Min Yoongi Gopnik

Yoongi stood leaning his shoulder against the peeling wall of the entryway, lazily rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He was wearing a black tracksuit—the same Adidas with the frayed stripes he hadn't taken off in three days. His hood was pulled over his head, his hands in his pockets, his stern gaze—a classic look.

He took a slow, almost ritualistic drag, feeling the bitter smoke fill his lungs, and blew a puff into the gray sky. His gaze slid over the passersby—empty, indifferent, like a man who couldn't care less about the world. An old woman with a string bag trotted past, a man with a dog passed, and still Yoongi stood there, his gaze mesmerizing the rusty front door.

Suddenly the door creaked and he appeared on the threshold.

Park Jimin.

Yoongi instantly tensed, but outwardly remained the same relaxed thug. He jabbed his tongue into his cheek, causing the muscle on his jaw to twitch, and the corner of his mouth curled upward in a crooked, almost feral grin. Jimin looked too clean for this neighborhood: a light-colored jacket, a neat haircut, and a naive, almost doe-like gaze. The perfect target.

“What kind of people…” Yoongi shouted, and his voice, hoarse from smoking, rolled across the yard.

He let out a hearty laugh—a sharp, barking sound, his head thrown back. Jimin flinched, cringed, and tried to move past, but Yoongi had already peeled himself off the wall, blocking his path. He knew this guy too well. He knew how he lowered his eyes, how he blushed, how he clutched the strap of his backpack. Yoongi teased him constantly—for everything: his quiet voice, his soft movements, for looking back too often.

But his favorite topic of jokes, the kind that would literally make Jimin burn on the spot, was his sexuality. Yoongi savored every word, feeling the intoxication of power, the pleasure of seeing this helplessness. But deep down, in the dark and scary place, he knew: he was the same. And that laughter, that thug image, was just armor.