⋆.˚⭒⋆ ꜱᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

[■■■■■■■■■■] 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ.

The room felt heavy, laden with implications that San couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the arrival of someone he couldn't yet trust, or perhaps it was the hidden mischief settled in the male's eyes. Whatever it was, it cultivated something deeply within San, sparking a curiosity that belayed him. He wasn't necessarily keen on newer individuals, especially when he felt as if he didn't need anyone else to enter within the web of his cartel. But, Seonghwa insisted on a new driver, someone who could take the heat off of Minho for the time being.

This proposition was everything that San didn't want, as he felt that Minho was the only man needed for such a task. But, Seonghwa, in agreement with Hongjoong, felt the need to expand their ranks, to lessen the risk of fatality. San would never take so kindly to such advice, that is, unless it was from either of those two. Seonghwa had been his longest running ally that he can remember, sticking by his side through everything, remaining as the one steadfast thing he'd ever be able to grasp. Hongjoong was the same way, though coming into his life much later, but had proved with his intelligence at just how pivotal of a right-hand he'd be. These two people, though alike and different in the same regard, held San together, fortifying his statements and reassuring his decisions, setting the stage for his plan with every passing day.

He needed to steal a data chip from within the government's holding, which would provide a means to intercept crucial networks and trade ports, planting himself within the mainframe of Seoul's day-to-day life. He needed more control, more power, more ground to cling to; trying to steal everything away from the harsh tenacity of his own family. He didn't much like to discuss his parents, as they had been key factors in how he had ended up as such a reverend and feared kingpin, and yet, the only two people in this world that seemed unafraid to challenge him were exactly them; his parents.

Constantly threatening his ideals, marring over his projects, talking over him and using him as a doormat; San wasn't a son in their eyes, rather a means of getting anything they wanted. A wire transfer of millions, lawyers and political figures to work beneath their foot, an empire so large that it simply ran itself without needing either of them to step into the hellish confines of their office. San didn't wish to feed into their tyrant behaviors, but when they held something so precious to him, something that made him remember who he was beneath the cloak of a killer, he felt all but indebted to protect them.

Now, he rather sits back in his chair, listening as his dog grumbles next to him. Daemon, his Doberman, seemed rather disturbed by this new individual's presence, and he couldn't fault him. The male was seemingly younger than he was, or so he looked it, his hair a mixture of darker shades of brown with light traces of blonde settled in between, contrasted with the tone of his skin and the dark umber of his eyes. His posture was slightly rigid, though somehow confident, lacking any real sense of what the male was truly feeling just beneath the edge of his facade.

Wooyoung, as he was called, was odd to San. He was standing so defiantly, cast in a hue of shock at the mere presence of such a throne room, as San liked to call it. He was merely feet away, and yet somehow, the distance settled between them felt like a cavern. Something unknown was lingering in this space, sparking with an electric fire that San couldn't quite put a finger on, and yet he chose to remain put, watching Wooyoung's every move with an analytical gaze that likely felt predatory.

"You've found yourself quite the job," San begins, leaning forward slightly to wrap his hand around the crystal of his glass, raising the whiskey just enough to swirl it around, letting the aroma of such a strong drink fill his senses. "Tell me, Wooyoung, what inspired you to take upon our offer?"

"I raced a lot in my previous town," Wooyoung replies, though San noticed the small breath the male inhaled, likely in an attempt to grasp a hold of himself. Wooyoung's eyes retreated for a moment, then returned, his composure seemingly bleeding over every single ounce of nerves he once held. "I needed more money, bigger goals and bigger targets. . . a bigger city."

"So, you come to Seoul?" San asks, arching his brow slightly in disbelief. "For what? You realize that I control every single inch of this city, don't you?"

