Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the two main characters, but everything else belongs to me. While drafting this fic, I did not reference anyone else's work. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Feel free to draw inspiration from this fic, but please do not plagiarize or claim it as your own.
“Yoo Joonghyuk, the Central Bureau has signed an official order transferring you to the Intake Division of the Department of Immaterial Studies.”
Joonghyuk’s black hair stirred ever so slightly, his sleep-deprived eyes ringed with shadows. Yet he did not shy away from meeting the Director’s gaze.
“Ha.” He let out a cold, low laugh, voice steady as steel. “I’m not going.”
Not a chance.
A desk job? That was no place for him. Director Eric knew that well.
Yoo Joonghyuk was a senior agent of the Supernatural Crisis Management Agency. During training, he hadn’t merely passed the evaluation — he’d crushed every record, hailed as the most outstanding combatant the Agency had ever produced. His recommendation letter from the Training Center had been nothing short of glowing, prompting an immediate assignment to the Central Headquarters.
And with his stellar reputation, Joonghyuk did not disappoint. He rose swiftly, cleanly, becoming a top-tier agent who handled critical cases on his own. The Director placed his trust in him, appointing him captain of Unit 104.
But those golden days were long gone.
Joonghyuk’s fighting spirit had withered. Since taking on the captaincy, he had neither accepted major cases nor bothered to show up regularly at work. The admiration of his peers and superiors had gradually curdled into doubt.
Though he remained unmatched in combat, his social aptitude was a fatal flaw. He was anything but approachable — known for unnerving witnesses and victims alike, and not uncommonly laying hands on his fellow agents. Instead of capturing monsters for research, he preferred to kill them on the spot. Feared and resented in equal measure, Joonghyuk became a pariah. No one wanted to join Unit 104, and any rookie assigned there rarely lasted beyond a month.
To put it plainly, at Central Headquarters, Yoo Joonghyuk was no longer of any real use.
The Director of Headquarters — Eric, the only one who still held faith in Joonghyuk — remained composed in the face of his defiance. He had long anticipated that Joonghyuk would scoff at the decision and resist it with all his might.
But in light of the mounting accusations — tarnishing the Agency’s reputation, endangering fellow agents, and a deluge of formal complaints regarding his “unprofessional conduct” (some had gone so far as to call it “inhuman”) — Eric had no choice but to issue a final ultimatum.
“You have one year,” Eric said, his voice low and unyielding. “Bring back a real achievement before the Bureau signs off on your dismissal.”
Joonghyuk stared at him, his gaze cold and hollow, like that of a man already dead. It was a silence that screamed: “I despise this. I despise it to my very core.”
For the past two years, the monsters that had emerged were pitiful creatures — weak, inferior, not worth his time or strength. The other teams were more than capable of handling them. So why was all the weight being thrust upon his shoulders? A single man was not the whole Agency. And yet, they all seemed to have forgotten that.
Eric glanced at Joonghyuk’s face and saw through him at once — the silent storm of curses raging behind those dead eyes. But the Director’s own expression did not change. Rigid as stone, as though everything had unfolded exactly as he expected. His voice, when it came, was slow and deliberate, laced with warning:
“Time is moving, Joonghyuk. Whether you realize it or not, no one’s waiting for you to wake up.”
“Tch.” Joonghyuk clicked his tongue, his eyes glinting with weary disdain. “Save the philosophical lectures. I’m not in the mood.”
Eric did not waver in the face of that scorn. He continued, each word sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife:
“The government has invested heavily in this Agency to create a solid line of defense — a shield to protect the island nation of Pelican from supernatural forces and strange entities that may pose a threat. They will not turn a blind eye to a parasite — lazy, violent, and useless.”
It sounded like one of Eric’s long-winded speeches, but he had yet to speak the harshest truth: the Bureau had full authority to sign an extermination order for Yoo Joonghyuk.
Those in power never tolerated what they could not control — least of all a high-ranking agent. Joonghyuk, with his arrogance and his flagrant disregard for structure, was a danger. He needed correction. He needed to learn obedience and cooperation. Otherwise, they would truly kill him — erase Yoo Joonghyuk from existence.
Eric pulled open a drawer in his desk and retrieved a thick dossier, which he laid flat in front of Joonghyuk. His voice remained steady, but the warning beneath it was unmistakable:
“This is your final chance.”
