Chapter Text
The universe, in Eom Seonghyeon’s heavily biased opinion, was a sick, twisted comedian.
For centuries, humanity had romanticized the soulmate system. Poets wrote sweeping epics about it. Pop stars wrote charting singles about the beauty of that first, destined encounter. From the moment you were born, the first words your soulmate would ever speak to you were etched onto your skin in stark, undeniable black ink. It was supposed to be a promise. A guarantee that somewhere out there in the vast, chaotic world, there was a person made specifically for you.
Most people got something normal. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” or “Hi, my name is So-and-so.”
Some people got lucky and got something incredibly cinematic. Seonghyeon’s own mother had “I think I’ve been looking for you my whole life” written in elegant script across her collarbone.
Seonghyeon? Seonghyeon got a hate crime.
He sat on the edge of the school rooftop, ignoring the way the rough concrete dug into his uniform pants, and aggressively rubbed at his left forearm with his thumb. He rubbed until the skin turned an angry, blotchy red, but the neat, aggressive handwriting remained mockingly crisp.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid little twink.”
He glared at it. He had spent the last seventeen years glaring at it.
“You know,” Ahn Keonho mumbled through a mouthful of egg salad sandwich, “if you keep scrubbing at that, you’re just going to give yourself a friction burn. It’s not a temporary tattoo, Seonghyeon. It’s not going to wash off with soap and spite.”
Seonghyeon dropped his arm with a heavy sigh, leaning back against the chain-link fence. “I hate it. I hate it so much, Keonho. Look at it. Just look at it.”
“I’ve seen it every day since we were six,” Keonho said, completely unfazed. He swallowed his bite and pointed a half-eaten crust at Seonghyeon. “And frankly, I still think it’s hilarious.”
“It’s not hilarious, it’s insulting!” Seonghyeon threw his hands up in the air. “First of all, the profanity. My soulmate is clearly a delinquent with zero social graces. Second of all, the audacity. ‘Stupid’? I rank in the top twenty of our class. And thirdly…” Seonghyeon gestured wildly to his own body. “I am five foot ten! I have broad shoulders! I work out twice a week! I am not a twink!”
Keonho looked him up and down. He took in Seonghyeon’s objectively pretty face—the sharp jawline, the big, expressive dark eyes, the soft, dark hair that fell perfectly around his forehead, and the lean, wiry frame hidden beneath a slightly oversized school blazer.
“You’re a little bit of a twink,” Keonho offered diplomatically.
“I am going to push you off this roof.”
“You can’t. We’re best friends.” Keonho took another bite of his sandwich. “Besides, you’re acting like I hit the jackpot. Need I remind you of the absolute romantic poetry etched onto my bicep?”
Keonho obligingly rolled up the short sleeve of his summer uniform shirt, exposing his right bicep. There, in jagged, messy handwriting, read:
“Get your hands off me before I break your fucking fingers.”
Seonghyeon stared at it. The sight of Keonho’s aggressively hostile mark always managed to make him feel a tiny fraction better. “Right. Yours is definitely a threat of physical violence.”
“Exactly,” Keonho said, rolling his sleeve back down. “My soulmate is an actual psychopath. Yours is just rude. Count your blessings.”
“I refuse,” Seonghyeon muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just not going to participate. The second someone says that to me, I’m walking away. I don’t care about destiny. I’m not spending the rest of my life with some asshole who introduces himself by insulting my intelligence and my physique.”
“Good luck with that,” Keonho snorted. “You know how it works. The second the words are spoken, the mark burns. The bond snaps into place. You’ll be hopelessly drawn to him.”
“I’d rather die.”
“So dramatic.” Keonho crumpled up the plastic wrapper from his lunch. “Come on. Bell’s about to ring for fifth period. And we have to go to James’s studio after school. He texted me this morning threatening to withhold his mom’s homemade kimchi if we don’t show up.”
