this is why ao3 is superior 😭 I hope op has a copy of their work because, from what I’ve been told, wattpad won’t even warn or give you time to backup your work beforehand. they will just deadass delete your work. my friend once had their entire work—with multiple chapters—deleted by wattpad with no heads up. just a notification that says “your work has been deleted”.
seriously people, ao3 is your safe haven. there’s no censorship. no capitalism bullshit. you can post the most taboo, most shockingly messed up thing there and the site will protect you and your works. they even have their own team of lawyers to protect writers, writers’ works and writers’ rights to create whatever they want. no matter how controversial or taboo or explicit or dark or messed up your works are, they are protected and welcomed on ao3. stop wasting time with wattpad 😭
Sadly that's true, I have stopped writing for years because of that.
I wrote my first ever book and upload it on wattpad and I was working on part 2 when all of the sudden it got deleted, the sad part was I had no other draft else where. I was so devastated that I entered a writer block for years, hated writing and could hardly get my imagination running. It absolutely unfair😭.
(I'm back thankfully, sadly not with much imagination and confidence as before but I'm happy to actually be able to write again)
The silence in your apartment had become a physical weight, pressing down on your chest until every breath felt like inhaling smoke.
For two years, Park Jimin had been your oxygen. He was the boyfriend who didn't just love you, but seemed to anticipate the very trajectory of your moods. He knew to text you when you are having a busy day at work, enough to make you feel anchored, never enough to make you feel smothered. He knew exactly when to pull you into his chest and let you cry, and he knew when to quietly slip out of the apartment to give you space to breathe.
Until the everything broke.
The discovery hadn't been a dramatic explosion. It was a series of small, sickening realignments: a locked screen left face down, a unfamiliar scent of expensive, heavy vanilla perfume clinging to the wool of his favorite coat, and finally, the glance at his iPad while he was in the shower. The thread of messages with a contact saved only as a single punctuation mark. The words exchanged were devastatingly casual, the kind of intimacy that implied a routine.
When you confronted him, he hadn't raised his voice. He had fallen to his knees, his hands trembling as he held your wrists, his eyes full with a desperate, terrifying sincerity.
“It was a mistake, Y/N. A stupid, meaningless mistake. Look at the timestamps I haven't replied to her in weeks. I stopped it. I swear to God, I stopped it because I realized it was killing me to look at you knowing what I did. Please. Don’t do this.”
It was true. The logs showed he had cut it off. But the fracture in your chest was too wide, the illusion of his perfection too thoroughly shattered. You broke up with him. You packed your things and walked away.
Then, exactly seven days later, the first message arrived.
It came from an encrypted, unlisted number. No text. Just an attachment.
When you tapped the screen, the breath tore from your throat. It was a photo of you, taken from a high, angled perspective near the ceiling of your own bedroom. You were asleep, tangled in the gray sheets, your shoulder bare, the morning light cutting across your face.
Your heart clenched. Who? How?
The next day, another arrived. This one was worse. Much worse. It was a photo of you standing in front of your full-length mirror, wearing a sheer, lace lingerie set you had bought a few months ago—a set you had only ever worn for yourself on a night you felt confident, a night Jimin hadn't even been home. You were completely exposed, your body captured in a sharp, high-definition clarity that made your skin crawl with a violent sense of violation.
By the fifth day, the photos became entirely explicit. Close-ups of you stretching after a shower, nude, completely unaware of the lens.
You had spiraled into a state of acute, paralyzed paranoia. You searched your apartment frantically, ripping down smoke detectors, tearing through light fixtures, checking the vents until your fingernails bled, but you found nothing. You texted the number back, your thumbs shaking so hard you could barely form the words.
-What do you want? Who is this? Please, stop. What do you want from me?
No reply. Just another photo, sent three hours later, showing you sitting on your living room rug, clutching your knees, crying over the previous text.
They were watching you right now.
You felt your life collapsing. Panic was clawing at the inside of your ribs. You needed a protector, someone to stop this. But your social circle was a minefield. Your friends were the type who thrived on hidden flaws; they loved you when you were successful, but a vulnerability this graphic, a scandal this humiliating, would become the centerpiece of their next wine night. They would pity you to your face and dissect your ruin behind your back.