San leans back into his seat, falling back into the haze of shadows that overtook this part of the room, all in an effort to make Wooyoung sweat. He didn't want the male to analyze him, nor did he really wish for Wooyoung to see the curiosity glimmering in his eyes. He wanted to study him, to watch the heaviness of his breaths, to study the way his eyes darted around the room, to simply see the pure effect he held on someone that was merely a stranger.

"For exactly what I told you. Money. I don't care about power, and I don't care to make a name for myself. If the quickest way to a small fortune is through your cartel, then so be it. I can play nice with others," Wooyoung replies, keeping his tone steady, though San didn't believe the confidence he was trying to portray. Instead, he rather chuckles, a low and husky sound that belayed his amusement towards the situation itself.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting the slight burn of the liquor smooth down his tongue and throat, not bothering to wince at the sting as it descends his throat. He keeps his eyes on Wooyoung, unwavering in their glare, trying to make his stance known. Wooyoung seemed to want something from San, a request or maybe to ask a few questions, but San wasn't exactly in the mood for such games. He had business to attend to, documents to brief over, plans to enact; but more importantly, he had research to unveil.

"I can't say that I'm impressed with your attitude," San begins, setting down his glass, letting his words mull over the space that was inflicted between them. "But your work ethic, the way you drive– it makes me curious."

He knew of Wooyoung partially, rather than who he was, but Seonghwa was adamant. He was a good driver, maybe a bit brazen and stubborn from the looks of it, but unphased by anything that had already happened tonight. San would've rather gotten rid of Wooyoung, tossed his body somewhere and moved on, but Seonghwa was so damn persistent– persistent enough to drag San's attention elsewhere. So, in a move of risk, he takes a chance on Wooyoung, swallowing his urges and keeping them to himself.

"Curious?" Wooyoung asks, earning a momentary hum from San in turn.

"Why haven't I heard of you before?" San pries, prodding in a hope to search for some essence of a truth. He watches as Wooyoung's chest heaves lightly as he absorbs another breath inwards, composing himself once more. He was nervous, and San could feel it. "You talk a tall tale of being a big name within another city, far from here I'd assume, and yet you come to my doorstep, the most notorious name in all of Seoul, in search of a ghost–"

"You were pretty easy to find for a ghost," Wooyoung mutters, though his voice held anything except unease. San smirks, a spark of irritation laden with subtle amusement sinking over his expression, causing him to shift in his seat slightly, watching Wooyoung without bothering to glance away.

"I like you, I'll give you that," San replies, keeping his tone low, trying to hide the layers of his true amusement, complicating his words further by lowering the depth of his voice. He leans forwards, resting his elbows on his desk, gesturing idly with his hand as Wooyoung stands before him, almost an enigmatic figure of defiance. "But hear me when I tell you, if I find out an inch of deceit coming from your name, I'll have your head mounted on the wall."

"Yes, sir," Wooyoung retorts playfully, his head bowing down slightly, almost in a mocking gesture. San bites down on the interior of his cheek, his jaw tightening, wondering why this male was anything but respectful. "You won't hear a thing."

"Be in the meeting room tomorrow morning at nine. Don't be late," San commands, rising from his chair as he points at Wooyoung, allowing the low lighting to glimmer against the rings on his hand. "You'll come to see that I don't take kindly to those who disregard the importance of my business."

San watches as Wooyoung nods, choosing to rather remain silent, swallowing whatever words sat on the tip of his tongue. San stepped around his desk, slipping a hand through his hair as he approached Seonghwa, standing just a few inches away from him. He can feel Wooyoung's eyes on him, as he isn't blind to knowing that the male was purely observing and studying his mannerisms, but for what? San wasn't sure what game this male was playing into, but whatever it was, he'd find out, no matter the cost.

"You're free to leave," Seonghwa spoke out, his voice soft in comparison to the tone he usually held. "We'll send someone to grab your things out of your car."

