Chapter Text
Bang Chan sat at his cluttered desk, fingers tapping rhythmically against the old wooden surface, eyes fixed on the case report in front of him. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting shadows across the room. He tried not to let Felix’s words sink in, but they lingered like a bad dream.
“Just give him one chance,” Felix had pleaded earlier, leaning against Chan’s desk with that boyish grin that usually got him out of trouble. “You know how it is. Either this or nothing.”
Chan scowled at the thought, ruffling his already tousled hair. He’d been at the Night Terror Agency for years, tracking down and neutralizing nightmares that clawed their way into the waking world. It was grim, thankless work, but he didn’t need anyone to help him—especially not someone like Lee Minho.
The name alone made him grit his teeth. Everyone at the agency knew the rumors: Minho, the cocky, reckless rookie who only kept his job because his brother was head of the department. Suspension after suspension, complaint after complaint, and now this? They were expecting him to train this guy? Babysit a disaster waiting to happen?
“Unbelievable,” Chan muttered to himself.
The door creaked open behind him, and without turning, he knew who it was. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air charged with unwelcome energy.
“You must be Bang Chan,” came the voice, smooth but laced with thinly veiled disdain. “The legend himself. Lucky me.”
Chan finally looked up. Lee Minho stood there, dressed sharply but with an arrogance that clung to him like a second skin. His sharp eyes took in Chan’s disheveled appearance, and one corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk.
Chan’s jaw tightened. “You’re late.”
Minho shrugged, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair. “Traffic. Or maybe I just didn’t feel like rushing. Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”
Chan resisted the urge to slam his fist on the desk. “This isn’t a game, Minho. Night Terrors aren’t just shadows under the bed. They kill people. You screw up, people die.”
Minho rolled his eyes, leaning casually against the wall. “Yeah, yeah. I read the handbook. Don’t worry, grandpa, I’ll keep up.”
Chan shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Listen, kid—”
“Chan,” Felix interrupted, stepping into the room with his usual breezy demeanor, though his eyes flicked nervously between the two. “Let’s not start this with a fistfight, yeah?”
Minho smirked wider. “I wasn’t going to punch him. Yet.”
“Yet?” Chan barked, taking a step closer.
Felix quickly wedged himself between them, raising his hands. “Okay, okay, let’s just… take a deep breath. Both of you. Minho, try not to be an ass. Chan, please don’t kill him before the first assignment.”
Chan scowled, but he stepped back, crossing his arms. Minho just shrugged again, clearly amused.
Felix sighed in relief. “Look, Chan, I know you’re used to working alone. And Minho, you’re… you. But you’re both stuck with this, okay? You’ve got an assignment tomorrow, and trust me, you’re going to need each other.”
Chan narrowed his eyes. “What kind of assignment?”
Felix hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s been a… persistent case. A Level Four. It’s taken out two teams already.”
The room went silent. Level Four Night Terrors were rare, dangerous, and almost impossible to contain. They didn’t just prey on people’s fears—they became them, growing stronger with every victim they claimed.
“You’re pairing me with him for a Level Four?” Chan growled, pointing at Minho.
“I’m right here,” Minho said, looking almost bored.
Felix held up his hands again. “Look, I don’t make the rules. The higher-ups decided. You two are the best shot we’ve got. End of story.”
Chan clenched his fists, glaring at Minho. Minho, for his part, looked completely unfazed, his smirk still firmly in place.
“Fine,” Chan snapped. “But if he screws up, it’s on you, Felix.”
Minho’s smirk turned into a grin. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll make sure to keep up, grandpa.”
Chan’s glare could have melted steel, but Minho just winked, strolling out of the room without a care in the world.
Felix exhaled, slumping into a chair. “Well, that went… better than I thought.”
Chan pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
“Yeah,” Felix said with a small smile. “But hey, at least you’re used to those.”
The morning fog clung to the ground like a living thing, swirling around their boots as Bang Chan and Lee Minho approached the decrepit apartment complex. It stood like a hulking skeleton against the dull gray sky, its windows shattered, its walls scarred with graffiti and scorch marks. A faint, unsettling hum filled the air, a vibration that seemed to burrow into Chan’s chest the closer they got.
He hated this. Not the danger, not the mission itself—but him. Minho, trailing just a step behind, whistling softly as if they weren’t walking into a Level Four nightmare.
“Could you not?” Chan snapped, stopping to glare at him.
“What?” Minho said, tilting his head. “The silence was unbearable. Thought I’d lighten the mood.”
Chan’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a joke. Keep your focus.”
Minho raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk firmly in place. “Relax, grandpa. I know what I’m doing.”
Chan ignored the jab and turned back toward the building. His grip on the electromagnetic scanner tightened as they reached the front door—or what was left of it. The wood hung in splinters, claw marks gouged deep into its surface. The air inside reeked of mildew and something far worse. Fear.
“This is where it was last spotted,” Chan murmured, stepping inside. The scanner in his hand flickered to life, the display glowing faintly. It hummed, its needle jittering wildly. “It’s still here.”
Minho followed, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. “Good. I was worried it ran off before we got a chance to say hi.”
Chan stopped abruptly, turning to face him. “I’m serious, Minho. You’ve never handled a Level Four before. They’re nothing like the low-level shadows you’ve fought.”
“Really?” Minho said, his smirk fading for the first time. “Because I thought I’d just ask it nicely to leave.”
