Trigger On You (Fadel X Kamin) JOONGDUNK FANFIC

1

The warehouse office smelled of motor oil and old cigarettes.

Krit leaned against a metal desk, arms crossed, the dim bulb overhead carving harsh shadows across his scarred cheek. He was Peter's voice when Peter didn't speak himself—cold, efficient, never one for small talk.

Fadel stood just inside the door, rain still dripping from his jacket onto the concrete.

"New contract," Krit said without preamble. "The detective heading that murder case. The one digging into things that aren't his business. Boss wants him gone. Quiet. Soon."

Fadel waited.

"No name. No photo. File's sealed tighter than a vault. You'll have to hunt him down yourself."

A thin envelope landed on the desk between them. Cash. Half now.

"Triple on completion if it's clean and fast," Krit added, eyes flat. "Don't make boss wait."

Fadel picked up the envelope, felt the weight. Nodded once.

Krit tilted his head. "Any questions?"

"None."

"Good. Don't fuck it up."

Fadel turned, pushed through the door into the downpour.

Rain hit his face like needles. He lit a cigarette under the overhang, flame steady despite the wind.

A target without a face. A job without mercy.

The city was full of detectives. Only one mattered.

Fadel exhaled smoke into the night.

He'd find him.

Chapter 1 - Order

Gunfire cracked through the night.

Kamin rolled behind an overturned table just as bullets shredded the wall above where his head had been seconds ago. Dust rained down. Glass shattered. Somewhere in the chaos, someone screamed.

"Police!" a voice yelled behind him. "Drop your weapon!"

The suspect didn't listen.

They never did.

Kamin exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His grip tightened around the gun, fingers calm, precise—like this was routine.

Because it was.

He leaned out, fired once.

Clean shot.

The man's gun clattered to the floor as he collapsed, clutching his shoulder, screaming in pain. Kamin was already moving before the echo faded, boots hitting the concrete floor as he crossed the room in seconds.

He kicked the weapon away, pressed his knee into the man's back, and twisted his arm just enough to make the point clear.

"Attempted murder," Kamin said calmly, snapping cuffs onto the man's wrists. "You failed. Twice, actually. That must sting."

The man cursed, breath ragged. "You don't know who you're messing with."

Kamin smirked faintly. "Funny. That's exactly what people say when they do know—and they're scared."

Sirens wailed in the distance as backup finally arrived. Kamin stood, rolling his shoulder once, scanning the scene with sharp, assessing eyes. One suspect down. One case tied up.

But the weight in his chest didn't lift.

Because this wasn't the case that mattered.

...

Kamin's car came to a smooth stop at the curb.

He stepped out without haste.

Black waistcoat fitted perfectly over a crisp shirt, sleeves tight enough to outline the strength in his arms. A narrow tie sat neatly against his collar, untouched, disciplined. The shoulder holster—crossed straps hugging his frame—rested naturally beneath the fabric, the weight of the gun something he barely registered anymore.

A group of women walking past slowed unconsciously. One of them glanced up, then nudged her friend, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. Another smiled outright, bold enough to test the waters.

Kamin noticed—he always did.

He offered a brief, courteous nod. Not flirtation. Not invitation. Just acknowledgment.

It was enough to make hearts stutter anyway.

He moved forward, long strides unhurried, posture straight, presence unmistakable. People stepped aside instinctively—not out of fear, but awareness. There was something about him that suggested authority without ever demanding it.

Inside the building, the fluorescent lights hummed softly.

"Good evening, Inspector Kamin," the receptionist said, a little too quickly.

"Evening," he replied, voice calm, even, carrying the faint edge of an accent he hadn't bothered to lose after coming back from the States.

American training showed in the way he walked.

In the way his eyes scanned corners.

In the way his hands never strayed far from where his weapon rested.

He headed down the corridor, expression composed, mind already shifting gears.

The case was waiting.

Three murders.

One invisible executioner.

No face. No name. No mistakes.

Kamin pushed open the briefing room door.

The lights were dim, the projector already on, crime scene photographs waiting across the board. The room fell silent as he entered—not because he demanded it, but because he was expected.

Kamin walked to the table and took his seat, back straight, hands resting calmly in front of him. The shoulder holster settled naturally against his frame. His expression remained composed, unreadable.

"As we expected," the superior said, breaking the silence, "you caught the culprit in a day."

Kamin inclined his head slightly. "He made mistakes."

A pause. Not disbelief—acknowledgment.

The projector clicked. Another image appeared. A body.

"These murders are connected," the superior said. "And we believe Peter is behind them."

Kamin's gaze stayed on the screen. "This isn't his usual work."

"No," came the reply. "Which tells us he's hired someone else."

A hitman.

"We don't have a name," the superior went on. "No face. No background. Just precision."

Silence settled again.

"We're pulling you off the visible investigation," the superior said. "Effective immediately."

Kamin looked up. "You want me undercover."