ok ok wait what is 617 yoonʼs biggest fear? guilty pleasure? is he a virgin (like the rumor in your fic)? loll
Probably becoming like his father. That's something I'll explore more in future chapters, along with his overall dislike toward men. It also connects to his huge fear of being powerless or not being in control of a situation.
His guilty pleasure is... baking. I haven't shared it yet, but it's a hobby Yoongi considers unnecessary compared to cooking. Since pastries are basically just sugar, butter, eggs and flour mixed in different ratios—which don't provide much nutritional value like regular meals. He doesn't even like sweets that much. What he actually likes is the precision of it—the exact measurements, the technique, the consistency. Cooking is art and baking is chemistry.
As for the virgin rumor—nope, that's just a rumor. There are a lot of rumors about Yoongi because he barely talks to anyone and has this creepy, mysterious aura around him which both interests people and terrifies them. He's had a few casual relationships before, but he was never emotionally invested in any of them. He likes to believe he doesn't care about sex as much as other men, even when he's literally obsessively sexualizing Y/N just as much 😭
synopsis; After promising himself to stay away from Y/N, Yoongi is forced to confront how fragile his self-control truly is when she unexpectedly comes to him for help.
pairing; stalker yoongi x female reader
genre; psychological thriller, angst, smut
warnings; +18, dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, stalking, psychological manipulation, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, power imbalance, predatory behavior, yandere themes, abusive family, implied previous child abuse, guns, yoongi is getting even more delusional
notes; I know I said I'd post it after part two of off-brand baby, but I got so much inspiration for this!!! I had to finish it lmaoo. I think this might be one of the most interesting chapters
wc; 3.8k
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“Watch. You’re old enough now.”
The kitchen smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The kind that clung to wallpaper no matter how many times his mother cracked windows or bleached the counters raw. It lived in the grain of the scratched table where dinner was served, bills were paid, where arguments started and ended.
Yoongi sat stiffly in his chair, his feet barely touching the floor. He kept his hands folded tight in his lap, trying not to move too much. His father didn't look at him. He simply laid out each object on the table in a neat row. The sound of metal hitting wood made Yoongi flinch despite him expecting it. His father noticed, but this time he let it pass. Instead, he picked up the revolver—not with pride, not with excitement, but with the detached familiarity of someone reaching for a hammer he'd owned for twenty years. Like it wasn't the one thing in the house everyone was careful around.
“You keep things clean,” his father muttered. “Anything you own. Doesn't matter if it's a car, a knife, or this.”
His thumb brushed over the steel the way other men might stroke a dog's head.
“You take care of your things, and they take care of you.”
Yoongi stared at the revolver. He didn't understand. He only knew his father's voice had changed now. Softer, less angry than usual. Those moments were always the strangest ones. The moments that almost felt normal. Where his father could sit across from him and pretend they were having some ordinary father-son moment.
“First thing,” his father said, “you make sure it's empty.”
Click. The cylinder swung open. Yoongi watched every motion the way a smaller animal watches a larger one eat. Not because he was eager to learn, but because he had learned that missing even the smallest detail could earn him a sharp word, or worse.
“Check three times.”
The cylinder spun with a metallic tick-tick sound, then his father closed it and opened it again, repeating the motion two more times.
“Why three?” The question slipped out before Yoongi could swallow it.
His father paused. For a second, Yoongi thought he had made a mistake for doubting him. Then the man looked at him. Not with the usual storm, but something almost resembling approval.
“Because once isn't enough.” He said. “Twice means you think you remember. Three times means you know.”
Yoongi frowned. “I’d remember after the first.”
A dry chuckle escaped his father's throat. “And that's exactly how people get themselves killed.” He leaned back, the chair creaking under the weight of old habits. “World’s full of men who think they're smarter than the moment. They don't pay attention. Nothing goes wrong for years, but when it finally bites, they call it bad luck. It isn't.”
Their eyes met.
“You either pay attention,” his father paused, “or you regret the day you stopped.”
He leaned forward over the table, reaching for a can of solvent.
“Check a hundred times if you have to.”
The words settled over the room like dust. Yoongi wasn't sure whether he was still talking about the gun.
A sharp scent spread through the kitchen air—thinner mixed with cold machine oil. Something chemical that caught in the back of Yoongi's throat. A smell of men who fixed what they could and broke what they couldn't. His father barely seemed to notice it—he breathed it in as naturally as cigarette smoke.
