Chapter Text
Chan strode through the division’s central courtyard, his eyes narrowing against the morning sun flooding the garden. The warmth was pleasant; a stark contrast to the cold facts tucked inside the folder gripped firmly in his hand. Level 4 Synthetic Trafficking, he read mentally, so buried in the details of the report that the world around him became a blur.
He didn't see the figure standing ahead until his chest collided with something solid. It wasn't a wall, though it certainly felt like one.
“Oh, sorr–” Chan stepped back, blinking, the apology dying in his throat only to be replaced by an instinctive smile. “Ah, Changbin.”
Standing by the vending machine, Changbin turned. The sun caught him in profile, casting his strong jawline into sharp relief. At the sight of his leader, Changbin’s focused expression melted instantly.
“Ah, hyung. Heading to the briefing room?” Changbin’s voice carried that signature raspy, comforting lilt. There was an aura about him – a blend of raw strength and steady protection – that made the tension in Chan’s shoulders evaporate like magic. It was hard to maintain the stoic leader act when Changbin looked at him with such veiled adoration.
“Yeah, let’s go together,” Chan replied, allowing himself a fleeting moment to watch the younger man’s biceps flex as he fished two soda cans from the dispenser.
“Sure, let's just wa–” Changbin’s sentence was cut short by the sound of the restroom door swinging open beside them.
Chan raised his eyebrows in surprise as Minho stepped out, drying his hands with a paper towel, his movements precise and calm. Noticing Chan’s expression, the younger man mirrored the arched brow in silent mockery before settling back into his usual poker face. Still, there was an imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips.
“Hey, hyung. Off to the meeting?” Minho asked, stepping closer. He accepted the ice-cold can Changbin held out without even having to ask.
For a heartbeat, Chan felt like the absolute center of the universe. Changbin’s intense gaze and Minho’s calculated appraisal fell upon him simultaneously. The weight of those stares made his face flush, and Chan felt his usual shyness bubbling beneath the surface. He cleared his throat, feigning a look at his wristwatch to escape the intensity.
“Right, let’s move. Otherwise, Seungmin will kill us. And you know he’d make it look like an accident.”
The trio started down the sunlit corridor, Chan walking in the middle, flanked by the two of them. He watched for a moment as Minho and Changbin traded barbs about the upcoming "Kitchen Night."
“We need to buy more meat; you ate almost everything last time,” Minho teased.
“I need the protein! Besides, Chan’s cooking was too good,” Changbin defended himself.
Chan smiled at the floor. It was their sacred tradition: Minho with his flawless technique, Chan trying to help and Changbin praising every dish as if it were a five-star meal. It was the perfect stress relief.
“What do you think, hyung?” Changbin’s voice pulled him back.
Chan turned, and the air caught in his lungs. Changbin was cracking open his soda. The hiss of escaping gas was loud, but Chan could only focus on the way the veins in Changbin’s forearm popped with the minimal effort, his strong fingers gripping the metal. Don’t look at his arms, Christopher, he scolded himself mentally.
“What?” He blinked, dazed.
“Does next Sunday work for you? For dinner?” Minho prompted.
“Um, yeah. That works.” Chan turned his head the other way, seeking refuge, only to find a different kind of danger. Minho brought the can to his mouth, head tilted back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the chilled liquid. A bead of condensation strayed over his bottom lip. Don’t look at his mouth, Christopher.
“Mm... I should have bought a drink,” Chan muttered, his throat suddenly bone-dry.
“You want some?”
The question came in unison. Perfect. Immediate.
Chan stopped, startled. Changbin and Minho extended their cans toward him at the same time. There was a spark of defiance in both their eyes. The thought of his lips touching where theirs just had made Chan’s stomach do a somersault.
He laughed nervously, trying to hide the heat rising up his neck.
“With your spit all over it?” He gently nudged the cans back. “No, thanks.”
The corridor ended at a frosted glass door. As Chan pushed it open, the air conditioning hit him full force; a silent, icy breath. Inside, the group was already assembled. Four pairs of eyes locked onto the leader the moment he crossed the threshold.
“Sorry I’m late.” Chan didn't stop for explanations. He slid into his chair, tossing the folder onto the glass tabletop with a dull thud.
At his sides, the movement was synchronized: Changbin pulled out the chair to his right, Minho the one to his left. They sat like two supporting pillars, arms crossed and expressions grim.
“Start us off, Seungmin,” Chan ordered, loosening the knot of his tie.
Seungmin, standing by the screen, adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A tiny, sharp smirk tugged at his lips. “I thought we’d have to send a recovery team to the hallway.” His tone was bone-dry. He clicked the remote before Chan could fire back.
The click flooded the room as the monitor flared to life.
“Viktor Volkov,” Seungmin announced. “Our headache for the week.” On the screen, a man in an impeccable white suit descended from a private jet. Long platinum hair, a commanding posture, and a thick scar cutting through his right eye that screamed danger.
“Ex-military. Turned arms dealer.” Seungmin clicked again. Images of chemical labs flickered by. “Creator of a new hallucinogenic drug called 'Siberian Haze.' He’s brutal, hedonistic, and loves a display of power.”
“How does a Russian become our problem?” Chan flipped through the report on the table without looking up.
“He’s not here for tourism.” Hyunjin, who was deftly twirling a pen between his long fingers, pointed at the screen. “The Russian division confirmed it. He touched down here yesterday morning.”
“He’s here to sell the formula,” Seungmin added. The image shifted to a faceless silhouette, just a question mark over a static background. “To ‘The Ghost.’”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees. The sound of Minho’s fingers drumming on the table ceased abruptly. Chan leaned forward, the muscles in his back straining against the fabric of his shirt.
“The Ghost…” Minho hissed the name like venom. “We’ve been hunting this guy for a year. No name, no face… just a trail of bodies.”
“This is our opening.” Changbin leaned in, his deep voice vibrating through the table. He exchanged a heavy look with Chan and Minho; they all knew the cost of the past operations that had gone south. “If Viktor has the formula, the Ghost will show.”
“Exactly. Two birds, one stone.” Seungmin made a fluid gesture and a map of Seoul appeared on the table, zooming in on a golden skyscraper. “The Conrad Seoul.”
“Private party?” Chan asked.
“Not just any party.” Seungmin paused for dramatic effect. “The theme is ‘Predators and Prey.’ A fetish masquerade ball. High society, total secrecy, zero cameras.”
An uncomfortable silence hung over the table. “Fetish?” Chan repeated.
“The powerful guests are the ‘Predators.’ The companions… well, they’re the ‘Prey.’” Seungmin shrugged, indifferent to the room’s discomfort. “Sold out for months.”
“But…” Felix, perched on the edge of the table, smirked. He pulled three gold-embossed black cards from his blazer’s inner pocket and flicked them across the surface like a casino croupier. They slid perfectly to the center. “Voilà. VIP access. I know, I know, I’m incredible.”