Seonghyeon groaned, letting his head thump back against the fence. The only thing more exhausting than his impending doom by soulmate was dealing with James Chao.
“You’re both late,” James announced the moment Seonghyeon and Keonho walked through the glass doors of the dance studio.
James was twenty, currently drenched in sweat, and sitting on the hardwood floor in front of a massive wall of mirrors. He was stretching his long legs, entirely unbothered by the sheer volume of early-2000s hip-hop blasting from the corner speakers.
“We’re not late, we literally just got out of school,” Seonghyeon yelled over the music, dropping his backpack by the door. “And why is the music so loud? Are you trying to deafen your clients before they even start paying you?”
James smirked, grabbing a remote off the floor and turning the volume down to a tolerable hum. “My clients love the atmosphere. You two, however, are freeloaders. Hand me that towel.”
Keonho kicked a rolled-up white towel across the scuffed floorboards. It hit James in the knee. “We’re not freeloaders. We are unpaid labor. You literally blackmail us into doing your administrative work.”
“It will help you with your future resumé” James said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. James was the quintessential older neighborhood brother annoyingly capable, annoyingly handsome, and annoyingly invested in their lives. Plus, James actually liked his soulmate mark. He had “I think you dropped your wallet, handsome,” written nicely on his ribs. He was a firm believer in the magic of destiny, which made him incredibly obnoxious to be around.
“Anyway,” James continued, walking over to a small folding table in the corner and picking up a massive stack of neon pink flyers. “I have a job for you two tonight.”
Seonghyeon eyed the flyers with deep suspicion. “No. Absolutely not. It’s Friday night. I am going home, I am putting on sweatpants, and I am playing Overwatch until my eyes bleed.”
“Wrong,” James said cheerfully, shoving half the stack into Seonghyeon’s chest. Seonghyeon grunted, instinctively wrapping his arms around the heavy paper. James shoved the other half at Keonho. “Tonight is the Underground Cypher at the old warehouse district near the Han River park. Half the dance crews from the city are going to be there, including the kids from Westside High.”
Seonghyeon bristled. Westside High was their rival school. If Seonghyeon’s school was known for its academics and somewhat snobby student body, Westside was known for its sports, its terrifyingly large athletes, and its general aura of menace. The two schools did not mix. They existed in a state of tense, unspoken hostility.
“Why would we go there?” Seonghyeon asked, genuinely appalled. “That’s Westside territory. If they smell the private-tutor on my clothes, they’ll jump me.”
“Don’t be a baby, nobody is going to jump you,” James scoffed. “It’s neutral ground tonight. It’s a massive street battle. I have a crew competing, and I need you two to hand out these flyers for my new beginner’s hip-hop workshop. Target the people who look like they want to dance but are too intimidated to jump in the circle.”
“James,” Keonho said flatly. “I am going to get stabbed.”
“You’re not going to get stabbed. There are food trucks.” James clapped them both on the shoulders, his grip iron-tight. “Do this for me, and I’ll buy you both premium Korean BBQ this weekend. The good stuff. With the marbled beef.”
Seonghyeon and Keonho exchanged a look. They were seventeen-year-old boys; the promise of premium beef was essentially an unrefusable offer.
Seonghyeon looked down at the neon pink flyers in his hands, already feeling a headache forming right between his eyes. “Fine. But if I die, I’m putting it in my will that you have to pay for my funeral.”
“Deal,” James grinned, way too bright and entirely unsympathetic. “Now get out of here. The cypher starts at eight. Don’t come back until those flyers are gone.”
As they walked back out into the humid late-afternoon air, Seonghyeon looked at Keonho. “I hate him.”
“We’re getting free beef,” Keonho reminded him. “Just keep your head down tonight, don’t make eye contact with anyone from Westside, and we’ll survive.”
“Easy for you to say,” Seonghyeon muttered, hiking his backpack up his shoulder. “You’ve got resting murder face. I look like a...” He swallowed the word, refusing to say it out loud.