With a long, shrieking stroke, the man ran the bronze brush through the barrel. Wetting and scrubbing until the black residue surrendered. Each chamber received the same patient violence. There was something unbearable about the care he showed now. The same hands that slammed doors hard enough to shake the walls moved with remarkable gentleness.
“Why do you like it?” Yoongi asked quietly after another minute of watching him.
“Like what?”
“The gun,” Yoongi clarified.
“I don't.”
He wiped away the last smear near the muzzle.
“I don't like hammers either. They’re tools. A tool doesn't have feelings. It doesn't get scared. It doesn't hesitate.” He held the revolver up, inspecting it from one side before the other. “It does exactly what you tell it to do.”
He folded the cloth over one finger and polished away a fingerprint.
“You know what people get wrong?”
Yoongi shook his head.
“They blame the tool. They'll point at this and call it dangerous.”
The man placed the gun down, the barrel pointing at Yoongi.
“But this?” He tapped the gun once. “It's just metal. The dangerous part is always the man holding it.”
For reasons Yoongi couldn't explain, that unsettled him more than anything else his father had said that evening.
“You learn that now, and you'll grow into a man who thinks before he acts.”
Yoongi lowered his eyes. Didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure he understood anything that had been said that night.
Then he looked back at the revolver. The barrel was still pointed at him.
The weight settled into his palm with an uncomfortable familiarity. Not heavy enough to surprise him. Not light enough to forget. His thumb traced the frame in motions his body remembered better than his mind wanted to.
As much as he despised what it represented, he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. It wasn't sentimentality. At least, that's what he told himself.
He had considered it more than once. Sell it. Or leave it somewhere it would become someone else's problem. Instead, he kept wrapping it in the same faded cloth, sliding it back into the drawer, postponing a decision that never seemed urgent enough to make. It was easier to pretend it wasn't there. Easier to believe that burying something deep enough was the same as leaving it behind.
Out of pure habit, Yoongi opened the cylinder and examined each empty chamber. Spin it, close it. Three times. Each time, some part of him expected to find a single bullet in one of the chambers.
With a quiet exhale, Yoongi folded the cloth around the revolver once more, concealing every inch of cold steel before placing it beneath a stack of neatly folded clothes in the far corner of the drawer. He pushed it back until the bundle disappeared into shadow.
Yesterday's impulse refused to stay in yesterday.
He hadn't followed her that morning. He'd stood by the window as she left her apartment, watched her disappear down the street, and remained where he was until she was completely out of sight.
It was the first morning in weeks he hadn't stepped outside after her. Instead, he'd stayed home. Thinking.
Had she noticed the clean mugs? The missing lace? The faint prints he might have left on the balcony handle?
If she'd known it was him, she would've confronted him by now…wouldn't she?
Or perhaps she had noticed everything and had chosen silence—the same way his mother once had.
He could almost believe it hadn't happened. That he'd imagined crossing over. That exhaustion had twisted memory into fantasy.
But the delicate strip of black lace hidden in his bedroom said otherwise.
After a moment's hesitation, he dug into the drawer again. The cloth-wrapped revolver remained tucked beneath his clothes. Beside it, folded into a shape too small to occupy so much of his attention, rested the lace he'd taken from her apartment.
He stared at it for a long moment. Then nudged it farther into the corner until it disappeared beside the revolver. Out of sight.
As though hiding them together somehow made either of them easier to forget.
He had made a promise to himself.
Forget about her.
The risk had grown too large. If she reported him to the police, this time he wouldn't be able to explain his way out of it.
Of course, he knew he was innocent. Nothing had happened. He hadn't hurt her. He hasn't threatened her. He hadn't cornered her in some dark alley.
Smelling someone's underwear wasn't a crime. Washing a sink full of dishes wasn't either.
But he knew the system. Words were moved around until they fit into the story people wanted to hear. Intentions disappeared beneath assumptions. Context became inconvenient. Innocence was never the goal.
They wouldn't understand.
She was simply…his special interest.
Little boys memorized every dinosaur that had ever walked the earth, reciting names impossible to pronounce without stumbling. His father could spend entire evenings taking apart guns, polishing every component before fitting it back together with quiet satisfaction. Some people learned train schedules. Other collected insects. Everyone devoted themselves to something.
His devotion happened to be her.
