Chapter Text
Deja vu is a funny feeling, clouding Namjoon’s senses as he looks out the glass window of the elevator, taking in the crowd gathered at the front gate of the hotel. They’re huddled together, some faces scrunched in anxiety, others smeared with tears and snot, some curious. He’s seen this scene before, two times already. Two times too many— three, if he takes count of right now. Namjoon sighs, turning back towards the door of the lift, facing forward.
It feels like forever before the bell rings, announcing that he's arrived on the seventh floor. Namjoon cracks his knuckles, taking quick strides as he walks towards his destination. Room 414 should be just around the corner.
There are officers strewn across the corridor. Familiar faces, familiar frowns. The air is tense with frustration and Namjoon feels like he’s cutting through the thick atmosphere as he makes his way towards the scene of the crime. On one corner, he sees the crime scene photographer, wiping his camera lens, eyes hollow like the corpses he captures on film every day. From the corner of his eyes, Namjoon spots some of the new recruits, holding coffee cups precariously as they lean against the wall, no doubt tired from having to run chores endlessly all day. And then, there are the guys in their personal protective suits with name tags.
Namjoon’s pace slackens as he watches the forensics team setting up camp in the middle of the hallway. Vials of clear liquids and swatches in zip lock bags are strewn around. Jimin catches his eyes, lips parting in surprise, before he mellows down, acknowledging Namjoon with a curt nod of his head and then he turns back around and starts to inspect a vial under the overhead light.
“You’re late, hyung,” Jimin mutters with a hint of a smile, voice soft enough that he doesn’t distract the rest of his team, but loud enough that Namjoon can hear him crystal clear. “But then again, it’s not like you being early is gonna bring the dead body back to life, so I guess you're fine.”
“You’re savage, Jimin-ah.” Namjoon chuckles dryly, before turning back around and continuing on his way. After rounding the corner, his eyes zoom in on Room 414. It’s not difficult to miss with all the yellow and black police tape encasing it. Namjoon is careful as he bends under the ribbons of tape, before crawling his way into the crime scene. The door is ajar so he simply nudges it with his foot, wincing as it creaks open and reveals a room full of crime scene personnel.
It takes a minute before he takes notice of the corpse in the middle of the room. She’s sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed, dressed in nothing but a thin pink bathrobe, hanging loose so that her neck is bare. Namjoon registers the marks on her neck before he even takes a closer inspection. Red lines on either side of her throat, like the rungs of a ladder carved into her pale flesh. She’s been strangled to death.
Just like the others before her.
“Namjoon, you’re late again!” Seokjin rolls his eyes, beckoning Namjoon over and shoving a file in his face. “I’m gonna have a word with the chief the next time you’re tardy.”
It’s concerning how Seokjin can talk about a next time when what they have on their hands is a cold hard murder case, one that should never happen again, god forbid. Regardless, Namjoon doesn’t say anything, simply walking over to Seokjin and grabbing the file. A dozen loose papers start to shuffle out and Namjoon yelps, trying desperately to keep them from spilling. He lets out a stuttering breath as he balances the papers before flipping through them one by one.
The victim is Min Hyunjin, the lead singer of Lavender, a rising girl group that gets a lot of airplay on the radio. Namjoon isn’t a fan of pop music, especially the cutesy kind stereotypically associated with girl groups, but even he can mumble-sing the chorus to some of their songs. He frowns, swallowing the sudden bile that rises up his throat as he takes a peek at her corpse. She’s pale as snow, lips purple and cracked. Besides the strangulation marks on her neck, there isn’t a single hair on her body that appears out of place. Namjoon can not help but think she looks beautiful even in death.
Just like the previous ones.
“Any leads?” Namjoon asks, eyes still fixated on the corpse. Her makeup is still intact. Thick mascara that’s slightly smudged, soft pink eyeshadow, red matte lipstick that’s smeared the smallest amount. There’s a stain on the bed, a grey patch on the ivory sheets; it smells like drying slick, the smell hanging heavy in the air. This too is something Namjoon has seen before. The same pattern.
“She was found this morning by the house cleaning staff,” Seokjin says, lips pulled taut, jaw clicking with nerves. “Time of death was approximately 9 pm last night. Cause of death was strangulation. No fingerprints detected. The perpetrator knew what they were doing, that's for sure. They used gloves so as not to leave any trace. There are also no traces of DNA or scent residuals anywhere in the near radius of the scene of the crime. We’ve currently taken all the hotel staff and guests into questioning. But it already looks like we’re at a dead end. Literally no leads so far. No clues, no nothing.” Seokjin kicks his heel against the ground, cursing under his breath as he looks back at the corpse.