Chan picked up one of the invitations. The texture was expensive, heavy. “‘Prey’…” He read the word, and an involuntary shiver ran up his spine. “Sounds charming.”
“We have two simultaneous objectives.” Seungmin pointed the laser at the briefcase in a projected photo. “Objective one, the merchandise. Hyunjin, Felix?”
Hyunjin straightened up. “I’ve trailed the target all day. He had caviar for lunch, bought a hundred-thousand-dollar watch, and left the briefcase in the Presidential Suite. The gorilla carrying it never leaves the room.”
“Felix and Hyunjin, you’ll infiltrate as hotel staff. Your job is to get into the suite’s safe and swap the formula for a fake,” Seungmin commanded.
Hyunjin nodded, while Felix kept his eyes fixed on the hotel blueprints.
“Objective two: the identity.” Seungmin turned to the other side of the table. “Viktor won't meet the Ghost today. The Ghost is paranoid; he’ll send representatives to vet Viktor first.”
Seungmin pointed the laser at Minho, then at Changbin. “You two are those representatives.”
Chan nodded, satisfied with the tactical spread. “And how do we bag the Ghost?”
“We need the data from Viktor’s phone. His encrypted contacts are on it,” Han finally spoke up. He looked stressed, typing furiously on his laptop. “But there’s a catch. The signal jamming inside is total. It’s a dead zone.”
“So…?” Chan narrowed his eyes.
“I need physical access.” Han spun his chair to face the group. “Someone has to plant a device directly on his phone.”
“Wait a second.” Felix let out an incredulous laugh. “We have to get close enough to a paranoid ex-soldier to slip a chip into his pocket without getting shot?”
Silence fell again. Seungmin clicked the remote one last time, and a series of photos appeared on the screen. They were profiles of young men with athletic builds and broad shoulders, but with delicate features, pale skin, and slightly wavy dark hair. The resemblance to someone in the room was striking.
“Viktor’s aesthetic preferences,” Seungmin explained, his voice neutral. “Someone is going to have to infiltrate the event as a ‘Prey.’”
Slowly, as if choreographed, every head in the room turned toward the head of the table. Felix bit his lip to keep from laughing. Minho’s brow furrowed, his jaw locking as he realized where this was going. Changbin’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Chan, feeling the physical weight of six pairs of eyes on him, looked left, then right, and then straightened up, confused. “What?” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why is everyone looking at me?”
“Congratulations, Hyung,” Felix said, sliding the “Prey” invitation toward him. “You’re going to be his favorite little bunny.”
Chan’s foot tapped fervently against the floor of the tactical equipment room. The sound of his sole striking metal echoed through the silence, competing with the low hum of the LED lights.
One of his hands scrolled frantically through his phone in search of any distraction – old reports, Seoul news, the Sydney weather – while he gnawed on his thumb nail. It was an old trainee habit he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to break.
He was there for a reason both simple and absurd: he needed to validate the disguise. As a leader, his policy was never to ask anything of his men that he wasn't willing to do himself. But, as he stared at the door, Chan wondered if "dressing up as a bunny for a Russian mobster" was actually in the conduct manual he’d signed years ago.
He looked like a deer caught in headlights when the door finally swung open. Jeongin stepped in quickly, holding a matte black fabric bag that, to Chan, looked like it carried something more dangerous than a grenade.
“Wow, hyung... looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jeongin remarked, his voice brimming with that trademark petulant confidence.
He set the bag down on the metal table beside Chan with a thud that sounded far too final. Before the elder could protest, Jeongin leaned in, resting a hand on Chan’s shoulder and lowering his face to meet his, as if speaking to a child who had just scraped a knee.
“Everything alright here?”
Chan took a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs until his leader’s posture realigned. It was just a mission. Infiltration, data collection, extraction. He’d done this a hundred times. He stood up, flashing a smile he hoped looked encouraging.
“Um, fine, Innie. Just running through the mental protocols. Viktor is a high-risk target; I don’t want any slip-ups.”
“Great.” The younger man straightened up, letting out a short nasal laugh as he yanked the zipper of the bag. “Because, honestly? You’re going to look so hot in this.”
“I-Innie...” Chan felt the heat rush instantly to his cheeks, his stutter betraying his attempt at authority.
“No ‘Innie’ right now, Captain,” Jeongin countered, his eyes glinting with innocent malice as he grabbed the bag and jerked his head toward the booth at the back. “Let’s go. You have to try it on to see if the chip in the choker stays hidden and if it fits right.”
He took a step forward, lightly nudging Chan’s shoulder toward the other room.
Chan felt his heart thumping – a dull beat echoing all the way to his fingertips as he stared at the booth door. Upon entering, the world plunged into absolute silence, broken only by the sound of his own heavy breathing. He exhaled all at once, trying to drive out the panic.
“Let’s do this,” he murmured to himself, setting the bag on the chair with the hesitation of someone handling an explosive.
He avoided eye contact with the mirror while removing his shoes, but he couldn't ignore the aggressive sheen of the black stilettos with dark scarlet soles that emerged first. The red felt like a warning. With every item that came out of the bag – the latex, the lace, the velvet of the ears – the flush on his face deepened by a shade, turning his cheeks into embers.
With a final sigh, he stripped off his clothes, feeling vulnerable in his own skin. However, as he held up the latex shorts, a crease of confusion appeared on his brow. The material was so small and shiny it seemed impossible to wear.
“How am I supposed to wear this with underwear?” he asked aloud, his voice slightly muffled by the door.
Jeongin’s low, short laugh from the other side was the only answer. “You don't wear underwear, hyung. The cut doesn't allow for it.”
Chan felt his body enter instantaneous combustion. The heat was the realization that, in a few minutes, he would be technically naked under layers of fetish gear. With his last shred of dignity, he bid farewell to his boxers.
The process of donning the latex was a sensory battle. It took real effort to guide the tight material over his thick thighs, molded by years of intense training. The fabric slid up with a characteristic friction sound, compressing his flesh with a possessive firmness. When it finally passed the generous curve of his rear, Chan let out a low groan.
He turned sideways to the mirror and his breath hitched. The shorts were obscene; they barely covered the base of his butt, leaving his pale, firm skin on total display, adorned by a small, ironic furry tail that bobbed with every movement.
Without letting himself stop to think, he put on the top. It was a soft leather vest, the heart-shaped cutout at the center of the chest was strategic: the edges pressed his robust chest inward, highlighting his defined musculature almost aggressively, while leaving his narrow, marked waist in stark contrast to the width of his shoulders.
The thigh-high lace stockings were the final touch. The garters gripped the tops of his thighs, creating that small indentation in the skin that screamed temptation. Finally, he put the headband. The tall, imposing white velvet ears contrasted sharply with the habitual seriousness of his expression.
