Chapter Text
The cub.
The nickname was given to him by the men who put a price to his head the first night he rested on his mother's arms. It was only fitting for the son of the lioness of hongdae.
“A Cub is a small and untamed beginner, born into teeth and claws but still soft at the edges.” So unassuming indeed that people who don't know who he is look at his pretty face and grow overconfident, thinking that a young man like him couldn't hurt a fly even if he tried.
Big mistake. After all, Seokjin is the son of his mother. Fear was kicked out of him early on, he learned how to hold a gun before he knew how to multiply two by two and learned the weight of taking a life before he understood the importance of reading a good book.
He was trained to never be bothered by the blood on his hands, and his breathing never falters when he sees a lifeless body falling limp before him.
As Seokjin stands now on the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in Hongdae, with the wind cold and sharp against his face, he smiles, almost fondly, “What was it that made you do it?” he asks the journalist tied to the chair on the edge of the building.
“I’ve always wondered why you people think writing what you do has no consequences,” he drawls calmly, slamming a heavy hand down on the man's shoulder, making him tremble violently, “You think because you weren't the first to put my name out there, you get a pass, but that isn't how this works.”
The man tied to the chair trembles, his face pale and slick with sweat. He doesn’t answer, but Seokjin doesn’t seem to mind. He steps closer, the wind tugging at his coat, and crouches down to meet the man’s eyes, “I'm just doing my work,” he whines daringly, breathlessly, lifting his resigned gaze to meet Seokjin's dark eyes. The sweat on his face is falling in droplets from his temple, staining his already dirty shirt.
Seokjin’s lips curl into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just doing your work,” he echoes, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “Funny how that excuse always comes up when I ask that fucking question.”
He straightens, his shadow stretching long and dark against the rooftop. Seokjin’s gaze drifts to the horizon for a moment, taking the pliers in his hand to lift a nail off the man's finger, the crack is clean and satisfying, mixed with the piercing shout escaping from the unfortunate man's throat. The sound echoes in the empty night air.
“It’s a shame, really, that your wife had to go first, she was a real nice fuck. How did you like the box where we sent her head? I chose it myself,” the cub says with a devilish smirk.
The journalist’s nostrils flare as he breathes heavily, visibly angry before spitting at Seokjin’s face.
The cub recoils with a sardonic smirk, cleaning the spit off his cheek with the back of his hand and leaving behind a tray of blood, “Well, that’s just not nice, is it?” he chuckles, “I didn’t even have to force myself onto her, she wanted to do it.”
“You bastard!” The man bites through gritted teeth, forcing his torso forward as fat tears roll down his cheeks.
“That I am,” Seokjin concedes with a short nod, “but at least it wasn’t my wife who threw herself at another man’s arms the first chance she got,” he continues digging into the man’s wound, “I think you must have a real tiny dick or something because I didn’t even have to do anything, she was just happy sitting on it.”
The man grunts, his face turning a darker shade of red, from anger or shame, Seokjin doesn’t care as he closes his hand into a fist and hits the man square on the jaw.
“All that information you have on me and my business,” Seokjin’s expression turns dark and serious, “Who else has it?” He holds the pliers to another nail on the man’s hand.
“Fuck you!” The journalist barks. Another nail comes off.
“She came so many times just from riding me, you should be thankful she died happy,” Seokjin straightens his suit, “Tell me who has my information,” he pressures, “I want a name or on monday morning that sad little newsroom where you work is gonna burn down to the ground with all your innocent coworkers inside.”
For a moment, the man doesn't answer. The only sound filling the air between them is his heavy breathing. “No one,” he mumbles, leaning his body uncomfortably to the side, visibly tired and defeated.
“Well now, don't lie to me, Jackie,” Seokjin rips yet another nail from the man's hand, “Give me a name? Is it your friend from the third floor, your boss… that blonde shorty that goes out with you for lunch every day… the police?”
“No one!” the man repeats, drooling from the pain onto his bloody hand, “The first article I wrote on you was the most read of the year, that information was gonna get me a raise, probably a journalism award, why would I share it with anyone?!”
Seokjin hums, clasping a hand on the man’s hair as he drops the plier on the ground to untie him from the chair, “That's very selfish of you, Jackie,” he mutters, pulling the man away from the chair by his hair.
“Stop calling me that, that's not my name,” the journalist cries, almost crawling on his knees as Seokjin walks him towards the edge of the building.
Seokjin grunts, “I don't give a fuck,” he says, “Who has my goddamn information?” he asks again, positioning the man with his back to the edge of the building, the city framing his worn out figure.
“No one!” the journalist holds onto Seokjin’s arm, “I already told you no one, please!”
“Don't beg, you sound like a dog,” Seokjin mutters.
“I swear I didn’t give my research to anyone!” The journalist shouts with tears running down his face, his hair is blowing with the wind and Seokjin smirks, looking at the man's eyes and recognizing the cold acceptance behind the fear, “I'm telling the truth,” the man breathes out defeated, “Just kill me already.”
Seokjin’s smile grows into something sinister. The man shakes in his hands, “Your wish is my command, eh?”
He doesn't stay to see the body hit the ground. He gets into the elevator and sighs, “He said he didn't tell anyone else,” he says casually.
“We'll keep an eye on the girl, just in case,” Namjoon says without looking up from his phone.
“I want to know how he got the information, find out if there's a rat in the team or if we have any weak spots anywhere,” Seokjin orders, rubbing his forehead like he'd have too much for the day, “Change the bodegas to a different location and repaint the boats.”