“It’s the same as the others.” The words spill from Namjoon’s lips as a simple observation. A fact. Not a question. This is the third crime scene he’s seen in the past six months that gives him the same sense of deja vu. Near-identical murders, near-identical victim profiles, near-identical corpses. But they don’t have nearly enough evidence to make any sense of it all.
“Yeah,” Seokjin replies with a groan. “Looks like we’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”
“You think, hyung?” Namjoon scoffs dryly. They already had their suspicions about how the previous two crimes were carbon copies of each other, and the way the killer seemed to almost taunt the cops through his execution style. Now, it just cements in the fact that they’re dealing with someone far more dangerous than their wildest predictions. And that they’re equally as incompetent at preventing future casualties.
Namjoon chews into his lower lip, frustration bubbling in the pit of his stomach as he wallows in his helplessness. He resumes flipping through the case files, slowly studying the different photographs of the very body in front of him. Different angles and different lightings. But none of that changes the fact that Hyunjin is dead and they couldn’t fulfil their duty to keep her safe.
The sound of shuffling brings Namjoon’s attention to the arrival of the forensic team. Jimin bows slightly in acknowledgement, before he walks towards the body, his white suit glaring under the ceiling light as he does so.
Someone else turns on the UV light device and directs the beam across the victim’s body. Jimin takes his camera out and starts taking pictures of the body. This too Namjoon has seen before. He already knows exactly what the photographs are going to reveal. No fingerprints. No bruises anywhere else besides the neck. An inflamed scent gland, from being drugged with a strong heat inducer. Slick and ejaculate staining the sheets. But only from the victim. There will no trace of the murderer anywhere to be found.
With a shuddering exhale, Namjoon goes back to the case file, flipping through pages and pages of crime scene photographs. Photographs of the room, every nook and cranny and all the little things that fill it out. The pashmina carpet almost fully spans the entire width of the room. The walls, the ceiling lights, and the attached bathroom with the lion-legged jacuzzi. The corpse. And right next to that, a photo of Hyunjin when she was alive, cheeks flushed, red lips pulled up into a sweet smile. Nothing like her corpse. Bile rises up Namjoon’s throat and he swallows, pushing it back down.
“What about the letter?” Namjoon clears his throat, grappling for the final shred of hope that this could all be one big coincidence. That this is not another one of some sick psychopath’s game. That this is not another serial murder, potentially leading to yet another one that they will not be able to prevent in time.
“Yeah, we found one this time as well,” Seokjin huffs out, causing Namjoon’s heart to plummet down to his stomach. Ah fuck, there goes his last hope. “Last page in the file. It was on the floor, beneath the bed.”
Just like the others.
First Kim Wooshik, then Choi Soohyun and now Min Hyunjin. It’s all idols. Omega idols. Considerably popular ones too. Those who have been around for a few years, established and recognisable. Idols from companies that have solid security measures. Always a big WWE fighter wannabe bodyguard on them at all times. Paired with the highest end surveillance, it should be impossible to infiltrate them; a fool proof defence mechanism if there was one. So how is it so easy for the perpetrator to not only breach all the security measures, but also leave no trace behind? Not even a fallen strand of hair or a smudged fingerprint on the doorsill. Nothing!
They all got murdered the same way. By being strangled to death. It’s not an uncommon means of murder, especially for a serial killer. In fact, it shows intimacy, as if the killer wants to engrave their mark onto the victim. To be the last thing they see. Staking their claim in the most twisted way possible. Namjoon supposes that’s a plausible excuse. Obsession. Especially considering how all the victims have been idols, celebrities, privy to being targeted by dozens— hundreds, thousands!
But the icing on the cake is the small note casually littered at the scene of the crime. A small square card with a single line printed on it. It’s always lyrics. Or at least what sounds like a lyric, having a certain musical tone to it when they read it out. That should theoretically make it easier for them to trace down what song it’s from, and which artist had sung it. But that’s where the tricky bit comes in. The lyrics had been impossible to trace down, nowhere to be found by even the most sophisticated search engines. They later learnt that it wasn’t for lack of better technology. No, it was because the songs containing those lyrics weren’t released at the time of the murders.
Namjoon had been at a college reunion at a bar when he’d heard the words he’d only seen a few months ago at the murder scene of Kim Wooshik. “You can’t run so you must hide.” Namjoon nearly had a heart attack when Choi Soohyun’s sombre voice crooned the lyrics out through the speakers, even as his friends continued to drink their soju, laughing and howling in glee, unaware of the turmoil unleashed inside of him.
They later found out that the song was published posthumously. And a few days after that, one of the clerks came forward, revealing that they had received a clue before Wooshik’s murder as well.
A small card had been sent to the police station a month prior to the first murder. “You won't make it back this time.” Lyrics from one of the songs in Wooshik’s posthumous mixtape.
