan - even if the giant mess they’ve found themselves in is in no way his fault. 

Felix doesn’t end up having to, however. A quick glance is enough to discern that Changbin’s shoulders aren’t drawn all the way up to his ears, like they are when he’s wound up enough to challenge Chan’s authority.

Chan nods, once, and it’s damning. His mouth twitches before he continues speaking. “I’m sure you all know that, as long as MIROH exists, none of us will be able to return to our normal lives.”

Changbin’s mouth opens. It closes, and then opens again. “Well, shit,” He finally says, weakly.

For a moment, Felix forgets to be surprised. The Changbin from his memories was usually more combative than this. Instead, Felix is more preoccupied thinking of the cake he left in the fridge at work, the one he meant to ice the next day. It was supposed to be chocolate ganache. Someone ordered it for their son’s birthday. Felix had intended to add some extra chocolate, on the house, but it seems he won’t be able to finish that order.

“Explains why my whole extraction team went dark,” Hyunjin scoffs, from Felix’s left. It’s the first thing he’s said since they sat down at the table. 

Hyunjin’s limbs are stretched long as he lounges back in his chair, a contemplative expression at home on his face. He looks so much more confident now, so much more comfortable in his own skin than the last time Felix saw him.

Then again, Hyunjin hadn’t exactly been in a good place back then. It was bad enough it left Felix doubting for years - doubting the decision to split up, doubting Hyunjin and Jisung and Minho hyung’s reasons for staying, even doubting himself for leaving so selfishly.

If getting the recall after ten long years of waiting was a shot in the heart, then meeting Seungmin and Hyunjin again felt like scrubbing the scab off of a particularly painful wound.

For years, Felix has tried his best to push the thoughts of his past, of his team, as far away from his consciousness as possible. He tries to focus on his job at the bakery, tries to be happy with the life he stole for himself - and, to a certain extent, he was. 

Sure, there were nightmares. There were old wounds that acted up during thunderstorms, the  inconvenient inability to ever visit a hospital no matter how high his fever got. There was never anyone around to eat the cookies he baked at two in the morning, nor anyone to spend free evenings by the canal.

Felix’s happiness was incomplete, but he knew it was the best he could get. 

Now, however, looking around the room at the brothers he’s missed so sorely, Felix realises that he’s greedy enough to want more.

“Should we be… talking about this now? What about Minho hyung?” Felix asks, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He looks around again, eyes scanning six faces that are both familiar and not. “He hasn’t arrived yet.”

Hyunjin exhales sharply through his nose, side-eyeing Felix with the most piercing gaze he’s felt since he left the Organisation. “Things are different now, Lix. It’s better we start without him, or we won’t start at all.”

Felix feels his face contort in confusion, and then what must be horror. His heart beats like a jackhammer against his ribcage, palms beginning to sweat where his hands have fallen still. “You mean Minho hyung is…?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Jisung rushes to say, waving his hands as he tucks his chair in closer to the table. Felix lets out a breath in his relief. Jisung’s eyes are narrowed when they come to rest on Hyunjin. “He’d kick your ass if he knew you were cursing him, Jinnie.”

“Oh shit, don’t tell him,” Hyunjin grimaces, back stiffening in his chair as he stifles a full-bodied shudder. Felix watches him, fascinated, as the cold mask slips and what is more warm, more Hyunjin, emerges from below. “Last time, I almost brushed my teeth with bleach.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know where he was?” Chan interjects here, in an effort to refocus the de-railed conversation. “That you couldn’t track him like the rest?”

“We all have our own specialisations, and Minho hyung’s a deep-cover operative,” Jisung shrugs. “His missions can last months, if not years. There’s a zero contact policy in place, too. I… We haven’t heard from him in months.”

“Plus, you know what that hyung is like,” Hyunjin snorts. Felix tilts his head, taking note of the tone Hyunjin has adopted, at the way Hyunjin keeps glancing back at Jisung for his reaction. “He’d fly under the radar indefinitely, if he could.”

“Alright, then for now we’ll have to come up with a plan without him,” Chan says matter-of-factly, as he slips back into his seat. In response, Jisung and Hyunjin go rigid, their bodies stiff at attention. They fall into the habit so easily, it only accentuates the chasm that has grown between Felix and them. “We have seven operatives. All our resources are in this bunker - unless any of you have any secret stashes you want to share.”

“Wait, hyung,” Felix interjects. When he meets Seungmin’s gaze from across the table, he’s glad to see that there’s similar doubt in there. “I know… I know we can’t just do nothing, but most of us haven’t been active for years. We’re out of practice. There’s no way we’re going to be able to win up against MIROH.”

…Much less escape unscathed, Felix adds silently in his head. He doesn’t even think he’s exercised properly, in a gym, in all the time since he left. He definitely hasn’t handled a gun. Felix is still intimately acquainted with knives, of course, as a side effect of his job. But that’s for carving chocolate, sculpting fondant and spreading icing. It’s a far cry from butchering other humans who have a more than sufficient ability to fight back.

“Felix is right,” Seungmin nods. He pulls off his spectacles, folds them, and places them neatly down on the conference table. “None of us want a repeat of what happened the last time.”

At the reminder, a ghostly pang of pain pierces Felix right in the gut. He hides his trembling hands out of sight, under the table, but to his dismay, the tremors only get stronger.

“Hyung, stay with me,” Jeongin hisses, his breaths coming up short. His hands are shaking where they’re tearing through Felix’s shirt, wrapping the fabric up and tying it around his neck. They’re red when they come away again.“Please.”

Felix can tell how terrified Jeongin is. It’s wrong, because Jeongin is hardly ever scared - he’s one of the strongest amongst them.

“008 to 001, requesting immediate extraction,” Jeongin clutches at the radio desperately, still kneeling by Felix’s side. Changbin is crouched by the corner, sporadically peeking out to fire a few rounds into the adjacent hallway. “Please, please work. 008 to 001, we need medevac now!”

There’s nothing but static.

“Innie,” Felix rasps, his voice soft and scratchy even though he’s sure he put all his energy into it. 

Jeongin’s head snaps up at the sound, his eyes wide and panicked as his hands flutter over Felix anxiously. The action brings Felix’s attention back to the knife sticking out of his belly. The bloody fingerprints on the handle are almost dried now, but his blood is still gurgling wet and dark out of the wound.

A burst of gunfire startles Felix, but his body feels like lead. It doesn’t react, not even when Changbin ducks back around the corner to re-load. The older boy’s jaw clenches when he sees Felix on the floor.

“Anything?” Changbin asks gruffly. His hands are the only steady ones out of their trio. They’re always steady, no matter what, and watching him work brings comfort to Felix.

“No,” Jeongin breathes, the word barely a puff of air against his lips. Felix wants to reach out to grab him, to pull his distressed brother into a hug, but Jeongin rushes to clasp his hand before he can. “Don’t move. Save your strength, Lix hyung. We’re going to get out of here.”

“… Keep trying,” Changbin growls, back against the wall. He’s looking anywhere but at them. “Minho hyung too.”

Jeongin nods, his eyes glued to Felix’s even as he lifts the radio back near his mouth. “008 to 002, 002 do you copy?”

Felix almost jumps when he feels hands curling around his twitching fingers. He looks in surprise at Hyunjin, who’s looking at him with the same, intense gaze from earlier in the night. His fingers are long and so skinny they’re bony, but Felix only smiles in gratitude before squeezing back.

Back then, Felix had been helpless to do anything but wait and hope that he wouldn’t bleed out in front of Jeongin and Changbin before help came. Chan and Minho had arrived in time, thankfully, but it was an extremely close call. Felix was bedridden for months after, in intensive care and then mandated bedrest with Hyunjin in the room right next door.

“I agree,” Jeongin says. He rolls the yellow pin between his fingers one last time before dropping it into the pocket of his apron. “We need something clean. It needs to be a quick in and out, or we’ll risk it getting messy.”

Chan nods, leaning back in his chair as he steeples his fingers together in thought. “We won’t be able to take them down, not as we are now. I think our best plan of attack is to erase the information MIROH got from the Organisation.”

“And we won’t split up, either,” Changbin adds. He sounds resolute enough that Felix’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Splitting up always makes sense, tactically. They can cover more ground, while the members of each unit balance out the others. 

Considering the last time they did so, however, and what happened after? Felix can understand why Changbin is so hesitant.

Felix’s eyebrows almost shoot all the way up to his hairline when Chan doesn’t immediately refute the idea. Instead, he stares at Changbin before nodding slowly. “We won’t. Not anymore.”

“And if it all goes sideways anyway?” Seungmin asks, always the voice of reason. He was the same even in his curious and playful younger years. It was like he had a switch that could turn his professional personality on and off, and it seems he hasn’t lost it in the decade since.

“Then Jisung and I will take the brunt of it,” Hyunjin speaks up, tilting his chin at Jisung, who nods back. Almost unconsciously, Felix tightens the hold he has on Hyunjin’s hand. “It’s only fair.”

Chan frowns immediately. “No, absolutely n-”

“Don’t forget, we have ten years of experience on you,” Jisung butts in with a little eyebrow wriggle. “We should be on the front line. It’s only natural.”

“So what, brat?” Changbin snorts, his lips lifting in a crooked smirk. “I went into retirement, not a retirement home. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say whatever they did to us, it stuck.”

Changbin is right, of course. Even if rusty from disuse, Felix knows he will never actually forget all the skills he’s learnt under the Organisation. Training was an integral part of his childhood, after all. At one point, the techniques he’s come to realise are cruel had merely been silly children’s games.

Felix’s eyes dart to Jisung, and then back to Hyunjin.

There are a lot of things Felix came to realise, once he freed himself. He can’t help but worry that, since they never left, Jisung and Hyunjin may not have come to same conclusions as he.

“It’s not just that,” Hyunjin says. “We won’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Considering the kind of operation we want, it’s safest if I head.”

“No offence, hyung,” Jisung nods. “It’s how we usually do things.”

Chan sighs deeply, massaging the bridge of his nose. 

Jisung and Hyunjin would never have tried to second-guess Chan before, but ten years is a long time. Even longer when those years were spent doing things Felix doesn’t think he can handle anymore. Finally, Chan nods. “Fine, but the rest of us won’t be more than five minutes away.”

“Deal,” Hyunjin grins. He thumbs over Felix’s hand gently, before letting go and standing up. “Now on to the fun part - picking our target. It’s a good thing we’re been keeping tabs on MIROH for so long, because the list I have is pretty juicy.”

Felix spaces out as the others pore over a list that Hyunjin draws up out of thin air. He’s never been one to participate in the planning of a mission, and he’s not interested in the extra details. The others gather in a tight circle at the head of the table, while Jeongin comes to sit by Felix.

“Hey, you,” Felix smiles shyly, reaching out with open arms.

“Hyung,” Jeongin greets, eyes turning into crescents as he obliges Felix; wrapping his arms around Felix’s back and lifting him right out of his seat. Jeongin has grown so much bigger. Felix still remembers when he was just a scrawny child, and then a lanky teen - he was always smaller than Felix, but that isn’t the case any more.

