Chapter Text
No matter how hard he tries, the stains never truly go away, not until a day or so later. Even then, he swears he’s haunted by the faint glimpses of red every time he looks down at his hands.
Despite that, Park Seonghwa scrubs. He scrubs and scrubs meticulously underneath each nailbed and between each finger. He reaches for the bar of soap over and over again until it’s coated in pink suds, but at least the water coming off his hands is starting to run clear. His hands feel raw and the tips of his fingers have become prunes from how long he’s spent standing at the sink. He’s probably clean enough; the water has long gone cold. A simple hand-washing can never truly get rid of the memories burned into his skin.
Killing never gets easier.
He does another pass of soap regardless, all the way up to his elbows this time. He scrubs hard enough for it to burn. The front of his shirt is uncomfortably damp from all the washing and he does his best to pat it dry with the small hand towel nearby. He’ll take a full shower later, where he'll most surely be scrubbing at his hands all over again. At this moment, the deep rumbling of his stomach has taken priority over all other thoughts.
Seonghwa makes his way to the kitchen where he’s quick to get a pot of water boiling and sets aside a pack of ramyeon. The stove is a little unreliable in his shitty excuse of a flat, but it usually makes do. He settles onto the only chair present at the small dining table knowing it’ll take a while for the heat to get going. The chair makes a small creak of protest under his weight.
Opening up his phone, he clicks on the first chat of the list. He's developed a bad habit of never creating contacts for the people he talks to. Good, he likes to tell himself though. They should be reduced to their phone numbers, as they aren't deserving of his attention beyond these assignments. He only has one friend he regularly talks to anyways,
Besides, a quick glance of the most recent texts has always been enough to tell him who each number is. So this system works out. He types up a short confirmation of his success today and then reaches over for the tattered pack of cigarettes lying on the wooden table. Using the lighter he fishes from the depths of his pocket, he lights one and treats himself to a nice, long drag.
This should be his last assignment before retiring from this job. That was the promise when he was handed the details on the target. One last kill and he would be free of all the debt and ties with his current Boss. A perfect chance to break free from this terrible life and start new at the ripe age of 28.
Needless to say, he’s very excited.
For a while it’s peaceful. The smoke tickles his nose as he fidgets with the cig, rolling it absentmindedly between his fingers. The walls of his apartment have poor soundproofing so he’s always been exposed to the lives of his neighbours. There’s heavy footsteps padding back and forth above him. The person across the hall just got home. The really, really annoying baby is going at it again, crying her head off with no consideration for her sleep-deprived neighbours. He closes his eyes and listens to it all, doing his very best to get rid of the flashing images of blood and gore. He hates it so much, the way he can’t escape the reality of his work and guilt of his decisions. As if it’s his punishment, he can hardly go a night without being haunted by thoughts of violence.
The water eventually begins to simmer and he can hear the faint bubbling from the stove. He takes a final deep breath and returns to reality.
Blank eyes stare back at him.
His blood runs cold at the sight of a dead body sprawled across his kitchen floor. The same one he had pinned to the ground this morning as their pulse thinned out and their cries began to fade. Blood seeps from their neck and slips into the crevices of each and every tile. It’s dirty, everything is getting dirty.
Panic replaces the warmth previously settling in his chest and it creeps its way up his throat, engulfing him in a death grip that nearly makes him choke on air. His nails scrape against the rough wood of his dinner table, peeling a thin layer paint along with them. The faint pain of his skin against wood grounds him a little.
He blinks once and the body is gone. The kitchen is clean.
He is safe.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself. He snuffs out the cigarette and hefts himself out of the chair towards the stove. The water is at a rolling boil now and he drops the noodles in carefully. He takes both packages of seasoning and tears them in one go, dumping its contents into the pot as well. It's easy to do when he's working on auto-pilot.
He catches sight of the dried blood still caked underneath his fingernails. It’s always those goddamn spots that they refuse to budge from, no matter how many times he cleans them. Good thing they’re due for a trim, that would get rid of at least some of the remains.
His phone buzzes violently while he’s pouring the finished noodles into a bowl and it isn’t hard for him to guess who it is. He returns to his lonely spot at the dining table, chair creaking its consistent tune when he sits and unlocks the screen.
010-286-0410
You’re quick with your work, Park.
I know we agreed that would be the last assignment, but there’s been a name added to the list. Somebody did me wrong recently.
Do me this one favour and we’ll consider the debt settled, yeah?
Take down the Captain. I’ll be generous and give you until the end of this year. He’s a hard catch.
I’ll even add a bonus if you’re successful. I know folks like you need it.
Seonghwa’s eyes practically bulge out in shock at the audacity of the request. Any remaining sense of peace has shattered alongside each text bubble. They promised. They promised that he would be set free, and Seonghwa was stupid enough to believe that promises even meant something to people like them. He reads and re-reads the string of messages over and over again until he has every word memorized.
The Captain. Kill the Captain.
His fingers fall into muscle memory and ring up the only person he has on speed dial. There’s some static and muffled sounds when the person picks up, then a deep, clear voice cuts through.