Chaos stirred in the police station as it settled in that they were being played, handed hints— clues — that they had been unsuccessful in deciphering no matter how hard they’d racked their brains. They were being fucked with— toyed with, like some kind of fucking joke. But the worst part was knowing how helpless they were, knowing they had no other choice but to play straight into the killer’s plans.
That still hasn’t changed. They’re probably going to hear Hyujin’s song soon too. “So my friend, our time is done.” Posthumously. While the killer sits somewhere safe and sound, laughing at how he’s made sitting ducks of the entire police department. Namjoon sighs and resumes flipping through the pages of the file, already dreading the sight of the last page. Of the photo with the mystery lyric that’s going to play in Namjoon’s nightmares for days. Until it’s replaced with something new. Another lyric tied to someone else that they will only find when it’s too late.
“These games are getting more and more fucked up.” Seokjin’s voice interrupts Namjoon’s thoughts. “The lyrics keep escalating. Getting more and more sinister each time— Fuck!”
Namjoon quirks his eyebrow, lips parted in contemplation. He turns back to the file, plucking at the edge of the second to last page. He pulls it over to reveal the last photograph. The page is mostly blank with a small photo in the centre. And in the photo is the card, small and square and seemingly unassuming. He swallows, stomach coiling uneasily, dreading the task of reading the cursed words. But he has no other choice. Namjoon swallows the lump in his throat and focuses his eyes, zooming in on the letters in the photograph.
The letters have always been something like a prank, like the killer is boasting about how intelligent they are, so much so that they have access to his victims’ current work in progress, long before the rest of the world does. They have a leg up because they know something that none of the cops do. None of the cops— no one— has any clue about the lyrics on the card. They’re just words joined together to form pretentious phrases that they’re only going to remember because of the murders and not because of any profound impact the lyrics have on them in any way.
That’s precisely why what happens next knocks Namjoon’s breath out. He reads the line, one word at a time, slow, fingers trembling. Namjoon’s ears start to ring, the noise starting as a low vibrating buzz before slowly escalating, that familiar sound that settles in whenever he starts to back peddle into places he doesn’t want to look back at any time soon. All the noise makes Namjoon’s head spin, the ringing getting so loud that he can feel it in his brain like an incessant grating. He tries to blink, but it’s in vain. It’s as if the photograph has him transfixed in place, hypnotised. Helpless to do anything else but read and comprehend and reminisce.
“Burn in blue and die.”
They never know what or who the lyrics are from, until it’s too late. This time, however, Namjoon knows without a doubt exactly what the words mean and where— who— they come from.
But there’s a fucked up part of him that wishes he didn’t.
*********
Most idols of his fame typically do not go through their fan mail. But Hoseok is different. He likes reading the letters he gets from his fans. It’s a good push when he’s feeling down, a nice boost of energy on his off days.
Today is the same. The staff bring in a large cardboard box of letters and gifts, ready for him to unbox. They coo and compliment him on his humility and kindness, making him flush in embarrassment.
“Your followers are so lucky that you cherish them so much, Hoseok nim.”
“So sweet of you to still check your fan mail even when you’re a superstar!”
And like always, Hoseok smiles awkwardly, wondering if that’s what it is. If he’s doing it because he’s kind, because he loves his fans that much, if it’s really as selfless as all that. When in truth, he’s doing it for himself. For the lick of validation that he feels with every word of praise on the paper, every piece of pretty jewellery, and floral perfume. He’s only an omega at the core, after all. And he’d be lying if he said his inner omega doesn’t trill in the face of all the gifts, basking in the luxury of being pampered like he secretly always craves.
It’s been a long time since he’s been pampered like that, a long time since he’s let himself be vulnerable, in front of an alpha or otherwise. It’s a luxury he learnt the hard way that he can not afford. And that’s why Hoseok is grateful for these little reminders from the fans, no matter how impersonal they may be, or how shallow. No matter how much that little nagging voice inside his head screams that these people do not know him for the man he is under his glittering outfits and practised smile. That the one person who did see through all his layers ended up not wanting to any more— ending up not wanting him .
A lump settles in Hoseok’s throat, bitter and heavy. He shakes his head, gently smacking his cheeks and bringing himself back to the present. Back to the box with all the good things in the world from people who love him in their own way. People who will not abandon him, for the foreseeable future at least.
Shoving his dreary thoughts to the side, Hoseok grabs the box and pulls it towards him. It’s heavy but doesn’t make any noise when he shakes it. He judges that it’s probably filled to the brim, lots of letters to go through then, he claps his hands gleefully. Humming a silly song under his breath, he opens the flaps of the cardboard box and flings out the newspaper ribbons on top, revealing the dozens of letters, laced hampers and gilded packages nestled inside.
He always starts with the letters, going through them one at a time, slowly taking his time to absorb every word and revel in the adoration.