Keonho smirked. “A twink?”
“I am going to kill you before a Westside kid even gets the chance.”
————
By the time Seonghyeon and Keonho arrived at eight-thirty, the area was already packed with hundreds of teenagers. The space was an abandoned concrete lot situated between two hollowed-out factory buildings, illuminated by blinding construction floodlights that someone had dragged out and hooked up to a noisy generator.
The bass from the massive PA system was so loud it rattled in Seonghyeon’s teeth. The air smelled strongly of cheap body spray, fried food from the nearby trucks, and adolescent aggression.
A massive circle had been formed in the center of the lot, where two dancers were currently tearing up the concrete, egged on by a screaming, hype-crazed crowd.
“This is awful,” Seonghyeon yelled over the music, clutching his stack of neon pink flyers to his chest like a bulletproof vest. “Why are there so many of them?”
“Just start handing them out!” Keonho yelled back, already looking distracted by the battles. Keonho didn’t dance, but he liked the chaotic energy of crowds. Seonghyeon, on the other hand, despised it. He hated being bumped into, he hated the noise, and he especially hated the way several groups of Westside High students were glaring at anyone wearing their school’s distinct navy-blue jackets.
Seonghyeon had wisely ditched his uniform blazer, but he was still wearing his school trousers and a white button-down. He stuck out like a sore thumb amid the sea of oversized streetwear, bucket hats, and chains.
“I’m going to go pass these out by the food trucks!” Seonghyeon shouted. “People are less likely to punch me if they’re eating!”
“What?” Keonho yelled, not looking away from the dancer who had just executed a flawless backflip.
“Never mind! Just don’t get lost!” Seonghyeon turned on his heel and started shoving his way through the dense crowd, aiming for the perimeter where the noise was marginally less deafening.
He spent the next thirty minutes forcing neon pink paper into the hands of confused onlookers. He plastered on his best, most charming smile the one his mother told him could get him out of any trouble and utilized his objectively pretty face to disarm people before they could refuse.
“Hey, interested in learning how to dance? Check out Chao Studio.”
“Free introductory class next Tuesday, here’s a flyer.”
“No, I don’t want your number, I want you to take this flyer.”
By nine o'clock, his stack was thankfully reduced to a handful, but his social battery was entirely depleted. He was sweating, his feet hurt in his uniform loafers, and his throat was dry from shouting over the music.
He needed a drink. He needed to find Keonho, dump the rest of the flyers in a trash can, and go home to his video games.
He spotted a convenience store stall set up near the edge of the lot, selling overpriced sodas out of coolers. Seonghyeon practically fought his way over to it, slapped down a few crumpled bills, and grabbed two icy cans of cola one for him, one to bribe Keonho into leaving early.
“Excuse me, watch out,” Seonghyeon muttered, turning around with a can in each hand, trying to navigate his way back into the crush of bodies.
The crowd shifted violently as a loud roar erupted from the dance circle. Someone shoved someone else, sending a ripple effect through the mass of people. Seonghyeon felt a hard shoulder slam into his back.
He stumbled forward, entirely off balance. He tried to catch himself, but his hands were full of soda cans.
He braced for the impact of the concrete. Instead, he slammed face-first into what felt like a solid brick wall.
The impact knocked the breath out of him. One of the soda cans slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground and exploding in a sticky, fizzy geyser across the asphalt and right over the pristine, expensive-looking white sneakers of the brick wall he had just walked into.
“Shit,” Seonghyeon gasped, stumbling back. He looked down at the ruined sneakers, then slowly trailed his eyes up.
Up. And up. And up.
The guy was easily six foot three, built like a tank, with shoulders broad enough to eclipse the construction lights behind him. He was wearing an oversized black bomber jacket and a dark t-shirt, giving him the silhouette of an enforcer for the mob.
But it was his face that made Seonghyeon’s breath hitch in genuine alarm.