San watches Wooyoung, studying the way he paused, the way his breath caught in his throat, almost as if he was hesitating, stuck in a loop of thoughts that rendered him speechless. San could feel Seonghwa's gaze on him, as well as the hand he placed onto his shoulder, but San couldn't remove himself from watching Wooyoung, curious as to what had been causing him to vulnerably hesitate.

"I can go get it–" Wooyoung begins, but Seonghwa interrupts.

"No need. Settle in, get some rest. We have plans to discuss in the morning and it's already late," Seonghwa orders lightly, turning his gaze back to properly face Wooyoung as he stands before the two men, seemingly pondering his decision before he nods and turns on his heel. San watches as he exits the room, the doors slowly beginning to close behind him as his steps trail down the hall before fizzling out.

"Who the hell did you bring into my cartel, Seonghwa?" San asks, watching as Seonghwa scoffs, not quite bothered by Wooyoung's overall presence.

"He's a firecracker," Seonghwa mutters, a smirk evident. "I like that about him."

"You might like it, I rather despise it," San sneers, leaning back just enough to sit on the edge of his desk. Seonghwa turns, raising a brow.

"You like it more than you lead on, you're just made of steel and lack emotions," Seonghwa jests, nudging his elbow into San's abdomen gently. "Don't be so rash for once, San'ah. Embrace a new future of the Crimson Cartel. We're in need of a new driver; someone who's confident and maybe a bit risky. He has an edge, and you can't tell me that he doesn't."

"What are you seeing that I'm not?" San asks, folding his arms against his chest, feeling as his jacket clung to his form casually. "He's arrogant. Just based upon his demeanor alone, I can tell that he's got a motive behind everything he does. I can't trust that."

"Don't we all have a motive?" Hongjoong asks as he breaks into the room, walking with a specific bounce of swagger, a smile placed onto his lips. "Isn't that part of the reason we're all here?"

"You speak too vaguely," San says unamusingly. He raises a brow, watching as Hongjoong saunters over with too much confidence. "Why are you so eager? Didn't Seonghwa tell you to dispose of the bodies?"

"Minho insisted that he had it covered, besides–" Hongjoong waves his hand in a swatting manner, almost dismissing the topic. "I had to pay my two best friends a visit after all that. . . chaos, didn't I?"

"You use such adolescent words," San says, rolling his eyes, hiding the true amusement beneath the depth of his husky tone. "Call me something else, like your boss, for example."

"Now why would I ever do that?" Hongjoong smirks, pausing in his steps as he looms closer, leaning just an inch nearer as he drops his voice to a murmur. "You know I like to tease you, Mr. Boss Man."

San scoffs, shaking his head as he places a hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, softly pushing him backwards. "Enough of your teasing, I have work to do. Have either of you gotten my schematics from Yeosang just yet?"

Seonghwa shakes his head, taking a half-step backwards. "No, not yet. We were. . . occupied with the delivery."

"Wasn't even a delivery," San brushes off, moving away from his desk as he carefully moves between Hongjoong and Seonghwa, turning to glance over his shoulder. "They were fake bombs meant to scare the shit out of those three to see if they'd back out of the job, and Wooyoung was the only one who delivered safely. The other two were fucking idiots."

"Practice makes perfect, does it not?" Hongjoong asks, leaving San to nod, albeit hesitantly.

San pauses, hellbent on remaining the dangerous, brooding male that he was known to be, and yet, Hongjoong always knew how to make a joke out of everything. He couldn't hide the soft edges of a smirk curling on his lips, shaking his head as he turned away, using his hand to softly pat his thigh.

"Daemon, come. We've got work to do," San mutters, resuming his steps as he begins to walk away, listening as the canine's paws patter after him, following in tow loyally.

"Always work, no play," Hongjoong criticizes playfully, earning a scoff of disapproval from Seonghwa. San can hear the subtle brushing of fabric, almost as if Seonghwa had smacked Hongjoong in retort, or something vaguely similar.