“Oppa, saranghae! Marry me, Hobi!”
“Can’t wait for the Hopeworld tour!”
“Your music helps me sleep better at night. Thank you for existing.”
Hoseok’s smile is subtle but tender as he reads through every letter, returning each of them back into their respective envelopes and folding the flap back on so they look good as new. Once he’s done with the letters, he moves on to the hampers and gifts. Gucci,Louis Vuitton, and Chanel and all the big names. Sometimes he wonders just how rich some of his fans are. It’s insane that people are willing to splurge so much money on a stranger like him, celebrity or otherwise. Still pretty flattering though.
With a soft giggle, Hoseok presses the nozzle of one of the fancy bottles of perfume, spraying a mist of something floral into the air. He places it into the neatly stacked pile on his dressing table, before going back to the other gifts. Some jewellery, a pretty silver necklace, a rose gold ring, and a custom made green clover bracelet that he slips onto his slim wrist.
Pretty. They’re all so pretty. Like courting gifts for his omega. It’s a silly thought and one that makes Hoseok chuckle. Out of the blue, a vision from the past springs up in the back of his mind. A hand holding out a bouquet of flowers towards him, the same hands trembling as they tug it right back when he starts sniffling, horrendously allergic to the pink peonies. And then, they’re both laughing, soft giggles, gentle kisses and sweet nothings whispered between them. Sweet nothings because they really were ‘nothing’ s in the end.
Hoseok’s breath hitches. What’s up with him today? He hasn’t allowed himself to think about the past in so long, hasn’t allowed himself to linger in those memories outside of his dreams. He sighs, picking up the last box. It’s small and light, covered in a sparkly navy blue wrapper with a white satin ribbon bunched up and adorning the top. Almost like a birthday gift. With an eager smile, Hoseok gently tugs at the string and pulls it loose, letting it flail down, loose enough for him to gently tug the top of the box open. There’s baby blue tissue paper inside, along with confetti in various shades of blue. Hoseok smiles, feeling touched by the effort that went into making the box. There’s a small letter on the top, a pristine white card folded in half. Hoseok picks it up and flips it open. His smile curls down as he reads the contents of the letter.
“I dream that one day, you'll turn around, meet my eyes and fall in love with me too.”
A chill runs down Hoseok’s spine as he continues to stare at the card, fingers starting to tremble. It’s not particularly creepy, and can even be considered quite tame in comparison to some other letters Hoseok has received over the course of his idol career. It’s almost sweet in a way. But nonetheless, it disturbs him, has him on edge the more he ponders over it. The unease only builds when he returns to the box, pulling out the tissues and streamers and unveiling a bunch of polaroids, neatly packed together with a rubber band holding them in place.
Hoseok’s heart sinks, realisation trickling into the pores of his skin, drowning him from the outside in. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Hoseok’s fingers are trembling violently now, sweating as he picks up the little bundle and snaps the rubber band loose, tugging it off and throwing it carelessly. Hoseok picks the first one up and brings it closer, squinting as he tries to decipher what’s in the picture.
There’s some kind of cloth— satin from the gentle gleam of it, folding every which way. Ivory. Familiar, so familiar, but Hoseok can not quite place where he’s seen it. There’s a small grey stain in the centre of the frame, so dark as if the cloth is wet. Hoseok frowns, wracking his brains as he tries to make sense of the picture. He scans the image from top to bottom, right to left, but in vain. It’s when he’s about to flip to the next one that he catches sight of the small hot pink blur at the corner. And it finally clicks.
Bile rushes up Hoseok’s throat and he jumps to his feet, hands coming up to cup his mouth, the polaroids dropping messily onto the floor. His eyes widen in shock, his entire body convulsing into tremors, chilled to his very marrow as his head spins. The ivory satin, the pink vibrator, the slick stained sheets. That’s his bed— that’s Hoseok’s fucking bed, fuck — Hoseok screams silently into his cupped hands, eyes spinning out of focus, the corners blurring in his panic. He grabs onto the edge of the dressing table, taking heavy breaths, knees buckling when he finally takes note of the other photographs strewn out on the floor. They feel like sucker punches right where it hurts, knocking the wind out of his lungs and leaving him winded.
They’re all pictures of himself in intimate and compromising situations. In various states of half nakedness. Bare skin, bare face, vulnerable because he’s supposed to be alone so he can take off the mask that is his on screen person.
Hoseok shakes his head, crumpling to the floor, recoiling away from the pictures. There’s one of him in the shower, hand combing his wet hair backwards. Another of him doing laundry, hair up in a towel, facial mask plastered on his face. And then there’s one that makes Hoseok feel sick to his stomach at the thought that someone had been watching him with the collar of t-shirt in his mouth and his hands down his pajama shorts, eyebrows crunched together as he stuffed himself with his fingers and jerked his cock under the half strewn sheets, so desperate to fall asleep that he’d resorted to fucking himself over the edge.