The guy was handsome, objectively speaking—strong jaw, high cheekbones, dark hair swept back from his forehead but his expression was downright terrifying. He had the kind of resting face that promised violence. A deep, natural scowl, eyes that looked utterly dead inside, and a hard set to his mouth that screamed do not approach.
Right now, that terrifying face was looking down at his soda-covered sneakers, and then slowly lifting to glare at Seonghyeon with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
Seonghyeon opened his mouth to apologize. It was an accident. He had been pushed.
Before he could get a single syllable out, the giant narrowed his eyes, curling his lip into a sneer of pure, unfiltered disgust.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid little twink.”
The world stopped.
The thumping bass of the hip-hop music faded into static. The screams of the crowd sounded like they were underwater.
On Seonghyeon’s left forearm, right beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-down, an intense, searing heat flared to life. It felt like someone had pressed a lit match directly against his skin. The soulmate bond, dormant for seventeen years, snapping violently into place.
It was him.
This massive, terrifying, arrogant prick with the face of a serial killer and the manners of a feral dog was his soulmate.
The realization didn’t bring a rush of romantic warmth. It didn’t make Seonghyeon’s heart flutter. It made him see red. Absolute, blinding, blood-boiling red.
All of Seonghyeon’s exhaustion, his insecurity over his mark, and his general hatred for the situation coalesced into a single ball of rage. He didn't care that this guy was half a foot taller than him. He didn't care that he was built like a freight train.
Seonghyeon squared his shoulders, tilted his chin up to meet the giant’s furious glare, and snapped.
“Eat shit and choke on it, you oversized fucking gorilla.”
The giant froze.
For a split second, the terrifying scowl faltered. The guy’s dark eyes blew wide in shock, and a sharp, sudden hiss escaped his lips. He immediately slapped a massive hand over his own right bicep, his fingers gripping the fabric of his bomber jacket as if he’d just been shot.
Seonghyeon watched the realization hit the giant in real-time. The slight widening of the eyes, the way his jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, the physical flinch as his own mark burned to signify the bond locking into place.
Edwards Martin Park was having a very bad day.
He hadn't even wanted to come to this stupid cypher. He didn't care about dance battles. He cared about playing basketball, eating copious amounts of chicken, and taking long, uninterrupted naps. But his best friend, Juhoon, was a menace who had dragged him out of the house by the ear.
Martin knew he looked intimidating. He knew his resting face made people cross the street to avoid him. He didn't do it on purpose; it was just how his face was structured. On the inside, Martin was perfectly content, usually thinking about what he was going to eat for dinner or whether dogs understood when you barked back at them. But on the outside, he looked like a hired thug.
His day had been terrible. He had failed a math quiz. Juhoon had forced him into a crowded, loud environment. And to top it all off, some clumsy idiot in a preppy uniform had just exploded sticky soda all over his limited-edition sneakers that he had saved up three months’ allowance for.
So, yes, Martin had snapped. He had blurted out the first aggressively mean thing that came to his mind, letting his frustration boil over.
And then his arm had burst into flames.
And the clumsy, preppy, admittedly very pretty boy standing in front of him had just spat the exact words permanently tattooed on Martin’s bicep.
“Eat shit and choke on it, you oversized fucking gorilla.”
Martin stared down at the boy. The boy glared fiercely back up at him.
There was no magical soft filter over the moment. Martin did not feel a sudden urge to sweep this boy into his arms. He felt a sudden urge to throw him into the Han River.
"You," Martin rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as his terrifying scowl slammed right back into place, even fiercer than before.
"Me," Seonghyeon shot back, refusing to back down, even though his heart was hammering against his ribs in a panic. He tightened his grip on the remaining soda can. "What are you going to do about it? Cry over your ugly shoes?"
"These are limited editions, you brat," Martin growled, taking half a step forward. He towered over Seonghyeon, trying to use his height to intimidate him into an apology. It usually worked on everyone.
