Requested by saturnlvss.

You learned that Ahn Su-ho never backed down.

The second thing was that he remembered faces.

You stood among the Union boys, gaze sharp. You weren’t loud, didn’t throw punches unless necessary. Presence was enough. You carried messages, watched corners, reported movements. Survival came first. Loyalty followed close behind.

Su-ho noticed you during a fight that wasn’t supposed to last long. Two people already knocked down when his eyes flicked past the chaos and landed on you.

You didn't look away. He smiled.

“You,” He said later, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re Union.”

You stared.

“You look at people like you're always studying.” He said. “And your eyes move like you’re counting exits.”

You hated that he was right.

From then on, he became a problem. He disrupted plans. Every time the Union moved against him, he hit back harder. And every time, your chest tightened with something dangerously close to respect.

“Why don’t you just stay down?”

“Why don’t you stop pretending this is what you want?” He answered.

Your hand curled into fists before you could stop it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me,” He said.

The Union started asking more. They wanted names. Weaknesses. Timing. You delivered, hesitation growing heavier each time. When Su-ho got ambushed because of information you gave, the guilt sat like lead in your stomach.

He found you that night, bruised and breathing hard, eyes burning.

“Was it you?” He asked.

You didn’t answer. Never did.

He exhaled slowly, anger draining into something quieter. “Figures.”

You expected him to hit you. Instead, his face twisted in a mix of amusement and pain.

You didn't know why.

The next time you met, you didn't have time for words. It collapsed into violence the way storms did—sudden, inevitable.

Your fist moved before your thoughts could stop it.

“You should hate me!” You shouted, frustration tearing through your voice as another punch sliced through the air just short of his cheek.

You were evenly matched. That, too, unsettled you.

Su-ho pivoted at the last second, your knuckles grazing nothing but air. He turned his head to look at you properly then, eyes sharp, breath steady despite the chaos.

“I tried to,” He admitted. “Didn’t work.”

Then he smiled.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just that infuriating, crooked grin like he thought you were worth the trouble.

Rage flared hot in your chest.

“Stop smiling!” You snapped, swinging again.

He didn’t strike back.

That was the worst part.

He kept moving, fluid and precise, dodging every punch with infuriating ease. He stepped out of range, shifted his weight, ducked at the last possible moment. Your fists cut through empty space again and again, the impact reverberating uselessly up your arms.

“Fight back!” You yelled.

His voice stayed low, almost gentle. “Wouldn't wanna hurt you.” A hint of sarcasm.

That broke something.

You lunged forward recklessly, anger sharpening your movements, grief and guilt tangling in your muscles. He caught your wrist mid-swing, grip firm but careful, like he was afraid of bruising you.

“Let go,” You hissed.

He didn’t. “You’re exhausted,” He said instead. “Not weak. Not cruel. Just tired of being someone else’s weapon.”

Your breath stuttered. And standing there—anger giving way to something dangerously fragile, you realized enemies didn’t look at you like that.

You wrenched your arm free. He only watched you, eyes dark, expression stripped bare of humor.

He replied: "You’re punishing yourself.”

Your hands shook. You hated that he was right. That he had never once treated you like the enemy, even when you had given him every reason to.

When you swung again, it was slower. He stepped in this time, hands coming up to trap your wrists gently but unyieldingly.

“That’s enough,” He said.

You froze. You were close enough to see the bruising under his eye, the cut at his lip—damage you had helped cause.

Enemies, you had told yourself.

But enemies didn’t refuse to fight back. Did they?