A wretched sob spills from Hoseok’s lips, head spinning around and around as he forces himself to let everything sink in. No no no— oh god no! He’s had stalkers before, a few times actually. Creepy letters with explicitly sexual confessions that made him sick to the stomach, saesangs who follow him to the airport, some who even try to follow him home after work. But none like this. None that could breach security and get access to his most private moments, invade his home, his only sanctuary. Tainting everything that he holds dear.
He attempts to rise back up to his feet, knees wobbling violently, threatening to buckle any moment, clutching onto the edge of the dressing table for leverage. He looks up into the vanity mirror, lips parting as he takes in his reflection. The fear in his eyes, the trembling of his lower lip, the way his knuckles grip the edge so tight that they turn white. A sudden thought comes crashing over him, knocking him back with the sheer ferocity of his premonition. It is with this overwhelming sense of fear and panic that Hoseok bends over, clutching his stomach, unable to keep his bile down.
Who’s to say he isn’t being watched right now?
*********
Slowly pushing the door open, Hoseok enters the conference room and bends into a stiff bow. He walks towards his usual seat at such meetings, beside his manager. Kibum gives him a curt nod, his lips pressed into a straight line. He isn’t smiling like he usually does. Because there’s nothing to smile about today. Not when they’re here to address the unnerving case of Hoseok’s supposed stalker.
Besides Hoseok and Kibum, there’s also the president of the label, as well as a few administrative staff that Hoseok has seen before. Along with his bodyguard and other security personnel at the company, all of whom sit with rather constipated expressions on their faces. Especially Hoseok’s bodyguard, who looks like he’s lost a schoolyard fight, the whole affair putting a damper on his capabilities and his pride.
There’s someone else too, someone Hoseok has never seen before. He’s in a black leather jacket and denim jeans, legs crossed as he casually sips some coffee. A very handsome face, like an actor. Hoseok watches him curiously, giving him a quick once over from perfectly styled head to boot clad toe. The man’s talking to the security team, smirking before saying something that makes the others cringe, while he himself bursts into airy guffaws. He turns around, as if finally sensing Hoseok’s arrival, locking eyes with Hoseok and winking playfully. Hoseok nods, smiling back awkwardly, before shifting his gaze down to his hands, fiddling with his phone to distract himself.
The room fills with murmuring noises, the kind that lead Hoseok’s thoughts to the happenings of the other day. After Hoseok had reported the gift box to security, his bodyguard had rushed immediately to check on the surveillance camera footage. Only to find that all the cameras in the vicinity had been blocked off with cardboard pieces covering the lens. The surveillance footage shows a hand reaching up from the bottom of the frame, sticking the cover on the lens. Perfectly calculated and planned so as not to leave any evidence. But what baffles Hoseok is how they got into his apartment?
He’d gone back home that day and thoroughly ransacked his place. Much to his utter terror, he’d found a couple of spy cameras in the most imperceptible places. One embedded in the case of the living room clock, another in his bedroom cabinet, a third on the showcase in his office. But it’s when Hoseok finds the little camera nestled between two bathroom tiles that he truly feels chilled to the core, a sense of helplessness wrapping around him and squeezing him tight.
Hoseok had immediately called up Kibum, panicked as he retold the happenings of the day. And how he now feels unsafe in his own apartment. Kibum had arranged for Hoseok to stay over at his place that night, while they called in the technicians to give his apartment a once over and make sure it was safe.
When Hoseok showed Kibum the box with the letter and the intimate photographs, Kibum had looked almost equally as shocked, lips parting in shock as he called up management. After the call, he had assured Hoseok that they would look into the situation and make sure to catch his stalker and punish him. Hoseok had nodded, leaning into Kibum’s touch and inhaling the gentle scent of his omega pheromones, closing his eyes and praying that they would deliver on their promise.
Three days later, here he is. Summoned by the higher ups. He crosses his fingers, hoping they have good news, hoping they were able to catch the fucking bastard so Hoseok can finally have some peace of mind.
“Alright then…” The room falls into pin drop silence when Bang Shihyuk speaks up, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, frowning as he grabs the papers on his table and looks through them. “As you all know, we’re here to discuss the recent security threat to one of our artists.” He looks up from the papers, eyes flittering around the room as if searching for Hoseok. When he finally locks eyes with Hoseok, he raises to his feet and lowers his head in a deep bow. “Hoseok-ssi, first of all, management would like to take this opportunity to apologise to you.”
Hoseok shoots up, alarmed at the act, waving his hands in panic and gesturing for Bang to stop. He’s not here for this, he’s not here for an elaborate and possibly shallow act that isn’t going to make things better for him in any way.
