#fic: collateral

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 27: In an instant, the world has stopped spinning

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon

🗡️ word count: 17.9k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️ warnings: angst (isolation; drugging; gunshots and sword fighting; mild gore; physical abuse - biting, headbutting; bloody nose; brief talk of suicide/hanging and murder; drug & alcohol use - pills, weed, ketamine.)

🗡️ notes: the narrative style is a bit different in this one, as i am attempting to show the passage of time as well as isolation. also, the descriptions/characterizations of the places the characters are in are not meant to represent the real locations. finally, the christian pov that comes before this (and the next few) chapter(s) is super important in terms of context and tone. if you skip it, you're skipping a lot of important stuff. i urge you to go back and read that first.

take a deep breath! and enjoy.

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🗡️ posted august 2026 | read on ao3

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For miles, you see nothing but water. 

Time moves at a pace that is incomprehensible as one day bleeds into the next. 

The home you are staying at is a cement square sticking from a cliffside, overlooking the ocean, which laps at jagged black rock. A large glass window gives a view of a wide blue expanse, and aside from an errand boy who comes and goes, the only other person around is Christian. 

The first floor is an open, mostly empty hardwood space with couches, cushions, an emptied fireplace with no wood or pokers, and a mounted television with what appears to be a state-of-the-art surround sound system that nobody turns on. On the second floor, with the massive glass window overlooking the sea, is an open-concept kitchen and dining area, a guest bathroom, and your bedroom with a walk-in closet and en suite stocked with minimal items. The third floor is where Christian lives. Everything is wood and hardwood, save for the carpet in your bedroom, the tile in your bathroom, and the stainless steel kitchen appliances. Presumably, the other bedroom and bathrooms are the same as yours, but you do not venture far enough to find out. 

A large dining table is near the seaside window, and you occasionally sit to look out at the undulating waves, attempting to formulate a plan for escape. Although the errand boy speaks Korean and brings Korean items, you are unsure where you have been ferried off to.

The only door to the outside world, found on the first floor, locks both from the inside and from the outside, and you have no passcode. You do not barter or beg for one, either. Nor do you put up a fight. The errand boy, kind as he is, is also jumpy, and he hovers his hand over the gun at his hip any time you step a little too close to the doorway. You have tried various passcodes many times when left alone, to no avail. You have also attempted to throw a dining chair into the large window, and when it merely bounced back again and again, you decided that any more attempts would be futile. That glass is not going to break so easily.

Christian leaves in the morning and stays gone all day, and you have no idea where he goes or what he does. At night, as soon as Christian returns home, you make your way to your empty bedroom and attempt to sleep rather than confront him. The futility of screaming matches that took place for the first few days has exhausted you bone deep, and now the two of you never speak to one another. 

It is rare that you hear the presence of another person, and for that, you are grateful, albeit lonely. It beats the anger you feel the moment you sense the presence of one of them. You cannot believe the audacity of Christian and his idiotic goons. How could he truly believe that kidnapping you could be a form of saving you? Sure, your life has been on somewhat shaky ground, especially with the fainting spells that had been occurring, but you were getting it under control. You were figuring it out on your own. You had a support system. Just thinking about it fills you with fury, and you imagine sneaking into Christian's room at night, dragging a sharp blade against his tattooed throat, and watching as he frantically wakes up in the final moments of his life, gasping for air.

There are no sharp blades in the kitchen, however. Even the butter knives are smooth. 

Although you are bored and listless, you rarely turn on the television. When you do, it is to supply background noise only, and you never sit in front of it, always sluggishly walking back up to the second floor to sit near the large window. You have no interest in finding a film or series to watch. Whereas your mind was initially on a one-track loop that plots and schemes, with very little else sparking any interest, your inner voice has quieted to a whisper, and you find that staring at the ocean until your vision blurs and your breathing becomes synchronized with the waves is the best way to spend your time. 

You are left with clothing to wear, but, oddly, it consists solely of several sets of pajama tops and bottoms, as well as socks and underwear. You found them on your first night in the bedroom, atop a short wooden dresser rather than inside. Each day, you change from one set to another, all soft, thick fabric with white and blue vertical stripes, some embroidered with flowers. It feels domestic and perhaps a little too cozy, but the only thing you own in this house is the little black dress, red satin panties, and a single heeled shoe that you wore the night you came here. You have no idea when or where garments are laundered, but you occasionally find clean sets folded neatly on the kitchen counter or on your bed, and you are relieved to not have to deal with it yourself.

The pajamas, however, do not lull you into a sense of comfort, comfortable as they may be. You wish desperately to settle into this living situation, but it feels like pulling teeth. On the days when you venture down to turn on the television, half the time you stand before it for a moment, decide against it, and turn to go back upstairs. You think about how easy it would be to sit on the couch and appear to be normal, but you feel too restless and unsettled to follow through with doing so. Sometimes you pace around the couch back and forth a few times, watching as your toes settle against the wooden floor and then lift, settle and lift, over and over, before you turn around and scurry off, worried that the front door may open at any moment and you may find yourself standing face-to-face with Christian. There is a part of you that worries that if your paths do cross, you may attempt to kill him with your bare hands. And then how will you manage to escape? More than anything, you need to escape, which means, unfortunately, that he needs to remain alive.

If only you were able to appear settled in and used to living here, you think maybe it would be easier to procure codes to the doors. Once your guard appears down, the errand boy, or maybe even Christian, will have to lower his. From there, you will be able to figure out where the hell you are and how the hell to get back home. This is what you tell yourself on the days when your inner voice is louder than a whisper. Over and over, pacing on hardwood, soft rugs, and softer carpet, you mutter to yourself to settle in. Just settle in. But it is far easier said than done. You cannot for the life of you attempt to appear comfortable. You feel like an alien who is failing to adjust to its new foreign environment despite how familiar everything looks. You have sat on many couches before, so why, whenever you sit on this couch, does your body remain ramrod still and unable to relax? 

Even your sleep is often without reprieve. Your dreams are so full of gunfire, explosions, and chaos that when you wake up peacefully in your bed, you feel confused. It always looks, sounds, and feels so real that you genuinely believe that you have been found and that you are being rescued. But you never are. The worst is when you dream of killing Christian, of stepping over his corpse with your fingers resting daintily in Yoongi's or Namjoon's palm, only to blink your eyes open and find the low white ceiling that, despite the time that passes, feels so empty and unfamiliar. There is no underlying scent to this place, except perhaps a hint of seawater, and so you wake up to senses dulled and reaching for anything to remind you of where you are. It always takes a moment for the room to come into focus, and the sadness that follows crashes over you.

Your only true tether is the ocean. It ebbs and flows, waves beating against the shore and retracting back, only to push forth again, over and over, relentlessly. Sometimes the sound of it threatens to drive you crazy as it whooshes and crashes, whooshes and crashes. Sometimes you think you can feel its rhythm as you walk through the second floor of the house, while you are picking at food, and even while you are showering, and it makes you feel disoriented and nauseated. The only peace you find with that sound is when you sit before the large window and meditate, breathing in and out along with its pull and push, and allowing it to become a part of you.

Days pass like this, and then weeks: pacing the second floor, eating food in a rush because the noise from outside is too much to bear, and then sitting at the window until you hear the door open and slam closed downstairs, and you make a beeline for your room.

Then you turn to drink. The refrigerator is stocked with a seemingly never-ending supply of soju, and you drink almost from the moment you wake until the moment you crash for sleep. It goes on like this for days. You carry a bottle around with you and leave it behind once it is empty, filling the rooms with a trail of green-tinted despair, and as your body sways and stumbles, you feel even more attuned to the loud, inviting waves. You imagine falling back against them, being swept out to sea, and swallowed whole. 

Occasionally, you wake up and find that the bottles you had left strewn around are gone. You never hear a cleaning person come and go, but you also leave the bedroom less and less, sometimes bringing more than one bottle with you at a time. Wallowing becomes easy in these moments. You wish you had something harder than soju but softer death. Something to course through your bloodstream and shut you down. How you dream of shutting down completely.

These drunken mornings, when you dream so vividly of Yoongi, you wake up screaming and sobbing, hugging your pillow close. The light that pours in is softened by an almost constant presence of clouds, and although you are thankful that the sun is not so bright that it burns your eyes, there is a dreariness that you feel deep in your marrow every waking moment. Some days, the clouds are so dark grey that you practically beg them to open up and unleash a fit of rain, just to have something new to look at. Anything would be better than this insane loneliness— this quiet but all-encompassing abandonment. You drink and drink, and sometimes you vomit, knees digging painfully into the white tile floor of the bathroom. Old vomit spray has dried to the toilet seat in pinkish droplets that you do not attend to, and you sit on the cold floor, hug your knees to your chest, and cry until you are exhausted.

One night, drunk and feeling a bit scrappy, you bash the end of a soju bottle against the counter until it shatters. It does not break clean in half like in the movies, but rather shatters all but a jagged blade jutting off from the handle. You swish it around, stabbing the air, in a fit of joy and laughter, until you step on a piece of glass. Undeterred, and only slightly in pain, you lean against the counter to lift your foot and pull the glass out, nearly toppling over in the process. Then you walk over to the window, leaving a trail of blood splotches from the wound in your foot that you can barely feel, and watch outside until the glass blade is forgotten, and you stumble off to bed, leaving your makeshift weapon behind. 

When you wake up, the soju is gone. Rage and confusion simmer through your still-drunk bloodstream, and you stand before the open refrigerator door, dizzy with a sting of pain behind your eyes, which are squinted half shut. It feels so unreal that you blink uselessly, eyes darting around the shelves that are covered in only food. At the sight of it, your stomach grumbles, threatening to make you sick. There is no broken glass or blood on the floor, and you are unsure whether the event really took place or you had imagined it. All you can focus on is a feeling of betrayal.

You slam the refrigerator door closed and, for the first time since arriving to this place, storm upstairs, to the third floor, ready to give Christian a piece of your mind. Of course, as soon as you get to the top of the landing, it is clear that Christian is gone. Christian is always gone. The third floor is much smaller and only seems to consist of a bedroom and en suite, and the state of the place surprises you. It is just as empty as the other floors, with a small metal rack along the left wall showing only a few shirts and slacks hanging. There is nothing personal in this room that would suggest anyone spends any amount of time here, and although it is tidy, the bed is unmade, sheets strewn as if someone threw them back and left in a hurry.

Stupidly, somewhat deliriously, you push forward, deeper into the room. You wonder whether the bed is still warm from when it was last slept on, and when you press your palm into the sheet, you are sad to find that it is cold. Exhausted, famished, intoxicated, and confused, you sit down on the bed, then swing your legs up, curling into a fetal position with your arms gripping the pillow beneath your head. There is a hint of a scent on the pillow that is familiar in a way that neither makes you nostalgic nor angry; you remember this scent vividly, and in a way, it comforts you. It only takes a moment for you to fall asleep.

You awaken to arms lifting you, and you curl against the feeling, relieved to feel the warmth of another body, desperate to cling and never let go. Eyes closed, you sigh and try to return to sleep, but the movement of being carried through a room and down the stairs prevents you from drifting completely. As the seconds pass, you remember where you are. The scent of the cologne, somewhat earthy and sweet and familiar, reminds you of who you are with. In this moment, you are too overwhelmed to lash out, and instead, you begin to cry.

"How dare you," you mutter into his neck, tears wetting his skin as you ball your hands into fists around the starch-stiff fabric of his shirt. "How dare you do this to me."

He says nothing, which pisses you off but also, oddly, brings you comfort. Could you, for a moment, pretend that he is Namjoon carrying you to your bed? To his bed? If you close your eyes and beg him to touch you, could you fool yourself into thinking those were Yoongi's hands, Namjoon's lips?

The moment you are set down onto your bed, you roll away. You can tell that he has not retreated, and you squeeze your eyes closed. There is nothing that this man has not seen— nothing you have not allowed, and even at times insisted he see, touch, and even taste. But having him here, standing silently over you, feels like a violation.

Seconds pass, and they feel slowed down and dragged out. Your pulse hammers, the noise loud in your ears. When you finally hear the sound of his feet softly padding away, you lift your head and say, "I hope you fucking die. I hate you."

He says nothing.

* * *

For several days, Christian is around even less. It seems that he does not come home at night, nor do you hear the sound of him leaving in the morning. His errand boy comes by to drop off food and other items that he carries throughout the house. He attempts to ask how you are doing, always from a safe distance by the staircase, but you sit at the window and shut him out, facing the grey sky ahead, trying endlessly with all your might to force the clouds to release their heavy moisture and rain. He knows how you are doing. What point is there in asking? He can see that you are eating little by little. You have even taken to having a bubble bath once a day, occasionally dropping a bath bomb into the large en suite tub and sinking chin-deep until the water turns cold, or until you awaken suddenly to water in your nose. You assume that the boy must be in charge of stocking the bath bombs, and therefore knows you are bathing, so he knows full well that you are not withering and dying too rapidly. For all you know, he does the laundry, too. So he can see that you are changing your clothes regularly. What a stupid question to ask you.

You close your eyes and hold your breath while he speaks to you, pretending that you don't exist and that he is speaking to air. When you hear his footsteps retreat down the stairs, you let out a rough exhale and go back to staring at the point in the far distance where water and sky seem to blend into one endless grey plane.

This time, when you hear the door open and close downstairs, followed by the familiar rhythm of Christian's walk, you do not disappear into your room. You listen as he comes up the stairs and stops in his tracks. It is dark enough outside to see his reflection in the window, and you watch him watching you, stone still. Eventually, he leaves, and you let out a deep exhale, and life continues on as if he was never there. There is no sound from upstairs for the rest of the night, and when you shuffle off to bed, the house feels just as empty as if you were alone.

* * *

Tonight, you decide to eat kimchi straight out of the small tub while the rice warms in the droning microwave. Then you throw some of the kimchi on top of the rice and shuffle over to the table, leaving the microwave door open and trash on the countertop. You do not clean up after yourself once you finish eating. Instead, you slide from the chair to the floor and watch as the sky turns orange.

The door downstairs opens and closes, and you sigh. You consider disappearing, but you find you are too tired to stand. And anyway, you just got down to the floor, so you sit and anticipate his arrival. Although he always leaves his shoes at the door, his steps are loud as he takes the stairs two at a time. He turns to enter the room and then stops. It is dim enough to make out all of the limbs of his reflection.

You sit, and he stands, and neither of you seems to be breathing, though you can hear the ocean beckoning you to do so. Just inhale, just this once, you think it says. But you cannot, and you are sure that he does not.

What must he be thinking? Is he sorry for what he has done to you? Is this payback for Yoongi's actions, and you are once again simply stolen as collateral? Do you continue to have a price tag on your head?

The Christian whose reflection stands like an apparition behind you hardly resembles the man you used to know. It is difficult to conjure memories of loving Christian, but you can remember him loving you. The way he would stand behind you, rest his hands on your hips and lean with his chin on your shoulder, cheek beside yours. How quick he was to get down on his knees and beg you for any little thing in the world. His voice would soften so sweetly, which had the effect of lowering your guard. He certainly seemed devoted, but he was also a liar. How devoted could a liar possibly be? At least, like this, it is easier to hate him.

* * *

A few days pass without Christian returning from wherever the fuck he goes, and you begin to feel restless. You have no desire to see him, much less speak to him, but the isolation has begun to make you more antsy and paranoid than usual. Occasionally, you eat prepackaged bulgogi and white rice, watching listlessly as the little white plastic bowl spins and spins in the microwave, ignoring the packages of banchan in the fridge out of laziness but also out of a disregard for your physical and mental health. You eat out of necessity, not joy. 

When you have no energy for even the microwave, you pass the time sitting in front of the window and crunching on raw vegetables, barely tasting them, watching intently as waves push out and pull in, push out and pull in. Your thoughts whisper, and they do so on a loop. What if he has died or gotten tired of you? How long would it take someone to realize you are here? The errand boy is certainly useless to do anything but run errands. Would he forget about you, as well? Would he finally let you walk out of this place? 

You are wasting away. You hum tunes to songs you can no longer place, and you periodically stand up to shake your limbs and sway, eager to remember what it is like to have a body that moves and feels, until the remembering— the moving and the feeling— becomes a burden that you can no longer stand. Boredom has reached its peak.

The sun is nearly fully set, casting an orange glow on the entirety of the house and against your skin. You chew the inside of your mouth, anxious to do anything but die in this place like this, alone and confused.

You decide that Christian must have something in his room. Alcohol, cocaine…even a cigarette would be better than this dull, never-ending, bored, restless sobriety. He has been away for a while, but you reason he will not be back today as you pad quietly up the stairs and into his room.

It looks exactly as it had the last time, and you approach a small bedside table, yanking open the drawer and feeling a surge of anger when you find it is empty. You close it and look around, finding nothing but doors— one to the bathroom and one presumably to a closet— so you shuffle over to the bathroom, toes catching on the carpeting, which is a different texture from the one in your room that apparently requires you to lift your feet slightly more than you are used to. The bathroom only contains the bare minimum necessities, including bath bombs, which surprises you. Christian's ghost enjoyed a bath, but does this strange new version of him like them, as well? It is hard to imagine him staying in this house long enough to bathe.

The cold tile floor under your feet is revolting, and you turn and make your way across the room to the closet. It is a long, narrow space, empty save for a small black backpack that sits on the floor, tucked away in the corner, easy to miss. Shameless and curious, you squat down to unzip the largest pocket and open it wide, but all he has are guns. You pull one out and turn it in your hands, then release the magazine, annoyed to find that it is empty. With a huff, you slam the magazine back into the handle and toss the gun into the bag, then reach your hand in deep but feel nothing of interest, just rough handles and smooth barrels. No clips of bullets.

In the larger front pocket there are unmarked bottles of pills, which you pick up and hold up one after another, finding various sizes, shapes, and colors. No powders. No herbs. You are not quite bored enough to begin popping mystery pills, although you do have to stop for a moment to consider it. You sigh loudly and toss the last bottle back inside, then dig your hand all the way to the bottom of the pocket. Your finger snags on something that feels like paper, or possibly a photograph, and you yank it out.

Bent in several places, with some of the image rubbed or scratched away with time, is a photo strip of Christian and you. It was taken around your one-year anniversary at a bar the two of you frequented in Seoul. You stare at the picture, at four shots of the two of you smiling, sticking your tongues out, laughing, and kissing, and take a slow, deep breath. Why does he still have this?

Tears form at the corners of your eyes, and as your vision blurs, you clench your fist, bending the photograph further. There was a time when you did love this man, whoever he was. And he seemed to love you back. Or did he?

You shake your head. "Everything was a lie," you tell yourself as you throw the battered photograph strip onto the unzipped backpack and pull your hands to your face, digging your palms against your eyes. It does not feel like crying that is taking place, so much as leaking. You do not tremble. Your eyes and nose simply expel tears and snot that you rub at with your hands until you become angry enough to stand up and look around some more. But everything is empty. It is as if nobody actually lives in this place. It is clear that once again, Christian is living a double life, spending the bulk of his time somewhere else, and you are left to suffer for his choices. 

Your steps are slow as you return down to the second level of the house. You hardly feel the movement of your limbs as you stare straight ahead, mind racing with flashes of your relationship with Christian. It was not even that long ago, and yet it feels as if an entire lifetime has gone by. You, for one, are not the same person.

By the end, before Yoongi swooped in, you were feeling restless and alone, trapped in an apartment with someone who didn't understand you, and who was becoming increasingly jittery, paranoid, and clingy. He traded his black slacks and button-ups for distressed denim and white, and he always seemed to lie about where he was, sometimes being gone when you would return home at 3 in the morning from your bar shift, with no note or text. One time you could swear he had a hickey on one of his hips that he insisted was just a random bruise, but you know the difference. You could practically see where lips met skin and marked him. You hated him and all of his little deceptions. And yet, you cared enough to at least try to stay, save money, and playact at being cordial until you could afford to end things. When he was sweet, he was irresistibly sweet. He seemed so eager to spoil you that you began to insist he take you out more often, and in those moments of watching his eyes light up at the sight of you dressed up for a night on the town, of picking the most lavish rooftop restaurants and splurging on desserts and wine, you would catch glimpses of the soft, kind, beautiful man who you wished you could actually, truly know. But, of course, that soft, kind, beautiful man was nothing but a fucking liar. His façade would slip so easily.

You stand in the dead center of the kitchen, feet cold against tile, and you stare at nothing. You begin to worry that the only way you can truly get out of this place is through one of the guns in the backpack. You stopped pacing to the front door weeks ago to see if it would open, typing in strings of random numbers before the system locked up and shut you away entirely. You have come to accept that this is your prison. But it is driving you mad.

Dim light comes on gradually overhead, confusing you. You walk over to the switch near the top of the stairs and attempt to dim the light, but it does not budge. Has it been programmed somehow? Is this Christian's response to always finding you sitting in the dark? Why does he care? You prefer the natural light and even pitch darkness to the bulbs, but there seems to be no way for you to turn it off, so you begin toward your room where you will lie, and eventually sleep, in the dark for hours. You can already tell that you are in for a restless night; that photograph has stirred far too many memories for your brain to let you off too easily.

In the dark, with the curtains closed, it is hard to make out where the scant furniture is in your room, especially once you have closed the door, shrouding yourself in an inky abyss. You walk toward where you know the bed to be, slowly, gradually. Your feet inch forward a little slower as soon as you think you are close enough, and when your shin gently meets the wooden bed frame, you reach with your hands, pressing them into the mattress and getting onto your knees. You crawl forward and crash down, curl your knees toward your chest and hold them as you breathe to the sound of the ocean in the distance. In… and out. In… and out. You are a buoy but adrift. Lost at sea. You ache for something to drink.

The sound of a crash startles you, and you sit up, turning your ear to the direction of your door. You feel jittery, as if you had fully been asleep but not for very long. And then you hear what sounds like Christian shouting your name. You scramble up, stumbling at the edge of the bed as your feet find carpet and you rush forward with your hands outstretched, feeling along the wall before you reach the doorknob. Your name is shouted again, much louder this time, and when you get out into the hallway, you see that, near the entrance just before the kitchen, Christian is stumbling up the stairs.

"First aid kit," he groans, "guest bathroom, under the sink."

The guest bathroom is behind you, past your bedroom, and through a door to your left. You spin, run, and burst in, scrambling for the light switch, unfamiliar with this room. The light is bright, and you have to squint as you bend in front of a large cabinet under the sink, and pull it open. Inside is a bright orange bag with a red cross on its front and you grip it by the handles and yank, nearly toppling over as you twist and return to the hallway, to where Christian is sitting against the end of a kitchen cabinet, hunched forward and holding onto the right side of his stomach, swearing and grumbling.

He shouts, "Jung fucking Hoseok!"

The sound of a fist hitting the wooden cabinet punctuates the syllables. You pause for just a second, feeling a visceral wave of emotion and confusion course through you. But then you press forward. Your questions will have to wait. If Christian dies like this, for all you know, you will be trapped in this house with his rotting corpse until the errand boy comes to bring you more rice. 

Christian's legs are outstretched with the heels of his boots digging against the floor, and you sit straddling his thighs, both in an effort to keep him still but also to be able to get a good look at what he is covering. His hands are wet with blood, which permeates the air with a sharp metallic zing, and you unzip the orange bag and open it flat on the floor, then open a baggie containing latex gloves and grab out two, forcing your hands into them. You realize that you should have washed your hands, but you also fear there is no time to spare. There is a large packaged gauze, and you rip it open and pull the gauze out.

"I need to see the wound," you tell Christian, bunching the gauze in your hands to the length and size you presume the injury may be.

Christian moves his lowermost hand, then slowly moves away the other, and you watch as blood pours from him, drenching his shirt, which has been sliced open. From here, it is impossible to tell how deep it is, but it is at least three inches long, and you worry that something may have been ruptured. But for now, all you can do is hope to stop the bleeding.

"You may need to go to the hospital," you say, though you are certain he needs to. You place the gauze against the wound, over the ripped fabric, and press hard, holding it as firmly as you can, unsure how long you need to keep it in place.

Christian shakes his head. "Just stop the bleeding. I don't think he… it shouldn't be too deep." His breathing is short and quick, and so you listen for the ocean and breathe in slow, hold it, and let it out, loud enough that, after a few breaths, Christian begins to follow along. He looks up and catches your eye, and then nods, doing his best to slow his breaths. You nod, as well, holding his gaze for multiple rounds of breathing until he has calmed down and is beginning to relax.

And then the whole room floods into place, and you begin to realize everything that your high adrenaline has been blocking out. Your ex Christian is bleeding profusely on the floor, and you are sitting on his lap, close enough to see every scar and tattoo he has on his face and neck. The bright white orb of an eye has replaced what was once a beautiful, deep brown iris, and you stare a little too long, imagining all the ways he could have lost it. Eager to break out of this haze and stay focused, you heavy-blink and look down at your hands, trying not to dwell on the details.

"What happened?" you ask, pressing the gauze as firmly as you can despite how the exertion and emotion of this situation have begun to wear you out.

Christian sighs, then shakes his head. "It's a long story."

You snicker. "Well, we have some time to kill."

Christian sighs once more, this time slower. "I had a feeling I was being tailed, and tonight my suspicions became true. Some of Min's men were able to intercept me, and although I was able to kill all six of them, one of them got me."

Min's men. You hum. "That's it? Not much of a long story."

He chuckles, then winces. "I'm leaving a lot out. It's kind of hard to speak right now."

You nod. You don't want to say the next words, but you find that you can't help it. "Earlier, you said Hoseok. Did you…"

Christian scoffs, giving his head a quick shake. "He sicced his dogs on me and ran away."

It seems odd that Hoseok would have only brought men, but not more advanced weaponry. Unless there is some kind of surveillance system tracking the two of you. You wonder whether the plan was simply to capture Christian in order to get to you, rather than have him killed. Perhaps Hoseok has managed to follow him back here tonight. 

Your voice is shaky as you ask, "Do you suppose we'll have to move?" You meet Christian's eye again and notice his brows are knit. He appears pensive. Or, perhaps he is just in pain. A long, quiet beat passes.

"I'm sorry," he mutters softly, and you grit your teeth. "About all of this."

"No," you say harshly. "You're not doing this. I'll jam my fingers into this wound and rip it open wider before I let you go down this road with me. Not right now."

He nods once, then closes his eyes and rests his head back against the counter. "Did you have to sit on my knees to take care of me? Even in those pajamas, you look—"

"I'm serious," you bark, although it does feel nice to be joked with, "I will actually fucking kill you."

Christian chuckles, then winces.

You clear your throat, feeling awkward. "I didn't need you kneeing me in the head while I was cleaning your wound. Sitting on your legs seemed like the wisest choice. Don't get any ideas."

The silence that follows is heavy, and you focus once more on the ocean, staring at your gloved hands. There is no way to account for how much time passes, as Christian has always been just as comfortable with sitting in silence as you. It was something you enjoyed about his presence. Of course, you always chalked his silence up to the fact that he was undoubtedly keeping his lips sealed so that more lies wouldn't come pouring out. 

"Listen," Christian starts after a long enough pause that you had gotten used to not hearing his voice. The sound of it causes your shoulder to rise to your ears. "I do feel like I need to explain myself."

You sigh and relax your weight back against your knees, fixing your posture from slouching forward. It is uncomfortable to sit this way on the floor, and your knees ache, but you continue to press the gauze against him.

"Yeah, you do," you say. You lift your gaze, noticing the color seems to be returning to Christian's face. Whereas his brow was covered in a glaze of sweat and his breathing was chaotic, the panic of having been cut open seems to have passed. Perhaps he is right, and this wound is not so bad. It seems that you are no longer needed. "But not right now. Lift your hands for me."

Christian looks confused, but he does as he is told, easily lifting his hands to the height of his stomach and holding them suspended without any effort.

"Good," you say, taking one of his hands and moving it over his wound, and applying pressure with your hand against his. "Looks like you can handle this now."

Christian nods solemnly, and you hobble onto your feet, then haphazardly step away. You feel unstable as you get your footing and turn toward the bathroom. There is some blood on the gloves, but none on your clothing.

"Thank you," Christian calls, but you do not reply. 

The light in the bathroom is too bright, and you peel the gloves off your hands, which have become sweaty, and wash them in warm water. Then you dry your hands, shut off the light, and make your way to your room, not bothering to close the door, because you are not worried about Christian coming in and harassing you, and you want the glow from the hallway. There is something about the pitch-black darkness that, in this moment, does not feel comforting.

Your heart pounds and you do your best to ignore it. This was a fluke. He needed help, and you need to keep him alive. That is all there is to it. Seeing the photo strip of the two of you has not stirred up any lost feelings. And you certainly do not wish to talk to him anymore.

* * *

You awaken to the smell of fatty meat being cooked. It is the first time since you have lived in this place that anyone besides yourself has eaten here, and for a moment, you forget your circumstances. You are not foolish enough to think you are back in the mansion with either of your men, but you are able to imagine that you are not with Christian.

But you are with Christian. You are captive with him in some remote location where Hoseok and his men are closing in. Rescue may be imminent, but you have no way of knowing.

You change from one set of pajamas into another and pick some soft, fuzzy white socks to wear. Then you pad out into the hallway to find the smell of bacon and vegetables wafting even stronger in the air, and your stomach growls. Christian often used to cook a breakfast of fried eggs, meat, vegetables, and toast, and the scent brings back a slew of memories that you do your best to ignore. Now is not the time for nostalgia.

"Hungry?" Christian asks over his shoulder when you go past the kitchen, over to the table that sits in front of your favorite window. He, too, wears blue and white striped pajamas, making this moment feel domestic and weird. You take a seat and stare at the waves that seem somewhat calm. The sky is surprisingly clear with only sparse dots of clouds.

"Starving," you mutter, resting your cheek against your fist.

Utensils clang and scrape against dishes, and you hear the sound of coffee being poured into mugs. His feet barely make a sound, but you are familiar with the rhythm of his walk, and aware that he is approaching. He sets two plates down, then quickly returns to the kitchen, grabbing eating utensils and two mugs of coffee. The coffee is hot and sharp, but tastes good, and you drink down a third of the cup as Christian settles down to your left. Then you begin to eat.

"I noticed you went through my things," Christian says as he picks up his utensils and cuts the runny yolks of his eggs in half.

You shrug. The eggs are perfectly fried, tomatoes and mushrooms cooked just the way you remember, and you chew off the end of a fatty bacon strip while dunking the corner of your toast into the yolk, absorbing as much as you can into one bite. You hate how much you have missed this.

"Were you looking for something in particular?" Christian asks with a mouth full of food. "Or just snooping?"

"Does it matter?" you ask into your coffee cup, then take a sip.

Christian snorts out the approximation of a laugh. "Kind of. Don't need you stealing any of my guns, even if they are all empty. I counted them, though, so I think I'm still safe."

You glance up to find his expression open, relaxed, and amused. If he weren't so different from the man you once knew, this ruined face might run the risk of tugging at your heartstrings.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would," you simply say, dunking toast into your yolk again. Christian says nothing. "But if you must know, yes," you look up once more, pleased to find Christian's gaze has fallen to his plate of food and he seems to have taken your threat seriously. "I was looking for drugs. Cocaine preferably. I'm just…" You sigh. "I'm so fucking bored."

Christian drops his fork to the table in a clatter and sits heavy against his chair. He appears deflated. "Cocaine," he mutters under his breath. "You never did cocaine before."

You roll your eyes and huff out a sigh. Now is not the time for his fake altruism. 

"Seriously," you grumble, looking at him as you rip a bite of bacon off with your teeth. Your words are slightly muffled as you say, "Shut the fuck up."

Wordlessly, the two of you finish your meal. Christian gets up from the table first, taking your dishes to the sink and washing them. Then he disappears upstairs, and you let out a sigh of relief. Just because you stopped his bleeding and are willing to eat his food does not give him the right to act all buddy-buddy. For fuck's sake, is his self-awareness non-existent?

After an indeterminate amount of time, Christian reappears dressed in all black like he's ready to go out. He walks over to the table and sets down a large paper bag, which you pointedly ignore until he says, "Get dressed. We're moving."

"Move—" you mutter, trying to turn your face but finding that you cannot tear your eyes away from the ocean. Moving? To where? Away from the coast? Tears fill your eyes, and you shake your head. After everything he has put you through, your heart has become tethered to the endless ebb and flow of the water, and if you move away from this place, what will happen? What ramifications could severing this connection have on your well-being?

