The devil wears Gucci
Jungkook
The police tent was buzzing with activity, but to Jungkook, it felt more like a chaotic circus than a well-oiled investigation. Officers darted between tables stacked with tech equipment, maps, and empty coffee cups, their faces a mix of exhaustion and grim determination. In the center of it all stood Jungkook, arms crossed, watching the organized chaos unfold with a frown deep enough to carve a trench. His black shirt clung to him uncomfortably, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing veins that were far more awake than the rest of him.
“Seokjin,” Jungkook growled, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. “Tell me these bugs in the sleeping bags are working.”
Across the table, Seokjin barely looked up from his laptop, his expression the picture of calm indifference. The man had the audacity to look fresh, as if the relentless pressure of a hostage crisis didn’t faze him at all. His fingers tapped away on the keyboard with infuriating precision.
“Oh, they’re working,” Seokjin replied casually, not even glancing up. “The signal’s coming through loud and clear. The bugs are fine. Better than fine, actually. I embedded them in the thermal lining of the sleeping bags to minimize interference. Did you know most fabrics create micro-interruptions in RF signals? Of course, I calibrated the transmission frequency to counteract that, but—”
Jungkook held up a hand, cutting him off. “Stop. Just… stop. I’m too tired for this technical crap. Are they working or not?”
“They’re working,” Seokjin said with an exaggerated sigh, as if Jungkook were the unreasonable one. “For now. Assuming none of the masked lunatics decide to microwave the sleeping bags or wrap them in tinfoil for fun.”
Jungkook rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a migraine clawing its way into his skull. “Great. That’s… reassuring.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Seokjin quipped, leaning back in his chair with a tired grin. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”
Before Jungkook could retort, Captain Park’s deep voice boomed across the tent. “Jeon!”
Jungkook turned to find the captain striding toward him, his face set in the usual scowl that made even the boldest officers avoid eye contact. The man was built like a tank and had the demeanor of a drill sergeant who had seen too much and cared too little.
“You look like shit,” Captain Park said bluntly, stopping in front of him.
“Thanks, sir,” Jungkook replied dryly. “Really needed to hear that.”
“I’m serious,” Park continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Jungkook hesitated, racking his brain. What even was sleep? Did closing your eyes for two minutes while staring at evidence count? Probably not.
“I’m fine,” he lied, straightening his posture. “I’m needed here.”
“No, you’re not.” Park crossed his arms, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re running on fumes, and if you pass out in the middle of something important, it’s going to be a bigger pain in the ass for me. Go home. Get some rest. That’s an order.”
Jungkook opened his mouth to protest but quickly realized it was pointless. Captain Park wasn’t the kind of man you argued with unless you had a death wish. Still, the idea of leaving felt wrong.
“I’ll sleep later,” Jungkook insisted, though even he didn’t believe it. “I need to be here in case something happens.”
“Jeon.” Park’s tone was sharp, cutting through the haze of Jungkook’s exhaustion. “Go home. Sleep. Two hours minimum. Come back in four. That’s non-negotiable.”
Jungkook sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. He glanced at Seokjin, hoping for some backup, but the man just shrugged, clearly enjoying the show.
“Fine,” Jungkook muttered, defeated. “But I’ll be back in four hours. Not a minute more.”
“Good,” Park said, already turning away. “You look like you’ve been dragged through hell.”
Jungkook bit back a retort, grabbing his coat and heading for the exit. The fresh air outside hit him like a slap, cold and sobering. He climbed into his car and started the engine, the low hum filling the silence as he pulled onto the empty road.
The drive home was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against his ears and left too much room for his thoughts to wander. And wander they did.
He thought about the heist—the chaos at Lotte World Tower, the wedding of the year turned into a nightmare. The VIPs held hostage, their dirty secrets sold off to the highest bidder on a livestream that the whole country was eating up like popcorn at a blockbuster.
The crew in their hauntingly grinning masks, mocking the police with every move, turning the heist into a twisted spectacle. They were more than criminals—they were performers, orchestrating a show that had the nation hooked.
And then there was Lee Jaesun. The groom’s older brother, absent from the wedding due to a tragic accident that had spared him from the nightmare. He should’ve been easy to write off—another spoiled rich kid caught up in circumstances beyond his control. But something about him didn’t add up.
