Chapter Text
Kim Seungmin needs to die.
That’s the gist of Chan’s summary to his team on Monday morning. It’s not delivered quite that bluntly, instead it’s woven in between bureaucratic lingo and step by step planning. But Minho has been on this team for four years now, known Chan since his rookie days in the academy, so he is rather confident in his translation of his boss’ morning meeting.
Kim Seungmin is rapidly becoming a pain in the government's ass and therefore Chan would look the other way if one of his agents were to, say, “accidentally” shoot him point blank instead of arresting him, like the GoA wants them to. Sure, that would result in a mountain of paperwork, but trying to imprison a criminal with the vast network of connections that Mr. Kim has acquired through his career as an arms dealer would probably be more work in the long run.
Other teams have tried and failed miserably before, and now it’s their turn to hold that baton of dishonour. Swing it around for a little bit, hit nothing but air, because this man seems untouchable in every sense of the word. It doesn’t surprise him in the least that Chan is directly but indirectly telling them to end it once and for all.
“He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?” Felix whispers in his ear while also trying to look over his shoulder to copy his notes, “It’s a shame he’s evil and all that.”
Minho covers his paper with his elbow and cocks an eyebrow.
“Maybe you could change him, Lix.” He suggests, and Felix barks out a laugh loud enough for the people in front of them to toss irritated looks of shut the fuck up, will you?.
“I fear he would corrupt me.” Felix admits, nodding towards the screen up front displaying the most recent pictures taken by their colleagues. Seungmin is getting out of a SUV parked next to a private jet on a landing strip. He’s dressed head to toe in all black, a pair of sunglasses pushing his short raven hair out of his face. He seems bored, like flying private is just any other regular ordeal to him, as natural as brushing his teeth. Considering the empire he’s supposedly sitting on, it probably is.
Minho agrees with Felix, it would probably be very easy to get swayed by his good looks and grandeur lifestyle. It’s not like special agents get compensated especially well to begin with, so the persuasion wouldn’t even need to be especially manipulative. Just toss a rolex between a group of agents and see who bites.
Chan would never admit that there is corruption within their ranks, because he is of the rarer breed that actually has integrity. Minho can respect that, though it does make it hard to know where his friendship ends and his employment begins, sometimes. Had he for example heard Felix say that just now, he’d be less than amused. Had Minho said the same after a couple of beers and a bowl of nachos, he would’ve smacked his back with a chuckle. Like the removal of his badge brings back his sense of humour for the night.
“What would pull you over to the dark side?” He whispers, nudging him with the elbow when Chan switches to the next slide, where Seungmin is at a banquet shaking hands with some diplomat Minho has forgotten the name of, “The private jet or those fancy clothes?”
Felix pretends to think about it, then wiggles his eyebrows, “I mean, the materials are just a bonus, I think the killer strike is that smoulder. Look at that, no wonder everyone wants to do business with him.”
“Don’t let Chan hear you say that.” Minho shakes his head with a smirk that abruptly washes off his face when Chan is suddenly covering the screen with his body, arms crossed over his chest.
“Don’t let me hear him say what?” He asks, jaw chiselled with deep set annoyance.
Oh, oops. Minho sips a figurative zipper over his mouth and shrugs.
“Nothing,” Felix says, and shoots him a glistening smile, all teeth and mischief, “We were just discussing the case. The target, specifically.”
Minho stomps his toe then, because that is just about the worst thing you can say to their leader when he’s already annoyed to begin with.
“Oh really?” Chan scoffs, tilting his head to the side when Felix smiles through the pain of his crushed toes and nods.
“Great,” their boss says, shutting the screen off and grabbing a pile of files for them to pass around the conference room, “Then you two can do the first stakeout.”
“Of course!” Felix agrees, and barely manages to move his foot in time to avoid another stomp, “We won't let you down, boss.”
Chan sighs, grabbing his coffee cup and taking a sip with a grimace. Minho gets it. The office coffee tastes like ass.
Its purpose is purely for fuel.
“I would hope so,” he says after downing the bitter drink in one go, “I know the two of you have a knack for getting in trouble, but sitting in a car for a few hours shouldn’t be too difficult for my two best agents.”
“No sir.” They say in unison, doing a mock salute just to really annoy him.
He ignores their mockery, and waves the entire team off.
“Dismissed,” he says, and Minho is out the conference room before anyone else to prevent Chan from doing his usual Minho can I talk to you for a minute-spiel about how he’s such a good agent, but he sets a bad example if he keeps treating Monday meetings like recess.
The conversation has taken place monthly since he started there, and it always goes the same.
Minho assures him that no of course, it won’t happen again, though they both know it inevitably will, and Chan pretends to believe him just so he can pat himself on the shoulder for being such a good team leader.
There’s no time to play along today, which is why he hurries through the office, takes the stairs instead of wasting another five minutes waiting for the elevator, and power walks through the lunch hour rush outside.
He promised Hyunjin and Jisung that he would finally have lunch with them after one too many hangouts were cancelled last minute due to work, and he can’t afford to disappoint them.
He owes them at least three hangouts before he can get away with being a workaholic again. Then he has about five strikes until he has to settle the score again. And repeat.
It’s the perfect system.
Sure he feels bad for disappointing his friends, but, well, brat behaviour or not, he likes working. He doesn’t particularly like his job, but he likes being useful.
Where else would he get to use his power to manipulate electricity on a daily basis? Crime, he supposes, but he doesn’t think he’d look good in a mugshot, or prison overalls. The only person who can do crime and get away for very long seems to be Seungmin.
And he wouldn’t want to have Chan breathing down his neck.
Maybe a power plant would be a good backup plan if he ever gets tired of the special agent gig, but something about working at one while also essentially being a walking talking generator seems dystopian to him.
Like it would dehumanise him somehow. Society already uses A-class powers as tools, which is really only an excuse to make sure people who do harbour the more physical, prone to make more damage-type of powers are not using it for, well, said damage.
He sometimes wishes that he had been born with a C-class ability like Hyunjin had. At least Hyunjin had more options, with a power so simple as conjuring up plants. He could go to art school and open his gallery and no one has ever given him grief for it.
Minho’s career was more or less chosen for him the second he graduated high school, wrapped in a neat underlying threat of who would ever want to share an office with your power? If you don’t use it for good, how is anyone ever supposed to trust you don’t use it for evil instead? The bureau really is the only place for people like you.
And sure, he met Changbin and Felix in the academy, and later on Chan, which was nice, because up until then Minho had only ever had friends of other superpower classes. Though Jisung’s B-ranked power of duplication had been hovering on the edge of getting bumped up to A-class for a while, he had dodged that cattle brand through sheer luck.