It did not work on Seonghyeon. Seonghyeon stepped forward too, closing the distance until he was practically chest-to-chest with the human mountain.
"And this is a limited-edition shirt," Seonghyeon lied through his teeth, pointing to his perfectly clean white button-down. "Which I'm going to have to burn now because it's been in the vicinity of your terrible personality."
Martin’s eye twitched. He had spent his whole life dreading his mark. Eat shit and choke on it, you oversized fucking gorilla. He had always feared his soulmate would be some terrifying, violent thug. He never imagined it would be a mouthy, arrogant teenager with big doe eyes and a temper problem.
"You're unbelievable," Martin scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "This is a joke. The universe made a mistake. You're my soulmate? You?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Kong," Seonghyeon spat. "I'm not accepting this. I'm rejecting the bond. I'm going to go to the registry office tomorrow and file for a clerical error."
"Good. Do it. I'll drive you there myself to make sure you sign the papers," Martin sneered.
"I wouldn't get in a car with you if you were the last unlicensed driver on earth!"
"Hey!"
A new voice cut through the tension. Keonho shoved his way through the crowd, breathless and panicked. He took one look at the massive, terrifying guy towering over his best friend, and his protective instincts kicked into overdrive.
"Seonghyeon, what the hell?" Keonho shouted. Without thinking, Keonho lunged forward and grabbed Martin by the forearm, trying to physically shove the giant away from Seonghyeon. "Hey, back off him, man!"
It was like trying to shove a brick wall. Martin barely moved, just looking down at Keonho’s hand on his arm in vague annoyance.
But before Martin could say anything, another guy pushed his way into the clearing from the opposite side.
He was shorter than Martin, with dyed blonde hair, sharp features, and wearing a Westside High letterman jacket. This was Kim Juhoon, and he was currently glaring daggers at Keonho. Juhoon had been on his way back from the bathrooms when he saw some random prep-school kid putting his hands on Martin.
Juhoon’s loyalty to Martin was vicious and absolute. He didn't hesitate. He stepped right up to Keonho, slapped Keonho’s hand violently off of Martin’s arm, and shoved his finger hard into Keonho’s chest.
"Get your hands off him before I break your fucking fingers."
Silence fell over their small, tense circle.
Keonho froze. His hand, the one Juhoon had just slapped away, dropped to his side. His eyes widened, fixing entirely on Juhoon’s furious face. Beneath the short sleeve of Keonho’s shirt, on his right bicep, a familiar, agonizing heat flared to life.
Get your hands off him before I break your fucking fingers.
It was the exact phrase. Spoken with the exact, venomous intonation Keonho had always imagined.
Juhoon scowled, oblivious to the internal crisis Keonho was currently having. "Are you deaf? I said back off."
Keonho stared at him. This bleached-blonde delinquent with a foul mouth and an attitude problem was his soulmate. A violent thug. The realization hit Keonho like a physical blow, followed immediately by a surge of pure, defensive hostility.
Keonho grabbed his burning bicep, his expression twisting into a vicious glare that matched Juhoon’s energy entirely.
"I’d love to see you fucking try, you bleached asshole," Keonho spat.
Juhoon inhaled sharply. He stumbled back half a step, a sudden, choked gasp escaping his lips as his hand flew to his own collarbone. His eyes blew wide, the anger momentarily wiped out by sheer shock. His skin was burning. The bond was locking into place.
Juhoon stared at Keonho. Keonho glared back, chest heaving.
Seonghyeon looked at Martin. Martin looked at Seonghyeon.
They both looked at their respective best friends, who were currently locked in a staredown of mutual, horrified realization.
"No," Seonghyeon whispered, the sheer absurdity of the situation crashing over him.
"You've got to be shitting me," Martin muttered, sounding thoroughly defeated by the universe.
Juhoon found his voice first, his shock rapidly morphing back into defensive rage. "You," he pointed a shaking finger at Keonho. "You're the idiot whose mark I've been stuck with for eighteen years. You're my soulmate?"
