#1 TOXIC SERIES
It's the typical Enemies to Lovers story, flavored by yours truly.
Raised in the same neighborhood and social circle, Minho and Hyunjin know each other far too well. Both families are well-known chaebols with deep roots in the South...
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♛ ≪ 𝘛𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 ♛
As ordered by my father, I was waiting at the entrance of ICN a little past four. The small of my back leaned against the side of the hood of my car. Aviator glasses hung on my nose and my hair lay unruly over my forehead. Being the son of brought unwanted attention from the media or ordinary people who wanted to have a picture with me. And I wasn't waiting for any of that, especially when I had to pick up my cousin.
From what I'd heard of my father, my little cousin was clueless about the world we lived in. His father was very protective of his only child and son and kept him like in some disturbed Grimm tale locked in one of his high towers in Sydney. He rarely got out. And when he did, he had a personal driver escorting him from point A to B and stayed attached to the hip until the kid went back to point A.
Fuck, for that alone I was grateful for my life. My father could be an extreme pain in the ass, but he never confined me.
A herd of people came out of the glass entrance. They scattered to the left and right with their luggage on a cart rolling to the people and cars waiting for them. One person stood alone at the pedestrian crossing looking a little lost. Tufts of caprisun-colored hair curled outwards from underneath his black beanie. His face was covered by a black mask, still, I was quite sure he was the person I was waiting for.
I whistled on my fingers to grab his attention. The kid's head shot up and searched for the source of the high-pitched sound. When his gaze aligned with mine he grabbed his duffel bag from the ground and started to walk toward me.
He wore a faded burgundy sweater with on top a black, silky material bomber jacket and evenly faded black shorts that were at calf height. That and his Converse sneakers, made him look like the perfect model for Japanese streetwear.
The only good of this whole deathtrap my father just pulled, he didn't look like Han. Not a snobby rich kid that flaunted his money by dripping himself with expensive jewelry and only wore exclusive designer.
No, he came with only one bag, which he carried himself.
"Minho?" As I shoved my glasses on top of my head, baring my forehead from my brown locks, my cousin simultaneously removed his mask and let hit hang on one ear. His amber-brown eyes flicked up looking at my stitches.
"Felix," I responded. He'd shed his baby skin, his face was now more angular and mature. But the freckles I remembered were still splattered on his face. The first time I saw it I found it unique—in a pretty way. Here in Korea I never met someone with so many.
He looked away from the stitches and brightened his face with one big smile.
"It has been so long!" With no warning whatsoever, Felix draped himself like a baby monkey hugging its mother. I stiffened at the intrusion. Yeah, he would definitely stick out like a sore thumb in the Korean high-class culture.