Everyone respects a B-class. They’re usually the lawyers, the doctors, the CEO’s, graced by psychic or skilled types of powers that fits perfectly in those fields. That’s not to say that there are no C-classes in those fields, they do just fine without the added help of whatever gift they were born with, it just requires a bit more of an effort. At least they always have the opportunity to.
They don’t have people side eyeing them while trying to figure out if they’re evil just because they can, say, shoot fire through their mouth.
Minho knows that the uniform does very little to make those looks go away, which he is so rudely reminded of when a woman promptly grabs her daughters wrist and yanks her out of his way although there’s half a sidewalk’s width between them.
Like she’s afraid going near him will get some of his danger smeared all over them. As if he’s contagious, somehow, or a walking talking time bomb.
He smiles at the little girl and waves anyway, fully aware that as long as he’s in uniform he needs to outwardly be the hero they’re drilled into appearing, no matter whether anyone thanks them for what they do or not.
It’s fine, he reminds himself, trudging the familiar path through the district.
It’s this or the power plant.
“We haven’t seen you in forever,” Hyunjin says in lieu of a greeting when he slides down in front of his friends in the greasy diner booth they picked out.
He grabs the laminated menu - sticky from too many grabby fingers - and pretends to read it as if they don’t come there every time they manage to fit a lunch in.
“I’ve been busy saving lives,” he says, putting the menu down when he’s faux-decided on his order. Same as always. A stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and strawberry compote. Then a fry or four that he will steal from Jisung’s plate.
The special agent diet that Chan so profusely insists on putting them on does not apply within the walls of Dahlia’s Diner, as far as he’s concerned.
“Saving lives,” Jisung repeats, tilting his head to the side, “Is that bureau lingo for ‘risking your own life with little to no compensation’?”
He means well, Minho knows he does, but the flippant comment still makes him flinch, still hurts just a little bit. It’s nice of them to worry, but it would be nicer to go through one of these lunches without them trying to convince him to do something else with his life.
He’s held the power plant-speech with them too many times to count already, but it goes on deaf ears whenever they catch a glimpse of the gun in his holster.
They don’t want him to die on duty, and he doesn’t want to die of boredom. So the conversation is forever at a moot point.
“Don’t ask questions you do not want the answer to.” Minho says and smiles towards the waitress when she puts down a tray of drinks between them.
“We already ordered for you.” Hyunjin says, a small smile on his lips, “And sorry, we shouldn’t be on your case the second you sit down.”
“Nah, it’s alright,” Minho ensures him and grabs his own cup of coffee, really savouring the first sip as it beats the office coffee by… Actually. It’s not even a contest. Whoever Dahlia is, she has some great beans in that kitchen, “It’s just been a long weekend.”
“How many days have you worked?” Jisung frowns around the straw of his vanilla milkshake, then grimaces when the cold hits his head in an unrelenting brainfreeze.
Minho waits for a few seconds, watches him rub his temples with a grimace. Hyunjin shakes his head fondly, caressing his knee discreetly under the table as if Minho won’t notice.
“You okay?” He asks, as if this doesn’t happen every time Jisung orders a milkshake.
His soulmate nods, then relaxes when it passes. “Sorry,” he tells Minho, “Go.”
“It’s my fifth day in a row, so it’s not so bad.” He says, and grabs a knife and fork when their food arrives.
“Have you caught any bad guys?” Hyunjin asks, reaching for his fruit salad and impaling a piece of cantaloupe with his fork.
Minho shakes his head around a bite of his stack, revelling in the flavour. It beats the vending machine sandwiches and protein bars that he’s been living off of the last few days.
“We have a new target, but I really shouldn’t talk about that in here.” He says once he’s swallowed. He shouldn’t talk about it period, but well, who are they going to tell anyway? Hyunjin and Jisung have known him since he was no more than three apples tall. They’ve been with him through his first crush, his first kiss, his first heartbreak. They went with him as his dates for homecoming when his date bailed at the last minute, hooking their arms on each side of him as they entered the gymnasium dressed in ill fitted suits and matching ties, and they helped him cram for the application test for the academy.
Not telling them about his job would feel like keeping part of himself from them, in a way. The only things he keeps quiet about are the gruesome details, the ones that would result in nothing other than please, consider a career switch, and he doesn’t necessarily feel bad about that part. They do not need to know how Felix had to skewer a guy with both his swords last week before he had a chance to shoot Minho while he was busy choking someone else out. What good would it do them?
Jisung once asked him, between episodes of some true crime documentary, if he had ever shot anyone. Minho had considered lying, but ended up telling the truth by nodding towards the screen, pretending to read the credits while the countdown for the next episode ticked down slower than necessary.
Jisung had then asked him if he had killed anyone, and Minho had simply said yes. It happens. It’s usually down to me or them.
His friend had only nodded at that, then gone to the fridge to get them a fresh set of beers. He’s never asked anything like that again, and there’s that.
“But you’re doing alright?” Hyunjin presses on, tilting his head to the side in concern, “You’re eating and sleeping well?”
The bunks in the office are no softer than solid rock, Felix is a snorer, and there is maybe a single vitamin in all the vending machine snacks combined.
Still, Minho snorts, and nods, finishing his plate and patting his stomach with satisfaction. “Yes mother, I’m alright.”
He barely dodges the grape that Hyunjin flicks his way, ducks apologetically when the couple at the booth behind them takes the hit instead.
“It’s perfectly normal for me to worry!” Hyunjin insists, and leans forward. His long, raven hair falls before his face like a curtain, and he blows it out of his face, “You spend so much time working, and so little time doing anything else.”
Minho crosses his arms over his chest, scoffs.
“What am I missing, in your opinion?” He asks, then immediately regrets it because he knows what the answer is going to be.
And still he internally cringes when Hyunjin says, “Well, you could date more, for example.”
Jisung and Minho laugh at the same time.
“I’m serious.” Hyunjin frowns, and Jisung gently strokes his fingers through his partner’s hair, nodding.
“Honey, Minho doesn’t date.” He says.
“Well, no,” Hyunjin frowns, “Because he works too much.”
Jisung shakes his head, “No, because he’s romantically constipated.”
Minho kicks his shin with more force than necessary and revels in the shriek his friend lets out that has the entire diner glare at him for disturbing their lunchtime peace.
“I just never meet anyone worthy of dating,” he corrects him.
“What about work?” Hyunjin suggests, “There must be someone of interest there?”
Minho grimaces, and shakes his head.
“Ew. I don’t mess around with coworkers. It’s against protocol.”
“Chan and Changbin are dating, though.” Hyunjin says, and Minho snorts.
“They are soulmates, that’s different. And they don’t work in the same department for that exact reason. Changbin can’t be on our team as long as Chan is the head of it.” He says with a pout, because in an ideal world he, Felix and Changbin would catch all the bad guys together. That was the plan they cooked up, giggling past lights out in their uncomfortable dorm bunks, optimistic about the idea that they would eventually be a crime-fighting trio.