There was only one person who had ever truly kept you safe. One person whose instinct had always been to shield you from the harshness of the world.
You didn't think. You couldn't think. Driven by fear, desperate suspicion, and a primal need for comfort, you took a cab and drove straight to Jimin’s upscale apartment complex.
The elevator ride up to his penthouse felt heavy. Your mind was a chaotic Was it him? It had to be him. He was the only one who had access to your life, the only one with the motive to destroy your peace after you left him. But as you reached his floor, a counter-thought whispered insidiously: Jimin loves you. Jimin wept at your feet. Jimin would never degrade you like this.
You reached his door and pounded against the heavy wood, the sound echoing loudly in the carpeted hallway. You knocked again, harder, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Jimin! Open the door! Jimin!"
The lock clicked. The door swung open.
You froze, the accusation dying on your tongue.
Jimin stood in the entryway, looking utterly a mess, a beautiful mess. His hair, usually perfectly styled, was a wild, tangled mess. He was half-naked, wearing only a pair of low-slung black sweatpants. But it was his skin that made the world tilt on its axis.
His collarbone, his chest, and the pale column of his neck were covered in fresh, angry, unmistakable hickeys. A dark, purplish bite mark bloomed right over his pulse point.
"Y/N?" he muttered, his voice thick with confusion. He frowned, his eyes blinking rapidly as if he couldn't quite process the sight of you on his doorstep. He looked entirely caught off guard.
"Jimin," you choked out, your voice cracking. The sight of those marks on his skin felt like a physical blow to your heart. He was already with someone else. A week. It had only been a week or two, and he was already replacing you.
"I'm... I'm currently b-busy," he muttered, shifting his weight uneasily, his hand lingering on the edge of the door as if hesitating to let you inside.
Before you could speak, a soft, feminine voice drifted from the depths of his darkened hallway. "Jiminie? Who is it? Come back to bed."
The sound of that voice broke something inside you. The paranoia, the fear, the exhaustion of the past five days caused you to give a desperate, ugly sob. You didn’t care about pride anymore. You didn’t care that he was with another woman. You were drowning, and he was the only shore you knew.
"Please," you wept, stepping forward, pushing past him into the safety of his home. "Please, Jimin. Someone is... someone has photos of me. They're watching me. I don't know what to do."
Jimin’s eyes widened, a look of profound shock and immediate concern washing over his features. The hesitant, awkward ex-boyfriend vanished, replaced instantly by the fiercely protective man you remembered. He grabbed your shoulders, his touch warm and grounding, though the sight of his marked-up chest close to your face made your head spin with a sick, confusing jealousy.
"Hey, hey, look at me. Breathe," he commanded softly, closing the front door behind you, shutting out the world. He looked back toward the bedroom corridor, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. He turned back to you, his expression softening into pure empathy. "Stay here in the living room, okay? Let me... let me get rid of her. Give me five minutes. Don't move."
You nodded dumbly, collapsing onto his plush velvet sofa. Your eyes stared blankly at the floor as you heard his quiet, urgent whispers echoing from the bedroom down the hall, followed by the rustle of clothes, a soft whine from the woman, and finally, the sound of the front door opening and closing as she was escorted out.
When Jimin returned, he was wearing a soft, oversized gray hoodie that hid the marks on his chest, though the ones on his neck still peeked through the collar. He carried a mug of steaming milk tea and a heavy fleece blanket.
He didn't ask questions immediately. He sat on the coffee table directly opposite you, draping the blanket over your trembling shoulders and placing the warm mug in your hands. He wrapped his palms around yours, squeezing gently.
"Tell me everything," he said, his voice a steady, calming anchor.
Through choked tears you confessed it all. You showed him your phone. You showed him the chat from the unknown number. You hesitated, your cheeks burning with shame, before showing him the photos. The ones of you sleeping. The one of you crying just hours ago.
Jimin took the phone. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles ticked beneath his pale skin. His eyes turned entirely dark, a terrifying, protective rage consuming his features as he scrolled through the images.
"This is disgusting," he whispered, his voice trembling with what felt like pure, anger on your behalf. "This is sick, Y/N. Someone put cameras in your apartment. Who has your spare key? Did you hire a handyman? Did anyone follow you home?"