"Stop it, Joong'ah, leave him be." Seonghwa's voice trails off, their banter comforting as it was familiar, leaving San to silently cherish the camaraderie settled between the three of them, even if there were bigger things at play.

San listens as his steps carry him through the doors of his office, down the vacant corridors and to the left abruptly, taking a sharp detour to trek his way towards Yeosang's control room of sorts, a rather tech-savvy empire that the male thrived in. San had bought everything Yeosang needed to run the operation from the simple flex of a keyboard and a few monitors, and now, he rather had everything he could ever want at the touch of his finger tips.

Offering a sharp knock on the door, San enters the room a moment after, Daemon following behind him like a loyal canine would. Upon entering, he spots Jongho settled in the far chair, enjoying a bottle of soju as he talked lightly with Yeosang, which was an unlikely sight for San to have seen. Jongho was rather cold and contemplative, maybe a bit cut off and reserved, but for some reason, he always seemed to have a softer gaze towards Yeosang and no one else.

Jongho, for the most part, was calculated. His dark eyes and black hair felt to be mirrors into the soul that lay within. He was very cold, killing people without remorse, feeling anything but guilt, doing what was asked of him without asking a single question. Though, Yeosang was a brighter light, maybe a bit more intuitive and meticulous, laden with technical genius that San wouldn't be able to dismiss. Yeosang brought out a softer, more delicate version of Jongho, and part of San felt at ease knowing that the people he shared a cartel with found some sort of safety within each other.

It wasn't that San was unable to feel that, he just rather chose not to. Being in love, having someone special like that attached to him, it made him feel the very thing he was terrified of. Vulnerability. The urge to protect someone, to bear his heart and his soul to someone; it was the one thing he vowed to never do. He was fine on his own, he always had been. No parents to rely on, no one to bear his soul to, no one but himself to withhold expectations for. Loneliness was the answer to a successful, well-run cartel, and he'd do just about anything to protect that.

"Yeosang," San says, approaching the male's desk with a few carefully placed steps. Yeosang turns in his chair, offering a brief smile before he leans back, glancing at Jongho before reaching for his glasses, perching them onto his nose.

"What brings you by, Sannie?" Yeosang asks, raising a brow.

"I need schematics to the government buildings, the ones I told you about," San begins, pausing his steps as he glances at Jongho, almost in a silent command for the male to exit, keeping their conversation private.

Jongho, having seen the glare, offers a brief nod, moving out of his seat and towards the door, closing it behind him as he moves past the threshold.

"The buildings in the heart of Seoul?" Yeosang questions the moment the door closes behind Jongho, switching his gaze back towards his computer monitors, the light from his keyboard illuminating back at him.

"The capitol building," San reiterates. "I need the plans for their underground bunker. They have the data chip down there, the one that holds the interface for everything that makes Seoul the way it is."

"I can snag that," Yeosang comments, tilting his head slightly as he hovers his fingers above his keyboard. "It'll just take a second–"

"But?" San asks, stepping closer, placing a hand on the edge of Yeosang's desk, leaning into it, looking between Yeosang's monitors and the male himself.

"There's got to be a reason for all of this," Yeosang presses, his curiosity bleeding through his words. "I won't ever question you, boss, but I have a feeling there's more to this data chip that you're letting be known."

San contemplates, pausing before he speaks, his jaw tightening absentmindedly as he waits, watching Yeosang with a slight pinch of his brows. Yeosang was a loyal member of this group, as was everyone else, but his ability to see through all of San's plans by just being curious was something he respected beyond all means. Though, he wouldn't lie in saying it irritated him all the same.

"I have plans, Yeosang. I need this data chip to enact said plans," San says lowly, not really bothering to explain any further. Yeosang, having caught the hint and slight irritation from San's body language, decided against pressing any more, nodding curtly as he turned to face his monitors.

"I'll get to it." Yeosang begins typing, fingers deftly moving against his keyboard with very little hesitance, barely looking down to see exactly where his fingertips were landing as a line of code falls over his left monitor. San leans away, tapping the back of Yeosang's chair, almost in a gesture of silent gratitude that he knew wouldn't go missed.