Then Chan wanted Felix and Minho on his team, and that dream was crushed under his steel toed combat boots like a bug.
“Well, if all you do is work, but you refuse to date a coworker, how are you ever going to meet anyone?” His friend pouts, and Minho rolls his eyes.
“Maybe I don’t care about meeting anyone.” He grimaces, knowing they’re treading dangerously close to Hyunjin’s favourite subject; soulmates.
And just like he expects, his friend takes the barely there-bait because that was where he really wanted the conversation to head anyway. It’s always where he wants it to go.
“What about your soulmate? What if they’re right under your nose and you’re missing it because you’re too busy burying it in paperwork and, I don’t know, ammunition boxes.”
“If my soulmate was a coworker I would’ve noticed by now,” Minho says, and discreetly opens his palm flat to conjure up some electricity sparks, “I wouldn’t be able to do this at work, which would kind of defeat the purpose of my employment, you know.”
Hyunjin slaps his wrist, looking around to make sure no one saw Minho demonstrate his little ability. While Minho understands his reaction, hurt still wipes the confident smirk off his face. Hyunjin always worries about him, that he’s healthy, that he’s happy, and most importantly, that he is no longer getting grief for his ability.
Minho knows this, but it still stings, to know that your best friend is equally as scared of your ability as everyone else, no matter if it is for his own sake or not.
His phone buzzes where it’s laying next to his plate on the table, a text from Chan telling him to come to his office after lunch. Normally, that text would’ve annoyed him because he doesn’t like to be told what to do on the few minutes of his shift that he has to himself, but in this particular situation, it’s like being saved by the bell.
“Sorry,” Hyunjin sighs, doing a poor job out of sneaking a peek at the screen in front of him, “I just-”
“It’s fine.” Minho cuts him off, and starts digging for his wallet in the pockets of his uniform jacket.
“No, Minho, wait,” Jisung says when he realises what he is doing, “Don’t go.”
“I’m just looking for cash,” Minho says and fishes out a few bills when he finally finds it.
“We just worry about you.” Hyunjin says then, and moves Jisung’s plate of fries towards him in a lame attempt to bribe him to stay. Minho grabs one and chews it while he tosses the bills on the table.
“Don’t be, I’m doing great.”
He gets up from his seat, awkwardly side-stepping out of the booth.
“Minho, sit down, please.” He pleads, but Minho shakes his head.
“I gotta get back to the office. Chan’s sending me on a stakeout so I won’t be able to talk for a few days probably, but I’ll call you once I’m back.”
The stakeout will most likely be no longer than a night at a time, but what difference does a little white lie make? It’s not like they know what his day-to-day looks like.
He plants a quick kiss on Hyunjin’s cheek, ruffles Jisung’s caramel hair with his fingers, and leaves before they can convince him to stay.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Minho was ten when Hyunjin found his soulmate.
Jisung was the new, awkwardly shy kid who wouldn’t talk to anyone during recess. It was understandable, their school was small and most kids had practically known each other since birth.
Like Minho and Hyunjin, for example, who grew up as nextdoor neighbours, and climbed the white picket fence that separated their backyards to play in Hyunjin’s tree house every single day.
It’s hard enough as it is to get acclimated at that age, and to add what clearly seemed to be social anxiety into that wasn’t doing Jisung any favours.
Ever the social butterfly, Hyunjin couldn’t just sit and watch Jisung kick a ball on his own, and decided to break the ice by flexing his powers and make him a bouquet of sunflowers.
Minho watched from the swings as Hyunjin gingerly swung his hands around in the same way he’d seen him do countless times, only this time, nothing happened.
Hyunjin tried again, frowning deeply.
And again.
No sunflowers sprang from his hands, not even so much as a spark.
And that’s how they realised that Jisung is Hyunjin’s soulmate.
Because the one nifty thing about soulmates is that they nullify the power of their other half. Hyunjin can’t conjure plants in Jisung’s presence, the same way Jisung can’t use his power of duplication around Hyunjin.
“It’s a shame really,” Hyunjin said once, drunk off of spicy margaritas and cheap beer, “It would be so funny to try to have,” hiccups “two boyfriends. I mean, it’d be like a threesome but better, because it’d just be Jisung. Oh, Minho, the things I would let them do-”
To which Minho had to ask him to never talk about their sex life ever again.
He was twenty years old and three months into the academy training when Changbin almost got crushed to death by a loaded barbell as Chan entered the gym to evaluate their progress.
His super strength had been reduced to zero the second Chan set foot inside the weight lifting area, and it had taken Minho, Chan and one other trainee to lift the ridiculous weight off of him where he was trapped between the bench and the metal bar that he had lifted without breaking so much as a sweat no more than thirty seconds earlier.
It was memories like those that gave him a slight aversion towards finding his soulmate. It wasn’t even a given to begin with, to find that one person, the second half of your split soul, because the world is vast and fate is naught but a cruel puppeteer. Yet he felt a prickle of discomfort, a looming stress, over the thought of meeting someone that could so easily take his thing, his one thing without even trying. All it would take was their presence and Minho would be reduced to… Well. He doesn’t really know. What is he without his power?
Being born with an ability such as electricity manipulation is not something that just works on its own. No, electricity is fickle, and strong, and it has taken him years of practice to master it to where he is now. It has also given him grief for as long as he can remember, with parents not allowing their children to play with him in case he accidentally zaps them (or worse), his first crush not daring to kiss him for the same reason, the academy almost kicking him out for losing control during a drill in a thunderstorm.
It’s a lifelong battle for him to gain total control and then keep it that way, just as much as the prejudice is probably going to follow him forever unless the very core of their society changes in regards to the classes.
Still, he can’t bring himself to hate it, not fully.
Electricity courses through him just as naturally as his blood flows through his veins, a constant buzz underneath his skin like a spinning engine. What would be left of him if that just disappeared?
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“Spare us the diplomacy, Chan, I know you want us to kill this guy.” Minho tells Chan after he’s done briefing Felix and Minho on their stakeout.
Seungmin is rumoured to meet with a potential client at a michelin restaurant, their team has already bugged the place, they need to stay in a car outside and keep an eye on him, yada, yada.
Nothing new. Minho knows Chan is really just punishing them for being brats in front of the others, because the stakeouts are usually given to the rookies, a status Felix and Minho haven't had for three years.
Chan clenches his jaw and leans back in his office chair. It creaks when it bends backwards, weary after one too many all nighters of use.
“Alright,” He says, hands knitted together in his lap as he tries his best to appear authoritarian, “What makes you say that?”
“You said ‘don’t worry about any accidents, sometimes shit happens when we deal with bastards like Mr. Kim.” Felix points out from where he’s half sitting on the armrest of Minho’s chair. “Which, by the way, shit happens doesn’t display a lot of professionalism. You should really work on how you present yourself, boss.”