There was beauty in understanding something completely. Collecting clues, mapping patterns, and small details that everyone else overlooked. Solving the quiet mystery of her. No book has ever rewarded attention and patience the way she did.
But it was finished now. Back to studying. Back to work. Back to the future he had nearly burned down for an infatuation. He had already wasted enough time.
A soft knock interrupted the silence. Yoongi frowned, his eyes shifting toward the door. The sound was wrong. Not because it was loud, but because it didn't belong in his space. He wasn't expecting any packages. He hadn't ordered anything recently, and even if he had, deliveries rarely came this late. No visitors either—he had made sure there was no one close enough to think they could simply show up.
Another knock followed, more hesitant than the first one. Whoever stood outside wasn’t impatient and was already mentally prepared to leave. His feet moved before he could consider pretending he wasn't home. The floorboard creaked beneath his weight, each step cutting through the quiet he had built around himself.
By the time he reached the door, his hand was already hovering near the lock. Yoongi leaned closer and looked through the peephole. The distorted view sharpened enough for him to recognize immediately.
Y/N.
Of all the people he expected to find standing outside his apartment, she was the one he had least expected. She stood in the hallway with a stack of notes clutched tightly against her chest, holding them so firmly that the edges had begun to curl beneath her fingers. She looked like she had been debating whether to knock for several minutes before finally forcing herself to do it. He could almost picture the argument she had been having with herself before raising her hand.
A few strands of hair had escaped whatever attempt she had made to keep it neat, falling loosely around her cheeks. Her eyes moved restlessly, first toward the floor, then toward the hallway behind her, as if she was checking whether anyone else was around.
After a few more long seconds, she exhaled. A small, defeated sigh. Her shoulders lowered slightly, and she turned away. The lock clicked before she could step away. Yoongi pushed the door wide open. Surprise flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a polite expression. The kind she used when she didn’t want others to know she had been caught off guard.
He could have waited another few seconds. Pretended he hadn't heard. Let her walk back to her apartment and convince herself coming here had been a mistake. But he opened the door.
That was the part that bothered him. Not that he had chosen to let her in, but how little thought the decision had required. He had spent years teaching himself patience and restraint. Yet when it came to her, the smallest opportunity was enough to make him forget both.
“Uh…hi.” She offered him a small, awkward smile, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Hi.”
“So…” She cleared her throat and looked anywhere except directly at him. Her eyes moved over his shoulder, toward the apartment behind him. “Remember when you offered to help me with Harrington's assignment?”
Yoongi folded his arms against his chest and leaned against the doorframe.
“I do.”
“I was wondering…” She licked her lips, saliva glistening under the dim hallway lamp. “If the offer was still available.”
The corner of his lips lifted.
Had Seokjin's help not been enough?
“It is.”
“Okay. Good.” She nodded once, then hugged the notes tighter. “Sorry, I should've messaged first. I didn't mean to bother you, but I was nearby, and then I thought maybe I should just ask, and then I almost left, but—”
She stopped herself the moment she noticed the faint smile forming on Yoongi's face. Heat spread across her cheeks with a faint red tint.
“Just come in.” Yoongi said, stepping aside.
She slipped out of her shoes near the entrance before moving farther into the apartment, careful and quiet. Even though she had been here before, she still looked around with the same cautious curiosity. She treated his home like something fragile. Something that could be disturbed by her presence. Her eyes paused briefly near the bookshelf. Then the hallway. Then the kitchen counter.
For half a second, Yoongi wondered whether she was remembering something.
By the time he returned carrying two steaming mugs, she'd already spread her work on the dining table. A thick binder sat open in the center, stuffed with printed court documents and case materials. Several pages were covered with highlighted paragraphs and sticky notes protruding from every other page. Beside it, a notebook filled with hurried handwriting.
“You didn't have to make coffee,” she said, looking at the mug before looking back at him.
He shrugged. “I was making some anyway.”
Yoongi looked at the scattered papers covering his table. Usually, he wouldn’t tolerate the clutter. He would have already gathered them, aligned the edges, and returned everything to where it belonged. Everything had a place. Everything stayed where he put it. Yet he found himself unwilling to move a single page.
With a long sigh, she flipped through her notebook. “I think I'm overcomplicating this.”
“It's hard not to when it comes to Harrington.”
She laughed through her nose. “That's reassuring.”
