Beom was in his element now, completely lost in the haze of alcohol. His laughter filled the room, loud and wheezy, as Sasha's dry humor and sarcastic replies only egged him on. Beom flailed his arms to demonstrate a "new dance move" he had apparently invented on the spot, wobbling dangerously on his feet.
"Look, look, Sasha! This is called...uh...the 'Beom Shuffle'!" he announced, trying to spin in place but stumbling, catching himself on the chair. "You just—oh wait—kick like this, then you twist, and...BOOM!" His grand finale was a half-bow that nearly sent him toppling over. Sasha chuckled, shaking his head at Beom's antics, which only made Beom laugh harder, his wheezing echoing through the room.
After another sip—or maybe three—Beom finally stopped moving, leaning heavily on the table, his face flushed. He turned to Sasha, intending to make another sarcastic quip, only to notice something unusual.
Sasha had gone silent, his arms folded neatly across his chest, and his eyes were closed. He looked calm, serene even, like he'd drifted off mid-conversation. Beom tilted his head, squinting at him like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"He looks...like a merman," Beom muttered in Korean, his voice filled with drunken wonder. He leaned in closer, his lips pursed as if he were contemplating something profound. "Or like...those marble statues in museums. You know, the ones with the abs and the judgmental faces. But...less judgmental and more...uh...smirky."
Beom reached out, his fingers hovering near Sasha's face. "Let me just—" he whispered, eyes narrowing as if Sasha were an art exhibit he wasn't supposed to touch but really wanted to. But before his fingers could graze Sasha's cheek, his stomach churned violently, cutting through the alcohol-induced haze.
"Oh no," Beom muttered, his hand flying to his mouth as his eyes widened. "No, no, no—"
He bolted upright, stumbling toward the bathroom in a blur of panic. "Blerrrgghhh!" The sound of retching echoed loudly as Beom gripped the sink for dear life, his head hanging low. "Haah...why did I drink so much? I shouldn't have—blerrgghhh!"
Between retches, Beom cursed himself and his questionable life choices. "Stupid...stupid alcohol. Who even invented this stuff? Blerrgghh! Evil genius...that's what they are."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Beom's stomach settled. He rinsed his mouth with shaky hands, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his face was pale, and his eyes looked like they'd seen a ghost.
"I look like a drowned rat," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "No wonder Sasha was laughing at me. Ugh."
Dragging his feet, Beom shuffled back into the room. He didn't even glance at Sasha's side; his bed was calling him like a siren's song. With a dramatic flop, he collapsed onto the mattress, not bothering to change or even cover himself properly.
"Stupid merman," he mumbled into the pillow, his voice slurred and muffled. Within seconds, he was out cold, his snores soft but steady.
Sasha's eyes fluttered open, a sly smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He hadn't been asleep—not even close. Instead, he had been lying there, feigning slumber while the quiet sounds of Beom's light snores filled the room. His gaze flicked to the figure sprawled awkwardly across the bed, one arm dangling off the edge, his face slack in an unguarded, peaceful state that was almost amusing to Sasha.
Beom looked completely vulnerable, his usually sharp, sarcastic demeanor softened by the haze of alcohol and the grip of sleep. Sasha's smirk deepened as he watched the slight rise and fall of Beom's chest, his lips slightly parted as if mid-sentence even in his dreams. Such a contrast to the snarky little spitfire I've been dealing with all night, Sasha thought, the amusement dancing in his eyes. Who knew he could actually shut up for once?
With a quiet chuckle, Sasha swung his legs off the chair, his movements fluid and silent as a predator in the wild. He stood, stretching briefly, the smirk never leaving his face as he cast one last glance at Beom. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction like he'd been through a wind tunnel, and his blanket had somehow gotten tangled around his legs in a way that looked almost deliberate. Sasha shook his head, stifling another laugh. What a disaster of a man.
Padding toward the door, Sasha moved with practiced stealth, his bare feet making no sound against the floor. Once outside, he eased the door shut behind him, the faint click of the latch the only noise in the still hallway. The air outside the room was cooler, sharper, and it carried with it a weight of purpose that made Sasha's expression harden slightly. His smirk faded into something more calculating as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a sleek, black phone.