Chan slid into the shoes and, for the first time, faced his full reflection.
He expected to feel disgust or an unbearable sense of ridicule, but what he found in the mirror was something else.
His abs looked more sculpted under the heart-shaped cut, and his legs, elongated by the stilettos, looked like lethal weapons wrapped in black silk. There was a raw, powerful beauty there. He felt desirable. A spark of dark confidence flickered in his dark eyes as he realized the contrast between his body and the costume.
“Hyung? Are you finished yet?” Jeongin’s voice brought him back to reality, accompanied by two light taps on the door.
Panic set in. Chan spun on the stilettos, looking desperately for a towel, a baggy shirt, anything that could cover this latex scandal. Before he could reach his own pants tossed on the chair, the handle turned.
Jeongin walked in with his usual cheeky grin, ready to drop some sarcastic joke. But the second his eyes landed on the division leader, the smile died. The younger man’s eyes widened almost comically. His breath hitched, and Chan swore he saw a violent shade of red climb up Jeongin’s neck, vanishing into his shirt collar.
Chan instinctively crossed his arms over his bare chest, trying to hide the heart-shaped neckline, hunching his broad shoulders.
“Don't say anything. I know, it’s ridic–”
“Whoa, hyung... you look...” Jeongin blinked, as if he needed to reboot his own brain. He swallowed hard. “Beautiful. Like... a national threat.”
The warmth that flooded Chan’s body was a hot gust of vanity. He slowly loosened his arms, letting them drop to his sides, and turned his face to look at the mirror once more. The black latex, the lace stockings, the contrast with the tense muscles of his abdomen.
“You think so?” The question came out as a shy whisper, but with an undeniable spark of curiosity.
“Absolutely,” Jeongin nodded, regaining some of his professional composure as he guided Chan into the main room. “Viktor is going to fall right into your hands.”
The mention of the Russian mobster was like a bucket of cold water; Chan shuddered. The mission. It had almost slipped his mind that all this fetish gear had a lethal target.
He was about to ask about the chip in the choker, refocused on work, when the main door creaked open. Chan was so immersed in the conversation he hadn't even heard the footsteps. What he did hear was a long, exaggerated, and scandalously high-pitched whistle.
Chan froze, the furry tail twitching slightly at the startle.
Felix was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his impeccable hotel staff suit, his mouth slightly open in an "O" of pure admiration. Right behind him, Hyunjin’s head popped up over his shoulder. The sniper’s gaze traveled from the velvet of Chan’s ears down to his heels. Hyunjin didn't say a word; he simply gave two thumbs up, a wide, impressed grin on his face.
“Channie... my God, you look so hot,” Felix blurted out, walking into the room as if hypnotized.
Chan felt the air leave him. The equipment room, once spacious, suddenly felt tiny with the three of them surrounding him, evaluating every exposed inch of his body. Felix’s comment echoed in his mind. Hot. If Felix and Hyunjin, who saw him as an older brother, were reacting like that... how would they react?
The image of Changbin’s dark eyes sweeping over his thighs or Minho’s predatory smile appraising his exposed chest invaded his mind without permission. Chan’s stomach did a violent somersault. A dangerous heat spread beneath the latex. No, he scolded himself mentally, shaking his head to clear the image of the two. Focus on the mission, Christopher.
But the universe has cruel timing or perhaps… incredibly ironic.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the other side of the door, steps that made no attempt at silence.
The air conditioning seemed to stop working when the two figures filled the doorway. Minho and Changbin stood there, dressed in bespoke, dark high-fashion suits.
The aura in the locker room shifted drastically. There was none of the lightness from the morning encounter by the vending machine, the air was now dense, heavy under the gravity of those two simultaneous gazes.
And Chan, in the center of the room, suddenly felt tiny. Instinctively, without even realizing his own submission, he lowered his head slightly, breaking direct eye contact.
The two took a step forward in unison.
“You look... great, Channie.” Minho was the first to break the silence. His voice came out a pitch deeper than usual, husky and drawn out. The navy-blue suit, nearly black, contrasted with the calculating glint in his eyes.
Minho raised his hand slowly. Chan held his breath, his heart hammering against his exposed ribs. Minho’s warm fingers didn't touch the bare skin, but deliberately brushed the leather edge of the heart-shaped neckline, smoothing an imaginary seam over Chan’s pectoral. The phantom touch sent an electric shock straight to the leader’s stomach.
“Very good.” Changbin’s voice sounded right after, tense and restrained.
Chan looked up slowly. Changbin was static half a step away, his broad shoulders filling out the pinstripe jacket. His jaw was so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. He didn't look Chan in the eye; his gaze was fixed and dark, traveling down the thighs marked by the black latex to the lace garters.
“Th-thanks, guys.” Chan cleared his throat, desperately trying to sound like Captain Bang, but his stutter betrayed him miserably. He forced a stiff smile. “You guys... look good too. Great disguise.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Chan swore he saw Felix covering his mouth with both hands, while Hyunjin leaned his forehead against the Australian’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking in an attempt to stifle a laugh. In the tense silence that followed, a far-from-discreet whisper from Hyunjin cut through the air:
“I don't think Viktor is going to be the only predator tonight.”
Chan’s face caught fire. He opened his mouth to snap back, to tell them both to shut up and get back to their posts, but before any sound came out, the main door was flung open with a crash.
A sixth figure stumbled into the room, nearly falling flat on his face as he tripped over his own shoelace.
Everyone blinked, the bubble of tension popping instantly. It was Han.
He regained his balance, huffing and adjusting his glasses. Han’s eyes wandered through the crowded room, sweeping over the circus gathered around the leader. In one hand, he held a black choker with a gold heart pendant.
“What the hell are you all doing here?” Han asked, perplexed, indignation replacing any filter. “Don't you have work to do?”
“Come on, Han,” Felix complained, blatantly pointing at the man dressed as a fetishist mafia bunny in the center of the room. “We weren’t going to miss this for anything.”
“Okay, okay, show’s over! Everyone out!” Han began waving his hands in the air, shooing the audience away. “I have to explain the chip in the choker. Move it, move it!”
A unison, disappointed chorus of “Aww, come on” and “We’re going” echoed through the room as Jeongin, Felix, and Hyunjin dragged their feet toward the hall.
It took a second longer for Minho and Changbin to move. The reluctance was palpable. Changbin finally blinked, snapping out of the trance, and adjusted his own cufflinks. Minho took a step back, removing his hand from Chan’s personal space, but his sharp gaze remained fixed on him.
The two turned their backs, but before crossing the threshold, they stopped. Changbin looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes shimmering with a promise that made Chan’s legs go weak.
“See you tonight, Channie...” Changbin murmured, his velvety voice floating in the cold air. Minho merely gave a half-smirk, and then the door closed with a metallic click.
Silence reigned in the equipment room once more.