"I don't know," you cried, covering your face with your hands. "I checked everywhere. I can't find them. I feel like I'm losing my mind, Jimin. I can't sleep. Every time I take off my clothes, I feel like someone is breathing down my neck."
Jimin immediately moved from the coffee table, sliding onto the sofa beside you. He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head securely under his chin. He smelled like his usual expensive cologne, mixed with a faint trace of that unfamiliar vanilla perfume, but right now, you didn't care. His arms were tight, a fortress against the unseen monster terrorizing your life.
"You're safe here," he murmured into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back in long, soothing strokes. "You're not going back to that apartment. You're staying here with me. I'll handle this. I'll hire a private security firm to sweep your place tomorrow. I'll find out who did this to you, sweetheart. I promise."
"But... your guest," you whispered, your voice small against his chest, your eyes fixed on a dark red mark on his neck. "I ruined your night."
Jimin sighed, a sound of heavy, exhaustion-tinged regret. He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with raw honesty.
"She doesn't matter," he said softly, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear from your cheek. "I was lonely, y/n. I was miserable. Since you left, this house has been a graveyard. I drank too much tonight, she came over, and... it was a mistake. A pathetic attempt to numb how much I miss you. But seeing you like this? Hearing that someone is hurting you? Nothing else matters to me. You are my priority. Always."
A strange, conflicting emotion bloomed in your chest. A part of you felt a twisted sense of validation, that even in your brokenness, you still held total power over him. He had thrown another woman out into the night the second you cried. He was still your Jimin. The man who would burn the world down to keep you warm.
You leaned back into his embrace, letting the warmth of his apartment wrap around you.
The next three days passed like the days before the break-up.
Jimin was perfect. He took total control of your crisis, effectively insulating you from the terror. He contacted a security team, handles the communications, and told you that they were analyzing the digital footprint of the blackmailer. He bought you new clothes, cook your favorite meals, and insisted you stay inside where it was safe.
He didn't press you for romance. He slept on the couch, leaving his massive, luxurious bed entirely to you. When you felt overwhelmed, he knew exactly when to sit by your side and hold your hand, and when to leave you alone in the bedroom to rest.
Yet, a heavy feeling began to grow in the quiet corners of your mind.
You were sitting at his kitchen island on the third evening, watching him slice vegetables for dinner. He looked beautiful, bathed in the warm ambient light of the kitchen, hummed a soft, wordless melody.
Why did the blackmailer stop sending photos the moment you moved into Jimin's apartment?
The thought struck you like a sudden drop in temperature. You pulled out your phone. The unknown number had been completely dark for seventy-two hours. Not a single text. Not a single image.
"Jimin?" you asked quietly.
"Yes, love?" he replied, not breaking his rhythm as he neatly chopped a zucchini.
"Did the security team find anything about the IP address yet? You said they were tracking the signal."
Jimin paused, his knife hovering for a fraction of a second before continuing. He turned to you, a look of gentle, sympathetic disappointment on his face.
"They're working on it, Y/N. These cyber-criminals use advanced VPNs and encrypted routing. It takes time. But hey," he walked over to you, placing his hands on your thighs, looking at you with those big, soulful eyes. "Why are you worrying about that right now? You're safe here. Whoever it is can't get to you in this building. Let the professionals handle it. Just focus on healing. Focus on us."
Focus on us.
Your gaze drifted down to his neck. The hickeys from three nights ago had faded into faint, yellowish bruises. Suddenly, a memory flashed in your mind, the woman’s voice from the hallway. 'Jiminie? Who is it? Come back to bed.'
Something about the memory felt wrong. It felt... staged. The messy hair, the exposed chest covered in marks, Jimin was a man of extreme neatness. Even when he was drunk, he was neat, never haphazard. Why would he open the door half-naked to a harsh, aggressive knocking if he had a guest? Wouldn't he have told her to be quiet? Wouldn't he have checked the peephole first?
A cold thread of doubt began to untangle in your gut.
Are you being paranoid? you asked yourself, a wave of intense self-loathing hitting you. How could you think that? Look at what he’s doing for you. He’s taking care of you. He loves you. You’re projecting your trauma onto the only person who actually supports you.
"Right," you whispered, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Jimin."
