His mind churned, piecing together fragments of Sasha's odd behavior—the smirks, the cunning comments, the way he always seemed a step ahead. Beom frowned, leaning closer to the screen as if it held all the answers.
"Maybe I'm overthinking it," Beom thought for a split second before shaking his head. "No way. A guy like Sasha doesn't just happen. Something about him reeks of danger."
The faint creak of the door behind him went unnoticed. He was too absorbed in his thoughts, his pulse steady as he continued reading. That was until a smooth, familiar voice sliced through the silence like a knife.
"Hmmm, here I thought you trusted me, Beom. But look at you… digging up my backstory. I thought we were partners."
Beom froze. His heart skipped several beats before it began hammering against his ribs. His eyes widened in pure, unfiltered panic. "What the—" he thought, turning his head slightly, only to see Sasha leaning casually against the doorframe, his smirk sharp and his eyes glinting with amusement.
"When did he even get here?" Beom's mind raced as he stared at Sasha. "He wasn't around when I made the call! I would've heard him, right? RIGHT? This guy is like a damn ghost!"
Sasha stepped forward slowly, his movements calculated, like a predator closing in on cornered prey. "Tsk, tsk, Beom," he chided, his tone dripping with mock disappointment. "You could've just asked me directly. But no… you had to go sneaking around. Hurtful, really."
Beom swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His thoughts were a chaotic mess. "How does he always know what I'm up to? Does he have a camera on me? Is he psychic? Did he bug my damn laptop?"
"You really don't trust me, do you?" Sasha continued, his voice soft but laced with manipulation. His words wrapped around Beom like a snake, tightening with every syllable. "After all we've been through… after everything I've done for you, Beom."
Beom's jaw clenched. He snapped the laptop shut, trying to mask his panic with a sharp glare. "How did you even know I was—"
Sasha cut him off, holding up a finger. "Shhh. Let's not ruin the mystery, shall we?" He leaned closer, his face just inches from Beom's. "But since you're so interested in my past… tell me, Beom. What exactly were you hoping to find?"
Beom's mind raced. "A way to get this guy off my back, for starters," he thought bitterly. "Maybe proof that he's not as invincible as he acts. Or… I don't know… something that explains why he's such a smug, all-knowing jerk!"
Instead, what came out was a muttered, "I wasn't… I was just…"
Sasha's grin widened. "Speechless? That's rare for you. Don't worry, Beom. You'll get your answers... eventually. But next time? Just ask me. Who knows?" He leaned even closer, his breath warm against Beom's ear. "I might even tell you the truth."
Beom felt a shiver run down his spine as Sasha straightened up and, to Beom's utter horror, pulled a chair to sit directly across from him. Sasha's presence loomed large, despite his relaxed posture. Beom tried to focus anywhere else—on the table, the wall, the laptop screen—just not on Sasha's piercing gaze.
"What?!" Sasha finally said, his tone sharp but teasing. He crossed his arms, one eyebrow cocked. "Feeling remorseful?"
Beom's lips twitched, and he bit down on them, determined not to give Sasha the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, he turned his head and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Remorseful? More like regretful for ever agreeing to work with this walking enigma. Why does he always make everything feel like a damn interrogation?!"
Sasha smirked, clearly amused by Beom's silence. "Anyway," he began, dragging the word out like he had all the time in the world, "we have business to do."
He placed his phone on the table, spinning it slightly until it faced Beom. The screen displayed the image of an older man, his stern face and cold, calculating eyes staring back at them.
"Who's that?" Beom asked, leaning forward slightly to get a better look.
"This," Sasha replied with a flourish of his hand, "is Vladimir Popov. A well-known business tycoon. And as luck—or misfortune—would have it, he's currently at the same mansion Namjoon is in right now."
Beom frowned, his mind racing. "Of course, there's always a rich guy involved. Can't we just deal with regular criminals for once? Nooo, we have to go after Bond villains in mansions." He rubbed his temples and asked, "So what now? 'Cause I know we can't just walk into his place like that. We need a plan, Sasha."
Sasha's smirk grew wider, the kind of grin that made Beom's stomach drop. "Yes," Sasha said smoothly, "and that's why I already have one."
Beom raised a skeptical brow. "Oh, great. Here we go. Another one of Sasha's 'brilliant' plans where I somehow end up in the most dangerous situations possible."
"We go as investors," Sasha explained, tapping the phone screen to bring up a blueprint of the mansion. "We'll pose as sellers of a weapon—a prototype that will catch his attention. The AK 257."
Beom blinked. "The AK what now?"
Sasha leaned back in his chair, exuding confidence. "The AK 257. It's an experimental design. Revolutionary. He'll eat it up."
Beom stared at him, deadpan. "Sasha… we don't even have the weapon." He gestured at their surroundings, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you see any revolutionary firearms lying around here? Because all I see is a dingy room and my dwindling patience."
Sasha chuckled, clearly unbothered. "We don't need the real thing. We just need the blueprints and a convincing pitch. Leave the details to me."
Beom groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "This guy, I swear. He's like the evil genius version of a used car salesman."
"And how," Beom continued, throwing his hands up, "do you know that this weapon even exists? For all we know, it could be some myth floating around the black market forums!"
Sasha shrugged, his smirk unwavering. "That's irrelevant. What matters is that Popov thinks it exists. That's the beauty of deception, Beom."