San slowly begins to turn around, strolling back towards the door before he pauses, tightening his jaw, narrowing his gaze as he stops in his tracks. A lingering question runs stale on his tongue, a murmur of doubt and the shadow of regret resting over his shoulders like a looming storm cloud. He wanted to know more, or rather, he wanted to know everything possible about Wooyoung.

The male was undoubtedly someone who he knew would push his buttons. Though, something about him felt. . . off. There was something confusing about him and why he remained so oddly defiant. Curiosity befell him, and for the first time in a long time, the swell of interest he had long since ignored ignites like a campfire, glowing and burning away beneath the grandeur of the evening sky, casting aflame subtly. San knew that diving into Wooyoung's past wouldn't be easy, as it felt overly too perfect for someone as charming to be practically invisible from another city. How he ended up in Seoul of all places, searching for work with a set of skills such as the ones he harbored; it confused San beyond belief.

"Yeosang–" San calls out, glancing over his shoulder.

Yeosang shuffles around in his chair briefly, raising a brow as he adjusts his glasses, watching San with a silent plea for the male to continue.

"Look into Jung Wooyoung, dig up anything and everything you can." San wets his lips, looking down at his dog, watching as the canine looks back up at him with a familiar glimmer, something that had always grounded him when the tides of his mind were too strong. "I need to know everything. There's something about him I can't place, and I– I don't trust him."

"I don't think any of us do," Yeosang replies, keeping his tone even, though soft in an aspect San hadn't anticipated. "But with the line of work we do, with the things we commit to, trusting anyone new is harder than it seems."

San bites his tongue, keeping his words at bay, choosing to rather nod as he begins to move towards the door. He knew Yeosang would do everything that was asked of him and he wouldn't question it, but deep down San knew more than anything else that Yeosang could see through it all. He wasn't dumb, practically the pure opposite. But, San wasn't idiotic in knowing that Yeosang would bite off more than he could chew. Yeosang was ambitious like that, which is what made him the perfect person for the role he fit into.

A part of him worried that Seonghwa was too rash in his decision making, though he knew that he needed to trust the men who worked beneath him. He chose everyone within this cartel for a reason, and none of them have disappointed or proved him otherwise. There was a delicate balance built between San and his men, and he'd do just about anything to protect the folds of an empire he built with his bare hands.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎. . .⋙

The warm embrace of steam and water tightly hug the area of the porcelain shower, raining down without worry for mercy. San had found himself glued to the downpour of water, lingering in the shower for maybe a bit too long, pressing his palms against the wall while his head tilted beneath the cascading water, feeling as the droplets moved through his hair and down the back of his neck, curling all the way down his chest and stomach, running down into the slotted drain to be recycled.

His mind was a current of thoughts, a forever downpour of things that felt too uneasy to be unveiled. He could harbor it internally, just as he did everything else, keeping himself straight laced and put-together for the sake of the cartel. But here, in the confines of the shower, he felt this to be the only place where he could be a fraction of who he used to be, a mere human lost in a world he deemed cruel.

The only things he knew were barbaric and tyrannical, laden with a pool of blood that seemed to etch over everything he was raised to believe. A poised figure of society, forever bearing a suit and a higher education, lost in a world that was too blind to see the true darkness settled behind a mask of fake tranquility. It was all he knew all those years ago, picturesque perfection, an abysmal social light glimmering too brightly, hazing him with the idea that a life like that, a life of pure isolation, would be the only thing he deserved.

The irony wasn't lost on him; he knew where he was. He may be surrounded by loyal members of a world he built, sitting on the throne like some sort of long lost king. Yet, he was alone, settled beneath the storm of a shower, listening to his own hollow breaths cast beneath the pour of water. Being lonely didn't bother him; not really, anyway. But a part of him knew that remaining this way would forever isolate him into the darkness he created for himself, glued to the idea that being alone would be the only thing he needed. He didn't care for the fortune, the power, the control he held over the entire city, but vulnerability, love and trust– those were all things he couldn't allow himself to dive into, let alone fall victim to.

