FACING THE SAME FACE | JINKOOK

CH24

The air in the room was thick, laden with a silence that seemed to hum against the bare walls. The only light came from a floor lamp in the corner, casting long, sharp shadows across the table where the stolen piece of art rested. It was a painting, an ancient canvas with frayed edges, but its worth lay not in the fabric itself, rather in what it represented: power, betrayal, a trophy torn from greedy hands. Hoseok observed it with his arms crossed, his cold gaze tracing every brushstroke as if he could unravel a secret hidden within the lines.

Beside him, his partner a man with angular features and restless eyes tapped his fingers on the table, unable to contain his nervous energy.

"It's perfect," he said, breaking the silence. His voice carried an edge of excitement he couldn't mask. "With this, we're in. But remember, Jin is mine." He paused, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "SeungChol never let me get close to him. Had to step in the middle, as always. And JungHyun... that idiot had to help him pay off the debt Jin owed me. But now, this changes everything." Hoseok didn't reply straight away. His eyes remained fixed on the painting, though his mind was elsewhere. The weight of his partner's words hung between them, a reminder of old grudges and broken promises. Slowly, he turned his head towards him, his expression unreadable.

"Jin, eh?" he murmured, almost as if testing the name on his tongue. His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket, the movement so casual it barely drew notice.

Before the other could react, Hoseok pulled out a knife a thin, gleaming blade that caught the light for a fleeting moment and without hesitation, plunged it into his partner's chest. The first strike was swift, precise, straight to the heart. A gasp escaped the man's mouth, his eyes widening in shock as blood began to stain his shirt. But Hoseok didn't stop. With a restrained fury, he stabbed again and again, the wet, brutal sound of the blade slicing through flesh echoing in the room. The body staggered, slumping back against the wall, but Hoseok gripped the collar of his shirt with one hand, ensuring he saw his face as the life drained from him.

The painting remained there, motionless on the table, a silent witness to the slaughter. Blood splattered the floor, but Hoseok didn't seem to notice. His breathing was heavy, controlled, as he released the body, letting it slide down into a crumpled heap. He wiped the blade on his jacket sleeve, his eyes glinting with a mix of satisfaction and something darker, something yet to fully reveal itself.

Hoseok stepped back, allowing the body of his former partner to settle in a pool of blood that slowly spread across the floor. The knife was still in his hand, dripping, and he twirled it between his fingers with an almost hypnotic skill before tucking it back into his jacket. His gaze lifted once more to the painting, that stolen piece of art that seemed to whisper promises of chaos and dominion. He admired it in silence, tilting his head as if assessing not just its value, but the weight of the lives he'd taken to have it before him.

"Jin," he murmured, his voice low and laced with a venom that seemed to well up from the depths of his being. "That bloody fool Jin... I'm the one who decides what happens to him. No one else." His lips twisted into a crooked smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes, dark and gleaming, reflected something beyond mere malice: pure madness, an abyss that had opened in his mind and now consumed him entirely. He took a step towards the painting, extending a hand to brush the frame with his fingertips, still smeared with blood. The contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the violence he'd just unleashed was unsettling.

"No one else," he repeated, almost crooning the words as his gaze drifted across the details of the canvas. "Not SeungChol, not JungKook, not that idiot who thought he could claim what's mine." He let out a dry laugh, a sound that echoed through the room like the crack of something breaking. He turned slightly, glancing at the motionless body at his feet as if it were a secondary trophy, a reminder of his absolute power. "This" he gestured grandly at the painting "and Jin, they're mine to play with however I please." He crouched beside the corpse, leaning in close enough that his face was mere inches from his victim's.