Oneshots Collection || BTS.

Licensed for Evil || KNJ.

"The creaks of swings and warmth of sun accentuated by the melodies of children's laughter..."

Book splayed needlessly open in his hands, Kim Namjoon's eyes remained closed as he continued reciting the text of his journal, the words flowing out in a placid, tranquil stream from memory, enjoying how his benchmate - a man with a typical ball cap and nondescript jacket, as boring and uninteresting as every other target of theirs - squirmed in the park bench beside him.

"...and the swell of glee in an ambiance of unrestrained innocence and delectation, a threat resides merely yonder the realm of jouissance, a disguise under the same rays of warmth."

His eyes opened. The children of the park were only a few meters away galloping and frolicking among the sunlit playground, oblivious to him and his macabre performance.

"And... as manifested by the paradigm of the demon's decree... those of whom that incurs the curse of such anathema shall thus be met by..."

Namjoon's eyes flicked over to meet their victim's, causing the latter to flinch in his seat.

"...death."

The stabbing was quick, quiet, and clean. Within the next millisecond, their target's hands instinctively swam up and clawed at his own throat as if fighting some invisible hands wound mercilessly around his windpipe, causing the blue lunch box he'd been gripping to tumble onto the gravel. It was then, after staring directly into the pupils of his killer, did their victim's gaze lower and notice the hilt of the knife protruding from his side, and he faced-forward, as if attempting to call out to the children of the park for help. Yet, nothing came out from his mouth, his vocal chords failing with the rest of him.

"And thus he falls by a blade laced with the venom of the viper," Namjoon murmured, a hint of a chuckle layered underneath. "A gift to the Underworld: paralysis to the condemned, whose pleas are heard only by his dying mind."

As the dead man's eyes finally rolled into the back of his head, Kim Namjoon stood, straightening the folds of his overcoat before pulling the ball cap of his victim lower, covering the lifelessness evident upon the corpse's face. He knew that the children would only assume that the man was sleeping before someone more perceptive would notice something amiss, but by then, he'd be gone like an untraceable fingerprint.

His specialty, as Seokjin remarked. This was why he preferred quiet, secret killings over the gun that Yoongi so favored, as it required much less clean up, attention, and evidence. Although he also carried one, frankly, Namjoon liked planning these complex set-ups, especially since it guaranteed an audience to the prose in his beloved journal that he worked so hard on.

And no one would expect him, a fine intellect with tousled, cinnamon hair, high-collar turtleneck cashmere sweater, delicate golden watch, chamomile overcoat, and a leather journal, to be a cold-blooded killer.

With that, he scooped up the blue lunch box discarded on the gravel, swiftly peeling it open and confirming his suspicions on what was inside: drugs. An automatic grin sliced across his lips - their wallets were golden for the next month. A buzz vibrated from his hidden earpiece, and he lied a hand to answer the call. As always, Yoongi had impeccable timing.

"Yes, Number Four-Hundred Thirty-Six is complete," he spoke into the mic. "As we've suspected, he had about a millions worth of drugs on him, and-"

"Hey, Jowoon, come back here!"

"Wait, Haejin-noona! I need to get that back!"

Alarmed, Namjoon's attention was abruptly snatched by the intrusion of new voices permeating from the park playground. Twisting around, he quickly cut the call and looked down just in time for a weathered basketball to roll up and tap the side of his polished shoe.