Joonghyuk glanced down at the folder. A single sheet was clipped to the top — most of the content blacked out, save for a portrait and a simple line of text:
Dokja, 17 years old.
“A kid?” Joonghyuk muttered, the words escaping before he could stop them, laced with disbelief and thinly veiled contempt.
“He’ll be the newest member of Unit 104,” Eric said, unfazed by the derision in Joonghyuk’s tone.
“The youngest graduate of the year — ranked as the strongest combatant since your own class. The Bureau has ordered his placement here. No one is allowed to refuse, and no one is permitted to question the redacted sections.”
He paused, eyes locking with Joonghyuk’s.
“Dokja will be on your team. Use this chance to make yourself useful.”
Joonghyuk clenched his fists, the tension wrapping around him like an iron vise. The pressure was suffocating. He knew there was no turning back. The Bureau had thrown down its ultimatum — square in his face — and whether he liked it or not, he had no choice but to accept it.
He picked up the dossier, a chill flickering behind his eyes. Then he exhaled sharply, as if trying to purge the weight lodged in his chest.
“Fine,” he said, voice laced with defiance and indifference. “Thank you, Director.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Without hesitation, Joonghyuk rose to his feet and strode toward the door. The sound of it slamming shut echoed through the room — loud, sharp, enough to make the walls tremble.
Eric remained seated in silence.
He let out a breath — slow, weary — as though it carried not just exhaustion, but something heavier. Disappointment, perhaps.
But whether it was disappointment in Joonghyuk, or in himself, even he wasn’t sure.
*
Another Monday rolled in, wrapping Joonghyuk’s mind in a shroud of weariness. A heavy, inescapable spiral pulled him under.
After all, who could possibly greet the week with cheer, knowing they were on the verge of being fired?
But for Joonghyuk, there wasn’t much left to lose.
No family.
No close friends.
Not even a single soul he could call special.
He had long understood that he didn’t belong in a world built on deep bonds or lasting connections. His existence was more like that of a cursed star — a bad omen. And, as if obeying some cruel law of nature, those who came near him always found a way to leave.
And now, the Bureau had decided to send him a seventeen-year-old kid.
Joonghyuk didn’t know whether he should feel insulted or amused.
All he knew was this:
That boy — this Dokja — was the last lifeline Eric had thrown him.
One final tether, dangling above the abyss.
After all, work was the only thing he still held onto—despite the reckless way he had treated it all this time.
He should have retorted with a touch of scorn, something like: “One day, you’ll need me.”
No matter what judgments were passed, Joonghyuk remained the strongest operative across the entire Pelican Archipelago. And he knew—knew with an unshakable certainty—that his skill was not something anyone could afford to ignore.
“Ah, and that kid…” Dokja. A top-tier warrior, if Eric’s words were to be believed. And if every claim of his held weight, then perhaps there was no longer any need for Yoo Joonghyuk at all.
The phrase “best of your cohort” was no more than a veiled slight, a condescending euphemism. Eric’s implication was all too clear: Dokja was the best—second only to Joonghyuk.
So that was it. Joonghyuk let out a cold, silent laugh. They had deliberately thrown the two strongest soldiers into one team—Dokja, at once a safeguard to keep him from spiraling, his sole comrade, and simultaneously, a direct threat to his throne.
But what if Dokja wasn’t just a teammate? What if he was a judge in disguise—a key figure sent to evaluate, to observe, to weigh the worth of a man deemed “at risk of termination”?
The thought brushed against Joonghyuk’s mind like a chill wind, leaving behind a vague sense of unease.
Perhaps this wasn’t a coincidence at all. Perhaps it was a carefully laid twist in the path ahead. And perhaps it was the greatest assignment Joonghyuk would face in the year to come.
A single year—to prove his worth. Or be cast aside forever.
At last, news of the new member joining Team 104 had spread like wildfire through headquarters—a bombshell that left no corridor untouched by gossip.
That Monday morning, stepping into the grand atrium between departments, the only thing Joonghyuk wanted was to head straight to his office—quietly, undisturbed, invisible. But that wish was clearly too much to ask.
The air felt heavy, congealed by the weight of countless stares, each one tracking his every move with invasive precision. Whispers wove themselves between the rows of hallways, a low hum of speculation and half-truths—and he knew, without needing to listen closely, that he was at the heart of it all.