“We are deeply sorry for what happened to you and we’re taking strict measures with respect to securing the company grounds so that this does not happen again.” Bang raises his head and stares at Hoseok, as if waiting for a sign of acknowledgement. Hoseok chews into his lower lip, nodding his head slowly.
“In the meantime, we’re looking into the case itself.” Bang sighs, lowering himself to his seat. He crosses his arms on the desk, “We couldn’t manage to find any trace of the perpetrator. Absolutely no records of him on the surveillance cams. And no recount of anyone fishy in the vicinity. The security team here has been grinding away to get to the bottom of this and figure out who the culprit is. But given the lack of any evidence, there is only so much they can do.”
Hoseok can see his bodyguard and the rest of the squad clench their fists in the background, their shoulders slumping in defeat. And although it’s true that they weren’t able to do anything this time, it doesn’t negate all the other times in the past that they’ve protected Hoseok from the fans and haters alike.
“So…” Bang clears his throat, breaking eye contact and looking towards the new guy. “We’ve decided to appoint another bodyguard for you.” Hoseok follows Bang’s gaze towards the man in the leather jacket, breath hitching when he notices that the man is looking straight at him. He’s not smiling this time, his eyes glinting almost like he’s studying Hoseok and determining what to do with him.
“Meet Superintendent Kim Seokjin from the Seoul Metropolitan Police Department. He’s offered to help us, Hoseok-ssi.”
“What—” Hoseok whips his head around, jaw hanging open as he stares at Bang in shock. “What do you mean he’s offered to help?” He turns back towards Seokjin and gulps. “You’re from the police? I don’t— I don’t think it’s so serious that we need to involve the cops. Stalkers aren’t a big deal in the showbiz world. It’s not so bad that we should go to the fucking police—”
“Hoseok-ssi, please calm down,” Bang says, nodding curtly towards Kibum, who immediately reaches over and pulls Hoseok into his arms. Hoseok doesn’t resist, slumping back against Kibum in defeat.
“Relax, Hoseok-ssi,” Seokjin says with a dry chuckle, before pretending to wipe a tear from under his eye, overdramatic as hell. “I’m deeply wounded by your dislike of cops. We’re not all rotten eggs, you know?”
“No, that’s now what I—” Hoseok swallows harshly, feeling his cheeks flush. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, Officer. I was just—” He glances up at Seokjin, meeting his eyes. “It’s unsettling that we’re getting cops involved when we’ve never called cops over for something like this before.”
“Hmm?” Seokjin quips. “Is that right?” He turns towards Bang and whistles, looking quite amused. “I take it you didn’t tell him then?”
“Tell me what?” Hoseok frowns, directing his attention back to Bang, heart squeezing when he notices the almost guilty look on his face. “What’s going on, PD nim?”
“Hoseok ssi—” Bang looks between Hoseok and Seokjin, opening and closing his mouth as if he doesn’t know what to say or how to go about it. “I didn’t want to alarm you—”
“Well, seems to me like you’ve alarmed him plenty.” Seokjin interrupts, rolling his eyes mockingly. He rises to his feet, alarming Hoseok as he makes his way towards him, stopping by punching his hands on the desk and startling Hoseok and everyone else in the room, by the looks of it.
“You read the paper, Hoseok ssi?” Seokjin drawls out, leaning into Hoseok’s space. So close that Hoseok can see the freckles in his eyes. “Read the news these days?” Absently, Hoseok notices that Seokjin doesn’t have a scent, he’s a beta.
“The news?” Hoseok stutters. He tries to remember the last time he watched the 9 pm news. It was probably a month ago and they were discussing the budget. “It’s been a while,” he says, suddenly embarrassed.
“Then I take it you didn’t hear about Min Hyunjin then?” Seokjin continues, watching Hoseok like a hawk. “From the girl group Lavender.”
Hoseok frowns. Min Hyunjin? He knows about Lavender, of course he does. He even danced to one of their songs on a variety show. But he doesn’t know any of the members personally. They’re not even signed to the same agency as he is. “No, I don’t. What— what happened to her?”
“She’s dead.”
Hoseok’s eyes go wide as saucers, a chill running down his spine as he absorbs the morbid information. “Dead?” Hoseok’s voice cracks, vision clouding with images of Lavender’s dance videos, the colourful visuals, the cheerful smiles on their faces. There’s going to be one less smile now. Ah fuck—
“She’s not the only one. Kim Wooshik and Choi Soohyun too. They’re all dead, Hoseok-ssi.”
Kim Wooshik. Hoseok knows about Wooshik’s death. They’d met once at an award show. He was a nice guy. His death had shocked Hoseok, especially given the public speculation that he’d committed suicide. That had been a bitter pill to swallow. That someone with such a warm and outgoing persona could have suicidal thoughts. But then again, Hoseok knows better than anyone that a persona is exactly just that. A mask to lure people in. A facade .
