Park Jimin loved the rain. It was an ambient force, much like him. Just an insignificant, background noise that no one truly listened to. The rhythmic fall of the water droplets needed no translation; its message was clear. Jimin was wrong to believe he was alone in the billowing clouds of misery. The sky was mourning with him.
His fingers trembled, knuckles whitening as he enforced his iron grip against the rim of the sink. Tearing his eyes from the glass pane of the window separating him from the suffocating waves of the outside world that enveloped him within their relentless waters each time he departed from the comforting concealment of his apartment, Jimin's gaze met his own reflection staring at himself directly in the eyes. His pallid skin was paper-white, providing him with the uncanny resemblance of a ghost. His eyes were sunken, darkened pits boring two holes into his face. Jimin hardly recognised himself any longer. The heroin continued to plague his mind, settling itself within his very heartstrings and staking its claim. It had him entrapped within shackles, leaving him hopelessly dependant. His hands began to shake once more, nerves screaming at him with impulsive need to provide them with sustenance. Jimin obeyed, arm outstretched to reach for the familiar comfort of his bag before the untimely bell on his phone cut through the tense silence and startled him, his heartbeat thudding in his chest.
Prior to even glancing at the lit screen, Park Jimin knew exactly who had messaged him, seeing as his burner phone contained the number of only one person. He stared at the blurred message, eyes hazy and stomach contorting; head pounding against his skull. The heroine called to him in a seductive muse, enveloping his train of thoughts until they were nothing but a string of repetitive words: need, need, need.
My place. Now.
Jimin fought the urge to scoff at the text message, facial features morphing into an expression of sheer disinterest. He could wait a few more minutes. Patience was undoubtedly a virtue Kim Taehyung could develop over time. He could almost envision the man's face, handsome features warped to reflect the mindless killer he was notoriously known as; mouth curled in triumph, eyes ablaze with a menacing fire that refused to be extinguished.
I said get a FUCKING move on. I have places to be.
Jimin's fingers itched with the unsatiable desire to grab the phone and send a flurry of curses and ill-wishes to the other man, telling him he had absolutely no intention of ruining the next few hours in which he had hoped to pass in the confinements of his home, away from the warped life plaguing the streets of Seoul. However, the upcoming notification was enough to still Jimin in his movements, heart thudding raucously in his chest to successfully rattle his ribcage and trigger a steady flow of perspiration down the side of his face.
I can see you, kitten. Turn away from the mirror and grab my shit.
The two of his eyes darted to each and every corner of the bathroom for the small, black device Taehyung had to have placed somewhere inconspicuously. The nineteen-year-old felt his stomach lurch, thoughts swirling his mind regarding Taehyung's reason to instil a camera. Did he not trust him enough to delegate the drugs around the city, without an external onlooker monitoring his progress? Had Taehyung begun to doubt whether Jimin's loyalties truly lied with him, or whether he would run his mouth to opposing rivals and sell out the man he had pledged steadfast loyalty to for the last few months?
Inhaling a shaky breath of air, Jimin swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. There was no sign of a monitor anywhere, as Jimin ran the pads of his fingers along the underside of the sink and the sides of the mirror ahead of him. Perhaps Taehyung was bluffing. It would not have been the first time the latter had revelled in the idea of manipulating Jimin until he was a visible epitome of sheer panic and mayhem.
Casting one last look of trepidation around him, Park Jimin exited the bathroom and grabbed the small bag from the couch. He checked its contents, going through his mental checklist of the invaluable items Taehyung had ordered him to deliver, before shoving it into his backpack which he slid on his back. As he walked along the dingy corridors of his apartment complex and down the flights of stairs, Jimin debated whether he should ask Taehyung about the implied camera he had installed in his apartment. A small voice in the rear of his head scolded him, chiding at the fact that he may confirm Taehyung's suspicions if he appeared to be apparently flustered at being bugged. However, a far more rational voice sounded out, affirming that the typical reaction would be to query as to why a camera was necessary in the first place.