“Hello?”
“Yeosang,” Seonghwa breathes out a sigh of relief at the familiar voice. “Yeosang I’m screwed. I’m absolutely, completely, utterly fucked,” he rushes out.
Yeosang makes a confused noise. “Please don’t tell me you need a body taken care of. I told you I’m out of town for the next few days.”
Seonghwa shakes his head even though his friend can’t see him. “No it’s not that, I already completed the assignment. It was a normal case. My problem is that they want my next target to be the Captain. The Captain! I was supposed to retire today!”
There’s a low whistle on the other end as Yeosang takes in that information. “The Captain,” he parrots.
“Yes.”
“The Captain,” he repeats once more, slowly this time. “Sounds familiar. Isn’t he the leader of that one gang? They called themselves Aurora? I swear I saw them on the news the other day. The size of a street gang and yet they’re teetering into mafia activities.”
“There’s only one Captain out there!” Seonghwa cries out exasperatedly. “Yeosang, he’s like the most wanted guy in the scene. The bounties on his head are sky high because nobody messes with him and comes out alive. And of course he’s got himself fucking involved with Boss. There’s always something standing between me and clearing my debt, they’re doing it on purpose I swear to God. They’re using me!”
“Well, what’s one more thing on your to-do list, Hwa,” Yeosang tries to pacify lightheartedly. “I’m sure you can do this and I’ll see if there’s any way I can help from here. Maybe dig up some deets on this guy.”
“I would appreciate it, but I fear I might not even be alive to receive that information by the time you get to it.”
“Oh, come on, don’t underestimate me. When have I ever let you down?”
Yeosang’s right, he has never let Seonghwa down in the past, but he is very much in a state of denial right now and is simply too upset right now to think reasonably. Some more static fills in their awkward silence. The lights above him flicker as his upstairs neighbour continues to stomp around. “Thoughts and prayers, Seonghwa. Thoughts and prayers,” his friend ends up saying solemnly, finally sensing that Seonghwa is in no state to be comforted right now.
“Thanks ever so fucking much,” he deadpans and hangs up before Yeosang could get another word in. He tosses his phone rather carelessly onto the table and gets up to head to the balcony. He remembers to snatch another cig and lights it before he gets too far.
The sliding door rattles on its tracks before slamming into the wall when he opens it with too much force. He’s hit with a blast of nighttime spring air — cool and refreshing, yet warm enough to comfort him as he takes in his new reality. He takes a drag of the cigarette, sharp and quick. He huffs out the smoke in an angry exhale and repeats. In. Out. In and out. His head hurts.
Taking on this request is a death wish. Aiming for the Captain is a one-way ticket to hell.
He knows he’s good at what he does. He’s been hired as an exclusive hitman for enough years to know all the ins and outs of the industry. If the target were anyone else he wouldn’t have even flinched.
Seonghwa has only failed a single mission ever. He was young back then, and that was what got him into this situation in the first place. Since then, he was given no choice but to learn how to survive in this profession. Now, he has the experience and expertise to confidently say that he never miscalculates. And attempting to kill the Captain is a very simple equation that leads only to death.
However, Seonghwa is currently drowning in a tragic amount of debt and to reject this request would be a death wish on its own. Either Boss would send someone to kill him for having the audacity to refuse an assignment, or he’ll make every effort to keep Seonghwa stuck in this terrible cycle of poverty until he dies of starvation.
He has to take this on. It’s only March. There’s time to figure things out. Just trying will be better than giving up and handing his life away on a platter. Maybe Yeosang can help find a way to exile him to another country if things go awry.
Dread settles deep in the pit of his stomach and he screams out in anguish, kicking the empty cans of beer that had accumulated on the floor of his balcony. He stubs his toe on the railing in the process and it only fans the flames of his frustrations. He mutters a string of curses under his breath as the cans roll off the ledge one by one, distantly making their impact on the ground below him.
The balcony windows of another unit opens and a big burly man yells at him to be quiet and “stop stinking up the air for everyone.” Seonghwa simply sneers at him until the man is done ranting and returns to his room. Despite his defiant attitude, he does as he’s told and tosses the cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with a stomp from his slipper. The outside becomes significantly lonelier now that the shouting has stopped and Seonghwa decides to return to his just as depressing flat.
The body of his victim is back, waiting for him in one of the seats at his dining table. Their lifeless eyes stare straight into his soul.
Seonghwa blinks. That’s not right. Why is it still staring at him. He squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can and then opens them again.
A single bowl on the dining table. An empty flat. Seonghwa thinks he’s going crazy.
He comforts himself with a silent vow that after this assignment, he will be done with killing. No more blood or dead bodies or guilt weighing on his shoulders. The moment his debt is cleared, he’ll make a new life for himself. Hell, even if they decide to pull another trick on him, he'll be serious next time. He will find a way out of this some way somehow.
By the time he finally picks up his chopsticks, his ramyeon has gone all cold and mushy but he eats it with vigour anyways. Funds are scarce and food is food.
And he truly has no idea how many more meals are left out there for him.