“You’re so strong, Innie,” Felix wonders aloud. He wraps his hands around Jeongin’s neck before the younger can put him down, chuckling at the red tinting the tips of the youngest’s ears. “It’s okay. I’ve missed hugging you.”

“Sorry, it’s… habit,” Jeongin frets, palms flexing against Felix’s thighs. He takes a seat on what was Hyunjin’s chair, shifting Felix smoothly in his grasp so he’s still bundled neatly against Jeongin’s chest.

It’s late, and Felix is bone-tired. He hasn’t felt this warm and safe in a long time, either. He glances towards the head of the table - Chan’s looking at them, observant as usual, and he shoots Felix a smile before returning to what Jisung is saying. 

Felix knows he isn’t needed, right now, so he rests his head against Jeongin’s chest and falls asleep to the steady sound of his beating heart.

Felix’s nap doesn’t last long, because he’s gently shaken awake in what seems like no time at all.

“It’s almost sunrise, Lix,” Chan says, as Felix rubs at his eyes. Jeongin has fallen asleep too, his chin drooping heavily onto the top of Felix’s head. “We all thought it was time for a break. You should go wash up.”

This close, Felix can see the dark bags under Chan’s eyes and the stress in his eyes. A burst of guilt hits Felix square in the chest. He should have stayed awake with them. It’s not fair that he got to sleep so soundly, to cuddle with Jeongin after years of isolation, when Chan and the others were working so hard the whole time, unable to reach out for comfort as easily as he does.

“Don’t do that. There’s nothing wrong with resting while you can,” Chan reprimands. His eyes soften as Felix reaches out to touch him, to cup his jaw in his hand and run a weathered thumb over his cheek. Chan dwarfs Felix’s hand in his, dimples popping as he smiles. “Changbin, and now Jisung and Hyunjin. I don’t think I could take it if you started arguing with me, too.”

“I promise I won’t, then,” Felix laughs. It sounds more like a deep rumble, his voice still low from the nap. Jeongin murmurs unintelligibly, his hands tightening minutely around Felix’s waist as he stirs from sleep. “You know I trust you. I trust all of you with my life.”

Chan’s expression darkens. He looks over to the other side of the room, where Hyunjin and Seungmin are pointing at scribbles on a piece of paper; Changbin watching them from his seat. “I don’t know, Lix. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe you should be arguing with me.”

“Do you think it’ll go wrong?” Felix frowns. Chan’s sixth sense is always worth following.

“Well, not exactly,” Chan admits, standing from his crouch. He looks down at Felix, clearly at conflict with himself. Something must win out, because he shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Not a bad feeling or anything. I’m just… worried.”

Felix can understand that. It’s the same for him. He wishes he could contribute more, but it’s hard to insert himself in anywhere when everyone else is so good at what they do. Sure, they all tell him he’s always a great help, but Felix has seen them all in action - seen the plans they draft so effortlessly, the hits they orchestrate within a blink of an eye - and he’s never left in anything less than awe.

Felix gently detaches himself from a waking Jeongin, hurrying over to the large black tote bag he left by the wall. He lugs it over his shoulder, motioning for Chan and Jeongin to join him as he heads over to the bickering trio at the head of the table. They all fall silent as Felix nears, looking up curiously as he deposits the bag on the table.

Felix smiles tentatively, before reaching in and pulling out three giant Tupperware containers, all of them filled to the brim with cookies, brownies and the experimental macaron Felix had been thinking to include in the bakery’s seasonal menu.

“I know it’s kind of a bad time,” Felix starts, cracking open the containers loudly. He laughs softly, half shy and half awkward, gazing up at the brothers he hasn’t seen for years. “A really bad time, actually, but that doesn’t mean we should starve. I had a bit of a baking frenzy a few days ago… so I grabbed these before I left home.”

There is a momentary pause, everyone falling silent at the sight of the baked goods. It makes Felix’s smile drop, his hands coming together nervously. 

Hyunjin breaks the silence by sticking his hand into one of the containers and tossing a brownie cube into his mouth. He sighs almost immediately, jaw working, as he raises a thumbs-up at Felix. “Holy shit, Lix, this is amazing.”

Felix’s smile comes back in full force at the compliment, and he’s absolutely beaming once the others all dig in enthusiastically; each chiming in with a grateful ‘thank you’ like children lining up to get candy. They’re all a few pieces in when Felix runs his gaze over everyone again, realising that he’s missing one.

“Where’s Jisung-ie?” Felix pipes up, words muffled around a macaron. He licks his fingers, then rubs them off with a piece of Kleenex.

“I sent him off for a shower. He hasn’t had one in days,” Chan answers, already reaching for another cookie. “Damn, Lix, did you lace these with anything? I can’t stop.”

“Tell me about it,” Changbin moans, slumping down on the table with another cookie in hand. Seungmin and Jeongin snicker at him, earning them a side eye. 

Felix laughs through his nose, stacking a few paper napkins on top of each other before piling a few brownies on top. “I’ll go pass these to Jisung-ie, then. He must be starving.”

“Fifth door to the right,” Chan nods him off, so Felix carries the brownies through the twisting grey cement hallways. He follows Chan’s directions, peering curiously at the unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, before finally reaching his destination. 

Felix can hear the soft sound of tap water running, but not a shower, so he doesn’t think before twisting the door knob and letting himself in.

The steam inside is thick, but visibility isn’t very low. Felix can still see the changing room and all its black and grey lockers, each with their numbers engraved on the doors. Jisung is sitting on a wooden bench facing the sinks. He’s bent over slightly, but Felix can see the reflection of a grimace through the fogging mirror across from him.

Wary, Felix inches closer. The white gloss of a first aid kit is sitting on the bench next to Jisung, clean gauze laying unraveled in the box. Felix’s heart seizes when he sees old bandages soaked through with blood, and he can’t help but call out in concern.

“Jisung?” Felix flinches when Jisung jumps almost a half-foot into the air, his eyes wide and wild when he whips his head around to look at Felix through the mist. Felix is quick to approach, leaving the brownies on the bench to take a closer look. “What happened?”

Jisung nibbles on his lip, eyes darting away, before he lowers his hands from his side.

Felix gasps, eyes running over the large slash on Jisung’s torso. While big and gory, it’s not extremely deep. It doesn’t look fresh either, the blood leaking out of it sluggish and dark. The state of his old bandages, however, shows he must have bled entirely through his shirt.

“An old wound. It opened up when a clone jumped me at Changbin’s,” Jisung explains, head still tilted down. He looks ashamed, even though Felix could never be disappointed in him. Jisung’s head snaps up, suddenly, a desperate look in his eyes. “Don’t tell Chan, please. Hyung won’t let me go on the mission if he knows.”

Jisung has always been conscientious, sometimes maybe too much so, and it’s a character trait that the Organisation had always been too eager to take advantage of. They worked them all to the bone, sure, but Jisung’s fear of disappointing them always made it that much easier to manipulate him into sheer exhaustion. The injuries it resulted in only made the cycle repeat itself.

“Felix?” Jisung asks, nervously, and Felix realises he’s been quiet for too long.

“Scoot over, will you?” Felix says, sighing. He picks up the brownies, passing them over to Jisung, who stares back at him in bafflement. “Eat those.”

Felix gets to work applying antiseptic to the wound, and then pressing neatly-folded gauze over the worst of the bleeding. Jisung pushes two brownie cubes into bulging cheeks once the worst of the pain is over, raising his hands so Felix can wrap new, stark-white bandages around his torso.

Just like Jisung, Felix isn’t perfect either. He’s not firm like Chan, indomitable like Minho, or even as sensible and thoughtful as Seungmin and Jeongin. He won’t yell at Jisung in concern like Changbin might, or tease him like Hyunjin, but Felix does understand the need to be there in the moment with the others, knows intimately the creeping fear of being left behind.

Felix doesn’t know if he’ll regret it later, but he doesn’t end up saying anything to Chan.

Chapter Text

Hwang Hyunjin exhales slowly as the lift doors close. 

“Target is in the bar on the ground floor,” Seungmin’s voice is tinny, but loud in Hyunjin’s in-ear comms. “Obnoxious red pocket square. Satin.”

“I remember what he looks like,” Hyunjin snorts, tracing his pointer finger over the little circular buttons before settling on G. The elevator rumbles smoothly as it travels upwards, the sound almost entirely drowned out by light piano music.

Hyunjin surveys himself in the large mirror, hands wrapping around the polished wooden arm rest as he tilts his head at his reflection. He’s traded in black lace and the hard, sharp lines of his blazer set for tight slacks and a pressed white collared shirt. His hair is down, so he reaches to tuck one side behind his ear as the lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open again.

Hotel Grand Clé is all warm yellow light, gleaming marble floors and dark oaken accents. Hyunjin has tailored himself to it; straightening his back and tilting his head upwards even before stepping out of the elevator. He slips a hand into his pocket as he takes a casual, sweeping glance of the lobby.

Hyunjin doesn’t have to second guess himself by now. His experience speaks for itself, and he knows well enough he looks like he belongs - amongst the two boys handing golf bags to their caddies, the older men reading newspapers on plush couches, and even the ladies tittering quietly over steaming cups of coffee. He looks like one of the privileged elite, even if it’s the furthest from the truth, and that’s simply the nature of his job. Deception.

Of course, looking like he owns the place is only the first step of the plan. Hyunjin has no problem pretending to be some entitled chaebol, but getting the target alone? That’s the only thing he really has to ace.

As Hyunjin makes his way towards the bar, his eyes brush over Chan and Jisung. They’re both dressed in sleek dress shirts and matching black slacks, their dark hair slicked back in perfect quiffs. They chatter to each other by the wall of the corridor, beside the marble bust of some man Hyunjin doesn’t recognise, and neither acknowledges him as he passes by.

Even so, it’s reassuring that Chan and Jisung are only so nearby, that they a whole safety net strewn out beneath him - no matter that Hyunjin doesn’t need it.

It’s reassuring to have all of them, really, with Seungmin and Changbin staking out in an apartment on the other side of the street, watching over them with a rifle and a pair of binoculars, and also Felix and Jeongin in the basement of the hotel, armed to the teeth and waiting attentively for any sign of trouble.

Hyunjin can’t remember the last time he’s trusted his extraction team so much. He can’t even remember when he’s had so many people watching over him.

“Doesn’t this remind you of old times?” Minho’s voice comes unexpectedly through comms. It sounds like there’s some action on his side, although Hyunjin doesn’t know what it is specifically. He hasn’t been briefed on anything past his own task in the mission, while Minho has always taken jobs with authorisation levels way past Hyunjin’s own.

Hyunjin peers out the window, feigning wonder as he looks to the window across from his hotel room instead. It’s too dark to see properly, but when his eyes adjust, he can make out the shining scope of Jisung’s sniper rifle. 

It’s not too hard to find when he knows what he’s trying to spot.