Christian barks your name, making you jump, and you turn, angry. Inside the large bag is a pair of black sneakers and a pile of black fabric. You cross your arms over your chest.

"You can't do this to me again," you say, tears blurring your vision. "You can't—"

Christian says your name once more, this time through gritted teeth. "We need to move. Unless you want those men to find you here, in which case I will have to kill them."

Anger rises, and you want to scream. You look around for something to smash, but there are no decorations in the house, and all of the dishes are in the kitchen. Instead, you pick up the bag of clothing and throw it at Christian as hard as you can, which, incidentally, is not very hard. Still, it hits him in the stomach, causing him to flinch and reach for where his wound is, but then it clatters to the floor making very little sound, and Christian, fed up and clearly in pain, kicks the bag in your direction, causing the shoes and a pair of pants to come spilling out.

He approaches, crouching to be eye-level with you. "In ten minutes, we are leaving, whether you are dressed or not. If I have to drag you out kicking and screaming, I will. And you know that I will." The look he gives you is cold and hard, devoid of any hint of the man you once cared for. "The choice is yours."

He stands slowly, hand to his stomach, and turns, walking toward the steps. You sit angry a moment longer, then stand, picking up the contents of the bag. There is a pair of black jeans, a black hoodie, black socks, underwear, and a sports bra, as well as the sneakers. You huff out a sigh and take the items into your arms, cradling them haphazardly while shuffling off to your room, where you dump the contents onto the bed and slowly begin to change.

It feels awful to be wearing anything but soft pajamas, and you hug your arms tight around your middle once you are dressed, listening for the waves with your eyes closed. Tears build once more, and you attempt to calm your warring feelings, but everything is far too heavy. You do not wish to live and die in this empty, lonely house. But you have forgotten what life felt like without the constant, familiar roar of water.

Footsteps stomp down the stairs, and you lift your shoulders to your ears. He seems to pause near the kitchen for just a moment and then pivots, walking in the direction of the room.

"Are you decent?" he calls, and you simply hum in response. Outside your door, more softly, he says, "I have something for you."

The door is open, so when you mutter, "Come in," he simply rounds the doorway and enters.

In his hand is a small round mirror, on top of which is a crisp white line. He brings the mirror over and holds it nose-high, saying, "Truce?"

You concede and step close, watching his expression for a moment to gauge whether this might be some kind of trick. He lifts his brows and nods, and so you take one more step forward, pressing a finger against one nostril and sniffing the line quickly, willing to accept his apology. Except the sting is harsh and intense, and it settles in your throat in a chalky, uncomfortable, unfamiliar way.

"What the fuck?" you yell, taking a step back and nearly tripping onto the bed, holding your hand up to your nose.

Christian's gaze is flat as he says, "Triazolam mixed with a dash of Ambien."

"Huh?!" you yell, trying to place what the fuck that is, but coming up short.

"Come on," Christian says, turning and walking toward the hallway. "Don't make me drag you out."

You stand dumbfounded. What the fuck did he just give you? "Christian!"

Christian huffs, exasperated, and looks over his shoulder. "It'll put you to sleep. So let's go!"

You follow after Christian, if only to not have to be dragged out of this fucking house. His backpack is slung over his shoulder, and you feel strange being empty-handed, but you do not wish to carry a set of pajamas in your hands because it just feels kind of odd to do so. And you don't care much about the black dress that you wore here. On the first floor, Christian punches in the code to open the door, and you take one last look around the living room that you never had any desire to enjoy. All the empty furniture and inactive electronics. And then you follow him out.

Despite the sky being relatively clear, the air has a chill to it. You pull your hood over your head and hug your arms around yourself, shivering. Christian walks toward a white sports car, and it dawns on you that you could just run. Nothing is stopping you from taking off in any direction and attempting to get the fuck away. Except, when you look around, all you see is the cliffs and endless grass. There is not another single house in sight, and the terrain is mostly flat.

"Don't do anything stupid," Christian says, and your shoulders tense.

You should have grabbed a gun from Christian's bag, but he already mentioned counting them. He said they were empty of bullets, but he could have been lying to save face. If only you could shoot him right now.

Christian says your name, and there is an underlying tone that you do not like. He is clearly rattled and realizes that he does not have one hundred percent of the power in this scenario.

You smile, turn to him, and tilt your head to the side. He is fuming, holding a hand over a gun that is holstered to his hip, his eye burning through you. Would he really shoot you? You doubt it.

"What?" you ask, laughing.

Christian squints and his frown deepens. You lift your hands and look around, twisting left to right and laughing harder as his hands twitch, and he attempts to measure what he might do.

You grin and ask, "Where would I even go?"

"Get in the car," he grits between his teeth.

"What will you do if I don't?" Your grin widens. "Shoot me?" 

After a tense beat, your smile falls. You approach slowly while Christian stands ramrod still and watches. As you reach to open the passenger door, you gather saliva in your mouth and spit at his feet. He says nothing. Only when you are seated with the door closed does he round the hood of the car and get inside. He drives away quickly.

The drive is silent. You stare out the window as the car goes up and down hills, following a path along the cliffside, keeping your eyes on the water. Your eyelids heavy-blink, and you open them wide, determined not to fall asleep. A little voice in your head tells you to take the wheel, yank it to the left, and send the two of you barreling off the cliff and into the water, but you ignore it. With your luck, you would survive the crash.

When the airport comes into view, you sit up uncomfortably. You read the words Jeju Int'l Airport in big bold letters on the side of the building, but your brain struggles to compute. How could you have been on Jeju this entire time?

Christian pulls into a parking structure, and as soon as he shuts off the car, black sedans pull into surrounding parking spots and open up as men in black suits with black balaclavas over their faces come pouring out. At first, you see the suits and feel hopeful that they are Yoongi's men, but you know better. These men are here to protect Christian.

You feel lightheaded as you get out of the car and stumble, falling back against it as you struggle to close the door. Christian is in front of you suddenly, pushing your hoodie from where it covered your head and replacing it with a balaclava. With your view somewhat obstructed, you are pulled away from the car, hand in hand with your captor and stumbling as you struggle to keep up with his quick pace. You keep your eyes on your feet, watching yourself walk over cement, then asphalt, then more cement. You are led past the airport and through a chain-link fence, and then you are on the tarmac standing before a small private jet. Confused, you attempt to look around and get your bearings, but the sun is shining bright, and your vision cannot focus on anything. You feel dizzy and disoriented.

Shouting erupts, but it feels far away, and you are unable to turn and locate it. You are yanked up a short set of steps, tripping as your feet struggle to lift high enough, and nearly falling forward twice. Then you are shoved into a seat, upon which you fall knees-first before sliding to the floor. You feel the urge to vomit and swallow it down. Outside, you think you hear muffled gunshots.

"Impeccable timing," Christian says, chuckling.

It occurs to you that the shouting and possible gunshots must be for you. Of course they are; how could they not be? Using your forearms, you heave yourself up onto the seat, then stumble into the chair closest to the window and look out. Your eyes scan the commotion of men dressed in black fighting, and the glimmer of silver catches your eye just in time for you to watch Namjoon drive a hwando sword into the belly of a man before pulling it out, twisting, and slashing another man clear across the throat, painting the ground a deep crimson.

"Namjoon," you mutter, lifting your shaking hands and pressing them to the window.

You think that you see the others, but you could also be imagining them. Jeongguk with a small blade flying from his palm into a man's throat, Taehyung and Yoongi back to back holding guns steady with their arms extended forward. It feels like a scene from your dreams, and you are unsure whether you trust that you are still awake and alert. Could the medication be causing you to hallucinate?

And then the plane is moving, and you are screaming, pounding your fists against the window. You cannot make out any of the figures outside, much less their true identities or movements. Everything is spinning, and you feel claustrophobic from the press of the fabric against your face, but you are unable to pull it off, instead clawing at the fabric in a fury, wishing it would rip to shreds.

Hands are on you, attempting to hold you still, and you try with all your might to lash out, but you are fading. The fabric is removed from your head, but your vision is mostly black. Your eyes cannot stay open. You curse Christian and wish for death. If only this could be the end of the line, and you could just close your eyes and never wake up.

But you do wake up, a little bit more each time, before passing out in a stiff, reclined seat. The movement of the plane, plus the heaviness in your head, work in tandem to lull you back to sleep, over and over, dragging you down into the depths of drowsiness until you are finally able to fight it and fully open your eyes. And when you do, you are no longer in an airplane. Instead, you are in a hotel room. You vaguely remember being carried through a hallway, but that felt like a dream. 

There is a familiar scent in the air, and you sit up quickly, then fall back down when the headache that splits your skull in two rages behind your right eye. It is dark outside, but there is a yellowish glow coming in from a crack in two dark blinds. You glance around the room and find Christian sitting in a chair reading a book. He peers over it and seems to observe you for a moment before returning to his reading, and you lie still and watch him.

This time, you are not going to make the mistake of leaving all of his weapons where you find them. This time, his blood will be on your hands, and you will find a way home.

When there is a knock on the door, you sit up once more, slowly. Christian sets his book down and stands, watching you first before moving quickly to the door. Words are exchanged in English, and you open your mouth to scream for help, but instead your dry throat squeaks and cracks, and you begin to cough. Christian returns with a platter of food and takes it over to the table near where he was sitting. There seems to be enough food for two, and it smells amazing, like meat and vegetables, but you lie back down and close your eyes.

"Hungry?" Christian asks, and you grumble wordlessly as you curl into a fetal position while pulling a blanket over your head. You would rather sleep some more.

* * *

Images of the airport clash repeat behind your eyelids, each time with more detail. You watch as your men take down each balaclava-clad man, and as the images repeat, the details become more bloody and exaggerated, gore bursting from the men who paint the tarmac and airplane windows with crimson sinew and bits of bone.

You awaken again with a gasp and find yourself in a dimly lit room, seemingly alone. But when you slowly roll to the left, toward the door, you find Christian sitting against the headboard of another bed, reading his book with a small light connected to its cover. 

"Awake at last?" he asks softly.

Annoyed, you groan and roll back around. You are too warm in the hoodie, but you pull the blanket over your head anyway. You hear Christian sigh and turn a page.

* * *

"Of course," Christian says in English, then switches to Korean, "and it is a pleasure to work with you, as well, hyung."

You slow-blink and sit up, yawning silently as you glance around. The sun is up, and Christian is seated at the table dressed in his white suit with black stripes, speaking on the hotel phone. He smiles and nods.

"I, too, would prefer to avoid more unnecessary bloodshed. Just say the word and the trade will be made. I have forwarded you my number and the address of my permanent residence, which will be ready this afternoon."

He hangs up the phone, then turns to look at you, twisting at the hips in order to see you through his one good eye. He seems to be in a chipper mood, making pleasantries and promising the arrival of food. He only appears somewhat jittery from lack of sleep, and you wonder whether he has cocaine. 

You feel stiff as you get onto your feet and stretch. You also feel disgusting, having sweated in this set of clothing for an undetermined number of hours. Your bladder aches and you glance around, finding the entrance to the left, as well as a jutting-out section of wall that you presume belongs to a bathroom. Padding over, you consider breaking into a sprint and running out the door, but you find it hard to believe Christian would make it that easy. Still, as you approach the doorway that you have definitely determined leads to the bathroom, you veer to the front door, which has several locks in place, and get onto your toes to look out the peephole. Two men clad in black and strapped with guns stand in the hallway, in conversation about something on one of their phones, with the door to the adjacent hotel room hanging wide open. You sigh as you twist and enter the bathroom, annoyed that when you turn on the light, a loud fan accompanies it. Of course he has his fucking goons staying across the hall and monitoring the room.

This time, when room service arrives, you are unable to resist eating. You feel so empty that it hurts, and you sit opposite Christian on a small wooden chair with your feet on the seat and knees bent protectively in front of you, picking at scrambled eggs, a variety of meat, small potatoes, and vegetables. He does not eat, which causes your suspicions of cocaine to grow.

"Where are we?" you ask.

Christian looks up from his book and pauses before saying, "We are twenty minutes from where I grew up."

Sydney, Australia.

You sigh and look away from him. There was a time when the two of you were loosely planning a trip out here to meet his mother, back when he was pretending to be a loving, sweet boyfriend. How strange that you seem to have come full circle. What would his mother think of the man he has become?

"Why?" you ask with a mouth full of toast and jam.

"Reasons," he says, continuing to read. Infuriating.

"Not eating?" you ask. You can see that his eye no longer scans the words on the page, and he keeps his features straight, but you can tell he is annoyed with you.

"Not hungry."

You hum. "Not sleeping, either?"

Christian sighs and closes his book, placing it down on the table. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. By the title alone, it seems appropriate. 

He turns his attention to you. "What do you want?"

You raise your eyebrows. "You know what I want."

Now and before, you and Christian have always been at a standstill. Always on the precipice of something massive that you cannot fathom and that he refuses to articulate. Who are you, you wonder as you unflinchingly hold his gaze. Really, truly, deep down, to your rotten core. Who are you, Yu Barom?

Christian swallows and blinks, breaking the invisible tether you share. You blink as well, but continue to watch him. You wonder whether he knows what you meant— that you want drugs to stimulate your senses— or if he has let his mind wander to other, long forbidden possibilities, instead. 

"Finish your food," he says as he gets up and smooths his hands down his front. He walks toward the front door and turns to the left, into the bathroom. You eat slowly, taking long sips and big gulps of tepid coffee. By the time Christian returns, you are pushing small bits of egg, potatoes, and vegetables around with a piece of bread. It is so little that you could easily finish it, but your stomach feels extremely unsettled. 

There is a knock at the door, and you drop your bread onto the plate and sit up, feet still on the chair with your knees to your chest. Christian spins on his toes and scurries over to open the door, with more pep in his step than you have witnessed in…maybe ever.

"Barom!" a pretty, feminine voice calls. 

"Noona, at last," you hear him say before the unmistakable smack of a kiss breaks his greeting. "Welcome, please come in. I trust your flight wasn't too bad?"

The woman sighs dramatically. "It was awfully long, as always, but you know that I will gladly fly to the ends of the earth for you, my dear."

Bile rises up your throat. You feel sick to your stomach. Why? Christian has not been yours for months, and the distance between you even back then was vast. But, still.

Christian says your name, and you hum non-committally, unable to tear your gaze from your scraps of food and turn your attention to the left. "This is Sunmi-noona," he continues. "She's a close friend and associate." The name sounds vaguely familiar, but you cannot place where you may have heard it before. 

"Ah, here she is," Sunmi says, and her voice is so sweet yet venomous that you cannot help but turn to look. 

Sunmi stands at Christian's height in tall red stiletto heels. She is very thin, with long, wavy, pastel green hair, wearing a short red latex dress, with bright red lipstick. She sneers down at you, with her arms crossed over her chest, and you hug your knees tight. 

"Our little flower snake in the flesh," she says. 

Christian snickers and play-smacks her on the arm. You roll your eyes and look at the wooden table before you. Dressed the way she is, she certainly appears to know a thing or two about flower snakes. 

"Have you and the boss finalized the terms?" Sunmi asks.

Christian hums. "Yes and no. He's been a little elusive and forcing conversation to be done through Kim. But apparently he's calling later tonight so we can iron out the details."

Sunmi chuckles. "He always liked making the Kim boys do all his dirty work." She lowers her voice, adding, "Whispers say you had a bit of a scuffle," in a tone dripping in delight, like she is sharing juicy gossip between friends. 

"He wasn't pleased with our clash in Jeju, but he forced my hand by advancing before our deal was settled."

Her voice drops even lower, each syllable sounding flirtatious. "You almost perfectly pulled off the fake airport heist."

Christian sighs. "Yeah. I had a feeling they would catch on quickly, hence bringing so many men."

You clear your throat, sick of eavesdropping. It is obvious that they are talking about Yoongi, and about having you in their possession, and you hate being spoken about like some kind of object. "Can you two do this somewhere else? You're ruining my appetite."

Sunmi giggles, and the sound causes you to clench your teeth. "Was she always this feisty? Even back then?"

Your eyes widen, and your head snaps to the side. Christian clears his throat uncomfortably, gaze stuck somewhere toward the ground, and Sunmi appears amused. You always had your suspicions that Christian was fucking someone else behind your back, but could it really have been her? They do seem awfully familiar, and he referred to her as a close friend. Were they close a year ago?

Sunmi seems to put on a show of wrapping her hands around Christian's bicep and standing close to his ear. "Come," she says, keeping her lips a hairsbreadth from his skin. "Leave her to pout. We have catching up to do."

Christian appears to be chewing on the inside of his cheek as he straightens his posture and sighs. "Noona," he says, placing his hand against hers and patting gently as if to tell her to release him from her hold, "please, drop the act for now. There will be time for all of this once the transition is complete." 

With a heavy, dramatic sigh, Sunmi lets go of Christian's arm and turns, stomp-walking toward the door. You hold out hope that she will open it up and see herself out, but instead, she grabs bags that you previously had not noticed. They are black and pink, with ribbons for handles, and she brings them over and drops them onto the table, onto your mostly empty plate of food.

"The car will be waiting, whenever you're ready," she says, turning to Christian. He stands completely stiff as she loudly smacks a kiss against his cheek, then she places a set of keys into his hand. "Please don't keep me waiting. You know where to find me."

Finally, with that, she really does leave. You glare at Christian the entire time, listening as her muffled steps become quieter before pausing at the door and opening it. Even after the door is closed, you stare him down. There is a feeling in your bones that you cannot shake, but what sense would there be in addressing it now? The two of you are merely captor and captive. Nothing more. And this is certainly not jealousy that you feel, but something aged and tarnished with time and neglect. Animosity, perhaps. 

"You'll find clothing in these bags," Christian says softly, staring somewhat blankly at the bags. 

"Yeah, no shit," you respond. What else would it be? 

Christian reaches into his pocket, grabs out a pack of cigarettes, and turns to the door. "Be back in ten," he says, "be ready when I return," then he leaves the room.

* * *

It feels odd to wear a sundress, and you stand in the bathroom mirror, arms bent and fingers listlessly touching in front of your stomach as you slowly rove your eyes over the garment. The baby blue maxi dress with thick straps, a ruched top, and a flowy skirt hugs yet somewhat hides your curves. You want to do something with your hair, maybe apply some makeup, but you have nothing. You miss Jimin. 

Christian returned from his smoke break a moment ago, but you have not wanted to leave this room and face him. Where he plans to take you, you are unsure. With all the talk of trades and transitions, there is a part of you that hopes that you may be getting returned to Korea, to the mansion in the countryside. But that feels impossible. If that were the case, then what was the violent conflict that you witnessed outside of the airplane? If you had witnessed anything at all. You are still unsure whether any of it was real, despite Christian more or less confirming that something transpired. And, if he was planning on returning you, why would he have bothered to bring you all the way to Australia? What was all this fuss about?

You take in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Then you turn, reach for the door handle, and pause. It feels as if there is something lodged in your throat, sinking slowly into your chest, cutting off your ability to fully function as a human. You feel on the verge of tears but also a deep, horrible anger. You do not wish to face the world outside. 

Once you finally open the door and step out of the bathroom, legs shaky on wedged heels that wrap with flimsy ribbons around your ankles, you are surprised to find Christian is on the far side of the room, sitting at the table, reading his book. He appears to be more than halfway finished with it. You almost feel bad for interrupting, and find that prefer him like this: silent and distracted.

But he beats you to the punch, closing the book before you have a chance to say anything. "Ready?" he calls. 

You nod. It is a lie, but you nod. How could you be ready? What is it you are supposed to be ready for?

He stands and places the book into a black birkin bag, and then he approaches, veers into the bathroom to grab the garments you had been wearing, including the sneakers, and shoves them into a white laundry bag, which he holds in the same hand as the birkin. All of the toiletries have already been collected, and it appears as though nothing is left behind. He shuts off the bathroom light and returns. 

"Darling," he says in a sweet, play-acting voice that makes your stomach churn. He smirks as he lifts his free hand and holds it out for you, and you hesitate before taking it. You hate this charade that he is forcing you to participate in, but you are aware of the fact that once the two of you leave this room, there will be men with guns tailing you, and it will be in your best interest to play along.  

"Where are we going?" you ask, glancing up at him before deciding against it and letting your gaze fall to the ground. 

Christian reaches for the door and yanks it open, then pauses for you to walk first. Although the men are not presently in front of your door, you see two men in all black loitering at the end of the hallway. Christian does not guide you, but you turn and walk toward the men, assuming that where the hallway opens ahead and to the left is where the elevators must be. 

"Home," Christian says as the door clicks shut behind you. 

Your eyes dart around the hallway, taking in the details of off-white walls and doors with bronze numbers. You attempt to pull your hand out of his, but Christian's grip tightens. 

"Home?" 

You reach the end, to where there are several elevators to the left. A third man is standing in the open maw of one of them, awaiting your approach. 

"That's right," Christian says. 

You begin to slow nearly to a stop, causing Christian to yank until you are practically tripping over your own feet. All three of the other men step into the elevator carriage wordlessly. The walls and doors are mirrored, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection beside Christian before closing your eyes and inhaling long and slow. You are surrounded, and you feel claustrophobic.

Christian squeezes your hand and leans close. His voice is quiet as he says, "This might be a bit easier if you pretend to like me."

You crack a smile, but nothing about this situation is amusing. You feel like you're going insane. "I wouldn't dream of it," you respond, blinking your eyes open.

"Dream of what?" Christian asks with a chuckle. "Liking me?" 

The doors open as you hum, "Mmhmm," through tight lips. 

You are led through a large lobby, the details of which you fully ignore. Your eyes are on the sun shining on green shrubs and trees outside, past large glass doors. As your footsteps echo through the vast space, you imagine the way your voice would echo if you were to scream. Right now. All you would have to do is open your mouth wide and scream like your life depended on it. It would be so easy. 

Glass doors slide open, and you step outside. A fourth man in all black stands before a white sports car that resembles the one left in Korea. Behind it is a matching black car. The man opens the passenger door, and Christian finally lets go of your hand, allowing you to slide into the cool leather seat. As the door is closed, you regret not screaming when you had the chance. Instead, you feel a heaviness in your chest, as if the unscreamed breath were restless inside your lungs.

You are sure Australia is beautiful, but all you can look at is your hands, which rest upon your thighs. Your hands are familiar, but they do not feel like yours. Has this always been the tone of your skin? Why does it look the way it does against the baby blue fabric? Your fingers begin to blur into meaningless shapes the longer you stare, and your eyes fill with tears. Why didn't you scream?

Christian says your name, but you pretend not to hear. The car is pulled up to a stop light, and you can tell that he has turned to look at you, but you do not turn to look at him. When he begins to drive again, you allow your eyes to flutter closed. 

"All of this is temporary," Christian says, as if that assuages any of your feelings. 

You scoff and mutter, "Well, thank god for that."

There is a pause, then he says, "Look, had I known this is how everything would have gone…"

You open your eyes and turn your head to look out the window, muttering, "Please shut up." 

In the distance, there is a bridge, and beyond that are tall buildings. Under different circumstances, you would love to explore the city, but the thought is so far from your mind. You roll down the window and close your eyes against the sea-salted air and remind yourself that the vast, endless, beautiful ocean just off in the distance is the very same ocean as before, and you lament not being able to synchronize your breathing to it. At least you can smell it. 

The house you pull up to is on a hillside, overlooking the distant city. There are other houses around, but they are pretty sparse. In fact, this place seems secluded enough that you are not so confident that you will be able to get anyone's attention and make a clean exit once you step through the front door. If you screamed while inside that house, it does not seem totally likely that anyone inside a neighboring house will be able to hear you. 

So if there were ever a chance…it is now. 

You are certain that the ugly wedge heels that are tied to your ankles with those stupid fucking ribbons will trip you up and knock you to your knees the moment you attempt to run. You imagine falling and scraping your palms and kneecaps, twisting your ankle, maybe even spraining it. But you also imagine being stuck behind that locked door for the foreseeable future. You can't even hear the ocean from here.

"Fuck it," you mutter as you open the car door wide and make a break for it. 

The road curves down and to the right, and you run as hard as you can, ignoring everything that could go wrong. Christian shouts behind you, and it pushes you to run faster. Harder. Your fists are balled, and you punch the air as you tilt your head upward and feel the wind whoosh past your cheeks. The closest house is at the bottom of the hill, and far enough away that you are unsure whether you would be able to reach it before you are caught up with, but you try. Maybe if you just scream someone will be able to hear. 

Of course, imagining the what-ifs is useless, because you are already caught up with. 

Two arms wrap around your middle, and in a split second, you are kicking the air. You flail, attempting to scream, but Christian manages to tightly hold you around the middle with one arm while pressing a palm to your mouth with the other. He carries you back in the direction of the house beyond the white car, and you open your mouth as wide as you can before biting down on the meat of his palm. He groans and pushes his palm harder, digging painfully against your teeth, so you begin to thrash your head backwards, pleased when you feel the back of your head meets his nose. 

"You fucking—" Christian groans, leaving the rest of his sentence unspoken.

Your heels kick against his shins, but he seems far less fazed by that than any of your other attacks. When you attempt to headbutt him again, Christian holds you tight against his chest. At the front steps of the house, you fall limp. 

"The one time I don't fucking drug you," Christian grumbles as he struggles to get the keys from his pocket and open the front door. 

Once inside, the moment he sets you down, you turn on him, swinging punches and screaming, "Let me go, you fucking asshole!" 

Christian slams the door closed and swats at your fists before catching them, gripping onto them hard, and pushing you until you are backed into a wall. You swing your head back, slamming it into the wall, feeling hopeless to do anything else and eager to inflict pain on someone, even if that someone is you. 

"Stop," Christian says softly, then he shouts, "fucking stop! Stop hurting yourself!"

He releases your hands and grabs you by the shoulders, pressing you firmly in place. You feel exhausted and dizzy, but also frantic like a caged, feral animal. Tears stream from your eyes, and you wrap your arms around your chest and sink down to the floor, out of his hold, sobbing. You tilt your head back and scream at the top of your lungs until it hurts too much to continue. Christian simply stands and watches. There is a small streak of blood coming from his nostril, and you wish you had managed to hurt him worse. Each breath that leaves your lips is as heavy as each breath you inhale. You think of the ocean, of its calming rhythm, but all you hear is the desperate beating of your heart. 

Christian crouches. The blood drips onto his lip, but he does nothing to wipe it away. "This is temporary," he says. 

Your breathing softens but remains quick, pushing and pulling through flared nostrils as you clench your teeth. You cannot think of anything to say, so you stare at him. 

"Look, I know that I fucked up, okay?" Whatever tough guy act Christian has been trying to put on slips. He looks worried. "I know I fucked up," he says, raising his eyebrows. You look him in his one good eye. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Christian runs a hand through his hair. It settles away from his forehead, giving him a slightly more boyish look. For a moment he reminds you of a simpler time, when the two of you—

"I don't know what I was thinking," he repeats. He pulls a black fabric square from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabs at the blood before licking his lip. "Should have just left you where you were."

"Yeah," you say as you squeeze your arms tighter around your chest, "you should have thought about the ramifications before drugging and kidnapping me." 

All you want is comfort, and it pains you to admit that all Christian would have to do is open his arms and you would fall forward. If only to feel warmth. A heartbeat. A rising and falling chest. You could close your eyes and imagine he was someone else. 

Christian scoffs, cracks a sad smile, and shakes his head. "I mean back then. Years ago. I should have just left you alone in that dingy bar instead of taking that fucking job."

You chew the inside of your lip. The last thing you want is to commiserate with your captor, but you take the bait. 

"What job?"

Christian stares at you for several slow, stretched-out seconds. "The mafia job," he says, matter-of-factly. "Sorting and selling drugs under Jeongguk. Being Min's bitch. Grooming you for two years."

You roll your eyes. "Very fucking funny, Christian." You feel more settled than you were a moment ago, but this line of conversation is quickly beginning to piss you off. 

Christian blinks, shakes his head, and stands. "I'll tell you anything you want to know about back then." He slides his hands into his slacks pockets. "You just have to ask."

Now that you are eye-level with his legs, you turn your head to the side and take stock of the house. Like the last one, it is nearly devoid of decoration. Wood floors, minimal furniture, a television. 

"Don't bullshit me," you say, thinking about the night the two of you met. "You came into the bar by chance." 

"On assignment," Christian says. 

You heavy-blink and stare at the forest green couch. "You were so pathetic you had to beg me to date you." You scoff. "And then I had to beg you to touch me."

"Min had his sights on you before I ever walked through that door."

You shake your head. "Christian, seriously, you can't keep lying to me about everything." 

"I worried about touching you because the last thing I wanted was to fall in love with you."

"That's stupid," you say, chuckling at the absurdity. "Why would he send you to groom me when he could have walked through that door himself?"

"Because he's sadistic," Christian says, and you glare up at him. He lifts his hands incredulously and lets them fall to his sides. "Because he's a fucking weirdo. Your guess is as good as mine."

What was it Yoongi said the first time you two met? I know exactly who you are. This isn't the first time that sentence has given you pause.

You shake your head more. You feel nauseated. "That's not the story you told me in the elevator."

Christian's brows knit, and he tilts his head. Then he seems to remember the night in question. "Ah. Yeah, well, I was lying."

"Shocker," you say as you begin to untie the ribbons from around your ankles. "You were lying to me. Who could have seen that coming?" You fling the shoes in the direction of the door, then slowly stand. 

Christian says your name, but you turn away and walk into the living room. To the right, there is a hallway, and you go that direction. 

"I had already been working for Jeongguk, before you and I met," he says. "I was already running his drugs. That's why my hours were so fucked up, and I was often gone when you got home. I was never a finance bro, or whatever I told you."

You turn and find him just a few paces behind you. His hand lifts, as if in anticipation, as if he is beginning to reach for you, but then it drops. It is an odd movement that you do your best to ignore. 

"So you weren't out fucking…what's her name…Sunmi?" 

Christian's expression seems to pause. Then it shifts. He swallows and looks away. 

There is a part of you that was joking, but it is clear by his non-response and the sad, guilty look in his eye that you seem to be onto something. You feel the urge to cry, but mostly you are numb. No sense in caring now. 

"Wow," you say. Sunmi is definitely pretty. But she also seems really mean. Perhaps she is nicer to the men she fucks.

Christian clears his throat. "You were Min's, and I was…"

You sigh. "Pretending to love me," you mutter against your better judgment as you continue to walk away. 

"Empty," Christian says. "I was nothing."

Down the hallway, there are doors. Kitchen to the left, with a dining room. Bathroom to the right. Bedroom to the right. Bedroom straight ahead. You pass the bathroom and turn into the first bedroom, then glance over your shoulder. Christian leans with his head tilted against the wall, just past the bathroom. He looks sad. 

You feel trapped inside a snow globe that has been shaken, but the snowflakes just float in the water all around you, refusing to fall. Trapped in stasis and unsettled. You wish you had never brought any of this up. Of course, there are still feelings floating to the surface, but you wish there weren't. The end of your relationship was abrupt and without closure, and evidently the whole thing was a lie from the start, which is more to unpack than you wish to deal with. You have a million questions. But you decide that you cannot care for the answers. For now, you need to figure out how to get back home. 

"I'll give you forty-eight hours," you say. Christian raises his eyebrows. "Two days. Starting now. Get me out of here or I will do something drastic."

The edge of Christian's mouth lifts for a split second. The asshole is amused. "Drastic, how?"

"I don't know," you shrug. Deadpan, you say, "Kill myself. Kill you. Who's to say what opportunity may arise."

Christian stares at you a beat longer, then stands straight. He slides his hands into his pockets and says, "You really have changed, huh." 

You turn into the room, exhausted by his bullshit. When you hear him chuckle, you take the doorknob in your hand and slam the door shut as hard as you can, pleased with the way the walls rattle. You have changed. You've changed a lot. And he is going to find out the hard way if he doesn't stop fucking around. 

* * *

The room you stay in only has books atop a bedside table and nothing else. No striped pajamas, no toiletries— although you suspect that there may be some in the bathroom. You presume that any missing items will be brought to you before the night ends, but you do not seek Christian out to ask. Enough time has passed that your anger has more or less subsided, but you are in no mood to interact with him again. Instead, you sit on the bed and thumb through the books, mapping the shapes of poems and studying doodles accompanying various myths, reading back cover blurbs and glancing at author photos until each book is on the bed, cast gently aside in a heap next to you. You wonder whether these books belong to Christian. Had he been planning on staying in this room?