Alone with Han, Chan finally let out all the air he seemed to have been holding for the last ten minutes. His shoulders slumped, and he leaned against the metal table, covering his red face with both hands.
“Jisung...” Chan whined behind his hands, his tone perfectly pathetic. He peeked at his friend through his fingers. “Do you think they noticed?”
Han stopped unrolling the sleeves he was about to button. He looked at the leader dressed as fetish bunny, processing the question. Chan was genuinely in a panic, thinking he had let his massive, stupid, secret crush on the two guys who had just devoured him with their eyes show.
Han blinked slowly. A sarcastic, dry smile, loaded with irony, pulled at the corner of his lips.
“No way, Captain.”
The "Prey" dressing room at The Conrad Seoul was a suffocating labyrinth of full-length mirrors, blinding vanity lights, and the dense, sickly scent of expensive perfumes mingling with hairspray.
Away from the division and the chaotic safety of his team, the reality of the mission hit him with full force. Chan bit the inside of his cheek so hard he could already taste the metallic tang of blood.
The black latex of his shorts and the constricting grip of the heart-shaped vest felt even more obscene now that he was alone, surrounded by stunning strangers who lounged in leather, chains, and sheer silks as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He felt the weight of every passing glance in the mirror, anxiety bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
For the mission, he repeated to himself a silent mantra to keep from spiraling. It’s just another job, Christopher. You can do this.
Seizing a moment when no one was looking his way, Chan feigned adjusting his hair and pushed the tiny earpiece deeper into his ear canal.
“Comms check. All green on this end, Captain.” Han’s crisp voice crackled in his ear, an immediate relief amidst the visual chaos. “Jeongin intercepted the Ghost’s original duo in the parking garage and took them out with ease. Path is clear. Minho and Changbin are already in the VIP lounge with Viktor.”
Chan nodded to his own reflection, letting out a long exhale. Phase one was complete, his men were impeccable. The tension creasing his brow wasn't from doubting his team’s competence, but his own role.
“Hey, man. Are you doing okay over there?” A soft, velvety voice pulled Chan from his tactical thoughts. He blinked, turning his head to the right.
The young man at the next vanity had incredibly delicate, innocent features, framed by short, meticulously styled dark hair. But his outfit was anything but innocent: an elegant profusion of white feathers, sheer tulle, and a shimmering corset that hugged his slender waist. He was the personification of a swan.
“Hey.” Chan cleared his throat, forcing his broad shoulders to relax, he needed to get into character, and fast. “Yeah, I’m good. Just... nervous, you know? Trying to get my head in the game.”
The Swan flashed an empathetic smile, a curve of the lips so genuine it turned his eyes into charming crescents. “It’s okay. It’s always like that the first time.”
Chan stiffened slightly. He didn't want to look like a displaced rookie. For the mission to work, he had to be just another stunning face in the crowd, as if attending mafia parties was his weekend hobby.
“Ah, is it that obvious?” Chan asked, forcing a casual tone and crossing his arms over his bare chest in an attempt to shield himself.
“Very.” The boy laughed softly, a crystalline sound. “You have that rigid posture of someone who’s calculating every emergency exit in the building.”
Chan swallowed hard. The kid was observant.
“Don’t worry,” the Swan continued, leaning forward slightly in his chair with fluid grace. “You’ll be fine. Once you walk through those doors and every eye is on you, everything changes. The music, the lights... you stop being whoever you are out there. The adrenaline takes over.”
He gave a knowing wink, his shimmering makeup catching the vanity light.
Chan absorbed the advice. It was a strange perspective, but a useful one. “Yeah... I hope so.” He smiled, his expression finally softening.
The young man stood up, adjusting the white feathers around his hips. Before turning toward the dressing room exit, he paused and gave a slow, unabashed appraisal of Chan’s body – from the red-soled heels up to the headband.
“Besides, with all those muscles squeezed into that little outfit? You’re incredibly hot,” the Swan stated with enviable nonchalance. “They’ll be drooling over you in five seconds. Trust me.”
Chan’s stoic squadron-leader poise faltered completely; he felt his ears turn to fire beneath his bangs. He was caught totally off-guard by the bluntness of the compliment.
“A-ah... thanks...?” was all he could stammer, arms still crossed, feeling more exposed than ever.
The Swan just smirked, finding amusement in the genuine shyness that contrasted so absurdly with the defined muscles. With natural grace, he held open the heavy, padded door for Chan, guiding him out of the dressing room and toward a wider anteroom. The area was dimly lit, where dozens of other "prey" waited in a silent, anxious line to enter the main hall.
“Oh, I’m Sunoo, by the way,” he said, smoothing a white plume on his shoulder.
“Chan. Nice to meet you.” He looked at the boy. Sunoo seemed experienced, perfectly comfortable in his own skin and this chaotic environment. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to ask a last-minute tactical question. “Hey...”
Sunoo turned his attention back to Chan, his lined eyes overflowing with curiosity.
“What should I do if... I don't like the guy I'm with?” The question brought a crease of seriousness to the younger man's face. Seeing Sunoo’s slight confusion, Chan hurried to fix it, forcing a casual tone: “N-nothing serious. Just if the guy is kind of annoying, or a creep, you know? Is there a trick?”
Sunoo’s expression relaxed into a wise, slightly cynical smile.
“Ah, Chan... that’s practically all you’re going to find out there. Truly charming men are rare jewels in a place like this.” Sunoo shrugged, leaning against the wall. “But you know what I do?”
Chan shook his head, giving him his full attention.
“I just pick a guy who's actually hot. Someone I’d actually want to be hooking up with in real life. And then, I just close my eyes and think about him while those old creeps touch me.” Sunoo gave a lethal wink. “Turns the job into a private fantasy.”
“Ah. Right. Got it...” Chan murmured.
The problem with that advice was that Chan’s brain worked far too fast. The exact second Sunoo said “someone I’d actually want to be hooking up with,” the image of Minho leaning against the doorframe, his dark, predatory gaze focused on Chan's collarbone, flashed before him. The phantom sensation of Changbin’s velvety voice whispering Channie before leaving. The two figures filled his mind with an intensity that left him lightheaded.
Chan’s stomach did a violent somersault, and a dangerous heat spread up his neck. No. Not now, he scolded himself, locking those thoughts in a mental vault and throwing away the key.
“Ah, thanks. Really.” He coughed, trying to hide his internal panic.
Before he could drown in his own epiphanies, the event coordinator’s voice boomed through the room. He was a man in a suit with a digital clipboard, dispatching "prey" by the minute.
“You, there. The bunny.” The man pointed his magnetic pen directly at Chan’s chest. “Straight to the VIP section. Mr. Volkov is already getting impatient.”
Chan nodded with a sharp movement. Captain Bang’s persona took over instinctively.
He left the anteroom behind, entering a long, dimly lit corridor that served as the strict transition to the main hall. The change was abrupt. Away from the nervous chatter of the other "prey," the silence here was oppressive.