He loathed the fact Taehyung had now become representative of most of the higher ups amongst the elite circle in Seoul. Jimin had been a mere college student, working overnight shifts at the local karaoke bar, only four months prior to Taehyung's untimely arrival. He remembered the man lurking by the rear end of the bar, to which Jimin initially assumed was a frequent example of yet another man attempting to buy time until Jimin finished his shift, however the latter proved his intentions to be indefinitely surprising. He proposed the offer to Jimin, promising him exceedingly higher funds than what the karaoke bar currently offered him, to which Jimin had readily accepted the offer with barely any hesitation.
Flashforward to present day, Jimin was a runner to arguably one of the most notorious figures of the country. Naturally, Park Jimin was left in the dark about most of Taehyung's activities: drug runners usually were. An insignificant associate serving a prominent figure in hope of making more economical success could not be trusted with valuable information hence why Jimin had long stifled his own curiosity about Taehyung's role amongst the underground world of the mafia.
Stepping out on the sunlit street, Jimin curled a fist around one of the straps for extra measure. He had ensured his identity remained hidden, replacing his burner phone and extracting all remnants of hair-dye until his natural roots blossomed and became visible once more. He was no longer a mobile target manoeuvring his way through Seoul's bustling streets. If, by any chance, a rival had marked him as a potential link to Kim Taehyung, they would be looking for the familiar sight of the blonde hair. The petite, black-haired Korean boy would surely fall on naked eyes. Jimin felt rolling waves of security ebbing and flowing between his chest; the chances of him encountering a possible brawl were slim. The swelling in his left eye had only just subsided from two weeks prior, in which Jimin received a generous fist to the face due to the weekly supply of Dong-hyun's drugs delivered almost twelve hours past the expected time. Granted, that had been his fault. Tardiness would not be expected, especially from a runner. Unprecedented hours of slumber swarmed him, enveloping him to remain in an unconscious state despite the fact his alarm clock continued to blare repetitively.
Turning the familiar corner leading towards the street of Taehyung's apartment, Jimin released a breath of pure relief having avoided the stifling area of Mapo-gu, where the never-ending headlights of the passing vehicles, ear-splitting squeals of joy from children and love-sick couples with their hands intertwined served as a reminder of the life Jimin would never have. He much rather preferred the confined areas of Seoul, in which the cobbled streets were dirt-ridden, and houses dilapidated. It reeked of familiar comfort, mirroring Jimin's current living expense. He was somewhat surprised having realised Taehyung lived in an apartment amongst hauds of poverty and struggle. Evidently, he needed to remain masked and undetectable from rivals who would preen at the idea of holding such a powerful figure hostage. The man had power and money alike, possessing a position that was indefinitely worthy of envy to those that cared. Jimin did not, however. He cared for sufficient payment to pay his debts, ensuring the direct contact between himself and Taehyung was kept to an utmost minimum. Unnecessary trouble would be kept at bay, at least.
The boy walked through the entrance of the grey complex, opting to use the stairs instead of the lift he was almost certain would cease functioning and leave him stranded between two floors. He could almost configure Taehyung's face, facial features contorting into an expression of glee at the sight of Jimin being so helpless. He shuddered at the thought, cursing Taehyung underneath his breath. Taking three steps at a time, Park Jimin was left spluttering and heaving at the door of Taehyung's rooms, his throat dry and aching. Contrary to his position as a 'runner', Jimin's athletic ability juxtaposed the said role. Leaving his apartment for the sole reason of either having to collect necessary supplies or deliver substances to wealthy men, whom Jimin struggled to leave without encountering acts of coercion, had taken a significant toll on his body. Albeit the fact he was lean with the slightest trace of definition decorating his flat stomach, his stamina was outright laughable.
Jimin brought his knuckles against the white door, although its once pristine surface was stained with blatant hues of both red and brown that appeared suspiciously similar to blood. How befitting of him, Jimin thought. He paused for a moment, deliberating whether to act underneath the influence of an impatient whim and call Taehyung's name before the tinge of fear settled in whenever he was around the man, proceeding to seal his mouth shut. A few moments elapsed, consisting of Jimin haphazardously tapping his foot against the ground before the distant sound of echoing footfall grew continuously louder, prompting Jimin to swallow a nervous lump with the two of his eyes trained upon the door ahead. Taehyung swung the door open, his ominous frame looming over the runner's lithe form. Jimin, however, strained to maintain his upright figure, jaw angled to reflect the haughty nature swindling inside. He wore a smug grin, a dangerous glint circulating his chocolate-brown orbs.