“Stop looking at me,” Jisung complains. Shadows move in the apartment across the street, in time with the fabric rustling in Hyunjin’s ear. “It’s creepy.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, unable to reply. Instead, he turns around; baring his neck as he shrugs off his coat. The target’s eyes are glued to him from where they are laying, legs spread, on the gold-framed bed.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Jisung chuckles, undoubtedly watching as Hyunjin crawls onto the bed on all fours. Hyunjin wants to bash his face in. Jisung and Minho know he hates chatter in his ear while he’s trying to work, but they still do it anyway.

Hyunjin sits back on his heels once he’s properly straddling the target, their hand coming to rest on his waist. He’s too used to being touched this way - no love, no real intimacy other than overpowering lust - to feel disgusted.

There’s no warning before the target reaches out to him, ripping through his shirt with one strong swipe. Buttons fly everywhere, clinking against the flower vase on the bedside table. Hyunjin feels the target moving, allowing them to flip him onto his back. His head lands softly on fluffy pillows, hair splayed out like a halo around his face.

Minho hums gibberish in his ear, his voice velvety even between strained panting. “Got what we needed, 004. You’re free to go.”

Hyunjin sighs, feeling hands wander down his chest and rest on the waistband of his leather pants.

“Want me to do the honours?” Jisung volunteers, metallic clicking coming from his line.

“No, it’s fine,” Hyunjin replies aloud. The target falters in confusion, hands pausing where they’ve begun to drag down his zipper. Hyunjin reaches down to unlatch the knife hidden in his belt, flexing his thighs around the target’s waist. He flips them back over, dragging the blade across the target’s neck in one well-practised swipe.

Hyunjin is quick to hop off the bucking body, trying his best to salvage his ripped shirt as he watches the target bleed out on their bed. It’s only when they fall deathly still that Hyunjin plucks out a Kleenex to dab away the blood splatters on his chin.

“He’s on his third scotch and dry,” Seungmin scoffs, bringing Hyunjin out of his memories. “Seems to be holding it well, though. Be careful.”

Hyunjin scans the bar area quickly, spotting the man he’s here to meet. 

President Choi Minhwan is their target of the night. He’s the head of a computer security firm and a high-profile affiliate of MIROH, just one among hundreds that the Organisation has been keeping tabs on. He looks typical, if Hyunjin is honest. Thick, rectangle-cut spectacles, a square face with a defined jaw, and salt-and-pepper hair to match his age. He’s dressed in a pin-stripe suit, matched with brown dress shoes and a shiny Rolex on his wrist.

Seungmin was right about the pocket square, though. It is obnoxious.

Hyunjin passes behind Choi, making sure the fabric of his shirt brushes against his back as he makes his way to a counter seat a few chairs down. It’s easy, then, to order a drink and wait for the target to approach him. 

Hyunjin is far from full of himself, but he is aware of what he looks like - and by extension, what kind of effect he can have on people. 

Hyunjin has acted as the honeypot of the group since he was old enough the distinction between child and young adult blurred. He’s been primed for this job from the start, chosen for features that were innocent yet beguiling and a personality that wasn’t hard enough to resist, yet not soft enough to shatter entirely.

Hyunjin was never the strongest, or the smartest, the most agile or the most ruthless. Once he was told what his specialisation would be, he spent years preparing and practising, making sure that no matter what, he would always be useful to his team and to the Organisation.

It’s why Hyunjin wasn’t able to pick up his scant belongings and follow Chan’s path of light out the door. Following Chan meant that his life as 004 would be over, that he would never again be able to use the one and only skillset he possesses. It would mean that everything he’d done for years and years, everything he’d suffered for, would amount to nothing.

That he would be nothing.

And Hyunjin couldn’t have that.

It’s a testament to his skills that Hyunjin has President Choi, and his two bodyguards, out of the bar within the hour. He continues to make small talk with the older man, injecting just enough casual flirting to keep the target’s arm wrapped tight around his waist. 

The elevator deposits them on the topmost floor of the hotel. 

Hyunjin knows better than to say anything when the bodyguards don’t stop to station themselves outside the hotel door, but follow them into the penthouse suite. Instead, he only stops in his tracks in the threshold between the living area and the bedroom, placing his hands on either side of the frosted glass division between the rooms.

“I’m not really one for exhibitionism,” Hyunjin says, smiling cheekily. He looks over to Choi, who scoffs and waves his bodyguards off. They nod stiffly, turning around to face away as Hyunjin gently slides the divider shut.

The moment the doors click together, Choi crowds Hyunjin against the frosted glass. His hands are rough against Hyunjin’s hips, stubble brushing against Hyunjin’s cheek when he hangs his head over the younger’s shoulder.

Hyunjin slithers around in Choi’s grasp, resting his hands on the older man’s chest. He needs to get them away from the door so the guards don’t realise when he incapacitates their boss. “Why don’t we move this to the bed?”

“Sure, baby,” Choi smirks. Hyunjin’s about to push off the door when the older man does something entirely unexpected. 

Faster than Hyunjin can react, Choi reaches upwards. His hand brushes against the long, serrated scar around the back of Hyunjin’s neck, and then immediately anchors in his hair, yanking his head back painfully.

Hyunjin barely makes a sound. Some of his targets are like this, their preferences in bed as violent as they are out of it, but somehow this feels different. 

“It’s nice to meet you, 004,” Choi says, and his grin is sinister. It feels like ice water dunked over Hyunjin’s head and he tenses, ready to fight. Choi’s grip on his hair only tightens. “Uh uh uh. One word from me and my two best friends outside won’t hesitate to riddle you full of holes.”

Hyunjin falls still, glaring at the older man as he drops his arms to his sides. “How did you know?”

“I have friends in high places, ’04, and they just so happen to know everything about you and your little friends,” Choi drawls, eyes wandering as he keeps Hyunjin’s head tilted back. He raises his other hand from the younger’s hip to run fingers over his scar instead. “Including facial features and other identifiable… defects.”

“It’s not a defect,” Hyunjin scowls. The scar on the back of his neck is thick and long, ugly where ripped skin never truly knitted itself back together properly. He despises it, of course. It’s an unwanted memento of his one and only failure, and he keeps his hair long to hide it from the world, but it’s not a defect. It’s not.

“Fuck,” Seungmin’s voice comes through comms. Hyunjin wants to snort, because isn’t that an understatement. “Jisung and Chan-hyung are on the way up. ETA three minutes. Changbin hyung’s locked on the target, if you-”

“I don’t need it,” Hyunjin snaps, cutting Seungmin off and interrupting whatever Choi had been in the midst of saying. Hyunjin is too annoyed to care.

The MIROH executive who inflicted the wound on the back of Hyunjin’s neck is very much six feet underground. He’s been dead for ten years, and Hyunjin can easily count the number of people who know about the scar that he’d left behind - all of whom wouldn’t talk even under threat of death. If Choi knows, then that means that his information, and all the Organisation had on file about the entire line of 00 operatives, has well and truly been leaked.

Their mission has failed even before it truly begun.

Hyunjin grits his teeth, slipping one of his extra knives out from where it’s tucked into his waistband. He spins it the right way around before stabbing Choi right between the ribs. The older man makes a pained yelping noise, much like a dog whose tail has been stepped on, as he collapses to the ground.

One of the guards shoves the sliding doors aside so aggressively they rattle against the walls.

Hyunjin is ready for Choi’s guards, more so than they are for him, so it’s with ease that he lunges at the first - locking his thighs around his neck and bringing him down with his body weight. Hyunjin lands lightly on his feet, dodging the shot that comes his way, before finishing the second off with a strong high-kick to the side of his face.

Easy.

“Very clean,” Seungmin praises. He’s so much quieter than Jisung and Minho that Hyunjin had almost forgotten he was there.

“I’m a professional,” Hyunjin retorts, picking up a gun from the floor. He checks the magazine, and then shoots the two guards in the face for good measure. Hyunjin doesn’t need either of them. He really doubts they knew anything important and besides, Choi is the real prize here.

“What do you want?” Choi shrinks away in fear when Hyunjin’s gaze falls on him. He keeps glancing at the knife sticking out of his gut, trembling fingers ghosting over the slowly bleeding wound.

“Don’t worry. While I do have a hundred percent kill rate, I know how best to keep people like you alive,” Hyunjin crouches down in front of Choi. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he taps the older man on the nose, the gun dangling threateningly from his other hand. “People with… what was it? Friends in high places?”

“They’re outside,” Seungmin reports, just as the lock on the hotel room door beeps and flashes green. He hesitates for a moment, breathing deeply before continuing. “…Are you okay?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Hyunjin replies, frowning. He’s never been asked a question like that during a mission. It just shows how out of touch Seungmin is with what used to be his occupation - with what Hyunjin has been doing for the past decade. He’s being too sentimental, which is not what Hyunjin needs right now, or ever.

Hyunjin plucks out the comms device from his ear just as Chan and Jisung enter the room. Chan takes stock of the immediate area with his sharp gaze as Jisung quietly shuts the door behind them.

“Please, help me!” Choi cries out, dragging his body across the floor. Hyunjin clicks his tongue, watching in disgust as the man who lorded over him just moments before is reduced to pathetic begging.

He can’t help but relish in the expression Choi makes when he takes a closer look at Chan’s face, and then at Jisung’s. The terrified recognition in them is almost laughable.

“Y-you’re 001 and 005,” Choi babbles, still clutching at his side. He’s begun to inch backwards again, towards the nearest wall, his eyes glued on Chan. “But that’s, that’s not possible. You’re retired. And you,” Choi pauses, blinking at Jisung, “You, you’re supposed to be dead, they said that you were-”

Hyunjin raises a brow. That’s news to him.

Jisung flashes a peace sign, even though there’s clear anger underlying his false cheer. “Escaped the base just before everything went kaboom. Pretty spectacular sight, if I say so myself.”

Chan sighs, before gesturing towards Hyunjin and Jisung. “Go take a quick sweep of the rooms.” His gaze turns icy when he looks down at Choi. “I’ll deal with this one.”

Hyunjin doesn’t need to be told twice. He picks through the bedroom, while Jisung combs through the living area. There’s nothing much of note amongst all the frivolous, overpriced knick-knacks Choi keeps, so Hyunjin heads to the large, golden-hued bathroom.

The moment Hyunjin sees his reflection in the mirror, an uncomfortable heat sets in below his skin. It itches at him, his chest tightening as the meagre contents of his stomach turn over and over.

Defect.

Hyunjin slaps a hand down on the marble counter in an attempt to silence the whisper, but it does nothing to deter the noises. Defect. Damaged. Used. Thrown away.

Hyunjin clenches his fists. 

Shakily, he raises one of his hands and slips it below the blonde strands at the back of his head. The scar is right there, big and obvious and still haunting him even after so many years. He hates it - hates the way people treated him like he was damaged goods right after he’d gotten it, hates the way his injury - his scar - is the reason his closest friends, his brothers, were torn apart and scattered in the wind.

Hyunjin refused to let himself hope that he’d ever again see the ones who left - not kind, observant Seungmin who always made sure to ask after his wellbeing, or sweet, caring Felix who’d drag over his IV to come cuddle up to him in his hospital bed. Not Chan, or Jeongin, or Changbin.

But they’re all here, now, and Hyunjin is still stuck in the past.