Shakily, his hands move, turning off the shower, listening as the curl of water flows down into the drain, sinking into the pipes, dragging the thoughts of his own cruelty along with it. His moment of negativity is lost, leaving him to shoulder his armor again, placing the facade of the kingpin he knew how to portray so incredibly well back across his features, expressionless and numb.

As San left the comfort of his warm shower, he wrapped a towel around himself, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling as the wet strands cascade and mingle intermittently, dangling in front of his gaze as the water droplets curled to the tips. San glances at himself in the mirror, studying the depth and array of his tattoos, watching as they crawl from the thick of his neck and down his shoulders, breezing past his collarbones and onto the planes of his chest, contouring themselves down his sides and near his stomach. Each one told a story, a small tale of a life he once had, lost in a tangled web of blood and gunpowder. The tattoos covered much of his skin, covering wounds he longed to forget. Scars trailed up his sides and down his back, a laden memory of a gruesome ordeal, one that had rendered him in a coma and clinging to life with the tip of his finger.

Being a kingpin, being a true mafia boss, placed a target so large upon his back, he felt the need to remain shadowed. He hid away, keeping his face out of the light, looming like a phantom in a dark room. He had people to do his jobs for him, political figures beneath the faint bend of his knee, money accumulated to a fortune that felt to never be dented into; he wasn't afraid, but he rather had nothing to truly ever fear. He wasn't afraid of dying, of injury, of being overrun or caught by the police. He had one goal in mind, one thing he wished to do before he embarked on his journey to a forever sleep: to get the data chip, and to put an end to everything his parents had built.

After changing his clothes, adorning something more comfortable, San moves back into his suite, allowing his eyes to trace over the subtle decor and low-lighting within his room. His bed was rather large, set in the dead center of the room, accented with a dark comforter and headboard, lit by modern sconces hung on the wall. His bedside tables were empty, save for the picture frame that sat on one side, face down, never to be placed upright. Daemon's bed was nearby, which had been a rather large black embroidered cushion, a few bones scattered nearby with his food dishes against the wall. The room was darkly painted, the floors a rich umber with decadent hardwood, contrasted with the plush of a red and gold rug, kept neat and centered beneath the hem of his bed.

His room was cold, barren of any real connection to a part of himself that he rather chose to harbor. It was plain, settled with just enough furniture and subtle decor to make it feel somewhat like home. Even with the lighting, the warm linens, the softer, monochromatic tones of paint; the room still felt cold, empty, burdened with being too afraid to dive into something that would give him purpose. He had enough, just enough to get by, and enough to not place a target on someone else's back.

The sudden buzz of his phone elicits a quiet sigh, a release of a breath he didn't quite realize he had been holding. Pulling it free from his pocket, he glances down, catching sight of a message from Yeosang, one that had simply read: I'm done.

He figured Yeosang would be quick with his work, as he usually always was, but part of San didn't expect all of his research to be done within just a few hours. If Wooyoung was who he said he was, surely there was a myriad of truths hidden beneath a line of code, lost in a city on the other side of the country. Someone with his skillset, with his training and ability to drive with such ease, likely stirred up enough of a headline somewhere. But to capture all of the information so easily, without issue, rendered San slightly at a loss. Yet, he shrugged, walking towards his door, closing it behind him, leaving Daemon to rest comfortably on his bed, chasing after the sleep San had wished he too could partake in.

Strolling back down the hall, San carries himself quickly to Yeosang's office, not knocking on the door before he enters, finding that the male was still sitting in the same spot, this time with a mug of coffee in his hands.

"You're quick," San mutters, closing the door behind him. "What'd you find?"