Minho hides a grin behind a closed fist, knowing that if he gets dragged into Felix’ antics then they’ll only get punished further.
Chan purses his lips in annoyance, looks between the two agents.
“So?”
“So you’re usually very quick to tell us not to waste bullets because the paperwork isn’t worth it.” Minho says, “And something about how casualties get you in trouble with your bosses.”
Felix nods excitedly in agreement. “So unless you’ve developed a degrading kink in the last few months, not fearing a scolding from the woman upstairs is a little suspicious.” He points his finger towards the roof, where Chan’s superiors are sitting.
Chan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, while his two agents exchange a triumphant look.
“Let’s put it this way,” he says finally, looking at them both and getting up from his seat, fingers splayed across the mahogany desk. It’s nice, Minho thinks. Far nicer than the steel furniture in the agents’ office. A token of appreciation for his hard work. Chan works hard, too hard, and that’s why he has a nice desk, a comfortable chair, and a nice corner office. But that is also why he and Changbin haven't had any alone time in over a month, according to his friend. Minho notices the dark circles under his eyes. He is tired. “If you manage to arrest Kim Seungmin, you will make my boss very happy.”
They both nod to show they understand.
“But if you kill Kim Seungmin, you will make your boss very happy.”
A beat of hesitation, then another perfectly symmetrised nod.
“On what grounds would we arrest him? Weapon trading is technically not illegal.” Felix wonders while Minho gets up from his chair and grabs the file on the desk. It’s thick and heavy, full of notes, photos, copies of emails and plane itineraries.
He stares at the copy of the photo from earlier that day, the one where Seungmin is shaking hands with a charming smile plastered over his face. He looks more like a prince than a criminal. Minho frowns.
“Theft,” Chan says, “We have reason to believe he broke into an army artillery and stole blueprints.”
Minho looks up from the file, “Wait, what? He broke into an army artillery?”
“It’s very, very hush, hush so far, which is why I didn’t brief the entire team about it earlier. But yes.”
“Damn, this guy really is a pro.” Minho whistles and flicks the page.
“Try not to sound too impressed when you say that, please, Minho.” Chan sighs, but Minho only shrugs.
“It is impressive to manage such an operation, though.” He argues.
“Not to me, the person who is tasked to find him and the blueprints before he sells them. That’s why I need you on your A-game tonight, alright?” Minho bites down a badly timed joke about how, technically, Felix and Minho are always on their a-game, which is why they’re forced to be agents in the first place, “We don’t know what his ability is, but we suspect he’s a B-class. No one has any sightings of him doing anything that would hint at an A-class ability, and he’s got this weird charm about him that just does not seem organic to me. So be careful, we don’t know what mind games he might play.”
“Killing him might be counter productive though, he’s probably not carrying the blueprints on him,” Felix points out, sneaking a peek of the file over Minho’s shoulder, “Unless he’s an idiot.”
“I wasn’t telling you to do that, specifically. I was just telling you that I won’t demote you if it does happen. I’m sick of his shit, he’s been a thorn in the bureau’s ass for years. I’ve been dreading the day his file landed on my desk, but ultimately my boss thinks our team is the one to settle this once and for all. I intend to prove her right. ”
Minho goes to the first page, looks at the basic information. Seungmin’s only a year younger than him, and already so notorious, which means he’s either incredibly resourceful or a nepobaby that inherited his parents’ rolodex. He scans the information for his family, notes the fat unknown where the family tree would be.
“We’ll see what we can do,” he says, holding the file against his chest with one hand, and stretching out the other, “but if we’re going to sit inside that car for god knows how many hours, we’re buying burgers on the company card.”
“No, pizza.” Felix chimes in.
Minho flickers his fingers in a beckoning manner towards his boss, “We’re buying burgers and pizza on the company card.” He corrects himself.
Chan looks between them, eyes narrow as he thinks about it. Then he sighs, opens a drawer in his shiny bribe of a desk, and throws the card in Minho’s direction.
“Any weird transactions are getting taken right out of your paycheck.” He says, and Minho winks, putting the card in the right pocket of his jacket.
“Would never dream of abusing company resources.” He lies, and pats the outside of the pocket like there’s something precious inside.
Their boss sighs again, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. He really needs a day off, Minho thinks, and mentally notes down to ask Changbin how things really are at home.
He waits by the door while Felix grabs a set of car keys from the nail board on the wall, and waves goodbye. Winks again, but this time with less mischief than before.
More to assure his boss that whatever’s going to happen tonight, he can rest easy; Mino’s got this.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The burgers were a good call, and so was the pizza, and the donuts they decided to risk an extra card swipe on because what kind of stakeout does not have donuts? They aim to be nothing if not total cop clichés.
True, they are not cops, wedged somewhere awkwardly between policemen and soldiers, but what is life without a little roleplay?
The stakeout is real, however, and it is also incredibly uneventful. That’s why the mountain of food was a good thing, at least that keeps them occupied. They’ve already snapped a few pictures of their target to send to the base, and discussed the particularly tight leather pants Mr. Kim - Seungmin - chose to wear for his outing.
Felix pointed out that he thinks his look, although incredibly sexy, borders on a tad bit unprofessional, while Minho disagreed by saying the leather pants are definitely a power move.
After that riveting conversation, and a confirmation text from Chan saying that’s enough pictures for now, eating was really all they could do.
“Do you ever think about how weird it is that we all have a soulmate?” Felix asks between a fry and a bite of his cheeseburger.
Minho sips his soda slowly, all the way down to the bottom of the paper cup, and then some more just to fill the silence of the moment with the loud slurp of the straw struggling to pick up the remaining drops at the bottom.
“Uh, no, not really.” He says when Felix cocks his eyebrows in further question. “Why?”
“I was just thinking, well, we all have one, you know? We might not all find them, but we do know that they exist. It’s as certain as our abilities.”
Minho nods, unsure where he’s going with this. He places the cup in one of the cupholders, and reaches for a donut. It’s dipped in sugar and cinnamon, his favourite. “So what?”
“Do you want to find yours?” Felix asks, his eyes illuminated by the sudden flashbang of a passing car. He’s not smiling, not trying to make small talk. He is genuinely wondering. And it makes Minho realise that though they’ve known each other for years, they’ve never actually talked about that.
“I don’t know,” he says, brows knit into a deep set frown, “I guess I haven’t given it much thought.”
That is a lie and the truth at once. He has spent moments obsessing over it, but tenfold the amount suppressing any longing. He looks down at his hand, conjures some sparks between his fingers just to make sure he still can, as if the mere conversation has the power to take them away from him.
Felix nods. “I haven’t either. I mean, at least not that much. I’m not counting on it, you know? Not everyone’s as lucky as Chan and Changbin, or those friends of yours.”
