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Mafia AU

The Crimson Anchor

The silence in the kitchen was heavy, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic scratching of Felix’s spoon against the bottom of his porcelain bowl. He tried to focus on the soggy flakes of cereal, but his peripheral vision was flooded by the sight of them. They were a triad of violence and devotion, standing in the center of the room like a living monument to something Felix couldn't quite fathom.

Jisung’s hand, scarred across the knuckles and steady as a surgeon’s, moved to the back of Seungmin’s neck. He squeezed, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of a fresh bite mark. Seungmin leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips that sounded far too vulnerable for a man who had spent the previous day picking off targets from a kilometer away.

"You’re staring again, Felix," Minho said. He didn't sound angry; he sounded amused, which was somehow worse. He took a slow sip of his water, his eyes tracking Felix over the rim of the glass. The purple bruises on his throat shifted as he swallowed. "Is there a problem with the view?"

Felix felt the heat climb from his chest to his cheeks. "No, hyung. I just… I didn't expect… I mean, Chan-hyung told me you guys were close, but—"

"Close?" Jisung interrupted. His voice was like sandpaper on velvet, deep and rattling. He pulled Seungmin closer, his fingers dipping below the waistband of the younger man’s shorts, pressing into the darkening fingerprint bruises on his hip. Jisung’s eyes remained fixed on Felix, cold and unblinking. "That’s a very polite word for it."

Jisung took a step forward, dragging his boyfriends with him as if they were extensions of his own body. He leaned over the breakfast bar, the jagged scar on his face stretching as his mouth twisted into that unsettling, permanent half-grin.

"In this life, Felix, everything is temporary," Jisung rasped. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers hovering just inches from Felix’s face. Felix flinched, but he didn't pull away. "The money, the power, the loyalty of the men outside these walls—it can all vanish with one well-placed bullet or a whisper to the wrong ear. Pain is the only thing that’s honest. It tells you you’re still breathing."

Jisung’s hand dropped to Seungmin’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the raw skin where he’d bitten him hours before. Seungmin didn't even wince; he just closed his eyes, his expression one of pure, unadulterated peace.

"I don't feel much," Jisung continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a threat. "But I feel them. When I see my marks on them, and when I feel their nails in my back… it reminds me that I’m not just a ghost in a suit. Do you understand?"

Felix nodded slowly, his throat dry. "I think so."

"Good," Jisung said, his intensity vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He stood up straight and slapped Seungmin’s hip playfully. "Now, feed me. I’m starving, and if I have to make my own toast, I might actually kill someone."

Seungmin rolled his eyes, though the affection in the gesture was palpable. "You’re a menace, Jisung. Go sit down. Minho, get the eggs."

The domesticity that followed was jarring. Within minutes, the most feared trio in the Seoul underworld was bickering over how crispy the bacon should be. Minho moved around the kitchen with a lethargic grace, his shirtless back showing off the faint scars of older battles, while Seungmin expertly flipped eggs, his movements precise and efficient.

Jisung sat at the table, his head resting on his hand, watching them with a look of predatory hunger that had nothing to do with food. Every time one of them passed by him, he reached out to touch them—a hand on a waist, a graze of a thumb against a thigh, a quick pull of a shirt-less body against his chest. It was as if he needed constant physical confirmation that they were still there, still his.

Chan walked in a few minutes later, fully dressed in a sharp black suit, looking every bit the weary father figure of a den of wolves. He glanced at the shirtless, bruised duo and the scarred man watching them, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Can you three at least put on robes?" Chan asked, heading for the coffee. "We have a meeting with the Japanese delegates in four hours. I’d prefer it if our primary enforcers didn't look like they just escaped a feral cat colony."

"They started it," Jisung said, pointing a piece of jerky at Minho and Seungmin.

"We finished it," Minho countered, sliding a plate of eggs in front of Jisung. "And you enjoyed every second of it, you psychopath. Don't act like you didn't beg for those scratches."

Jisung grinned, the scar on his cheek crinkling. "I never beg, Minho-ya. I demand."

Seungmin sat down next to Jisung, leaning his head on the older man’s shoulder. "He did beg a little bit toward the end. Right before he nearly broke the headboard."

Chan groaned, taking a long, desperate gulp of coffee. "Too much information. Way too much information. Felix, come with me. We need to go over the perimeter schematics for the warehouse."

Felix scrambled to his feet, eager to escape the suffocatingly intimate atmosphere of the kitchen. As he followed Chan toward the door, he couldn't help but look back one last time.

Jisung was feeding a piece of bacon to Seungmin, his thumb lingering on Seungmin’s bottom lip. Minho was leaning against Jisung’s other side, his eyes half-closed, looking completely content. They were terrifying, broken, and violent—but in that sun-drenched kitchen, surrounded by the scent of breakfast and the lingering evidence of their mutual destruction, they looked more whole than anyone Felix had ever met.

Once they were in the hallway, safely out of earshot, Felix looked at Chan. "Are they always like that?"

Chan stopped and turned to him, his expression softening into something like pity. "Most of the time, yeah. It’s their way of decompressing. The things Jisung has to do for this family… the things he *likes* to do… it takes a toll on the soul, Felix. Even a soul as fractured as his."

"And Minho and Seungmin?" Felix asked. "They don't mind the… the sadistic side?"