Jungkook couldn’t put his finger on it, but Jaesun intrigued him. There was a flicker of something in the man’s eyes, something measured and deliberate, that gnawed at the back of Jungkook’s mind.
By the time Jungkook pulled into the lot outside his apartment, his head felt heavier than his heart. His place was nothing special—moderate and functional, the kind of apartment you rented when work was your life. The living room was sparsely furnished, dominated by a worn couch, a coffee table covered in case files, and a single framed photo on the wall.
The photo caught his eye as he stepped inside. It was of him and his older brother, their arms slung around each other, smiles wide and genuine. Jungkook’s chest tightened as he looked at it.
He had visited his brother that afternoon, before the heist had upended everything. The memory felt distant now, as if it belonged to another life. His brother’s voice, rough but warm, echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of the time slipping away.
“Hyung,” Jungkook whispered, his voice barely audible in the empty room. “When will this nightmare end?”
Shaking off the thought, Jungkook headed to his bedroom, peeling off his clothes with the lethargy of a man twice his age. As he reached for his shirt, his fingers brushed against something hard and smooth in his front pocket. He looked down to see the thick, embossed business card Jaesun had given him earlier.
He stared at it for a moment, his brows furrowing. That business card—it wasn’t just a card. It had felt like an invitation.
But to what?
Jungkook shook his head, trying to shove the unease aside.
With a sigh, he placed the card on the table and crawled into bed, the promise of two hours of sleep feeling both like a blessing and a curse.
*******
Taehyung - Seonsaengnim
Taehyung leaned back in his rickety desk chair, an antique he’d salvaged during his early days in this apartment—his first hideout. It didn’t matter that one of its wheels was loose or that the desk had coffee rings etched into its wood; this was the birthplace of his plan.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins after leaving the police tent made it impossible to sit still, let alone sleep. He felt electric, like a live wire that could set fire to the room if it got too close to anything grounded. His lips twitched into a smile—a grin that stretched unnervingly wide as he replayed the day’s events in his head. Perfect. Every last detail. The police were dancing on strings he’d tied months ago. Jungkook—poor, earnest Jungkook—was exactly where Taehyung needed him to be.
“Checkmate,” he muttered to himself, the word laced with delight. He drummed his fingers on the desk like a kid hyped up on sugar and the promise of more mischief.
Taehyung’s hands flew to his laptop. He flipped it open with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling an ancient treasure. The glow of the screen illuminated his face, highlighting the manic glint in his eyes. He navigated quickly to a private, heavily encrypted auction site, grinning as he saw the numbers climb. Han Yejin’s dirty little secrets—the bride’s own skeletons rattling louder than her diamond-studded shoes—were selling like hotcakes.
The bids were astronomical. One number jumped so high that he let out a bark of laughter, the kind that teetered on the edge of hysteria. “Oh, Yejin,” he cooed at the screen, “you’re worth more than I thought. Maybe I underestimated you, huh?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “But don’t worry, I’m putting you to excellent use.”
Watching the bids climb felt better than any drug. It wasn’t about the money—though that was nice. No, it was about power, about control. These people, with their secret bank accounts and illicit deals, were scurrying like rats to outbid each other, desperate to hide their connections to Han Yejin.
Taehyung sat back, crossing his legs at the knee. The satisfied smirk on his face twisted into something darker, almost predatory. “I should start a customer loyalty program,” he mused aloud, half-serious. “Buy one scandal, get the next one free.”
Once the initial thrill subsided, he leaned forward again, pulling up another window on his laptop. This one was far less flashy—an innocuous interface that looked like nothing more than an outdated music player. But Taehyung’s fingers danced across the keyboard, activating the real purpose behind the program.
The bug.
The business card he’d given Jungkook earlier wasn’t just a flashy prop; it was a masterpiece of modern espionage. Embedded inside the luxurious, extra-thick card was a microbug so advanced it could pick up conversations through layers of fabric. He’d laughed when it arrived from the lab, marveling at how far technology had come. A bug in a business card? It was almost too easy.
He clicked the interface, and a faint crackling sound filled the room, resolving into the muffled voices of the police tent. For a moment, there was nothing but static, and Taehyung frowned, tapping the desk impatiently. Then:
“Seokjin,” Jungkook’s voice came through, sharp and agitated. Taehyung’s grin returned instantly, his excitement bubbling over.