“Hyunjin and Jisung.” He says with a fond smile, still staring at his fingers.
“Yeah,” Felix says, “They met when they were kids, right? You told me once.”
Minho nods. “Yes. At recess. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. It wasn’t like it was with Chan and Changbin, it wasn’t… romantic. I mean, we were just kids, you know? But it was magical. To see that spark of recognition when their souls slotted in place. They were best friends for years before they started actually dating.”
“Did they know they would end up where they are eventually?” Felix wonders, and Minho shrugs.
“I think so. But they were in no rush to figure that out. Soulmates can be platonic too, you know.”
Felix’ smile is fond, and a little shy when he ducks his head and fiddles with his fingers by playing around with a fry.
“I know,” he says, “Sometimes I wish you were my soulmate. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Minho laughs, entirely too loud in the confines of the small space they’re in. Felix doesn’t flinch, just as used to his sudden antics as he is his.
“I’ve seen you wield those two swords too many times to even consider that possibility,” he says, nodding his head back to Felix’ weapons of choice in the backseat, his tools to wield his swordsman - power.
“And you just did your freaky taser magic.” He agrees, barely ducking from Minho flicking his forehead.
“Why are you asking this anyway, Lix?” He wonders, breaking the donut into small pieces and popping one in his mouth, “Dating life going too slow?”
Felix snorts, and steals a piece of the donut for himself. He licks his thumb after, looking through the rearview mirror.
“It’s going fine. As usual. Not really looking for anything serious right now, and I’m definitely not going to turn into one of those people who drive themselves crazy looking for their other half. I don’t need a second half, I’m complete all by myself!”
Minho hums in agreement around another bite. “Doesn’t answer my question.” He pokes.
“Ah, no I just…” Felix reaches for the thick file on the dashboard, flicks the pages with his thumb just for show, “Imagine finding your soulmate and then they’re wanted by, like, the entire world.”
Minho snorts, and wipes the grease and sugar off his fingers with a paper napkin.
“Like, imagine, you’re sitting at home thinking ‘oh, I wonder what my soulmate is doing right now’, and said soulmate is having dinner with a client in there while being watched by two special agents whose boss basically told them he’ll look the other way if they shoot him point blank.” He points towards the restaurant, and Minho slaps his hand down.
“Don’t be obvious.” He hisses and sinks down into the driver’s seat. Not that Seungmin is looking, or has even noticed them, probably. He’s been very invested in the man sitting in front of him, sipping his wine and delivering whatever lines that had the client so clearly wrapped around his fingers.
They gave up eavesdropping on the conversation about a minute in because they’ve both been speaking frenc, a language that neither Minho or Felix are especially confident in. That’s what recordings and translators are for.
“He literally hasn’t seen us. He’s just been drinking wine and I think flirting in french all night. Oh my god, what if they’re on a date?” Felix slaps his head over his mouth and giggles, “What if it’s not a client meeting at all.”
“It is.” Minho says, eyes fixed on the men, “He brought a briefcase. No one brings a briefcase to a date unless they want to look like a psycho. Can’t whip a packet of condoms out of a briefcase at the end of the night and hope to get lucky, that’d be absurd.”
Felix laughs again, deep and entrancing. Minho can’t help but soften around the edges. Whoever his soulmate is, is a lucky person.
He hopes Felix knows that, whether they ever meet or not.
There is no way a good person like him would be appointed to someone wicked. Fate really couldn’t be that cruel.
Right?
Minho’s phone starts buzzing in the little compartment under the AC, and he reaches for it to swipe the screen, putting Chan on speaker.
“Don’t worry, we didn’t go crazy with our orders. I skipped the extra dip to compensate for the donuts, you’re welcome.” Minho says, but Chan doesn’t humour him even for a second.
“I need one of you to get into that restaurant.” He says.
The two agents in the car exchange a confused look.
“Why?” Minho asks.
“That briefcase you sent a photo of,” their boss says, slightly muffled by the row of voices in the background, “Everybody quiet!” he demands, and even Felix and Minho stay quiet, though he wasn’t talking to them specifically.
The murmurs stop.
“The briefcase?” Minho repeats.
“Yeah, it looks like the briefcase that was stolen from the armoury. I think he’s trying to sell it to that man. Do not let anyone leave with that briefcase unless it’s either one of you.”
“Fuck, okay, uh, yeah,” Minho scrambles to throw the remaining food into one of the paper bags and tosses it over his seat, “I’ll go right away.”
“Good. I’ve called the restaurant, and the backdoor that the staff goes through is unlocked. Don’t let any civilians get hurt.”
“There’s barely any in there,” Minho grimaces, and starts to prepare his equipment, strapping his gun to its holster after checking the ammunition, “I think he booked the entire place.”
“Staff are civilians too, Minho,” Chan reminds him as if he doesn’t know that, “And don’t use your ability unless explicitly forced to, alright? We don’t want to repeat what happened last time.”
“Fuck that, one idiot runner gets himself caught in the crossfire once and I’ll have to hear about it forever?” Minho grimaces, flipping Felix off when he notices the way he’s trying to hide his grin behind his fingers. “He didn’t even die.”
“One time is all it takes, Minho.” Chan reminds him like he does every single time they argue about his powers. Minho knows it’s fickle, that he can’t fully control the element because, well, energy sources through whatever it wants, doesn’t it? Minho is merely a vessel most of the time.
He can know that, and still not be especially happy about the reminder.
“Fine,” he says, and tosses the phone into Felix’ lap, “Don’t wait up.” Then he gets out of the vehicle and slams the car door shut harder than necessary.
The street is bustling with pedestrians; groups of coworkers on their way to trash talk their boss over beers, couples swinging their hands to have a romantic dinner, girlfriends in matching outfits ready for the club. It’s a lot for a monday night, but they are at the city’s busiest district, and it makes it easier for Minho to slip across to the other side unnoticed.
He’s not exactly blending in with the rest of the crowd, his all black ensemble made up of tactical pants, steel toed boots, and a long sleeved compression shirt does little to make him look like anything other than an agent, especially with the holster clicking against his hip when he moves. At least he had the forethought to wear the bulletproof vest underneath the shirt, which is slightly less conspicuous than the alternative.
It’s not a full uniform, but he is armed, and if he lingered too long in the same place someone would definitely notice, so he tries not to. The staff entrance is in a narrow alley on the side of the building, and Minho startles a poor waitress that’s sitting on the stoop, taking a smoke break.
She drops the cigarette when she sees his dark figure approaching, immediately putting her hands up in the air in alarm.
Minho puts his own finger over his lips, willing her to not call for his coworkers, or anything else that might make his presence known.
“I need to get in,” Minho says, fishing out his badge to flash from one of his many pockets, “Do your guests have security with them?”