Chan shook his head. "They don't just tolerate it, Felix. They crave it. They’re the only ones who can look into the abyss of Jisung’s mind and not blink. In return, he gives them a kind of devotion that most people can't even imagine. It’s not healthy, it’s not normal, and it’s certainly not safe. But it’s the only thing keeping this organization from falling into chaos. If Jisung ever lost them, there wouldn't be enough body bags in the city to hold the results."

They reached the war room, but the image of Jisung’s scarred back and the bruises on Seungmin’s throat stayed with Felix. He realized then that the mafia wasn't just about guns and money; it was about findng someone who could handle your darkness and turn it into something that felt like home.

***

The briefing at noon was a tense affair. The Japanese delegates were sharp, cold men who dealt in numbers and territories. They sat across the long mahogany table, their eyes darting nervously toward the corner of the room where the trio stood.

Jisung, Minho, and Seungmin were now fully dressed in tailored black suits, their collars high enough to hide the worst of the marks, though a hint of purple peeked out from under Minho’s jaw whenever he turned his head. Jisung stood in the center, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of cold indifference. The scar was a stark white line against his tan skin, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room.

"The terms are non-negotiable," Chan said, his voice calm and authoritative. "We provide the transit routes, you provide the hardware. Fifty-fifty split on the local distribution."

The lead delegate, a man named Sato, scoffed. "Fifty-fifty is quite high for mere 'transit,' Bang-san. We were thinking closer to seventy-thirty in our favor."

The room went deathly silent. Felix, standing by the door, felt the air grow heavy again.

Jisung didn't move a muscle, but his voice suddenly cut through the tension. "Sato-san," he rasped, the sound making the delegate flinch. "You have a very beautiful daughter. She’s studying in London, isn't she? King’s College?"

Sato froze, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. "What does that have to do with this?"

Jisung took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned over the table, his scarred lip curling into a smirk. "Nothing. I just find it interesting how people value percentages over… let’s say, anatomical integrity. I’ve spent the last twelve hours being very, very well-cared for by my partners. I’m in a good mood. I’d hate for that mood to sour."

Jisung reached out and picked up a heavy silver letter opener from the table. He balanced it on his finger, his eyes never leaving Sato’s. "I don't feel pain, Sato-san. Not really. It’s a bit of a curse, honestly. It means I don't know when to stop. When I start cutting, I just keep going until the screaming stops or I get bored. And I don't get bored very easily."

To demonstrate, Jisung suddenly gripped the blade of the letter opener in his fist. He squeezed, the sharp metal digging into his palm. Blood began to drip onto the polished wood of the table, a bright, startling crimson. Jisung didn't even flinch. His expression remained one of mild curiosity, as if he were watching a dull movie.

Minho and Seungmin stepped up behind him, one on each side. They didn't look shocked or worried. Instead, they looked like hungry wolves waiting for the signal to strike. Seungmin reached out and placed a hand on Jisung’s shoulder, a silent gesture of support, while Minho’s hand went to the holster at his hip.

"Fifty-fifty," Sato stammered, his eyes fixed on the blood pooling on the table. "Fifty-fifty is… perfectly acceptable."

"I thought you’d see it our way," Jisung said, dropping the letter opener. It clattered loudly against the wood.

He turned away from the table, ignoring the bleeding wound in his hand. He looked at Seungmin and Minho, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "I’m bored now. Can we go?"

Chan cleared his throat, looking at the terrified delegates. "I believe we’re finished here. My associates will see you to the door."

As the delegates scrambled to leave, Jisung headed straight for the exit. Minho and Seungmin were on him in an instant. Minho grabbed his bleeding hand, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wrap around the wound.

"You’re such a dramatic brat," Minho scolded, though his voice was thick with affection. "You didn't have to cut yourself for that. Sato was already shaking."

"It’s faster this way," Jisung shrugged, letting Minho tend to him. "Besides, I knew you’d want to take care of it later."

Seungmin stepped in front of Jisung, reaching up to wipe a stray drop of blood from Jisung’s chin. "You’re making a mess, Jisungie. And you’re getting blood on your suit. Do you know how hard it is to get stains out of this fabric?"

Jisung laughed, the raspy sound filling the hallway. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Seungmin’s. "Then take it off me. In fact, take everything off."

Minho finished tying the handkerchief and slapped Jisung’s arm. "Not here, you idiot. Wait until we’re behind closed doors."

"Why wait?" Jisung asked, his eyes flashing with that familiar, dangerous light. He looked back at Felix, who was still standing by the door, frozen in shock. "The kid’s already seen everything else. Might as well give him a show."

"Leave the poor boy alone," Seungmin said, though he was smiling. He hooked his arm through Jisung’s, pulling him toward their wing of the house. "He’s still trying to process the fact that you’re a monster."

"A monster who belongs to you," Jisung reminded him, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl.

"Always," Minho whispered, stepping in on Jisung’s other side.

Felix watched them go, the three of them walking in perfect sync, a unified front of scars, bruises, and blood. He looked down at the table where the blood was still wet, then back at the closed door of their suite.

He finally understood what Chan had meant. They weren't just a team; they were a closed system, a self-sustaining cycle of pain and pleasure that kept the world at bay. Jisung was the blade, sharp and unfeeling, but Minho and Seungmin were the hilt and the sheath—the only things that could keep that blade from shattering or destroying everything in its path.

Inside the room, the door clicked shut, and the heavy silence of the house settled back in. But for the three men inside, the silence was just the beginning of a different kind of noise—one that sounded like devotion, tasted like iron, and felt, for the first time in Jisung’s life, exactly like home.