Yoongi pulled a chair beside hers and sat down. “Show me what you’ve got.”
She turned the notebook toward him.
“I understand the facts. I just… ” She rested her elbow on the table and rubbed her forehead. “Every time I start writing, I end up explaining why what they did was wrong.”
Yoongi scanned the page briefly with his eyes. “That's because you need to separate the law from your own opinion.”
“That's what I find hard to do.”
“You hate admitting that what they did was legal.”
Her voice tightened. “Because it shouldn't have been.”
“It might not be in the future. But at that time, it was.” Yoongi leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the paper. “That's how those companies work. Find the cracks, widen them, and seal them when the law catches up. Then they find another one.”
“That's fucked up.” Y/N groaned and slumped farther into her chair, dragging a hand over her face. “I hate this class.”
“Thankfully you study business, not law.”
She gave him a tired look. “That was supposed to make me feel better?”
Ignoring her comment, Yoongi picked up her notebook. Nearly every margin was crowded with notes, arrows, underlines, and entire sentences crossed out and rewritten. As if her thoughts had moved faster than her pen could keep up with.
“You've done the research.” He flipped through another page. “You've identified the relevant statutes. You cited the precedent correctly.”
He looked up at her.
“I think the problem is that you're trying to prove they're bad people.”
A low groan escaped from her as she threw her head back.
“Please, spare me. I’ve already listened to Harrington explain this for ten minutes.”
“He's right, though.”
Her eyes narrowed immediately. “Do you want me to murder you?”
For a moment, he only stared at her. Not because of the threat. Because it was the first time she had spoken to him without restraint.
“Think about it this way.” Yoongi fixed his posture, closing the notebook and sliding it aside. He turned towards her, forcing her to face him. “If we were arguing against a case, would you rather understand your opponent's argument or pretend it doesn't make sense because you dislike it?”
“I know, but…It just feels wrong to do that. As if I'm agreeing with them.”
“Explaining doesn't mean agreeing. Facts don't change based on how you feel about them.”
She looked at him for a second before lowering her gaze.
“You really believe that, don't you?” It came out almost as a murmur.
“Believe what?”
Her arms crossed over her chest, one hand caressing her elbow. “That emotions just get in the way.”
“No.”
“No?” She glanced up at him.
“They're useful. They tell you what matters.” A small silence settled between them. His finger absentmindedly traced the edge of the page. “But they're not always good at telling what happened.”
Y/N studied him. The answer seemed to surprise her more than if he had dismissed emotions entirely.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “That was actually a good answer.”
Yoongi frowned. “Actually?”
She smiled faintly. “Don't sound so offended.”
“I'm not.”
“You're also a terrible liar.”
Yoongi forgot to respond. Years of controlling every expression. Years of learning how much to reveal and how much to hide. He had spent so much time making sure nobody could read him. And somehow, she noticed. And that terrified him.
He looked away first, pretending the sudden warmth in his face was irritation.
“Focus on the assignment.” Yoongi murmured.
“Was that you changing the subject?”
“No.”
“It definitely was.”
“Please read the next sentence for me.”
Still smiling, she looked back down at her notes.
“So, 'The company manipulated loopholes to avoid responsibility'…” She lifted her chin up, eyes sparkling with the new kind of motivation. “What should I say instead?”
Yoongi hummed thoughtfully, resting his chin against his hand, fingers tapping lightly against his jaw. “The company utilized existing legal structures to minimize liability.”
“Wow. That was fast.” She laughed, crossing the sentence with her pen. “It almost sounds like the company hired you. You sure you’re a business student?”
A quiet chuckle escaped him. “I've read some books and taken some courses here and there.”
“So humble.” She rolled her eyes.
“You asked for help, so I'm helping.”
“You're enjoying this so much.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Enjoying...?”
“Being right.”
For a moment, he considered denying it. But now he knew she would have noticed.
“I admit, it's not the worst feeling in the world.”
“There it is.”
Yoongi looked up. “What?”
“That tiny bit of arrogance.”
He stared at her. “That's not arrogance.”
“It is a little.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “I like it, though.”
Yoongi cleared his throat and reached for another page.
“You have another problem.” His voice dropped into a lower tone as he tried regaining his position.
Y/N immediately became suspicious. “Another one? What now?”
“You write like you're afraid of being wrong. Every time you make an argument, you add three sentences explaining why you might be wrong.”
“I just don't want to sound arrogant.”