Jerome—captain of Team 102 and undisputed king of gossip—appeared at Joonghyuk’s side in the blink of an eye. Without invitation, he slung an arm over Joonghyuk’s shoulders, the gesture far too familiar, triggering Joonghyuk’s instinctive alarm.
“Hey, Hyukkie!” Jerome chimed, his voice a shade too close, the mock affection in it thick as syrup. He gave Joonghyuk a hearty slap on the back, like they were old comrades from another life. “You holding up alright?”
Rage flared in Joonghyuk’s chest, sharp and immediate. It took every shred of restraint not to hurl Jerome ten meters down the hall—or snap the arm that had dared to touch him. The ultimatum dangling over his head like an invisible noose pulled taut at his reason, reminding him that every move was under watch. It had taught him a bitter truth: swallow your pride, or choke on the consequences.
“Get off,” Joonghyuk said coldly, his voice like frost on steel, pushing Jerome’s arm away with barely disguised disgust. The glance he shot the man’s way spoke volumes—he wanted him gone. Now.
But Jerome had no intention of stepping aside.
Not a flicker of concern crossed his face. That smirk—lazy, smug, mocking—spread like oil across water, making Joonghyuk’s fists twitch with the urge to erase it. He wanted to beat the grin off that face, to leave Jerome limping at the sight of him from now on.
Joonghyuk was shorter, yes—but his eyes burned with a pride forged in blood, in battles won without fanfare. And those eyes said it all: I could end you.
Unfortunately for him, today Jerome had clearly decided he wasn’t afraid of Yoo Joonghyuk.
“The boy has arrived,” Jerome said, voice laced with mock cheer. “And surely a senior shouldn’t keep the junior waiting, should he?”
Every word was dipped in provocation, an intentional nudge at Joonghyuk’s temper.
Joonghyuk’s steps halted mid-stride. He didn’t turn, but the glint in his eyes sharpened, and the muscles along his spine locked into place.
Jerome, as always, flashed his signature grin—a dazzling, insufferable brightness that felt more like an insult than a greeting. But this time, the worst part was: he wasn’t joking. And Joonghyuk knew it.
Through the frosted glass of the office door, Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed at a vague silhouette—familiar only by description, yet enough to draw a crease between his brows.
A glimpse of black hair, just barely visible beneath the muted pane, moved in and out of clarity.
The young man Eric had spoken of was already seated inside. From the crisp lines of his uniform to the upright posture and the neatly folded hands resting on his lap, every detail radiated a calm, meticulous composure.
No restlessness. No signs of boredom. He simply sat there—as if prepared to wait forever.
So that kid’s Dokja, huh?
Joonghyuk clicked his tongue and brushed the thought aside. Without a word, he strode toward the office door, leaving Jerome and that ever-infuriating smirk behind.
The irritation simmering in his chest refused to fade. But he knew one thing for certain:
This wasn’t going to be just another introduction.
This was the beginning of something… perhaps just inconvenient, or perhaps far more serious.
Joonghyuk pushed the door open with a firm hand, stepping into the room without so much as a glance at the young man waiting inside. From the very first moment, he made his stance clear—he had no interest in playing nice with the newcomer.
The so-called “rookie” from the rumors—Dokja—remained composed. Hair neatly combed, back straight, his appearance almost fastidiously clean. A subtle trace of cologne lingered around him, refined and unobtrusive. His eyes betrayed no surprise. It was clear he'd steeled himself for this encounter long before it began.
“Captain Yoo,” Dokja rose smoothly and bowed with quiet formality. “My name is Dokja. As of today, I’ll be joining Team 104.”
Joonghyuk didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he loosened his tie in silence, rifled through a desk drawer, and pulled out a folder—more for show than necessity. His fingers skimmed over the pages with practiced indifference, feigning interest in anything but the boy standing before him.
“I’m aware,” he said coolly, without looking up.
Silence settled between them like mist.
Dokja remained standing, patient. Waiting for Joonghyuk to give the file even a minute of real attention.
The air in the room grew heavier with each passing second, stretching time thin like tension on a wire. An invisible wall stood firm between them—one neither seemed eager to breach. Joonghyuk had no intention of breaking the silence first, yet Dokja’s composed, almost ceremonious posture made it impossible to ignore him completely.