He smiled back, a warm, dazzling expression that reached his eyes, and kissed your forehead before returning to the stove.
That night, you couldn't sleep. The luxury mattress felt like a bed of needles. The silence of the penthouse, once comforting, now felt heavy.
You looked at the digital clock on the nightstand: 3:14 AM.
You slipped out of bed, your bare feet making no sound on the thick rugs. You walked out into the living room. Jimin was asleep on the sofa, his face peaceful in the moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked so innocent, so fragile in his sleep.
On the glass coffee table lay his personal phone and his work laptop.
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Don't do it, your conscience warned. If you do this and he catches you, you destroy the last safe relationship you have left. You’ll be entirely alone.
But the terror of the unknown was a stronger motivator than the fear of loneliness.
You crept to the table and picked up his phone, fingers hovering over the screen. You knew his passcode, it had always been your anniversary. You typed it in. Incorrect.
Your breath hitched. He had changed it. He had changed it after the breakup. That was normal, wasn't it? People change their passwords after a breakup.
You set the phone down, your hands shaking and looked at the laptop. You lifted the screen, it was asleep, but to your surprise, it hadn't been locked. A spreadsheet was open on the monitor—a budget for his dance studio.
You were about to close it, feeling a profound sense of shame for doubting him, when you noticed the minimized browser tabs at the bottom of the screen. One of them had a strange, generic icon—a small camera symbol.
Your finger moved the trackpad. You clicked the tab.
The screen flickered, and your heart stopped beating entirely.
The screen split into a four-quadrant live video feed.
The first quadrant showed a wide angle of your apartment's living room, the second showed your kitchen, the third showed your bathroom vanity and the fourth... the fourth was your empty bedroom, the gray sheets tossed and turned exactly as you had left them three days ago.
In the bottom right corner of the browser, a folder icon was labeled with your name.
With a numb, paralyzed hand, you clicked the folder. Inside were dozens of files. File names like Y_N_Sleep_07_12.mov, Y_N_Lingerie_07_13.jpg.
There was a sub-folder titled Sent. Inside it were the exact cropped images you had received on your phone from the anonymous blackmailer, compiled neatly alongside a digital log of an SMS gateway application used to mask phone numbers through encrypted servers.
The room spun. The air left your lungs in a silent, suffocating gasp.
It was him.
It was all him. The cameras, the violation, the terror that had driven you to the brink of insanity, it was a trap designed by the man who claimed to be your protector.
"You shouldn't be looking at that, love."
The voice was low, smooth, and utterly empty of the warmth he had used to comfort you over the last three days.
You turned around, your back slamming against the edge of the coffee table.
Jimin was sitting up on the sofa. He wasn't blinking. He didn't look like a man caught in a lie. He looked completely calm, his dark eyes reflecting the cool blue light of the laptop screen.
"Jimin..." your voice was a broken, terrified rasp. You clutched your chest, your knees buckling beneath you. "You... you did this? Why? Why?"
He stood up slowly, walking toward you with a relaxed, graceful stride. He didn't look angry. He looked profoundly patient, like a teacher explaining a simple concept to a child.
"Because you left me," he said simply, stopping just a foot away from you. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and despite the horror curdling in your veins, your body automatically leaned slightly into his touch out of sheer, conditioned habit. You hated yourself for it.
"I told you it was a mistake with that woman," Jimin continued, his voice dropping to a gentle, hypnotic murmur. "I told you I stopped it. I begged you to stay, Y/N. I gave you everything my time, my love, my protection. But you walked away so easily."
"So you... you decided to blackmail me? Violate me?" you screamed, tears streaming down your face, your hands pushing against his chest. "You put cameras in my home? You sent me those pictures? You made me think I was being stalked by a some sick bastered!"
"I didn't make you think anything," he corrected softly, holding your wrists in a firm grip. "I just reminded you of a very important truth, sweetheart. The world out there is cruel. It’s full of monsters who want to degrade you, who want to expose you, who want to ruin your peace. Your friends don't care about you. The police won't care enough to actually look into it. The only place in this entire world where you are truly, completely safe... is right here. With me."
He stepped closer, pressing his body against yours, trapping you between his frame and the desk.