Hyunjin unlatches his last knife from its hiding place, the twin to the one he used to stab Choi, and lifts it up to his eye. The blade glints dauntingly under the warm mood lighting.

Minho used to say that it’s always best to rush in head first when scared or unsure, and it’s what Hyunjin thinks of when he begins chopping off long locks of blonde. They fall into the sink slowly, catching on the air before drifting slowly into the basin.

Funny how Minho’s words apply now, of all times. Hyunjin huffs lightly as he reaches around the back of his head, slicing off more locks of hair that fall like spun gold onto the floor. 

Once the others left, Minho was the only hyung Hyunjin had left in the Organisation. There was no one else to act bratty with, no one else Hyunjin could trust would indulge him - even if Minho liked to pretend to be mad, and then get him back tenfold - and it was natural that he and Jisung and Minho would grow much closer than before.

They were tight-knit enough Hyunjin was privy to the way Minho and Jisung grew so close they crossed the line the Organisation had set for them. 

Hyunjin had no qualms that the Organisation knew about the relationship. It was about that time that Minho had begun being sent on missions that took longer and longer, after all, ones that both Hyunjin and Jisung knew nothing of.

Jisung was never too worried. He’d mentioned before that they had some sort of…

Hyunjin frowns, lowering his blade. He thinks back again, to what Jisung had said when they last talked about Minho. It’s been a long time since they’ve had any kind of downtime together, so the memories are blurry at best.

“Holy shit, Jinnie.”

Hyunjin’s head whips around in time to see Jisung stepping into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His mouth is hanging open slightly as his eyes roam over Hyunjin’s new haircut. It’s much shorter at the back, showcasing his scar in all its glory, while his bangs rest just above his eyes. It’s a little choppy, but decent all things considering.

“Why’d you cut it?” Jisung continues, eyes wide as he tilts his head this way and that. “You look good, though. You always do.”

Hyunjin’s thoughts are racing. He might be cold and professional when he’s on the job, but with Jisung and Minho? He’s always allowed himself to melt, always allowed his walls to topple, and if he’s right he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with the hurt.

“‘Sung-ah, I… I don’t know if I remembered something right,” Hyunjin says, voice wobbling. He can’t help but clutch at his blade a little tighter as he meets Jisung in the eye. “Chan hyung said you couldn’t track Minho hyung, but you’ve said before that you could find him no matter where he went. You- you said you kept tabs on Minho hyung, especially if he went on deep cover missions.”

Jisung nods slowly, lips twitching upwards. “I would have contacted Minho hyung if I could. You know that.”

When Jisung takes a step towards him, Hyunjin takes a step backwards. The atmosphere of the room has changed, and the last damning detail clicks into place.

“Hyung,” Hyunjin whines, sprawled on the mattress. He’s freshly showered, long blonde hair hidden beneath a damp towel. He drapes himself onto the railing of the bunk bed, squishing his cheek against the cool metal and pouting. “Hyung.”

“What?” Minho snaps, glaring at him from across the room. He’s lounging on Jisung’s bed even if said man isn’t around, playing idly with something small and shiny. A closer look reveals it to be the tracker Chan gave each of them before he left. Hyunjin glances at the ring on his finger, and the same chip he’s melded to the underside of it.

“I said, what?” Minho repeats, now raising an eye towards Hyunjin.

Hyunjin huffs, turning around to face away from the older. “You’re so mean.”

Minho sighs dramatically. Hyunjin peeks at him from the corner of his eye, watching as Minho presses the chip into his mouth and fixes it in place behind one of his molars, before rolling off Jisung’s ratty mattress.

“Scoot over, brat,” Minho says as he ambles over, and Hyunjin has to stifle a satisfied smile as his hyung settles in bed beside him, hands reaching out to rub the towel gently over his scalp.

“And… the recall receiver. His tracker,” Hyunjin breathes, eyes narrowing. He takes another step back, gripping his knife tightly as he drops into a defensive stance. “How is it possible Minho hyung never answered the call, when he doesn’t go anywhere without it?”

Chapter Text

Kim Seungmin has seen many things in his thirty years of life.

While the others held the front line, priming themselves to deceive or maim or kill, Seungmin was the one who siphoned through all the information they did extract. He’s the one who separated the relevant from the irrelevant, even if it was really nothing more than sorting through trash for more trash.

Seungmin’s years at the Organisation have only taught him that money and power in excess only breed perversion and senselessness. Any accompanying violence is only a side effect of questioned legitimacy, like an oversized toddler throwing a tantrum over having a toy taken away. It’s why Seungmin has never felt an ounce of guilt or shame over the work he’s done for the Organisation, emotions he is sure some of his teammates still harbour. 

It’s also why, even after ten mundane years of studying textbooks and taking care of cavities, Seungmin doesn’t flinch away from the interrogation happening in the middle of their target’s penthouse suite.

“Things would be going so much better for you right now if you would just speak,” Chan sighs, standing over a certain Choi Minhwan. Their captive is tied to one of the chairs from the opulent dining room, and although cushioned, they’ve made it far from comfortable for him. The ropes, for one, are just tight enough to cut off most circulation in his limbs.

As Chan shakes off his hand, Seungmin catches sight of blood flaking off his knuckles. They’re already rubbed raw against his favourite pair of brass knuckles; the metal winking under the warm overhead lights in an ominous promise.

“I don’t know anything!” Choi cries, trembling. The entire right side of his face is swollen an angry-red, like he’s gotten bitten by an entire hive full of bees. His nose is broken crooked, blood staining the bottom half of his face.

“C’mon, don’t lie,” Changbin scoffs. He drags a chair over to sit by Choi, flipping it around and straddling the back rest. “We heard you over 004’s line. Weren’t you bragging about knowing the higher ups at MIROH?”

Choi gapes, his face turning even paler. He must realise they were all listening in to what he said, what he did - or rather wanted to do - to one of their own. He must realise now, how much he’s fucked up.

Seungmin crosses his arms over his chest, unimpressed. Choi looks so pathetic in the moment that he almost feels pity. He probably could have - felt anything other than disgust, that is - if he hadn’t already listened in on his conversation with Hyunjin.

“Hurry,” Jisung’s voice is strained. His arm is hanging limply by his side, blood dripping off his fingers as he single-handedly reloads his pistol.

The radio hanging from Jisung’s side crackles uselessly once more.

Sweat rolls down the back of Seungmin’s neck as he continues to fiddle with the electronic lock; steadfastly ignoring the dead eyes staring up at him from the floor. The hallway is littered with corpses - mostly suit-clad bodyguards with small firearms hardly worth stealing. While Seungmin prefers them to the faceless MIROH clones that ambushed them earlier, he still breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the lock finally, finally flickers green and the door clicks open.

Jisung takes point. Seungmin hurries after him, too worried to argue, and he’s all too happy to leave the few remaining bodyguards in the hotel room to the other boy. Instead, Seungmin bursts straight into the bedroom. He shoots almost anything that moves, efficient and unfailing even with adrenaline and fear running like blood through his veins.

When Seungmin finally spots Hyunjin, he almost wants to throw up.

004 - and Seungmin absolutely cannot think of him as Hyunjin, cannot think of his cheeky smiles and raucous laughter, not if he wants to keep his cool - is lying face-down on the bed. His legs are forced apart by a spreader bar, arms bound tightly together behind his back, and he’s naked from the waist down. 

Seungmin would have found it hard to turn his eyes away from the slick wetness running down 004’s thighs, if not for the mess of blood around his neck. The liquid bubbles thick from a large cut running like a crescent splitting Hyunjin’s hair line and his neck, dripping in rivets to stain the white sheets in a pool of crimson.

When Jisung finds them, barely a few minutes later, he’s dragging in their target by the hair. The MIROH executive is bleeding all over the tiled floor, eyes clouded over under the gaping bullet hole in their head, and Seungmin spares a moment to imprint the sight into his memories.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jisung mutters, gaze wide and urgent as he scans over Hyunjin. He unceremoniously drops the body, kneeling tentatively onto the bed next to Seungmin to take a closer look. “He’s alive?”

“Barely,” Seungmin says, pressing torn strips of bedding against Hyunjin’s neck, “I’ve got my field pack, but the supplies I have won’t stop the bleeding for long. We need to get him out of here.”

Jisung runs a frustrated hand through his hair, swearing again as he pushes off the bed. He delivers a hard enough kick to the target’s head that he twists their neck, but Seungmin doesn’t have it in him to reprimand Jisung. Their target was meant to be an easy mark, a MIROH executive on the down and out, but they were more than ready for Hyunjin. 

They were more than ready for Jisung and Seungmin too, so much so the ambush had already been sprung before they knew it.

“…005? 002 to 005, copy.”

Seungmin’s heart beats against his ribs like a hammer as he watches Jisung grab the radio from his waist.

“Loud and clear. We need immediate medevac,” Jisung clutches onto the radio like a lifeline. Seungmin can see the white of his knuckles. “004 is down. I need an ETA. Over.”

“ETA two hours,” Minho’s voice crackles slightly, his smooth tenor sending dread like a cold waterfall down Seungmin’s spine. “006 is critical. 001 and I are in transit.”

Seungmin’s face is numb, but he’s aware he of how pale he must look when he sees the same fear reflected in Jisung’s eyes. He shakes his head, once.

“Negative, 002,” Jisung’s voice wobbles, “We need medevac in thirty minutes, tops, or 004 is dead.”

Minho is silent for so long Seungmin almost worries the signal has been cut again. The radio crackles back to life before Jisung can repeat his message, Minho’s voice coming through like a shining beacon of hope. 

“Roger that,” Minho says. There’s something off about his voice, something that’s thrown off the emotionless mask he utilises for missions, but Seungmin is too relieved to dwell upon it. "ETA fifteen minutes. Get 004 ready for transport.”

“I don’t know!” Choi cries, so loudly it snaps Seungmin back to the present - back to ten years later, facing a man who would have hurt Hyunjin the same way if he had the chance. It looks like Chan’s finally shattered his cheekbone.

Choi is frantic as he searches for something, any give. It’s torture 101. Just as they are trying to weasel information from him, the captive will always look for what they perceive to be the weakest link in his captors. That, of course, seems to be the three youngest - all of them standing in a half circle by the walls.

Choi scans Seungmin, the nearest where he’s leaning against the frosted glass divider. He moves quickly on to Jeongin, draped over the couch to watch the interrogation with attentive eyes, and decides he doesn’t like what he sees there either. Finally, Choi’s bloodshot gaze lands on Felix, who’s standing the furthest away from the interrogation, half-hidden behind a pillar.

Choi’s eyes light up so fast, it’s like he’s won a jackpot.

Before Choi can say anything, Changbin grabs his chin; black-gloved fingers digging tightly into swollen skin. “Eyes on me.”

“Please,” Choi’s eyes are still stubbornly on Felix, his pupils blown wide and the whites stained almost entirely with red. Seungmin’s more surprised his eyeballs haven’t popped out entirely from how many times Chan has punched him in the face. “I have a family! I have- I have a son I need to get back to. He’s going to be ten, you know? He’s-”

“I had a life, too,” Felix interrupts. When he steps fully around the pillar, Seungmin can see the way his fists are clenched at his sides. “I was going to- I needed to finish a cake.”