“You just said you like it.” Yoongi shook his head. “Confidence isn't always arrogance.”
“I like a tiny bit of arrogance.” She sighed. “It's easy for you to say. You always sound like you know exactly what you're talking about.” The words came out quieter, almost like she hadn't intended to say them aloud.
“You mistake certainty for confidence.”
“I can't always be sure I'm one hundred percent right,” she said quietly. “What if I overlooked something? Or misunderstood it?”
“If you're always waiting until you're one hundred percent certain, you'll never finish anything.” He looked at her. “Try to question your own argument. Find the weakest point. Try to prove yourself wrong. If you can't, your argument is probably stronger than you think.”
“Or I’m too dumb to notice it…”
She crossed out another sentence she'd been fighting for nearly an hour. The apartment fell quiet except for the scratch of her pen across the paper. Yoongi rested his elbow on the table, watching the words appear one line at a time.
She wrote exactly the way she spoke—hesitant at first, then steadily once she found her footing. Every few sentences she stopped to reread the previous paragraph, lips moving silently as she searched for awkward phrasing.
Without realizing it, she shifted her chair a few centimeters closer to his. Not enough for her to notice. Enough for him to notice immediately.
“What if I write that they took advantage of a loophole because they knew ordinary people wouldn’t understand what they were doing?”
Yoongi didn’t hesitate.
“No.”
She pouted, her nose scrunching slightly. “Why not?”
“Because you’re assuming their motivation. You can’t accuse them of acting unethically just because the outcome was harmful.”
“Isn't that the point?”
“Not in legal writing.”
She sighed dramatically. “Everything fun is illegal in this class.”
“Not illegal.”
“Discouraged, then.” She rolled her eyes. “What would you write?”
“Something simple.” He scribbled a few lines beneath her paragraph.
Y/N leaned closer to read. She was close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo. A detail he had no reason to notice.
“This is boring.” She whined as she read what he wrote.
“It's clear and effective.”
“You really like boring things.”
“No, I like things that work.”
A short, warm chuckle filled the kitchen. “That's probably the most you thing you've ever said.”
He frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“I don't know.” She smiled. “It just does. You don't even decorate your space. It just feels like you live here, but you don't leave any evidence that you do.”
“I don't.”
Her eyes moved around the apartment again.
“Do you ever decorate?”
Yoongi looked at her. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. .”
Her papers covered the table. Two coffee mugs gone cold sat between them. The clock on the wall moved steadily forward.
Normal. Ordinary.
Dangerously ordinary.
Because this was exactly what he had told himself he couldn't have.
Distance. Control.
A clean separation between curiosity and consequence. And yet she was sitting next to him, smiling at something he said, trusting him with her work.
The promise he had made earlier felt farther away than it should have.
Forget about her.
It should have been simple.
But nothing about her had ever been simple.
This wouldn't count.
He hadn’t searched for a reason to see her. He hadn’t created an excuse to knock on her door.
She had come to him. He was only helping. That was what neighbors did.
I wish 😭 I haven't worked on it for a while. Right now I'm writing part two for off-brand baby, which will be like +7k. I might post it this week. But 617 Is next in line 🫶
synopsis; Yoongi is gone. But it doesn't make it any easier to leave.
pairing; mafia yoongi x female reader
genre; psychological thriller, angst, smut
warnings; +18, dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon, coercion/manipulation, power imbalance, yandere themes, obssesive behaviour, kidnapping, suicidal themes
notes; bro, never trust me ever again. i was supposed to post it last week </3. this is the shortest chapter, but i was afraid too add too many important scenes. i'm going on vacation in a few weeks, so i hope i can get some inspiration there and write more stuff for you <33. i'm really unsure about this chapter, i just want to get over with it T_T BUT! smut is coming soon...
wc; 2.5k
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The spilled whiskey was gone. Only a dark stain remained, crawling toward the desk's edge as if trying to reach her. It gleamed black and glossy under the dimmed lamp, thick as oil, refusing to dry. She avoided looking directly at it—it seemed closer to the edge than yesterday, though she knew that couldn't be true.
Yoongi had left it there the night he walked out. Since then the house stayed quiet. Or empty—she couldn’t tell. The clocks still ticked. The heating hummed softly through the walls, sometimes groaning somewhere deep inside the mansion. Meals appeared whenever hunger clawed at her stomach—warm and perfectly seasoned, waiting in the dining room as though placed there moments before. Tea never had time to cool. But human sounds had vanished completely.