"I didn't want to hurt you," he whispered, his eyes swimming with that same intense, terrifying devotion that had made you fall in love with him at the first place. "But you needed to realize how much you need me. Look at the last three days, y/n. Weren't you happy? Didn't you feel safe? Didn't you feel loved?"
"It was a lie," you choked out. Was it a lie? The comfort had felt so real. The safety had felt so absolute. He technically speaking had taken care of you.
"It wasn't a lie," Jimin muttered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your trembling lips. You tasted salt from your tears, but his lips were warm, familiar, and devastatingly sweet. "My love for you is the only real thing in your life. No one will ever hurt you."
He let go of your wrists, instead wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you into his embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I missed you so much darling" he breathed into your neck taking in your scent, softly kissing you despite your trembling body.
"What about the woman?" you whispered, your brain desperately grasping for any thread of reality to anchor your rage. "The woman from three nights ago. The hickeys. You were with her."
Jimin let out a soft, amused chuckle against your skin.
"There was no woman, love," he murmured. "I hired an actress from the studio for ten minutes. I told her I needed to make an ex jealous. I knew you'd come tonight. I tracked your location on your phone. I needed you to feel that sting, y/n. I needed you to realize that if you leave me, I will move on, and you will be left entirely alone."
He pulled back, looking down at you with a beautiful, serene smile.
"But you're home. We can go back to how we were." He whispered against your neck.
"I love you and I know you too do" he added before adding more kisses along your collarbone, his hands softly, protectively adding a squeeze to your waist.
At the Baeksang Arts Awards, under the blinding cascade of flashbulbs he was the definition of grace. He stood with his arm draped protectively around your waist with his signature boxy smile. When the reporters asked him the secret to his consecutive acting daesangs, he looked down at you, his eyes softening into a gaze so filled with adoration that a collective sigh rippled through the crowd.
"My wife," he murmured into the microphone. "She is my anchor. Everything I build, I build for her."
You smiled on cue, leaning into his side. You had practiced the exact pose in the mirror for three hours the night before. You knew precisely how much pressure to apply to his arm to signal your devotion.
But as his hand tightened against your ribs just a fraction too hard, a silent warning to keep your posture perfect you knew to lean and kiss him, so softly, so full of love.
The heavy iron gates of your secluded villa closed behind the town car, shutting out the rest of the world. Inside the vehicle, the silence was immediate and suffocating.
Taehyung didn't look at you. He unbuttoned his designer suit jacket, his movements slow, deliberate, and mesmerizingly elegant. The warm, doting husband from the red carpet vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.
"You spoke to Min-jae tonight," he said. His tone was conversational, almost light, but it made your stomach drop.
"He came over to congratulate us. I only said thank you." Your voice was barely a whisper. You tried to keep it steady. You knew the rules.
He tilted his head, finally turning his eyes toward you. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, he looked like a masterpiece carved from marble perfect, flawless, and entirely devoid of warmth.
"A simple 'thank you' doesn't require you to look into a man's eyes for five seconds, darling. We've discussed this. It makes you look desperate. It makes us look weak."
"I'm sorry," you breathed, the familiar script slipping from your tongue. "I didn't mean to."
"And yet, you did." He reached out, his long, elegant fingers tracing your jawline his touch soft yet you can feel the warning of it. "I work myself to the bone to give you this life. To protect you. And you repay me by acting careless."
When you entered the house, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The villa was a minimalist masterpiece and entirely designed by him. Every piece of furniture, every painting, even the clothes in your closet were chosen by Taehyung.
You walked toward the kitchen to get a glass of water, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.
"Where is your black card, Y/N?"
You froze, turning slowly. He was standing by the marble island, loosening his silk tie.
"I... I have it in my clutch," you muttered.
"I saw the bank alerts today. You purchased a flight ticket to visit your mother next month. Without asking me."
"It's her sixty-fifth birthday, Taehyung," you pleaded softly, stepping closer, desperately searching his face for a flicker of the man who used to love you before the fame and the obsession consumed him. "I haven't seen her in a year. I used my own allowance—"
"Your allowance is my money," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. He walked over to you, his footsteps silent on the hardwood. He took your clutch from your hands, opened it, and slid the black card out, placing it in his breast pocket. "You clearly aren't mature enough to manage your finances if you're making impulsive decisions. You will stay here and I will send your mother a bouquet. That is more than enough."