Seungmin raises a brow. Felix actually sounds angry, and that’s as rare as they come.

“I can’t go back to my life because of MIROH, because they have people like you on their side,” Felix continues, freckles standing stark against his skin as he takes another step closer to Choi. Jeongin tugs on the side of his shirt, keeping him from going any further.

Choi shakes off his confusion quickly. “Y-you know what MIROH is like! They don’t take no for an answer, they-”

“Pretty sure the boys you raped were saying no, too,” Seungmin sighs, unable to watch the fiasco continue on any longer. It’s about time he helps Chan and Changbin a little, anyway.

Choi gapes. “H-how did you-?” 

“We’ve had a few days to get our affairs in order,” Seungmin shrugs, pushing off the divider to stand between Choi and Felix. It’s more for Choi’s benefit, really. Felix might generally seem harmless, but he’s still operative 006 - still the same, trained killer as he was before he went and became a baker. “It’s funny how you think you’re good at keeping secrets.”

Choi’s jaw snaps shut.

“Were you going to dump 004’s body in the Han river too?” Jeongin adds, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Chan says, eyes sharp as they watch the little twitches in Choi’s expression, gauges the fidgeting of his fingers and somehow gets something out of it. Seungmin has always wondered how he does it, has almost always envied the pure, natural talent Chan possesses. “004 is too important to MIROH to merely be one of your disposable toys. Isn’t that right?”

Choi flinches, his eyes darting down. A clear tell.

Changbin snorts, lip curling in irritation, before placing a heavy hand on the knife Hyunjin lodged in Choi’s body. It forces a sob of agony from Choi, one that has Seungmin feeling more satisfied than he should be.

“He’s asking you a question,” Changbin growls, a threat and a promise all in one with his fingers still wrapped around the handle of the dagger. “So talk.”

“… We were told to keep a look out. There was a list- we were warned you might come after us,” Choi’s voice shakes as he talks, blood dripping down from his hairline with every shiver. “The 00 Agents have always been top priority for MIROH, only there was never a way to find out your identities until we had access to the Organisation’s database.”

“And if we did come after you?” Seungmin probes. A small spark of hope ignites inside of him. Maybe Choi had been a good choice, after all, if he’s as involved with the ins and outs of MIROH’s ruling class as he says he is. They might have been set back by the speed with which MIROH leaked their information, but Choi might be able to give them an in, somehow. “What were your orders?”

“They want you alive,” Choi shudders away from Changbin’s glare, now addressing Seungmin. “Unspoiled, if possible. There were talks of cloning.”

“Of course there were,” Chan snorts, unclenching his fists a few times as he lowers himself onto the couch. “So that means you have a way of contacting them. Of getting them to come here, or going over to wherever they are.”

“I…” Choi chokes. His face has grown paler and paler with every word that spills out of his lips. He looks even more terrified than he did before, which means MIROH must have some sort of chokehold on him. Seungmin definitely wouldn’t put it past them to have all their loose ends tied up nicely, even before they really need to be.

Changbin flicks the handle of the dagger, ignoring Choi’s pained wince to readjust the black latex gloves around his fingers. “You have about five hours with this in you. I don’t want to have to make it one… or less.”

Seungmin’s head snaps to the side when he hears what seems to be a loud thump from the bathroom. He frowns, straining his ears, but Choi’s ragged, panicked breaths drown out most other sounds and he’s quick to get drawn back into the interrogation.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Choi pants, eyes darting frantically from their faces, to  Changbin’s hand on the handle of the knife, and back again. “I’m- MIROH will find out and-”

“They’re not exactly the avenging type,” Seungmin scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Besides, you forced us all back together again,” Chan says, nodding to each of the grim faces around the room. “You think taking us down is going to be a walk in the park? No. It’s not going to happen. Not even for MIROH.”

“Not all of you, though,” Choi grits out, teeth also painted red. It seems he’s hit the threshold between fear and hopelessness, if he’s acting out in anger like this. He must be losing hope of ever making it out of there alive. Or it might just be the pain talking. “You’re all trash. Out of practice, out of shape. Old.”

Chan’s fists curl tight against his thighs, but he doesn’t move. Seungmin allows himself a flex of the jaw, but nothing else. Choi might be exploring some suicidal tendencies by being as aggravating as possible, but he’s talking and that’s what they need.

“005 and 004 aren’t bad…. A few defects here and there, but those can easily be fixed once we get their DNA,” Choi continues, muttering to himself. Seungmin glances around the room, eyebrows furrowing when he realises that Jisung and Hyunjin have yet to return from scoping out the rest of the penthouse suite. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing they aren’t there to hear the bullshit Choi is spouting. “002, however? That’s the real gem in the mud.”

“What the fuck would you know about Minho-hyung?” Changbin demands. His legs are so tensed, muscles coiled and ready to pounce where he’s sitting, that even Seungmin can sense his agitation. No-one says anything about the slip of tongue.

Choi stares for a moment, and Seungmin can pinpoint the exact moment his confusion clears into delirious glee.

“You- you don’t know where 002 is,” Choi says, his lip curling in a malicious smile. It looks deranged under all the blood and Seungmin wants to wipe it off his face. Preferably with a punch. “This is fucking rich.”

Seungmin exchanges a look with Chan. All of them have been worried about Minho, but it’s true he’s been put on the back burner in favour of figuring out the mess they’ve found themselves in. Minho has always been more than capable of taking care of himself. He’s never been the one they had to worry about, has always had his own way of doing things, and Chan’s always kept him on a relatively long leash.

Seungmin can see the guilt swimming in Chan’s eyes now, and that’s never a good sign. Self-doubt is gluttonous enough it hardly leaves any parts of their leader behind.

“You like to pretend you care about each other, like you’re friends or some sort of fucked-up family, when you don’t even bother to learn more when one of your own goes missing,” Choi snorts, shaking his head. Droplets of blood go flying. “You’re coldblooded killers and nothing more. Stop parading around like you’re normal people.”

“We are normal people,” Jeongin states with a frown. He looked much more like a normal person in his bright yellow apron than he does now, decked in black tactical gear from head to toe and armed to the teeth.

None of them really do look like normal people, not as they are, standing around torturing a man who’s slowly bleeding to death.

Choi laughs. It’s stunted in agony, more desperate breaths than anything borne from real amusement. “You think you can form real relationships, but you’re only pretending. You’re fucked up in the head. Whatever you think you have with each other? That’s all fake. You’re incapable of anything more than being worthless, loyal dogs that will rip each other to shreds at the-”

Changbin is out of his seat faster than Seungmin can blink, Hyunjin’s dagger in his hand as he kicks over Choi’s chair.

“Hyung!” Felix yells in shock, he and Jeongin rushing over to hold Changbin back. They struggle to keep him still, even with both almost wrapped fully around each of Changbin’s arms. “We still need him!”

“We don’t!” Changbin growls back, kicking one of the chair legs. It splinters, jostling Choi’s limp leg away from where it’s tied to the wood. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of us. We don’t need this fucking bastard.”

Chan is frozen, and so is Seungmin. All he can see is Choi on the ground, blood spurting out of the open knife wound in thick, dark streams. All he can see is Choi choking as his life drains out of him, his face turning ashy under dried blood.

In the moment, Seungmin is torn. He wants to believe Changbin, wants to be sure that Choi is only trying to mess with them, but at the same time he knows it can’t be that simple. Choi wouldn’t have brought up 002 if he hadn’t known something about him, and if Minho really is in trouble? Then they might just have lost the one lead they had to find him.

Kneeling down next to Choi’s body, Seungmin watches in morbid wonder as it spasms in pain, the older man’s eyes bright and desperate all the way till they fade to nothing. He leans down to check Choi’s breathing, then his pulse. Nothing on both ends. Seungmin looks up again, meeting Chan’s gaze before shaking his head.

Chan lets out a long, shuddering breath. Changbin falters where he’s still being held back by Felix and Jeongin.

It’s in the sudden, shocked silence in the living room that they all hear a thundering crash from the bathroom.

In seconds, they’re all in position, waiting patiently for Chan’s signal against the divider. They closed ranks so smoothly that it actually surprises Seungmin. It’s been ten years since they’ve seen each other, much less trained together, but they still fit together like puzzle pieces - even if a little jagged or twisted.

“There shouldn’t be anyone else,” Chan says, eyes narrowed as he motions them forward. He has a hand on the pistol shoved into the back of his pants, while Changbin tosses Hyunjin’s soiled blade in favour of his own handgun. “I sent Hyunjin and Jisung awhile ago.”

“I should have gone to check on them,” Changbin shakes his head. The last of his anger is still present, his shoulders stiff. “I just- got so distracted by that fucking piece of shit-”

Felix places a hand on Changbin’s back. He’s always had a magic touch, always seems to know what they need, and it shows in the way Changbin’s shoulders sag.

“Someone's coming,” Jeongin interjects, muscles tensed around the twin daggers in his grasp. They’re a little bigger than the ones Hyunjin favours, since Jeongin has never had the need to conceal his bloodlust. He was always the Organisation’s little rabid dog, set upon any who went up against them and let loose on any leftovers. 

Jeongin is also very rarely wrong, and it’s only a moment later that the bathroom door swings open.

Jisung limps through the threshold, heavily favouring his right leg as he drags along a very still body by the collar. The sight mirrors the one in Seungmin’s memories, only instead of warm and worried, Jisung’s eyes are hard and dark as looks towards them.

Seungmin doesn’t know what his own face looks like, as frozen as he is, and he isn’t able to react as Jisung swings an unconscious Hyunjin around to press a gun to his temple.

“Stand down, or I blow his brains out,” Jisung says. His fingers tighten over the trigger, forearm tensed, yet all Seungmin can focus on is the shallow rise and fall of Hyunjin’s chest.

“No, Sung-ie,” Felix raises his hands too quickly, flinching away when Jisung startles and digs the gun harder into Hyunjin’s skin. The brunette is pleading when he speaks again. “Jisung- please, you wouldn’t-”

“Put… your weapons… down,” Jisung hisses, eyes roaming from Felix to Chan, all the way up the line. If his eyes were dark before, they’ve become entirely unreadable. He’s retreated into himself,  like he usually does after a particularly unpleasant mission, and Seungmin’s brow furrows.

The more he thinks about this, the more the cracks in the story start to fill up.

Chan glances around at the four of them, before nodding slowly. He crouches down, leaving his brass knuckles to bleed red into the magnolia carpet. Everyone else follows, as they always do, and Seungmin places twin pistols down next to Felix’s knives.

“Hands on the floor, where I can see them,” Jisung orders, his words less stunted now. Seungmin’s gaze roams over Jisung himself, and then Hyunjin again. His hands are hidden behind his back, likely tied up, but Jisung hadn’t bothered to secure his feet.