Chan’s patience snapped. He grabbed Minho by the front of his jacket and shoved him against the wall, their faces inches apart. “If you screw this up, people die. You think I care that your brother’s the boss? Out here, that doesn’t mean shit.”
For a moment, Minho didn’t react. Then, slowly, he raised his hands to peel Chan’s fingers off his jacket. His smirk returned, colder now, his voice lower. “If you’re done trying to scare me, we’ve got a job to do.”
Chan glared at him for another beat before stepping back. “Fine. But stay out of my way.”
Minho didn’t reply, just adjusted his jacket and nodded toward the staircase. “Lead the way, boss.”
They climbed the stairs in silence, the creaking wood beneath their boots the only sound. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, pressing down on them like a living weight. The scanner in Chan’s hand began to vibrate, the needle spiking sharply.
“It’s close,” Chan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The hallway at the top of the stairs stretched into darkness. The walls seemed to pulse, shadows flickering unnaturally, too fast, too fluid. Chan swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the scanner.
Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“There,” Minho said, pointing to a doorway halfway down the hall. The edges of the doorframe were warped, curling inward as if the wood itself had tried to flee.
“Stay behind me,” Chan ordered, stepping toward the door.
Minho ignored him, striding forward with unsettling ease. Chan cursed under his breath, following close behind.
As they crossed the threshold, the room came into focus. It was empty, save for a broken chair and a shattered mirror on the far wall. But the temperature plummeted, frost creeping across the floorboards beneath their feet.
Chan’s scanner went wild. “It’s here,” he hissed.
And then it stepped out of the shadows.
The creature stood nearly eight feet tall, its body a mass of twisting, black tendrils that dripped with inky darkness. Its face—or what passed for one—was a gaping void, teeth like jagged shards of glass glinting in the dim light. It moved unnaturally, jerking and twitching as if its body was fighting itself.
“Whoa,” Minho said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Ugly bastard, isn’t it?”
“Focus!” Chan barked, drawing his weapon—a sleek, modified pulse gun designed to disrupt the Terrors’ unstable energy. He took aim at the creature’s center mass. “Stay back until I—”
But Minho didn’t stay back.
Before Chan could fire, Minho darted forward, moving faster than Chan thought possible. A blade materialized in his hand—a wickedly curved dagger that seemed to shimmer with its own light.
“Minho, don’t—” Chan shouted, but it was too late.
Minho lunged at the creature, his movements precise, almost fluid. The blade cut through the tendrils with ease, the monster screeching in rage. It lashed out, its claws narrowly missing Minho as he dodged with almost cocky grace.
Chan cursed, raising his pulse gun and firing. The blast struck the creature, staggering it long enough for Minho to land another hit. The creature howled, its form flickering like a dying flame.
“Not bad for a rookie, huh?” Minho called over his shoulder, grinning.
Chan didn’t answer. He aimed again, firing a second pulse that sent the creature reeling. It collapsed with a final, bone-chilling scream, its body disintegrating into ash.
The room went silent. The oppressive weight lifted.
Minho straightened, sheathing his dagger and turning to Chan. “See? Easy.”
Chan stormed up to him, grabbing him by the collar. “You idiot. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Or worse—me!”
Minho didn’t flinch, his grin unwavering. “But I didn’t. And we got the job done, didn’t we?”
Chan stared at him, torn between fury and grudging respect. Finally he let go, pushing Minho back with a frustrated shove. “This isn’t a damn game,” Chan hissed, his voice sharp. “You don’t run in like that, not with a Level Four. They adapt. They learn. If it had turned on you—”
“But it didn’t,” Minho cut in, straightening his jacket as though the whole ordeal had barely phased him. “I had it handled.”
“You were lucky,” Chan snapped, his fists clenched. “That thing could’ve torn you apart.”
Minho’s smirk returned, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe, or defiance. “Look, I’m not some kid playing hero. I know what I’m doing, even if you don’t trust me yet.”
Chan opened his mouth to argue, but Felix’s voice crackled through his earpiece before he could.
“Chan, Minho, report. Is it neutralized?”
Chan pressed two fingers to the earpiece, his gaze still locked on Minho. “It’s done. Level Four confirmed and terminated.”
“Good,” Felix replied, though the tension in his voice hadn’t lifted. “I’ll send cleanup to your location. You two okay?”
“Fine,” Chan said tersely. Minho, leaning casually against the wall, raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
“Alright,” Felix continued. “But Chan, you might want to hurry back. The higher-ups want a full debrief, and they’re not happy. Something about the target escalating faster than expected.”
Chan exhaled sharply. “Got it. We’ll head back soon.”
The line went dead. Chan turned to Minho, his glare hard enough to cut through steel. “You follow my lead next time, got it? No more going rogue.”
Minho’s grin widened, and he gave a mock salute. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Chan shook his head, already regretting every moment of this partnership. He turned toward the door, scanning the room one last time before heading out. Minho followed, hands in his pockets, humming softly again like they hadn’t just survived a nightmare born from someone’s darkest fears.
As they stepped out into the gray morning light, Chan glanced back at his new partner, who seemed infuriatingly calm. For all his bravado, Minho had taken that thing down—and with a skill Chan hadn’t expected. But that didn’t mean Chan trusted him. Not yet. Not by a long shot.
“This isn’t over,” Chan muttered under his breath.
“Oh, I know,” Minho said, catching his words with that maddening smirk still in place. “I’m just getting started.”
Chan bit back a retort, already dreading whatever the next mission would bring.