Sasha easily dodged the shoe, his laugh low and amused, which only fueled Beom's annoyance. He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he stood up to grab something from the other side of the room.
What the hell is wrong with this guy? Does he ever stop? God, he's like a walking harassment case. I need to—
Before he could finish the thought, Sasha was suddenly behind him. Beom didn't even hear him move. Without warning, Sasha grabbed him, shoving him into the wall with a force that made his breath hitch. His wrists were pinned behind him, Sasha's grip like steel.
"What the hell?!" Beom shouted, struggling against Sasha's hold.
"Let go of me, asshole!" he snarled, twisting his body in an attempt to break free.
Sasha leaned in close, his breath warm against Beom's neck as he chuckled. "Mhmm, no," he murmured, his voice smug and dripping with arrogance. He arched Beom's back slightly, his hands holding him firmly in place as he pressed his body against him.
Beom froze for a moment, his mind racing. Beom's thoughts: What the hell is he doing? Is this a joke to him? Does he think I'm some kind of toy?
Sasha's lips brushed against the curve of Beom's neck, planting a soft, deliberate kiss that sent a wave of heat and rage surging through him. Beom's muscles tensed as Sasha began grinding against him, his movements slow and taunting.
"You're insane," Beom hissed, his voice sharp as he struggled harder. "Let go of me!"
But Sasha didn't budge, his hold only tightening slightly as he hummed in response.
That's when Beom snapped. Gathering all the strength he could muster, he kicked backward, his heel connecting with Sasha's shin. Sasha grunted, stumbling slightly, and in that brief moment of distraction, Beom broke free. He spun around, his fist flying before Sasha could recover. The punch landed squarely on Sasha's jaw, sending him stumbling back a step.
Beom's chest heaved as he glared at Sasha, his fists clenched tightly. "If you don't know, that is harassment, you dumb bitch!" he snapped, his voice shaking with both anger and adrenaline.
Sasha chuckled, his hand brushing his jaw as he leaned casually against the wall. "Feisty, aren't you?" he said, his tone annoyingly unfazed.
Beom didn't dignify that with a response. He turned on his heel, his face still flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment, and grabbed his clothes. His hands trembled slightly as he hurriedly dressed, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from Sasha as possible.
I swear, I've never met anyone as infuriating as this man. He's a complete lunatic. Why the hell did I agree to work with him in the first place?
Sasha's low laughter echoed behind him, but Beom didn't look back. He had had enough of Sasha's games for one night.
The room was dimly lit, a single chandelier casting golden light that barely reached the corners. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and old wood. Paul Petrovich sat at the center of it all, his legs elegantly crossed, exuding an air of practiced dominance. His sharp suit was tailored to perfection, every line crisp, every detail meticulous. His piercing eyes, cold and calculating, bore into them as they entered, though his gaze lingered longer on Sasha, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Well, well, well..." Paul's voice was smooth, almost too smooth, dripping with a confidence that felt more like a warning. "I have been waiting for you two."
Beom felt a shiver crawl up his spine, though he kept his expression neutral. Paul's presence was suffocating, the kind of aura that made you want to keep your distance. His gaze shifted to Sasha, whose demeanor was annoyingly calm, almost amused, as though he were enjoying the attention.
Great. Just great. We walk into the lion's den, and Sasha looks like he's on a goddamn vacation. Could he take this any less seriously?
Paul's smirk widened slightly, his eyes flicking up and down Sasha as if assessing him. The silent tension stretched, the weight of Paul's stare making Beom's skin itch.
Sasha, however, broke the silence with a low chuckle. "Oh, Paul," he drawled, his voice laced with mockery and something almost playful. "You're making it sound like you've been counting down the days."
Beom shot a quick glance at Sasha, his irritation mounting. Does he ever know when to shut up? This isn't some casual meeting at a coffee shop. This guy looks like he could snap his fingers and have us both buried in ten minutes.
Paul raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Counting down the days? Not quite," he replied, his tone equally smug. "But I must admit, Sasha, you do have a way of keeping things... interesting."
Beom's jaw tightened as he watched the exchange. The energy between the two of them was strange, a mix of tension and familiarity that made Beom feel like an outsider in his own body.
What's the deal with these two? Did they know each other before? Or is this just Sasha being his usual insufferable self? Either way, I don't like it.