She visibly relaxes upon seeing the badge, and puts her hands down with a nod.
“They have two body guards each.” She says.
“What kind?” Minho asks, to which the waitress frowns in confusion.
“W-what kind?”
He rolls his eyes, “Yeah like,” motions over his own body, “Are they armed to the teeth? Big? Do I look like I can take them? Or will I have to play dirty? Help me out here.”
“Oh,” she looks him up and down then, tapping her plump lips as she tries to evaluate Minho’s strength from looks alone, then has the audacity to seem disappointed with the answer.
“Is that tiny gun all you have?” She asks, “Because they’ve got rifles and about two heads over you. What’s your version of playing dirty?”
Minho opens his palm then, shoots a spark up in the air just to add some dramatic flair because he will not be called weak and tiny in this grimy alley. It’s stupid, and reckless, because he has no idea whether or not this girl will be just another A-class fearer, but instead of jolting back or screaming, she opens her own palm, stretches it out in front of her.
“Yeah,” she says, conjuring up a small, flickering flame, “That’ll do it. Let me know if you need any help in there.”
Though he is delighted to run into another A-class in the wild, Minho is on a tight schedule, and he throws a glance at the nameplate pinned to her white shirt, spelling out Soyeon in intricate letters.
He smiles, and runs up the two steps leading into the kitchen, “Thanks, but just get you and your coworkers out of here, yes? Wouldn’t it be so embarrassing to get shot?”
She smiles right back, then rolls her eyes, “I’d be mortified. Dying dressed in this?” She yanks the black apron around her waist, “Overworked and underpaid? Absolutely not.”
Minho snorts, but doesn’t linger further in the doorway. He goes through the kitchen, ushering the rest of the staff towards Soyeon who seems to take her role of herder very seriously, waving her arms like a traffic officer as her coworkers spill out with quiet haste.
He sneaks up to the kitchen door, peeps through the round window facing the restaurant. The guards are all pressed against the walls behind a set of pillars, out of sight from the tall windows, which is why Minho and Felix couldn’t see them. Soyeon was right, they’re all huge and menacing, like hulking statues not moving a muscle as they stand there with their hands in front of them.
The restaurant is empty save from the round table in the middle, illuminated by intricate crystal chandeliers and candelabras, bathing the scene in an utterly romantic golden light.
Felix was right, it does seem like a date, especially with the classical music bleeding through the kitchen door from where the two guests are sitting.
Minho fixes his gaze on the briefcase by Seungmin’s feet, observing the two men’s postures.
The man he is meeting is tall and lanky, with grey, slick backed hair and a rigid spine. He keeps tossing glances at the golden watch around his thin wrist, bouncing his leg nervously under the table in hopes that Seungmin won’t notice.
Seungmin on the other hand is entirely relaxed, chair scooted back a bit away from the table and leaning down, and Minho pretends not to notice that certain elements of his lower parts are definitely being outlined by those tight pants when he swings his right leg to cross over his left thigh.
He’s even more handsome up close than in pictures, and the warm light gives his supple skin a glow that no surveillance camera can capture. Minho swallows. Focus, he needs to focus.
Evidently the fact that he’s lusting over a target proves that Hyunjin has some points in regards to his dating life, though he doesn’t think he needs to find his soulmate, he definitely needs to get laid.
But first he needs to get a hold of that briefcase.
There’s two ways to go about that, he thinks.
He can either barge in there and start shooting, hoping that the element of surprise means the fact that he’s outnumbered isn’t a problem.
Or he can shoot one of the guards through the little door window, have one man less to worry about and then barge in and go ham.
He frowns, and moves from the window before any of the guards notice his presence.
It will only be a matter of time before they notice that there are no servers left for them, and he looks around the empty kitchen, racking his brain for an idea.
When his eyes land on the row of aprons hooked on the wall opposite of him.
He jogs up to them, and ties one around his waist. The name tag says Eliott on it, which, fine, he can pass for an Eliott, can’t he?
He grabs an already filled up decanter of wine by its throat where it stands on the kitchen island, and reaches for a towel to hang over his outstretched arm.
There.
Sure, he might be wearing a compression shirt, but if his target goes and asks him why grandma, what weird clothes you have á Little Red Riding Hood, he can maybe claim laundry day.
Though he doubts anyone as self complacent as Kim Seungmin would notice his weird ensemble anyway.
He bursts through the kitchen with the decanter in hand, and like he suspected neither of the men so much as spare him a glance.
He walks around the table, making sure to stand on the same side of the table as the briefcase, and quietly refills the mens glasses.
The men have stopped speaking, a pressing sort of tension in the air for whatever reason. Minho keeps his eyes firmly below the men’s chins. That sadly means he is staring right down at Seungmin’s lap when he’s about to refill his glass, and he coughs at the sight, accidentally interrupting the conversation.
Seungmin tilts his head up then to look at him, cocking an eyebrow when he takes him in. Stops at the nameplate, says the name Eliott slowly to test it out.
“What happened to Soyeon?” He wonders, slowly scanning his gaze up and down Minho’s body, “She was supposed to take care of us tonight.”
Minho clears his throat, bows slightly once he’s finished pouring. The briefcase is just in front of him, and if he just bent down slightly he could grab the metal handles and maybe shoot his way out.
Still he stays put, trying to ignore the clammy sweat that is starting to bead along his hairline.
Something is off. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there is something severely missing. Something that’s usually there, buzzing through his body with withheld power, and that’s when Minho realises that for whatever reason, the electrical current underneath his skin has ground to a halt.
He doesn’t have time to wonder what that means, if for some reason, right this moment, he suddenly got used to the feeling enough to not even notice it anymore, when Seungmin clears his throat.
“Well?” He demands.
“She took a break. Servers need to eat too, you know.” He grimaces, then catches himself and adds a “Sir” at the end of it, though he does not feel that Seungmin deserves such respect from anyone. But he doesn’t intend to blow his cover so soon, especially not since he knows his coworkers and Chan are listening in.
They’d never let him live that down and he simply has a reputation to uphold as the best agent on the team.
“Is that so,” Seungmin says, voice flat as he grabs his glass and sniffs the red liquid, “Did she tell you to pour Syrah in the glasses we used to drink Cabernet Sauvignon?”
Errr.
Minho smiles, taps the decanter with his fingernail with a clang. “Yes,” he lies through his teeth, annoyed over the fact that the prick can smell the type of wine so quickly. That can not be what takes him down, “We’re trying something new. Mixing things up, swirling them together. Try it out, you might like it Mr. Kim.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows shoot up then, before he leans forward and rests his forearms on the table.
He turns to his business partner, ponders for a moment then tells him; “I think we’re done here. I’ll have my people call your boss to set up a new appointment.”