The latex squeaked softly with the friction of his thick thighs – a constant, relentless reminder of the vulnerable role he had assumed. Chan swallowed hard, the choker tightening slightly against his Adam’s apple. He could feel a low, muffled vibration rising through the floor.
At the end of the corridor, the door stared back at him.
“Hyung.” Felix’s voice sounded through the comms, smooth and perfectly clear, breaking Chan’s isolation. The younger’s tone had lost its mockery; it was calm and professional. “You know what you have to do. It’s going to be fine.”
Chan closed his eyes for a second, took a long, deep lungful of air, squared his chest, and lifted his chin. With firm fingers, Chan gripped the cold metal handle, twisted it hard, and threw open the doors.
The impact of opening those doors was almost physical. As Chan crossed the threshold, the cool air of the corridor was instantly swallowed by a wave of body heat, sweat, expensive perfumes, and pheromones. It took a moment for his brain to process the chaos.
The entire penthouse was bathed in blood-red and deep-purple neon, casting distorted shadows over what looked like the underworld itself in mid-revelry. Across circular black velvet sofas and in dimly lit corners, bodies intertwined in unabashed displays of desire.
Men and women in tailored suits wore the masks of beasts – snarling wolves, majestic lions, silver serpents – literally devouring their "prey," who curved submissively in leather, chains, and lace. The wet sound of feverish kisses and drawn-out moans mingled with the heavy, hypnotic throb of electronic music that made the floor tremble.
Chan took his first step, and the snap of his stiletto against the dark floor was as sharp as a gunshot.
As he began to move through the room, navigating the intoxicated crowd, he felt the atmosphere shift. Heads turned. Predators paused their advances mid-way just to track the figure crossing the floor. Chan could see eyes gleaming behind masks, hungry, predatory eyes that mapped the pale skin of his bare abdomen, the curve of his thick thighs encased in latex, and the rhythmic bob of his furry tail.
Panic threatened to claw up his throat, until he glanced toward one of the more secluded lounges.
There was Sunoo. The Swan was reclined majestically in the laps of two burly men wearing black wolf masks. One of them had his hands clamped around Sunoo’s slender waist, while the other kissed his neck. Catching Chan’s shocked gaze, Sunoo stopped idling with the hair of one of the "wolves" and gave him a slow, knowing wink.
Turn the job into a private fantasy. Sunoo was right. Chan’s shock gave way to a strange, intoxicating epiphany, and he clung to that feeling. He squared his shoulders, pushing his chest – framed by the heart-shaped cutout – forward. He relaxed his posture, allowing the heels to alter his anatomy, letting his hips sway in a fluid, dragging, and dangerously confident rhythm.
Then, a body blocked his path.
“Hey there, gorgeous. How are you doing?” The sour breath of whiskey and cigars hit Chan’s face. “Why don't you come sit on my lap for a bit?”
The man was older, squat, and wore no mask, only a solid gold bear-shaped pin on the lapel of his rumpled suit. He was deep in Chan’s personal space, far too close, his gaze traveling down the lace garters with a lechery that made the Australian’s stomach turn.
Chan’s tactical instincts screamed, but he held his breath. The mission. He forced a relaxed stance, widening his dark eyes in a perfect imitation of innocence.
“Hey... sorry, sir. But I’m already spoken for,” Chan replied, forcing his voice to come out softer. He tried to step aside, attempting to bypass the obstacle.
The man did not take the rejection well. His florid face contorted with rage, and his pudgy hand shot out, seizing Chan’s left arm with brute force.
“Hey, what? Who do you think you are, you little shit? You’re staying with me tonight.”
Chan’s arm muscles flexed under the grip just as a massive shadow emerged from nowhere.
A six-foot-seven security guard, wearing an all-black tactical suit and a coiled earpiece, materialized beside them. The guard’s giant hand engulfed the old man’s wrist, squeezing until the sound of bones faintly popping could be heard. He shoved the "Bear" back with violence.
“He is the prey of Mr. Viktor Volkov. Do not touch him,” the guard’s voice was cold, carrying an unmistakable Russian accent.
The old man huffed, ready to curse the guard, but the moment the name Viktor registered in his alcohol-soaked brain, every drop of color drained from his face. The effect was immediate and terrifying. The man recoiled, tripping over his own feet, hands raised in surrender.
“Hey, man, sorry! I didn't know. I’m really sorry!” the man stammered, terror shining in his eyes. “I’ll leave you alone! No need to mention this to him!”
The old man fled, disappearing into the crowd. Chan watched the scene, his heart racing for an entirely new reason. Apparently, their target was an entity feared even by the worst monsters in this place.
“Time to go.” The guard released Chan’s arm, and surprisingly, the giant’s touch wasn't brutal, but possessively zealous.
Chan looked up. On the second floor, floating above the party like a dark glass throne, was the immense window of the VIP Area, though no silhouettes were visible. The smoked glass hid the secrets within. Viktor was likely already tucked away in the back of the room, talking to Minho and Changbin. They were there.
The guard escorted Chan up a side staircase, the steps lined with thick red carpet that silenced his heels. The deafening roar of the party began to fade, replaced by the oppressive silence of a restricted corridor.
At the end of the hall stood a double door of solid wood with gold handles. The guard stopped, clasped his hands behind his back in a military stance, and gave a sharp nod toward the door.
“Go.”
Chan was left alone before the varnished wood, and the confidence he’d built on the dance floor seemed to evaporate in the face of the VIP level's cold silence. He swallowed hard, his stomach churning. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the icy handle.
He likes them innocent and obedient, Seungmin’s cold voice echoed like a reminder in the back of his mind.
Chan closed his eyes, slightly hunched his strong shoulders, licked his lips to make them appear flush and red, and lowered his gaze behind his long lashes.
The click of the handle sounded far too loud in Chan’s own ears. When he pushed the heavy oak doors open, the transition was instantaneous. The deafening roar of the electronic music was snuffed out by the VIP suite’s acoustic insulation, reduced to a dull, distant vibration in the floor.
The air here smelled of financial power: expensive leather, aged whiskey, and the sweet cling of cigar smoke.
The first thing Chan noticed was the immense panoramic window of smoked glass. It spanned the entire wall, offering a divine, untouchable view of the neon sea and the writhing bodies at the party below.
With its back to the window, curving through the center of the room, sat a crescent sofa of black velvet. Since the door was on the side of the suite, Chan entered seeing the occupants in profile before all three faces turned simultaneously toward him. Three pairs of eyes locked onto his figure.
The first belonged to Viktor Volkov, seated on the end of the sofa nearest the door. Seungmin had been right; the man was an absolute nightmare. But what the reports hadn’t mentioned was how objectively attractive the Russian managed to be. His long platinum hair was pulled back elegantly. His features were sharp, aristocratic, and the scar over his right eye only lent him a rugged, dangerous edge.