He thumbed the screen, dialing a number with the ease of familiarity. The phone rang once, twice, before a low voice answered on the other end. "Report," the voice commanded, sharp and direct.
Sasha leaned against the wall, his free hand resting casually in his pocket as he spoke. "The target's still as clueless as ever," he said, his voice low but dripping with amusement. "Though he did get drunk and spill a few interesting secrets tonight. Nothing I didn't already suspect, but still… entertaining."
There was a pause on the other end, followed by a curt, "And the mission?"
Sasha's smirk returned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Under control," he replied smoothly. "No need to worry. He's completely unaware of the bigger picture. A little annoying, sure, but manageable. Besides…" He glanced back toward the door of their shared room, his smirk turning into something darker, more knowing. "I think he's starting to trust me. Well, as much as someone like him can trust anyone."
The voice on the other end gave a low hum of approval. "Good. Stay close to him, but don't let your guard down. He's more resourceful than he looks."
Sasha chuckled softly, his gaze narrowing. "Oh, I know. But he's also predictable. He thinks he's the smartest person in the room, which makes him easier to handle. A little manipulation here, a little charm there... He's practically playing into my hands."
There was another pause, and then the voice said, "Don't underestimate him, Sasha. We can't afford any mistakes."
Sasha's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, his tone cool and confident. "I never do," he said simply, ending the call with a tap of his thumb.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. Then, with a faint shake of his head, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and pushed off the wall, his smirk returning as if it had never left. Trust me, huh? he thought, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and something far more dangerous. We'll see how far that gets you, Beom-Ki.
Beom woke to an unsettling noise, a rustling that seemed too close for comfort. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, only to see a shadowy figure looming over him. Panic surged through his veins as he realized what the figure was doing—tearing at his pants with unnatural strength.
"Hey! No, stop!" Beom shouted, his voice shaky as he tried to push the figure away, but it was futile. The figure's strength was overwhelming. Before he could react further, the figure's body shifted in a way that made his blood run cold. The stitched vaginal opening was grotesque, unnatural, and horrifyingly surreal. The figure thrust into him without hesitation, and the pain that followed was sharp, tearing through him like lightning.
Beom jolted awake, sitting upright in bed as his breath came in short, panicked gasps. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, his entire body trembling. His chest rose and fell as he tried to calm himself, but the phantom pain lingered, as did the disturbing imagery. He ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, his voice a shaky whisper. "It's just a dream... it's just a dream," he muttered to himself, repeating it like a mantra to push the fear away.
"Ugh, my head," Beom groaned, leaning back against the headboard as he tried to regain his composure. His pulse was still racing, his heart thundering in his chest as he took deep breaths to ground himself. The dream had felt so real—the sensations, the fear—it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
As he shifted to get more comfortable, his gaze drifted downward. That's when he noticed it—his arousal. A wave of confusion and embarrassment washed over him. "What the hell?" he thought, his brows furrowing as he pulled the pillow over his lap to cover it.
"Why... why am I like this?" Beom questioned himself, his mind racing. Was it the dream? That horrible, twisted scene that shouldn't have stirred anything but fear and disgust? Or was it something else entirely? The thought made his stomach churn, a mix of shame and confusion gnawing at him.
"God, what is wrong with me?" Beom thought, pressing his palms into his face. His body's reaction felt like a betrayal, and he couldn't shake the unease creeping over him. "Maybe it's just stress," he reasoned, trying to convince himself that his body was reacting on its own, disconnected from his conscious mind. But the memory of the dream lingered, vivid and haunting.
Beom shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering unease from his dream. He didn't want to think about it anymore. It was just a nightmare—nothing more. Focusing on the present, he glanced around the room, searching for Sasha.
"Where is that asshole?" Beom muttered under his breath, scanning every corner. But Sasha was nowhere in sight. The room was eerily quiet except for the faint sound of running water.