guys lets continue I've watched every single MAMA 2024  performance so yeah

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Every party ended, and every hook-up was fleeting. When the night faded and Yeonjun returned to the cold halls of his family's estate, the emptiness crept back in. The mornings after were always the hardest, when reality sank its claws into him. The reminders of his duty, the expectations, and the ever-looming future felt heavier in the silence.

"Did you enjoy your night out?" his father would ask, not with curiosity but with disapproval masked in politeness. Yeonjun never answered. He didn't have to.

Instead, he threw himself back into training, sharpening the skills that defined his existence. Combat drills, strategy meetings, and the occasional bloody mission—it was the life he knew best. His father called it discipline. Yeonjun called it survival.

The only time he didn't feel the weight of judgment was with Kai. While the rest of the world expected him to be ruthless and perfect, Kai didn't care about his reputation or his scars. With Kai, he could almost pretend he was normal—or as close to normal as someone like him could get.

"You're going to burn yourself out, Hyung," Kai would tease, flopping onto one of the oversized couches in the estate's lounge. "One day, you'll meet someone who doesn't fall for your bad-boy act, and they'll ruin you."

Yeonjun had laughed at that, a short, humorless sound. "Not happening. I don't do feelings."

Kai raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. They both knew that Yeonjun's walls weren't coming down anytime soon—not without a fight.

And fight he would. Because the thought of letting anyone in, of letting anyone see the cracks beneath the mask, was more terrifying than the idea of a bullet with his name on it.

But life being an assassin didn't allow for much control, no matter how tightly Yeonjun tried to hold the reins.

He didn't know it yet, but everything he had carefully built—his walls, his independence, his mask—was about to shatter. All it would take was a name.

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For Beomgyu, the mafia world demanded everything and gave nothing in return. He was a natural leader, sharp and decisive, commanding respect from even the most hardened criminals. People admired his precision, his ability to handle deals, and his fearlessness on the battlefield.

But none of it made him whole.

Behind closed doors, when the adrenaline of a mission faded and the weight of his choices settled in, Beomgyu was left with nothing but silence—and the memories of the lives he'd taken. The bloodstains on his hands never really washed off.

He was good at pretending. To his family, to their allies, even to himself, he played the part of the unshakable heir. But at night, when the darkness felt too suffocating, the cracks in his armor became too much to bear.

In those moments, the blades he wielded so expertly in combat became his escape. The sharp edge against his skin offered a release he couldn't find anywhere else—a twisted solace in the pain he could control. While the world saw him as powerful and untouchable, Beomgyu saw himself as broken, drowning in guilt and self-loathing.

The worst part was that no one knew. No one could know. He had learned early on that weakness was a liability in the mafia. If his parents ever found out, they wouldn't offer comfort or understanding—they would see him as a failure. A liability.

And so, he bore it alone. Every cut, every scar was a secret carved into his skin, a silent cry for help he couldn't afford to voice.

But Beomgyu wasn't naïve. He knew he couldn't keep going like this. The only question was whether the mafia world would break him completely before he found a way out—or if there even was a way out.

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The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Beomgyu sat at his desk, the soft glow of a single lamp casting shadows over stacks of documents—contracts, territory maps, and lists of names he wished he didn't have to memorize.

He stared blankly at the papers, his fingers twitching as if itching to crumple them all into a ball and toss them into the fire. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, his eyes drifted to the small drawer on the side of his desk. It wasn't locked—he didn't need it to be. No one ever dared to enter his space without permission. Slowly, almost mechanically, he pulled it open, revealing a sleek, polished blade resting atop a folded cloth.

His hands trembled as he picked it up, the familiar weight grounding him, even as it filled him with dread. Beomgyu turned the blade in his hand, watching the way the light danced along the edge. It was a beautiful weapon, sharp and deadly, like everything else in his life.

Just one more time, he told himself. Just enough to feel something.

The blade pressed against his skin, cool and unforgiving. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he hesitated. But the whirlwind of emotions he had buried for so long—guilt, anger, sadness—threatened to overwhelm him. With a sharp inhale, he dragged the blade across his arm, the sting and warmth of blood providing a twisted sense of relief.

His chest heaved as he leaned back in his chair, the weight in his chest momentarily lifting. The pain was easier to deal with than the chaos in his head. This, at least, he could control.

But as the blood trickled down his arm, pooling on the edge of the desk, Beomgyu's thoughts took a darker turn. How much longer can I keep this up? How much longer before this isn't enough?

A sharp knock on the door startled him, his hand jerking away as if caught in a crime. He fumbled to grab a tissue, pressing it against his arm as the door creaked open.

"Beomgyu?" a familiar voice called softly. It was Soobin, his older brother, the one person who had always tried to protect him in their own quiet way.

Beomgyu's heart raced as he scrambled to hide the blade in the drawer, blood-streaked tissues crumpled tightly in his fist. "Yeah?" he croaked, his voice hoarse.

Soobin stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the tense set of Beomgyu's shoulders and the faint smell of metal in the air. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Beomgyu snapped, a little too quickly.

Soobin sighed, his hand hovering as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it. "Take care of yourself, Beomgyu. You don't have to do everything alone."

As Soobin left, closing the door behind him, Beomgyu exhaled shakily, his hands gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.

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Why am i making this so good i love this book it might be my fav out of the entire trilogy