Viktor’s pale eyes flared with immediate predatory hunger, and a sadistic, satisfied smirk split his lips, a cigarette in one hand leaving a haze in the air. He wore his white suit, the gold-plated fox pin completing the character. He was beautiful in a cold, poisonous way that made Chan’s instincts scream in revulsion.
But Chan couldn't keep his eyes on him for long.
Further down the curved sofa, sitting side-by-side but with a calculated distance from the Russian, were them.
Chan had been in such a panic in the dressing room that he hadn't truly absorbed the impact of Changbin and Minho in these disguises. Now, under the suite’s intimate amber glow, the sight hit him like a physical blow to the gut.
Minho held a low crystal tumbler, the ice clinking softly against the glass. His posture was lethal – relaxed only on the surface – while his dark eyes swept over Chan from head to toe with an intensity that nearly made the leader take a step back.
Beside him, Changbin was sunk into the upholstery, flicking a metal Zippo lighter between his strong fingers, the rhythmic snick-snap accompanying a gaze that burned in an entirely different way.
The silence in the room stretched, elastic and dangerous, until the sound of Changbin’s lighter stopped with a sharp click.
“Ah... so this is the Ghost’s gift,” Changbin’s raspy voice echoed through the room, his tone layered with a feigned disdain that failed to hide the real tension in his shoulders.
The comment broke Chan’s trance, anchoring him back to reality. The mission.
“Ah, yes.” Viktor reclined, taking his time to appraise every inch of Chan’s exposed skin, lingering on his collarbone, the chest squeezed by leather, and the thick thighs encased in latex. “This one looks... marvelous.”
The Russian extended a large hand, encrusted with gold rings.
“Come here, little bunny.”
Chan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was here, essentially naked, without a badge or a firearm, walking straight into the claws of that man. A flash of genuine hesitation flickered in his eyes for a fraction of a second.
But then, he looked past Viktor’s shoulder. Changbin’s jaw was set so tight the bone looked ready to snap. Minho hadn't blinked, his hand gripping the crystal glass with unnecessary force. The look they both sent him in silence was clearer than any radio message from Han: “We are here. No one is going to hurt you.”
That invisible anchor was all Chan needed. He let his shoulders slump a little, lowered his dark lashes in a perfect pretense of innocence and naivety, and walked with short, hesitant steps toward the mobster. The snap of his heels was the only sound in the room until he stopped before Viktor.
“G-good evening, sir.” Chan forced his voice into a softer, submissive register, loathing the taste the words left on his tongue. He bowed his head slightly. “I am... at your command.”
Viktor laughed, a deep sound that vibrated in his broad chest.
“Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”
Viktor’s hand shot out without warning. His rough fingers gripped Chan’s thick thigh, his warm skin contrasting with the cold edge of the lace stocking and the latex. The Russian gave a possessive squeeze, digging his fingers into the detective’s trained muscle. Chan had to use every ounce of his training not to break the man’s wrist right then and there.
“Come, sweetheart. Sit on my lap,” Viktor ordered.
Before Chan could even process the request, Viktor demonstrated why he was ex-military. The man seized Chan’s arm with brutal strength and yanked him down in one swift motion.
Chan lost his balance on the stilettos. He fell backward with a choked gasp.
His back hit the mobster’s broad, suited chest with a thud. Viktor immediately wound an arm around Chan’s waist, pinning him firmly, tucking the submissive body against his in an intimate, possessive hold.
Viktor’s breath hit the back of Chan’s neck, hot and heavy. But the Australian didn't even notice the villain behind him.
Trapped in the mobster’s lap, the only thing Chan could see perfectly in front of him was the faces of his two best friends.
The crystal glass in Minho’s hand stopped inches from his lips, his knuckles white with extreme force. Changbin had leaned forward on the sofa, the lighter forgotten, his eyes now dark with a murderous rage that had absolutely nothing to do with police work.
Viktor’s wide palm flattened against Chan’s thigh, his coarse fingers squeezing the pale skin just above the lace. The touch was possessive, heavy. Chan swallowed hard, hitching his breath as the Russian began to slowly slide his hand up, exploring the contrast between the softness of the skin and the friction of the black latex.
“The Ghost has a reputation for being a boring man,” Viktor remarked, his gravelly voice vibrating against Chan’s back. He leaned his face in, his nose brushing the curve of the detective’s neck. “But I must admit... he chooses his gifts very well.”
Minho brought the glass to his lips, his dark eyes fixed on Viktor’s hand, which was now moving up to trace the contour of the chest squeezed into the heart-shaped cutout. The swallow of whiskey went down burning.
“Our boss doesn't deal in mediocrity, Volkov,” Minho replied, his voice dangerously calm, smooth as ice. “He sends the best to ensure the Haze exclusivity agreement is respected.”
“Oh, it will be.” Viktor laughed softly, his lips brushing Chan’s earlobe, leaving a damp trail on his neck that made the Australian’s stomach churn with revulsion. “But quality requires a test drive, wouldn’t you agree?”
Changbin, sitting rigid on the upholstery, dug his fingers into the arm of the sofa. His jaw was a rock sculpted in fury.
“The merchandise is already in your lap, Viktor. I suggest we focus on the numbers now. The Ghost is not a patient man.”
Chan was rigid. Every muscle in his body screamed to react, to break the arm pinning his waist. The sour smell of cigar smoke against his neck was suffocating. Then, the memory hit him.
“I just pick a guy who's actually hot... and then I just close my eyes and think about him while those creeps touch me.”
Chan closed his eyes. He forced his brain to erase Viktor’s scarred face. When the rough hand squeezed his thigh again, he imagined it was Changbin’s short, absurdly strong fingers. When he felt the breath on his neck, he imagined it was Minho, with that clean scent of sandalwood and gunpowder, kissing his skin with the intensity he so deeply craved.
The illusion worked. A real heat, dense and numbing, bloomed in Chan’s lower belly. The tension in his shoulders melted. Without realizing it, Chan let out a low, shaky sigh, his lips parting, and he let his back fall completely against the broad chest behind him, arching his waist slightly in submission.
Viktor paused the caress for a second, surprised, before a sadistic and triumphant smile took over his face. His hand moved up to squeeze Chan’s waist with vigor.
“Ah... there we go, little bunny,” Viktor murmured, his tone husky with pure lust. “Arrived shy, but you like a heavy hand, don’t you? Beautiful and obedient.”
The sound of the crystal glass hitting the glass coffee table was loud.
Minho leaned forward. The arrogance of the negotiator was still there, but the dark fury overflowing from his eyes was lethal. He wasn't looking at Viktor; he was staring at Chan, his gaze dropping to the leader’s heaving chest and rising to his damp lips.