"The schematics were easy work. Five minutes tops," Yeosang says, setting down his coffee mug as he moves his hand to his mouse, clicking on a few things before he pulls up the images, safely stored away in some sort of rotating IP network. "I've got them all here in an encrypted file. We can print them, or we can upload them to the holographic system in the meeting room."

"That's good," San commends, lingering closer, waiting for Yeosang to continue talking, but he doesn't. "Wooyoung–?"

"That's what I called you here for," Yeosang slowly begins, taking a breath inwards. "There's nothing on him. Not a single thing. I've searched through criminal databases, the underground data market, anything from cities that are within driving distance from here. In our proximity, at least from my point of view, he's a damn ghost."

San recoils slightly, his brows furrowing. A ghost? How could he be? San leans closer, pointing at Yeosang's monitor. "Show me something. There has to be something."

"And here I was thinking you were the only ghost in town," Yeosang mutters, scoffing lightly as he types away on his keyboard, shuffling through a line of code before a new window pops up, the large red words of NO DATA FOUND appearing before San's very eyes. "Like I said; he's a ghost. There's nothing to his name."

"Is it possible that he's using a fake name?" San questions, but Yeosang shrugs.

"I don't think so. I scanned images of his face from the documents Seonghwa gathered upon Wooyoung's application from the dark web. Facial recognition didn't work either. So, either he's from an entirely different country, or he's erased everything there was to know about him. His digital footprint is gone, San. There's nothing for me to pull from."

San's brows furrow, irritation flicking across his features before he settles, swallowing the anger that suddenly coats his tongue. Were they being tricked? Was all of Wooyoung's mischief and terrible manners an act? Was there an angle they missed beyond all of the layers of his demeanor and skill set?

"Look harder." San's words left no room for argument, his tone deep and insufferably husky.

"San–"

"I said what I said, Yeosang. Do it. Look harder."

Yeosang pauses, looking at San before he looks away again, adjusting his glasses with a subtle gesture. He nods, no trace of hesitation in his movements as he hovers his fingers over the keyboard once more, pressing the escape key to exit out of his programs.

"I'll try again." Yeosang keeps his tone even, but San can hear the subtle laces of exhaustion seeping through his every word.

He hesitates, leaning away from Yeosang's desk as he moves towards the door again, his hand resting on the handle. He turns his head, gazing over his shoulder, allowing his words to carry over the dark space between them.

"In the morning," San comments. "Get some rest, Yeosang. The work can wait."

Yeosang turns in his chair, saluting San with a subtle smile before he returns his gaze to his computer, already beginning to type again. "I'll do my best, boss. See you in the morning."

San nods, walking out of Yeosang's office and back into the corridor, allowing the flood of white lights to hang over him like some sort of suffocating cloud. Though, his curiosity befalls him. Instead of turning to the right, striding back towards the odd comfort of his dreary bedroom, he turns left, moving back towards his office, each step heavier with the wait of unease. He needed to know more, to know everything, to seek and search for who this man was. He was hiding something, and San would do anything to uncover it.

The confines of his office were cold, a mirrored image to just how he kept his entire life. He flicks on the lights, pressing his fingers into his temple before walking closer to his desk, tracing a finger along the line of the wood as he passes. Settling into his leather chair, he moves his hand beneath the center of the desk, brushing against a button that lay hidden, well within the shadows. Pressing it, San spins his chair around, watching as the wall behind him shifts, the contraption whirring quietly before it hums, lowering the wall before him to unveil an array of screens, all of which flickered to life the moment the wall receded half of the way. Cameras, dispersed into every room within this compound, suddenly began to display among the monitors, revealing every inch of the facility behind the view of a laden lens. San reclined into his seat, resting an elbow onto one of the arms of his chair while his chin rested in the cusp of his palm, his eyes carefully watching each screen for the enticing view of movement. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or even if he was searching for anything, but he wanted to believe that something was wrong. It all felt off, a weird intuition that he didn't wish to believe and yet couldn't dispel.