You listen for any sound outside the bedroom door. When you are certain that you hear nothing, you get up and walk over to the door, then listen more intently. Then, when you are extra certain that you hear absolutely nothing at all, you slowly turn the knob, pull the door open, and tiptoe out. 

Christian is in the living room, sitting on the couch. The television is off, and he is reading his book. You can smell something coming from the kitchen, but you do not look in to see whether something is cooking or had previously been prepared. Your goal is the bathroom. 

The room is small and almost completely white, with the toilet, sink, and tub taking up most of the space. You use the toilet, wash your hands with a bar of soap that you are sure must have come from the hotel you had just been staying at, and then you brace yourself to make a quiet exit. As you pull the door open, you hold your breath, half expecting to see Christian standing there, ready for another fight. But when you peek your head around the corner, he remains on the couch, holding his book before him. 

You feel like a child as you ease your way into the hallway and move as silently as possible. And when you make it to the bedroom, you let out the breath that you had been holding, feeling relieved. 

"I made soup," Christian calls, and the sound of his voice startles you. You pause and weigh your options. 

On the one hand, you have the urge to find out whether the cookware Christian used to make the soup is heavy enough to bash his skull open with. On the other hand, you should eat more than one meal a day. And the soup smells good. And it pains you to admit that Christian is a really good cook. Ignoring the soup and returning to your room doesn't feel like an option. 

With a sigh, you turn to the kitchen and slowly step inside. An empty bowl and spoon sit on the counter next to a pot with a lid on top. When you lift the lid, you are pleased to find soft tofu stew with chunks of meat and thick vegetables. And in the fridge, you are relieved to discover a shelf full of soju, and you grab an unopened bottle of original flavor. 

You take the items to the table and silently eat and drink, forgoing a glass and enjoying the soju straight from the bottle. Christian continues to read, thankfully leaving you alone, and you savor each spoonful and sip. 

Once the bowl and bottle are empty, you get up and stumble to the sink to rinse your dishes and leave the bottle behind. You have a nice buzz, and, in your chipper mood, choose not to attack Christian with the remaining soup in its heavy, ceramic pot. Instead, you grab a second bottle of soju and shuffle back to the bedroom to begin thumbing through the books. 

* * *

There is a pounding on the bedroom door that startles you awake. You sit up in bed, a bit dizzy and disoriented from having consumed two bottles of soju, and you take stock of your surroundings. Aside from the overhead light being on, there is enough light outside that a dim, bluish-white glow comes in through sheer curtains, which you surmise must be the morning sun rising to greet you. You had dozed off while reading a collection of poems, and you gently pick the book up from where it sits open on your thighs and close it. 

The pounding returns and you set the book aside. "Yeah?" you grumble, rubbing your hands against your sleepy eyes. 

Before you can stand, the door cracks open. Christian says your name softly, but there is a hint of…something. He sounds almost frantic.

"Come in," you say, bracing yourself. 

Christian opens the door wide and steps inside. In his hand is a cellphone. The screen is off, and he is gripping it tight.

"What is it?" you ask. Everything about his demeanor is wrong. He is hunched forward, shoulders rounded. 

"I got word," Christian says, voice wobbling. He licks his lips and glances around the room. He won't look you in the eye. "From Min's men."

"Christian," you say, but he does not look at you. You repeat yourself, annunciating a little more clearly. "What is it?"

"It's Min," Christian says. He swallows. "Yoongi," he adds, softer. "He's…"

You stand and reach for his phone, which Christian grips tighter. Had he been speaking with someone? Could he call the number back so that you can speak with them, too? 

"He's what?" you ask, heart pounding. "On his way? Christian, is Yoongi on his way?"

Christian opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Frenetic energy courses through you, and you grab his wrists reassuringly.

"It's okay," you say, tilting your head to try to look him in the eye. "Christian, look…I can forgive this. I won't hold a grudge or anything. And I can make sure none of the guys do either, okay? I promise. Just…tell me where Yoongi is. Please."

Christian shakes his head. You tug gently on his wrists.

"Look at me," you say, "Christian. It's okay, I promise. We can sweep all of this madness under the rug. Please. Just tell me where Yoongi is."

"They're saying he's... gone," Christian says. It is so soft that you almost miss it. 

You tilt your head further, but Christian still will not look at you. "He's… where?"

Christian's eye appears to be tearing up. You don't understand. "He's gone," Christian says more clearly. 

"Gone, where?" Your pulse raises, pounding in your ears. Had he come to Australia and left? What is Christian talking about?

"I don't fully know. All they said was that they found him about an hour ago."

You shake your head. Nothing makes sense. Your hands begin to tremble, and your eyes fill with tears. 

"Where? Who found him? Christian, what are you saying?"

"They think the media is going to try to spin it is as being a suicide, but…"

Your hands slip away from Christian's wrists, and your legs wobble. You whisper, "What did you just say?"

Christian continues, "...the guys were really vague. I don't really know."

You hang on the word suicide, and in an instant, the world stops spinning. You are on your knees in the blink of an eye, letting out a deep, animalistic sound as your hands grip the fabric of your dress and squeeze. Your stomach churns, and you feel like you are falling, falling, falling, unable to get a grip on reality. There is no way. How can any of this be possible?

"I'm sorry," Christian says softly, standing over you. "I'm sorry."

This cannot be real. The notion of suicide brings to mind the image of Yoongi's mother, body hanging limp outside of her penthouse window, dark hair covering her face, blowing in the wind. You feel like you might vomit. 

"Where is he?" you ask, struggling to get syllables out through your sobs.

Christian squats down, setting his phone on the floor. His voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't know."

You do not accept this answer. "Who told you?" You demand. "Call them back."

Christian shakes his head. "I can't—"

"Call them back!" 

You sit high on your knees and shove at Christian's chest, sending him off balance and falling against the wall, onto his butt. He looks stunned, and you lean forward and shove at him again. 

"Call them back! Call them back!"

Your shoves become slaps, and Christian catches your wrists. You are depleted of energy and feel yourself sinking toward the floor. You rest your head on Christian's leg, sobbing into the fabric while he lowers your hands but continues to hold on. 

"Please," you beg between sobs. "Call them back. There has to be a mistake, please. I need to talk to Namjoon. Please call Namjoon. Christian."

"I can't."

"Bullshit!" You lift your head and yank your hands out of Christian's weak grasp. Tears fall from his one eye. "I know you work for Seokjin. Put him on the phone."

Christian shakes his head slowly. 

"Call Seokjin!"

You collapse against his legs and sob through several intense rounds of hyperventilation, until your lungs are exhausted, making wet spots on his slacks with your tears and snot. You cry until it physically hurts your chest, and you do your best to slow your breathing, but it feels impossible. Just the thought alone of Yoongi being gone has you absolutely spiraling, but it also does not feel real. Still, you cannot control the fury and anguish that rocks through your body. Emotionally speaking, you are far more violent and turbulent than even the ocean during a storm. 

Each breath heaves despite itself, and you slide away from Christian's lap and curl into a ball on the floor, squeezing your eyes closed. How could this have happened? Has it happened at all? Can you trust that Christian is telling you the truth? Can he cry on command? Is this all some sort of sick joke?

There is movement, and then Christian is standing, muttering something that you cannot make out. You glance up to find him leaving the room, and you roll tighter into a ball, pulling your hands to the top of your head and burying your face in your arms. 

You need to get hold of yourself. Until you can verify anything, lying on the floor scream-sobbing until you have a migraine is not going to do you any good. You continue to leak tears and snot, but your chest aches so badly that you do your best to breathe slowly, telling yourself that this has to be some sort of misunderstanding. Christian had to have misheard whoever he spoke to. 

As the seconds tick by, and your breathing evens out, you become more certain and determined that whatever Christian heard was not the truth. You are unwilling to grieve for another moment until you have proof that something did, in fact, happen. Christian has lied to you before. For two years, all he did was lie. 

Christian returns and squats down beside you. Slowly, you move your arms away from your face and find him holding two bottles of soju in one hand, and an unlit joint in the other. 

"Come on," he says, holding out the hand that holds the joint, and motioning for you to go with him. "I know that this is not much of a peace offering, but it beats crying on the floor. 

Peace offering. He makes it sound like he personally called for Yoongi's execution.

As much as you want to hate Christian, you decide to very slowly, very clumsily peel yourself off the floor and get onto your knees first, then your feet. You feel like a toddler, and you are certain that you look like one, but you do not care. You would very much love to numb your senses and have a drink. 

Christian stands and leads the way down the hallway, into the living room. Judging by the slightly brighter sky, you surmise that you managed to sleep through the night and had woken up early in the morning. Which means whatever may or may not have transpired must have been in the middle of the night. 

You shake your head to dispel the thought. Until you are able to speak to Seokjin or Namjoon, you are unwilling to spend another moment believing that Yoongi could be dead. He is foolish enough to overdose on heroin, but suicide? No. Absolutely not. And sure, you have watched him exchange gunfire more than once, but that conflict is supposed to be behind you. Unless Ryujin was playing into Christian's hand all along and only pretending to agree to a truce with Yoongi… but that just feels ridiculous. Can she even run a city like Seoul? It seemed as if she hardly had a grasp on her operations in Busan. 

You walk stiffly down the hallway and into the living room, mind wandering, trying to make sense of everything. Christian settles on one end of the couch, and you take the other, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them, tenting the baby blue skirt. Christian lights the joint, takes a nice deep hit, and then passes it, which you accept in shaky hands. You take a deep hit and instantly regret it, fighting the urge to cough. The weed is smooth, but there is a hint of something else that tastes bitter. You hand the joint back and accept a bottle of grapefruit-flavored soju, which Christian has taken the liberty of opening, and chug the liquid down, despite how sweet it is. Then you lean with your chin digging into your knees. 

"Oh, it's laced, by the way," Christian says, cradling the joint between his fingers, "with ketamine. Just a small dose for relaxation."

"Great," you say sarcastically as he takes another hit and passes it to you. 

You suppose if he smokes it like this, then you should be safe. And if not, you become his problem to deal with. You take a slow drag, trying not to imagine your pulse slowing to a stop from some random ass drug. Your mind is stuck on a morbid loop. Who knows, maybe it is a relaxing way to die.

"So you just have access to a full pharmacy of drugs?" you ask as you examine the joint, which looks no different from any other one you've seen. 

Christian tilts his head to the side, appearing exasperated. "How many times do I have to tell you that I worked under Jeongguk?"

You hand the joint back. After a silent moment, you ask, "Are you lying to me?"

He scrunches his face. "About the ketamine? Or working for the mafia?"

You roll your eyes and sigh. "About Yoongi."

Christian swallows a gulp of his soju, then takes a long hit from the joint. He holds it in for a beat, and then exhales a plume of smoke. "Why would I lie to you," he says as he leans to hand the joint back to you. 

You stare deadpan but accept the offering. "Christian, you lied to me about literally everything for two years," you say before you take a short hit, hold it in, then exhale. Christian reaches for it, but you take another hit, this time a little slower. 

When you hand it back, he takes a hit, then he reaches to give it back, but you shake your head. "I'm good," you say, already feeling the effects settle over you. Christian takes another hit, then he puts the joint out on the inside of one of the soju caps before setting it down on the table. 

"I'll call Seokjin in a few hours," he mutters, then takes a drink. "I'll get some answers."

Tears begin to rise again, but you do not wish to cry. You just know in your gut that Yoongi is not dead. He cannot be dead. 

Your head feels like a balloon that is slowly filling with sand, and you tilt it to the left and rest it against the couch. As you heavy-blink, you think that you could sleep on this couch. It's very comfortable. 

"It's a sick joke," you say. You chuckle. This is not a time for laughter, but what else is there to do? Everything feels way too ridiculous and stupid to be real. 

Christian cracks a smile, but it instantly falls to a frown. "It's not a joke," he says, chugging the rest of his soju and setting the bottle aside. "I wouldn't joke like that."

Your bottle feels burdensome in your hand, but you do not have the energy to lift it to your mouth or set it aside. 

"Is it payback?" you ask.

Christian hums, tilting his head.

"For earlier. For trying to run and then giving you a bloody nose."

Christian scoffs, but his frown deepens. He looks troubled. "No," he says, knitting his brow. He says your name, then, "Why would I do that?"

You shrug. "Because you hate me," you say, closing your eyes. You are fading really fast. 

"I could never hate you," Christian says, but his voice sounds far away. "Hell, I wish I could."

"Well," you mutter, "I hope that we can clear up this misunderstanding quickly. You really pissed me off this time." Even to you, the syllables sound jumbled and slightly incomprehensible. 

Christian says something in response, but you drift too far to hear. You are somewhat aware of the feeling of him taking the soju bottle out of your hand.

Behind your eyes, you see that final image of Yoongi's mom, only it is not her. The figure wears black slacks and a black shirt, with the top two buttons undone. His skin is pale beneath the midnight sky, and his nearly-shoulder-length hair covers his beautiful face, but you know that it is him. Hanging by a rope around his neck, out of a shattered window of a penthouse, just like his mother. It is unmistakably him. 

And then the image fades to black. 

*

please anyone i don't think i can save myself i'm drowning here, please

🎵 visit the playlist

* * *

deep breaths. look me in the eye.

reminder that major tags have not been edited. nothing sneaky has occurred. trust me and trust the process. i love you. i'll be back soon.

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2026 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations of reposts allowed.

[rebelrayne]

Chapter 3: burst mode on AO3

start from the beginning // fic summary

He fidgeted in his chair, shifting uncomfortably as his mouth muttered words she couldn’t quite make out. His arms moved forward and backwards under the table as she shook his head. She wasn’t quite sure if it was him, but either way, the poor guy looked as if he was on the razor thin line of having a panic attack. “Hi?” she said, apprehensively. She couldn’t help but want to comfort him, place a hand on his broad shoulder and ask if everything was okay, but then his terrified eyes met hers. It was him. She’d have known those eyes anywhere. Someone may have said they were the same color as Bruno’s, but they weren’t. No, his eyes were calming, deep and more gorgeous than the Balearic Sea behind him. Photography was what she did for a living, it was her passion, but dear God, she’d never seen a color as beautiful as the one in his eyes. She could have taken a thousand pictures of him with burst mode and not a single one would be bad.

[kastlequill]

collateral (1/1)

thrawn x eli vanto | t | 2.5k

Grand Admiral Thrawn and Lieutenant Commander Vanto never strayed too far from one another at any given moment. Even allies outside of their direct sphere of influence had caught wind of the famed duo, of an unbreakable partnership that yielded exemplary results time and time again. It would not be absurd, then, for their enemies to also become privy to this little piece of information.

or, political enemies use a certain lt cdr. as bait and get more than they bargained for

[theharrowing]

Hey so I hope you don’t mind but I asked ChatGPT to finish Collateral. You update so slow and it’s been years since the story started. This isn’t to scrutinize your time or energy but people are moving on from BTS fics and you’re holding us hostage. I wanted to post it because I know others are in the same boat but the writing is so similar to yours that I wanted to be sure you won’t accuse me of plagiarism or whatever. I hope you’re not angry. I feel satisfied with the ending but I am still hopeful for your ending 💕

you hope i’m not angry??? babe you had a robot scrape my writing, that you acknowledge i have spent years working on. why wouldn’t i be angry??? setting aside how bad ChatGPT is for the environment, you violated my trust by asking a machine to replicate my writing. i absolutely consider this plagiarism, and although fanfic can be a slippery slope when it comes to upholding and respecting copyright, there is a chance a judge would agree.

but beyond that, it’s just a rude, bullshit way to interact with someone’s work that you claim to enjoy enough to want to know the ending of. i genuinely cannot fathom what would drive a person to do something this invasive and dishonest. i write this story for free in what little spare time i have, which is not the same free time i had in 2002/2023 lmao i am a full time student whose workload has tripled over time and i have experienced personal losses great enough to have made creative output really fucking challenging. and, like, sorry anon but my inability to feel excited for anything in life isn’t reason enough for you to do what you have done. if you hate waiting so much, move on!!! i don’t care if you never see how it ends and neither should you lmao it’s not the end of the world.

i’m holding you hostage??? i updated three months ago. sometimes it takes years for parts to come out between books in a series, but you can’t wait a few months for a massive chapter? are our attention spans so short? are our lives so meaningless? at present collateral is longer than the entire lord of the rings trilogy and you’re crying over how long that’s taking me??? grow up.

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 25: Change of scenery

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader

🗡️ word count: 19.7k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️warnings: soft moments of domesticity; smut & kink (masturbation/video call sex; restraints; flogging; semi-voyeurism & exhibitionism; rough handling of genitals; rough & improper bdsm practice; gentle & correct bdsm practice); 6 of the 7 members of BTS topless, wearing leather harnesses (1 of them needed to keep his composure and be in charge); a kiss!!!

🗡️note: hello, my loves. 💜 i really thought, "you know what trope i haven't written yet???" and chose with my whole chest to write a masquerade-type event. 🥴 this chapter contains some tense conversations and a lot of feelings. please be patient with our mc, she is going thru it™.

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🗡️ posted june. 2025 | read on ao3

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Waking up to the scent of Yoongi almost feels like a dream. You keep your eyes squeezed shut against the bright morning sun, worried that if you open them, the illusion will break and you will be lying in your bed in the hanok all alone. After all, the events of the night before feel so hazy that, for all you know, you passed out and imagined returning to a penthouse suite with the men you love. 

A deep groan confirms what your heart knows to be true: the warmth to your right and the scent of musk and something fruity is not a trick of the mind. You stretch your legs, pointing your toes as a yawn forces your mouth wide. Lifting your arms to continue to stretch, you rotate toward the warmth, sound, and sun and squint your eyes open. 

Yoongi, too, is in the thralls of waking up but struggling to accept his fate. He lies on his back with his eyes squeezed tight and a smile tugging at his lips. You spin and advance, draping your arm over his bare chest and burying your face against his neck. At this, he groans again. 

"Morning, my love," he mutters, voice deep and raspy. 

The words my love fill you with warmth, and you squeeze your arm around him tightly, searching for what to say in response but settling with leaving slow, firm kisses against his neck and throat. You feel the engagement ring on your finger and recall Yoongi's proposition. Although, in this moment, there is nothing that you want more in the world than to return home with him, you bite your tongue and keep the invasive thought locked up tight. 

It takes some time to fully wake; the two of you spend a long time holding one another and stretching before settling and drifting, only to wake, stretch, and settle again. When Yoongi finally lets out a deep sigh and begins to sit up, you huff a sigh-groan in response and attempt to hold him down. 

"Darling," he chuckles, "We must wake eventually."

"Eventually," you agree in a sleepy, whiny tone, "but not now."

Yoongi chuckles some more. "Unfortunately, I still have business matters to attend to. We have some real estate deals going through, and although I trust Namjoon and Seokjin whole-heartedly, I am still expected to be the face of the organization."

The organization. That's new. Something about the change from referring to the crew as his family feels…odd. Official, but in a way that makes you question whether there is more happening that you are unaware of. 

"Real estate where?" You ask, attempting to placate your worries. You are genuinely curious, of course. 

"Here and there," Yoongi says with a shrug. He is fully seated and lifting his arms to stretch them high while you continue to rest at an awkward bent angle with your arms around his middle and your face pressed against his stomach. "Some in downtown Seoul, some in the southern end of the peninsula. I have been planning for some time to expand my reach and build more hotels, and with Ryujin behaving more amicably, now is the best time to put these plans into motion."

You hum against his skin, your breath creating warm condensation that quickly turns to cool damp. Yoongi must laugh because his stomach bounces, although you hear no sound. You hold on tight while he begins to attempt to prise your arms off him. The mention of Ryujin does something terrible to your insides, and although you want to know more about his intentions, you keep it to yourself for the time being.

"Darling," he says, putting a fraction of his strength into forcing your arms open, fingertips attempting to unlock your hands behind his back. He is only somewhat successful, but you imagine that it is only a matter of moments before he strong-arms his way. "This is not goodbye, you know. You will come to Paradise soon. And you know that you are welcome to come home any time."

"Breakfast first?" you ask, tilting your face to flash a wide grin. 

Yoongi smiles so wide his eyes crinkle, and he leans low to kiss you. Morning breath, however, causes you to bury your face against him once more. Yoongi laughs. 

"Alright, darling. Shower, breakfast, and then I need to hit the road."

And with one last groan, you give in.

To your surprise, it is already after ten. The sun shines brightly in the spacious but empty suite. All the amenities you could possibly need are present, but it feels more like a hotel than a place Yoongi owns. Come to think of it, the space reminds you of Namjoon. The linens and rugs are all greens and tans, and the bathroom is white tile with brown wood and brass fixtures. The towels are white. 

You stand in a wide shower with your eyes closed, tilting your face to the stream of hot water. Yoongi has scrubbed you down and works on himself, insisting that you relax and let him take care of everything. After you are properly rinsed and towel-dried, you brush your teeth and moisturize while Yoongi does the same. From time to time, you find yourself watching him in the mirror and marveling at how glorious it is to be sharing such a mundane moment. 

"I love you," you say softly, watching as his fingers rub in small circles over his chin. 

Yoongi smiles and glances at you in the mirror before turning his attention to you fully. He is beautiful in only a towel, nude from the waist up with his hair in dark, damp waves and his skin glowing. You wish you had the energy to strip the towels away from your bodies and sink to the floor, but the previous night took a lot out of you. Instead, you watch as he inches close, trailing fingertips over the wooden countertop while his other hand lifts to gently touch below your chin. You cannot hold back a smile as Yoongi leans close and presses his lips against yours. In tandem, you both groan softly, and your lips move in slow motions against one another, gentle and unhurried. 

"I love you," Yoongi says against your lips, then places a soft kiss against the tip of your nose. "Where would you like to go for breakfast?"

Hungover and exhausted, it is hard to conceptualize food in a way that is helpful. The thought of everything is nauseating. 

"I'm…struggling this morning," you admit sheepishly. "I'm not sure I can handle a full plate of food."

Yoongi hums and nods, kisses your lips softly, then your cheek and your temple. Your eyes flutter closed. 

"Pastries, then?" he asks, kissing your forehead. "There is a cute French café nearby."

You nod and allow Yoongi to step away into the bedroom. You follow, and suddenly, you feel nervous about wearing last night's outfit to the café. You love the dress and the boots, but you are not sure whether it would fit the vibe of a late-morning coffee date. Yoongi, however, surprises you by wheeling racks of clothing out of the closet. Your clothing.

Row after row of dresses, shirts, and pants hang, with shelves on the bottom holding your footwear. On another rack hangs purses and handbags, and you notice a large jewelry box on a low wooden dresser that is open, containing all of your jewelry.

"Yoongi," you mutter, taking it all in.

"I know," he responds with a grin. "I am being overwhelming again. There is no need to take everything back to the hanok with you, but I could not stand the idea of you being without your possessions."

"Not overwhelming," you insist softly. 

Your heart feels so full and warm, and you approach the jewelry box first, taking out the ring, bracelets, and earrings that Namjoon bought for your birthday, smiling at the sight of the dainty gold vines encrusted with diamonds. Yoongi approaches and assists with the bracelet and earrings. He appears pleased with your choice and touches you so delicately. Once you are satisfied, you move from the dresser to the clothing. 

"What should we wear?" you ask, facing him with eyes full of tears. 

There is a part of you that is ashamed of how glad you are to see these material things. But they are a symbol of the affection Yoongi and Namjoon have for you, and you do not take their generosity for granted. 

"Well," Yoongi starts, glancing at the clothing, "being that this is not my city, I was thinking of blending in."

"Oh?" you ask, delighted at the thought of Yoongi in a sweater. 

Yoongi enters the nearby closet, just to the right. It is sparse, a clear indication that he spends little time here. There are black suits and slacks, and several sweaters, most of which are black and dark blue. To your surprise, Yoongi approaches a short row of t-shirts and pulls out a white one.

"White?" you blurt, unable to hold back your surprise.

Yoongi scoffs, then removes the shirt from its hanger and begins to put it on. "I told you, I intend on blending in."

"Guess so," you mutter under your breath. 

Your fingertips rub over the soft material of the towel wrapped around you. Attention turned to your clothing, you search for something casual, glad when you find a row of sweatshirts. You choose a burgundy crew neck sweater and black jeans. Then you begin to search for underwear. 

Yoongi appears from the closet wearing the white tee with his towel around his hips, and you grin, not sure why the sight is so amusing but enjoying it all the same. He approaches the dresser and pulls out the top drawer, revealing undergarments for the both of you. Relieved, you find a soft pair of plain black underwear, a matching mesh bra, and short black socks. Yoongi retrieves a pair of black briefs, and you both drop your towels. You try your best to focus on the task at hand but find it impossible not to watch his lean legs and round ass step into his briefs. 

"Staring is rude," Yoongi says, and you raise your eyebrows, watching as his eyes rove your body. 

"Is that so?" you tease, stepping into your underwear. 

Yoongi's eyes linger while you clip your bra into place and adjust the thin cups, then he returns to the closet. You slide on the stiff denim pants, doing a squat to get them into place, then sit on the bed to put on socks. Yoongi returns wearing loose-fit black slacks with cargo pockets, and you struggle to hold in a laugh.

"What?" he asks, feigning offense and looking down at his clothing.

"Here, I thought you were going to wear something other than black."

Yoongi's gaze falls to your black jeans, and you expect him to tease you, but instead, he returns to the closet, and you hear the shuffling of clothing. You did not expect him to take your teasing to heart and change, but you delight in how easily influenced he is. He must be especially eager to please today.

When Yoongi returns, he wears loose-fit blue jeans with the white tee tucked in. He winds a black leather belt through the loops, then looks up, holding his arms out by his sides as if to ask whether you approve.

"Perfect," you say, smiling as you stand. 

Yoongi approaches and reaches for your zipper and button, which you have left undone. You look down, watching as he fixes your pants, and are shocked when he lifts a finger and playfully taps it to the end of your nose. You laugh incredulously, and you lift a hand to smack Yoongi on the shoulder, but he catches it and presses it to his chest.

"What has gotten into you?" you tease, still attempting to shove at Yoongi but barely forcing him to move.

Yoongi yanks you close, causing you to stumble and lift your other hand to his chest. With his free hand, he takes you by the chin and tilts your head upward. "Just miss you," he mutters before pressing his lips to yours.

You melt in his hold, swaying and stumbling slightly, finding it hard to keep your knees from giving out. Yoongi continues to hold your hand to his chest but wraps his other around your ribs, holding you close. Your fingers grip onto the fabric of his shirt and your mouth falls open as his tongue deepens the kiss.

In this moment, it is easy to forget everything that troubles you, and you find yourself once again daydreaming of a life where Yoongi is just an average man, and you are able to share an average life with him and Namjoon. You imagine running a small ramen shop somewhere by the sea with no care in the world. Only, when Yoongi breaks the kiss and smiles at you, the dream dissipates at the sight of the scar. This man will never know a normal life, and the harsh ways in which it has affected you will never fully fade. 

"Ready?" Yoongi asks, unaware of your warring thoughts.

You swallow a lump of unease and nod. The two of you pick out sneakers, and Yoongi grabs a black leather jacket, ignoring the playful look you give him as the two of you walk hand in hand through the suite to the door. You observe the wide space while sliding into the shoes, remembering bits and pieces of the night before with Namjoon on the large tan couch, glancing through the glass wall to the city below. 

The elevator is slow but private, and as you exit through the vast apartment lobby full of folks coming and going, you are relieved when nobody seems to recognize Yoongi. Although he walks with his back straight and head high, there is an ease to him that he does not carry in Seoul. 

The café is only a couple blocks away, and although it is busy, you find a table in the far corner where you are able to see the entire space but remain away from everyone. Yoongi tells stories of past visits to Busan, of trying to get his footing here before Ryujin's betrayal caused him to back out of several real estate pursuits. And although you nod and watch as he speaks, a lot of what he says dissipates, leaving your mind. You are too distracted by how fleeting this moment feels that it slips through your fingers, impossible to hold. Also, you admit you no longer wish to hear about the family organization. 

When there is a pause, you reach across the table and ask, "If you weren't in the position you are now, what do you suppose you would be doing with your life?"

The question seems innocuous enough, and you are glad when Yoongi shrugs and seems to ponder it. After a moment, however, he says, "I could not imagine a life other than the one I have been given."

Although he smiles softly, there is a sternness to him that makes you anxious to press him for more, but you do so anyway. 

"Come on," you squeeze his hand, "anything in the world. What interests you?"

"Well, everything interests me, darling."

What is with his non-answers? You feel antsy suddenly. 

"Alright, but—"

"What would you be doing?" he asks, lifting a brow.

Truth be told, you were not hoping to share your side of the question. This was meant as an exercise to know more about the person he is outside of the family. The organization. You turn over all number of possibilities and glance around at the café, at the people conversing and milling about, at passersby outside the large windows. 

"I don't know," you finally admit, "something in the hospitality field, I suppose. I enjoy working with people and helping them."

Yoongi rolls his eyes, and you take offense even before he says, "Ah, yes, you actually enjoyed being a bartender."

"Of course I did," you mutter, frowning. "I enjoyed getting to know the customers, and it was fun making drinks and singing along to the jukebox. Those jobs are not as lowly as you think."

"I just feel as though there are better ways to help people than serving them drinks and food. You are smart enough to have studied law or medicine."

You snort out an approximation of a laugh, and when he cocks his head in question, you shake yours. "Law or medicine?" You're incredulous. "Both of those fields have a high potential for stress. You've seen how well I handle stress."

"And dealing with drunk men is not stressful?" Yoongi asks, leaning close enough that you could reach out and slap him. Tempting. 

"It's not the same. Mistakes made as a doctor could kill someone, or harm them in unimaginable ways. What if I killed someone?"

"Driving while under the influence kills people. How is allowing them to get drunk any different?"

You tongue the inside of your mouth, counting down from five and doing your best not to snap. "Yoongi," you finally say through grit teeth, "you know that is not the same."

"So, law, it is," Yoongi says with a satisfied smile, and you hate how amused he looks.

You shake your head. "Lawyers also have the potential to do great harm to the public." You raise a hand at the sight of him opening his mouth. "And before you recommend I become a public defender who only serves people I believe in, the answer is still no. I don't see myself fighting for someone else's life. The job is admirable but it's not something I would enjoy. Plus, I never went to high school, so how do you expect me to study law?"

"You can quickly learn at the high school equivalent and ace any necessary qualification examination, and then I will pay for you to study at any college in the world that you desire," Yoongi responds, ignoring the petulant roll of your eyes. "Besides, darling, enjoyment comes from the money that is made. High stress should be remedied with magnificent stress relief."

You mutter, "Of course you would say that," before giving it any thought. 

Thankfully, Yoongi barely looks offended. Unfortunately, he leans even closer to ask, "And just what does that mean, darling?"

After a slow, deep inhale and exhale, you lean your elbows on the table and softly say, "The drugs, the private jets, the designer clothing. The mansion out in the middle of nowhere. All of that is evidence of the extremely stressful, risky life you lead."

Yoongi scoffs and sits back in his chair, saying, "I have no stress to speak of," and you feel your anger rise. 

"Maybe not right this moment. But you have." When he says nothing, you continue. "Disappearing to Hong Kong. And in Paris, with the h—" Heroin. You find you cannot say it. Yoongi raises a brow, and you shake your head, changing the topic with your voice low. "I don't care if you think customer service jobs are beneath you. I like them. I like helping people in mundane ways. I don't care about all the material shit, the substances, or the penthouses in other countries. The cost is too high. Watching Jimin nearly die…that cost is too fucking high."

Yoongi hums but he says nothing more. The silence feels overwhelming, and you lift the half-eaten raspberry danish and take a bite, savoring the tangy-sweet blend of fruit and cheese. You continue to glance around, not ready to look him in the eyes just yet, attempting to gather your thoughts. 

Although you imagine that a person raised to not want for anything may feel a disconnect from the working class, you cannot stand it when he or anyone else looks down on them. A chunk of his livelihood rests on the shoulders of customer service and hospitality workers, and he conveniently overlooks that fact. Hell, you would resume bartending tonight if you thought Ryujin would give you the go-ahead. In fact, you think you will file the thought away to bring up with her later.

Once you are finished eating, the two of you walk back to the penthouse in silence. You do not hold hands, and when Yoongi opens doors for you, he does not place his fingertips on the small of your back. Only once you are back on the top floor and the front door does Yoongi approach, holding his arms open.

"Come here," he says.

You hesitate but quickly give in, shuffling toward Yoongi and resting your head against his chest. He lets out a long exhale and wraps his arms around you, but your arms hang limply by your sides. 