“Tell me these bugs in the sleeping bags are working,” Jungkook growled.
On the other end, Taehyung could hear Seokjin’s infuriatingly calm tone. “Oh, they’re working. The signal’s coming through loud and clear…”
Taehyung leaned closer to the laptop, practically vibrating with energy. “Oh, this is gold,” he muttered, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the desk.
He listened, fidgeting like a child in a candy store, as Seokjin rambled on about RF signals and thermal linings. Jungkook’s exasperated sighs were like music to Taehyung’s ears.
Taehyung nearly choked on his coffee. “Thermal lining! Oh Ghost, you’re adorable,” he whispered, his grin widening. The absurdity of it all was too good to keep to himself. Here they were, patting themselves on the back for hiding bugs in sleeping bags, while he sat in his dingy apartment, listening to them through his own device.
He imagined the officers standing around, feeling so clever, so accomplished. Taehyung leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, the picture of smug satisfaction. “You’re all running around playing Clue, and I’m out here writing the script for the damn game,” he said aloud.
The best part? Not a single one of them would suspect his fancy business card of anything more sinister than questionable design choices. “A bug in a business card,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Meanwhile, you’re sewing RF transmitters into quilts.”
He hit pause on the audio for a moment, unable to contain his laughter anymore. “Honestly,” he said between gasps, wiping a tear from his eye, “I should give them a head start just to make this sporting. But where’s the fun in that?”
The thought of Jungkook unknowingly carrying Taehyung’s little spy device right back into the tent while Seokjin bragged about his own handiwork sent Taehyung into another fit of laughter. If irony were a drug, he was absolutely high on it.
“Stop. Just… stop,” Jungkook snapped, clearly at the end of his rope. “Are they working or not?”
Taehyung bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
Seokjin’s deadpan reply—“They’re working. For now.”—made him want to applaud. He could almost see the frustration etched on Jungkook’s face, the tightness in his jaw. Taehyung tilted his head, amused.
“Ah, Jungkook-ah,” he murmured to himself, his tone half-teasing. “So serious. So stressed. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.”
Then came Captain Park’s booming voice, cutting through the banter like a knife. Taehyung froze, his grin widening as he recognized the commanding tone.
“Jeon!”
Taehyung’s fingers twitched, hovering over the laptop keys as he leaned even closer to the speakers.
“You look like shit,” Park said bluntly, and Taehyung let out a soft chuckle.
“Oh, he really does sleep-deprived.,” Taehyung whispered, his grin now a borderline maniacal slash across his face. “But I can’t take all the credit for that, can I?”
The conversation that followed was everything he could have hoped for. Jungkook’s thinly veiled sarcasm. Park’s no-nonsense attitude. The audible defeat in Jungkook’s voice as he reluctantly agreed to go home for a few hours of sleep.
When the conversation ended, Taehyung leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. “And just like that,” he said to no one in particular, “my dear Jungkook carries my little gift right back to the heart of the action. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
He clasped his hands together, his smile now eerily calm. Every piece was moving exactly as he’d predicted. The brilliance of his plan—and the sheer fun of it all—left him feeling euphoric.
Taehyung reached for a nearby cup of coffee, taking a sip before setting it down and spinning his chair in a slow circle. “I should really sleep,” he said aloud, though he had no intention of doing so. Sleep was a luxury, and tonight? Tonight was all about savoring the chaos.
*******
The city never truly slept, not even at this ungodly hour. Seoul’s skyline stretched endlessly outside the dingy apartment window, its twinkling lights scattered like spilled jewels. Taehyung sat cross-legged on his battered sofa, a glass of whiskey precariously balanced on one knee. He wasn’t tired—far from it. The adrenaline humming through his veins made it impossible to even consider sleep. Instead, he leaned back, his head resting on the edge of the sofa, and let his thoughts wander.
Somewhere below, at the Lotte World Tower, his crew was in the thick of it. A slow smile curled on his lips as he pictured them.
“Barcelona,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “Bet you’re out there flashing those pearly whites at some poor hostage, huh? Let me guess—sweet-talking the maid of honor into ‘cooperating’ while subtly terrifying her into submission?”