With a flick of the eyes, Joonghyuk gave him a once-over, slow and unfiltered. White dress shirt. Black tie. Black suit jacket. Matching trousers. He didn’t need to check to know the shoes were likely black as well—polished, no doubt. The type that screamed money and meticulousness. The kind worn by someone who wanted everything spotless, every detail just so. Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of surprise glinting behind his gaze.
“You… dressed like me?”
The words came out edged with something close to smugness.
He hadn’t chosen the look for style points. It was a simple uniform—sleek, clean, and efficient. No wasted time on choices. The black-and-white ensemble had become synonymous with Yoo Joonghyuk himself, even while others wasted hours kitting themselves out with bulletproof vests, combat rigs, or high-tech gear suited for jobs that regularly ended in funerals.
And now here was Dokja. A mirror image of that exact look.
Even the black hair—Joonghyuk didn’t want to ask, but the coincidence annoyed him.
“I did some research,” Dokja admitted, his voice gentle, tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I thought… if I showed up like this on the first day, things might go a little more smoothly.” He paused, eyes flickering with a quiet sort of calculation.“…And on the days that follow.”
Joonghyuk frowned, and the weight on his face deepened. A slow-burning irritation coiled in his chest, and he silently cursed the Director—and the entire Central Bureau—for sending him this polished, soft-spoken upstart wrapped in tailored etiquette.
There was something exhausting—rather than admirable—about the way Dokja flaunted his carefully crafted perfection. To Joonghyuk, it wasn’t impressive. It was calculated. Contrived. Every detail, from the pristine outfit to the composed expression, only served to deepen the contempt coiling in his chest.
This kid wasn’t just trying to match him. He was trying to be him.
A walking replica. And Joonghyuk hated it.
“You don’t find that a little strange?” he asked, voice dipped in scorn. “Trying to become my clone?”
His smile twisted into a sneer, subtle and sharp, like a blade pressed just under the skin. The sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable—poison-tipped words that, if overheard, would make any bystander outside the door wince. Maybe even dream of kicking him in his sleep.
But Dokja didn’t flinch.
He was like a rubber ball—toss him against a wall, and he wouldn’t shatter. He’d bounce right back.
“I never said that, Captain,” he replied calmly.
There was grace in the answer, but also an edge—a deliberate firmness that made Joonghyuk pause, if only for a moment. It wasn't defiance, not quite. But it wasn’t submission either.
A strange silence hung in the air.
This newcomer, with his polished manner and unreadable background, was too refined. Too composed.
And Joonghyuk couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath that carefully ironed surface.
The truth was, Dokja had already heard more than enough rumors about Joonghyuk before they ever met—how rude he could be, how he acted like the universe revolved around him. And with that in mind, Dokja felt no shame in putting his own brazenness on display.
Calmly, he confessed, “…Let me clarify that. I didn’t dress like this to copy you, Captain. I did it to win your favor.”
The pages beneath Joonghyuk’s hand froze in place. For a brief second, time itself seemed to pause. His lips curled into a cold, mocking smile, his eyes flashing with the thrill of a new challenge.
“How long do you think you’ll last here?” he asked, his voice laced with provocation—and just a hint of an unease he wouldn’t admit.
Dokja frowned slightly. “I think you already know what would happen if you drove me out too soon.”
It hit Joonghyuk like cold water. So this kid wasn’t just some clueless recruit or a lapdog sent to follow orders—he understood the situation all too well. And what’s worse, Dokja hadn’t smiled once. From the very beginning, he’d acted like this was nothing more than a calculated arrangement, like neither of them were anything more than two parts forced to fit.
Joonghyuk stood abruptly, choosing not to let Dokja speak another word that might get under his skin.
“Fine. I’ll show you around the headquarters.”
As he stepped closer, he realized Dokja stood nearly eye-to-eye with him—just a little shorter, but enough to notice. It was a small detail, irrelevant on paper, yet somehow it added to the quiet discomfort gnawing at him. The more they resembled each other, the more everything felt... wrong.
Suppressing the growing tension in his chest, Joonghyuk inhaled slowly and extended a hand—not awkwardly, though every fiber of him bristled.
“Let’s work well together, Dokja.”
A brief handshake followed—firm, unfamiliar, and heavy with the weight of two strangers flung together by circumstance, left with no choice but to walk the same path.