"Please," a tear slipped down your cheek. "Don't do this. I just want to see my family."
Taehyung’s expression didn't change, but a shadow of profound disappointment crossed his eyes. He hated when things weren't perfect. He hated when you cried. To him, your tears were a betrayal of the paradise he had built for you.
He stepped closer his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He didn't strike you, he rarely resorted to physical violence knowing it left marks that the public might see, but he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up with a grip of iron.
"Look at me," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Who feeds you? Who clothes you? Who shields you from a world that would tear you apart in a second? I do. You are mine, Y/N. Your time, your body, your thoughts they belong to me. When you question my decisions, it tells me you don't love me."
"I do love you," you choked out, trapped in the terrifying paradox of your existence. You feared him, yet you were entirely dependent on him. He had systematically cut off your friends, your family, and your financial independence until he was the only gravity left in your universe.
"Then prove it," he murmured, his thumb brushing the tear from your cheek with a sudden, agonizing tenderness that made your heart ache. "Go upstairs. Wash your face. Put on the white silk dress I bought you, and wait for me in the bedroom. No more tears. No more mistakes."
He let go of your chin, patted your cheek gently, and gave you a small, beautiful smile—the very same smile that graced the covers of a hundred magazines.
"We are going to be perfect tomorrow, aren't we, sweetheart?"
The rain in Seoul didn't just fall; it drowned the city in a heavy, suffocating gray. Inside the soundproofed walls of Genius Lab, the silence was even louder.
You stood by the heavy oak door, your fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag. This was supposed to be the clean break. The final exit. You had promised yourself that you wouldn't let him pull you back into the orbit of his beautiful, ruinous gravity.
At the far end of the room, bathed only in the amber glow of a single desk lamp, sat Yoongi. His back was to you. He was hunched over his keyboard, the slow, haunting drag of a minor chord echoing through the studio speakers.
He knew you were there. He always knew.
"You're late," his voice rasped, cutting through the low hum of the monitors. It wasn't angry. It was worse—entirely calm, laced with the quiet certainty that you would always show up.
"I'm not staying, Yoongi," you said, hating how your voice trembled. "I came to get the rest of my things. We're done. We've been done."
The music stopped. The sudden absence of the sound felt like a physical drop in air pressure.
Yoongi spun slowly in his leather chair. In the dim light, his eyes looked impossibly dark, reflecting none of the warmth of the lamp. A faint, humorless smile touched his lips as he took a slow sip of his whiskey.
"Done?" he repeated, tilting his head. He stood up, his movements fluid, deliberate, and entirely unbothered by your defiance. "We don't get to be done, Y/N. You knew that the moment you let me in."
Some loves are built to keep you safe. Ours was built to burn us both to ash, and you’ve always liked the heat.
He closed the distance between you. He didn't rush, and he didn't grab you; he didn't need to. His mere presence was an invisible velvet vice. When he stopped just inches away, the scent of expensive sandalwood, bitter coffee, and rain-drenched leather washed over you.
"Look at me," he murmured.
You kept your eyes locked on his collarbone, terrified of what you'd see if you looked up. "Let me go, Yoongi."
"I'm not holding you."
It was a lie, and you both knew it. He didn't need to lock the door when he had already locked himself inside your head.
Yoongi reached out, his cold fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His touch sent a traitorous shiver down your spine—a toxic mix of fear and intoxicating familiarity. His thumb trailed down to your chin, gently but firmly forcing you to look up.
His eyes were dilated, dark pools of quiet obsession.
"You try to run," he whispered, leaning in until his breath brushed against your lips, "but we both know you only feel alive when you're losing your breath with me. You hate the quiet. You need my noise."
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. You wanted to push him away, to run out into the safety of the pouring rain. But as his hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you just a fraction closer, the fight evaporated from your limbs.
He owned your chaos, and you owned his.
"Now," Yoongi murmured, his dark eyes locking onto yours as his other hand slid the strap of the bag off your shoulder, letting it thud uselessly to the floor. "Sit down. Let me play you how this ends."
The universe had a cruel, running joke, and Maya was always the punchline.