She deliberately waited around corners, convinced she'd finally catch the hand that fed her. She never did. Never saw the housekeeper. Or anyone else, for that matter.
It was perfect. Everything she'd wanted since she got here. No footsteps shadowing her in the halls. No guard's dry cough reminding her she wasn't alone. No therapist who adjusted the reality around her. No low voice at her shoulder telling her to take the pills, to eat, to be good.
Somehow, the sun felt warmer now, almost suspicious in its generosity. Golden light spilled across floors where gray had lingered for weeks. The wound on her palm had closed to a thin, pink line. Even the tea tasted sweeter.
She had to leave today. Not try to. Actually leave. Another week here and she might start accepting this place. That frightened her more than anything Yoongi could do.
She had to make it past the gate before the house learned her name.
The walk-in closet stretched wider than some apartments seen before. Rows of clothes that were never really hers lined the entire walls with expensive cotton. Fabric brushed against fabric with a soft whisper whenever she moved a hanger. Every dress, every skirt, every carefully tailored coat—had appeared one day without discussion, hung neatly beside the others as if they had always belonged there. As if she had always belonged there. Each one held another version of the woman someone else had designed her to be. It hadn't worked.
Her fingers skimmed along the hangers. Cool silk slid beneath her fingertips, cold and delicate as rose petals drifting across water. She wondered how much money Yoongi had spent on dressing up a prisoner as a princess. Her hand kept moving until the fabrics suddenly gave way to something more familiar. A plain gray hoodie shoved awkwardly between two far more expensive pieces. The cotton felt heavier than the silk surrounding it. More hers. Well, as close to her as anything in this house could be. She slipped it over her head, the fabric settled around her shoulders immediately, trapping warmth against her skin.
Lacing her boots was harder—it took her three attempts before the laces finally obeyed. The first knot slipped loose before she could tighten it. The second tangled between her fingers. She stared at the strings for a long moment before trying again. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling. Something electric buzzed beneath her skin, rushing through her veins so quickly it made every movement unreliable. On the third attempt, the bow finally held. She tugged the laces tight and sat still for a moment, staring at the finished knot. Such a stupid thing. Yet her chest felt strangely light looking at it.
One more step. One more step closer to the gate.
The office smelled different without him, bland even. No trace of the cigarette smoke that seemed permanently soaked into every room he occupied. No hint of the honey whiskey either. Only leather and paper. The scent of dust warming beneath sunlight. Usually there was the click of his keyboard, a rustle of documents, the low hum of his voice during phone calls she wasn’t supposed to overhear. Now, there was nothing.
Good.
That was what she wanted.
Her gaze drifted toward the mahogany desk dominating the center of the room. The floor creaked under her boots as she approached it, each step sounding louder than the last one—as if protesting her presence. Her fingers slid across the wood, stopping where she expected the stain to be. She didn’t remember cleaning it. In fact, she was almost certain she hadn’t.
It took her a few blinks to escape the image. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there for that.
Her hand wrapped around the brass handle of the top drawer and pulled. The runners hummed softly. Pens rattled against one another, receipts stacked on top of envelopes. Dark ink stained the drawer's bottom, indigo spreading in thin branching rivulets. Her fingers sifted through the clutter and brushed something cold. A silver lighter sat pushed deep into the back corner. She picked it up, cold metal settling into her palm. The hinge snapped open with a sharp click, the same sound the empty gun had made—chamber spinning uselessly beneath trembling fingers. Her thumb pressed down onto the flint, spinning it and igniting a shower of sparks. A small blue-orange flame bloomed into existence, dancing quietly in front of her. She watched it for a brief moment before releasing the pressure. Turning the lighter over in her hand, she traced the engraving with her thumbnail. Another lily. Petal by petal. The grooves had been worn smooth in places, as if he'd traced them hundreds of times as well. The lid snapped shut with another sharp click. She slipped the lighter into the pocket of her jeans.
The second drawer held folders. Many of them. Each arranged with the same obsessive neatness he applied to everything else in his life. She flipped through them rapidly. Names. Addresses. Contracts. Financial reports. Invoices. Signatures. Page after page of numbers that meant nothing. Whatever secrets they contained, they weren't useful to her.
