The black-haired young man crossed the threshold of the automatic doors, sounds of the city hitting him as he stepped out into the chill of the early morning. He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip, eyes narrowing at the small throb of pain that flared up as he pushed against the cut on the corner of his mouth. Despite the pain, his lips curled up into a small smirk of satisfaction; silly cops. He let out a small sigh and threaded his fingers together, lifting his arms above his head in a languid stretch.
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A bulked-up sedan roared past him in the street, siren blaring, lights flashing and painting the block that housed the police station in reds and blues. Jungkook stifled a laugh. Silly cops had nothing on him or on the Bangtan Boys. As usual, he was free to go after a two-hour interrogation; he supposed the police wanted to keep him on his toes -- or something just as equally absurd. It'd take a hell of a lot more than a half-assed interrogation to ruffle his feathers. Didn't matter that they were on the right track: the victim in question had been one of Jungkook's better kills. But the police had absolutely nothing.
Jungkook did his job better than well, never leaving any evidence or witnesses to speak of. Not that he killed anyone who saw him -- he wasn't a barbarian, after all! He just used his skills to his advantage, most notably timing his hunts perfectly to ensure that no one was around to identify him. Besides, even if he were seen, he always wore dark, nondescript clothing and a face mask, as well as colored contacts and if not a wig, then an entirely different hairstyle than the ones he usually sported.
The young man shoved his hands into the pockets of his black skinny jeans and started meandering towards a late-late-late night coffee place that was on the way home. He figured he'd grab the Inner Circle some caffeine before heading back to the Manor; if nothing else, it may soften Suga's mood when he explained where he'd been for the last few hours. Coffee always made the Boss' spirits lift, even in the face of semi-bad news.
With a slight spring in his step, the assassin hummed a slow, beautiful tune out into the night's cityscape, smiling at the few people he passed on his way to the cafe. Time to head back home to the Boys.
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You had been working non-stop for the past eight months for the promotion you'd finally snagged earlier today, and you couldn't be happier. Your coworkers had taken you out to celebrate your much-deserved good fortune, hitting up the ever-popular Bullet club.