Her life hadn’t just been difficult; it had been a relentless, exhausting uphill marathon in a thunderstorm. So, when the black SUV had screeched to a halt beside her at the bus stop, and two masked men had thrown a burlap sack over her head, she hadn’t even been surprised. She’d just been incredibly annoyed that she was going to miss her second-shift job.
Now, the rough fabric was ripped from her face, and the harsh overhead lights of a cavernous, concrete warehouse forced her to blink rapidly.
"We have the target, Boss," one of the guards grunted, forcing Maya down onto her knees.
Maya didn’t struggle. She was too tired. Her knees hit the cold floor with a dull thud, her cheap denim jeans offering zero protection. She looked up, her vision clearing just enough to see two men standing a few feet away.
The one who had been addressed as 'Boss' was tall, built like a wall, with sharp, calculating eyes and an aura that screamed absolute authority. Beside him stood another man, breathtakingly handsome but utterly devoid of warmth. His sharp jawline and perfectly styled hair made him look more like a dark angel than a criminal, but the sheer boredom in his eyes was terrifying.
The bored one—Taehyung—stepped closer, his gaze sweeping down over Maya's faded jacket, her worn-out sneakers, and her pale, exhausted face. He frowned, a flicker of irritation cutting through his apathy.
"Namjoon," Taehyung said, his voice a deep, smooth baritone that sent a chill down Maya's spine. "This isn't the Minister’s daughter."
The tall leader, Namjoon, narrowed his eyes. He pulled a photograph from his breast pocket, glanced at it, and then looked at Maya. The girl in the photo had pristine skin, a designer dress, and an arrogant smirk. Maya looked like she hadn’t slept a full eight hours since 2018.
They had been at the same bus stop. The wrong place at the exact wrong time.
"Idiots," Namjoon muttered softly.
Before the two guards who had brought her in could even process the word, Namjoon’s hand blurred. Two deafening bangs echoed through the vast warehouse.
Thud. Thud.
Maya’s eyes went wide. Her breath hitched in her throat. Right beside her, the two massive guards crumbled to the floor like discarded ragdolls, blood pooling rapidly on the concrete. She stared at them, her heart hammering against her ribs, yet a strange, detached numbness washed over her. Death was right there. It was loud, messy, and smelled like burnt gunpowder.
Namjoon casually tucked his silenced pistol back into his coat, not even glancing at the corpses. He turned his back to Maya, entirely unfazed.
"Taehyung, clean up the mess," Namjoon said over his shoulder, his voice completely casual. "Just kill her."
"Understood," Taehyung sighed, as if he had been asked to do a tedious chore like taking out the trash.
Maya looked up as Taehyung stepped over one of the bodies. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely empty. He raised a sleek, black handgun, pointing it directly between her eyes.
This was it. The grand finale to a miserable life. Maya closed her eyes tight, bracing for the impact, waiting for the darkness to finally take away the exhaustion that had weighed her down for years.
In a blind, instinctual reflex of self-defense—an action her brain hadn't even consciously approved—Maya stretched her hands outward, her fingers seeking to push away the threat.
Her fingers brushed against cold metal. Her grip closed around it.
A heavy weight settled into her palms.
Maya opened her eyes.
The warehouse was dead silent. Maya was trembling, her eyes wide with absolute horror as she looked down at her own hands. She was holding Taehyung’s gun.
Slowly, she looked up. Taehyung was staring down at her, his posture frozen. For the first time, the boredom was entirely gone from his face. His eyes were wide, blinking in sheer, unadulterated shock as he stared at his empty right hand, then at the girl on her knees holding his weapon.
A few paces away, Namjoon had stopped in his tracks. He turned around slowly, his gaze locking onto the bizarre scene. The ruthless mafia boss looked genuinely bewildered, his brow furrowing as he tried to process how a terrified, scrawny girl had just effortlessly disarmed one of his most dangerous men.
Maya’s mind went into overdrive. Oh god, oh god, I touched it. He’s going to kill me worse now.
Panicking, she hurriedly extended her arms forward, holding the gun out by the barrel, desperately trying to hand it back to him like a dropped pencil in a classroom.
Taehyung didn't move. He just stared at the gun in her shaking hands.