"Unfortunately for me, yes," Keonho snapped, stepping forward so he was right in Juhoon’s space. "And let the record show, I hate you already."
"The feeling is intensely mutual, prep," Juhoon snarled.
Seonghyeon pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. This wasn't happening. This was a nightmare. Not only was his soulmate an oversized, rude brute from their rival school, but Keonho’s soulmate was the brute’s aggressive best friend.
The universe wasn't just a comedian. It was a sadistic troll.
"Okay, enough," Seonghyeon snapped. He grabbed Keonho by the back of his shirt, yanking his friend away from Juhoon. "We are leaving. We are leaving right now."
"Yeah, run along back to your cram school before it gets past your bedtime," Juhoon mocked, though his hand was still firmly pressed against his collarbone.
"Keep your attack dog on a leash," Seonghyeon said, glaring venomously up at Martin one last time.
Martin’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked like he wanted to throttle someone. "I am going to send you the bill for my shoes."
"Send it to hell, because that's where I'll be before I ever speak to you again!" Seonghyeon yelled.
He didn't wait for a response. He turned around, keeping a tight grip on Keonho's shirt, and shoved his way blindly back into the crowd. He didn't care about James's flyers. He didn't care about the premium beef. He just needed to get as far away from the giant as humanly possible.
As they pushed through the sea of dancing teenagers, the heat on Seonghyeon’s left arm continued to throb, a steady, rhythmic pulse that perfectly matched his racing heartbeat.
It was a permanent reminder. The bond was active. The connection was made.
Seonghyeon finally broke through the edge of the crowd and out onto the quiet, empty street leading away from the warehouse lot. The cool night air hit his flushed face, but it did nothing to calm the boiling anger in his stomach.
Keonho stumbled beside him, rubbing his bicep, looking entirely shell-shocked. "Seonghyeon. Seonghyeon, did that really just happen?"
"No," Seonghyeon said, marching furiously down the sidewalk. "It didn't happen. We hallucinated. Mass hysteria."
"He threatened to break my fingers in real life," Keonho mumbled, staring blankly ahead. "He's awful. He's an awful person."
"They're both awful!" Seonghyeon shouted to the empty street. "Did you see the size of mine? He's a mutant! A giant, angry mutant who ruined my perfectly good Friday night! I hate him! I absolutely loathe him!"
"We can't escape them," Keonho said softly, the bleak reality setting in. "The bond is active. It's going to pull us together. That's how it works."
Seonghyeon stopped in his tracks under the flickering yellow light of a streetlamp. He looked down at his left arm. Beneath the fabric of his sleeve, he could still feel the phantom heat of the words.
Watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid little twink.
He thought of Martin’s deep, rumbling voice. He thought of the murderous scowl, the broad chest, the sheer, imposing presence of the guy. A small, treacherous part of his brain pointed out that Martin was, undeniably, the most handsome guy Seonghyeon had ever seen in his life.
Seonghyeon ruthlessly squashed that thought, mentally setting it on fire and burying the ashes.
"Watch me," Seonghyeon said, his voice trembling with sheer, stubborn spite. He looked at Keonho, his dark eyes burning with determination. "I am going to fight fate. I am going to fight the universe. I will never, ever fall for a guy like that."
Keonho looked at him, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. "Yeah. Okay. Me neither."
They stood there in silence for a moment, two seventeen-year-old boys declaring war against a centuries-old system of romantic destiny.
"Come on," Seonghyeon finally muttered, turning to walk toward the subway station. "Let's go home and play Overwatch."
"Okay," Keonho agreed. "But if James asks, we handed out all the flyers."
"Obviously."
Seonghyeon shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the persistent, dull ache on his left forearm. He had survived seventeen years dealing with the anticipation of a terrible soulmate. He could survive the reality of one by simply ignoring his existence entirely.
It was a flawless plan. Nothing could possibly go wrong.