She shoved the folders back into place and reached for the last drawer. It refused to budge. She frowned and tugged harder, only to receive the same result. Something held it back. Her eyes searched the polished wood until they found it—a tiny brass keyhole, tucked discreetly into the corner, nearly hidden within the dark grain. How difficult to break could a lock really be? The desk looked expensive. Old money expensive. Dark mahogany polished to a mirror shine. Elegant curved edges. Carved ornaments decorating each corner. Beautiful. Which made the idea of breaking it strangely satisfying.
She lowered herself onto the floor. Planting one boot against the middle drawer, she wrapped both hands around the brass handle. When she pulled, the desk answered with a groan. A faint creak filling the office. The handle dug into her palm. She tightened her grip and yanked harder—her arms strained, wrists screamed—but the drawer shifted barely an inch before stopping.
“Just let fucking go,” she groaned through clenched teeth before kicking the desk.
Something inside knocked softly against the wood. Sweat gathered along the back of her neck beneath the hoodie. Whatever sat inside had been important enough to lock away even from the people who worked here. Maybe it was nothing. More paperwork. More contracts. More proof that Yoongi's life revolved around numbers and signatures. Or maybe it was a key. Her documents. A phone. A gun. Something that could finally get her beyond the gate. Hope was dangerous. She knew that. Every time she'd let herself imagine escape, the mansion had found another way to remind her where she belonged. Still, she couldn't stop imagining what waited on the other side.
She rolled her shoulders. One slow breath. Then pulled with everything she had. Kicked again, harder.
Click.
For a long second, she didn't move. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the empty office. Slowly, almost afraid the moment would disappear if she moved too quickly, she raised herself on her knees. Her brain refused to make sense of what she was seeing. Rectangles stacked on rectangles. Neat. Uniform. Almost absurd.
Rubber bands. Numbers.
Money.
Bundles and bundles of cash. Packed so tightly together the rubber bands looked ready to snap. The faint scent of fresh paper and printer's ink reached her.
“Jesus Christ.”
The words escaped as little more than a breath. Carefully, she reached forward and touched the nearest stack. The paper crisp enough to scrape against her fingers.
Real. It was real.
Her gaze moved slowly across the drawer, trying to estimate how much sat in front of her. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe more. Who kept this much cash in a desk? Someone who didn’t trust banks. Or someone rich enough not to care. Maybe someone who wanted her to find it. And he kept it hidden beneath his desk like spare batteries. Y/N laughed softly. A strange sound.
Ten million.
The price he’d paid for her. She looked at the money and saw herself. Bought. Stored. Hidden away. Just another possession locked inside his mansion. The only difference was that the drawer had opened.
With trembling hands she began stuffing bundles into her backpack. Half of it. More than she could reasonably carry. The weight felt reassuring.
For the first time in weeks, the future existed beyond tomorrow.
Leave. Simple.
The backpack hung heavily from her shoulder, its weight pulling against tired muscles. Money pressed against her back along with bottles of water, food, spare clothes, and everything else she'd managed to gather.
At the front door, she paused. Not because she was afraid, but because this was it. Days of planning. Waiting. Days spent staring through windows and imagining the town under—the narrow streets, crowded shops, strangers who didn't know her name. A life where nobody decided where she slept, what she wore, what she ate. A small smile found its way onto her face.
Her second chance.
Her hand closed around the handle. She drew in a slow breath and held it—the last breath inside the cage, the last time she'd feel it in her lungs. The last time she allowed men to use her.
She pushed the handle down. It moved. Halfway. Her smile lingered for another heartbeat before fading. She tried again. The handle stopped at the exact same point.
“Seriously?” she scoffed.
She rattled it harder, metal clinked, but the lock remained stubbornly silent.
“Come on.”
She shoved harder. The backpack shifted painfully against her shoulder. Her jaw tightened.
“Fine.”
She stepped back, rolling her aching shoulders until something in her spine cracked softly.
“It's fine.”
There were other exits. One of them had to work.
She crossed the hallway and grabbed the handle of the side entrance.
Locked.
The patio doors answered the same way.
Locked.
By the third handle, she already knew what she'd find.
By the fourth, she stopped hoping.
“It’s fine,” she repeated.
Her fingers disappeared into her hair, pushing it back from her before falling uselessly to her sides. The sun gleamed through the glass, bright and warm and impossibly close. She stood motionless in the center of the hallway. The mansion suddenly felt different. Larger. The ceilings seemed to climb higher than she remembered. The hallways stretched longer. The corners darker, less familiar. As though the house had quietly shifted around her while she wasn't looking.