Beom leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Oh, yeah, sure. Let's just waltz into a mansion filled with armed guards and pitch a weapon we don't even have. What could possibly go wrong?" He gave Sasha a pointed look. "You know, sometimes I think your plans are just elaborate suicide attempts disguised as 'missions.'"
Sasha chuckled, clearly amused by Beom's frustration. "That's the spirit, partner. Always thinking positively."
Beom rolled his eyes so hard he was certain he saw another dimension. "I swear, one of these days, I'm going to lose my mind working with this guy. But until then… guess I'll just have to try not to die."
Beom let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to Sasha. "So, what now? Are we going today, tomorrow, or when?" His tone was tinged with sarcasm, though he knew Sasha had already decided.
"Tonight," Sasha replied with a smirk, his voice firm and final as he got up from his chair. "So, get dressed."
Beom blinked. "Tonight? You mean, like, tonight tonight? Not tomorrow tonight?" He groaned, realizing there was no arguing with Sasha's decisiveness. Reluctantly, he grabbed his clothes and started getting ready, muttering under his breath, "Man, a little warning would've been nice. At least let me mentally prepare for infiltrating a mansion full of psychopaths."
Standing in front of the mirror, Beom adjusted his tie, frowning as he twisted and straightened it multiple times. "There. Perfect. Like a professional. If this plan fails, at least I'll look good when I get arrested—or shot."
But just as he was about to step away, something heavy and luxurious draped over his shoulders. Beom's eyes widened in shock as he glanced at the mirror. Sasha had thrown a massive fur coat over him—one that practically swallowed his smaller frame.
"What the—" Beom turned to Sasha, who stood behind him, arms crossed, an amused look on his face.
"It looks good on you," Sasha said smoothly, his smirk widening.
Beom stared at his reflection in disbelief. The coat was oversized, the fur practically engulfing his neck and shoulders, making him look like a child playing dress-up. His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a laugh. "Good on me? I look like a lost penguin in a snowstorm. This coat could double as a sleeping bag."
He turned to Sasha, shaking his head and chuckling lightly. "Naaah, I look too small in it. It hurts my pride."
Sasha raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You're the one who said size doesn't matter."
Beom rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I meant other things, not coats that make me look like a toddler who raided their dad's closet." He slipped out of the coat and handed it back to Sasha. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm trying to look like a credible investor, not a furball mascot."
Sasha laughed, draping the coat back over his own shoulders with a flourish. "Suit yourself, but don't come crying to me when you're freezing tonight."
Beom muttered under his breath, "If I freeze, it'll be because you dragged me into this ridiculous plan in the first place." He gave one last look in the mirror, smoothing his jacket. "Forget the coat. Confidence is the real accessory. I'll make this work. Even if I have to walk into that mansion looking like I belong on a toothpaste commercial instead of a weapons deal."
As Sasha adjusted his own attire, Beom crossed his arms and smirked. "By the way, you look like you stole that coat from a Bond villain."
Sasha tilted his head, clearly amused. "And you look like a kid going to his first job interview."
Beom groaned, throwing his hands up. "This is why I can't stand you." But despite the teasing, a small, amused smile lingered on his face.
The car hummed low as Sasha drove, his foot heavy on the gas. Beom sat stiffly in the passenger seat, gripping the edge of his seatbelt like it was his lifeline. Sasha wasn't even holding the steering wheel; instead, he was cracking his knuckles, one hand after the other, his focus seemingly elsewhere.
Beom's eyes darted between the speeding road ahead and Sasha's completely nonchalant face. His heart skipped several beats as the car swerved slightly to the left before Sasha corrected it—barely.
"Um... are you... gonna, you know, drive? Or are we testing fate today?" Beom asked, his voice high-pitched with panic as he tried to mask the quiver in his tone. Sasha didn't even look at him.
Sasha smirked. "Relax, I've got it under control."
"'Under control'?!" Beom squeaked, his knuckles white as he clutched the door handle. "Buddy, you're cracking your knuckles like a mafia boss about to make someone 'disappear,' and yet you're still going 80 miles per hour. Is this your idea of multitasking?"
Sasha chuckled, finally placing one hand lazily on the wheel. "Trust me, Beom. I'm an excellent driver."
Beom's thoughts were running at full speed, much like the car. "Yeah, and I'm sure that's what every reckless driver says before they make the nightly news. 'Local idiot crashes spectacularly. Passenger survives just to tell everyone how stupid his partner was.'"
He cleared his throat, attempting to sound calm but failing miserably. "Listen, Sasha, I'm a big fan of staying alive. Big fan. So if you could, you know, use both hands on the wheel and maybe slow down a little, I'd greatly appreciate not becoming a smear on the asphalt."
Sasha turned to him briefly, his smirk widening. "You're so dramatic. You really think I'd let you die?"
Beom stared at him, incredulous. "Honestly? With the way you're driving right now, I'm starting to wonder if this is some elaborate assassination attempt! If you wanted me dead, just say so! I'm open to constructive criticism!"
Sasha laughed, finally placing both hands on the wheel—but only for a moment. "You need to relax, Beom. Stressing won't save you."
Beom groaned, slumping back in his seat. "Oh, great. Now I have to make peace with my impending death. All because this psychopath thinks he's in a Fast & Furious movie."