He chuckled, imagining Jimin’s theatrical flair on full display, strutting around the ballroom like he was hosting a reality show. There was no doubt in Taehyung’s mind that Jimin was in his element. The man was a walking contradiction: charming enough to put the hostages at ease, but sharp enough to cut them down with a single look if they so much as twitched the wrong way.
Then there was Havana—Hoseok. Taehyung’s grin turned into a laugh as he envisioned him cracking jokes that sent the room into uneasy laughter, like some deranged stand-up comedian. Hoseok was probably flexing his ‘big brother’ energy, keeping the hostages calm while silently daring anyone to step out of line. Taehyung could almost hear the mixture of laughter and gasps as Hoseok balanced humor with intimidation, a combo only he could pull off.
“Cairo…” His voice softened as he pictured Yoongi. No doubt, the man was hunched over some control panel in the makeshift command center. Yoongi had probably hacked into another guests phone by now, eyes half-lidded but sharp as a hawk. Taehyung could practically see the faint glow of the monitors reflected in Yoongi’s tired but determined gaze.
“And Vienna,” Taehyung murmured, his smile shifting into something more contemplative. Namjoon’s brain was like a supercomputer in overdrive, processing information at lightning speed. By now, Namjoon would have dissected every detail of the police’s strategy and prepared the crew accordingly.
“Of course, you picked it up, didn’t you, Vienna?” he said aloud, the faintest trace of pride in his voice. “You always do.”
Taehyung’s gaze drifted to the ceiling as his thoughts turned to the ballroom. The wedding guests—pampered socialites and power players—were likely sprawled on the cold marble floor, huddled in sleeping bags. The image made him laugh. It was absurdly poetic, really: these people who’d never experienced discomfort in their lives now sleeping cheek to jowl like campers on a budget retreat.
The heist was moving forward—beautifully, flawlessly. Exactly as he’d planned. Yet his mind was wandering nowhere near the Lotte World Tower or the other hostages. Instead, it had veered down a maddeningly familiar path, straight into the smug grin of Lee Sanghoon.
His brother.
Half-brother, to be precise. Though honestly, Taehyung would’ve preferred if they didn’t share any genetic material.
“Oh, Sanghoon,” Taehyung sighed, his smile fading slightly. His brother’s face flickered in his mind—panicked, confused, maybe even angry.
The brat had spent their entire childhood figuring out ways to annoy him, undermine him, and generally make life unbearable. Taehyung leaned back, eyes narrowing as the memories began to unspool, vivid and relentless.
Sanghoon had been a thorn in his side since the day he was born, and that thorn had only grown sharper over the years. Even as a toddler, Sanghoon had somehow been insufferable. Most kids were content with a toy truck or a juice box. Sanghoon? No. Sanghoon wanted a juice sommelier. He wanted the finest orange juice, freshly squeezed, served at exactly 4°C. And he made sure everyone knew it.
“Mom, I think this juice is from concentrate,” five-year-old Sanghoon had once announced, pushing his sippy cup away with the air of a Michelin food critic. “I deserve better.”
At the time, Taehyung had thought it was just a phase. Surely, he’d grow out of it. Surely, this pretentious little gremlin would one day become a tolerable human being.
Spoiler alert: he didn’t.
By the time Sanghoon was seven, he had mastered the art of weaponized charm. Teachers adored him, neighbors praised him, and random strangers on the street would pat him on the head and call him a “future leader.” Taehyung, meanwhile, saw through the facade. He knew that underneath the Gucci sweaters and the angelic smile was a scheming little monster who thrived on being the favorite.
“Hyung,” Sanghoon had once said, lounging in Taehyung’s room like he owned the place, “don’t you ever get tired of being second-best?”
Taehyung, who had been sketching quietly in his notebook, froze mid-line. He glanced up at his brother, who was now tossing a gold coin in the air like some kind of Victorian aristocrat.
“What are you talking about?” Taehyung muttered, gripping his pencil a little too tightly.
“Oh, nothing,” Sanghoon said with a shrug. “It’s just… Appa always says I’m a natural leader. And, you know, some people have it and some people don’t. It’s okay, hyung. You’re good at… drawing, I guess.”
The pencil snapped.
Sanghoon didn’t even flinch. He just smirked, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of confidence only a kid who’d never faced consequences could muster.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he said, sauntering out of the room. “For being honest.”