Then something clicked.
Garage.
Right, the garage. Cars. Of course.
She almost laughed at herself. The solution had been there the entire time. She had been so focused on doors and locks that she hadn't thought beyond them. Her pace quickened. Then became a jog. The backpack bounced against her shoulder with every step, heavy with cash and possibility. Freedom suddenly felt embarrassingly close. She didn't need much. A train station. A bus. A cheap motel in the next town over. She didn't care. Anywhere would do. Anywhere that wasn't here.
The door to the garage groaned as she shoved it open. Three vehicles sat beneath white covers—waiting. Hope returned so violently it almost hurt.
“Oh, thank God.” The words escaped as a breath.
She hurried toward the nearest shape and grabbed the cover with both hands. The fabric slid away in one sweeping motion. A sleek wine-red sedan emerged beneath it.
That would do.
She could already see it. The mansion shrinking in the rearview mirror. The town she had stared at for days finally passing by outside the glass instead of taunting her from a distance.
Her fingers closed around the driver's side handle. The smile remained on her face for a second too long. She pulled again. Still nothing.
“No.”
She tried again, slower this time. Maybe luxurious cars worked differently. Maybe there was a button. Something. Her fingers searched desperately around the handle. Along the frame. Beneath the mirror.
“Okay.” The word came out thin.
Something caught her eye. Mounted beside the garage door hung a polished metal key rack. She stumbled toward it. Several engraved plaques sat beneath each hook.
Main entrance
Ghost
Panamare
DB12
00356
Empty hooks stared back at her. No spare keys. No emergency set tucked into the corner.
“No.”
Her pulse stumbled. Then accelerated.
“No… no, no.”
Maybe one door had been left unlocked. Maybe she'd missed something.
Driver's side.
Locked.
Passenger side.
Locked.
Rear door.
Locked.
The trunk.
Locked.
The second car.
The third.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every handle answered the same way.
Every door remained shut.
A cold knot tightened deep in her stomach.
Every useful thing had vanished. Every solution had already been removed before she could think of it.
There had to be another way. There always was.
Workbench. Shelves. Tools. A heavy wrench. She lunged for it. The cold steel settled into her hands, reassuringly solid. One broken window. That was all she needed. Just one.
With a sharp cry she swung.
Bang.
The impact exploded through her arms. Pain shot into her shoulders. The window remained untouched.
Bang.
Harder.
Bang.
Bang!
BANG!
Each strike rattled her teeth. The wrench rebounded violently, sending shocks through her wristsrists. The glass didn't crack. Didn't chip. Didn't even scratch. It simply absorbed the blows.
“No!”
She hit it again. The wrench slipped from her sweat-slick fingers. It clattered across the concrete, dropping beside the SUV.
Not now. Not when she had finally done everything right.
Y/N stood motionless. Breathing hard. Staring at the untouched window. The untouched cars. The untouched world waiting beyond them. Slowly, her knees gave out. She slid down beside the garage door until her back hit the metal. The backpack dug into her shoulder. The money felt useless now. Worthless. Just paper.
What had she expected? That Yoongi would leave his cars unlocked? That the keys would be waiting in the ignition? That he'd leave her alone inside an unlocked house? A sob climbed into her throat. Then another. Before she realized what was happening, she was screaming. The sound tore out of her raw and broken. It bounced off the walls. Off the cars. Off the windows that refused to shatter. She screamed until her throat burned. Until tears blurred everything into shapeless streaks. Until the noise inside her finally matched the noise coming out.
Somewhere above her, a camera shifted with a faint mechanical hum. The lens turned. Found her. Stayed there. She stared back through blurred vision.
Authors, please, this is your place to recommend me your work! Don't be shy, we all need more stuff to read. Comment, reblog—sell your stories to us 💞😋
the yoongi in your icon pic makes me all flustered whenever i click on your blog
(here's me brainstorming: he looks like the toxic situationship you'd have in a psych ward, which is pretty on brand for hyyh yoongs)
hahahaha it's like a fish-bait! y'all better stop giving me ideas because then i won't be able to finish any of my fics 😭 (jk i love them). honestly, mint yoongi is such a fuckboy flirt (I mean, he's still a flirt)