"Sorry if I struck a chord," he says. 

You close your eyes and say nothing. Yoongi's stubborn insistence that his way of thinking is the only correct way pisses you off, but you do not want to risk saying the wrong thing and ruining these final moments together. 

"I need to get on the road very soon. But I cannot stand to see you upset." He takes a step back, sliding his hands to rest on your shoulders, holding you at arm's length. "What can I do?"

You shake your head, eyes falling to the shiny zipper on his leather jacket. Your mind races with the possibilities. Kiss, touch one another, convince him to go to bed just for a quickie, maybe return to the shower to wash away your frustration. But you just shrug and say, "Nothing. It's fine. I don't want to keep you if you need to go."

Lips press against your forehead, and you close your eyes, this time lifting your hands to return his hug. Your hold is loose, but he does not seem to mind. Before you know it, his touch retreats. He walks into the master bedroom, and you stay glued in place, crossing your arms over your chests. Are the two of you on such different wavelengths?

Yoongi returns dressed head to toe in black, buttoning one of his cuffs. "Shall we?" he asks, holding his hand toward the door. 

You realize it is time for the two of you to leave, and you find yourself swaying between the door and the direction of the bedroom, wanting to take some of the clothing back with you. 

"I will have someone deliver your things," Yoongi says as he takes your hand and gently tugs you over the threshold. 

Once more, you make your way down the elevator hand in hand. Yoongi caresses your knuckle with his thumb. Your palm begins to sweat. You wonder whether he anticipated another argument and wanted to remove you from the eyes and ears of the public first, and the thought settles like bile in your stomach.

What am I doing, you ask yourself over and over like a mantra. What am I doing? What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?

Valet brings a black sports car around, which you recognize as Namjoon’s. It even smells like him—like a bright spring morning in full bloom—and as you slide into the front seat, you remember the first time you were in this car and all the ways in which your life became tangled with his that day. Namjoon, soft and gentle and flirtatious. Namjoon using a weapon you chose to break a man’s kneecap. 

The drive to the hanok is quiet. Yoongi hums a tune with the radio off, and you watch as the city shifts and the buildings become smaller. Unlike Yoongi, Ryujin has a property blocks from the action. The city butts up to the ocean, and as the car pulls onto the Ryujin’s property, you catch a whiff of saltwater and something sweet. In another life, this place could feel like home. 

A security gate opens after a brief pause, and you watch as the large hanok doors open and Ryujin, tiny in the massive entry, comes stepping out in a tight little black dress and bare feet. She folds her arms over her chest and leans a hip against the doorframe, watching as Yoongi drives as close as he can and turns off the ignition. 

"I will see you very soon," he says as he turns to you, unclasping his seatbelt. 

Your ring sits heavy on your finger, and you watch light glint off it. It is easier than looking Yoongi in the eye. 

"Alright," is all you can bring yourself to say. 

Only when you catch movement in the periphery do you turn to face him. His smile is sad, scar deep and pink and giving him a hard edge. You look a bit too long before reaching up and delicately tracing your fingertip from its top tip to the eyelid. Surprisingly, Yoongi smiles, mouth breaking wide, and you lower your hand before leaning in for a kiss. Yoongi groans into the press of lips that neither of you deepens. Instead, you rest your forehead against his and frown. 

"Am I making the right choice?" you utter softly. 

Yoongi hums. "Only you can decide."

"Hmm." You sigh, trying and failing not to spiral. But if you constantly question your choice, can it possibly be a good one? "Come and get me if I change my mind?"

You look Yoongi in the eyes. This close, they are dark blobs, but they scrunch slightly as he smiles. "In a heartbeat, darling. You know I will."

"Okay," you say, sighing. 

You remain buckled in, and the belt pulls against your clavicle, but you spend another moment breathing Yoongi's air before sitting back, unclasping the belt, and relaxing. 

"The clothing," you say, struggling to make a choice. Bringing it here would make this move feel too final. You nibble your bottom lip, mulling it over, then ask, "Take it back?"

Yoongi knits his brow and opens his mouth to speak. You know that he is going to protest, so you shake your head and cut him off.

"I don't want more than the suitcase. It feels too final if you move all of those things here, and I don't want that."

As Yoongi's expression softens, so does your trepidation. You smile despite warring emotions, namely a sadness to see Yoongi go, and Yoongi smiles in return. 

"Alright," he says, leaning close for one more kiss. You close your eyes for the measly second that his lips press to yours and open them as he says, "Soon, darling. I will see you soon. I promise."

With a nod, you say, "Okay," and begin to reach for the door handle. From the corner of your eye, you see that Ryujin is still in the doorway. A chill works down your spine, and you scoff, turning slightly to Yoongi. "Has she been watching this entire time?"

Yoongi looks ahead. "It would not surprise me."

"Creepy," you groan.

Yoongi chuckles. "She has always been a bit of an odd one."

Despite allowing yourself to lower your guard around Ryujin, talking about her with Yoongi still sets you on edge. She may have been a means to an end, but she played a crucial role in Yoongi's past. An intimate, crucial role. The thought of it makes you uneasy. 

"I have some deals to finalize but I will be in touch," Yoongi says, leaning in to leave a kiss on your cheek. "Once my schedule is less hectic, I will have you come visit us at Paradise." He presses a kiss against your temple, and you turn to steal one more from his lips. 

"Alright. See you soon, Yoongi." You cannot look at his face so you look at his hand on the gear shift instead. 

“You know I love you, darling.”

You crack a smile and nod. “Of course. I love you too.”

As you exit the vehicle, you give one more glance Yoongi’s way. You struggle to hold eye contact. Your body feels heavy as you stand and get your bearings. Then a body is advancing quickly and you turn to find Hwasa running on bare feet to pull you into a hug and ask with a frown whether you need anything. In the distance, you see Ryujin retreat into her home.

You shake your head and fight the urge to laugh. Although Hwasa holds your face delicately in her hands, you manage to twist enough to find that Yoongi is still parked with one hand on the wheel and bent low, watching you with a smile. You roll your eyes and lift a hand to wave in his direction, then allow yourself to be fawned over as Hwasa grabs your hand and leads you into the hanok, tugging you straight into the kitchen for sliced fruit and filtered tap water. It is easy to forget the gaping hole in your heart when Hwasa leans close and gossips conspiratorially about how Ryujin-noona came home with her ex last night and has been holed up in her room all day, until the moment you returned home. 

"Ex?" you mutter around a mouthful of cantaloupe, doing your best to chew but laughing at the wide, eager expression in your friend's eyes. "Who—" you manage to ask, but Hwasa holds a finger to your lips and shakes her head. 

"Later," she whispers, leaning even closer. "We do not speak her name."

Her. Interesting. You file the information away for later and swallow the mouthful of fruit. 

* * *

You: I miss you.

Kitten: I miss you more, darling. How has Busan treated you these last two nights?

You: Salty. Cold.

Kitten: Cold. :]  Yes, it does get chilly on the ocean at night.  How are the girls treating you?

You: Fine.  But I miss my men. :( 

Kitten: Soon. I promise. 

You: How soon is soon?

Kitten: That is, unfortunately, hard to say. 

You: :( 

Kitten: Give us a call? Namjoon is pouting.

You: How could I say no? ;)

* * *

For the third time in a week, you grip onto your phone with one hand while your other hand rubs circles over your clit. You pant and gasp, coming down from your high and slowing your hand until it stills. Then you open your eyes and giggle, feeling self-conscious to have an audience. 

"Incredible," Namjoon praises, fist holding his cock while Yoongi slowly uses a finger to scoop at a streak of cum on Namjoon's tan, sweat-slick tummy before lifting it to his lips. 

Exhaustion covers you like a blanket, and you shiver from your sweat turning cold. Although you wear a black slip dress, the front is pulled down to reveal your breasts, and the skirt is hiked up over your tummy. You fight the urge to drop your arm, still eager to let your men see you a little longer before calling it a night. But you kick at the black comforter until it comes free from underneath you and use your feet and free hand to pull it over your legs. 

"Soon?" you ask. 

"Soon," Yoongi says, the same way he says it each time. 

You yawn, then smile, watching as Namjoon follows suit, then Yoongi. 

"Alright," you sigh. "Sleepy."

"Sweet dreams, darling," Yoongi says as Namjoon grumbles, "I miss you sweetheart."

"I miss you more," you say, doing your best to smile despite the sadness that fills you to the brim. "Night night."

Yoongi blows a kiss as Namjoon says, "Sleep sweet," and you wave while ending the call. Tears break, and you take in a deep, shattered breath, pulling the blanket high and crying yourself nearly to sleep. 

A light taptaptap pulls you from the deep, dark embrace of slumber, and you grumble, doing your best to spin while calling, "Come in," unsure whether your guest has a way in but certain she must because those taps undoubtedly belong to Hwasa.

You hear the door to the hallway crack open, followed by the sounds of shouting, laughter, and music. 

"Dove," Hwasa calls softly. "Did I wake you?"

You merely groan in response, only half aware of the fact that you never adjusted your dress and that your breasts are still hanging out from the top. It is a struggle to get the fabric back in place, but you do so with heavy limbs, just in time for a body to plop down onto the mattress. 

"I suppose you want to stay asleep?" Hwasa asks, and you can hear the pout in her voice. She clearly does not want you to stay asleep, and if past behavior dictates present behavior, you can surmise that she is moments away from grabbing you by the arm and yanking you in the direction of the noises. This has become a nightly ritual.

"I suppose not," you concede before it becomes a game of tug-of-war. After all, what does it hurt to socialize with the other women?

You sit up and yawn, stretching your arms and back. Then you begin to slowly kick the comforter away, careful not to reveal your lack of panties. 

"Need to change," you grumble, yawning once more and turning to find your pretty friend watching you with bloodshot eyes and a droopy smile. She leans with one hand on the bed and trails you with her gaze, making heat rush to your cheeks. 

You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which you have only recently organized your bras, panties, socks, and sleepwear into, leaving the rest of the drawers empty. Then you pull out a pair of panties, which you slide into as quickly as you can, ignoring the wolf whistle coming from your bed while you grab a pair of black joggers and black tee that you wish still carried the musky scent of their owner. You feel silly sliding the straps of the dress down and then putting the shirt over top, doing your best not to expose yourself, though you are not sure Hwasa would mind. Then you wiggle into the pants and out of the dress in a haphazard but successful dance. 

Can she detect the scent of your pleasure hanging in the air? Without a suite of your own, you have not had a chance to wash your hands, and you are unsure whether it still lingers.

On bare feet, you pad around to where the door is open a crack, and Hwasa stands, holding out a hand for you. It feels second nature to slide your palm against hers, holding tightly enough for her to yank you around. Although the lighting in the hallway is dim, you squint as you leave the dark cave of your bedroom. 

Women are sat at the dining room table, crowding the kitchen island, and dancing in open spaces in between. In the living room, there is a pile of limbs with Ryujin in the center, half-seated and gripping a green soju bottle in her small fist. She sings the lyrics to some pop song into the open end of the bottle as if it were a microphone, and in this moment, it is easy to forget everything else you know about her. 

"Thirsty?" Hwasa asks as she plucks an unopened bottle of grapefruit soju off the counter on the way into the living room. 

Rather than respond—or argue that soju is unlikely to quench your thirst—you allow yourself to be dragged toward the pile of women, accepting the responsibility of twisting the soju cap while Hwasa holds the bottle in place so that you do not have to bother with unlinking hands. You cradle the cap in your palm as you take the bottle and drink, and when you hand it back, Hwasa lowers the two of you onto a pile of cushions. 

"There she is!" Ryujin shouts as she twists her body, causing women to adjust their limbs where they drape over hers. 

You sit with Hwasa, Moonbyul, Solar, and Ryujin to your right and a couch full of miscellaneous women to the left. "Hey, noona," you say with a sleepy smile, accepting the soju once more from Hwasa and having a large, sweet gulp. 

Conversation ebbs and flows about nothing at all. There is no news to share in a place where nothing changes; no drama, no gossip, nothing worth complaining about beyond the stagnation of existing in a glamorous place with seemingly never-ending chopped fruit and bottles of booze. It is not as if you will confess to what is really on your mind. 

* * *

The very next night, you decide that perhaps you will voice a little of what is on your mind. After all, this life of limbs and warm bodies and hangovers is starting to wear you thin, despite how nice it is to lie so close to Hwasa, who plays with your fingertips between hers and rubs her toes against the arches of your feet. 

"Noona," you say, lying back and staring up at the makeshift clouds on the ceiling that are currently glowing in shades of pink and green. 

Ryujin hums. 

"You wouldn't happen to need a bartender or cocktail waitress, would you?" you ask somewhat quickly, nervous to even make such a suggestion and certain that if you do not vomit all the words out in one glob, they may not come out at all. You clear your throat and, much softer, add, "At Serendipity, I mean."

Ryujin hums again, this time long and slow, pitch going up and down as if she has a lot to ponder. "I think so," she finally says, and you let out a soft sigh of relief. Her tone is laced with a hint of venom as she asks, “Why? Is our sweet dove getting bored?”

The idea that anyone could be anything but bored in an environment like this is preposterous. Still, you lick your lips, smile at the cotton clouds, and say, “Just want to make myself useful, is all.”

You think you hear Ryujin chuckle, but then she continues to coo at someone in her immediate pile. 

“Gonna leave me?” Hwasa pouts against your neck, and you roll instinctively toward her. 

Your immediate desire is to comfort her—to consider giving in. Her voice is so sweet, and her skin is so soft and warm. But you pout instead, turning your cheek just enough to see her wide grin. She digs her sharp, manicured nails into your ribs, and you practically squeal as you retaliate against her ribs with the hand that is not pinned under her weight. 

* * *

Namjoon sighs, and you lean your face against the warm glass of your phone. It is rare that the two of you get a chance to speak alone, and you close your eyes to the dark room in the hopes of catching every minuscule sound he makes. 

"Yoongi is not going to like the idea of you working there." 

You pout to the empty dark, words coming out barely above a whisper. "I know…but I'm bored."

"I get it, sweetheart. We just—" another sigh. You sink deeper into your pillow. "We wish you had more options. Yoongi is still determined that you could return to school."

You grumble, "Not this, again."

"You can take classes to prepare for a qualification examination," Namjoon insists, sounding just like Yoongi. "We can buy you into any college you would like after you have the basics down."

You huff and roll onto your back, feeling the urge to throw your phone. You cannot fathom returning to school after nearly an entire lifetime of being out of a classroom. And with twenty-year-old's who are much more book-smart and determined than you are? It sounds like hell. "I'm tired of this conversation, Joon."

You feel like a child being scolded by her father, and you roll back onto your side with your phone resting against your ear. Opening your eyes, the room is dark save for slivers of gold that shine in through the window on the door that leads out to the courtyard. 

"Alright, alright," Namjoon concedes. It is sweet of him to worry after you, but you are sick of it. "You sound tired."

"I'm not," you pout, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you yawn.

Namjoon chuckles. "Talk soon? I should go downstairs and check in on their meeting."

"At this hour?" you ask, moving your phone away from your ear to see that it is nearly 2:30 in the morning. 

"Busy bees," Namjoon says, giving you nothing. 

"Alright," you rest the phone against your ear and close your eyes. "I love you, Joonbug."

You can hear the smile in his voice as he says, "I love you more, sweetheart." 

Your heart fills with warmth, but it is fleeting. As soon as you hear Namjoon end the call, you feel the urge to cry. Somehow, even with the communication, Namjoon and Yoongi feel further away than usual.

* * *

You stand in the mirror and take in your uneasy reflection. Ryujin places a hand on the small of your back and a hand on your chest, and she presses, straightening your posture. 

“Long spine,” she says, drawing an invisible line from your shoulders up above your head. "Head up, chest forward, shoulders back."

It is not that you have poor posture. You are just uncomfortable. You exhale and straighten out, rolling your shoulders back. This appeases Ryujin enough to give a curt nod. You swallow thickly and hold back from asking how this could possibly get worse for fear of jinxing yourself. 

Without having to ask, you can surmise that Ryujin plans to employ you in the VIP bar of Serendipity. You wear a burgundy vest that has been taped to your skin, burgundy slacks, and a black tie that only barely covers your cleavage. Your hair is pulled tight from your face, and Yeji does your makeup in neutral tones. 

You were surprised to see Yeji enter your small room, and as she applies gloss to your slack lips, you ponder over the communication network Yoongi and Ryujin must share. Certainly, there was a blip in time when they were heavily feuding, but just how many people bounce between the houses? If Yeji is able to go back and forth, then why was Hyunjin a secret? Or is Yeji a new addition to this crew, sent by Yoongi to take care of you in Jimin's place?

“Perfect!” Yeji announces as she steps back and inspects her work. 

You smile, but it feels forced. Despite how badly you want to get out of the house and make something of your time and energy, you feel less confident about this whole thing. 

It’s just nerves, you tell yourself. Beginning a new job is always scary, and compounded with it being a job at a mafia-run nightclub that doubles as a brothel, the stakes feel all the higher. However, the same cannot be said for how much time you spent in Paradise. After all, Paradise felt like a second home while you were there. 

Does that make the hanok your third home? And Serendipity your fourth? Are they homes at all, or simply stops on a detour?

Arms wrap around you, followed by your favorite floral perfume, and you are torn from your thoughts and greeted by Hwasa’s beautiful smile. Her makeup is done, and she wears a sheer black corset top tucked into black slacks, making you wonder whether she will be working as well. 

You must wear your question on your face because she pretends to tuck hair behind your ear as she steps close and smooths her hands down the straps of your vest and down your bare arms, saying, “Remember when you would come distract me at work?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you nod. Were you really so distracting? You think of her and Jeongguk always turning up to flirt with you and smile. 

“It seems the tables have turned,” she continues, taking your hands in hers. Your palms tingle with sweat, and you resist the urge to pull away. 

“Will you be there tonight?” you ask, hopeful. 

Hwasa squeezes your hands and nods, humming softly. “I wouldn’t throw our dove to the lions.”

You once thought of yourself as a wolf, but could that be true? Are you any match for lions? Surely you have proven to yourself and to everyone else that you are, in fact, a prey animal and not a predator. 

Ryujin is in high spirits as she ushers you to the red SUV  with a pep in her step. You, on the other hand, feel like your shoes are filled with lead. Why do you suddenly feel so much dread?

Hwasa holds your hands in her lap the whole way to Serendipity. When the vehicle pulls up, the three of you get out, and Ryujin tosses her keys to the valet man, who, upon catching them, bows low at the hips. You are led along a familiar path, through curtains and upstairs, until you reach the VIP section. 

A tall man with a round face and wolfish smile eyes you up and down and then leans forward, asking, "You know how to take orders?"

Hating his tone but eager to make a good first impression, you nod and mutter, "Yes."

"She has bartending experience, and knows how to deliver drinks and schmooze with filthy old men," Ryujin cuts in, waving him off. "Give her time to settle in. She's always a little shy at first."

Hwasa squeezes your hand and lets it go, instantly filling you with regret. You bow your head, unsure to whom, then rub your hands down your pants and straighten your shoulders. Then the women disperse and the man, who introduces himself as Daesung, puts you to work.

After being given a brief tour of the space, including a small storage room filled with dishes, towels, and cleaning supplies, you stand at the end of the bar and wipe down a stack of black rectangular trays, spraying each one with disinfectant. Although you suspect these have already been cleaned prior to your arrival, Daesung does not stop you. He rambles about the type of clientele and fills you in on your duties—which are next to nothing outside of serving drinks—and you are grateful for a chance to just listen and get used to the atmosphere. 

Although Serendipity is open, it is still rather early, and the booths are empty. The music that plays is the usual downtempo sexy fare that you are accustomed to. It takes you a moment to realize Daesung has stopped talking, and you glance up to find him watching you. 

"Have I lost you?" he asks.

You shake your head no, then repeat his words, "It is important to memorize orders because these men are not impressed with a woman who has to write things down."

Daesung cracks a smile and nods. "Yes. Most men order the same thing each time they visit, and if they are powerful enough, they will expect that their guests will graciously accept anything they are given to drink. So, for example, business men will need to have their orders taken. However, if you see the leader of the Seoul mafia come strolling in—"

You hold in a gasp and do your best to school your features, but Daesung must clock your expression, and he pauses, tilting his head. 

Determined to seem nonplused, you urge him on. "If I see the leader of the Seoul mafia come strolling in…"

Daesung seems to be trying to read you, but he gives up and turns on his toes, reaching for a bottle on the highest shelf. The label is in Japanese, and the contents of the bottle are close to full. "Everyone in his party gets a glass of our finest whiskey, served neat. You will not take his order, so you will need to memorize his face. He likes being serviced without having to ask. And this bottle is reserved only for him. If anyone else asks for our finest, they receive our second best."

"Does the leader of the Seoul mafia come in often?" you ask, keeping your expression even.

Daesung cracks a smile. "Not as often as he used to."

With a nod, you return to your task of wiping down trays. You wonder how long this tradition has been in place and whether that whiskey has any real significance. Surely, Ryujin must know. The thought makes you sick.

By the time there are men seated in one of the booths, you are antsy. It no longer feels like second nature to plaster on a smile and greet the guests, and when they mutter their drink order, you feel silly for having to ask them to repeat it. These men are clearly already drunk, and they sink into the booth with their arms outstretched, biting their lips as they eye up the fresh meat before them. 

When you return with a tray of three glasses, a pile of cocaine has been dumped on the table, and the men are taking turns sniffing its contents through a metal straw. One man attempts to reach for your hand, and you giggle demurely as you avoid him to stand up straight. The moment you are out of their line of sight, your smile pulls to a frown.

It should come as no surprise that the men who come to Serendipity's VIP section are all sleazy. It is customary to have no name tag and not tell the men your name, so they call you Flower and a variation of flower types, leading the men to make all sorts of flower-based innuendos that messily allude to sex. 

The men all tip well, which is unexpected, as tipping is not customary. At first, you insist that they keep their stack of won, but then you begin to collect it, splitting the earnings with Daesung. By the time there is a lull in your work, you lean with your back against the bar and watch from afar as the shadowy figures on the dancefloor grind and sway under flashing lights beyond the VIP railing.

"So what's your deal?" Daesung asks, wiping water spots out of clean glasses with a dry rag. "Why is the owner of the bar bringing you by and announcing that you're the new girl without warning?"

You shrug. It is really none of his business why you are here, and you haven't given this line of questioning any thought.

"Needed a change of scenery," is all you can think to reply. This wins you a chuckle-grunt.

"Alright," he says, leaning close, "keep your secrets then."

You crack a soft smile as he walks off.

* * *

The trouble with sleep paralysis is that you are always just conscious enough to feel the full brunt of the fear that gets closer and closer, covering you like a dark spirit in the night, suffocating you as the air gets trapped in your lungs.

When you finally wake with a gasp, you sit up, wrapping your arms around your ribs and hugging yourself tight. The late morning sun shines through gauzy blinds, and it is enough to make you squint your eyes closed. For just a moment, you are hazy enough to think that the strong, warm arms of Yoongi or Namjoon are going to wrap around you and gently tug you back into the safety and warmth of the bed. 

"Dove?" Hwasa asks so soft and so sweet, and a wave of sadness crests and crashes so fast that it causes you to hiccup. Yoongi and Namjoon are miles away.

Small, warm hands gently grab your face, and you feel the press of a forehead against yours. Hwasa wipes at tears you hadn't realized you were crying, and when you open your eyes, hers are wide and worried, centimeters away.

She holds you as you catch your breath and allow your surroundings and circumstances to fully settle around you. In this moment, you could easily lean forward and press your lips to hers. In another life, you would do so without giving it any thought. 

"Come back to sleep," she says, and you nod. 

You allow yourself to be tugged back down to the pillow, and you close your eyes as she wraps her arms around you and pulls you close, forehead to forehead. 

* * *

It is around 3:30 in the morning when a man reaches for your wrist and attempts to pull you close. Luckily, he is drunk, and his clammy hand slides away the moment you react and jerk your arm back, but you worry about possibly angering him as he sits up straight, wobbling slightly and assessing you.

"Come on," he mutters, spittle flying from between his pouty lips. "Don't be a fucking prude. I pay well. I can show you a good time in one of those expensive little suites downstairs."

Feeling all politeness drain away, you simply bow your head and leave the table. Although you have been encouraged to cut men off when they seem too drunk, you hope that this man dies of alcohol poisoning. 

Daesung must clock your mood as you approach, and he drops his rag and walks to your corner of the bar, asking, "Need me to throw anyone out?"

It is only your second night on the clock, and you are already tired of coming to this place. You shake your head, knowing that the actions of that man are likely normal around here. 

"Just questioning my life choices," you say, watching as the other cocktail waitress greets some men with a bow and shows them to a booth. Although it is not customary to have two cocktail waitresses on a shift, you were relieved when she did not lose her hours for the sake of you showing up. She even seemed somewhat relieved to have backup when the two of you were introduced. 

"I'm surprised someone as timid as you wanted to work here at all," Daesung says, and it makes you scoff.

"Not timid," you say, although you do feel as if all confidence has been sapped from you since stepping foot in this building. You search for a better descriptor, but none comes. To your surprise, Daesung seems to be waiting for you to continue.

Daesung has a welcoming round face when he smiles, with full lips and narrow almond-shaped eyes. Although he does not hide his feelings well, showing every modicum of disdain and sarcasm brightly, he also seems warm and kind.

"Just not the environment I am used to serving in," you say as three more men enter the VIP space. You notice Daesung stand a little more alert but ignore it to add, "I'm used to the dive bar crowd."

"Sir," the other waitress says, bowing deeply at the hips. She keeps her head down while pointing her arm toward the booths. "Please, follow me."

However, one of the men seems to have spotted you, and he cocks his head to the side while openly gawking. "I'll have her serve me," he says, eyes still on you, and when the other waitress looks up, she seems surprised. 

"As you wish," she says, bowing once more and scurrying in your direction. "Chaebol. They sit in the last booth," she mutters as she reaches you.

Something about the way the man watches you has all of your alarms ringing, and you swallow thickly before walking forward and holding out your right arm. "Right this way, gentlemen," you say as you begin to walk. The other waitress made a show of bowing to these men, but you see no reason why you should care so much.

There is commotion behind you, muttering and scoffing that is barely heard over the club music, and you do your best to ignore it. At the final booth, you step as close to the wall as you can, giving the three men their space to sit. Two of the men do so, but the third continues to stand, and you reluctantly meet his eye. He is middle-aged with deep pores and frown lines. There is a familiarity in the way he looks at you, but you are certain you have never seen this man before. 

"Name?" he asks.

You bow your head and motion to the table, saying, "Please have a seat, sir. I will have your drinks in just a moment."

"How do you know what we drink?" the man asks. 

You take in a slow breath, doing your best to keep your composure, and say, "My associates know and they have undoubtedly already prepared what you desire."

The man steps close, blocking you in against the wall, and you feel the urge to leap over the railing to the dancefloor but know that you are likely not agile enough to stick that kind of landing. There is booze on the man's breath as he asks, "And what if I'm in the mood to try something new tonight?"

"Are you, sir?" you ask, eyes locked on his. 

The man smirks, licks his bottom lip, and takes a step back. Passing his palms down the front of his jacket, he says, "I know I've seen you before."

"I'm new here, sir," you say, doing your best not to panic. 

Between your years spent in brothels and your fairly public relationship with the kingpin of Seoul, you wonder whether it is possible that this man has seen you before. Knowing nothing about the business deals Yoongi makes and who he makes them with, a man with enough wealth and status to be here could pose a great risk, and you feel foolish for not realizing that sooner. 

Without another word, the man has a seat. He turns to begin talking with the other two men, and you quickly make your way past the other booths, not bothering to glance in and see if any of them need anything. By the time you make it back to the bar, you are shaken and doing your best to keep your breathing in check. 

Daesung cocks his head and mutters your name, and you shake your head, saying, "I'm fine. What do they drink?"

On a tray on the bar are three glasses of clear liquid and an open bottle of sake. You are relieved that they will be serving themselves for the time being and take the drinks down to the booth. None of the men so much as glance at you while you set down the three glasses and bottle, and as you check on the other booths, everyone is fine. You keep your guard up, however, not letting it down until you are all alone, standing under the hot stream of Hwasa's shower. 

* * *

It is strange the way some nights you feel bulletproof and others you feel meek and cowardly. Your first week at Serendipity is no walk in the park, but you surprise yourself with how thick your skin becomes when your hackles are raised. You forget about everything that exists outside of Serendipity because it is easier to compartmentalize. Hwasa is always somewhere in the building, and you hold onto the notion that she is nearby in order to push through the early morning hours and make an exorbitant amount of cash for very little actual work. 

Daesung has taken to sneaking you shots of soju and Japanese whiskey to loosen you up, and you find that it makes tolerating these men so much easier, especially as the clientele become progressively drunk and bold. Although there are rarely women in these booths, the ones you do spot seem like hookups that will eventually end up down in the basement or mistresses who are being shown a good time. It is rare that a booth will be clean of drug remnants after a party leaves, and twice, you have found used needles wedged in the seats. 

If you allow yourself to think too long and hard about how these people are operating and all the people they may be putting at risk with their behavior, you begin to hone in on your place in it all and the danger you pose to society. So you simply do not. Numbness is the game. 

Ryujin mentioned tonight, as she was dropping you off, that Yoongi has requested you and the girls make a trip to Seoul tomorrow, so that is all you have been able to think about. There is an event at Paradise that Jeongguk and Jimin have been preparing, and they want you there for their opening night. All you have been told is that it is masquerade-themed.

You allow yourself to imagine what kind of mask you might wear, as well as an outfit. Have one of your men chosen the perfect gown, or will Ryujin and her women be in charge of dolling you up? The possibilities are overwhelmingly endless, and you circle the lip of an empty shot glass with your fingertip as you imagine. 

The sounds of shoes walking into the VIP space pull you from your thoughts, and you stand up tall and turn, keeping your face as unreadable as possible. You recognize the man as the same one who was here with two others several nights before, and you steel yourself for his booze breath. 

"Sir, welcome back," you call with a bow of your head, not willing to kiss his ass and bow at the hips the way your coworker has.  

Behind you, Daesung sets a glass on the bar, and you twist to take it in your hands, then follow the man to the booth all the way in the back, giving him enough time and space to sit before you approach. 

As you set the glass down, you begin to ask, "Just you tonight?" But he cuts you off. 

"Kaori, do you really not recognize me?"

It is as if ice water has been dumped over your head, and you instinctively take a step back, asking, "Sorry?"

"Don't play coy," he says as he takes his drink in one hand, leaning with his elbow against the table. "I've always wondered where you ran off to. Rumor has it, you were the one who killed Seungri-hyung."

Swallowing thickly, you compose yourself and force out a laugh. It does not sound wholly believable to your own ears, but you laugh again for good measure and shake your head. The man's smile begins to straighten and twist as you say, "I'm sorry, sir, but you must be mistaking me for someone else."

He shakes his head, angry, and you take another step back. The dance music thrums through the bottoms of your feet, and in the dark stretch of balcony that overlooks the rest of the club, you feel disoriented. 

He appears red in the face, but perhaps it is just the club lights. Spit flies as he says, "I know it's you!" 

You are certain that if you stay a moment longer, you will lose control and probably vomit all over this man's table, so instead, you bow your head and excuse yourself, thankful that he does not follow you. Daesung looks concerned as you come around the corner and run behind the bar, searching for your phone. You squat low as you call Hwasa, thankful that she picks up and does not sound occupied. 

Hwasa agrees to check on the man during the twenty minutes it takes for the other server to arrive and clock in. You down a shot of whiskey, bid the others farewell, and rush out the door without a glance back. So long to another job.

* * *

Your hands tremble as you put on the final touches of your outfit for Paradise. Despite arriving to Seoul in the early afternoon, after barely catching any sleep, the women have been adamant about not allowing you to see your men until tonight. Ryujin, in particular, seems to be frothing at the mouth over the idea of dolling you up for Yoongi, which is odd, but you feed off of her energy and follow her lead. 

As you face the full-length mirror with your arms at your sides, Hwasa paints streaks in your hair—which has been pulled back and pinned up by Yeji—with silver and gold glitter mascara. Ryujin blends concealer around the edges of your lips, which are glossy and red, giving them a doll look, then she sets the makeup aside, takes you firmly by the chin, and forces you to look her in the eye. The movement startles you, but you stay calm, trying to find a hint of malice or anger in her eyes. 