The worst part? Sanghoon genuinely believed he was doing Taehyung a favor. That was the thing about him—he was so steeped in his own self-importance that he didn’t even realize he was unbearable.
Taehyung’s breaking point came one summer afternoon when Sanghoon—now an arrogant twelve-year-old—decided it was time to flex his “business acumen.” Their father had just bought them both lemonade stands as part of some “entrepreneurship camp.” Taehyung, uninterested, had sketched a sign reading, “Pay What You Want,” slapped it on the table, and promptly started sketching portraits of the customers instead of selling lemonade.
Sanghoon? Oh, he was running his stand like a Wall Street hedge fund. The kid had dynamic pricing, upsells, and even hired two of their neighborhood kids to distribute fliers. He stood behind his stand barking orders like some kind of mini-CEO.
“Hyung,” he called, walking over to Taehyung’s much smaller crowd, “are you really letting people pay whatever they want? That’s not how business works.”
“It’s not business,” Taehyung said without looking up. “It’s art.”
Sanghoon snorted. “Yeah, well, my business just made 30,000 won in twenty minutes. Dad’s going to be so proud.”
Taehyung glared up at him, but Sanghoon wasn’t done. He leaned in, smirking. “Face it, hyung. You’ll never beat me. You’re too soft. No one’s going to care about your ‘art’ when you’re broke and begging for scraps.”
It was in that moment that Taehyung vowed two things:
1. He would make Sanghoon eat those words.
2. He would never, ever call this brat his brother again.
Years passed, but Sanghoon didn’t change. If anything, he got worse. By the time he hit his twenties, he was the poster child for obnoxious overachievers. He was featured in Forbes 30 Under 30, hailed as a “visionary entrepreneur,” and regularly invited to speak at conferences about “disrupting the industry” (though no one could really explain what his company actually did).
And then came Han Yejin.
Han Yejin wasn’t just a person; she was a phenomenon. Seoul’s golden girl, Instagram goddess, and walking PR machine, Yejin was the kind of woman who could post a picture of her avocado toast and get 500,000 likes. She was effortlessly elegant, maddeningly beautiful, and somehow managed to be genuinely nice despite her fame.
Sanghoon was smitten.
The courtship was a spectacle. He sent her extravagant bouquets (which she politely thanked him for but immediately donated to local charities), “accidentally” bumped into her at events, and even managed to book a private dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant just to impress her.
“Hyung,” he announced one night over dinner, “I’m going to marry her.”
Taehyung raised an eyebrow, sipping his beer. “You? Marry Han Yejin? You might want to set your sights a little lower.”
But Sanghoon, as always, was undeterred. He pursued Yejun with the kind of relentless determination that could only come from someone who had never been told “no.” And somehow, against all odds, he succeeded.
Back in the present, Taehyung’s lip curled into a wry grin as he leaned forward, setting the empty whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Little Sanghoon,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. “Still playing your games, I bet. Too bad you’ll never see this one coming.”
Now, he was trapped in a game he couldn’t buy his way out of. Taehyung wondered if Sanghoon had realized it yet—realized that money, connections, and charm were utterly useless in this situation.
“I wonder,” Taehyung murmured, his voice laced with amusement, “are you still blaming everyone else for this, hyung? Or have you started to understand that you’re just another pawn on my board?”
He stood, stretching his arms over his head and padding over to his desk. The laptop screen glowed faintly, casting eerie shadows across the cluttered surface. With a few keystrokes, he pulled up the encrypted radio feed he’d programmed earlier.
The thought of Jungkook pacing the tent, his jaw tight and his brow furrowed, brought a strange kind of joy. Jungkook was predictable in all the best ways, a by-the-book investigator who wouldn’t rest until he solved the puzzle. But this puzzle? This was one Jungkook couldn’t solve—not yet, anyway.
Taehyung leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting once more to the window. His crew, his plan, his game—they were all running perfectly.
“Perfect crew. Perfect chaos,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then, with a wicked grin, he added, “And the perfect little brother to tie it all together.”
He raised his whiskey in a mock toast to the glittering cityscape. “To you, Sanghoon,” he said with a laugh, “and to the sweet, sweet chaos waiting for you in the morning.”