“The gift’s obedience has been proven, Volkov. And our time is money,” Minho cut through the scene, his voice dripping with restrained venom. “The Ghost wants the offshore account codes and the production guarantee. We’re here to close the contract. The entertainment is merely... a momentary courtesy to ensure your cooperation.”
Chan blinked, snapping out of the trance created by his own fantasy. Minho’s cold words hit like a warning signal in his detective brain. He needed to get to that damn phone, which was exactly in the inner breast pocket of Viktor’s jacket. And, sitting with his back to him, Chan would never reach the device’s port with the magnetic microchip hidden in his collar.
With his heart hammering out of rhythm, Chan licked his lips. Slowly, he rested both hands on Viktor’s legs and, using the agility of his own body, pivoted in the Russian’s lap.
He swung a leg over the mobster’s thick thighs, sitting face-to-face with him; an outrageously intimate position. The latex of his shorts brushed against the expensive fabric of Viktor’s suit. Chan rested his palms on the Russian’s chest, his long fingers cautiously touching the lapels of the white jacket.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chan saw Changbin stop breathing entirely. The younger man’s knuckles were white, and his expression was that of someone two seconds away from committing cold-blooded homicide.
Chan ignored his own team’s panic. He flashed a small, submissive, and dangerous smile, looking directly into the mobster’s eyes.
“You talk so much of business, sir...” Chan whispered, his soft voice vibrating in the tense air, his hands sliding slowly down the jacket’s lapel, drawing closer to the inner pocket. “Wouldn’t you rather... see what I can do?”
Chan’s long fingers had barely grazed the inside of the jacket when Viktor’s massive hand shot out, capturing his wrist in mid-air.
Chan’s heart skipped a beat; panic chilled his spine for a fraction of a second, but the Russian didn't look suspicious. He was merely smiling; a mixture of amusement and dominance.
“Easy, sweetheart. All in good time,” Viktor murmured, his gravelly voice thick with malice. He lifted Chan’s captured hand and pressed his lips against the inside of the Australian’s wrist, right over the vein pulsing frantically with adrenaline. Then, Viktor guided Chan’s hand firmly until it rested upon his own shoulder.
Chan forced a submissive smile. He cast a quick look over his shoulder, catching Minho’s murderous expression and Changbin’s locked jaw, before leaning forward. The scent of Viktor’s whiskey and cigars was overpowering, but Chan closed his eyes. Think of them, he ordered himself. He imagined Changbin’s clean, woody scent. He imagined Minho’s precise touch.
With that mirage in mind, Chan pressed his lips to the mobster’s neck, leaving slow, damp kisses against the warm skin. Viktor let out a deep, satisfied grunt, his attention fully diverted by the sensation, his guard finally dropping.
It was the perfect opening.
While kissing the target’s neck, Chan’s left hand traveled slowly up his own chest to the leather choker. In a caress that looked like a simple gesture of surrender, his fingers found the small metal catch. Click. The microchip came loose.
In a fluid, blind motion, Chan slid his left hand behind the nape of Viktor’s neck, transferring the tiny device to his right hand resting on the Russian’s shoulder. With the chip now hidden between his right index finger and thumb, Chan trailed his hand down Viktor’s broad chest, tracing the line of the jacket until he subtly slipped his fingers inside the opening.
He felt for the fabric of the inner pocket. The phone was there. Chan brought his fingers close and felt the unmistakable tug of magnetism; the magnet connected to the device’s port invisibly and silently.
“Alright, here we go...” Han’s voice crackled in the earpiece, muffled but glorious. The sound of keys being furiously tapped filled the radio silence. “Connection established. That’s it, boys. Hang tight; the download’s gonna take a few minutes.”
Okay, this is it. Just keep him distracted, Chan thought, relief relaxing his muscles for an instant.
“Ah... I know very well what you two truly want.” Viktor’s voice sliced through the room like a razor.
The temperature in the VIP suite plummeted below zero. The blood in Chan’s veins turned to ice and he stopped kissing the Russian’s neck instantly. On the sofa ahead, Minho froze with his glass millimeters from his mouth. Changbin’s hand slid imperceptibly inside his jacket, fingers brushing the grip of the silenced pistol in his holster.
But Viktor didn't draw a weapon. Instead, his heavy hand moved to the nape of Chan’s neck, fingers tangling tightly in the Australian’s hair. With a firm yank, Viktor forced Chan’s head back, arching his spine and forcing him to look directly at the Ghost’s two negotiators.
From that position, Chan saw his teammates’ professional veneer threaten to shatter. The predatory fury in Minho’s eyes was real. Changbin looked like a guard dog about to snap its chain.
“You think I didn't see? How you look at him?” The Russian taunted them, his eyes gleaming with sadism. “Loyalty to the Ghost is touching, but really, you want to fuck the boss’s gift too, don't you? You're eating yourselves up with want.”
The relief that washed over the room was almost palpable. Minho was the first to recover. The mask of arrogance returned, sharp and lethal. He took a sip of his whiskey, leaning back into the sofa with terrifying naturalness.
“Yes, we do,” Minho admitted, his voice drawn out, dripping with rehearsed indifference. “It’s hard to stay focused on business when the Ghost sends such... efficient distractions.”
Changbin followed his partner’s lead. He moved his hand away from his weapon and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and locking his gaze onto Chan’s exposed thighs.
“You know how it is, Volkov,” Changbin said, his deep, raspy voice tearing through the air. “With him grinding around like that, it’s a waste to leave such hot merchandise untouched.”
Chan’s cheeks went up in flames. Hearing that from Changbin, in that rugged, dark tone, hit him full force. He no longer knew where the disguise ended and the truth began.
Viktor seemed to love the cruel honesty. He took a long drag of his cigar, the smoke curling up as he weighed the situation.
“Fine,” Viktor smirked, the scar twitching near his eye. “Since we have all the time in the world... why don't you play with him a little?”
Chan’s stomach dropped.
“Dammit!” Han’s shout exploded in the earpiece. “Thirty percent! I need more time! Stall the Russian!”
“Go on, sweetheart.” Viktor gave two humiliating taps to the side of Chan’s thigh and gave him a slight shove. “Let the gentlemen play with you. Show them why the Ghost chose you.”
Chan stood up, his legs trembling on the stilettos. His heart felt like it wanted to tear through his throat and leap out of his mouth. He took a hesitant step toward the sofa where Minho and Changbin were pinning him with their stares.
He barely had time to process the order. Very quickly, before Chan had to take the initiative and humiliate himself further, Changbin reached out. His agile fingers seized Chan’s wrist with possessive urgency and yanked him forward.
Chan was pulled without ceremony, the momentum sliding him into the narrow space exactly between the two of them. He felt instantly cornered: on one side, the heat of Changbin’s broad body radiating possessive protection; on the other, Minho’s thigh pressed firmly against his own, while Minho’s hand slid from Chan’s wrist to flatten against his waist, pinning him there with a burning touch.