“Whatever this is, Jisung, we can fix it, alright?” Chan murmurs, as they all bend over to plant their hands on the carpet. The soothing tone sounds so out of place in such a highly-charged situation that Seungmin has to force down a hysterical bubble of laughter. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Jisung’s mouth firms out into a severe line. He slips out a small device, round and flat with no identifiable marks. Seungmin almost thinks Jisung isn’t going to answer, occupied as he is with the device, but when Jisung looks back at them there’s something different swimming in his eyes. His lip trembles. “No, no it’s not.”

Seungmin’s mind goes into overdrive.

“Jisung,” Chan swallows, eyes big and knowing as he looks up at Jisung. Seungmin feels his heart drop down, down, down till it feels like it’s beating from the bottom of his stomach.

“Where is Minho?”

Chapter Text

Lee Minho wakes up in pitch-black for the third day in a row. 

Of course, he only knows that because he’s taken to counting the hours and minutes and seconds that pass. Minho’s captors aren’t so courteous they’d include a clock in the furnishings of his little cell - which is entirely barren, save for a little bucket Minho uses as a toilet. 

It’s so dark Minho can hardly see past his own fingers, much less make out the solid steel door they’d dragged him through what seems like an eternity ago. Not that he has any true desire to see his fingers, now. His captors broke all five on his left hand right before throwing him into the cell and Minho can hardly feel them, much less move them. If he ever gets out of there, he’ll have to break them again to set them properly.

And that’s a really big if.

It’s only when day three is about to end that the door to Minho’s cell creaks open.

Minho flinches away from the bright light that spills in, an uncontrollable reflex after so much time left in the dark. 

A masked guard marches through the threshold, grabbing Minho roughly by the chin and pouring a cup of water down his throat. Despite the rude manhandling, Minho gulps the cool liquid down without fighting. It’s been three days since he’s had anything to drink, much less anything to eat, and the water does its job of soothing the parched dryness of his throat.

“Oh how far the mighty have fallen.”

Minho snatches his head out of the guard’s grip, turning instead to glare up at the other man in the room. He stands tall, thick cords of muscle wrapping around his bare arms. Minho catalogues the rifle strapped to his back, the two glocks at his waist and the knife strapped to his belt. Heavily armed is an understatement, but Minho isn’t surprised in the least.

While it can be said that Minho and this man have a history together, Minho really only knows that he’s a mercenary who goes by Z. MIROH agents enjoy the same type of anonymity Organisation operatives do, only Minho isn’t sure that last part still applies.

“Get up,” Z says through a gloating smirk, looping a hand around Minho’s arm to yank him roughly to his feet. Weakness surges through Minho, a dizzy tide turning his vision dark so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. The loss of balance doesn’t affect Z. He only tightens his grip on Minho to better drag him out of his cell and down a badly-lit corridor. “The doctor wants to see you.”

A pang of fear hits Minho square in the chest. It’s almost immediately followed by self-disgust.

The Minho from months ago would never have felt this tentative, this uncertain. The Minho from months ago would never have allowed himself to feel like this - would rather have died with his dignity and pride in tact.

How far the mighty have fallen, indeed.

“Oh really?” Minho says in a false show of bravado, “And there I was, thinking I’d been forgotten.”

Z snorts, stopping in his tracks. He changes his hold on Minho, slamming him into the wall by the shoulder. 

Minho curses at the pain that blooms at the back of his skull, the sound choked out of him as Z’s hands squeeze around his neck. When Minho blinks up at Z, the mercenary’s eyes are near bottomless pits of anger. 

“Look forward to the day they finally give the okay to off you, 002,” Z hisses, shoving him backwards once more. “I’m going to make you regret all these fucking years.”

Minho gasps wetly when Z finally releases his hold, instead clamping around Minho’s arm again to continue hauling him down the narrow hallway. 

The mercenary chuckles softly as they move, as though remembering something amusing, and pulls Minho closer to whisper in his ear. “Maybe I’ll break both your legs first.” The words send a shiver down Minho’s spine, his empty stomach turning over uneasily. Z seems to sense Minho’s discomfort, his smirk only growing wider. “We’ll see how you’re ever going to dance around me again.”

Minho coughs out a weak laugh. “I can take you. Even like this.”

Z growls lowly, always so easily taunted. It’s one of the reasons Minho liked messing with him so much, only before his capture it was always on equal ground. 

Minho might talk big, but he’s not in the best condition after months of captivity - after months of torture and abuse, of electricity running through his bones and water dumped on his face, of starvation and dehydration and isolation. At this point, while Minho might still put up a good fight, he isn’t optimistic enough to believe he’ll come up top against Z.

“Don’t get too excited, now,” another voice chimes in.

Minho has to fight the trembles that threaten to overtake his body, his mind immediately racing to thoughts of thick needles, freezing metal tables and the bite of cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The doctor stares him down through wire-rimmed glasses, the white of his lab coat mockingly pure under the fluorescent lights.

Minho meets his gaze bravely, even if all he wants to do is shy away and curl up in the corner.

“We still need him alive,” the doctor says, clinically detached as usual as he turns around to lead them out a door. Minho is immediately struck by the hustle and bustle of these wider, well-lit hallways. There are so many people about - all masked, all their heads down with not a glance at them, but people nonetheless and more than Minho has seen in months. “He needs to be somewhat presentable for our… visitors.”

Minho’s mouth goes dry. His tongue feels out the little depression in his molar, the missing piece that was forcefully taken from him. “Visitors?”

The doctor spares a short, backwards glance. “Your friend has come through on his end of the bargain.”

“My… friend?” Minho’s brow furrows.

“You may know him as Han Jisung,” the doctor says, short and deadpan, but the words only serve to tip Minho’s entire world upside down.

“No!” 

Minho worries his lip, feeling helpless as he follows after a fuming Jisung.

“They can’t do this to you,” Jisung continues, violently pushing open the door of their dorm and storming inside. “They can’t- how can they-” Jisung cuts himself off, scrubbing his face too aggressively.

“Sung…” Minho sighs, shutting the door quietly behind him. He’s quick to wrap his arms around Jisung, tucking his chin over the younger’s shoulder. “I know. It’s going to be a long mission, and it’s going to be dangerous, but that’s nothing new for us, right?”

“That’s not the problem!” Jisung snaps. He turns in Minho’s arms, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him one single, hard shake. “They’re sending you to MIROH, hyung.”

Minho purses his lips. “I’m aware.”

“It’s suicide!” Jisung says, waving his arms. It’s obvious from the expression on his face that he doesn’t understand why Minho isn’t upset. The thing is, Minho is upset. He just doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “They’re out of their minds if they think sending you to your death is the best course of action right now.”

“We can’t question the Organisation, Sung,” Minho shakes his head. He trails light circles in Jisung’s palm, the latter quick to link their fingers and squeeze tight. “Trust me. I’ll stick to the shadows, as usual. They don’t know what I look like, and I’m good. I won’t get caught.”

“What if you do?” Jisung’s eyes are wide as he looks into Minho’s. They’re so vulnerable in the moment, Minho has a hard time reconciling the Jisung now with the confident, almost cocky 005 in the field.

“You’ll always be able to find me, right?” Minho smiles, tapping his cheek. The chip Chan gave them serves more purposes than it was originally meant to, and while Minho has never liked anything that made him feel restricted, allowing Jisung to hack into it - to track him wherever he goes - is something Minho doesn’t mind if it gives Jisung peace of mind. 

Minho would give Jisung everything in the world if he could.

“…Yeah, yeah I will,” Jisung mutters, running the cuff of Minho’s sweater between his fingers. “And if you get in trouble, know that I’ll do anything to get to you. Anything.”

“Of course,” Minho nods, gathering Jisung in his arms and tugging them together in a hug.

“You won’t be able to say bye to Hyunjin,” Jisung’s mouth twitches, hands slowly moving up Minho’s back to hook into the material of his sweater.

“I’ll say bye when I’m back,” Minho exhales loud and long through his nose. Hyunjin is going to kill him for leaving without notice, but orders are orders.

“That’s not how it works, hyung,” The younger laughs, finally fully giving in to his feelings and clutching back so tightly Minho worries he may never let go. Minho feels more than hears Jisung sigh from where his face is pressed into his neck. “Maybe we should have left with Chan hyung, after all.”

Minho misses Jisung, of course. He misses him like crazy, like he’s never missed anyone before. 

The feelings were always buried under thick layers of professionalism and training, of habit after years and years of long deep cover missions that left them unable to contact each other, but now that Jisung’s name is on the doctor’s lips - his real name, not his code number - Minho can’t seem to slip out of the mounting hysteria in his head.

Z stuffs a gag in Minho’s mouth before he can ask anything else, tying it in place with a knot at the back of his head. It only serves to heighten Minho’s pulse, his thoughts spiralling wildly as he tries to grasp the situation.

Jisung has been in contact with his captors, with MIROH. Jisung, who loves Minho as much as Minho loves him and who would do anything to keep him safe.

As they move through what seems like a never-ending labyrinth of hallways, ones Minho’s training forces him to remember in what the others used to call the Hansel and Gretel manoeuvre, Minho desperately tries to keep his panic in check. He only realises that he’s fighting a losing battle when they finally enter one of the rooms and he lays sight on what must be his worst nightmare come true.

Minho blinks rapidly as he scans their faces - all on their knees, bound and gagged, much older yet so achingly familiar. He trails up and down the line multiple times, trying to comprehend the fact that his entire team is right in front of him, lined up in perfect order. 

In the back of Minho’s mind, he thinks that this might be an illusion made by MIROH, one meant to torture him in an entirely new way. The heady mist of denial is swiftly pushed aside by Minho’s training and something inside him knows that this must be real. Everything about them, from the smattering of freckles on Felix’s cheeks to the furrow of Changbin’s brow, feels too organic to be fake.

Then, Minho’s gaze lands on Jisung - the only one who isn’t tied up or forced to the floor with the barrel of a gun pressed to their head. He’s standing a little further from the rest, holding an unconscious Hyunjin by the collar, and Minho can clearly see the rigid set of his shoulders.

Jisung’s eyes are tender as they take in Minho, take in his ashen complexion, the dark bruises marring almost every inch of his skin, and especially what must be the mangled mess his left arm must be. 

Predictably, a spark of protective anger ignites like a flame inside Jisung’s expressive brown irises. Minho meets his gaze almost desperately, but the past months have been hard enough he can’t exactly contain his own fear and disappointment.

What have you done?

Jisung doesn’t flinch away, but it’s a near thing. 

“Isn’t this a wonderful present, 002? All your little friends, gathered back together by helpful 005?” The doctor says, making his way to stand front and center in front of the line of Minho’s friends. 

Z tugs at Minho too, leading him towards where the doctor is standing, and he must have let go on purpose because the sudden loss of support - no matter how tight and bruising - causes Minho to lose his balance and fall over.

Embarrassment burns the tips of Minho’s ears, but he has no time to take note of the others’ reactions before Z is kicking him brutally in the stomach. Minho only allows himself to huff in pain, curling in on himself instinctually to protect against each nauseating hit.

“Useless fucking bitch,” Z swears, rearing his leg back in preparation for another hard kick. Minho shuts his eyes, body tensing in preparation, but the strike never comes.