"You called, I came. As per usual."
Jimin thrust his arm outwards, the straps of his backpack swinging enticingly, to which Taehyung hissed and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck in a motion far too stealthy for the twenty-three-year-old to even comprehend, before he found himself being dragged into the refinements of Taehyung's apartment and tossed onto the ground similar to that of a ragdoll. Jimin gasped, heart hammering ferociously as he cast a glare of accusation.
"Are you incapable of processing the most simplest of fucking rules?" Taehyung bellowed, cheeks flushed with adamant rage. "You fancy the footage realising you are a runner and exterminating the two of us like fucking rats?"
Jimin wheezed, neck burning from the sheer force Taehyung inflicted having thrown him at his feet. "Yeah, well. I'd be the one getting exterminated, tiger. Not you."
The moment the string of words escaped his mouth, Jimin realised what the weight of his words carried. Although the inherent conclusion of the sentence was a compliment, reiterating the power Taehyung had amongst the underground ranks, the disrespect was inevitable. Hurling an insult at Taehyung was something he had drummed into himself to steer clear from. Although the majorated aspects in his current life were beyond shitty, Jimin did not fancy being dumped into the Han River, both limbless and mangled. The abbreviation Taehyung went by was not one Jimin had permission to use at his every whim; Taehyung had pride and that was undefeatable.
Taehyung paused, as though he continued to contemplate whether or not he should permit Jimin's snide remark. His brows furrowed deep in thought, before the remnants of the familiar, sadistic grin fought its way across his face once more to curve the corners of his mouth until he truly did resemble the animal Jimin had let slip out in a moment of both humiliation and rage. Jimin felt a wave of unsettlement. He leaned against the doorframe, backpack swinging from his fingers as though he was taunting Jimin, reminding the runner of how their lives differed; reminding him of what he could, and what he could not have.
"Get up."
Jimin scrambled to obey, although his instincts were screaming at him to launch the door open and sprint from the stifling confinements of Taehyung's living space. The latter's scent hung onto the air surrounding the pair, to which Jimin had to scrunch his nose in distaste. In an alternate world, Jimin most likely would have preened over the infusion of both a woodsy scent inebriated with the faintest hint of musk and citrus. However, with the knowledge this originated from the man himself, Jimin had no choice but to keel away from it, forcing his heartbeat to slow in an attempt to lessen the time spent with Taehyung.
"You look like shit."
Jimin stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line. His bedraggled appearance was undeniable, hardly permitting Jimin to profess outrage at the comment. Straggly uncombed hair, black eye. He looked like the Walking Dead itself.
Taehyung laughed, a low rumbling sound that seemed to fill each and every crevice of the apartment. The runner stood there in blatant discomfort, his eyes swimming with curdled emotions of both fear and uncertainty. Taehyung's frame shook somewhat, before he contained himself once more and resorted to stare at Jimin with the faintest hint of amusement that Jimin could swear he had never seen in the first place. "Can I go now?" the boy asked abruptly, tone defeated and evidently laced with fatigue. He had no intentions of spending unnecessary lengths of time with Taehyung, preferring to skulk home and inject himself with the liquid both his body and mind sought after.
"Shut the fuck up," Taehyung growled, all traces of amusement masked and replaced with a look of sheer anger. "Go take a nap."
"I don't – What?" Jimin paused, tone incredulous. He ceased to question what the other man did and said having been surrounded in his overbearing company for the last several months, knowing it was far better to opt listening to him rather than constantly disagreeing. Jimin allowed himself to reiterate that he did not have a death wish just yet.
