CRIMINAL // minsung

chapter 27

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Y'all ready for some angst? Because that is exactly what I'm gonna give you

"He doesn't," Han could almost smell the victorious pride oozing from underneath Minho's skin.

He took a deep breath and continued.
"-But once he's in jail and his inmates realize what he's in for, it won't be much of a life anymore. I- Please, just, let me call my friends-"

"Detective, shut up."

Han froze in place, his mouth left hanging slightly open with unspoken words and the realization that the strict interruption didn't come from Minho, but from Changbin.
Judging by Minho's face, Han wasn't the only one surprised.

Changbin stood there, behind Han, soaked hoodie over his wet hair.

Han didn't even want to think about how much he had accidentally started to trust the other. And how much he probably shouldn't have - Minho wasn't committing these murders alone, after all.

I.N was standing on top of the man's left wrist, and when the other started to squirm a little too much, he used his free foot to kick him in the face. Blood started to flow out of his nose and  spread on the grey tiles, mixing with the puddles of rainwater.

Han looked back at their victim.

Actually no, he wasn't the victim.

He was the perpetrator.
The scratch marks all over him spoke for the fact.

And Han suddenly remembered something. Not that he'd ever really forgotten how it had felt, but now it just came back to him in disgustingly vivid detail; how it had felt to have unwanted hands roam all over him, touching him where he didn't want it, grabbing his neck so he couldn't pull back.
A tongue, warm and slick against his skin, and how much it had made him want to scream and cry and fight back.

With the phantom touch once again invading his senses, he turned to face Changbin.

"Give me something." He looked at Changbin in the eyes through the rain.  "A knife."
It was a demand, but Changbin didn't seem offended at all.
He smiled a little with something that could be interpreted as pride as he selected a knife with a black blade out of the gym bag at his feet and handed it to Han without a word.

Three pairs of eyes were on the detective as he accepted the knife and squeezed it into his firm grip.

Minho stood in place, one foot on top of their guy's right wrist, not wanting to interrupt the nearly perfect scene unfolding in front of him. Han was surrendering, giving in, being human. Doing what he felt like doing for the first time, perhaps ever. Minho saw the desire for inflicting pain in Han's eyes at that moment, new and strong, and it was all he needed.

God, if it wasn't the hottest thing he had ever seen.

Han kneeled over the man that was laying on the pool tiles, kicking his feet and spitting out pleas. He watched the other, tried to feel sorry, tried to find himself again. But the only thing he found was still the phantom touch of a hand gripping his neck.

Next to the feeling of not being in control anymore, his own anger and sudden desire to hurt the guy struggling under him scared Han more than anything before.

He was so scared. He was so scared of himself. There would be nothing left in the mirror to recognize.

Just as he started to feel his breathing increase dangerously close to hyperventilation, he felt a hand, this time very real and familiar, wrap around his own one that was squeezing the knife.