Beom took a slow step forward, his gaze hardening as he interrupted the smug exchange between Sasha and Paul. His patience had worn thin, and he was done watching them spar with words. "Enough with the chit-chat," he said, his voice firm, each syllable cutting through the air with a no-nonsense finality. "Where is the Seraphim code?"
Paul's confident smirk faded just slightly, a hint of curiosity slipping into his features, though he didn't falter. His expression was still composed, his eyebrows lifting with a faint amusement as he studied Beom. "I don't know what you're talking about," Paul said, his tone nonchalant, almost dismissive, as though he were speaking to a child who didn't understand the gravity of the situation.
But Beom wasn't buying it. He could see right through Paul's feigned indifference. With a sharp glint in his eyes, he let the words drop deliberately, like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place. "Or should I say… A-K 257?"
The effect was immediate. Paul jolted in his seat, just for a split second, his composed facade slipping enough to reveal a flicker of something—surprise, maybe even fear. The subtle reaction was all Beom needed. It was the crack in the armor he'd been waiting for, a confirmation that they'd hit a nerve.
There it is. The reaction I needed. So, you do know what we're talking about, don't you, Paul? All that bravado, all those carefully chosen words, and yet, a little slip-up when you hear the name of the code. Just as I thought.
Beom suppressed a smirk, satisfaction bubbling up within him as he saw Paul shift ever so slightly in his seat, the confidence in his gaze wavering. There was something deliciously satisfying about catching someone like Paul off guard, even for a moment. Beom knew that men like Paul thrived on control—every move calculated, every expression a mask, every word a trap. But the mention of "A-K 257" had exposed a weakness, a vulnerability, and Beom intended to use it.
Paul's eyes darted from Beom to Sasha, his expression hardening as he tried to regain his composure. "I'm not sure where you're getting your information, but you're sorely mistaken if you think I have anything to do with this... Seraphim code," he said, his voice cool, yet with a slight tremor betraying his attempt to keep calm.
Liar. You can pretend all you want, but I see right through you. The name of the code struck a nerve, and now you're scrambling to cover it up. Sasha and I are closer to what we need than you'd ever admit.
Sasha seemed to sense the shift in power, leaning casually against a nearby wall, a faint, knowing smile on his face. It was as if he were enjoying watching Paul squirm, letting Beom take the lead without interference. Beom appreciated that—finally, Sasha was letting him handle things, not stepping in with some smarmy remark or underhanded comment.
Beom took another step forward, closing the distance between them, his voice low and steady. "I'm not here to play games, Paul," he said, eyes narrowed with deadly intent. "You can act as clueless as you want, but we both know that you know exactly what I'm talking about. A-K 257. The Seraphim code. So, are you going to save yourself some trouble and tell us where it is, or do I need to start asking in a way you'll find a lot less pleasant?"
The tension in the room was palpable, an invisible line drawn in the air between Beom and Paul. The confidence Beom felt surprised him; it wasn't often that he got to take control like this. There was an intensity in him now, a certainty that felt like pure adrenaline. He was finally calling the shots.
I'm not the pawn here, Paul. Not anymore. You're the one out of your element, and you know it. Keep playing dumb, and I'll make sure you regret it.
Beom's eyes narrowed as Paul's silence dragged on, his defiance written all over his smug expression. Beom felt a surge of frustration bubbling beneath the surface, his patience running thin. His lips curled into a grim smile, devoid of humor. "Oh, I guess we have to do this the hard way," he said, his voice calm but carrying an ominous weight.
Without hesitation, Beom's fist shot forward. WHAM! Paul's head snapped to the side, his cheek taking the brunt of the blow. Before he could recover, Beom delivered another punch, this time to Paul's ribs. WHAM! The sound of knuckles against flesh echoed in the room, followed by a sharp grunt of pain from Paul. A final, crushing blow landed squarely on Paul's abdomen, causing him to double over. WHAM!
This isn't just for information. This is for every arrogant smirk, every word you thought you could hide behind. Let's see how long that confidence lasts.
Paul groaned, his composure crumbling as he gasped for air. Beom wasn't done yet. He grabbed a fistful of Paul's hair, jerking his head back roughly, forcing the man to look up at him. Paul's face twisted in pain, and for the first time, there was fear in his eyes.
"Would you speak," Beom growled, his tone low and lethal, "or should I force the words out of your mouth?"