Taehyung proceeded to fling the backpack onto the battered couch that he had shoved against the dull, grey wall. Its red material was frayed, evidently slashed at certain places that looked far too discernible to have been the result of continuing to be overused. The possibility of Taehyung engaging himself in rampant knife rages was none too surprising, however. Taehyung flaunted the fact he was mindless killer, seemingly thirsty for blood and violence. Much to Jimin's severe discomfort, Taehyung had dictated several operations in which he experienced a psychotic break, although he himself would never admit to it, adamantly telling the boy his inner demons were stretching their limbs. Jimin had shot him a look of pure disdain that Taehyung had feigned plunging the knife he had been toying around with for the last half hour, electing a shriek of blood-curdling terror from the other.
Jimin watched his retreating figure manoeuvre itself towards the bathroom, before the door closed with a bang, startling him to the extent that he a startled rabbit. His eyes flittered towards the corners of his apartment, merely absorbing his surroundings. Jimin struggled to understand how Taehyung could unabashedly call this a home. The couch was the only item resembling the normality of a Korean household; almost every other thing was dirt-ridden and broken. The chandelier was missing two bulbs, the remaining one flickering every so often in a pathetic attempt to argue it was well and functioning. The crimson mat splayed out across the floorboards bore the mark of the devil himself, fangs bared and eyes alight. Although, as Jimin squinted to perceive the mat clearly, he noticed one of its eyes was missing. He fought the urge to laugh, wondering how difficult it would be to replace the diminishing items Taehyung seemed to hoard without shame. Jimin wondered whether he had sufficient courage to politely suggest the man replace both the light and mat. He knew, nonetheless, the conversation would deter from its intended conversation and Jimin would resort to calling Taehyung a replica of Smaug himself, before truly being ripped apart and embracing a meaningless death. His name would be added to the never-ending list of the Tiger's victims; forgotten and dissolved into nothingness.
Taehyung's earlier words echoed in his mind: Go take a nap.
The pathway to the door was cleared, all obstructions removed. It would take no more than three seconds to depart from the asphyxiated imprisonment he was standing in the middle of, twenty seconds to sprint down the many flights of stairs and an additional five to step out the apartment complex, into the embracing warmth of Seoul's beguiled streets.
"What are you thinking about?" a voice sounded out bluntly, pulling Jimin from the escape plan he almost divulged himself in. Well, he thought. There goes that.
"Nothing."
"Didn't I tell you to take a nap?" Taehyung asked, the familiar glint of warning dancing behind his orbs. "As a fucking runner, I'd expect you to take readily orders from your senior without fail."
Jimin's throat dried up, roof of his mouth resembling a parched desert that appeared to run on for miles and miles. His gaze aligned with Taehyung's, hazel eyes scanning along the tanned facial features of the latter. Undeniably, the killer was handsome. Jimin would be a fool to deny that. He radiated ethereal beauty that seemed to be irreplaceable, treading over its victims and leaving its never-ending mark.
Park Jimin refused to be a victim.
"Not when my senior stretches over the realms of work," he responded, biting back the accusatory tone that threatened to décor his words. "Taehyung-ssi," he added as an afterthought, leaving a trail of sarcasm in its wake.
"Using formalities now, are we?" the brown-skinned male cackled, maniacal glee staining his aura. "My apologies, hyung. I hadn't realised we were going to maintain this after, well – You know.." He trailed off, wrapping himself with a façade of uncertainty and question, although Jimin knew exactly what Taehyung was referring to.
"You said you would never mention that," he hissed, cheeks flushing and palms beginning to sweat. His neck hair began prickling, a tell-tale sign Jimin buried himself under layers of evident embarrassment. "That was not –"
"Relax, pup. I am only messing with you," Taehyung soothed, adopting an undertone of amusement, nonetheless. "God.. You are so easy to wind up."
Jimin's teeth implanted themselves onto his bottom lip, drawing blood from the sheer force he exerted in attempt to refrain from succumbing to Taehyung's taunts. He noticed the latter's eyes shifting towards his mouth, however, his disposition shifting to one that extended the boundaries of comfortability. "I am going to sleep. You said it yourself," he stuttered, confidence diminished. "Goodnight."
Taehyung maintained the heavy, tangible silence settling between the pair as Jimin stalked towards the bedroom at the rear end of the apartment, clammy fist clenched around the door handle before Taehyung took it upon his own initiative to break the newfound silence. "Sleep tight, pretty boy."