Realizing he wasn't taking it, Maya hastily set the gun down on the concrete floor in front of him. She squeezed her eyes shut again, tightly. Searing panic turning into a desperate wish for it to all be over, she brought her hands up to cover her ears, squeezing her elbows against her head to muffle the sound.
She knelt there, curled in on herself, completely defenseless, waiting for the bullet to finally come.
But nothing came.
"Lower your hands," a voice commanded.
It wasn't Taehyung’s bored baritone. It was Namjoon’s. The voice was low, carrying the weight of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
Maya’s shoulders trembled. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered her hands from her ears, though she kept her elbows tucked tight against her ribs like a shield. She opened her eyes.
Taehyung had finally retrieved his weapon from the floor. He was standing perfectly still, his long fingers wrapping around the grip of the pistol, but he wasn’t pointing it at her anymore. Instead, he was staring down at her with a look that was no longer bored. It was intensely curious, his sharp eyes analyzing her face as if trying to solve a puzzle that had suddenly landed at his feet.
Namjoon stepped forward, his heavy, expensive leather boots clicking against the concrete, stopping just a foot away from the bloodstains of the dead guards. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable—a mask of cold, professional calculation.
"What's your name?" Namjoon asked.
Maya swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. "Maya," she whispered, her voice barely carrying through the empty space. "Maya Miller."
Namjoon ran a hand over his jaw, his eyes narrowing slightly. He gestured to Taehyung, who stepped back, though his gaze never left Maya's face.
"Well, Maya," Namjoon said, leaning slightly forward, resting his hands in his coat pockets. "You're currently kneeling in a private warehouse, surrounded by killers, looking at the people who ordered your execution. By all accounts, you should be begging for your life. But you're not." He paused, his sharp eyes dissecting her. "Give me a reason. Convince me to keep you alive."
Maya stared up at him. She looked at the blood pooling near her knees, then at Namjoon, and finally at Taehyung. A strange, hollow sensation settled in her chest. The fear that had spike-tripped her heart earlier was beginning to fade, replaced by the familiar, crushing exhaustion that had governed her entire existence.
"I really don't have something to sell you," she muttered, her voice flat, devoid of the frantic energy of someone pleading for mercy. She let out a dry, tired sigh, her shoulders slumping. "I don't even know how I took his gun. He... I guess he didn't think I would take it. Nor did I. It was just a reflex."
She looked down at her own hands, which were still lightly dusted with the grime of the city streets.
"I... I genuinely don't care if I live or die," she continued softly, shrugging her shoulders. The movement was incredibly casual, almost comical given the circumstances, but there was an undeniable honesty to it. "But... I'm a good pickpocket. No, actually, I'm the best. So, if you want me to get something without anyone noticing, I can do it."
Namjoon didn't interrupt. He merely watched her, his expression intensely focused.
Maya took a slow breath, her gaze locking onto Namjoon’s. She didn't look away, nor did she flinch. Her eyes were entirely dead—dilated, dark, and utterly devoid of the desperate spark of survival. In fact, as she spoke of her own demise, there was a faint, almost imperceptible glow in her eyes. It wasn't madness; it was the quiet relief of someone seeing the exit sign at the end of a very long, painful road. Dying wasn't a threat to her; it was her last working plan.
"But..." Maya added, her voice gaining a tiny fraction of steel, "I wouldn't do it for free. I know I'm not in a position to ask for such a thing, but yeah. Either you pay me somehow... or just kill me."
Taehyung’s eyes locked onto hers the moment those words left her mouth. A subtle shift went through him, his eyebrows raising a fraction of a millimeter. People begged him. People offered him millions. People screamed and cried and wet themselves on this very floor. But this girl, with nothing but the dirt on her knees and a lifetime of misery in her eyes, was trying to negotiate a salary for her own captivity—while simultaneously welcoming a bullet to the head.
Namjoon stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a tightrope. He searched her face for any sign of a bluff, any flicker of fear, any hint that she was playing a desperate game of reverse psychology.
He found nothing. She was entirely sincere. She wanted out of this world, but if she had to stay, she was going to get paid for her trouble.
A slow smile crept onto Namjoon’s face, though his eyes remained ice-cold.
"A girl who is already dead wants a paycheck," Namjoon murmured, turning the concept over in his mind. He looked at Taehyung, who was still observing Maya with a quiet, intense fascination.