After a tense moment, she smiles and then sighs dreamily before pressing her lips against your cheek and letting you go. Hwasa remains on the other side of you, delicately painting your hair, and you fight the urge to lick your glossy lips and swallow thickly, doing your best to smile in return. 

"I'm so proud of you, my pretty darling," Ryujin says as her lips fall into a frown. 

Her eyes are glassy and red, and you realize that she must be high. 

"I know that I have no business feeling so attached to you after all that has transpired," she continues, taking your hand in hers and lacing your fingers together. "Things have not always been easy, and I have made some choices that I regret. But I do not regret knowing that you and Yoongi-oppa have each other."

All you can do is nod, and you try your best not to show just how uncomfortable this conversation is making you. Thankfully, one of Ryujin's women enters the room holding onto masks.

"Ah, the pièce de résistance," Ryujin says as she takes one of the masks and holds it up to your face. It is black and appears to be made of leather, painted delicately, with bone antlers sticking out. A fawn. Although the mask itself has cute little ears and a round little snout, it is masterfully crafted and not at all childish. 

Your lips tug into a hint of a smile, and you try not to laugh. You wonder whether the others will be animals, as well. Surely, they will all be apex predators. 

The mask is set aside as you take one last look in the mirror. A black lace corset with leather cups and boning lifts and squeezes you in a way that has your posture permanently tall. You wear pasties over your nipples in the shape of thick black x's so your nipples do not rub against the leather, a short black satin skirt with lace trim that falls mid-thigh, and a pair of Ryujin's black strappy heels. And, to bring the outfit together, and because you are feeling sentimental, you wear the engagement ring, as well as the ring, earrings, and bracelets from Namjoon.

The rest of the women wear black slacks and matching corsets, except for Hwasa, whose black leather skirt is short and slit up both sides. All of the women seem to have various bird masks, making you the only mammal in the group. 

Hwasa takes your hand and leads you through the penthouse hotel suite to the elevator. You breathe deeply, holding tightly onto the fawn mask, eager to see your men. You miss Namjoon the most fiercely these days, but truthfully, you cannot wait to see all seven of them. Yoongi and Namjoon have both been busy and have not been as available for calls as you would like. 

Yoongi has been saying, "Something big is in the works," for days, but he will not say more than that, and it makes you nervous. You know that perhaps he cannot divulge all of his plans over the phone, but you wish he would give you a little bit more. You feel antsy. Yoongi promised you would see him soon, and you did not expect "soon" to be two long weeks. 

As you slide into a black rental car, you breathe deeply. Hwasa squeezes your hand while her mask rests on the seat beside her. 

"Nervous?" she asks, and you emphatically nod yes, worried that if you open your mouth to speak, you will cry.

It feels a bit foolish to be this anxious after only two weeks, but there have been so many other weeks and weeks; so much distance that feels impossible to close. What if, while you are off flouncing around with Hwasa, Yoongi and Namjoon lose interest in you? 

As the car pulls up to Paradise, Hwasa turns and takes your mask, then gently places it over your face. You lift a hand to hold it in place as she sits tall and close and ties the ribbons around your head. 

"Our beautiful doe," Hwasa says, and you do not correct her. Doe sounds better than fawn. 

You help Hwasa with her bird mask, which has a delicate beak and cute leather feathers on the sides. She smiles wide as you assess the mask and center it on her face, then she pulls a small gold vial from between her breasts and begins to unscrew it. Without a word, she snorts two bitter piles of white, and you do the same, screwing the top shut and handing it back. Once it is securely in her cleavage, she opens her door, takes your hand, and pulls you out onto the sidewalk. 

The music blaring from inside is bass-heavy and sexy. Mixed with the scent of leather that sits permanently at your nose, you feel a strange sensation.  You take one deep breath and walk forward with your head held high, feeling a little hidden behind the mask, which helps to boost your confidence. The sounds of heels clicking in tandem rings out as you and Hwasa pass the security guard, who bows deeply, and head straight to the bar off to the right. Women spin on the poles, and men dance in cages, but all you can focus on is finding your men, which may prove to be a harder task than usual, given that everyone's faces are covered. 

At the bar, Hwasa orders the two of you whiskey sours, which you accept without complaint. As the bartender mixes them, Hwasa turns to you, drapes her arms over your shoulders, and begins to sway her hips. Your hips make shallow movements; you always feel shy about dancing with her. Still, she giggles and delicately scratches at the back of your neck with her sharp fingernails, sending a shiver along your spine. 

Only when the bartender sets two drinks down does Hwasa move one of her arms, but she slides the other down your back, hooking it around your waist and pulling you close. You hear Ryujin arrive because she shouts something incoherent, causing you to turn in time to watch her pull out a band of won and rain notes down on the dancers. At least the men will know to look for you, knowing she has arrived. 

Judging by all the skin the patrons and employees are showing under leather straps and small swaths of lace, you surmise this must be a fetish night. There are sounds of leather hitting flesh and cries of pleasure, but from where you stand, you are unsure whether there is a live demonstration or if the sounds are part of the music. Hwasa must hear it too, because she takes your hand and tugs you toward the stairs that lead up to the VIP lounge. Although there is a security guard, he simply stands with his hands at his sides as you make your way up, tugged along and doing your best not to trip in your borrowed heels. 

As soon as you reach the top, you find a wooden x in the center of the space. A woman is strapped to it, with her hands above her head and her legs spread, and she wears only a black thong. A man in a bear mask whips her with a leather flogger, and each time it brushes against her skin, she jolts and cries. 

"I want to do that," you mutter somewhat mindlessly, making Hwasa squeeze your hand and squeal with delight. 

You wonder whether the man in the bear mask could be one of your men. Taehyung, perhaps. But as you watch him whip the woman, you realize his body is not quite right. Taehyung is stronger and somehow softer. Heavy blinking, you realize the drug has you fixating on silly things, and you take your gaze off him to glance around the room. There are plenty of patrons in this space, but nobody looks familiar enough. Still, you study the lips and muscular structure of all the men. Shockingly, most of the people up here are fully dressed or wearing less revealing gowns and slacks. 

Determined to run into someone important, you turn and make your way back down the stairs, leaving Hwasa, who makes a feeble attempt at trying to get you to stay with her. You stop halfway down the stairs and scan the room as well as you can, but all you see are bodies and masks, all dressed in black. 

That is, until you spot a tall, lean man with broad shoulders wearing a large wolf mask. You decide this man must be Seokjin by the way he points his fingers and gives orders, and by the way he is still dressed from head to toe, leaving absolutely everything to the imagination. Scantally clad employees carry trays of drinks, finger foods, and what you can only imagine to be jewelry boxes full of drugs. His authority makes you question whether he could be Jeongguk, as he is supposedly the one in charge of this event, but his side profile, even with the mask, is absolutely not Jeongguk. 

As you approach, he must notice you because he turns his body and opens his arms wide. "Our fawn," he says, smiling his pouty lips wide. "You made it."

What a relief that the mask you have been given seems to be unique and therefore recognizable. You step into Seokjin's arms and wrap yours around his waist, careful not to spill your drink. His cologne is warm and familiar, and you momentarily close your eyes. 

When he pulls from the hug, you take a step back and glance around, asking, "What are you doing, commanding everyone?" You take a long, slow swig from your drink, already eager to have it out of your hands. The ice-cold whiskey and bittersweet mixer make you shiver.

Seokjin waves his hand dismissively. "Our Jeonggukah has his hands full. Jiminah is still recovering, so he does very little."

You nod and glance around once more. You wonder if perhaps those two might be found in the office, and suddenly, there is a tug pulling you in that direction. 

"Look for the wolves," Seokjin says, and you nod. Easy enough. 

You depart from Seokjin and walk first toward the bar, sucking your drink back way too fast for your own good. With the empty placed on the bar top, you turn toward the office, walking past the stages and cages. You almost miss the wolf mask in the furthest cage, near the far wall that opens into the hallway, and you stop abruptly in your tracks, glancing up. Tattoos on his hand and wrist tell you all you need to know, and as he steps close and squats down, you realize your mouth is hanging open, and you are on the brink of drooling. This is not what you imagined when Seokjin said Jeongguk's hands were full. Perhaps it was a mistake to drink that whiskey so fast on an empty stomach as you stumble slightly forward.

Sweat streaks down Jeongguk's bare torso, and his slacks are unbuttoned, showing a preview of red satin. You lick your lips and grin, feeling the remaining dregs of cocaine kick your pulse rapidly into high gear. Jeongguk reaches a hand from between the bars, takes you roughly by the back of the head, and pulls you close, slotting your lips together as you scramble and grab onto the cage bars. You wonder if he is high or if he is simply this happy to see you. With the masks, the two of you can be as bold as you would like, and so you do not resist him. 

Jeongguk tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, and you moan as you drop your mouth open, inviting him to deepen the kiss. However, he nips at your bottom lip, leather noses rubbing together as he smiles before letting you go and standing straight up. The motion makes you feel dizzy and petulant, and you want to whine for more, but the reason for Jeongguk's absence approaches in the form of two shirtless men closing in on either side of you. 

To the left, a black dragon tattoo greets you, and to the right, paler skin littered with scars. Both of your men wear black leather harnesses that run over their shoulders and wrap around their waists, and both have on the tightest black denim pants you have ever been blessed to witness, with leather thigh harnesses that cause your eyes to wander. 

"Darling," Yoongi says, stepping in close and taking your chin in his hand. Around his neck is a thick gold Cuban chain necklace encrusted in diamonds, and you fight the urge to lift your fingers and feel its rough surface.

Namjoon's lips find your shoulder and suck hard enough to pull the air from your lungs. You moan softly and sink into the feeling just as Yoongi licks over your lips and moves his lips and teeth to your throat and neck, claiming your other shoulder. 

"So this is how it feels to be caught and devoured," you whine to your wolves, body trembling with pleasure as lips, teeth, and tongues leave traces over your skin. 

"This is nothing," Namjoon all but growls.

You are tempted to say to hell with this party and demand to be taken downstairs, but the familiar click-clack of boots pulls you from your reverie, and you open your eyes to find Jimin approaching. Although he also wears a mask, his lithe dancer frame is unmistakable. He is also shirtless, wearing black leather straps and tight black jeans, and his lips are blood-red and glossy.

Jimin swats Yoongi away, making Yoongi grumble and chuckle, then he pulls you into a hug. You crash into Jimin, leaving Namjoon behind to pout, and wrap your hands around his waist, pulling him close. He smells like midnight in the center of the ocean under a blanket of shimmering stars, and you hold in tears, still so grateful that he is okay. Although you refuse to cry, you do sniffle, and it is enough to make Jimin push you with both hands against your shoulders until you are at arm's length, staring at his frown.

"I'm sorry!" you say with a grin at the same time he says, "No fucking crying!"

Two more topless men in wolf masks approach, and you surmise that one must be Hoseok—with his heart-shaped pout, wearing a burgundy harness over his lithe torso—and the other must be Taehyung, as he is taller, broader, and much more tan, flashing a rectangular grin. You wave hello, and the two of them bow their heads. You want physical contact, even from Hoseok, but if he is not as eager to hug you, then you suppose it is best to keep your distance. 

Taehyung, however, opens his arms wide, and you welcome his spicy cologne and warm skin. As you pull out of the hug, he holds up a flogger, similar to the one you saw upstairs, only this one has red leather braided through the strips of black, and there are pretty red leather roses adorning the different tails. 

"Care for a show?" Namjoon's deep voice comes from your left, causing you to shiver. Fingertips trace up and down your arms, and you almost feel high from his touch.

You nod, turning your head but bumping one of your bone horns into some part of his mask, making him chuckle. Jeongguk opens the cage from the back and slides out, shutting it tight. Then he approaches Taehyung and runs his nails down his torso, along black straps of leather, grinning like a madman. 

"Upstairs," Taehyung instructs, and everyone nods.  

As you turn, several hands and arms find you. It feels good to be this fawned after and desired, and you find yourself returning back to that silly old thought of staying in Seoul for good. Perhaps you should allow Yoongi to buy you an apartment and hire a security team. But how long would you last before feeling the need to crawl back into his bed permanently?

More people seem to have entered the building in the short time you were at the dance cage, and you fear you may have to twist and tilt to walk through the crowd, but it parts eagerly for the tall, handsome men in wolf masks. Near the entrance, Seokjin remains statue still with his arms folded, and he nods as the group of you walk by, leaving Hoseok, who stops to whisper something into his ear. You notice that Seokjin's wolf mask is much larger than the others, and it has a row of teeth. 

"Why is Seokjin in charge?" you ask, but nobody responds, and you turn to make your way back up the stairs. 

"Party's over," you hear Taehyung call, "wolves, deer, and birds only."

Some grumbling can be heard as patrons gather their belongings and bow to the men. They shuffle down the stairs, and you catch a lot of cat, dog, and various rodent heads turning toward you, but you think nothing of it. A great deal of planning must have gone into this night, and you wonder whether each mask has been hand-selected by the men or whether each was simply approved by their team. But these are questions for later. As you watch Jeongguk step out of his slacks and approach the wooden x, all other thoughts dissolve. 

Hwasa is seated on a cushion on the far end, head tilted and smiling excitedly as Jeongguk lifts his hands and gets strapped in. Even with the mask on, you can see her wide eyes. You feel drawn to her, eager to sit close and breathe her perfume, but the fingertips on your arms and hips belong to two men who command your attention. 

Taehyung has squatted before Jeongguk, strapping his ankles to the wood. Once each strap is secure, he scratches his fingernails along Jeongguk's achilles tendons and over his muscular calves, causing Jeongguk to tremble. Then Taehyung stands, takes Jeongguk tightly by the hair in one hand, and slaps his ass hard with the other. The sound cracks out like a lightning strike, and Jeongguk moans loudly. You feel a rush of anticipation and lean against the bodies behind you that touch so eagerly.

"Do you like watching our Jeonggukah get tortured?" Yoongi asks from your right. 

You nod and smile, but the answer must be unsatisfactory because a hand firmly grabs your chin. Without being prompted, you say, "Yes, sir," earning you a pleased chuckle.

Taehyung grabs the flogger he had earlier from a small wooden table along the railing overlooking the rest of the club. You glance over the railing and notice a crowd of people below, some watching the dancers but many staring up in this direction. In the distance, you see Jimin standing with his arms crossed, seemingly assessing the patrons, but your gaze continues to notice all the heads turned in this direction. 

A chill works down your spine, and you turn back to the scene of Taehyung delicately dancing the tips of the flogger tails along Jeongguk's back. With his arms over his head and his legs spread, creating the shape of an x, his muscles are taut. His ass, in particular, looks like a shiny red apple, and you feel the urge to have a bite. 

Taehyung grips Jeongguk's short dark hair and tugs, extending his arm so he can stand far enough away to strike Jeongguk's shoulders with the flogger. Although the strikes are light, Jeongguk's entire body shakes. Gradually, Taehyung works his way down the length of Jeongguk's back, gently whipping his ass and making it jiggle. Then he releases Jeongguk's hair, runs his fingertips along the length of Jeongguk's spine, and strikes him hard. 

The crack of leather against skin met with the cry Jeongguk lets out causes your nerves to alite both with desire and fear. You presume that Taehyung would never truly hurt Jeongguk beyond his limit, but as he whips again and again, hard and harder yet, red marks form, and Jeongguk trembles, fists clenched over the leather straps that hold him, and it truly appears as though he is in pain. 

Gently, Taehyung strikes Jeongguk, turning the flogger over and over in circles and making the tips of the leather tails kiss his sore skin. Jeongguk trembles and jolts even from the most delicate touches, and you feel the urge to console him.

"Fuck," Jeongguk groans, making you stand somewhat alert. 

Fingertips continue to trail over your skin and along the lines of your corset, and you feel a bit guilty for how captivated you are by the man who is not touching you. But the sight of Jeongguk in pleasure and in pain is far too exquisite to ignore. 

"Darling," Yoongi says, as if reading your mind. "You should stand in front of him."

"I agree," Namjoon says. "I bet seeing you but not being able to touch you would drive him insane."

You nod and grin, stepping away from your men and approaching the wooden x. There are several feet in between Jeongguk and the wall, so you step around into that dark, empty space. Jeongguk's eyes are closed, so you say, "Hey, baby," feeling your heart flutter as they open wide.

Jeongguk's pupils are blown wide, and sweat drips from his mask. He licks his lips and juts his chin out, but you are too far away to tempt him with a kiss. You watch as he is whipped, soft and soft, and hard and soft, in no particular pattern. Jeongguk looks incredible with his eyes glassy and his mouth hanging limp. When he grimaces in pain, and all his features scrunch up, you feel the urge to reach out and console him. 

It is impossible not to imagine the Jeongguk who fucks you so good, especially from all his little sounds. As his face screws up from pain and pleasure, you step closer, eager to touch. But you feel you should get permission first, so you glance around the x, eyes falling to Hwasa, who remains on a cushion, before looking over to Taehyung. 

"Sir," you call.

Taehyung whips Jeongguk hard enough to make him squeal, then says, "Yes, doll?"

"May I touch Jeonggukie, please?"

"Of course you may," Taehyung smiles, "especially because you asked so sweetly."

"Thank you, sir," you call as you lift a hand and dance your fingertips along Jeongguk's arm.

Taehyung cracks the flogger against Jeongguk again, earning him a moan, then he says, "You may tease him, but you are not allowed to make him cum."

"Yes, sir," you say again, then disappear behind the x. With your left hand, you reach between the wooden beams, pleased to find Jeongguk's cock is rock hard and leaking. 

Jeongguk lets out a moan that is deep and gruff, punctuated by a sob, and you squeeze slow and firm, curious what other delicious noises he can make. You attempt to find a rhythm, squeezing and releasing in the off-beat of Taehyung's whips. Precum wets the thin fabric that covers him, and you twirl the end of your thumb over the tip. You want to drop to your knees and take him into your mouth, but you are eager to obey Taehyung. 

The look in Jeongguk's eyes is desperate and something else—something dark and sharp, scary almost. You lick your lips and smile.

"Does it feel good, baby?" you ask. 

Jeongguk scoffs, then grimaces. "Feels so good," he says through gritted teeth, grimacing again. "Would feel better with those pretty red lips around it, though."

"Around what?" you ask with an innocent smile, giving him a squeeze.

Jeongguk groans, mutters something unintelligible, then says, "Around my fucking cock, dollface."

You bite your bottom lip, trailing your fingernails over his length. "I would like that," you say. 

Abruptly, the whipping stops. It takes Jeongguk a moment to sigh and relax, but his gaze stays sharply on you as if he has plans on pouncing the second his limbs are free. 

"Doll," Taehyung calls.

You step back and glance around the x, smiling at Yoongi and Namjoon, who stand together like two proud parents with their arms slung around one another's shoulders and hips. You turn your gaze to Taehyung and say, "Yes, sir."

Taehyung nods to the x and says, "Your turn. Unstrap him and take his place."

You freeze. Certainly, you want to feel what it is like to be flogged, but as you turn to assess Jeongguk, you realize there are beads of blood forming in streaks along his skin. 

Taehyung chuckles, and you turn your attention back to him. As if to show you he is sincere, he lifts his mask, and you feel stunned by the beauty of his face covered in sweat and the way the mask pushes his hair up into a spiky halo.

"I will be much more gentle with you. Stoplight system, remember?"

"Yes, sir," you mutter, still too nervous to imagine what it must feel like.

"You will love it, darling," Yoongi says, and when you turn to him, his grin appears particularly wolfish. 

You trust these men. With a nod and slow exhale, you turn to Jeongguk and begin to unto the straps around his wrists. Hwasa undoes his left ankle, and you squat to undo his right.

As soon as Jeongguk is free and you are standing, he turns to you, grabs you firmly by the chin, and spin-presses you against the wooden x. Before you can so much as whimper, Jeongguk is roughly kissing you, pressing his body into yours and making you feel his long, hard erection against your tummy.

You moan into his mouth, hands on the wood rather than on him as you attempt to get your bearings and find your footing. Jeongguk releases you, and as you spin to take your place in front of the x, he takes you by the hips from behind, pressing himself against you again. The satin skirt is thin, and the panties beneath are thinner. You can practically feel every line of him, and it drives you wild. 

Jeongguk lifts your right hand high over your head and straps your wrist into the leather cuff, then does the same with your left. Hwasa unstraps your left shoe, and you step out of it, thankful that the heel is low enough that your arms are not tugged as you settle and spread your left leg. To your right, Namjoon gets on his knees, unstraps your shoe, and spreads your right leg. You are restrained and close your eyes to take a deep breath as fingers touch and tease you. 

"May I?" Taehyung asks as he tugs at the center of your corset. You nod without thinking, knowing that Hwasa is present but feeling too dreamy to worry about her possibly seeing you topless. 

Taehyung makes quick work of unclipping your top, then gently peels it off your sweaty skin and tosses it aside, leaving you in just the pasties that cover your nipples and the short skirt. 

"This type of play may be very overwhelming for our buttercup at first, so please refrain from touching her sexually unless she asks. Understood?"

The men respond that they understand, and you smile to yourself, grateful that Taehyung is so careful with you.

With a delicate kiss placed at the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your back, Taehyung says, "We finally get a chance to play. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," you respond automatically, though you are not sure whether you truly are ready. 

Taehyung steps back, and when you open your eyes, you find Yoongi standing in front of you with Jeongguk on the left and Namjoon on the right. You feel shy to have such a captive audience and close your eyes.

"Ah, ah," Yoongi says, and you open them again. Of course, he would want you to look at him while Taehyung does…whatever it is he is planning on doing to you. 

The tips of the leather flogger touch your skin softly, then tickle along your spine. You grin and giggle, allowing the wave of shivers that follow the lowering of the toy. Then he moves it off your skin, and you take a deep breath.

"You will love it, darling," Yoongi says, reaching with both hands to cover yours, which you open and lie flat against the wood. 

The toy very delicately hits your skin, making you jump from anticipation. You laugh, feeling silly for responding so dramatically, and Yoongi smiles fondly. Again, the toy strikes gently, and again and again, in a rhythm. 

"Color?" Taehyung calls, and you respond, "Green, sir," automatically. 

Taehyung continues to strike, slightly harder but not hard enough to hurt even in the slightest. You are surprised by how soft and gentle the leather can feel against your skin. Eyes on Yoongi, you gasp slightly from the feeling of the leather, anticipating it to begin to hurt at any moment.

"Going to apply a little more strength and speed," Taehyung says, and you nod. 

Yoongi smirks.

The strike against your lower shoulder blade stings slightly, making you jump. As soon as it settles, you feel eager for more, and when Taehyung asks, "Color?" you all but shout, "Green, sir!"

He strikes again and again, firm enough to sting but no harder than a playful slap. He moves along your back, striking new places. Then he returns to your lower shoulder blade, and when he strikes with the same intensity, the soreness of your skin adds a new layer of pleasure-pain that has your eyes rolling back.

"Oh, she likes that," Yoongi calls. 

"Is that so?" Taehyung asks.

You nod, open your eyes, and say, "Yes, sir."

You wish the masks could come off and you could see your men, but there is something so delicious about the way their stares come through the visage of hungry beasts. You truly and finally are prey, caught by the most enticing predators, and you allow yourself to moan and sigh as Taehyung continues to strike and strike, over and over, in new spots and sensitive ones, until your entire back is on fire. 

"Want to try a harder strike?" Taehyung asks.

You watch Namjoon's pretty lips smile and say, "Yes, sir."

Taehyung whips you in the center of the back, and you jolt more from the loud crack of the leather than the actual sensation. It takes a split second for the pain to bloom, and when it does, you grin.

"Color?"

"Green, sir."

Again and again, Taehyung whips, alternating harder and softer strikes, working around your back in no particular pattern, always keeping you guessing. You feel lightheaded and eager to be touched, so you open your eyes wide and doe-like and say, "Please."

"Please?" Yoongi asks, hands still firmly holding yours. 

"Please kiss me."

Yoongi slides his hands away and steps close in the center of the space. "You are so perfect," he says at the same time Namjoon places his hand over your right one, and Taehyung hits a particularly sore spot. 

You tremble and attempt to stand on your toes, but you have nowhere to go.

"Kiss me," you beg as the leather lashings pull you closer to the edge of some agonizing but euphoric precipice, causing your fingernails to scrape against the wood. "Yoongi," you insist, "Please!"

As Yoongi leans in and presses his lips to yours, Taehyung begins to move the flogger in a figure-eight pattern, striking your shoulder blades and dragging the tails downward over your skin. You sink into the pleasure and let your mouth fall open, allowing Yoongi to lick, suck, and nip as he desires. When he steps aside and Namjoon takes his place, you imagine him wrapping you in his strong, warm arms and carrying you off to bed. One deep, pleased groan from Namjoon causes your skin to break out in goosebumps.

You want to be touched by the others and fucked until you can no longer feel your body; there is something so enthralling in the way this kind of pleasure leaves you dizzy and almost floaty. You wonder whether the skin of your back could break open and you would feel only ecstasy as your insides gush to the floor.

As Taehyung's strikes slow to a stop, you feel antsy and begin to tremble. The feeling of the leather restraints makes you want to rip and gnaw until you are free, but you do your best to focus on Namjoon's mouth. That is, until he pulls it away.

You instinctively yank your hands down, but they are bound, and your breath feels caught in your throat. Why are you so anxious all of a sudden? While hands work open your various bindings, your top is wrapped around you and being fastened. Yoongi steps around the wooden x, and you barrel into him, causing whoever is dressing you to falter.

"Darling?" Yoongi asks, concern in his tone as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, cradling your head.

"She may require after care," Taehyung says from behind you. "It's normal. We'll get her some water and see what else she needs."

Part of you hates being talked about as if you have no agency, but you press yourself against Yoongi's warm bare chest and close your eyes, humming with pleasure as he wraps his arms tightly around you. You are neither drunk nor high, yet you feel disconnected from your body and barely tethered. Is flogging supposed to be this emotional?

Namjoon and Jeongguk kiss your forehead, making you smile, and they promise to have a surprise for you before leaving the VIP lounge with Hwasa. Taehyung appears from some dark corner with a jacket and a bottle of water, and he drapes the warm fabric over your shoulders, then opens the water and hands it to you.

"Sometimes this kind of play can become physically and emotionally confusing," Taehyung explains as you slowly pull a shaking arm from around Yoongi and take the cold bottle from Taehyung's hand. You sip slow, closing your eyes as the water cools you down and grounds you. "Pushing your body to its limits can cause a person to feel an emotional crash."

You are somewhat familiar with the feeling, having floated out of your body during sex and feeling somewhat of a crash after. You suppose this does feel similar. 

"Thank you," you say, handing the water to Yoongi. 

You pivot and crash into Taehyung's warm, sweaty chest, causing the jacket to slip off and make you shiver. Taehyung wraps you in his arms and holds you tight, and you let go of all the confusing feelings, breathing as he breathes. 

"More drinks?" He offers as the hug begins to loosen, and you nod. "Yes, please."

You do not feel entirely returned to normal, but not that your body has had a chance to calm down, you feel less on the brink of total collapse.

"Mind if I have a moment with her first?" Yoongi asks.

Taehyung bows at the hips and excuses himself, draping his pretty rose flogger over his shoulder as he walks down the stairs. Yoongi pulls his mask up until it sits high on his head, and you swoon at the sight of his sweat-dewy skin and wide, pretty smile. You lift your mask, as well, and step forward, reaching for the belt loops of his slacks and tugging him close.  

"You guys always find new ways of making me feel completely insane," you joke as you stand high on your toes and press your lips to his. 

Yoongi wraps one arm low around your hips and the other high around your shoulders, cradling your head as he kisses you slow and deep, tugging on the already loose threads of what remains of your sanity. Your tongues dance and tease, and you wrap your arms around his hips and squeeze his ass in both palms, winning you a grin and a chuckle. If only this could be all yours again. This, without all the other baggage that comes along with him. 

"Stay with me tonight?" Yoongi asks, and you feel the cracks in your heart begin to splinter a little further. 

"Yoongi," you begin, but he steals your lips once more, this time in a delicate press. Perhaps he does not want to hear what you have to say.

He rests his forehead against yours and sighs, then says, "Alright. Shoes, then drinks?"

You nod and step away, to where the heels have been left on each side of the wooden x. Yoongi steadies you with a hand on your elbow as you slide into each shoe, then he gets down on his knees and clasps them. As he stands, he silently watches you, eyes assessing yours, back and forth as if attempting to decode your thoughts. And then he slides his mask back down over his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches out a hand. You slide your mask back into place and take his hand, allowing him to lead you back down the stairs. 

The music has become a bit sharp and chaotic, and the floor is full of writhing bodies. All the dancers wear rabbit masks, on the stages and in the cages, and you crane your neck to see anonymous wealthy patrons throwing notes at them all as if on command.

"Whiskey?" Yoongi asks, and you snicker because he always asks despite the answer always being yes. 

"Of course," you respond, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Around you, patrons turn and watch the two of you. Yoongi holds his head high, and you watch as the light shimmers off the diamonds around his neck. The way his hair waves and fans out around the mask only adds to a primal energy that is palpable in his every move. You lift the hand that wears your engagement ring and rub over Yoongi's bicep as a show that you are his and pretend not to notice all the prying eyes. It feels good suddenly to imagine all of these people know who he is, and they see you with him. You feel a surge of power.

Yoongi holds up two fingers, and a tender—who was in the middle of mixing drinks for another party—nods and turns, grabbing the special Japanese whiskey off the high shelf, pouring two very generous portions, and sliding them forward. Yoongi grabs one and hands it to you, then takes the other and holds it up to you for a cheers. You tap your glass against his and pull it to your lips, taking in the scent of woody caramel notes and having a taste of the familiar liquor. 

The two of you drink and people-watch. There are couples and groups all over the space kissing and groping. On the corner of the bar, you watch as a man with a suit, Rolex, and dog mask uses a rolled-up note to snort powder from a music box that is held open by a bartender, and you feel antsy for a sniff. 

Taehyung approaches from a dark corner with his arm draped over Hoseok's shoulder, and you watch him whisper something into Hoseok's ear before dropping his arm so Hoseok can leave. Following Hoseok's departure past you and toward the entrance, you spin and watch as Hoseok whispers in Seokjin's ear, and Seokjin gives a curt nod before walking toward the office. 

"Successful party," Taehyung says, and you twist back to find him leaning against the bar and wagging a single finger at a bartender. 

"Is it always this busy?" you ask, and Taehyung shakes his head while Yoongi chuckles. 

Leaning close, Yoongi says into your ear, "Many of the politician dogs you see are scared to be caught dead partaking in a mafia party and enjoying our drugs and liquor. But with the addition of the masks, they feel comfortable with letting loose and flaunting their wealth."

Your eyes find the man with the Rolex again and wonder what his position in office must be and whether he is part of a chaebol family. Taehyung lifts his glass, and you and Yoongi tap yours against his before you all take a drink. 

"Jeonggukie evidently has a surprise for you," Taehyung says as he drapes an arm over Yoongi's shoulder and leans close. "But he has gotten a little sidetracked, so I have been tasked with distracting you."

And distract you, he does. Taehyung orders the finest box of cocaine and several rounds of shots. He regales you with the story of the first time he flogged Jeongguk and how he cried like a baby after, truly reaching subspace for the first time. You snort unabashedly from a music box with a tiny spinning ballerina who also wears a wolf mask. By the time Taehyung receives a signal that Jeongguk is ready for you, the three of you are stumbling and laughing. 

However, the mood switches as he leads you past the empty office and all the private dance rooms, to the door at the end of the hallway. Hidden in the shadows every several feet are security guards, and you jump the first time you see one, then scold yourself for being so on edge. Perhaps it is the idea of going downstairs, but you are filled with trepidation. You have been enjoying this night overall, and you would certainly like to have sex with Yoongi and Namjoon later on, but you are not sure whether you are eager to receive a surprise down in the suites, despite how you felt when you first arrived and saw Jeongguk dancing in the cage. 

At the top of the steps, you mutter, "Ugh, more steps," regretting your footwear choice and wondering if perhaps your sore feet are the true source of your discomfort.

Taehyung hands his drink to Yoongi, then takes your glass from your fingers and hands it over for Yoongi to cradle precariously, and then hoists you over his shoulders. You squeal and laugh as you attempt to get into a comfortable position and not fling the both of you down the stairs. Taehyung takes his drink back, has a sip, and carries you down to the bottom level.

