2.1 | renegade effect (on hold until 2024)

01 | petrichor

p e t r i c h o r : the smell of rain on dry earth

***

COHEN SONG WATCHES THE STORM BREW, FLASHES OF LIGHTNING ILLUMINATING A SLIVER OF GOLDEN SKIN. He doesn't necessarily mind the accompanying cacophony of rain and grey thunder, but instead, Cohen just—watches. Watches the wetness of the windows reflect Jimin's desk light and how it just reaches the tips of his boots, watches the dark silhouette of Lance Maxwell shift with faint signs of discomfort.

He sits. Drinks a bit of the stale coffee cradled in his left hand: the only reminder that the temperature has dropped and that he's still cold, cold, cold. Cohen can't really remember the last time he felt warm, and his fingertips almost burn with unforgiving frost as they tuck themselves into his jacket pockets. His mind is quiet, running on the violent speed of intense focus as he skims the smeared file resting on his lap, manila folder delicately folded and clipped at the right corner. Everything is—hollow.

His head tilts upwards as Jimin's voice reaches his ears, the soft lilt to the syllables a clear-cut contrast to the two boys residing in perpetual shadows. It all sounds a bit muted—like he's underneath the ocean—and instead of paying attention, Cohen leans into murder's siren song with familiarity. That, too, is electrically charged.

"—around midnight," Jimin explains quickly, urgently, silver hair gleaming underneath faint traces of starlight. "Suspect should be alone and unarmed between our two prime locations. Walt's probably fuckin' traumatizing him and shit—poor man got caught in the crossfire of a drug war."

Cold. He's cold.

Lance Maxwell bends his knee so that one foot rests upon the wall. A part of him wants to tell him to stop dirtying up the fresh paint job, and Cohen chokes on a bubble of hysteria. "He's an easy target," his partner drawls. "Nothin' else to do but grade half-assed lab reports and come home to an empty apartment. Suzuki should've been shot dead weeks ago."

And—death. Death. It's an unspoken bond between the three of them, and their talent of escaping it despite being cornered into treacherous situations sharpens with each oncoming dawn. Cohen even knows how it smells: metallic, sharp, bittersweet. The essence lingers underneath his nail beds and penetrates to his nervous system, all fiery alcohol and animal instinct. God, it burns. It burns.

Cohen always feels this way before he leaves for a field mission, but he's roughly unfazed, which should be concerning. Should be something he waves in the air as a white flag, surrendering before he loses the shattered pieces of his consciousness to tapered moonlight. He doesn't really know what that feels like anymore.

The clock hums from its position.

Jimin stretches like a feline as he stands up from his cushioned chair, back arching before he takes a seat at the edge of his polished desk. Club Aeneid is too expansive for his liking, and Cohen's always felt uncomfortable in the wide space of this office, always felt small and weak and dishonest. "They needed him to do their dirty work for them," Jimin concludes, slowly inspecting the ugly bruises blooming on the fronts of his knuckles. "He's been running between alleys and fronts to bargain in favor of raising Walt's prices on his goods."

"Bastard's boosting their damaged ego," Lance mutters underneath his breath, and Cohen glances from the corners of his eyes to scan over his partner's nonchalance. It's constantly been so easy for the other boy, always been so natural, and Cohen's just—tired. He's so tired. "But killing Suzuki will just result in a massive mark on our back. Are we granted permission to completely eliminate them?"

Cold. He's cold.

Tilting his head towards his supervisor, he takes in Jimin's crossed ankles as his mind dissolves into a sea of concentration. The skin of his palms chill with the passing breeze, and the assassin bites the inside of his cheek in hopes of swallowing sour bile. Breathe, breathe, breathe, just fucking breathe—