Their arrival to Ulleungdo didn't go unnoticed. 

Gossip buzzed around the island about the strange young couple from the city. Speculation brewed about who they were, why they were there and when they would leave.

However their long weekend turned into a fortnight, which then rolled into a month, and then two more after that. It wasn't until around the six-month mark did people really realise that they were part of the furniture now. Their purchase of Jukdo cemented that, and now, nearly a year since the night of the Gala, it was very much their permanent home.

There had been deliberations about what to do for an income. Neither of them wanted to get back into Pa life, but Jimin couldn't fish for shit and Hana didn't have any qualifications to fall back on. All she knew was Pa life. So when they booted up the hard drive for the first time, they formulated a structure that Yoongi probably wouldn't have been too proud of.

Transportation was to be their main source of income, channelling shipments through Ulleungdo and back into the mainland via Donghae and Pohang. Donghae would deal with the northern territories, and Pohang would monopolise Daegu before branching further south to Busan. The ships would come down from Russia, quality-controlled in Ulleungdo and sent on their way, before returning through the same process.

The strategy was slick, foolproof, and allowed for the pair of them to keep their toes paddling in the pool of Pa business while they sunbathed in the warmth of 'normal' lives.

It was a compromise. Hana hoped that Yoongi wouldn't be too disappointed with them.

Her days were spent primarily in her office, overlooking the vast stretch of the East Sea that she had grown to love. Jimin would work by the docks, leading their men. They had nearly half the island working for them in some kind of manner by this point. From labourers and cleaners, to captains and crew, they had built their business from the group up, and it was booming. They had control over all of the boats coming in and out of Ulleungdo; tourist ferries, fishermen's boats, their own cartel ships and even the emergency lifeboats. They owned them all.

What happened to their cartel once it met the mainland was none of their concern. They kept their bubble tight. The increase in demand could have only suggested that things back home were pretty bleak, and it was easier to pretend that they weren't part of the problem.

"At what point does voyeurism become stalking?" Jimin had asked Hana when he found her transfixed by the grainy still image of an empty corridor, from a government-owned CCTV camera that had been far too easy for her to hack into. It was always the same one, with battered railings by the staircase and a door in much need of a fresh coat of paint. The brass numbers stood tarnished on the wooden panel, boasting its identity.

The numbers had once stood proud and shone brightly, reflecting the bright walkway lights – but the bulbs had been blown for months now, and the numbers hadn't been polished for even longer. It was a stark reminder of what once was and what never would be again: 32b.

Hana hadn't been keeping an eye on Seoul, no, but it would have been foolish to not sleep with one eye open.

"Keep your friends close," she'd say slowly, eyes unmoving.

"Yeah, yeah and your enemies closer," Jimin's eyes would roll at this remark. Tightness would form in her stomach, a sense of guilt, but she still couldn't stop. She had to know what he was doing, who he was with, if he was keeping well.

Truthfully, it was a debilitating hobby. Obsessed with the slightest of change to the frame, Hana noticed every single leaf that fell from the dying houseplant in the corner of the corridor. It had never been watered, and she wanted to shout at the inhabitants for not taking better care of it.

Similarly, she wanted to scream at them for not taking better care of themselves. The pattern would play itself out almost weekly. On Thursdays, a drug runner would make a drop at the flat. 

No one would rise again until Saturday evening hit. Shoulders hunched and looking worse for wear, Jungkook and Hoseok would disappear for hours. Sometimes they'd be slinging handguns into the back of their waistbands as the door clicked shut. Other nights, it would be a hip flask.

Those nights were her least favourite. Hana would keep the live stream playing while she settled business tabs and cooked herself dinner and, eventually, she'd see them return. They rarely returned at the same time, but it was normally always the same pattern; youngest first, accompanied by a pretty young woman. The elder would show up steaming a few hours later, which gave the first man enough time to have his way with his woman and then send her on her way.

It was never the same woman, and she never stayed more than an hour or two, definitely not for the full night. Ever.

They did always have one thing in common, though:

They always looked like Hana.

A few nights would pass by, and they'd roll out of their apartment at midnight. A few hours later, bloody and bruised, they'd return home. Hana half thought that they must have taken to street fighting for kicks. The underworld gambling scene was lucrative, and she knew that they had been no stranger to it in their early days.

By Thursday, the runner would be back with his weekly drop of coke and the cycle would start up again. She wondered how long it had been since he had been sober.

Then again, considering she was at the helm of the largest offshore cartel ring, she was to blame. Just another bullet point to add to her guilt list, but she'd have taken that over an actual bullet. At least he was still, to a degree, safe.

Jimin couldn't understand it. He had tried, he really had, but he just couldn't wrap his head around the way she felt. Her throat would swell and mouth dry every time she tried to explain it because she simply couldn't, not accurately.

Encased in a pristine glass box, Yoongi's switchblade was mounted on the wall of her office. It had been delivered to their door a few nights after the Gala with a condolences card from Saffy. Hana had screamed blue murder at the delivery, infuriated that they had got Jin's body out but not Yoongi's. He had been left to perish, and she had to live with that knowledge. It killed her.

The blade had been cleaned, but dry remnants of Yoongi and Jin's blood had seeped into every crack and crevice, plaguing it in their shared history. It wasn't unknown for Hana to sit aimlessly watching the blade. Jimin would never understand, no, but Yoongi had. She couldn't let his sacrifices be in vain.

If the CCTV was to be believed, Jungkook stopped going back home in late October. He had taken to wearing suits more often, with Saffy's visits becoming more frequent and Hana would watch the door, obsessed. Were they becoming closer? Had they been there to comfort each other after the loss of Jin and had it blossomed into something more? Had she taken Hana's place?

These questions kept Hana up at night. She didn't really sleep much anymore. She worked, she watched, she wondered, and that was it.

Closing the CCTV stream down, she sighed and made her way to a large open plan kitchen, where Jimin was flicking through paperwork scattered on their dining table. It could easily fit ten people, but they never invited anyone over, ever.

Jimin's hair was still black, and he had grown so much in the last year. He had taken to his role like a duck to water and thrived leading other people. He wore suits most days, but was never afraid to get down and dirty in the warehouse and help his men out. He was respected, well-liked and people worshipped the ground he walked on.

"You all good?" Hana asked, noticing his perplexed expression with curiosity.

His head shook slightly, tilting as he read through a shipment invoice and put it on top of a small stack of papers, pushing them towards Hana.

"Those are our shipments with unexplained irregularities," Jimin spoke, still rifling through more papers. Hana's fingers delicately fanned the edges, taking Jimin's word for it and asking him what it meant for the business.

"It means someone's fucking with our shipments. It's only ever the Donghae cartel and only ever on the second and third day of each month."

Hana mused for a second, mulling the information over. The pattern was too similar to be coincidental. "So who's fucking with us?"

Jimin flipped over two of the discarded invoices and bit the lid off a sharpie off with his teeth. He held it there as he drew out the numbers large enough to fill the sheets. "2 and 3," he said, turning them flat on the table to face Hana, before switching their placement. "Do the maths."

Surely not, she thought to herself.

"You sure about this?" Hana's voice was small, but not afraid. No, she was pissed off. Jimin nodded as it was the only logical explanation. "Looks like we're going home."

Hana's whole entire body felt cold as she stared at the papers in front of her, the number 32 staring back at her.