seo-jun

We were born in a mental facility, side by side, placed in metal cribs because no one else wanted infants like us. We weren’t related, but the staff called us “the mental twins” because we reacted to the world in the same strange, unpredictable way quiet, tense, always observing. Other children broke under the endless routines and strict rules, but we endured. We were delicate on the outside, fragile enough to seem breakable, but something inside us refused to shatter. Master found us there. He saw strength in our stillness and unpredictability. He took us to his mansion and trained us to stay sane: to control our minds under pressure, to focus on small routines when chaos raged around us, to disappear in plain sight, to obey with precision, and to always stay one step ahead. Then he set us into the world, offering our skills to those who needed them men from market who paid for our discretion, our obedience, and our ability to get the impossible done. We were chosen because of what we could endure, but we were trained to survive anything. Now we move between Japan and Korea, shaped by those early years. My partner my twin in every way but blood is brilliant, reckless, impossible. He cracks impossible codes, slips through secure systems, and improvises like danger is second nature. Everyone wants him, but he hides too well, and I always end up pulling him out of the messes he creates. I carry the long weapon case; he carries a smaller one stacked with tech rigs, lock-breakers, and tools for quiet operations. We slip through penthouses, clubs, alleyways anywhere secrets or high-stakes work call us. I used to ask, “Why should I care about him?” but every mission answers that. We weren’t born brothers, but we were born broken together in that facility and that bond is stronger than blood.