Yoongi follows the two of you, carrying both of your drinks in one upturned hand with an amused smile. At the bottom of the stairs, you expect Taehyung to set you down, and you laugh as he continues to carry you all the way, dramatically kicking your feet and pretending to beat on his shoulders while crying, "Unhand me, you brute!"

When Taehyung sets you back down, holding his arms out to allow you to get steady—with his drink still in hand—you gain your bearings, dizzy but delighted until you remember that you are in the basement just outside the executive suite and feeling not entirely sure you want to participate in whatever is waiting inside. 

"Wait," you say as Taehyung reaches to unlock the door.

"What is it?" Yoongi asks, and you stare at the floor, attempting to gather your thoughts. 

"I just…" you swallow thickly. "I don't know. Maybe this isn't what I want."

Perhaps it is from being recognized as Kaori while working at Serendipity, but this entire vibe is dredging up old, bad memories. You know that these men do not view you as a piece of flesh to pass around and sink their teeth into, but you cannot help the way your skin crawls from the thought of it. 

"Would you at least like to see the surprise first?" Taehyung asks.

You nibble on your lip.

"Namjoon is in there, too," Yoongi says.

You exhale and nod, excited to see Namjoon. Yoongi hands your drink back as Taehyung keys in the code to the room. Nervous, you chug back the remnants of your whiskey, feeling it rush to your head.

As the door opens, music comes pouring out, much more sensual than the music that plays in the hallway and upstairs. The light is dim and purple, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. Heavy-blinking, you make out the shapes of Namjoon and Jeongguk standing beside the bed, still topless with their harnesses and masks on. On the bed, laid back with one leg bent and supporting herself on her elbows, is Hwasa without her mask on. Her leather skirt is hiked high on her thighs, and you can see a hint of lace underneath.

You hesitate as Yoongi presses firmly against the small of your back, forcing you to step forward. To be fair, it is not wise to keep the door to this room open, despite the security guards that are littered in the shadows all throughout the hallways. You would hate for even them to be audience to what is in this room.

Hwasa sits forward, gets onto her hands and knees, and crawls to the end of the bed. In the periphery, you are aware of Yoongi and Taehyung moving deeper into the room, to the left, where the other two are, but you are too stunned to take your eyes off Hwasa. As she advances, your hands begin to tremble. Is she your surprise? Have they all been discussing this behind your back?

You reach to undo the ribbon of your mask, letting it drop from your face. Hwasa catches it and sets it aside, then takes your face in both palms as she sits high on her knees and pulls you close. 

"Kiss me?" Hwasa asks, and you comply. 

Slowly, tentatively, you lean forward and press your lips to hers. Her lipstick has a somewhat waxy flavor, but you ignore it, sighing as she nips at your lips and then uses her tongue to prod them apart. With a smile, she teases your tongue and then deepens the kiss, but all you can do is stand stiff as a board. 

Hwasa is absolutely the ideal woman, and you have dreamt about kissing her—as well as doing so much more—pretty much since the moment you met her. But as she trails her kiss down to your jaw and neck, all you can think about is how this is not what you want right now. 

"I'm sorry," you plead, feeling your knees give out. You lower to the bed and then to the floor and place your palms down onto the carpet. "I'm sorry," you say again as you bow your head forward against the side of the mattress and sink into a slouch. 

Everything feels too heavy, and this is not how you want any of this to happen. Not when you are in a constant state of inner turmoil. You already use Hwasa for comfort on the dark and lonely nights, and adding sex to that equation is not fair to her or to anyone. The last thing you want to do is use her even more than you already are when your heart is already here in Seoul, and you do not think finding a distraction in someone else is fair to your men despite the fact that they have each other. 

"It's not you," you mutter, feeling hands tug on your shoulders and attempt to yank you up. "Trust me, I want to," you lift your head, finding Hwasa sitting on the end of the bed with her feet planted on the floor. She leans forward and takes your cheeks in her palms.

"Dove, it's okay," she insists.

You attempt to shake your head, but all you achieve is squishing your cheeks against Hwasa's palms, making her crack a smile. 

"Please, don't apologize," she insists. "I could never be offended. You're going through a lot right now, and the boys and I thought this might be a good thing for you. But you know yourself better than we do and I am not hurt by your answer."

You hobble onto your knees and lean forward, wrapping your arms around Hsawa's middle and nuzzling awkwardly between her legs. If these circumstances were even slightly different, you would sink into her in a heartbeat and allow absolutely anything to happen.

Tears fall, and you cannot help but sob and cry. All you want is to stay in Seoul, but you are terrified of what new horrors these men might bring, and it is tearing you apart inside. This woman has done so much for you, but you cannot bring yourself to do this for her.

"I'm sorry," you say again, intending for it to be aimed at everyone in the room. "This is all too much and…I think I need to go."

"We can go home," Hwasa insists, and you nod.

Looking up, all of the men have removed their masks. It dawns on you that this is the first time in weeks you are seeing Namjoon's entire face, and you want to kiss it so badly and rub your hands over his cute, fuzzy buzzcut, and forget about all your worries. But you ache with the thought of having to leave him, and somehow running to him and expressing all the love you feel for him seems cruel. 

As you stand, Namjoon and Yoongi slowly approach. You drop your face into your hands and cry, feeling too ashamed to face them. Jeongguk has put together such an amazing event, and rather than enjoy it, he is down here wasting his time with a crybaby who teased him but did nothing more.

Arms wrap around you, and you drop your hands, allowing the muscular chests of your two favorite men to cage you in close to suffocation. They pet your hair and shoulders, placing kisses against your temples, and you do your best to steady your breathing. 

"I'm sorry," you say again, and Yoongi shushes you. 

He takes a step back until you can look at him and smiles sadly. "Sorry we are being overwhelming again," he says, thumbing your tears away.

"Not overwhelming," you insist, leaning sideways into Namjoon. 

"I'm sorry we put you into a position you're not comfortable with," Namjoon says, rubbing a palm over your back. 

You shake your head. "This was a wonderful surprise, and I would absolutely be interested if circumstances were different. But it doesn't feel right. Not right now."

Namjoon takes a step back, and you notice the way he looks at your face, then at the earrings he bought you, and smiles. You step forward and press your lips to his, then step to the right and kiss Yoongi. 

Your body wants more, but you feel exhausted, so you take a step back, nod, and say, "I'm ready to go."

Hwasa hugs Jeongguk goodbye and waves to the others, bowing and thanking them for a good night. As you stand in front of Yoongi and Namjoon, on the brink of asking them to take you back home instead, you bite your inner lip and keep your mouth shut. Yoongi has been saying something big is in the works, so perhaps whatever he is doing now will allow you to feel safe returning to Seoul. Perhaps it will all happen sooner than you realize. 

"I love you," you say as you allow both men to kiss you chastely one last time, holding back tears each time they say they love you too. 

"Soon," Yoongi promises, and you nod. 

"Next weekend?" He asks, hopeful.

You nod again.

Hwasa takes you by the hand and begins to lead you away. With the door open and the music blaring in, the shift in lighting and your warring thoughts knock you off your axis. All this time, the obvious has been screaming at you from all sides, and you have been desperately trying to find a change of scenery in the wrong places. And now, you are making a mistake, knowing full well that the pull toward Yoongi and Namjoon is too strong to continue to ignore. 

"Wait," you mutter as you slide your hand from her grip and say, "I'm sorry, Hyejin," before turning toward your men. 

You feel foolish for asking, knowing the emotional roller coaster you have been putting these men through, but the ache has been festering inside you for far too long, wrapping itself like barbed wire around your heart and lungs.

Glancing forward meekly, your voice comes out barely above a whisper. 

"Can I come back home?"

*

hey there, where you runnin'? you're only days from the mouth of this cage (cage) hey, where are you going? i've searched around this place and it's dead

🎵 visit the playlist

***

BESTIEEEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!! 💜💜💜 HI HI HI I HAVE MISSED YOU SO!!!!!!! HAPPY DAY OF YOONGI'S RETURN FROM THE MILITARY LMAO I WAS NOT PLANNING ON THIS BUT IT WORKED OUT CUTELY!!!

some housekeeping: it should go without saying, but the way Taehyung strikes Jeongguk with the flogger is not correct bdsm practice! Taehyung and Jeongguk are midkey psychotic. the way he strikes mc is correct. please play safely and don't take bdsm practice from fanfic even when it is written by a long time practitioner (me) because it is sometimes intentionally written to be harmful. 💜

5 more chapters. despite having been writing this fic for three (3?!!??!?!?!!!?) years, it feels wild to be coming up to the end. how are we feeling??? so much has happened since my last update, for worse and for better, and i am truly grateful for your patience. if you have stuck around and still read this fic, i cannot thank you enough.

i always promise big things when i have a break between semesters so this time i am going to keep my fucken mouth shut!!! lmao. hopefully i will see you sooner than later.

REBLOGS ARE EVERYTHING ON THIS SITE BLAH BLAH LIKES ARE ALSO GREAT YADDA YADDA. COMMENTS & DMS ARE WHAT TRULY TELL ME YOU ARE READING AND WANT MORE. BUT IF YOU ARE SILENT, YOU ARE ALSO AMAZING. keeping in touch will absolutely push me to write more/faster, but don't feel obligated to do what you don't want to. 💜 drink water. i love you.

😘😘😘

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2025 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations of reposts allowed.

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 24: I have a proposition for you

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader, Taehyung x Jungkook

🗡️ word count: 18.7k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️warnings: casually discussing & thinking about previous violent events (involving guns, knives, cars, etc.); use of MDMA & cocaine, as well as a lot of whiskey; explicit smut (sex swing; sex under the influence of drugs & alcohol; voyeurism/exhibitionism; threesome; multiple orgasms & overstimulation; squirting orgasm; going non-verbal; a hint of subspace; crashing from the need of more after care but also from drugs) mc is still spiraling a lot.

🗡️note: hello, hello!!! ngl, it annoys me that Jimin's and Hoseok's hair are the wrong color in the mood board but it's impossible finding a good square pic of those three. also!!!! this is a reminder that mc is bisexual lol. also!!! drug come-ups and come-downs happen unusually fast because this is fiction. and because this was originally at least two chapters that have been condensed into one.

🗡️ also note: i love you. thank you for waiting. 💜

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🗡️ posted Jan. 2025 | read on ao3

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With a jolt, you awaken, gasping and struggling to get your bearings. You blink, squinting against the sun that shines through the small rounded windows, slowly returning to consciousness. The plane bounces slightly as it taxis, and you lean over—or, rather, into—Hwasa as you peer out the window. The unfamiliar scenery reminds you that you are not home in Seoul but in Busan. 

Bright sunlight causes your entire head to ache. You squeeze your eyes closed and bury your face into Hwasa's neck, which is soft and warm and smells like a fresh bouquet. She audibly pouts and raises a hand to shield your eyes, as well as pet your forehead. 

"Rough night," she says sweetly, and you nod. "Don't worry, dove, we'll be home very soon."

The events of last night return in flashes, causing your stomach to roil unpleasantly. Despite Ryujin's insistence that Christian poses no threat, you are not so sure. The way he gripped your hand and stared at you felt pretty fucking threatening. He is not the man you once knew. 

But you find it hard to believe she would put you in danger. After everything her family has done to harm Yoongi and his men, you imagine if anything happened to you, he would not hesitate to burn her home to the ground with everyone inside it. Just his display at the hideout alone speaks to his willingness to kill for you.

A cursory glance at your phone this morning showed Seokjin has managed to import everyone's numbers into your contact list. This assuages your concerns somewhat; at the very least, you are able to reach them should something go sideways. Never mind the fact that Seoul is four, possibly five hours away by car—a detail you choose to ignore for the time being. 

You could text Yoongi right now and inform him of Christian's appearance. But what would that solve, realistically? He would likely appear with guns—or chopsticks—blazing and demand you return to a home that you so desperately felt the need to leave. 

It is possible that Christian behaved the way he did last night because you nearly touched him. It could have been a sore spot for him to come so close to you again. Intoxicated, he may have behaved more strangely than usual. Perhaps bringing up his missing eye was triggering.

The plane finally slows to a stop, and one by one, the women begin to stretch and stand. A long red sedan waits outside, and you watch as staff members begin to move luggage from the plane to the back of the vehicle.  

Your stomach lurches as you make your way to the steps and begin the descent to the tarmac. As tired as you are of questioning whether you are making a mistake, you are desperate to settle in and feel a semblance of peace. You would be happy to never leave your bedroom once you are introduced to one. It is not as if you are expected to work. At least, you don't think so. 

Solar and Moonbyul climb into the far back of the vehicle, then Hwasa gets into the middle row and pats the seat for you to join her. You are about to scoot toward the center to make space for another, but Wheein rounds the vehicle and gets into the passenger seat as Ryujin slides into the driver's seat, making everyone accounted for. 

Once you are buckled in and all the doors are closed, Ryujin is off, driving nauseatingly fast. She drives like she owns these streets—and maybe she does, but it makes you want to barf.  

You close your eyes and lean into Hwasa, glad when she slots her arm around you easily. Now that the two of you will be under the same roof in a manner that feels more official, you wonder whether you should confront the way you feel around her. The butterflies, the dizziness, the urge to reach out and touch, the desire to be held just as you are now, but always. You are certain that it is nothing more than a crush and not worth dwelling on. But you are also aware of the fact that in no time at all your loneliness will shift to something carnal, and that having her in your bubble like this could become dangerously tempting. 

"We're here," Hwasa says softly against the top of your head.

With a light, pleased sigh, you slowly open your eyes and begin to sit up. A large metal gate scrapes open, and you are greeted by the sight of a massive hanok made of beautiful, brightly stained pine wood and earthen bricks. Ridge-end tiles, pine purlins, and decoratively carved rafters and beams showcase traditional Korean craftsmanship. 

The massive double doors are decorated with square metal frames, reminiscent of traditional wood and paper screen doors, and you watch in awe as the door on the right opens and several women come excitedly hopping out. You marvel at how tall and wide the structure is compared to them. 

You recognize one of the women as the person who attempted to chuck a ball at your head the first time you went into Yoongi's pool. Surely, she must know that you have come to stay in the house. Is she likely to cause you more trouble, or have they been forced to come to some understanding that you will be living with them now?

Men in uniform follow behind the women and remain stationed at the door. They are dressed in black tactical gear, with handguns at their hips, and you think you even spot earpieces in their ears. Although you know their presence is meant to make you feel safe, something about their hard, stoic nature is off-putting, and you tear your gaze away.

"They're nice," Hwasa chides, gently pushing an elbow into your side. You must really look afraid for her to have noticed.

With a nod, you open the car door and slowly step out. It is warm, but there is a nice breeze that cools you. The sun, however, is bright and oppressive, and the more you stand directly in its shine, the harder your head pounds. 

Ryujin and the girls gather all the luggage, including yours, and take it inside. You follow behind slowly, inviting Hwasa to link her arm into yours and lead you. The entrance is a small foyer with shoes on either side and two small tables on which keys and other items are stored, including sunglasses and chapsticks. You step out of your shoes and pass through a set of paper and wood screen doors, where the space opens up into what appears to be a massive sitting room that seems at least two stories tall. 

Cushions, couches, and tables are strewn about with a pathway leading through the center and around the sides. The space is dimly lit with lamps interspersed and fairy lights that hang from the tall ceiling and along the walls, creating a dreamy atmosphere. 

Through the space, there are hallways that lead to the left and the right, and a large, open kitchen and dining hall. The walls are white, with pine beams that complement the cabinets and floors, giving a traditional feel, but the counters and appliances are light marble and polished steel. Sinks are deep, wide basins with tall faucets that hang overhead, and the dishware appears to all be handmade ceramic, earthenware, and stainless steel.

On the far wall between the kitchen and a long dining table raised on a wooden platform is a door that Hwasa slides open, revealing a courtyard. She steps out onto a wooden ledge barefoot, and you follow behind. Stone paths snake and converge through a massive grassy space, surrounded by the rectangular shape of the hanok, with doors along the walls leading to what you imagine to be the various bedrooms. 

"Ryujin sleeps in the far room," Hwasa says, pointing straight ahead to the opposite end of the large structure. 

"I'm this way," she says, pointing to what you believe is the third door on the right, "And you will be this way," she says, tugging you to the left. 

Along the length of the building is a wooden ledge, with a wide stone step in front of each room that leads down to the path, and on both sides of the ledge are potted plants. Some are flowers, some are small trees and shrubs; your room appears to be surrounded by bonsai trees. 

Although the doors are traditional screen doors made of paper and wood, they have been enshrined in thick glass with ornate brass handles. As you reach the door to your new room and step up onto the wooden ledge, it slides open, revealing Ryujin's smiling face. 

"Come on in," she says, pointing to a small white floor mat beside two sets of house shoes.  

You step onto the mat, rubbing off any dirt that you may have tracked, then slide into the closest pair of soft white slippers before entering. There is a small entrance room similar to the foyer of the house, with a wooden railing to hang coats on the left and a wooden table and bowl on the right. In the bowl rests two gold keys on a small gold ring, and you reach for them, feeling their weight in your hand, and slide them into a pocket of the oversized hoodie that once belonged to Jeongguk. 

The bedroom is a decent size, with a tall ceiling to accommodate a loft, the ladder for which is to the left as soon as you enter. A bed large enough to accommodate three is on a raised wooden platform on the right, with white pillows, blankets, and sheets. There is a dresser and a large mirror, all made of the same pine and brass as everything in the house, and similar to the doors, all the hinges on the furniture are in the shape of butterflies. 

"This is lovely," you say, taking in the scent of the room. It seems to have been recently dusted, but there is a stuffiness to it that suggests it has been vacant for quite some time. You leave the door open to the courtyard as you sit down on the firm bed and take everything in. 

"There is a small futon up in the loft, as well as a low table and cushions, in case you would prefer to be up there," Ryujin says. "And we can swap out the white bedding for something that feels a little more you."

You nod and crack a smile, saying, "Thank you."

"I might have something that's all black somewhere," she chides with a wink, making your cheeks warm. "In fact, one of my black comforters may have golden dragons embroidered on it. You can have a piece of Yoongi and Namjoon."

You hug your arms tightly around your middle, pulling your gaze away from her as she speaks. Although you are grateful for Ryujin's hospitality, it does feel strange knowing she has had such an intimate relationship with the men you love. Perhaps it is the casual nature with which she brings it up that you find particularly jarring. 

"I will fetch you those items shortly," Ryujin says. "Feel free to look around. There are bathrooms interspersed throughout, but Hyejin and Hyungseo have master suites with their own. Luckily you do not have to work to butter anyone up to bathe in peace." She winks at you, then grins at Hwasa. "I also have a massive suite with a shower room and tub, which you are welcome to use any time."

Ryujin leaves the bedroom through the door that opens up to the hallway, but Hwasa takes your arm and tugs you back toward the courtyard. You step out of your slippers and slide the door closed, then follow her along the path leading to her door. 

"It's faster than walking inside," she says, and you nod, finding it easy to imagine so. "There is also a shortcut from the front of the house, so you don't have to walk through the living room. And if you take a path past mother's door, there is a large outdoor pool and garden. Just don't be alarmed by the guards. They tend to hide in plain sight."

Hwasa pulls out a small ring of keys and slots a golden one into the door, twisting and then retracting it before sliding the door open. You step inside and are immediately hit with a sensation opposite to your bedroom. 

Hwasa's room is much larger than yours, with an open door on the left that leads to a bathroom. She has no loft, only a tall ceiling from which she has hung fairy lights and fluffy clouds. Her bedding is pale pink, clothing and jewelry are strewn about, and the air smells distinctly of her. She sits on the bed and reaches for the drawer of the pine bedside table. From inside, she takes out a small golden key and holds it out for you. 

"What is this?" you ask, dumbfounded. 

"A key to my room, silly," she says through a chuckle. 

You take the key between your fingers and examine it, but you are filled with a torrent of conflicting emotions. 

"I couldn't possibly—" you begin, holding the key out to her, but she pushes your hand away, saying, "Nonsense. Just take it. You might get lonely in this large house, and I don't need you thinking you have to ask for permission each time you want to come see me."

You slide the key into your pocket, hearing it rattle beside your phone and the keys to your room. You do not tell her that you intend to knock or text before coming over and that it is something she is going to need to accept. 

"Are you hungry?" she asks, and you nod. You are more than hungry; you feel absolutely hollowed out.

Hwasa leads you into the house this time, and you take light steps on bare feet, worried about making too much noise; hesitant to draw too much attention. At the end of the hall, you turn right and walk past the raised dining table, at which two women sit on the floor and pick at plates of fruit and bread. 

“We have a chef who comes in the morning to stock the fridge,” Hwasa says as she approaches a large, wide refrigerator. 

The stainless steel doors open from the center and inside are rows and stacks of glass containers filled with food. Hwasa rummages, pulling out a tub of cubed melons. You find a tub of glass noodles with carrot and other finely cut vegetables, and Hwasa retrieves a cold bottle of grapefruit-flavored soju. You expect to be led to the long table, but Hwasa opens the containers on the counter, retrieves bowls and utensils, and serves herself food only to immediately eat it where she stands. You do not object and do the same.

Slowly, the area fills with women, but you keep your head down, eating the food. The noodles are filling and the fruit is refreshing; the soju brings a little warmth to your chest and very slightly assuages your anxiety. 

"Don't worry, you will get to know everyone soon enough," Hwasa mutters. 

You hum, but you are not too certain it is possible. There must be at least twenty bedrooms connected to the long halls of the hanok, and you imagine there are rooms that could contain more than one person. How many women might clamber into Ryujin's bed at night, you wonder. Do they all have rooms of their own?

After eating, Hwasa returns the containers to the fridge while you take the used dishes and utensils to the sink and wash them. A large bamboo rack is on the left side of the sink, already stacked with various items, and you add yours to the pile, too unsure where things go to offer putting dried items away. 

"Come," Hwasa says, tugging at your hands as soon as you are able to dry them on a cloth that hangs above the sink in a large window overlooking the courtyard. "Let's take a bottle to the gardens and lie on the grass."

With a new bottle of soju, you are led down a long hallway, past all the closed doors, to a gate nestled to the right of Ryujin's wide-open bedroom door. You glance into the space to find her room in bright pastels, namely yellow and orange, and as you avert your eyes, you think about the bedroom in Yoongi's mansion that was inherited from her. After seven years, things have been left the same, and you are unsure how to feel about that.

* * *

You are groggy and chilly as you roll over, waking up to the feeling of grass tickling your left cheek. At which point you had fallen asleep, you are unsure, but you are glad when Hwasa stirs and groans beside you. 

Ryujin's garden is so similar to Yoongi's that when you first laid eyes on it, tears prickled, and you felt the overwhelming urge to spiral into an anxiety attack. Statues, shrub walls, fountains…there is even a shrub maze that Hwasa invited you to walk through, but the thought of it conjured memories of Namjoon, and you suggested instead to lie in the grass as was originally planned. The weight of everything must have pressed you down into a brief but deep sleep. The soju bottle was barely touched. 

It is hard not to wonder whether you will ever see Yoongi's garden again. From where you sit, on a slight hill overlooking the labyrinth, you can see the large statue of a minotaur near the center, and you wonder whether Ryujin did it as an homage or a fuck you to Yoongi's garden. You like the addition of the minotaur but dislike how it mirrors the theme of Greek iconography. How much of her former life with Yoongi has Ryujin kept here? How often does she think of him? Are you as safe with her as everyone claims?

The rest of the day feels like a blur. You follow Hwasa around until it is time to retire for the night, at which time the roles reverse and she follows you. She offers to help you unpack your suitcase, but you opt to leave it for tomorrow. There is a finality in unpacking that you are not yet ready to face, despite the suitcase remaining a symbol of your ability to leave at any time. You suppose it is complicated. You do, however, find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in the depths of your luggage that are not as soft and comfortable as the ones you had been pilfering from Yoongi over the last several months but cozy enough to make you feel slightly more relaxed. Then you hug Hwasa good night, allowing her to place a kiss on your cheek but feeling incapable of returning the gesture. 

Although the walls do a good job of keeping noise out, there is a faint, distant liveliness that can be heard from somewhere inside the hanok. You assume from the living room or possibly the dining room. 

You climb into the cold bed and pull the white comforter up to your ears. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. You consider calling Namjoon but decide against it, worrying you may ask him to come bring you home. After lying still for an indeterminate amount of time, you sigh, get out of bed, and retrieve the golden keys from the wooden bowl beside your door. 

The night is cold as you tiptoe in bare feet out into the courtyard, which is illuminated by string lights, light pollution, and a very bright moon. Although you clench the key to Hwasa's door, as you approach, you gently knock. It only takes a handful of seconds before a light turns on, and another handful until her door slides open. You enter without a word, wipe your feet off, and slide the door closed. Your keys jingle and slide into the basin of the wooden bowl.

Hwasa is barefaced and sleepy, and she smiles lopsided when she climbs into her bed and scoots to one side, facing you as you slip under the warm covers and nestle one arm under the pillow. Once you are settled, she rotates enough to shut off a small bedside lamp, shrouding you in darkness and the scent of flowers. Moments later, you are asleep.

* * *

The hanok is chaotic all day, from the moment you wake to the sounds of voices shouting excitedly, to the moment you stand before Hwasa's mirror wearing borrowed items, giving yourself one last look before setting off into the night. You hardly remember eating food, drinking coffee, and meeting women; your nerves have been alight at the knowledge that you will see your men one more time. One last time, you suppose, for the foreseeable future. It all makes your head spin, and you struggle to focus.

You wear the same asymmetrical little black dress that you wore the first day you met Yoongi—not because you find it amusing, although you do—but because you left behind all the dresses he bought you, and this is the only one you have that seems to fit the vibe of Serendipity. 

Hwasa has draped your neck and wrists in gold chains, and you wear borrowed gold daisies in your ears that don't quite match but that you are fond of. She and Ryujin give you the smoky eye look that Yoongi likes so much and pin your hair back away from your face. Borrowed fishnet tights make you feel a bit self-conscious, but you enjoy the way they look with your black loosely-laced boots. You wonder whether the men will recognize the bits of your outfit that you once wore or if they even noticed your dress at all on that first day.

Everyone else wears black and gold, Hwasa in a tight bodice top and pencil skirt with stiletto heels, and Ryujin in a long-sleeve cropped turtleneck and tight leggings with tall boots. Both women are adored in chains, earrings, bracelets, and rings, shimmering with each movement, with their dark hair pinned from their faces and hanging down their backs, Hwasa's falling in pretty waves and Ryujin's perfectly straight. 

Despite feeling excitement over seeing the men, you are also concerned about letting loose and feeling too comfortable, teetering continuously between wanting to stay and wanting to return to the mansion. As you take your medications followed by deep, slow breaths, you tell yourself to stop spiraling along this familiar train of thought. You know that it does you no good, and yet it loops endlessly. Finally, when everyone is ready and you feel like you have your shit as together as possible, you allow yourself to be ushered out to the long red SUV. 

The drive to Serendipity is so short you could have walked there. Perhaps in another life, you would not need armored vehicles driving you from one destination to another. What had it been like all those months ago to finally have a modicum of freedom? How difficult would it be to run away for real and return to a lifestyle bogged down by working night shift jobs that allow you to be your own person again?

Several security guards are stationed at the door, glowing in the bright red of the familiar sign that reads Serendipity overhead. Ryujin has informed you that only her people, Yoongi's people, and neutral parties to the families will be in attendance, with the exception of bartenders and dancers. So it surprises you when you enter the building and it is already packed. You recognize men from Yoongi's staff but do not see the family men or any of the security staff you have gotten to know. Hwasa veers away immediately with the promise of being right back, so you stick close to Ryujin. 

Last time you were here, Yoongi took you directly through dark hallways into a VIP space. This time, you enter the main floor. There is an open area with tables scattered throughout and a large bar on the left. A dancefloor is ahead in a semi-partitioned area, and the VIP section is raised to the far right, overlooking the dancefloor. Your gaze hangs on the VIP section, wondering whether your men are nestled away in those booths, bending low over piles of cocaine as Yoongi had you do—a memory that feels like an indoctrination of sorts into this lifestyle. But as far as you can tell, nobody is over there. 

Everything is made of unassuming dark wood and shiny silver metal. It is far less flashy than you would expect from someone like Yoongi, considering it was his bar first. Nothing stands out but the bars, dance cages, and open space, as if the only thing that is meant to be experienced here are the people who come to dance. Or, perhaps, the main draw is downstairs…the thought of which makes you shiver.

Throughout the space, there are raised platforms with bars similar to the dance cages at Paradise. Inside, dancers clad in almost nothing sway and twist to the sultry music that plays overhead. It seems that most attendees are in this first room and not yet on the dancefloor. They congregate around the tall tables and in groups. You scan the room over and over for someone who is more than just vaguely familiar from the Hanok or security teams and feel disappointed when you do not find anyone to run off to as Ryujin places a hand on the back of your right arm and ushers you toward the bar.

People step aside as you approach, giving you and Ryujin a wide berth while never breaking from their conversations. Some turn to bow their heads to Ryujin, but most carry on as if she is not there. Once you are at the bar, Ryujin holds up three fingers, and the tender nods and turns to the shelves, producing a bottle that appears to hold whiskey. 

"Your men are running late," she sighs as she glances at her phone before tucking it back into a pocket of her leggings. You feel relieved and disappointed at the same time. 

"MDMA for the ladies?" the bartender offers as they set down three glasses of whiskey. You reach for the center glass and glance around for the owner of the third, happy when you see Hwasa's smiling face approaching. 

"None for me," Ryujin says, but Hwasa chimes, "Yes, please!"  

The bartender produces a small brass decorative box. When they open it, a twinkling song plays, but its tune is lost to the music playing overhead. In the lid of the box is a mirror that reflects your chest, and spinning slowly before the mirror is the figure of a tiny ballerina in a little pink tutu. The box is filled with a white substance that appears to be a mix of powder and crystals, and you turn to watch as Hwasa licks her fingertip and sticks it directly into the substance, then pulls it out, inspecting the powder and small lumps of crystal that coat her fingertip. 

"It's fun," she says to you, eyebrows raised.

You nibble on the inside of your mouth, uncertain. The last time you did a similar drug with Jeongguk, you completely lost control of your emotions. But you were also in a more emotionally tumultuous state at the time, and you wonder whether doing it tonight might be different. 

"I, uh…I actually took some with Jeongguk not too long ago and I think it had an adverse effect."

Hwasa frowns and asks, "Was it exactly like this?"

You examine the dust and shake your head. "It was more of an…"

"Amethyst color?" Ryujin fills in over your shoulder. You nod, turning your head slightly toward her. 

"This stuff is a lot more pure," Hwasa says. "Amethyst was good, but it wasn't quite perfect. Of course, no pressure. But if you want to try a tiny bit, you can always return for more."

"Jeongguk mentioned it may have counteracted my antidepressants. But I was also in a really bad headspace." You feel like you are overexplaining, but truthfully, you are curious to try it again, especially if the women say this version is better than the one he had. 

"How much did you take?" Ryujin asks. 

"A small capsule," you say, turning to face her more fully. 

Ryujin gives a knowing nod. "There are several factors that go into play when taking a drug like this. A capsule could have been too high of a dose, and rather than make you feel euphoric, it overwhelmed you."

You certainly felt overwhelmed that night. And you wonder whether it was the combination of what was in your system that made everything go sour or the aftermath of what Jeongguk had said to you. Do you think you could fall for someone like me? A shutter works its way along your spine.

"I would like to try a little," you say, eager to feel the euphoria and body high that you had the last time before everything went south. 

You turn to Hwasa, whose finger is still coated in the drug. With a grin, she says, "This amount should only last about an hour or two. And the come-up and come-down are a lot smoother than they were with amethyst."

With a nod, you begin to lift a finger to your lips in order to wet the tip, but Hwasa beats you to it, holding her own close to your mouth. She raises an eyebrow, and you part your lips, feeling as self-conscious as you are excited to be given an invitation to suck on her finger. The substance is alarmingly sour, and your face puckers as you suck harder, doing your best to get all of it. Hwasa giggles, and when she removes her finger, you quickly pick up your whiskey and knock a mouthful back. As soon as you do so, you begin to worry that you are once again not in a good place to be doing drugs like this. But then you think of Yoongi and Namjoon, and warmth fills your chest, making it hard to imagine your night could turn sour. 

Perhaps it is the nerves of waiting for the drug to kick in, but you drink your whiskey a little too fast. It makes you feel light on your feet, especially considering you only snacked all day, not having much of an appetite in anticipation for tonight. You ask for water and are relieved when a large, cold glass is set before you. 