But now, Seokjin is telling him Wooshik had been killed too. That three idols have been killed in the recent past. That doesn’t make any sense! And why is he telling this to Hoseok?
“Wooshik, Soohyun, Hyunjin… Do you know what they all had in common, Hoseok-ssi?” Seokjin asks, interrupting Hoseok’s thoughts and bringing him back down to the unpleasant conversation at hand.
“They’re—” Hoseok gulps, leaning back in his chair as far as he can go, sinking into the leather in a futile attempt to escape Seokjin. “They’re musicians. Idol singers.”
“Yes, they are!” Seokjin claps his hands as if ridiculing Hoseok. “Idols just like you are.”
Hoseok’s blood curdles, his stomach dropping at Seokjin’s words. Is Seokjin implying that he could be next? Sure, he’s an idol too, but so are hundreds of others. Is it because of Hoseok’s stalker? Is that why they think he might be getting targeted? Because once again, there are dozens of idols in the same shoes in that department too.
“But there’s one more thing they have in common, Hoseok-ssi,” Seokjin says, lowering his voice so that it’s barely audible.
“What— what’s that?” Hoseok whispers. He’s prepared for a lot of things. From the brand deals they endorse to something particular that they’ve all done. He suddenly remembers that Wooshik is from Gwangju. Were the others from Gwangju too? Is someone killing idols hailing from Gwangju? Is that why the police are here? Because Hoseok is from Gwangju too? Because he fits the general profile of victims?
“They’re all omegas,” Seokjin whispers, taking Hoseok by surprise. Hoseok looks up and meets Seokjin’s searching gaze, holding it as he processes his words.
“Omegas?” Hoseok croaks out. “Officer, a large percentage of idols are omegas. I can name a few dozen others right off the top of my head.”
“Of course, you can, Hoseok-ssi,” Seokjin says. He finally pulls back and takes a step away from Hoseok’s desk, making him slump in relief. But the relief is short lived as Seokjin pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket and starts to uncrumple it. “The killer left this at the scene of the last crime, as a hint about the next murder. Does this look familiar to you, Hoseok-ssi?”
Seokjin flaps the paper in the air before shoving it into Hoseok’s face. The paper has a photo in the middle. It’s a card with something printed out. Hoseok frowns, grabbing the edge of the paper and pulling it closer so he can read it.
“Burn in blue and die.”
With a startled gasp, Hoseok jumps to his feet so fast that his chair topples to the ground. He clasps his hands over his mouth and stares at the paper in utter disbelief. There’s no way— no fucking way — He turns towards Seokjin, who is now looking a little taken aback for the first time all day.
“There’s no way,” Hoseok chokes out. “I haven’t even released that song yet! There’s no fucking way—”
“So it really is yours?” Seokjin murmurs, hands on his mouth. He looks a little taken aback himself, eyes looking a little far away, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying himself. He clears his throat, turning back around towards Hoseok. “If it’s yours…” Seokjin’s frown grows deeper. “... that could mean you’re next, Hoseok-ssi. And you mentioned having a stalker. That’s too big a coincidence at this point in time. You could be in a lot more danger than you think, Hoseok-ssi. You need our help.”
The tears fall without any warning, clouding Hoseok’s vision and making his eyes sting. Ah fuck, he needs to stop crying. He needs to keep his head clear and make sense of things. He needs to— Hoseok sobs, falling back into his seat, burying his head in his hands as the tears wet his palms. Fuck fuck fuck— he doesn’t want to die. He’s so fucking scared—
“Let us help you,” Seokjin whispers. There’s a hand on Hoseok’s shoulders, warm and firm. Seokjin, being a beta, doesn’t have any inherent scent. But he smells nice, like laundry detergent and coffee and it’s comforting, soothing almost, even though everything is falling around right in front of Hoseok’s eyes.
“Okay,” Hoseok whispers, defeated. There’s a part of him that can not even fathom the idea that someone would want him dead. But there’s a more logical voice in his head that tells him that only the police can save him. If there’s really a killer on his trail, then he’s going to need all the help he can get.
“Okay,” Seokjin says simply, squeezing Hoseok’s shoulder one last time, before turning back around and returning to his seat. Once he sits down, he talks to Bang. “One of my subordinates will be accompanying me tomorrow. He’s the one who linked the message to Hoseok-ssi so it’s only natural that he should be in charge of Hoseok-ssi’s safety until we catch whoever this sick bastard is.” Seokjin turns back towards Hoseok with a gentle smile, a drastic change from his earlier aggressiveness. “Don’t worry, Hoseok-ssi. You’ll be in good hands with him. He’ll protect you with his life.”