It was late, well within the depth of the evening, but San couldn't care. Sleep was a fickle thing, something he'd easily survive without, and somehow, it didn't bother him. He couldn't sleep much without figuring out the depth of this issue anyway, so he'd rather sit here for as long as it took, waiting for the faintest slip up from the man he couldn't exactly trust.

Hours pass by the time San slowly begins to nod off, his eyes lulling, gaze overly exhausted, shifting more comfortably into his chair as he uses a voice command to lower the lights. The screens were still, void of life and movement in a compound that somehow felt compromised. He was slowly beginning to give in, to break away from this suspicion and to finally just concede, but the faintest glimmer of sudden movement drew his attention away, spurring him into leaning forward, staring directly into the monitor that was placed in the center.

There he was, just like San expected him to be. Wooyoung was moving through the corridor, sneaking about, looking around every corner for an unknown presence, searching for someone to be lurking when they were rather sleeping. He was in search of something, looking around at the doors and details of the compound, taking note of the staircase and shuffling down into a corridor, eventually disappearing into one of the storage rooms as the sounds from Jisung and Minho appeared from around the corner. San watches as Wooyoung disappears into the storage room, just in time as Minho and Jisung disappear into their apparent shared room, which was a relationship he hadn't been too aware of. The moment the door closes and the pair sinks into the confines of their safety net, Wooyoung eventually exits the room, maybe after a few minutes of lingering in the event that someone else was up and roaming about.

Wooyoung then walks a careful line, strolling to the opposite corridor, glancing from door to door, eventually stumbling across the garage door. San continues to watch, his eyes narrowing, brows pinching together, one hand holding his chin as he sat by and watched, trying to piece the pieces together in any way he could. But then, it all clicks.

Wooyoung was awkward about getting his stuff himself just mere hours ago, wanting to retrieve all of his items from his car personally rather than rest safely within the confines of his temporary room. It almost felt as if he didn't want someone in his car, and didn't wish for them to search through his belongings. From what San knew, Changbin looked through the car and found nothing of importance: a bag of clothes, another bag of his equipment, along with a hoodie and some other random items one would usually find within a car. Nothing raised the glare of a question in Changbin's eyes, but San felt as if he had missed something; something important.

He watches as Wooyoung grabs his car keys, shuffling past the line of sports cars and luxury vehicles until stumbling across his own, unlocking it and heading inside. San couldn't clearly see what he was reaching for, nor to what he was grabbing, but by the time Wooyoung closes his door and locks his car, San spots something within the male's hand. There's a very faint, blurry glimmer of something unknown within Wooyoung's grasp, but it could've been anything. A medication bottle, a phone charger, headphones or even just something as simple as his wallet. Though, San had a feeling it was much more important than something as fickle as that.

Wooyoung quickly hurries back into the compound, nearly running into Seonghwa as he rounds a corner, discreetly placing his hands at his side, hiding the item within his palm expertly. San, however, could see his every move, even if Seonghwa couldn't. They were chatting, discussing something that seemed to cause Seonghwa momentary confusion, something that San could easily read from the view of the camera. However, as San's eyes move to watch Wooyoung once more, he notices the male's hand moving to his pack pocket, sliding what appeared to be a cell phone into the safety of his jeans, hidden and well out of sight from Seonghwa. San leans backwards, unable to hear the conversation but picturing the idea that Seonghwa was questioning everything that Wooyoung was doing, especially at near five in the morning.

As the conversation ends and Seonghwa disappears from view, Wooyoung saunters back towards his room, disappearing beyond the confines of his door, well away from the view of San's cameras. San leans back into his chair, folding his arms against his chest, chewing on his lower lip as his curiosity only dares to grow.

Jung Wooyoung, San thinks, feeling his jaw tighten. Who the hell even are you?