Chapter Text
Part One: Beneath the Surface
Rain tapped against the windows of Woo Jinchul’s apartment — not a storm, just the quiet kind, the kind that hummed against the glass like a lullaby no one asked for. The soft drizzle blurred the city beyond into watercolor lights, golds and reds smeared across wet pavement. Seoul was restless tonight, but inside his high-rise on the outskirts of Gangnam, everything was still.
Still, and empty.
He sat on the edge of his couch in a crumpled dress shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other still damp from the rain. His tie lay in a heap on the floor, a shallow imprint of his day discarded with it. The digital clock on the table blinked at him with useless precision: 2:38 AM.
He hadn’t turned the lights on when he came in. He never did, not on nights like this.
A bottle of soju sat unopened beside him. He’d brought it out with some vague notion of dulling his thoughts, but the idea had settled like ash in his chest. There was no forgetting what had already etched itself into his bones.
Jin-Chul exhaled — slow, measured. He had trained his body to be calm when his mind wasn’t. He had learned long ago how to regulate his breathing after a fight, how to look in the mirror and pretend his eyes weren’t screaming.
The problem was, there hadn’t been a fight tonight.
Not against monsters, anyway.
No, the beasts he dealt with now wore S-rank badges and perfume that cost more than his rent. They smiled when they hurt you. Told you to relax. Told you it was a compliment.
That’s the problem with being just strong enough.
An A-rank in a world reshaped by gods.
Strong enough to serve. Not strong enough to say no.
He didn’t remember when it had started — not precisely.
There was no moment that marked the first line crossed, no grand betrayal. Just a slow accumulation of glances held too long, meetings that bled into private invitations, “friendly” hands lingering on his back after briefings.
He’d told himself it was the cost of proximity. He convinced himself that to stand beside the power that kept Korea safe, one had to bleed a little differently. It wasn’t like they were all bad, right? Just... entitled. They’d fought battles he couldn’t imagine. Walked through hell and come back stronger. Who was he to refuse?
Who was he to say no?
But somewhere along the line, his dignity had stopped being a choice and become a currency.
And every time he left someone’s bed — or office, or training room — something stayed behind that didn’t come back.
It was in that numbness that Sung Jin-Woo entered the picture again.
Not as a menace. Not as a hero. Just as a presence.
When Jin-Woo rose, everything changed — not just in South Korea, but across the globe. S-rank meant something different now, because he wasn’t just strong. He was a shadow monarch. A being so far removed from ordinary hunters that the rest of them were little more than civilians in comparison. The man walked through dungeons like he was taking a stroll, and even gates that left nations scrambling were cleaned up in the time it took most hunters to strap on their armor.
But he was also unpredictable.
Jinchul hadn’t spoken to him often. Not beyond duty. And yet, there had always been something... unsettling about him. Not in the obvious way. Not like the others, who wore their power like fangs, hungry and proud.
Jinwoo was different.
Quiet. Watchful.
Kind, even, though that word didn’t quite fit — like trying to describe a tidal wave as “generous.”
Still, Jin-Chul had learned to keep his distance.
S-ranks took what they wanted. Eventually.
It began with glances.
Not leering. Not even invasive. Just... steady.
During a debriefing with the Association Director, Jin-Woo had looked at him — not at his title or his uniform, but at him. It wasn’t a leer. It wasn’t a warning.
It was something else.
Something curious. Disarming.
Jin-Chul remembered the way Jinwoo’s eyes softened for half a second when he spoke — like he saw the exhaustion beneath the crisp suit, like he wanted to ask something but decided not to.
He remembered hating that he noticed.
After that, it became a pattern. Jin-Woo was always in the room just long enough to leave an impression. Never too close, never too far. Always watching. Not in the way predators watched prey — but the way people watched something they couldn’t quite name.
It made Jin-Chul uneasy.
Because he couldn’t figure out what Jin-Woo wanted.
Eventually, that uncertainty became worse than knowing.
A cup of coffee appeared on his desk one morning.
It was from a vendor he liked — one whose location was tucked behind a subway station only locals knew. It was an odd detail to notice, but the familiarity hit him with unexpected force.
He stared at it for a while before noticing the writing on the side.
Not just his name. Not even his title.
“Jinchul-hyung.”
Messy Hangul. Hesitant, like someone had copied it off a website.
He stared at it until the coffee went cold.
He didn’t drink it. But he didn’t throw it away either.
They crossed paths again two days later — the site of a B-rank gate cleanup where Jin-Woo had arrived unannounced.
He wasn’t needed, of course. But Jin-Woo rarely explained himself.
The two of them ended up on the rooftop of the nearby hospital, the cleanup finished, the moon overhead casting silver light across broken tiles and fresh rain puddles.
Jin-Chul lit a cigarette out of habit, even though he rarely finished one. The smoke curled like questions between them.
“You look tired,” Jin-woo said quietly.
Jin-Chul didn’t answer right away. He stared at the horizon, the city’s heartbeat pulsing in steady lights below. “That’s what happens when you work for a living.”
Jinwoo didn’t smile. He didn’t make a joke. He just leaned against the railing and said, “Even soldiers need armor that fits.”
Jinchul’s spine stiffened.
There it was. The implication.
The reach.
He turned slowly. “You’ve been watching me.”
“Yes.”
He appreciated the honesty. Hated it, too.
“And what is it you want, Hunter Sung?” he asked, voice cool. “You’ve never been subtle. Just say it.”
Jinwoo didn’t look away.
“I want to know you,” he said.
The words were simple. Almost gentle.
But to Jinchul, they landed like a blow.