Now enveloped in the silence that evoked a sigh of relief, thankful he had escaped Taehyung's stifling persona although he doubted he would remain in solitude for long, Jimin stared at the foreign space. It was a bold move, entering the tiger's den without any words of permission. However, Jimin thought to himself, extending his demand for the boy to sleep somewhere meant it was a declaration he had coming. He refused to slip into slumber on the repulsive, red couch near the apartment door. For one, it was horrendously unsanitary. And second, Jimin's instincts were so in tune with being constantly paranoid due to the fact Taehyung had drummed in the necessity of constantly watching one's back. Taehyung was a desired man, and many rival hitmen based throughout the city would fight both tooth and nail to inflict the slightest bit of pain onto the ruthless tyrant, knowing he was indefinitely responsible for their majorated pain and suffering. In the unprecedented situation that Taehyung's apartment was in fact swarmed and broken into, Jimin did not fancy being the first animate being to come in contact with the intruders.
Kim Taehyung's bedroom was a vast contrast to the remainder of the apartment, containing a void of hues that Jimin, daresay, grudgingly admitted complemented each other rather well. The walls were chestnut-brown, along with the throw across the mattress. The closet at the rear end of the room was a quaint, wooden item and resembled the delicate antique shop Jimin had passed by numerous times during his station at Busan. To accompany the furniture, a decorative frame of artwork had been nailed to the wall opposite, hanging on a fine piece of thick thread.
Park Jimin was an avid painter himself, surpluses of both paint and canvas crammed into his drawer alike. Although his occupation as a runner meant he could not fixate tremulous hours for his sole pleasure, he often revelled in the off-hand hour or two when he had enough to spare. He was much too aware of the assiduity that painting required, each and every stroke mirroring the artist's own emotions while painting. Long strokes resemble a constant flow of thoughts; calm, collected and certain. Shorter ones reflect internal conflict; stress, unsettlement and diminished confidence. The current artwork his eyes settled upon, analysing each and every minute detail was enough for Jimin to realise the masked interpretation of the painting. He noted the calculated strokes of the carmine hues which stretched along the canvas to replicate a sea of blood. The twists and turns of the paintbrush provided contrast, orange flames devouring the abhorrent violence reflected in the striking colours. The artist encompassed several layers of blood-red liquid, rather than opting for a singular stroke. Brows furrowed, he pondered as to what the intent was. Did it reflect the depth of turmoil endured by the painter? Was it simply employed to enhance the painting's salient quality?
It was only until Jimin realised the purpose of the inky-black shadows curling around the entirety of the frame that the true intent of the painting sprung to life. The distorted figures were warped, bodies mangled and constrict. The carmine hue submerged each and every one of them, forcing them from the frame and into the empty void to which Jimin could not see. He could almost hear their screams; frequencies deafening and emotion raw for it was not a painting.
It was a bloodbath.
Had Taehyung purchased the item knowing its definite objective? Had he developed a desire for both agony and suffering to the extent that he sought comfort from the painting during the precious moments in which he slipped into an unconscious state? Jimin felt constricted, his lungs taut and unrelenting. The sensation of his own blood, alive and pumping throughout his lithe frame swallowed him whole, evoking the –
"You okay, pup?" the resonant voice asked, fingers clasping around his small wrist.
Jimin gasped, his stomach performing somersaults. His heart tremored, wailing in anguish at the predicament he had entrapped himself within. He had not even heard the man enter the room, entranced with the painting's symbolic meaning and radiance. "I – Let me go," he whispered in an attempt to sound sure of himself, although the hint of desperation gave himself away, evoking a primal grin to settle on Taehyung's lips.
"The painting is mere décor. Nothing to worry about," he soothed, voice morphing into the sort directed towards an agitated toddler crying over a melted ice-cream. "I am surprised, nonetheless. Its meaning is veiled from most. Undetectable. Perhaps that is the reason I bought it."