The contrast between the smell of Viktor’s breath and the familiar scent of his own men dazed him. He was exactly where he most desired to be in the world, under the pretext of an order that was supposed to be torture.
Viktor settled into the sofa, crossing his arms, his eyes gleaming with the expectation of a sick voyeur.
“Okay. Give me a little show, hm?” The mobster smiled. “I like my men... sensitive.”
Chan had thought, in the depths of his chaotic mind, that this order would freeze them. They were elite agents, colleagues. Professional boundaries should have taken precedence – but he was deathly wrong.
Changbin was the first to move. His restrained power overflowed as he gripped Chan’s waist, pulling him with brute possessiveness until Chan’s body was crushed against his own on the upholstery. Changbin leaned forward, his face sinking without hesitation into the curve of the leader’s neck. The younger man’s hot lips kissed the sensitive skin there, sucking lightly just below the choker, marking his territory before Viktor’s watchful gaze.
The air left Chan’s lungs in a shaky gasp as Changbin’s deep, raspy voice vibrated against his skin, inaudible to the Russian:
“It’s okay. We’ve got you.”
In the same instant, Minho’s hand landed on his thigh. His elegant, agile fingers squeezed the exposed flesh above the lace stocking, nails scraping lightly against the black latex in a way that sent sparks down Chan’s spine. Minho leaned in the other direction, his lips brushing the leader’s ear as he whispered with protective ferocity:
“Let yourself go. We’ve got you, Channie.”
Chan closed his eyes, his head falling back. The heat radiating from both bodies surrounded him completely.
Minho looked up at Viktor, his arrogant smirk perfectly in place, while his hand traveled from Chan’s thigh to the chest exposed by the heart-shaped cutout.
“The Ghost trained the merchandise very well, Volkov,” Minho remarked, his voice dripping with a coldness that contrasted brutally with the heat of his fingers tracing Chan’s tense muscles. He lightly pinched the Australian’s nipple through the leather of the top. “He melts at any touch. He’s pathetically needy.”
The word pathetic should have offended him, but spoken in Minho’s velvety voice, it sounded like a distorted compliment. Chan let out an involuntary moan, his back arching.
“Yeah,” Changbin agreed, his dark, dangerous voice tearing through the air as his large, calloused hands mapped Chan’s thick thighs, sliding perilously up the sides of his hips. “An obedient little bitch. Loves to serve. Don't you, sweetheart?”
The feigned degradation hit Chan like a drug. He knew they were acting for the Russian, using filthy words to maintain the facade, but the possessiveness in Changbin’s grip and the precision of Minho’s touch were far too real. It was exactly the fantasy Chan kept under lock and key: being dominated, stripped of his responsibilities as Captain, surrendered only to the hands of the two men who populated his thoughts.
The mission felt distant, blurred. His brain was melting. He panted, his hands desperately clutching their jackets, pulling them closer, losing all sanity beneath the storm of caresses on his chest, his neck, and between his legs.
“One hundred percent, boys!” Han’s voice burst through the earpiece, sharp and urgent, breaking the fog in Chan’s mind for a millisecond. “Backup arriving. Hold the target just a little longer!”
But Chan was too lost to care about the radio. He whimpered softly, his body trembling with arousal.
On the sofa, Viktor licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with the lust of a voyeur.
“Come on, gentlemen. I want to see more than tame foreplay,” the Russian demanded, impatient. “I want to hear what he really sounds like.”
“As you wish, Mr. Volkov.” That was all Changbin replied.
Without warning, Changbin’s thick hand slipped inside the tight waistband of the latex shorts. The contrast of the rough, calloused fingers against Chan’s feverish skin and sensitive intimacy was overwhelming.
Chan gasped, his eyes widening before slamming shut. A wave of pure, electric pleasure exploded in his lower belly. Unable to hold back the sound, he buried his face in the crook of Minho’s neck, muffling a long, desperate moan against the younger man’s skin, his teeth lightly grazing the collar of the suit.
Minho immediately cradled the back of Chan’s head, fingers tangling in the hair, keeping him safe against his chest while Changbin drove him to the edge of the abyss with movements that were short and cruel in their excellence.
“Just a little more, Channie...” Minho whispered against his hair, his lips hot, his voice trembling with repressed desire. “Almost there.”
Chan was panting, nails dug into Minho’s shoulder, his entire body tensed. He was at the limit, seconds from overflowing right there on the floor of that suite.
BANG!
A muffled thud echoed from the corridor outside. The sound of a heavy body hitting the hardwood.
The trance shattered. In a fraction of a second, the atmosphere of lust turned to dust.
Viktor’s gaze snapped to the door, his hand flying to the inside of his own jacket. But Minho was a far faster predator.
With a violent motion, Minho yanked Chan back, covering the leader’s semi-naked body with his own torso, shielding him like a human buckler. Simultaneously, his right hand drew the Glock hidden in his suit, leveling it perfectly between Viktor’s eyes before the mobster could even blink.
Changbin tore his hand from Chan’s shorts, drawing his own weapon and locking his sights on the Russian’s chest, his body still blocking Chan from danger.
The double doors were kicked open.
Felix and Hyunjin stormed the VIP lounge. They still wore the impeccable hotel staff suits, but the waiter smiles were gone, replaced by the lethality of silenced assault rifles aimed at the target’s head.
“Goodnight, Cinderella,” Felix mocked, his eyes cold. “The ball is over.”
Viktor froze, hands in the air, comprehension dawning on the face marked by the scar. The shock of realizing that his silent, thirsty thugs were actually an elite tactical force left him speechless.
“We have the Ghost’s name, the wire transfer, and the offshore records,” Han’s voice echoed in everyone’s comms, triumphant and ironic. “They bought the drug on Korean soil. Jurisdiction is ours.”
Hyunjin and Felix moved in. In two brutal motions, Hyunjin disarmed the Russian while Felix cuffed him with polymer tactical ties, hauling Viktor up with violence.
“Let’s take a walk, big guy. The Ghost sends his regards,” Hyunjin murmured, shoving the mobster toward the door.
Chan, still reclined on the expensive upholstery and protected by the physical barrier Minho and Changbin formed, blinked, his brain spinning. The cold air of the room hit his sweat-slicked skin beneath the latex. He could barely process the insane change in speed.
One second, he was being driven to madness by the hands of the men he loved under the gaze of a villain; the next, rifles were leveled and the Russian nightmare was being dragged out.
The double doors closed with a dull thud behind Hyunjin and Felix as they took the target away.
Silence collapsed over the VIP Suite of The Conrad Seoul. The sound of the party below was just a harmless hum now.
Minho lowered his gun slowly, engaging the safety before holstering it. Changbin did the same, his broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, the adrenaline of combat still vibrating in the air. The two turned slowly, their dark, hungry gazes falling upon the panting, disheveled, and breathtaking figure of Chan, still cornered between them on the sofa.