The man frowns deeply at that, “Comment?”
Seungmin opens his mouth, looks like he’s about to explain in french, then stops himself for whatever reason and gets up from his chair, stretching out an arm to make a point of their meeting being adjourned.
Minho shifts uncomfortably, because something in the air has shifted, and it’s not just the stillness inside of him that has caused it. Seungmin is suspicious, and he doesn’t know if he’s blown it entirely.
The other man gets up as well, shakes Seungmin’s hand with a frown, spouting more things in French that Minho does not understand and Seungmin doesn’t respond to.
Then he waves for his guards to follow, and they leave, one in front and one behind him like a small convoy.
Seungmin sits back down on his chair, and downs his glass in one go. Then he reaches for his phone, starts typing something furiously, and Minho sees this as his one chance to grab the briefcase.
He tugs at the corner of the towel on his forearm until it falls to the ground, then bends down to pick it up, discreetly grabbing the metal handle of the briefcase.
He’s seconds away from straightening up and booking it when long fingers grab the hair at the nape of his neck and he is tugged up, facing Seungmin who forces his head back to stare at him.
“Shouldn’t have done that.” He says, clicking his tongue in annoyance.
Minho yelps, and digs his fingers into his wrist to make him let go, which only tightens the grip around his hair. “Let go of me or die.”
Seungmin clicks his tongue again in disapproval. “You agents used to be more well mannered than that. I thought they disciplined you well at the academy, but maybe they’ve been slipping lately.”
“What makes you think I’m an agent?” Minho hisses, staring at him through his eyelashes the way his head is cranked back. Damn, he’s strong. He’d zap his way out of the grip if he could, but conjuring sparks require a focus that he can’t have with the way his scalp stings painfully in Seungmin’s hands.
“For one, I don’t ever book anything in my real name ever since I’m not a complete moron, so all the staff has been referring to me as Mr. Choi tonight,” Seungmin leans down and reaches for the gun strapped to the lining of Minho’s pants, “And either that is a gun, or you’re just really happy to see me.”
He’s smirking now, that charming grin that Felix was giggling about no more than a few hours ago, and it makes Minho sick to his stomach because no good can come from that amount of confidence.
He doesn’t seem deterred by the fact that there’s an agent in there at all, and that does not bode well. He knows Chan can hear their conversation, that Felix is on standby waiting for the order to go inside, yet he feels completely at this man’s mercy as he stares him down with his fingers in his hair.
He swallows.
“Fine,” he says, drawing a deep breath as he tries to wriggle out of the grip, “I did an oopsie.”
Seungmin hums contentedly, leaning even closer, their noses almost touching.
Minho swallows hard, fully aware of the two guards closing in on them from behind, derby shoes clacking against the polished floors.
Seungmin holds out his free hand to stop them from coming any closer, barely even blinking as he keeps staring Minho down like a bird of prey.
“I wonder what I should do with you,” he says, lips tilted up in a delighted grin.
“You could let me go,” Minho says, and swipes his leg swiftly enough to kick Seungmin’s ankle with enough force for him to hiss in pain and let go of his hair.
He gets on his feet in an instant, drawing his gun and aiming it right at Seungmin while two clicks behind him tells him he has two rifles on him.
Seungmin looks at him, a glimmer of respect in his eyes that dies as fast as it appeared.
“You do realise that they will blow your head off from two different angles if you pull that trigger, don’t you?” He asks, leaning back in his chair again, but not after pouring himself another glass.
“I have backup coming any time now.” Minho says, and hopes that he is right. Worst case he can always zap the place out, though that would probably put him on probation for at least a month. “I just want that briefcase man.”
Seungmin pretends to think about it, then shakes his head. “No.”
“You really wanna bargain while staring down a barrel?” Minho asks.
Seungmin motions the glass in the direction of his guards, “Did you forget-”
“I did not forget,” Minho interrupts, “I’m just confident that they’d miss.”
The other man snorts, and tilts his head to the side in curiosity. “You’re a weird one.” He says. “That cockiness will definitely get you killed some day.”
“It’s kept me alive this far.” Minho drawls, tilting his head back, “And it will keep me alive tonight. Just give me the briefcase, if you know what's good for you.”
Seungmin looks at him, considers his words. Then, for whatever reason, be it moronic confidence that nothing can touch him or a sense of reason, he orders the guards to go to the kitchen.
“But, boss-” One of them says but is shot down by a finger in the air.
They leave then, poignant and stiff, and Seungmin doesn’t look at Minho again until the kitchen doors stop swinging at their departure.
“Tell me what you mean by ‘if I know what’s good for me’.” He demands.
“So here’s the thing, you’re wanted by just about every country in the world, and I don’t wanna toot my boss’ horn or anything because he can be a bit of a prick, but I do think that he’d go the easiest on you in regards of, you know, torture for information.” Minho tells him, hand steady. “Maybe.”
Seungmin cocks an eyebrow, but makes no move to get up from his seat. Instead he leans back in the chair, and puts his feet up on the table with his ankles crossed. Minho scowls, because even that unsophisticated move looks outright graceful when he does it. Chan was right, there is something so effortlessly awe inspiring about the arms dealer.
He doesn’t look particularly swayed or nervous about the gun that Minho is pointing right at his chest, and Minho has busted enough criminals to know that there’s a fine line between being overly confident, and being justified.
Seungmin does not strike him as the type to fall under narcissism, and that does not bode very well for Minho.
What is his ability, anyway? Chan seems to think that he’s a B class, that he’s got some kind of mentally signed ability. Minho hopes it’s not mind reading, because he’d be mortified if Seungmin heard his thoughts regarding those tight leather pants he’s wearing.
It’s neither very professional or dignified of Minho to barge in there and wave a gun around while having unholy thoughts about his target.
On the other hand, he is only human, and he has eyes. Those pants are reeeeal tight.
“What information does he think I have to torture out of me?” He asks, and reaches for the wine glass on the edge of the table.
“We know you stole blueprints that belong to the army. We know they’re most likely in that briefcase. We’d like them back.” He holds out his other hand, beckoning him to give it to him. “Hand it over.”
“We!” Seungmin laughs, a sly smirk around the rim of his glass, kicking the briefcase further away from Minho with his foot, “Talking as if you’re not here doing someone else’s bidding. How high up on the list are you? I bet if I took a look at the payroll you’d be all the way at the bottom.” He draws the words out, finishes the wine and reaches for the decanter on the table.
Minho takes a step forward and snatches it out of reach, other hand aching with the way he’s still holding out his gun.
“Just give me the briefcase, and I might not blow your head off.” He says.
Seungmin nods, and points his chin at Minho’s chest, “Give me the decanter and I might not have my men shoot through your shit quality bulletproof vest.”
Minho frowns then, and tilts his head down to see three red dots dancing across the fabric of his shirt.
