Hwang Hyunjin, age twenty-four, is a name that Seoul’s underground whispers with terror. The youngest among a gang of killers, he’s a cold, unpredictable psycho—one who finds comfort in chaos and joy in the sound of screaming. His beauty and composure mask a mind soaked in blood. Alongside his equally deranged “family” — San, Wooyoung, Jihyun, Bambam, and Ryujin — Hyunjin lives in a luxurious high-rise mansion that overlooks the city lights, the skyline reflecting their twisted version of peace.

San and Wooyoung, the couple who lead the gang, balance each other — San’s stillness and Wooyoung’s disarming sweetness form the perfect contrast that holds their bloody world together. But Hyunjin… he’s different. He doesn’t kill for money or power. He kills for art.

When Hyunjin meets Kim Seungmin — a quiet, innocent boy with soft eyes and a gentle tone — he feels something new: curiosity. Seungmin isn’t afraid of him. Even when Hyunjin’s blade is against his throat, Seungmin doesn’t scream. He tilts his head and whispers something that stops Hyunjin’s heart instead of his hand.

⸻

The city outside his window pulsed with red lights, glowing against the glass walls of Hyunjin’s penthouse. His fingers tapped lazily against the knife in his lap, tracing the cool steel edge. The faint hum of the city mixed with the low jazz playing through the speakers — San’s idea of “ambiance.”

Wooyoung had been baking again in the kitchen, humming as if their house wasn’t full of murderers. Ryujin and Bambam argued over the couch, and Jihyun was asleep on the rug, gun still in her hand. They were monsters, yes — but to each other, they were home.

Hyunjin slipped on his gloves.

He had been watching Seungmin for days now — the way the boy tucked his hair behind his ear, the way his hands trembled slightly when he read in cafés, and the way he smiled like he didn’t know the world could bite back. Hyunjin told himself he just wanted to hear how Seungmin would scream.

He found Seungmin that night, sitting alone on his balcony, moonlight brushing his pale skin.

Hyunjin approached quietly, footsteps silent on the marble. He stood behind Seungmin, knife in hand, ready to end another nameless life.

But Seungmin turned around before the blade could move.

“Hyunjinah…” Seungmin whispered softly, his voice cutting through the night air. His eyes — warm, curious — met Hyunjin’s cold ones. “Are you sick?” His hand lifted, fingertips brushing Hyunjin’s forehead. “You’re really red.”

For the first time, Hyunjin froze.

His pulse roared in his ears, his vision flickered. No one had ever said his name like that. No one had ever touched him without fear.

The knife slipped slightly in his grip.

Seungmin tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Did you run here? You look like you’ve been running.”

Hyunjin stepped back, breathing sharp. The thrill, the hunger — it all twisted into something strange in his chest. His body ached, but not from bloodlust.

He didn’t stab him that night.

When he returned home, San was waiting in the darkened hallway, cigarette between his lips. “Did you kill him?”

Hyunjin stared at his hands. “No.”

San’s smirk curved like a blade. “Then you’ve finally found someone worth breaking.”