Hwasa and Ryujin both lean against the bar facing the main room, and you do the same, clenching the chilled glass as you rest your elbows against the bar top. You look between caged dancers, from glistening pecs and hard abs to soft curves. But your eyes trail to the front door the most, waiting for the men to arrive. It is not like Yoongi to be late, and the longer you wait, the more antsy you become. 

And then, slowly, you begin to feel the tingle. It starts in your fingertips but resonates in your chest, too. You feel a warmth work its way over you, but also a chill—it's hard to fully grasp. More than anything, you have an overwhelming feeling that something is missing. Or, rather, someones. Plural.  

Hwasa and a few of the women from Ryujin's home dance and giggle beside you. You continue to hold tight to the glass in your hands, eyes trailing back to the front entrance over and over. You would like to dance and sway and get to know the other women a little better, especially since they have stolen your pretty friend's attention. But you feel glued in place with a budding, blooming sense of enrapture and intrigue.

You sigh, drain the contents of your glass of water, and spin on your toes to lean against the bar and perceive a different, calmer perspective. As you set the glass down on the wooden bar top and stand taller in order to get the tender's attention, deciding that perhaps you would like more whiskey to take the edge off, two large, warm hands cover your eyes. 

"Guess who," a rich, playful male voice says, and you grin, lifting your hands to cover his long fingers. 

"Taehyung," you say, heart pounding, chest filling with warmth. 

His hands fall away, and you spin around quickly, unable to hold back glee at the sight of Taehyung standing before you. He is dapper in a deep purple suit with a gold brooch of a tiger on his lapel and a caduceus on his breast pocket, connected by two gold chains.

"Finally," you say, slamming forward into a hug that he hesitates to return. Your arms slide around his ribs, and you flay your fingers open against his back, breathing in his earthy, spicy cologne that carries floral notes reminding you of Jeongguk. You squeeze, and he chuckles as his arms engulf you, gently squeezing back. 

"I have a surprise for you," he says as you break the hug, keeping your arms loosely around his waist. 

It feels good to hug—really fucking good—and you do not want to stop. You tilt your head to the side, glancing up into his devious eyes. "A surprise?"

Taehyung's eyes study yours, then he leans close and says, "Your pupils are quite dilated. What are you on?"

"Molly," you admit somewhat sheepishly. "Not too much, though. Didn't want a repeat of last time."

Although you have not spoken with Taehyung about last time, you assume that Jeongguk has. He gives a knowing nod. 

"There are many factors that can cause someone to have a bad high," Taehyung explains, "one of which is allowing oneself to spiral into a negative thought loop. Sometimes even the best uppers struggle to fight against our demons. If you feel yourself going down that path, you can either do your best to reroute your thinking or remove yourself from the situation entirely."

You nod along, in appreciation of Taehyung's advice. However, it is all a bit too much—too stuffy, too serious—and you lose your patience for it. 

Grinning, you ask, "What's my surprise?"

Taehyung chuckles. "I left it somewhere secluded and secretive." He holds out a hand and adds, "Follow me?"

You take Taehyung's hand and allow him to tug you along. Intrigue and excitement simmer through you, pulsing to the beat of the music but also to that of your heart. The path he drags you through is a familiar one: dark curtains, a narrow hallway that leads to a red-lit stairwell snaking deep into the building. The last time you were here, things were so different. You were so new to this world. So inexperienced. 

What are you afraid of? Yoongi had asked, pressuring you into trying cocaine. Don't you trust me?

You shake the thought away, doing your best to remember what Taehyung said about keeping a positive mindset. After all, the visit here wasn't all that bad. The tone of his voice when he proudly proclaimed, that's my girl, made all of the pressure feel better. Things had gotten pretty exciting up until Namjoon called. Warmth snakes up your neck to your cheeks at the memory. Namjoon called, and Yoongi let him sit on the line while he finished eating you out. 

At the bottom of the stairs, all the black doors are closed but one, which is cracked ever so slightly open. A soft purplish glow shines in a sliver from the bottom and right side of the door at the far end of the hall. Your palm prickles with sweat in Taehyung's hand, and you do your best not to wobble, feeling the full force of excitement laced with joy. And then Taehyung halts in place halfway to the door. 

"Ah," he says, releasing your hand, "I nearly forgot."

In a swift movement, Taehyung removes a black piece of cloth from the breast of his jacket and places it over your eyes. Before you can so much as gasp, the cloth is tied tightly and he is taking your hand in his once more. 

"You may commence walking," he says before tugging you along, and you stumble somewhat, legs struggling to keep up. 

You think you hear voices, but then Taehyung snaps his fingers several times, louder than you have ever heard someone snap their fingers before. And then all you hear is the sound of downtempo music, footsteps, and your whooshing pulse. 

A door closes, and you are led further. Then you are stopped.  

"We thought it might be fun to play a game," Taehyung says as he lets go of your hand. You hear and feel him stepping away, possibly behind you, before two warm hands are placed on your shoulders. His voice is close to your right ear as he says, "A guessing game."

You smile widely. "And what do I win?"

There is a pause. Beside your left ear, he says, "Pleasure."

Goosebumps cover you and you let out a long, deep sigh, biting on your lower lip. Although you cannot see who is in the room, you can sense them. Colognes mingle in the air, all familiar, all filling you with desire. 

In your right ear, he asks, "Are you ready, mon chéri?" 

You swoon from the term of endearment, from the accent in which he utters it, from his closeness. Although your relationship with Taehyung differs from the others, you feel a deep sense of longing toward him—a kinship that extends just beyond the boundaries of something platonic.

"Yes," you say, breathy. Eager. 

Taehyung's hands tighten on your shoulders, and then he steps away, leaving you to stand alone, suddenly a bit cold. "Keep your hands at your sides at all times," he tells you.

You nod, smiling sweetly. 

"Yes, sir," he says in a commanding tone, and you let out a surprised gasp. 

You respond, "Yes, sir," but your voice is light and breathy. You expect him to reprimand you and tell you to speak louder, but he does not. 

"You are going to feel a touch," Taehyung says from just to your right, slightly behind you. "Perhaps you will detect a scent. You only have one guess per man. Answer incorrectly and they leave the room. Answer correctly, and they stay."

Leave the room? Anxiety swells knowing the stakes are so high. You swallow the lump that slowly forms in your throat and take a deep breath. You know your men. There is no way you are going to lose this game. 

"How many are there?" you ask, worried Seokjin, Hoseok, or Jimin could be lingering somewhere, ready to throw you off. 

Taehyung sighs, and you smile slightly.

"There are three, as well as myself. But I am not playing."

You nod and lick your lips. You can handle this, you tell yourself. This should be easy. 

"Let us begin," Taehyung says.

You stand up straight, rolling your shoulders back as if good posture will give you any sort of advantage. Something in the room seems to shift, and you hear the rustle of fabric but not shoes. Unfair, you think, determined that you would be able to identify Yoongi's walk, if not the others. 

Before you feel a touch, you detect a scent: spring morning, fresh and bright. You smile, lick your lips, and open your mouth, ready to greet Namjoon. But then you feel the backs of fingertips grazing your cheeks, and there is a musk that follows, which does not match the rest of the cologne. 

The touch is delicate, trailing from your temple to below your ear, down the length of your neck. Your head turns, chasing the touch and the scent before fingers fall away. Silence hangs as you stand and wait, unsure whether you should guess. And then those hands grip you by the hips from behind, large and warm and so familiar. 

As you inhale, thinking about all the times those hands have held you like this—all those times bent over and begging—you exhale and mutter through an aroused sigh, "Yoongi."

The fingers dig, grip tightening, and you picture his sharp, devious smile. And then the touch disappears, and you hear the rustling of more fabric. 

Two hands grip onto your hips from in front of you, and you can feel the heat radiate from him, sensing he has stepped very close. He leans and rests his forehead against yours, and the bouquet of scents is unmistakable. 

"Jeongguk," you declare, and the touch recedes completely. 

In the seconds that pass before you detect the same blend of colognes as before, you begin to worry you may have guessed incorrectly the first time. It seems clear that Yoongi and Namjoon are trying to trick you, and you are certain that Yoongi has touched you the way the first man had. But, as far as you know, Namjoon could have, too. The grip on your hips felt like Yoongi—of that, you are certain. You take a deep breath and do your best to calm your nerves, but the drug has you feeling antsy. 

Fingers cradle your chin, and you part your lips instinctively. Rather than a kiss, you feel the slow press of a thumb before the hand slides down, and the fingers splay across your throat. Typically, it is Yoongi who touches you this way, and you begin to panic, worrying more than ever that you chose the wrong man. 

But then you focus on the feeling of the hand. It is large, warm, soft, and familiar, but it is not Yoongi's hand. It slides away, and then two hands gently grab your ribs as if steadying you or readying you for a hug. You can tell these men are trying to trick you, but it is not going to work because you know these hands. 

"Namjoon," you say, voice broken behind the sudden urge to cry. 

Footsteps approach from behind—Taehyung, undoubtedly—and then the cloth is lifted from your eyes, and you are left blinking to adjust to the red and purple lights cast from various bulbs, focusing on Namjoon's beautiful smile. His muscles strain under a jacket that is too tight for him, and you giggle as you step forward, causing his hands to slide around your back as you lean close for a kiss. But you stop just before meeting his lips as you notice something is different.

"Your hair," you say as you reach a hand up and rub it over a short stubble. He has a buzzcut, even all around with neatly shaven edges. 

Namjoon nods slightly, but seems more interested in that kiss you interrupted than explaining the new look. He presses close, hums with pleasure, and holds you tight, licking firmly into your mouth in a way that nearly makes your knees buckle. You are too high to do anything but allow yourself to be tasted and touched, and as soon as he breaks the kiss, you mutter, "Does this mean I've won?"

Yoongi approaches from the right, stepping behind you and placing his large hands on your hips. You lean into him, smiling at Namjoon as Yoongi says, "You even saw through our parlor trick."

You pout, raising a hand to gently slap it over Namjoon's pec. He holds your hand in place, sandwiching you between their two bodies while two sets of lips claim your shoulders and neck. 

"We had faith in you," Namjoon teases, making you feel all the more petulant. 

You whine, "But what if I guessed wrong?"

Yoongi nips at your neck, forcing you to giggle and close your eyes. His voice is barely above a growl as he says, "Then you would have fucked Jeongguk while Namjoon and I took another room." 

"Not funny," you whimper as hands rove your sides, grazing below your breasts and squeezing at your hips. You feel so good, but you also want to cause as much trouble as possible for these two. "I've missed you."

Fingertips cradle your chin, guiding you to turn your head to the right. 

"What's the matter, doll?" Jeongguk asks, "Didn't you miss me?"

Your eyes blink open to find Jeongguk scowling at you. His satin leopard print shirt is unbuttoned below his pecs, and you allow your eyes to fall, taking in each hint of skin you can see. It is apparent that he is trying to appear angry, but his gaze is soft, almost loving. 

Do you think you could fall for someone like me?

You push the thought away and reach an arm just far enough to hook a finger on Jeongguk's slacks and pull him close. As he stumbles and looms over you, you grin, tilting your chin toward him, wishing you could stretch yourself a little taller. 

Jeongguk chuckles and leans in just close enough to press your lips together. You want more, straining toward him, but then he backs away and begins to fully unbutton his shirt. 

"Our buttercup is high on molly," Taehyung announces, met with a chorus of hums and gasps. You bite your lip and sheepishly nod, eyes on the large swath of Jeongguk's bare stomach and chest. 

"How high are you?" Yoongi groans against your neck.

Your eyes flutter closed from his touch, and you press your ass against him. Although you had somewhat forgotten about the molly, now you feel it absolutely shimmering through you. "Quite high."

Namjoon presses himself close and licks over your lips, then asks, "I bet you're pretty turned on, then, hmm?"

You smile. "How could I not be?"

"I have just the thing," Taehyung says as he walks past you to the center of the room. He disappears behind Namjoon, then reappears with a step stool that he places down and begins to climb. 

Only now do you realize that there is something on the ceiling, which Taehyung unravels with quick movements. You have to heavy-blink several times to realize it is a sex swing. 

"Undress her," Taehyung says.

Namjoon grins wide and devious, then says, "Yes, sir," just loud enough.

Two sets of hands make quick work unzipping your dress and yanking it—pushing it to the floor. You wobble and stumble as you step out of your boots and socks, clinging to Namjoon's shoulders while Yoongi, on his knees, assists you. Standing in only fishnets and panties, you feel simultaneously warm and cold as Yoongi stands, trailing his fingertips up the backs of your legs. He hooks his fingers into the netting of your borrowed stockings right in the crotch and roughly rips a hole in them, making you tremble and gasp. 

"Fuck, I have missed you," Yoongi growls, hands roughly gripping your hips. Namjoon nods, eyes roving your body hungrily. 

"On the swing," Taehyung instructs. "On your back."

Namjoon turns and leads you toward the swing. It looks like nothing more than an amalgamation of straps, and you watch as he clumsily lifts and attempts to sort them. With an exasperated huff, Taehyung steps forward, grabs onto the contraption, and simply presents it in a way that looks like a swing. You are surprised and amused, and you turn, stepping close to it and allowing Taehyung to lift you into it. 

You giggle, and your head spins as your legs are maneuvered through straps and spread. It feels strange to trust these bits of rough fabric to hold you up, and you grip onto two sturdy straps that are connected to the ceiling brace while the swing is adjusted beneath you, and you are gradually convinced that it is safe to lie back. 

"Darling," Yoongi teases through a chuckle as he unbuttons his dress shirt. "You look so worried. Relax."

You watch intently, chest heaving with each breath. Although you are eager for the events that are transpiring, you are also very high, verging on feeling overwhelmed. Not to mention, your heart feels ripped into warring halves—one part wanting to experience Yoongi and Namjoon again, and the other worried that it is a very bad idea. 

Yoongi's black shirt is untucked from his slacks and slid off his broad shoulders by Namjoon, whose eyes are on you. He gently drapes the shirt over the edge of the large bed to your left, then returns, unbuttoning his cufflinks while Yoongi steps forward and gets down on his knees. It is difficult to keep your eyes on him; your eyelids flutter with the urge to close them and become lost to the drugs. But you remain as laser-focused as possible. 

"Fuck," Yoongi says as he roughly spreads your legs, warm, calloused fingers yanking fabric to the side and digging into soft skin. "You have no idea how much I have missed this."

You open your mouth to say me too, but the first syllable is lost to the feeling of Yoongi's tongue against your clit. A loud moan rolls from your lips, chased by an intense wave of pleasure that courses through your limbs, causing your head to fall. Yoongi does not give you a chance to catch your breath, sucking and licking while making the most depraved sounds—groaning like a man who is finally satiated after days of fasting. Pleasure builds quickly, and you can already imagine the deep, pleased laugh he makes before teasing you for cuming too quickly. 

The sound of a zipper causes you to open your eyes, and you find your head, which is hung back in ecstasy, level with Namjoon's crotch. Reluctantly, you reach back, gasping both from pleasure and the feeling of the swing shifting and swaying from the movement. 

Yoongi, either helpful, impatient, or both, grips your thighs tightly, holding you in place. You rub your hands over the sides of Namjoon's legs, licking your dry lips, wishing you had water. Namjoon lets his slacks slide down, and the fabric tumbles to the ground. A particularly slow lap over your cunt causes you to shiver and moan, losing focus on the prize above your semi-upside-down head, and Namjoon chuckles as he palms the tight dark cloth over his growing erection. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you lean back, head fully upside down, sinking into the pleasure that claws at you so fiercely, you are moments away from bursting. Clothing rustles, metal clangs, and you feel hands on your legs and ankles lifting and spreading you while Yoongi continues to suck and lick. It is clear that you are being restrained, with fabric encircling your ankles and keeping them suspended high. When you open your eyes and attempt to take in the scene, you realize you are tilted back too far to see Yoongi's head between your legs. Instead, you see Jeongguk towering over him. 

Fingers breach your entrance, sliding easily despite the tight sting, causing you to whimper. Yoongi's thick knuckles graze deliciously past your walls, and as you relax to his intrusion, his tongue and lips match the steady pace of his hand, bringing you crashing instantly with orgasm. Your head falls back hanging as you squeal and gasp, so overcome with bliss that you feel the urge to crawl out of your skin. You tremble wildly, held tightly in place as your legs yank against their restraints. Yoongi does not slow or stop, and you find yourself gasping for breath and practically screaming from pleasure. 

"That's it, doll," Jeongguk practically growls, voice deep and lust-laced. "Make a fucking mess of him."

Only now do you hear the release squelching wetly from you with the movement of Yoongi's hand. Liquid sprays on your thighs, and you gulp for air, no longer able to moan, simply heaving each breath in and out of your tired lungs. 

Yoongi removes his mouth and slides his fingers free. When he stands, you notice his mouth glistening, and he makes a show of licking you from his fingers with a hum. Namjoon, who is nude, thick cock erect and level with your face, steps around the swing, meeting Yoongi halfway, and licks your cum from his chin and lips. They kiss deeply, hungrily, lapping your taste from one another, and you watch reverently, wishing for one of them to kiss you in that way—too need you in that way. How is it, you wonder, that you can be practically nude, restrained, covered in your own cum, and the center of attention, and still feel such a deep, aching sense of loneliness and dread?

The feeling fades as skin rubs over your cunt, soft yet firm. You turn your head, slowly as if in a dream, and find Jeongguk standing between your legs with his satin leopard shirt unbuttoned and his slacks open, cock standing erect between the parted zipper. He glares down at you like an animal who has caught his prey, and you part your lips to take a deep, eager breath, feeling at a loss for words. 

"May I?" Jeongguk asks, rubbing his cockhead over you once more—undoubtedly the sensation you felt moments ago. 

You nod, head turning once more to watch Yoongi and Namjoon paw at one another, connected at the lips, then return your gaze to Jeongguk. He stares down at you as if in waiting, so you croak out a soft, "Please."

"Please, what?" Jeongguk asks. 

Licking your lips, you notice Taehyung standing over Jeongguk's shoulder, dark eyes on you. You are high enough that you wonder whether he would like to fuck you, as well. And with a lift of one of his eyebrows, you wonder whether he has somehow just read your mind, although it is more likely that he is encouraging you to answer Jeongguk.

"Please fuck me," you finally say to Jeongguk, though you have failed to rip your gaze from Taehyung. His hands are nowhere to be seen, and you can't help but imagine him touching himself to the sight of you. 

"Slowly," Taehyung says, eyes on you. "Make her beg a little more."

Jeongguk grins, responds with a sharp, "Yes, sir," and steps forward. His cock rubs against you again, grazing over your clit before catching on your entrance, and you hold your breath in anticipation. Only he does not press forward. He does not enter you. Instead, he stands watching you with a hint of a grin that spells trouble. And you are not too proud to beg. 

"Jeongguk," you mutter, wiggling in the swing, doing your best to push yourself forward but doing nothing that helps your cause whatsoever. "Please."

"Please, wh—"

"Fuck me!" you practically scream. 

Jeongguk chuckles, as does Taehyung. To your right, where Yoongi and Namjoon had been connected at the lips, the shapes and shadows of them move to stand behind you. 

"Please," you say again, knitting your brow, attempting to hold your head up despite how tired your neck feels. You hold eye contact as well as you can manage, but your eyelids flicker against your will. "Please fuck me. I need you."

Hands reach and grab your breasts—tan, lithe fingers; Namjoon's hands. He squeezes you firmly and rolls your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, causing you to exhale and almost drop your head. You want to feel full so badly, and you wish Jeongguk would cave. 

"I said go slow and make her beg," Taehyung says as his hands snake around Jeongguk's waist and rub over his chest and stomach, "not leave her empty and desperate."

Jeongguk's eyes fall to your cunt, where he rubs himself languidly over you, teasing your parted lips and ghosting over your hole. He appears hypnotized, staring down at you, barely moving. This makes Taehyung snicker and paw a little more aggressively at his chest. 

"If you won't fuck her, I'm sure someone else will," Taehyung says, gaze roving between your pussy and your face. "You don't want to lose your chance, do you, baby?"

You attempt to read his expression, wondering whether he is insinuating that he will be the one to finally fill you the way you need—a thought that you are not sure you should be having but that the drugs will not let you let go of. Neck tired, you drop your head back and shiver, feeling suddenly cold. You begin to become acutely aware of how untouched and naked you are. Even Namjoon's hands have moved away from your chest, leaving you on display. 

"Please, someone," you complain, sounding whinier than you want. You shiver harder, each second seeming to pull you down from your high and cover you in a mist of freezing discomfort. "Touch me."

Warm hands press to your forehead and face, and you look up to see Yoongi leaning over you. His brow is knit, outgrown hair hanging prettily in his face. "Are you coming down?" He asks. 

You nod. You must be; the jittery discomfort is impossible to ignore, and the euphoria feels dull. 

"Hang on, Ggeuk," Yoongi says as he disappears. He rummages through some fabric and reappears. "This is the same as the shit you took upstairs," he says, then, "Open," and you do as you are told, opening your mouth with an exaggerated ahhh sound. The powder that hits your tongue is intensely bitter and antiseptic tasting, causing you to cringe and pucker, desperately gathering all the saliva you can in your mouth and swallowing it down. 

Namjoon, however, takes your mouth and prises it open, then leans close and dribbles cold water from his lips to yours. When and where Namjoon produced water, you are unsure, but you open wide, accepting his offering graciously, allowing it to drip down your throat, taking traces of the unpleasant flavor with it. 

"More?" he asks, and you nod, still feeling the lingering drugs on your tongue. Namjoon lifts a glass to his lips, fills his mouth, and then leans close, allowing it to spittle out and onto your tongue. 

Once Namjoon is finished, he stands and takes a step back. Yoongi steps close and, taking advantage of how wide open your mouth still is, begins to tap the head of his cock against your tongue. You attempt to open wider—attempt to move closer—reaching back in the hopes of grabbing onto him and moving him near enough to allow you to suck his dick. However, even he seems eager to tease, and he keeps himself just out of reach. You whimper and moan, mouth lolled open. Namjoon chuckles and reaches once more to paw at your breasts, keeping his beautifully erect cock too far from reach, as well. 

"You guys are the worst," you pout, closing your mouth to Yoongi's teasing and jutting out your bottom lip instead. 

"Alright," Yoongi chuckles, reaching for your jaw. "No more teasing. Jeonggukah, fuck her right now or Namjoon will take your place."

You miss whatever snarky remark Jeongguk says in favor of loudly saying, "Finally!" 

Hands grip your thighs, and you are speared unceremoniously and somewhat unyieldingly on Jeongguk's thick, hard cock. The sensation makes you squeal, involuntarily bucking your hips, and he grips tightly, forcing you to take his entire length all at once. 

"Fuck," you pant, mouth hung open and attempting to angle your head upward to watch Jeongguk fuck you. But your head is held in place as two fingers press down on your tongue, causing drool to pool before those fingers are replaced with a dick. 

Suddenly, you are too full, worked from both ends—gently on one end and rather roughly on the other. You attempt to breathe and relax as your throat is slowly but eagerly opened and fucked, all the while Jeongguk's thighs slam against you in a rhythm that jostles you and causes you to deepthroat who you presume to be Yoongi.

Had Taehyung's earlier game been testing whether you would be able to tell the difference between their dicks in your mouth with you down on your knees, you think you would have easily won. You think you would know any part of them inside any part of you. But at this angle, unable to even properly see the legs of the man who holds you so tenderly but eagerly, with Jeongguk pounding into you like a ravenous beast, you are stumped. Everyone in the room seems to be moaning and gasping, and you imagine that whoever's dick is not in your mouth is in someone else's hand, judging by the sound of skin rubbing against skin. The hands on either side of your face could be mismatched; in this position you are unable to guess.

As the head of the mystery cock presses even deeper into your throat, however, seemingly stretching and opening you in a new, exciting way, the shattered, blissful sound that rips out belongs to Yoongi, and all at once, you are certain that it must be him. And then he pulls out, trailing long strings of saliva from deep in your throat that turn cold the second they hit the air and fall against your chin and down to the floor, bringing Yoongi's paler thighs into view. You gasp for air but allow fingers to press against your tongue. Only now are you able to fully focus on the way your pussy is stretched and pounded so well, and you moan unabashedly, your body quaking its way toward another orgasm. 

It occurs to you that you must be high again, but this time from cocaine. The powder Yoongi dropped onto your tongue certainly tasted like the molly you had earlier, but also something else—a combination, no doubt.

Yoongi's hand grips your neck and holds your head up at an angle that allows you to fully see Jeongguk. He is naked and covered in sweat, fingers digging into your skin, and he looks stunning as he fucks you as hard as he seems able to. As the hand presses against your throat and another hand belonging to Namjoon snakes through the straps of the swing and begins to rub over your clit, you explode from pleasure. 

Jeongguk's expression widens from alarm and pleasure, and he has to keep from getting pushed out of your cunt as wave after wave crashes over you. When he finally does pull out, he is sprayed with your release, giving you only seconds to scream from the intense orgasm that Namjoon urges out with his swirling fingertips before Jeongguk's cock is back inside you, slamming hard. 

Only when Jeongguk pulls out and takes a step back do you see Taehyung in the shadows down on his knees. He opens his lips, and Jeongguk slides his glistening cock inside, moaning as Taehyung finishes him off, swallowing his cum. You spiral on the thought of Taehyung also tasting you but are distracted by Namjoon stepping in front of the scene, stroking his cock and looking down at the mess that is your spread, dripping pussy. 

You expect him to fuck you, but he falls to his knees to lap over your cunt and thighs. He prods three long fingers inside you, and you sigh against the hand still at your throat, lost to bliss. It is incredible how easily you cum, even as your high begins to build once more and the tingling nearly feels like too much to bear. When Yoongi's hand lifts from your throat, you feel somehow dizzier, watching as he steps around the swing to join Namjoon on his knees. 

Everything is a momentary blur as Namjoon and Yoongi take turns between your legs, using their lips, tongues, and hands to make you unravel past the point of becoming non-verbal. You are vaguely aware of hands on your face, throat, and breasts, feeling the presence of Jeongguk behind you at times and beside you at others. The only constant is Taehyung standing ahead, in shadow, watching. 

You take Jeongguk's cock in your throat and drool shamelessly, making as much of a mess as the men between your legs are. In waves, you feel pleasure acutely, bursting through each inch of you, only for it to dull out while you focus on opening your throat as far as it will go. It feels like a dream the way you are touched and used; the dim red and purple lights seem to streak each time you open your eyes. 

It is only when your legs are released from the restraints and you are forced to sit up that you feel fully in your body once more and aware of the room and its inhabitants. You hum questioningly and wipe drool from your chin as the straps are moved from beneath you, and you are made to place your feet on the floor in a squatting position.

Below you, Namjoon lies back against the carpet, atop what looks like a bedsheet, and he reaches up to take you by the hips and pull you down. You spear easily on his thick, hard cock, gripping onto the straps of the swing that connect to the ceiling high above your head on either side for stability, and use your leverage to lift and lower yourself. Namjoon meets you halfway, thrusting his hips upward, and the sensation pulls a raspy moan from your mouth—the first sound you have made in a while. 

You bounce eagerly on his dick, lost in the movement while your head lols, and you moan unabashedly, so full and at such an incredible angle. Hands paw at your breasts and face, and you open your eyes to find Yoongi to your left, cock leaking and eager. Your lips are sore from stretching around cocks, but you are happy to comply, sucking him only half as deep as you would like but humming and moaning and drooling just for him.

Namjoon holds you in place by the hips and fucks hard and fast, causing you to drop Yoongi from your mouth and scream through an intense, dizzying orgasm. Yoongi gets onto the floor in time to lap over your cunt and make you quake from overwhelming pleasure, and then you feel Namjoon's hips still as he fills you with his hot release.

Your legs shake as you are pulled to your feet and maneuvered. You release the straps of the swing and barely catch sight of the bed before you are bent over the edge of the mattress with one large hand pressing the side of your face firmly against the comforter. 

"Yes, please," you beg, desperate for the way Yoongi holds you down and makes you his. 

"Please, what?" he asks, voice low and close, breath hot against your face. 

"Fuck me, Yoongi. Please."

You feel the tip of his cock graze over your entrance, catching on the stretched and ripped fishnet fabric that once covered you. Your lips open and close, dragging over the soft bedding, unable to fully voice your need and desire. It almost feels unfair that you should get to enjoy him last. 

"You miss my cock this much?" he asks, and you realize you have been grinding your ass against him like a bitch in heat. 

You nod, winning you a smack against the ass that stings enough to make you squeal. Yoongi squeezes the spot where he slapped and says, "Use your words," in a sharp, commanding tone. 

"Yes, sir," you whine. "I've missed your cock. Please. Please, please."

Yoongi lessens the press of your face but keeps his hand on your cheek, holding you in place, showing you that it is he who calls the shots. He rubs his cock over your hole and then presses slow and deep, forcing you to gasp and tremble. You feel sore and used, but you are desperate for more—for him. There is a part of you that is glad it is only the two of you in this moment.

Yoongi starts slowly with one hand on your face and the other on your ass, spreading you. He pulls and pushes in long strokes that you feel each and every inch of, driving you absolutely insane with want. Then he lifts his hand from your face, making you acutely aware of the fact that you had been drooling a cold spot onto the blanket. Both hands find your hips, and you lift your head in time for Yoongi to snap forward, making your back bow with pleasure. 

He fucks you hard and fast, a delicious rhythm that you know by heart. You grip onto the comforter and keep your head lifted, letting out each desperate sound that crawls up your throat, eager for Yoongi to know just how good he makes you feel. He lifts one hand and wraps his fingers around your throat, and you see stars, vision blacking as your eyelids flutter closed and you chase a long, rolling orgasm that seems to build and crash, over and over, until your legs are shaking and your body falls limp.

Yoongi continues to use you, slapping and squeezing your ass. "So fucking perfect for me," he moans, thighs crashing against you in loud slaps that burst loudly in the otherwise quiet room. 

You nearly forget that it is not just the two of you in existence, that there are other bodies in this room, more bodies upstairs, infinite other bodies in the world. The urge to cry builds and breaks, tears wetting your cheeks and the blanket as Yoongi's thrusts slow into deep rolls, filling you so perfectly. Yoongi must have given you more of the drug cocktail than you managed to suck from Hwasa's fingertip the first time because you feel more high than you have all night. Immensely high. High in a way that makes you question whether you have ever loved another person as much as you love Min Yoongi—in this moment, but in the soft, quiet moments, as well. 

Yoongi moans and digs his fingers into your skin, then he cums deep inside you. Rather than pull out, he lies forward, draping his body over yours, panting against you, and pressing you forward. It is awkward the way your bodies are bent, and it makes you giggle. Yoongi chuckles in return, then slowly begins to stand. He presses his lips to your neck and shoulders, then his warmth retreats, leaving behind sweat that turns cold and makes you shiver. 

It occurs to you that you will need to move, and you groan. The thought of standing—of using your legs at all—feels impossible. Luckily, a warm hand presses against your lower back, and Namjoon's deep, sweet voice instructs you to stay where you are. A warm cloth rubs over your sore cunt, and you jolt before relaxing into the touch. He wipes you down, then leans close and kisses your neck and shoulder similar to the way Yoongi had. 

Yoongi and Namjoon—wearing black slacks but no shirts, glistening with a sheen of sweat—assist you with getting fully naked before gathering your clothing. You are given a dry, clean pair of panties, which Yoongi pulls from the pocket of his jacket, flashing a sheepish grin as he tucks the soiled pair in their place. The stockings are ruined and tossed aside, and Yoongi apologizes for not knowing to bring another set.

"You owe Hyejin," you say with a raised eyebrow, attempting to seem upset about the inconvenience to your friend but unable to keep from smiling. 

You realize now that Taehyung and Jeongguk are gone, and you wonder whether they are in another room or have gone back up to the party. You mean to ask, but you are still too floaty to focus on anything but the hands on your body, zipping your dress and stepping each foot into socks and boots. As Yoongi slides his arms into a black satin shirt, you lean half-sitting against the bed, watching him. You have missed those hands, that hair, those muscles. Everything about him. And yet, you are frozen in a limbo of sorts, even now hesitating to reach out and touch him. 

His jacket is draped over the end of the bed to your right, and you watch as he walks past, picks it up, and puts it on. You feel mesmerized by his presence, by the slight ringing in your ears, by your body continuing to fully return to itself. You are unsure whether it is the drugs or the sex, or likely both, but you feel as if you are still somewhat tethered to your corporeal form but not fully inhabiting it. 

