AT ANY COST | JINKOOK

CH1

Boiling water scalded his fingers. The grey, greasy foam crawled up his knuckles like a silent threat. Jin didn't complain. He couldn't.

Not yet.

"Are you deaf or daft?! I told you NO grease on that plate, damn it!" MinHo's voice cracked like a whip through the kitchen. Jin glanced up for a second. Bad idea. "What now? Gonna cry, princess?" MinHo laughed loudly, snorting through his nose, as he slammed another dirty plate into the sink. Water splashed Jin's apron, staining it with dried sauce and bits of rotten rice.

"I'll clean it right away," Jin muttered, jaw clenched.

"You'd better! This isn't some bloody fashion show. Although with that face of yours, even washing up sounds like a fallen model." The others laughed. Jin didn't.

His hands kept moving. Plate after plate. Grease. Blood. Remnants of a dinner that wasn't his.

This isn't your life. This is temporary. You'll get out.

Over and over, like a silent prayer.

"Oi, doll! Why so quiet? Don't you miss your nights in Gangnam? Bet you were very good with your mouth... tipping-wise, I mean." Laughter erupted again. Jin didn't even blink.

"You know what's the only thing that surprises me?" MinHo continued, stepping closer. "That with that angel face you're not in the boss's bed. That sort of thing must come easy to you, yeah?"

"MinHo, enough," one of the girls intervened quietly. No one listened.

"Or have you already been? Come on, Jin. If you're going to sell yourself, at least do it properly." Jin carefully placed the plate in the draining rack. He dried his hands slowly, as if they'd just vomited on him.

Then he turned.

And spoke.

"Finished?" MinHo raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"I asked if you're finished." Jin's voice was soft. Lethal. So low the steam stilled for a moment.

"Getting sassy now, princess?"

"I'm busy. If you're going to bark, at least don't splash me." Silence. Silent knives. Frozen pots.

MinHo took a step towards him, but Jin was already back at the sink, furiously scrubbing another plate.

"You'll last as long as a cockroach here," spat MinHo.

"Cockroaches survive nuclear fire," Jin replied without looking.

That's when he felt it.

The tremor in his hands.

The burning in his eyes.

The scream inside that couldn't get out.

This isn't a life. This is a punishment.

"Move it, Jin! Table twelve's tray is waiting!" The chef's voice pulled him back from the abyss. Jin swallowed, breathed deep, and plunged back between the dishes.

One. Two. Ten.

His fingers were cuts, his nails were mud, and his back a wall of thorns.

But his eyes...

His eyes were something else.

The kitchen was a hell smelling of old grease. The sticky heat, the shouted orders, knives clashing on boards like war drums. And Jin, at the heart of it all, seemed made of glass covered in soot: beautiful, but dulled, breaking without shattering.