[Weak Hero] Wolf Keum X Reader: The Terrible, You.

4. The Presumptuous, Them.

Yeongduengpo was a large district, imposing in it's monotony. Steely-gazed windows and sky-high buildings plagued the skies, obscuring the sun and taking place of the clouds.

Perhaps to an outsider, who may perceive all the algae-covered brick houses and leaky underpasses as identical, it may even be confusing.
But to the residents of Yeongduengpo who listen closely to the whistle of each wind tunnel, who grew up slipping their hands over the cracks of the local bakery window, who memorized the stains of each concrete tile leading to the arcade, Yeongduengpo was just an intricate system of secret passages and alleyway shortcuts.

Some areas were home to happy memories, a soccer field, a shopping strip, the street where you first learned how to ride your bike, and learned that there was a huge downward slope just past the stoplight.

Others avenues were oozing with shadows, a brief whisper here and there, "Don't, that's where they are."
Recollections of a first, second, and if unlucky—a third beating from high school thugs. Pickpocket corner, a hand on your shoulder like a gun pointed at your temple. "You remember your friend, right?"

To anyone who had lived in Yeongduengpo for their entire lives, the neighborhood was a map of their memories, an intricate web of do's and don'ts that intermingled like sweet milk into a dark coffee. As familiar as their childhood, just as large as the palm of their hands.

This small yet insurmountable district thrummed a heartbeat within it, pumping through it's chambers smog, smoke, and rumors. A brief hiss of a city train slowing to a stop, a wary gaze thrown into a wayward shadow, peering for an insatiable darkness.

This how rumors spread, sparking embers at bus stops and blazing it's way across the city through texts and word of mouth in a matter of days.

Whispers of a certain dastardly Wolf Keum, one of Yeongduengpo's most familiar names, and a shiny-eyed girl with lavish gifts overcame the streets, taking over the Shuttle Patch blog in an all-new post: "Is Wolf Keum Getting Too Comfortable?"

The heartbeat of the district became strong, alive and stirring with the commotion brought upon by a girl and her treacherous, Wolf Keum.

The news elicited varying emotions, though two of the most prominent were complete awe or poorly disguised fascination, caught on a censored cell phone camera interview for the Shuttle Patch blog.

"Wolf Keum? Ah man, there's no way he would ever score a girl. But if he did..."

"That guy, a girlfriend? Is he even taking his spot in the Union seriously?"

"He's a solid fighter, but anyone can be taken down when distracted."

In a smaller room, tucked away into a quiet corner of a high school, a meeting begins.

"Fuck. That little brat."

Red gelled hair shines in the luminous glow of fluorescent lightbulbs, and he shifts, crossing one leg across the other.
An expensive sneaker bobs impatiently in the air, cheap mosaic tile squeaking underfoot the other.
His fingers play at the cigarette in his hand, unlit and untouched.

"Who the fuck does he think he is?" He sneers, eyes latched onto the phone presented to him. He grows angrier at each successive image, brows furrowing and jaw tensing.

"Does he really think he can afford to let his guard down now? That motherfucker..."

A devious look comes across his eyes, mouth splitting into a toothy smile fit for a ravenous shark. He recalls the shame of bowing to Donald Na, recalls the manner in which Wolf gazed upon him like a pest.

"What do you think, Grape?"

A pair of dark eyes meet his. A bruise rings around Grape's left socket and leaves a red and purple stain upon pale skin, evidence of Wolf Keum's short temper and quick violence, but this does not deter the pride in his gaze.

"The fucker won't even see it coming." He says this resolutely, but with a shake in his voice, just as all those who speak of Wolf have.
It is understandable, so Forrest Lee says nothing of it. Instead, he brushes away the phone and threads his hands together, knuckles still bandaged tightly from his last victory.
Forrest sees the orange of dusk dripping into a dark horizon and begins to manifest a sinister plot.

It is wrath that Forrest possesses, clutches onto as a lifeline. But the way he refuses to lose face a second time, the anger in him curdling into something far unrecognizable as rage, becomes far more familiar as pride.

A bruised ego, and a plan to recover from the fall.

These are all things that Wolf Keum has fortified against, as a man who holds his own pride above all else, familiar with its sting and its gold-lined embrace.
With pride comes the necessity for wealth and status, all embodied in Wolf's latest designer clothing and hefty payoff from the Union.
However, a man as acquainted with pride's old habits as Wolf knew that luxury could ooze from his pores, spill from the heavens upon him—and it would mean nothing if he had no title to defend.

Hazel eyes watch the interviews on the Shuttle Patch with terrifying composure, purple hair standing stark against the orange backdrop of a sky behind him. His men shuffle about behind him, the chill of the rooftop breeze stirring them from stagnation, stirring them from peace.

A certain scent carried in the air, the scent of a storm brewing deep in the abyss.

Wolf hears the sounds of the city beneath him, pulsing like a living thing as cold as ice. He ponders upon the new information on him from the Shuttle Patch, upon his reputation and all he holds dear to him.

The beast keens, his unrelenting ego and insatiable yearning for reverence and fear will never, has never, been defeated.

Wolf approaches the edge of the roof and gazes down upon the district.

He has lived in Yeongduengpo all his life. He is familiar with the changing of the stoplights, like clockwork, on every block. He has memorized every divot in the sidewalk, every broken lock and each shattered window.

Tonight, the city is no longer as familiar as the palm of his hand. It shudders with a new life, streets splitting and laying flat for a new history to be written—and Wolf swears by all he knows, he will not have his title claimed.

A knock on the rooftop door sounds. When it opens, he sees a familiar face, a friendly smile that only a fool could adorn in his presence. She's holding a bunch of colorful nonsense again, but he doesn't turn her away. Instead, he approaches her, allows her to place her hand upon his arm.

The city stutters with exhaust and groaning rusty benches, homes brightening as families return home and switch on the lights, light spilling from the windows like liquid gold.
With these windows, the old city gazes upon Wolf Keum and the mysterious girl. It heaves a heavy sigh, chimney smoke exuding from pipes before it is swept away with a passing train, far into the city night.