It’s odd listening to Seokjin talk about someone who would be willing to go to extreme ends to protect Hoseok. It’s unsettling. Hoseok doesn’t want anyone to risk their life for him. He doesn’t want to be in this position where he’s so at risk that he needs someone else to put themselves at risk too in order to keep him safe. But his inner omega is a terrible thing, whining and whimpering inside its confines, yearning to be taken care of, to be protected.
The rest of the meeting goes with Seokjin and the security team discussing the details of the surveillance footage and any other possible trespassing or vandalism in the company property. Everyone in the room is then made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. The company doesn’t want any word about their artist’s life being threatened to leak out in any way. Seokjin makes a lame joke about how even bad clout is effective clout, but smartly shuts his mouth when Kibum glowers at him. Bang leaves shortly after, now that it’s been settled that the cops will take care of Hoseok’s safety.
“Alright then,” Seokjin says, rising to his feet. He stretches with a yawn, before looking at Hoseok and giving him a playful wink. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Hoseok-ssi.” So saying, he blows Hoseok a kiss before turning around and making his way out of the conference room.
When the door closes behind him, Hoseok lets out a shaky exhale. Kibum is on him almost instantly, gathering him into a tight hug, whispering reassuring words. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. It’s going to be okay. We’ll protect you, Hobi.” Hoseok sighs, closing his eyes as he burrows into Kibum’s arms and inhales his sweet scent. Yeah. Kibum is right. It’s going to be okay. Now that they know he’s being targeted, they can prevent him from getting harmed in any way.
Hold on.
“Burn in blue and die.”
How did they know it was him? The only ones who know about the song besides Hoseok are his manager, producer, and some technical staff at the company. He hasn’t even started recording it or shared any behind the scenes footage of it online for his fans. There’s no way a cop should be able to see that line and immediately make the connection. No matter how big a fan he is.
With a pounding heart, Hoseok pulls out of Kibum’s comforting arms. “I need to ask Officer Seokjin something,” Hoseok whispers, before slowly trotting towards the door. He makes his way down towards the car park, hoping to catch Seokjin and ask him what made the police conclude that it was him. How did they know?
A million questions swim in Hoseok’s head, driving him crazy with frustrations. He steps out of the elevator onto the car porch, making his way along the back, hoping Seokjin hasn’t left yet. It takes a minute before he hears the sound of an engine start up. Hoseok makes a small sound of victory, turning towards the sound and managing to find Seokjin getting into the passenger seat of a black Hyundai SUV. Hoseok raises his hand, about to call out to Seokjin so they can clear things before he leaves. But then, his eyes wander to the person behind the cockpit.
Hoseok’s heart pummels right out of his chest, ripping a chasm straight through his ribs. No, there’s no way this is happening. There’s no way Hoseok is seeing who he’s seeing. There’s no fucking way that this is happening after all these years.
“I love you, Hoseok-ah.”
“Being an idol isn’t going to change anything, Hoseok-ah. You’re still the same person I fell in love with all those years ago.”
“Sometimes when I’m buried inside you, I wonder what it would be like to mark you and mate you. So you’re mine forever.”
“Gonna give you pups, Hoseok-ah. Make you all round and soft. So beautiful. You’ll be even more beautiful than you are right now.”
“I’ll never leave you, Hoseok. No matter what.”
Liar.
Liar liar liar liar liar—
No no no no!
Seated beside Seokjin is a man Hoseok never thought he’d see again for as long as he lives. Someone he still dreams of on days when his bed is cold and his heart is colder. Someone he imagines every time he fucks himself through his heats alone, yearning for a knot that he should be smart enough not to crave anymore.
Hoseok swallows the lump in his throat, blinking so that he can see through his tears. There’s no way it’s him. But it is. Hoseok would recognise him with his eyes closed. His face hasn’t changed a bit. He’s frowning, eyes closed as if he’s exhausted and Hoseok wonders if he’s been overworking. Hoseok hates the sudden pang of empathy and concern he feels at the thought. He hates that he still feels so fond, so strongly. He hates the dimples that pop on his cheeks, even when he’s frowning— dimples that Hoseok used to kiss once upon a time.
The headlights blink and Hoseok notices Seokjin shifting to say something to him, patting his shoulder almost consolingly. He nods solemnly, those plush lips pressing together in a frown. And then, he’s pushing the gear forward and steering the car out of the parking lot.
Hoseok simply continues to watch, rooted helplessly to the spot, more disoriented than he had been even when he opened the box from his stalker.
As the car whirrs away, out of sight, Hoseok prays to a God he hasn’t believed in for years— he prays that Namjoon is only a figment of his imagination. Like he sometimes continues to be, even after all this time.
To Be Continued