Ah, so that’s where his confidence stems from, then. Snipers.
He puts the decanter down, slowly, making sure not to startle whoever is aiming at him, because Seungmin is right, the government-made vests are little more than padded tank tops. He was playing baller back then, when he knew that at the end of the day he could zap the bodyguards into oblivion, but, well, he can’t do that to someone hiding on a rooftop far away.
“Look, it doesn’t have to come down to me taking you in this time,” he says, desperate enough to negotiate now that he knows he’s heavily outnumbered, “All I want are those blueprints.”
Seungmin yawns, grabs the decanter, and refills his glass.
“And all I want is to be halfway to the south of France in my private jet, which I would’ve been if you hadn’t barged in here. So I guess neither of us are walking out of here especially satisfied. Soo la voo.”
Minho tilts his head to the side, frowning, “Soo la voo?” He repeats.
Seungmin nods, while finishing yet another glass, suddenly losing all his previous decorum, like something is starting to bother him enough to make him slip up.
“Yes,” he says, “You know, ‘that’s life’”
“Do-“ Minho snorts, “Do you mean C’est la vie?”
Seungmin frowns then, poise completely gone when he asks, “Is that not what I said?”
Minho scoffs to mock him, and shakes his head, “I thought you spoke french. Been hearing you babble all night.” He takes a step forward, against his better judgement, and suddenly Seungmin is on his feet, grabbing Minho by the collar of his shirt.
“I did- I mean, I do speak French. I speak every language.” He says, eyes dark with brimming anger.
Minho cocks an eyebrow, gun pressing against Seungmin’s torso, yet he lets himself be manhandled against the wall, because, well, he can always just shoot, or zap.
Also, it’s weirdly hot, being pushed up against a wall in a candlelit restaurant with red dots dancing across his outfit.
Not that he’ll admit that to the prick in front of him.
“Did I strike a nerve?” He asks, because he can’t help himself, and Seungmin presses his knee up between his legs, painfully pressing the hard bone against his inner thigh. Minho hisses and tries to push him off, but Seungmin is stronger, and for some reason he can’t bring himself to just pull the trigger.
“Are you a B-class?” Seungmin asks then, which catches him completely off guard. “Are you messing with my head?”
Minho opens his mouth and closes it a few times, eyebrows furrowed together. He wants to ask him what he means by that, but just as he’s about to, one of the windows towards the street shatters in a million pieces with a deafening sound.
They both spring apart as Felix barges in, one sword in each hand, dodging the sniper bullets like it’s a dance to him.
Seungmin’s eyes widen at the sight, and his guards rally out of the kitchen, peppering bullets towards the two agents.
Minho throws himself down to the floor and takes cover behind a table, eyes meeting Felix’ who is crouching behind the table next to him.
“What are you doing?!” He yells over the deafening roars of the AK47’s, “I had this!”
“You didn’t have shit, Minho!” Felix roars back and sheaths his swords to grab his gun instead.
They both are shooting blind, still hiding behind the wooden surfaces that are blistering around them with every bullet that hits.
“Who made you the judge of that?!” Minho grimaces as a bullet flies right through the wood and just barely misses him.
“Chan did!” Felix yells, and empties his mag, grabbing his swords again. “Grab the briefcase, I’ve got the guards!”
Before Minho has a chance to protest, Felix is on his feet and quite literally flips over the tables in an unnecessarily flashy move, and it’s not before long that he hears the metallic clang of his swords hitting something.
Minho takes the opportunity to crawl over to the table where Seungmin previously sat, now flipped over, wine spilling out over the floor like a maroon puddle of blood, making the sole of his boots slippery.
He reaches out to grab the briefcase, and yanks it, just as another hand does the same, and he falls forward, butting heads with Seungmin.
They both fall on their asses and scramble for the briefcase in a flurry of limbs and punches, until Minho eventually manages to kick Seungmin hard enough across the hipbone for him to fold over.
Minho takes the moment to hug the bag to his chest with one arm, stretching out his arm with the other.
“Don’t get closer!” He yells when Seungmin moves to dive after him, “I will electrocute you into oblivion if you do.”
“What?” Seungmin groans, but stays put.
“I’m a fucking A-class and I will use my ability to fry you like a nugget if you get anywhere closer to me.”
“Wouldn’t that get you in trouble?” Seungmin asks, weirdly calm about the fact that Minho just admitted to being a human power-line.
“You’d be surprised by how keen my boss is to get rid of you.”
Seungmin scoffs, staring between Minho and the briefcase, “No that doesn’t surprise me at all, actually. I just don’t care.”
“What do you-” Minho gets no further than that before Seungmin dives back at him, straddling his waist and grabbing the briefcase out of reach for the agent. Minho screams in frustration, but he can’t get up, trapped by the weight of the arms dealer crushing him into the floor.
“I warned you!” He yells, holding out his hands to charge his ability.
Seungmin just sits there, one hand pinning him down with the palm painfully digging into his solar plexus, and the other hand holding the bag in the air. He does not look scared, in fact he looks intrigued, when he leans down to whisper, “I heard you.”
Minho grabs the wrist on top of him with a bruising grip, loads his ability and manages to conjure…
Absolute nish.
He tries again.
And again.
Face scrunched up in concentration as Seungmin’s face lights up with glee.
”Well, well, well,” he snickers, “isn’t that interesting.”
“What the fuck,” Minho hisses, desperately clawing at the delicate skin around Seungmin’s forearm, “Why isn’t it working?”
“Too bad it had to be you.” Seungmin laughs, defeated and gloating all at once, and closes the distance to place a fucking kiss on top of his hair. “I was hoping for someone a bit more refined.”
Minho freezes, doesn’t understand what he means by that, and tries yet again to tap into the energy with no result. There is no spark between his fingers, no blue light illuminating his skin.
He feels like he can’t breathe as his ability is suffocated like a fire under a blanket, and the loss ricochets through his body like the pain of a laceration.
Seungmin takes the opportunity of his shock to climb off of him, get up on his feet and run through the restaurant towards the broken window where his snipers have his back.
Minho comes to his senses and sits up, trying to shake off the shock of what just happened. He reaches out his arms to try again, to let the electricity lick through the restaurant to grab at Seungmin’s ankles until he can no longer stand, but there is nothing.
Seungmin smirks, waving from where he stands in the empty hole where the window used to be.
“Adelu” he says, whatever that means, waving him goodbye, and disappears into the night.
When he’s out of sight, the bolts he tried to conjure finally charges, and the overheated electricity shoots through his palms and hits a tree on the sidewalk. It sets on fire and Minho watches as the flames lick up the dry bark like it’s starving, eyes wide as saucers when he realises what Seungmin meant.
“Too bad it had to be you.”
Too bad Minho had to be the soulmate of Kim Seungmin.