(un) Holy Trinity

He's fanatical about his work. Methodical to the extreme. Ruthless, and never fails. Only the remnants of conscience burning deep inside him spoil the euphoria of the next executed contract killing and the six-figure dollar sums deposited into his account. Jungkook finishes his sweetly fragrant cigarette and ponders in a deep puff what kind of tattoo he'll get this time. Traditions are not to be broken, and though he already has an obscene amount of black paint beneath his skin, harmoniously intertwining patterns and images with the echoes of the pain of those he has defeated, it is too soon to stop and forget. After all, every man killed by his lightning bullet or sharp Japanese shōto would be with him forever, a bleeding scar on his scarred soul and another tattoo on top of his muscles. He wishes he could lie to himself and forget the exact number. But Jungkook remembers, and today will mark at the tattoo parlor what has become "beautiful" – his bloody 77. Beautiful number = Beautiful victim The blond-haired young man whose blood he smears on the deadly sharpness of his shōto blade has an ethereal beauty, a subtle intoxicating natural scent, a perfect profile, and smooth, swarthy skin. A fitting definition – molten angelic caramel. And Jungkook is... almost sorry. When he receives a photo, coordinates, and the name "V" in the mail, and an offshore account with a hundred percent prepayment one-third above his usual rate, the black-haired Angel of Death is so enchanted by the pixel-painted creation on his phone screen that he first decides to snip this touching life from afar, with his new sniper rifle, because for the first time in his career as a mercenary he doubts whether he can finish the job if he feels the physical proximity of a man whose breath someone has managed to untimely stop with his – Jungkook's – hands. But everything goes fucked up as of this morning. Because the killer cuts off the alarm clock and safely sleeps for two extra hours. Hastily gathering everything he needs, breaks the clasp on his rifle case, freaks out and takes only a dagger with him, hiding it under his black oversize coat. On the way, he orders a black Americano in his favorite coffee shop, the color of his soul, bitter as his everyday life tastes. He drains it almost in a gulp, letting the hot, tart liquid burn his throat and go down his esophagus straight into his empty stomach. His pulse quickens, when the victim face, framed by bleached hair, comes into view, causing a rush of endorphins and uncontrollable dilation of his pupils. The killer is sickened that such an unsightly place will witness his fine work and the final resting place of perhaps the most handsome man he has ever seen in his life. With his right hand in his pocket, Jeon opens a pre-prepared small airtight container, pulling out a cut of cloth soaked in chloroform. He holds his breath and gently wraps his palm around the swarthy face, dragging the collapsed body to a secluded spot. The victim lies relaxed and so... peaceful in the deadly embrace of his affectionate killer. Vee's face twitched into a half-smile – he hadn't even had time to realize anything. This is how Jungkook would like to die someday, but it's unlikely that fate will be so merciful to him. His long fingers grasped the hilt of his prized shōto, the faithful Japanese partner who had shared and absorbed the energy of dozens of lives taken from him. The blade glistens in the cozy twilight of the overhanging walls on three sides, demanding to be used, but Jungkook hesitates for some reason. He runs his finger along his victim's plump, dark pink lower lip, mesmerized by the twitching eyelashes on his closed eyelids and the blond strands scattered along his sleeve. For the first time since his first murder (he was sixteen at the time), he lets a single tear escape from his left eye the very second he strokes V's neck with the point of his dagger, cutting through the jugular veins. Warm blood warms the killer's hands on this chilly October day, and the victim's beautiful body leaves the inexplicable obsession called life with each passing second, spark by spark. The superficial breathing, slowing down, stops completely, leaving Jungkook all alone in the embrace of the alley and the sad fall wind that pierces to the bone. V doesn't make a sound. He walks away into eternity with the same serene half-smile on his face. His killer is not a sadist, nor does he want anyone to suffer because of him. The Angel of Death is known by that name for a reason – he literally worships his victims and values life more than anyone else, and takes away the most precious thing that exists on this planet, almost pleasantly – gently and with trembling reverence. Like the sweet lingering kiss of death. He sits the breathless body carefully against the black wall, puts on a respirator, draws wings and a halo around the dead man with white spray paint – his calling card. Steps back to appreciate his god-awful art. It's beautiful. Like a fallen angel asleep for a while, if the red smudges on his throat didn't give away the chilling horror of the sobering truth. Jeon takes a photo to send to a customer on the darknet. Wipes off the blood and all prints, pedantically checks for cleanliness with a tiny ultraviolet lamp. No trace. The perfect murder of the perfect man. Jungkook is confident he won't get caught – he's a pro, extremely careful and almost omnipotent. He only hopes that his number 77 will be found before decomposition disfigures the angel-like lifeless body.

•━─────━❪ʚĭɞ❫━─────━•

One thing the killer doesn't know for sure is that the moment he walks through the doors of the Holy Devil Min tattoo parlor across town and greets Yoongi, his victim is already rising from the damp asphalt and shaking off his light beige coat, a little resentful that his cream silk Gucci shirt will have to be discarded because of the black and maroon angel blood that's soaked in it forever. Taehyung shakes his head a little, twisting his fingers through his curls, turning them from straight bleached to curly and raven-winged, wiping the blood off his throat, which bears no trace of the surgically thin but deep mortal wound. "Well, my gentle killer, you were wrong about the color of your wings" the Fallen One turned around and said aloud, enjoying Jungkook's artwork on the shabby wall. "My wings have been beckoning with their blackness instead of blinding light for a long time, and you are partly to blame..." The smartphone in the pocket of my cashmere coat vibrates faintly with a new notification. *@Angel_of_Death has sent you a picture. Status of your order: checked and completed. Please rate the executor's work on a five-point scale... "What kind of idiot comes up with that? They should have offered to leave a tip for the killer" Taehyung lists another hundred thousand dollars on top of that, too pleased with the gentle way Jungkook slit his throat, too pleased to feel the burning cold pain and escaping warmth of life in his warm embrace, too unbearable to feel the diamond of his tears but not be able to open his eyes, reach out and taste the sparkling moisture. Taehyung is still staring at the screen. The green status checkmark blinks annoyingly in the upper right corner, but the full-screen image unfolds into an uncontrollable, painful grin. The dead man in the picture looks so much like the old Taehyung, when his back was adorned with snow-white wings and he could still be called by the celestial name "V..."