When Minho blinks his eyes open again, he feels his heart stuttering in his chest at the sight of Jisung standing between him and Z. His eyes are narrowed fiercely, mouth set as he glares Z down. He’s tossed Hyunjin down somewhere behind Chan and there’s some movement amongst the guards, but Minho is too preoccupied by the proximity with which Jisung is standing to him. 

They’re so close they could touch. 

It’s more than Minho could have ever hoped for whilst locked up. He thought he would’ve died long before being able to see Jisung ever again - much less any of the others.

“The deal was that you wouldn’t hurt him,” Jisung grits out, turning his glare towards the doctor. Z scoffs, but stands down. This is above him, now.

“The deal was that 002 would remain alive,” the doctor corrects, a spark of something like morbid interest lighting up in his dead eyes as he slowly surveys each 00 Operative. It causes Minho’s panic to return tenfold. Being subjected to the doctor’s tests - the horrific procedures that barely construe the pursuit of scientific discovery - is not something Minho would wish on anyone. Especially not the seven people he holds nearest and dearest. 

The doctor’s gaze lingers on Hyunjin, lying half-hidden behind their leader’s broad frame, before finally landing on Chan. He waves one of the guards forward to tug the gag from his mouth, and then dismisses him again with another half-hearted gesture. “001… Bang Chan. The one who started the 00 line. You must be the one I need to thank, for training up all these interesting specimen.”

But Chan isn’t looking at the doctor. He’s looking at Minho, who can barely move where he’s still lying on the floor.

“I’m not wasting time arguing with you, 002,” Chan growls, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. They’re speeding a busy main street, zipping around other vehicles under Chan’s skilful hands. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Didn’t you hear them? Felix isn’t the only one who needs help!” Minho hisses back, worked up enough he has to physically restrain himself before he accidentally smashes the radio in his own grip.

“Codenames!” Chan snarls back. It’s the most frustrated Minho has ever seen him, and it’s not a surprise. They never expected a signal disrupter, and they never expected the others to get cut off for such a long time on such a complicated mission. It’s their fault 004 and 006 are bleeding out in two locations in entirely different directions from one another.“We’re not splitting up again. 007 is with Team B. He’ll be able to-”

Minho does something he never though he’d do to his leader - he snatches at the wheel and pulls, sending their armoured truck into a wild spin. Chan’s good enough to get the truck to skid to a stop, but by then Minho has hopped out of the passenger seat.

It’s simple, then, to slip a gun out of its holster and commandeer a car from a civilian. 

Minho knows that his actions aren’t going to go unpunished. He knows its insubordination, plain and simple, even at his position as Chan’s second, but it’s worth it to hear the relief in Jisung’s voice when he tells him he’s only twenty minutes out.

Minho should have been punished severely for disobeying direct orders, but instead, his leader had apologised for his own incompetence and left with more than half their team.

Losing them hurt like having his heart ripped out of his chest by force, but in the following years, Minho comforted himself with the fact that his precious friends, his family, were all leading normal lives. They were far away from dangerous criminals and life-threatening missions. They were safe.

And now they’re not.

Because of Minho.

“What have you done to him?” Chan says, eyes reluctantly flickering away from Minho. There is a deep and dark sort of anger bubbling in his voice, unlike anything Minho has ever heard before.

“002?” The doctor hums, sparing a glance towards Minho before walking forward to stand closer to Chan. “The standard tests, of course. There are many. I would take the time to explain them, but I’m afraid even you, with your intellect, won’t understand.”

Minho almost flinches when he feels a hand wrap around his shoulder. He’s so engaged in the conversation between Chan and the doctor, so wrapped up in the feeling of hopelessness and despair, that he hadn’t even noticed Jisung approach him.

Once Jisung is sure Minho’s attention is on him, his hand travels from Minho’s shoulder to cup his jaw instead. The touch sends sparks through Minho’s body, ones that are so much more pleasant than the ones that have painted his skin with Lichtenberg figures. He runs a thumb over Minho’s cheek, so gently that Minho’s eyes are almost immediately damp.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Jisung whispers, pressing his forehead to Minho’s. Minho’s heart aches. He wishes he isn’t as weak as he is now after months of torture, that his hand isn’t ruined where it lays by his side almost entirely purple with bruises, and that they’re anywhere else; safe instead of at the mercy of their captors.  Jisung pulls back slowly, unwilling to draw attention to them. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Minho shakes his head weakly, the concrete ground cold against the feverish heat of his skin. His saliva has almost fully soaked through the gag.

Jisung’s expression abruptly changes, turning serious in a blink of an eye. Any tender softness, any hint of vulnerability, is suddenly hidden behind the face he wears for missions. Still crouched low to the ground next to Minho, Jisung turns smoothly towards Z. The mercenary has a keen eye on Chan and the doctor, his attention elsewhere.

With growing alarm, Minho watches Jisung slip a knife into his hand.

“Well, you will hardly need to wait before you experience it for yourself,” the doctor is still droning on smugly. No one else has noticed Jisung’s position, no one except Jeongin and Seungmin, eagle-eyed as usual and the closest to them in the line-up. Minho’s eyes flicker over the others warily, squinting lightly the further he goes. His eyes may be permanently damaged from living so long in deep darkness, because he swears he could’ve seen Hyunjin moving.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Chan retorts, raising a brow from where he’s still kneeling, looking up at the doctor. The doctor laughs, throwing his head back in amusement, but Chan doesn’t waver.

Minho feels a shiver travel down his spine. All of the others must feel it too - the change in Chan’s demeanour. He slides into the role of leader so naturally that they all look to him instinctively, attentively tuning in to his body language to figure out what his silent orders are.

Jisung tenses, muscles coiling like a spring. Minho blinks, certain this time that Hyunjin definitely moved.

And then Chan unceremoniously decks the doctor right in the face.

Chapter Text

It might not be much of a surprise, but Han Jisung still has to fight down the urge to flinch away from the gun pressed against his temple. The overhead lamps flicker on one by one, slowly flooding the dilapidated warehouse with yellow light.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, 005,” A man with wire-rimmed glasses addresses Jisung. He’s the only one amongst the masked, gun-toting clones who has their face on full display, and that probably means he’s the one Jisung has to barter with.

“Oh really? A name would be nice, seeing as you’re not my usual dance partner,” Jisung says, raising his eyebrow in a challenge. While this situation has always been a possibility, the chances only skyrocketing once Minho dropped off the grid entirely for weeks on end, Jisung currently has no idea what state Minho is in and what these people - what MIROH wants with them.

With Hyunjin away on a solo mission and no other agents understanding enough to look over the very illegal tracker Minho and Jisung were never supposed to have, Jisung had no choice but to go alone in response to an SOS he knew, deep down, that Minho wasn’t the one to send out.

“You can call me the doctor. I’m the one in charge of… fine-tuning 002,” the man hums, slipping a small tablet from one of the pockets of his white coat. “If that’s who you mean by your usual partner.”

Jisung’s teeth grind together forcefully, even if it only outwardly shows as the clenching of his jaw. He hates to think of how long Minho must have been suffering, or what the Organisation has done to Minho even after years and years of faithful service.

The doctor steps closer, turning his tablet around as he approaches. 

Jisung can’t help but watch the screen transfixed, his throat parched and eyes widened. Minho is front and centre, strapped down to a metal examination table. As the video plays, he spasms against his restraints, mouth opening in a soundless cry as an electrical current passes through his body. A swipe, and Minho’s head is being held down in a bathtub of water. Another swipe, and Minho is screaming as they bring a hammer down on his fingers.

“I trust you get the gist of it,” the doctor sighs through his nose, and Jisung has to forcefully tear his gaze away. The videos are still playing, Minho - Jisung’s hyung, Jisung’s partner, Jisung’s everything - looking weaker and more defeated as what must be weeks fly by on screen. “You’ll do as I say, 005. 002 won’t last much longer, otherwise.”

Jisung has always been good at containing himself on missions. The others have always complimented his poker face, and he’s never let the mask break in front of an enemy. It’s not broken now, either, but there must have been some give in his expression because the doctor scoffs. 

“For all the merits of the double-o line, the only flaw has to be something as useless as allowing you to bond with each other.”

Those same bonds are what Jisung thanks now, as gunshots ring out into the air.

There’s a sudden flurry of movement all across the big room they were brought to, the guards scattering as Jisung’s brothers escape poorly-secured knots. Jisung himself fires off two shots at the nearest threat - Z, a heavily muscled mercenary Minho has always had quarrel with. 

Z manages to dodge, even at such a close range, so Jisung launches himself at him; wrapping his legs around his chest and toppling them both over.

They land heavily. It’s a good thing Jisung caught the mercenary mid turn, because he seriously doubts he could’ve done it should Z have had both feet planted firmly on the ground. Horizontally, he’s almost twice the size of Jisung, and that strength comes in full force when he knocks the gun out of Jisung’s grasp.

Jisung presses his full body weight down, leaning down until he’s almost chest-to-chest with Z. His thighs strain as they lock around Z’s hips, but the mercenary only smirks back. “I’ve had fun with your partner these past months, 005, aren’t you a little too eager for your turn?”

A loud snarl rips itself out of Jisung’s mouth, a reflex even before he feels the rage bubbling in his chest. He has no words for Z, only a flurry of anger-fuelled punches that definitely breaks the the bigger man’s jaw.  Jisung relishes in the crack of bone beneath his splitting knuckles. 

Unfortunately, the mercenary isn’t one of MIROH’s most prized mercenaries for no reason. He catches Jisung’s fist on the fifth strike, his grip crushing and his lopsided smile bloody. Jisung grits his teeth against the pain, quickly unlatching a knife from the holster on his thigh and slicing it against Z’s side.

Z yells, swearing loudly as he bucks Jisung off him. The smaller man lands deftly on the floor, knife dripping bright blood as he brandishes it in front of his face.

The mercenary’s lip curls over his canine. “You fucking-”

Jisung startles at the loud bang. It’s too loud, too close to his flank for him to not have noticed sooner, and he tears his gaze away from the gaping hole right above Z’s blank eyes to blink at Minho. The thud of the body falling limply to the floor can barely be heard over the rest of the commotion in the room.

Minho is still lying on the floor, half-propped up by his injured arm, and there’s a dark spark of satisfaction in his eyes as he waves Jisung’s lost gun at the new corpse.

“Hyung,” Jisung scrambles closer to tug off Minho’s gag. He stays close to the ground, aware of Chan shouting orders and the sporadic bursts of gunfire.

“I can still shoot with one hand,” Minho grumbles, glancing at his mangled fingers again. Judging by the look of them, Jisung isn’t sure they will ever fully recover. “Are they in the loop or is this just you?”

“Bastard didn’t mention a thing!” Seungmin snorts, skidding to a stop by them. Behind him, Jeongin sails through the air, broken scissors in hand as he tackles a clone to the floor. Across the room, Changbin heaves another clone over his head and slams them to the ground.

“I tied those knots so badly! It was obvious!” Jisung huffs, helping Minho up by the arm. Seungmin supports him on the other side, wrapping his arm around Minho’s torso instead so he doesn’t aggravate his worryingly limp arm. “They were monitoring me, so it’s not like I could just say something.”