"You like it. You like it, don't you?" Jimin breathed, unable to shroud his horror any longer. "You want to inflict pain towards people. You feel no fucking remorse, knowing you have ruined hundreds.. No. Thousands. You have ruined thousands –"
"Shh. Shh, pup. There, now. Quiet." Taehyung's palm stretched across Jimin's mouth, halting him mid-sentence, although Jimin's voice did not cease due to the light-hearted force applied from Taehyung. No, it sealed shut in fear the Tiger would inflict indescribable pain towards him as he had done with countless others: husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, children. "I won't hurt you, baby boy. Okay? I won't."
Was this the typical cat-and-mouse game Taehyung involved himself in? Jimin's breathing became shallow, panic circulating his mind to the extent that he could not breathe. Did Taehyung enjoy witnessing his victims feel consolation, convinced the Tiger would spare them before he clawed their hearts out, consuming their life force until they were nothing but brittle remains?
Jimin remained still, prey captured between the predator's inescapable grasp. He felt his own back aligned with Taehyung's chest, his own head beside the latter's mouth in which he could merely tilt his chin a fraction and plunge his canines into Jimin's jugular. "What do you want from me?" he cracked out, shaky and uncertain.
Taehyung remained silent, the pad of his thumb rubbing circular motions into Jimin's hip. He sighed, breath drawn out and seemingly never-ending. Jimin shivered, goosebumps erupting like volcanoes along the surface of his skin, unpredictable and dangerous. Taehyung brought him to the knife's edge, in which he was dancing precariously and waiting to fall. He wanted to leave, flee the apartment and never return. Yet he could not entangle himself from Taehyung's iron-fast grip, unbeknownst whether his unwillingness was due to him or the other man.
"What makes you think I want anything?" Taehyung inquired, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of Jimin's neck, evoking the latter to fight the urge to recoil from his touch, unsure whether the ripper would grow rampant and devour him whole. "Do you really think that low of me?"
"Let me go," Jimin tried again, his voice unwavering this time as he was well-aware Taehyung had absolutely no intention of unclasping him, if he himself made no move to leave. "It isn't funny, and I am so fucking tired of your games. I –"
Jimin's torrent of words ceased, storm ebbing from the pits of his stomach as Taehyung prised his fingers from the runner's wrist, taking a step backwards. He stared, facial features morphing into an expression of confusion and distrust alike as he could not work out whether Taehyung was merely toying with him or genuinely succumbing to his demands.
"I don't know why you look so shocked. You asked me to let go, didn't you?" Taehyung cackled, seemingly humoured by Jimin's lost expression. "Run along, pup.. Before I listen to my demons' temptations."
And Park Jimin wasted no time in scurrying from the confinements of Taehyung's living quarters, grabbing his backpack and bolting out the door. The Tiger's devilish grin followed him out the door and down the endless flights of stairs, although Jimin's retreating rear barricaded him from acknowledging this. Instead, he willed his thundering heart to slow down as he commenced the journey to his own apartment once more, thoughts mangled with a multitude of Taehyung and the painting symbolising unspeakable acts of violence that lay guiltless upon the man's hands. How ironic, Jimin thought. His hands were slender, bronze and dusted gold. Who would have ever thought those exact fingers and constricted around people's necks, cutting their airflow and preventing the remnants of life returning into their mutilated form?
Taehyung was an eternal fire, burning and crackling no matter the sheer torrents of water thrown its way. And Jimin was a moth drawn into its seductive flame, although he would not acknowledge it just yet.
It was only after several hours had passed and the boy had injected a surplus of heroin to provide him sustenance for the next day or two, its liquid assaulting his very life force and providing him with the means to forget the earlier events and conjure momentary happiness that he realised through his clouded mind, he had forgotten to ask Taehyung about the camera he was almost certain he installed in his bathroom. However, through the befuddled train of thoughts that swallowed him whole, heroin edging him towards the high he craved for so long, he escaped into a newfound void of obscurity with all traces of Kim Taehyung cleansed and non-existent.
The heroin had consumed him whole and lulled him into such a state of delirium that all attempt of maintaining consciousness were reduced to absolute nothing as the boy slowly closed the two of his eyes and detached himself from all aspects of reality.
In other words, the muffled buzz of the burner phone across the room fell upon deaf ears.