“You knocked me out!” Hyunjin accuses, pointing a dagger at Jisung’s direction. Felix is behind him, toting a long semi-automatic rifle as he tiptoes around the blood splatters Hyunjin has left in his wake.

“Sorry?” Jisung grins sheepishly, ducking under Hyunjin’s half-assed swipe at his head. 

“Had us in the first half, not gonna lie,” Felix sighs, hiding his strained smile behind a long sleeve. “I forgot how bad it smells when people die.”

“So let’s get out as quickly as we can,” Changbin says, lumbering over while stretching out his arms above his head. Jisung eyes the thick cords of muscle, stares down at his own slightly twiggy arms, and wonders if Changbin should have fought Z instead of him.

“Changbin’s right,” Chan says, dragging over the doctor’s limp body. It’s obvious he’s not breathing anymore, his face bruised and swollen to hell, but Minho still tenses up to the point Jisung can feel it. Chan didn’t make his passing easy, but even then maybe it was still a mercy as compared to what Jisung would have done to him. “You got us into this mess. So get us out, 005.”

The lull in activity is only temporary. They all know it. This is the main HQ, MIROH’s Queen Hive. There are clones swarming down the halls towards them as they speak, and they need to leave as quickly as they can.

But… this is the main HQ. MIROH’s Queen Hive.

It’s the perfect opportunity to destroy it.

“The transport chamber isn’t too far from here, since they had to drag all of you over. I trust you remember the way?” The moment Jisung leaves Minho’s side, Changbin replaces him as a crutch. He kneels by the doctor’s corpse, searching through his pockets till he finds his electronic key. The dead scientist’s limp, cooling thumb still works to unlock it, and the key lights up without any issues. “Bring the thumb with you in case it shuts off again. There’s a jet that- 004, you still remember how to fly one?”

“Of course,” Hyunjin nods. Jeongin kneels by Jisung, wrinkling his nose before slicing off the doctor’s thumb. Jisung doesn’t understand how something from a typical household medical kit can possibly be sharp enough to do that, but Jeongin somehow makes it work. 

“And… 002, your mission?”

Minho stares Jisung down, like he knows exactly what he wants to do. He probably does.

“80 per cent,” Minho finally says, shaking his head. He looks so weak, so unlike himself, that it only reminds Jisung of those horrible videos he’d had to endure watching. And it was just watching. He can’t even begin to imagine the amount of pain Minho must have been through. “I was caught before I- Jisung, don’t do it. We need to leave now, while we can.”

“And live in fear for the rest of our lives? Keep running away forever?” Jisung scoffs, anger flaring again. The others exchange curious looks, but Chan seems to have caught on too. 

“The Organisation didn’t just send Minho here for intel, did they?” Chan’s lips slide into an understanding downturn. “He’s one of their best. They wouldn’t just sacrifice him for nothing. The plan must have been to destroy them entirely, from the inside out - all or nothing.”

Minho nods, wincing as Seungmin helps to boost him up onto Changbin’s back. “Bombs. Scattered through the compound. But like I said, I wasn’t done. There are a few wings I haven’t even gone to, and the remote detonator- they took it, along with my tracking chip and the rest of my stuff. It’s probably destroyed now.”

“Not necessarily,” Jisung stands up again, expression grim. “The doctor had your tracker stored in his lab, alongside your other things. If he never punished you for it, then he likely didn’t know about it yet. You all head to the jet and get ready. I’ll run to the lab and set up the timer so it goes off after we get away.”

“How’re you gonna get past all the-” Felix’s voice fades off as he watches Jisung snatch a mask off one of the dead clones and fix it over his face. Secured on Changbin’s back, Minho’s jaw visibly clenches - in discomfort or reluctance Jisung isn’t sure. His eyes are fierce, even though one of them is bruised badly. 

The meaning in them is clear: Come back to me.

Jisung nods.

“Everyone else, head to the jet,” Chan orders, standing up. Jisung cocks his head to the side, the words dying on his tongue as he watches Chan, too, secure a mask on his face. His tone leaves no room for argument. “You’re not going alone, Ji-”

“-sung, you know you can leave with us,” Chan says, his voice a quiet echo against the shower tiles. Jisung stands in the shower stall, head bowed and hair dripping, as he clutches at a bar of soap. “You can give up this life of pain and violence. Lead a normal life.”

A normal life. 

Jisung doesn’t entirely understand what that means.

This life is all he’s ever known. While the others were taken from orphanages or rescued off the street like stray dogs, it seems as though Jisung has always been with the Organisation. He can’t remember anything else, not like the way Felix remembers the warmth of the bakery that gave him free bread, or the way Seungmin can recall the comfort of a parent’s embrace.

“If you decide to leave, then Minho will too,” Chan continues, his voice taking on a slightly pleading edge. “He won’t go if you’re staying. Maybe if the two of you- then Hyunjin, will, too.”

Is a normal life a boring one? Jisung isn’t sure. What he knows is that they made a pact - one to stay together, to be there for each other no matter what. And Chan wants to betray that now? Jisung isn’t the one who has to change his mind.

Jisung turns the tap and steps under the shower spray.

“…Please think about it,” Chan sighs. Jisung hears his footsteps fading, drowned out by the sound of water splashing on tile. “But know that no matter what, Jisung, I’ll still be your hyung.”

Watching Chan dart through the shadows with him, keeping up with Jisung’s pace even after a decade of retirement, touches something deep in Jisung’s heart. 

With MIROH still out there, Jisung never held the intention of retiring like the others. At the time, he’d been young and immature. He couldn’t understand why his team was leaving him. 

Now, he  isn’t sure if he regrets not knowing the alternative - a world where Minho never had to be tortured because he stayed in the Organisation for Jisung, yet also a world where they might all have fallen prey to MIROH rusty, out of practice and isolated from each other.

When the doors to the lab slide open, Jisung has to drop quickly to the floor to avoid a punch that’s sailing right at him. Chan catches the fist and twists the clone’s arm to pull it close. He delivers a single uppercut that knocks it out immediately.

“Find the detonator. I’ll cover you,” Chan steps forward, taking point into the room. He tugs the mask off his face now that it’s obvious the ruse is up.

Jisung nods, sprinting towards the doctor’s work bench. Guns fire behind him, a stuttering rain of bullets against the shiny metal interior, but he doesn’t hear any sounds of pain from Chan so he keeps rummaging through the drawers.

“Yes!” Jisung hisses, triumphant, when he pushes aside a bunch of wires to find Minho’s old rucksack. He tugs the zip open, sticking his hand in till his fingers brush up against something cool and hard. 

Jisung has seen the detonator once before, as Minho had been packing for his mission. It’s standard issue by the Organisation, designed to look like a compact, old-issue gameboy. Jisung fiddles with the buttons, setting the timer before tossing it back into the cabinet and flipping the whole thing onto the floor so it’s impossible to open.

“Done? Let’s go,” Chan calls as he plucks a new, loaded gun from the belt of an unconscious clone. There are about five or six of them lying by his feet, but Jisung can’t count them exactly as he suddenly loses his balance. “Jisung!”

Jisung gasps, a singular panicked breath, as his torso throbs in pain. He hugs his arm to his stomach, but the fabric is sticky and warm. His hand comes away red.

“You’re injured. Jisung, when did this happen?” Chan kneels by him, the wrinkles between his brows deepening. Jisung tries to stand up, but his legs aren’t cooperating. His vision is swimming and his hands can’t stop shaking. 

“O-old injury,” Jisung mutters, trying yet again to get up only to fall back on his ass like a newborn fawn. “Fuck! The timer’s set. We need to- to get out of-” 

Jisung feels the world around him shift as Chan hikes him up on his back. They’re off in a sprint without another word, Jisung’s arms and hands linking reflexively around Chan’s neck to keep himself from falling.

Jisung feels increasingly faint as they retrace their steps through the many winding hallways. Chan has always been impressive, and now is no exception. He’s already memorised the way back. Even with the flashing lights and booming alarm and deadweight on his back, he’s able to accurately shoot down any clone they happen across.

“Hang on! We’re almost there,” Chan says, as Jisung’s head droops without his permission. It feels like he’s expending all his strength on hanging on, and he has no more energy for anything else. “Hannie?”

Jisung manages a soft grunt against Chan’s neck, and it seems to be all the encouragement the older man needs to speed up even more.

There’s more gunfire, and some jostling on Chan’s back. Jisung isn’t too sure what’s happening, only that his hands are linked like a vice around Chan. He can’t let go, no matter what. He won’t.

The sound of propellers, and a warm engine. 

They’re almost there.

“-happened? He’s injured?!”

“Jisung!”

Fingers, prying at his hands. Jisung holds on, because he told himself he’d never let go.

“Just go! Close the fucking doors and take off!” Chan’s voice is the closest, and loud enough to pierce through the fog.

Jisung’s eyes snap open, wide and overwhelmed as they dart from the back of Chan’s head to Seungmin and Jeongin’s concerned gazes. Felix’s long brown strands whip around his head as he empties his magazine at the gap in the closing cargo door. Hyunjin is sitting up front in the pilot’s seat with Changbin beside him, easing down on a lever as they begin to taxi down the short runway.

Minho is staring at Jisung from where he’s been lying on the floor of the plane, the lines of his face belaying his sheer worry and exhaustion, and it’s only then that Jisung allows his arms to relax.

Chan gently detaches Jisung from his back and lays him down by Minho as they lift off the runway. He’s already calling out orders for a medical kit as Jisung’s ears begin to pop from the increasing altitude.

Jisung reaches out to Minho, who takes his hand and links their fingers together.

A resounding boom shakes the plane, softer explosions following as Jisung realises the timer must have run out. Minho squeezes his hand softly, and when Jisung’s gaze flutters up to his face, Minho mouths, “It’s over.”

As Felix pulls up his shirt and Jeongin prepares to stitch his wound shut, Jisung smiles.

It’s only after Minho has left the compound that Jisung decides that he cannot stay here anymore.

The Organisation has betrayed them. Jisung, Hyunjin and Minho have all served loyally and without question for their entire lives, yet Minho was sent to an almost certain death. MIROH is a problem, but the Organisation has become an even bigger one.

Jisung has to do something about this, but what?

They can’t leave, but destroying the Organisation makes them vulnerable to MIROH. There’s no way he can do this by himself.

Jisung rolls his lip under his front teeth, tapping his fingers against the frame of Minho’s bed as he thinks. When his skin brushes against the edge of thin plastic, he flips himself onto his stomach and slides his hand further under the mattress.

From there, Jisung fishes out an old photo. It’s crumpled and taken with a very old, low-quality camera, but Jisung can see all eight boys as clearly as if the picture had been taken the day before.

It might be cruel, to drag his old team - the people that have come closest to being his family - back into a mess they didn’t want any part of anymore, but they’re the only ones Jisung can depend on. 

Anything, Jisung had claimed before. He’d do anything to keep Minho safe.

And that includes taking everyone down with him.

{End}