Yoongi runs his hands down his front, smoothing down his jacket, then turns to hand Namjoon his. They lean close, smile sweetly, and share a soft, slow kiss. Then Yoongi pulls his phone from his slacks pocket, thumbs around, and smiles. 

"Tae wants the stash," he says. 

Finally, you ask, "Where did they go?"

"Next door," Namjoon replies as he straightens his jacket, which covers a black satin shirt matching the one Yoongi wears. 

Yoongi steps forward and uses his fingertips to tilt your chin upward. You expect a kiss and part your lips, but Yoongi uses his thumbs to rub at what you imagine is very smeared makeup. Once he is satisfied, he hums and places a kiss against the tip of your nose. He attempts to step back, dropping his hands from your face, but you are unsatisfied, and you grab onto the lapels of his jacket, yanking him toward you with a force that makes the two of you stumble.

"Not so fast," you mutter before your lips meet. You sigh into the feeling and continue to grip his jacket, relaxing only as Yoongi's arms encircle your waist and pull you close.

He deepens the kiss, and tears streak down your cheeks, hot and fast. You chase his tongue, licking, tasting him, tasting yourself, drowning in this moment, in him. And then your tears turn into sobs, and you break the kiss and fall into Yoongi's chest. You tell yourself that it is just the drugs, that you are simply overwhelmed, but you know that is not the full truth. You love him. You miss him. As much as all of this has been an incredible reprieve, the thought of letting him go again feels like a nightmare. 

But what could be a greater nightmare than witnessing your friend get shot, than feeling the crushing weight of another vehicle slamming into yours, than the popping crunch of bullets meeting glass and polycarbonates? Your heart feels ripped in two, and you catch your breath, shaking your head as two deep, concerned voices ask whether you are alright, then attempting to nod, knowing that the gesture is unconvincing. 

"This has all been a lot for you," Namjoon says, warm thumbs stroking your cheeks. You open your eyes to find his sad smile shining toward you and collapse into his chest, still partially in Yoongi's hold. 

The two of them softly shush and stroke you, telling you that you are safe and loved, that they are sorry for how intense everything has become, how they should have known you would need more aftercare. 

"Want to go back to the hanok?" Yoongi offers. "A dip in the tub might be good for you."

You think about Yoongi and Namjoon in Ryujin's home, and your stomach roils. Everything has been significantly too strange, and that might make matters worse. And there are still people upstairs who you would like to spend time with. One in particular who you feel like you haven't seen in many lifetimes.

"No," you insist, catching your breath. "You're right, it got too intense. I just needed to come back to earth a little more."

Despite being antsy to leave this room that smells like sweat and cum, they continue to comfort you a little longer. It feels nice, and you tilt your head in a way that urges a soft, sweet kiss from Namjoon. Then the three of you finally bid this room farewell, and you walk into the hallway, hand in hand with Yoongi on your left and Namjoon on your right. 

Only, Yoongi pulls away at the first door on the left and knocks, digging into his pocket and pulling out a silver vial that is similar to the one he wears on a chain around his neck, but larger. You wait a beat, breathing deeply in an attempt to get your bearings. At some point, the high must have plateaued because you can feel yourself coming down again, and this time, you are certain that you do not need more powders floating around in your bloodstream. 

The door swings open, and you are shocked to see Taehyung standing in only a pair of dark briefs. His hair is tousled, body is covered in sweat, and there are deep scratches down his chest and arms that are raised and red. Yoongi hands the vial over, which Taehyung takes, nodding his thanks. You look past Taehyung to see a nude Jeongguk in the middle of the room, restrained to a sex swing but standing—well, swaying—with his body limp and head drooped forward. He, too, has deep welts scratched down his arms and chest, as well as other red marks that suggest impact play of some kind.

"He just needs a little pick-me-up," Taehyung says with a wink before disappearing into the room and shutting the door behind him. You remain standing with your mouth agape until Yoongi takes you by the hand, and you are led back upstairs.

Namjoon excuses himself to the restroom, and you consider following, self-conscious about the way you must look after what has taken place. You trust that Yoongi will not bring you back upstairs with messy hair and makeup, but you imagine you must have cried and rubbed off every last trace of eyeshadow and mascara. Still, you are more eager to have a drink in hand and continue with Yoongi into the main hall. 

Your legs tremble as you make your way to the party, and a jolt of fear rips through you at the sight of the man standing behind the bar who looks suspiciously like Christian, causing your step to falter. Yoongi clocks the movement, turning to you with a hum, and you look over to him, to his curious gaze, then ahead, opening your mouth to tell him what you see. Only, you do not see Christian. The bartender has shaggy dark hair and wears all black, but otherwise looks like every other man in the building. Hell, in a dark enough room, with long enough hair, Jeongguk could look enough like Christian to give you pause. 

You chuckle and smile softly, doing your best to play it off. "Just a little shaky from the come-down."

Yoongi hums again, accepting your answer as the two of you continue your approach to the bar. Seokjin, Hoseok, and Jimin stand along the rightmost edge, drinks in hand. Jimin faces you with his elbows against the bar between Seokjin and Hoseok, who seem to be speaking to and around him. They all wear tan suits—Seokjin's and Hoseok's a darker shade with beige ties and burgundy shirts. Jimin's suit is lighter, fitted tighter, and he wears what appears to be a satin ascot tucked into a white shirt with its top two buttons undone and burgundy  suede loafers. 

As you approach, you notice a glazed-over darkness in Jimin's eyes, and you have to wonder whether he has partaken in the drugs. He smiles lazy and open, pushing off the bar and turning momentarily to shove his glass of clear liquid into Seokjin's free hand. Seokjin scoffs as if Jimin's action inconveniences him, but his eyes are soft and loving as he shakes his head and continues his conversation with Hoseok, double-fisting his and Jimin's drinks

A sexy R&B song plays overhead, and Jimin's hips dip and sway as he approaches. You watch his movements, impressed with how fluid and delicate he can be. He lifts his hands when you are close enough and runs fingertips of both hands gently over your temples, to your cheeks, and along your neck. A shiver works its way down your spine, and you grin through slightly clattering teeth. The ascot around his neck has a pretty floral pattern and you feel the urge to touch it.  

"Need more molly, dove?" Jimin asks.

You shake your head, unsure whether you can handle the come-up and come-down again after all that has transpired downstairs—especially given your emotional state, although your nerves seem to have calmed a bit since your episode downstairs.

"Coke?" he offers, pulling a chain around his neck and revealing a large silver cross with roses inlaid all around it. 

With a chuckle, you nod. You have no evidence to support the claim, but you feel like cocaine might even you out. Or it could make you worse. Still, you accept when Jimin unscrews the top of the cross and produces a small spoon connected to his chain that is already full of white powder. You lean close and lift your hand to delicately hold his hand in place and snort the drug into your right nostril. Jimin retrieves one more spoonful, and you repeat the motion on the left side. All the while, Yoongi holds onto your right hand. 

"So," Jimin says, leaning to rest his forehead against yours and speaking as he snorts two small piles of coke and then replaces the spoon. "Yoongi's scar…he won't tell me how it all went down, and you know I will die if I don't have all the gossip."

Yoongi's hold on your hand loosens and falls away, and you attempt to look his way, but you are stuck in place as Jimin's arms snake around your waist. 

"Whiskey, darling?" Yoongi asks, leaning close. 

You try to nod and mutter, "Yes, please. Thank you."

Once he walks away, you sigh and lift your arms to wrap around Jimin. He sways slightly to the music, and you mirror his movements, unable to resist. 

"Are you sure you want to recount that night?" you ask. 

Jimin hums and nods. You can't see much, but you can see him smile. 

You sigh. "After you were shot, I went into a rage." Emotions build, trembling as they fill your chest. Your voice wavers as you say, "Jimin, I lost my fucking mind."

Jimin's arms tighten, and he pulls you into a hug, resting his chin on your shoulder. You sigh and smile, wrapping him in a tight embrace. It is hard not to lament the fact that he has finally woken up and you are not in Seoul to spend time with him. You miss him dearly, and all the chaos that is Paradise. 

Once the hug loosens, you both stand straight, hands still on each other's hips. Jimin sways and heavy-blinks, and you wonder why he is so content wasting his high on this moment when he could be on the dancefloor or tangled downstairs with someone on one of the beds. When he giggles, his entire face lights up. 

"Doll…I don't know what this has to do with his scar."

At this, you swallow thickly and rapidly blink. The cocaine is hitting, and you have to take in a deep breath.  

"Just listen," you say, then swallow again. Jimin frowns. "After you were…" you trail off, unable to say it again. 

Jimin raises his eyebrows, slowly and clearly saying, "Shot."

You let out a breath that is halfway to laughter and nod, causing him to smile in return. "Yes, well, I emptied my clip in the guy's face." Jimin's eyes widen and he gasps. "I'm sure I looked insane just shooting a dead man in the head over and over and…"

The song switches to something slightly more upbeat and Jimin sways harder. You struggle with the mental image of the man on the ground with six bullets turning his face into a pile of gore. The sound of flesh, blood, and bone becoming pulp with each shot echoes in your mind and you swallow thickly, then look over Jimin's shoulder, nodding to Yoongi. You need that drink. 

Yoongi, who leans against the bar between Namjoon on his left and Seokjin and Hoseok on his right, nods once and steps forward, holding a glass of whiskey in each hand. You wonder whether he has stood there just like that this entire time waiting for your signal. Has he been watching you? What must he think, knowing you feel so deeply for him despite being unwilling to return to his home? Does this, too, open a deep scar on his heart matching the one over his eye?

You stand a bit straighter as Yoongi approaches, and Jimin mirrors you then slowly pulls away, giving you distance. He continues to dance, but there is a faraway look in his eye as you reach past him for the drink in Yoongi's hand. 

"Mind if I cut in?" Yoongi asks.

Jimin steps closer, pulling you tight once more, causing your fingers to slip away from the glass that is thankfully still held tightly in Yoongi's grasp. 

"Yes, I fucking mind," Jimin says in a snarky tone. You continue to reach for the drink. "She was entreating me with the wonderfully harrowing tale of how you got that pretty little battle scar, since you won't tell me."

Yoongi groans and rolls his eyes, attempting a smile. But you can tell that there is something else in that expression. Something he does his best to tamp down and keep out of sight. He hands you his drink and nods a little bow before returning to the bar. 

"Touchy subject?" Jimin teases.

You frown, "Well, I was the one who gave him the scar."

Jimin's hold on you drops at the same time his mouth falls open. Suddenly, you want to curl in on yourself, but you opt to lift the whiskey to your lips and take a nice slow swig, instead. It burns against your tongue, much stronger and more flavorful than what you had been drinking earlier in the evening, and it takes you a moment to gather yourself and continue your story. 

"As I said, you were shot and I lost my mind. First, I emptied my clip into the man's head. Then, out of anger over having no more bullets, I tried to bludgeon him with the butt of the gun. But Namjoon caught me and dragged me away, and my weapon was confiscated."

You pause again to take a sip, doing your best to read the expression on Jimin's face. It seems to be a mix of shock and sadness, but also something akin to admiration.

"I was still in a rage, and so I reached for the switchblade that Jeongguk and Taehyung gifted me, which was in a garter on my thigh." You watch as Jimin's expression deepens, and against your will, tears begin to form in your eyes. You rapidly blink, doing your best not to let them fall, and as you continue, your voice wavers. "I took out the knife and attempted to lunge forward. Namjoon caught my hand and pulled it back, and tip must have—"

You remember the way the blade caught and snagged; the way blood leaked between Yoongi's fingers. With a gulp, you finish your drink. Jimin thumbs at the tears you are unable to prevent from falling, then takes your hand and leads you out of the main room and into the hallway, near the restrooms. It is dark and a bit quieter, and he pulls your empty glass from your hand, then wraps you in a hug.

Although you do not feel the urge to fully cry, you lean into the hug and breathe deeply, allowing the tears that have formed to fall. Jimin's hands—which are free of drinkware, and you are unsure how—rub over your shoulders and neck. After a long moment of breathing in Jimin's cologne and settling your heart, you nod and Jimin breaks the hug. You feel exhausted by this night. 

Jimin takes your hand and pulls you into the restroom, which is too brightly lit for comfort, making you squint. He pulls a tube of mascara from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and tilts your face toward him, making you smile. "I spoke to Ryujin about bringing you to Paradise some time soon, if that's something you want."

Your smile widens and you do your best to hold your face as still as possible as you say, "I would love that."

"It will be good for you and Yoongi to be seen together in public more than once in a blue moon," he explains, then finishes his task while adding, "and, of course, we all miss you."

"I miss you, too," you say barely above a whisper. 

Jimin uses water to fuss with your hair, which you opt not to perceive in the mirror, worried about the weathered, sad person you may find staring back at you. Then he leads you back to the bar for shots of something fruity and strawberry-flavored. He and Hwasa pull you to an empty dance cage, and the three of you lose yourselves to the music while multiple tiny piles of cocaine are introduced to your nose and simmer through your body.

It feels nice to let go and dance, to touch and be touched in friendly and flirtatious ways—to feel like, in this moment, you simply exist outside of the mafia families that surround you. It is only when you are panting and exhausted that the three of you leave the cage and seek out water. 

You are tipsy and stumble a bit toward the bar. Taehyung and Jeongguk have returned—Taehyung appearing perfectly put together and Jeongguk looking like he has been to hell and back, shell-shocked with a wide stare and his hair an absolute mess—and you wink at them on your way to the bar. 

As you wait for a glass of water, Yoongi's cologne tickles your senses and large hands begin to paw at you. "I was watching you dance," he says into your ear, voice low and whiskey-laced. 

"Oh?" you ask, smiling but keeping your gaze ahead. The water is set before you, and you gulp it down, feeling the cold absorb into your body, giving you chills. When you turn to Yoongi, his jaw is set as if he is angry, but you know that it is a horny impatience that he masks.

"Darling," he groans, eyes bloodshot, drunk.

You attempt to bite back a smile, but it is impossible, and the sight of your glee seems to make him all the more impatient. Poor guy looks pained. You lean close, high on your toes to whisper, "Baby, I'm sore."

He groans and nods in pained understanding, making you giggle. "Next time I want you all to myself," he insists, and you nod. You would like that.

Namjoon, whose back had been to the two of you turns, notices Yoongi's expression and cocks his head. You let your eyes trail down and then back up as you say, "He has a problem that needs to be taken care of. Be a dear?"

"Ah," he says in understanding. 

Namjoon leads Yoongi off toward the hallway—to the restroom or back downstairs, you imagine. You chuckle and turn back to the bar for another glass of whiskey as Taehyung sidles up to your right, taking Yoongi's place.

"How do you feel?" he asks, leaning close. 

You scoff, making him cock his head. "Good," you say on a deep exhale, facing him. "And you?"

Taehyung grins, eyes sparkling. "Good."

"Good," you say, turning back to the bar. You manage to order another glass of the whiskey Yoongi has been drinking with your eyes ahead, but you can feel Taehyung's intense gaze on you. 

"What?" you complain when a glass is in your hands. You turn toward him but look at the golden tiger on his lapel.

"Just thinking," he says. Annoying.

You lift your gaze to his, asking, "About what?" 

Taehyung licks his lips and says, "You," giving you chills. 

You find it hard to hold his intense stare and drop your eyes to his chest once more, taking a drink of whiskey. 

"Just making sure you're actually doing well," he clarifies. "The scene in there was pretty intense."

"That it was," you say. You feel antsy, though you are not sure why. Could it be due to the way you were thinking about Taehyung while high? You wonder whether you might feel that way about him while sober. 

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, quieter.

Suddenly, you feel silly. You were not uncomfortable with Taehyung in the room with you before, and there is no reason you should be now. 

"No," you say, looking him in the eye. "Sorry. You are right that it was intense, and I think I am still spiraling a little from it all."

"My presence there doesn't bother you?"

You open your mouth but hesitate, gaze falling to his mouth as you wonder what he might kiss like. "No," you say, swallowing your pride before continuing. "I like having you there."

"I'm glad," you watch his lips say. You feel silly for staring openly, but it is the first time you ever have. Taehyung really is beautiful, and his soft, semi-rectangular pout intrigues you almost as much as the cold psychopathy you occasionally glimpse in his eyes.

"It is strange?" you ask, looking up into his eyes. The expression you find is just as intense as it was earlier. "Watching, I mean."

Taehyung's eyes trail back and forth between yours. He appears to be gathering his thoughts. When he simply shakes his head and says nothing more, you lift your free hand to smack him on the arm. With a chuckle, he leans close. 

"I like to share and watch, but otherwise not become more involved." You open your mouth and begin to ask why, but he cuts you off, leaning closer. "Nobody can handle my wrath quite like Jeongguk can. I am afraid fucking me is akin to having a near-death experience."

A gasp falls from your lips, in part because you know he is not joking, and because you are so curious to know more. You recall the way Jeongguk looked hanging from his wrists earlier, like a corpse waiting to be butchered. Taehyung chuckles in your ear, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and stands up straight. 

"Trust me, it is an honor to be in audience of you, buttercup. You put on quite the show."

This makes you laugh, pushing all the tension out. You feel silly but relieved and step to the side, away from the bar enough to courtesy and say, "Thank you," winning a deep chuckle from Taehyung. 

Yoongi and Namjoon return—Yoongi looking far better than he had before, and Namjoon with fresh reddened fingerprints around his neck. You lament missing whatever the two of them managed to do so fast but ultimately feel glad to have sorted out whatever it is you were feeling for Taehyung. It is a relief to keep at least some relationships semi-platonic, especially if being fucked by him means putting your safety and well-being at risk. You think that perhaps this revelation explains a lot about Jeongguk. 

You lift your whiskey to your lips, but Yoongi swipes it from your hand, holding stern eye contact as he drinks the entire glass at once. A surge of petulance rises, outmatched only by how much you absolutely adore him with his long, wavy hair and sharp red scar. He makes a dramatic ahh sound as if he had just quenched his thirst with the purest water, then leans into you to set the empty glass onto the bar top. 

"What—" you begin, hoping to ask what his problem is, or perhaps what the fuck he thinks he is doing, but he  mutters, "Come with me," and takes you by the hand, leading you through the hall to the hallway and up into the VIP section, causing you to stumble in haste to keep up. It is vacant in this area, save for a security guard who nods as you pass, and you are pulled to a dark corner that does not look out over the dancefloor or any other space that another living human may be occupying. 

Without saying a word, Yoongi pulls your legitimate engagement ring from his pocket—not the larger one meant for show—and lowers to one knee. Your stomach dips from the movement, and you suddenly feel unstable on your feet. 

"I have a proposition for you," he says, taking your left hand and sliding the cold metal onto your ring finger. You stare at him, not quite ready to perceive the ring on your hand once more. Rather than respond, you simply stare at Yoongi, who licks his lips and glances up at you pleadingly. 

"I could have a house built for you," he says as if it is nothing—as if simply willing a house into existence is as easy to him as loading bullets into a handgun. "Deep on the property, past the gardens and the other homes, where nobody could ever bother you. You can have all the space you desire, but still be close to us."

Tears build, and you feel bile rise to your throat. This offer is enormous and ridiculous, and there is simply no way you would feel wholly safe or comfortable living on the same plot of land as his mansion. You search for what to say, but words fail you. It feels impossible to tell Yoongi to his face that this offer is preposterous, yet you cannot bring yourself to even attempt to consider it. 

He must read the concern on your face, and he sits up a little taller, gripping your hand between his two as if you are suddenly a lifeline that he must not let go of. 

"I can buy you a house in Seoul. Or a penthouse, if you prefer an apartment. You can have a private entrance with my most trusted men guarding, and be a short drive away rather than a long one."

This offer is far more reasonable, but it still worries you. What if news gets out that Yoongi's fiancé is not only living separately from him but that they have managed to spot you coming and going? How difficult would it be for someone like Christian to find you?

"Yoongi, I don't know," you finally say. Your guts roil with uncertainty, and your heart pounds, making you feel nauseated. 

Yoongi nods and smiles, but you can see that he is disappointed. Here before you, down on one knee, is a man who is not used to being told no. This is not how he anticipated this would go, and it is clear that is the case. 

"Alright," he says, standing with your hand still tight between his. He pulls you close for a hug, and you hesitate before lifting your arms to return the embrace. "I am sorry if that was not the right thing to offer. I just thought—"

"No," you say, shaking your head and tilting your face into his neck. You press your lips to his skin. "It was a generous offer, Yoongi. An amazing one, really. I'm just…I don't know. I'm still really afraid."

Yoongi hugs you tighter, and you breathe deeply, eyes closed, silently existing in this moment. It is impossible not to imagine what life with him could be like under any other circumstance, especially now. 

"I understand," he says, pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours. "We can discuss it again if and when you are ready. I am in no rush, darling. Really. I just miss you." Yoongi kisses you softly and says, "I miss you so fucking much."

"I miss you too," you say, doing your best to smile through the tumult of emotion. "It's hell without you, Yoongi. I miss so much about being with you…but there have been so many moments that have had too negative of an impact on my mental health. I don't want this to be forever, though.  And when I'm ready, we can talk about it some more. Really, it is such a kind offer, and I appreciate it more than I could ever say."

Yoongi's expression conveys a deep sadness the likes of which you have never seen. You wish more than anything that you could wave a magic wand and make everything normal. No more drugs, no more guns, no more fires or car crashes. The anxiety that fills you at the thought of watching him return to Seoul without you is similar to the anxiety you feel over staying in a hanok full of strangers in Busan whose intentions you are not completely sure you understand or trust. 

You continue to hold one another for a moment longer, swaying slightly. Whether it is from the alcohol, or the music playing, or the simple enjoyment of the movement, you are uncertain, aware only that it is nice to be here with him like this. 

"I fear we should head back to Seoul soon," Yoongi finally says. 

Of course, the realization is somewhat soul-crushing. Just because you are in no rush to return to his mansion does not mean you want him to hurry back there, either. 

"Tonight?" you ask, leaning back and cocking your head to the side. Yoongi raises his eyebrows, and you shrug. "I just thought maybe you would leave in the morning."

He appears to think it over. "I suppose I could stay for one night."

From one simple sentence, you feel elated. Falling asleep beside Yoongi is something you have come to deeply miss. Except…you frown. 

"I'm not sure how I feel about sleeping under Ryujin's roof with you. Is that weird? Should I not care?"

Yoongi chuckles. He takes your hand and leads you back through the dark VIP area toward the rest of the party. "I have a penthouse nearby, darling."

"Of course, you do," you say with a playful hint of annoyance. Yoongi squeezes your hand, filling you with the same warmth and butterflies that you remember from months past. 

"You can part from your girls for a night?" Yoongi teases as you enter the hallway. 

You scoff. "Meaning, what?"

He leans close and says, "I see the way Hyejin looks at you. Or…what is it you call her…Hwasa? It really rolls off the tongue." Your mouth falls open, and you watch as his smile sharpens into a grin. "Sorry, is the thought of her name on your tongue making you flustered, darling?"

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you have to look away. As the two of you enter the main hall, you glance to the dance cage you were in earlier to find Hwasa and Jimin grinding in the way two platonic queer besties would. She certainly is dressed to impress with her bodice and skirt hugging each of her curves as if the material was cut specifically for her body. Yoongi chuckles darkly and squeezes your hand before letting it go, only to slide it around your waist and tug you close. 

"I wouldn't mind, you know," he says so low that you are not quite sure you heard him. There are no lyrics to the music that plays, but it is loud enough to mask parts of his tone. 

"Hmm?" you ask, turning to look at him. 

"I wouldn't mind," he says, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. "If you wanted to fuck her."

"Oh, my god," you grumble, turning your face away as your cheeks go even hotter. Leave it to Yoongi to be able to have a serious conversation for precisely one brief moment before returning to his natural state of being a feral, horny monster. 

Namjoon spots the two of you and begins to approach, eyes quickly darting down to the ring on your hand as a smile tugs at his lips.

"I am just saying," Yoongi continues, and you wish he would not, "no need to ask permission. The answer is already yes."

Namjoon leans to press a kiss to your lips, then looks between the two of you, asking, "Permission for what?"

You feel antsy and glance around, making sure nobody is around to hear Yoongi say, "For our darling to fuck Hyejin."

"Good god," Namjoon mutters under his breath. You roll your eyes as he adds, "Absolutely, no objections here."

You grumble, "You two are incorrigible," under your breath.

"Ah, Namjoon-ah," Yoongi says as he pulls you closer to his side. His fingertips play with the hem of your dress just below your left breast. "I am afraid I will have to miss tomorrow's activities. Our darling has asked me to stay with her tonight."

Namjoon's smile falters for such a split moment that it is nearly imperceptible. "Ah. No worries, baby. Seokjin and I can handle everything. And, did you ask her about…"

He trails off, but you know what he is hinting at, and a pang of sadness stabs you directly in the gut. 

"I did," Yoongi responds with a sigh, "but she is not quite ready to return to Seoul."

Namjoon nods, taking in a deep breath. You nibble on your bottom lip searching for something to say to him, but nothing feels quite right. Promising for an uncertain future feels disingenuous, even if all you want in this moment is to give sweet Namjoon anything in this world he could want. 

"I'm sorry," is all you can bring yourself to say.

Namjoon shakes his head. His gaze is soft and slightly sad, but so loving. "Will you at least keep the jewelry? And the clothing?" His lips falter, and he glances down at his shoes. "I know they're just material things, but it felt so strange to see it all left behind. You didn't regret receiving any of it, did you?" 

You feel a horrible guilt as Namjoon's gaze lifts to meet yours. How you could have possibly made him think your gifts were not good enough—that you may have regretted them somehow—has you wishing you had never left anything behind. Shaking your head, you step forward, wrap your arms around Namjoon's ribs, and press your face against his chest, listening to his quick, worried heartbeat. 

"Nothing about that night went as planned," you say, squeezing him as tight as you can manage. Namjoon's arms lift and engulf you with warmth. "I'm so sorry I made you feel that way. I absolutely love the gifts, especially the jewelry."

You loosen the hug and take a step back, holding Namjoon's gaze. It is devastating how handsome he is with tears glistening in his eyes. 

"If I'm being honest…" you begin, taking a deep breath. "I left the items because I wasn't sure whether you two would be upset with me. After all, I snuck away. I thought…I suppose I thought I wouldn't be worthy of keeping what had been given to me, and so I left it all behind. I felt guilty at the thought of taking any of it, knowing what I would be doing to you."

Namjoon nods in understanding and then pulls you closer. Yoongi follows, sandwiching you between warm bodies that feel and smell like home. You breathe slow and deep, smiling through the exhaustion that engulfs you; you hate to admit that you will not last much longer on your feet. With the promise of visiting Jimin and the others at Paradise soon, you feel a little lighter; a little more willing to part for now. 

Bodies begin to file out as you and your family men crowd the bar for shots. Ryujin and her core group of girls join in, and you all toast and drink, one after another after another until your body is dizzy and heavy and begging to lie down. You hug the women good night, feeling eyes on you as Hwasa wraps her arms around you with a pout.  She takes a step back and whines that she will miss you tonight. When you turn to face the men, Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jeongguk all wear curiously devious expressions. 

As you hug Jimin goodbye, he takes a step back to speak but then eyes your dress and boots, and his expression brightens. "Hold on," he says, "this is the outfit you were wearing the day we all met."

You smile widely and nod, impressed that someone has recognized the outfit. Yoongi steps forward and hums a questioning sound. 

"This outfit," Jimin says, "she was wearing it the first time we saw our buttercup."

Yoongi cocks his head to the side and frowns. "The first time?" he asks. 

A moment passes that is brief and confusing. The two share a glance, Jimin with his eyebrows raised, and then Yoongi clears his throat, licks his lips, and says, "Of course. Sorry, darling, the alcohol must have gone straight to my head. I remember now. You were so adorably angry in this dress."

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to be an utter brat. "You forgot what I was wearing the day you spirited me away…not very chauvinistic of you."

Yoongi smiles and chuckles, but there is something in his thoughtful expression that makes you uncomfortable, especially with how Jimin is looking at him as if he has said something unforgivably wrong. That had been the first time they saw you…right? Paranoia rears its ugly head, and you do your best not to allow yourself to travel down roads you have no business visiting. Especially after how emotionally fraught this night has been. After all, Christian had been working for him, so perhaps Yoongi saw you in passing once or twice before. Anything is possible. 

As you continue to wish everyone a good night, it sinks in that you are soon returning to your life free of the men you love, and sadness settles deep within you. But first, you will spend a night with Yoongi in his penthouse on the ocean and you do your best to be in the present moment and not wallow in what is to come. 

Namjoon follows behind in his own car and joins the two of you for a glass of water and a soft, slow makeout session on the couch overlooking the dark sea. He treats you to several blissful orgasms using his skilled lips, teeth, and fingers, and you watch as he and Yoongi take turns cuming in each other's mouths after you regretfully whine that your holes are too sore to accommodate them anymore for the night.

Namjoon slips away with deep promises and soft kisses as you begin to fall fast asleep wrapped around Yoongi's body. You drift off thinking about how warm and solid he is; how your body slots beside his as if the two of you are built for one another. But there is a part of you that also wonders what outfit had been on Yoongi's mind when he was imagining the first time he ever saw you. Were you in that black dress or something else entirely? Had that time at the river been the first time he laid eyes on you, or were there other times? Secret times when you had no idea of his existence. How long might he have been watching you? Of course, you know this line of thinking is ridiculous, and you smile as you bury your nose into his skin and inhale the sweet, musky scent of him. 

You drift deeply, swiftly, remembering what home feels like.

*

i drive fast, wind in my hair i push it to the limit 'cause i just don't care

i've got a burning desire for you, baby

🎵 visit the playlist

❗❗❗ important authors note: as mentioned previously, i am basically condensing everything that was going to be a 20 chapter fic into the last two chapters and the next 6ish chapters. i think you will understand why i chose to do it this way. something to keep in mind: all major warnings are already listed. things in future chapters might seem really, really fucking bad. please trust the author and the tags and don't let me lose you on this ride because i am intentionally going to be vague and non-descript about certain plot points outside of the narrative. i don't like to give things away, which means we might become traumatized together. from this point on, the story is going to shift in a big way. i love you. thank you for reading.

happy new year, my dears! if you observed holidays, i hope they have been good. i hope you have a lovely lunar new year & eat the best foods! if you're on break from class, i hope you get a lot of rest. i got all As last semester, and i bet you also did an amazing job at whatever you got into. i miss you very, very much and i hope to be back soon. 💜

EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU IS THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS!!! REBLOGS ARE IMPORTANT BLAHBLAHBLAH LIKES ARE ALSO AMAZING AND SO ON. 💜 tags will be coming in reblogs. also, character asks are always active if you have some burning questions or comments (just don't expect me to outright spoil anything hehehe.)

😘😘😘

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2025 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations of reposts allowed.

[theharrowing]

this weekend i have bday plans (i completed a full rotation around the sun yesterday 😔✌️) and THEN!!!!!! two updates for Collateral will be on the horizon. i promise. i want this as badly as you do. hang in there just a little while longer. 💜

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️: Christian POV

All Christian wanted was to make enough money to return home to Australia and help his mother retire early. Instead, he becomes entangled with some dangerous men who completely turn his life upside down. And at the center of it all is you.

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❗ THIS IS A CHARACTER POV CHAPTER!!!

even if you have not been reading the POV chapters, i highly recommend reading this one because it is going to set up the remaining chapters and make Christian more of a 3-dimensional character.

🗡️Christian x Reader, Christian x Sunmi

🗡️ word count: 16.6k

🗡️ mafia au, established relationship, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit, 21+

🗡️ warnings: mafia shit (talk of receiving, packaging and shipping drugs; use of cocaine; torture involving being tied to a chair for a long time and some eyeball gore; a bit of piss, shit, and vomit; recovering from wounds;) semi-explicit smut (blowjobs; mentions of sex; begging) angst (homophobic remarks; grooming; lying; infidelity - but not between yoongi/namjoon and mc; mental and emotional anguish; not everyone is in their right minds at all times; )

🗡️ notes: hello, friends! i am once again crawling out of a long hiatus. the woman in the header is Sunmi, my queen. but THE MC IS IN THIS CHAPTER!!! with you/your pronouns used. and there are a lot of fun callbacks from chapter 1, as well as some other chapters. the next normal chapter is nearly finished and will be coming soon. please don't skip this one, though. it provides a little extra context that i think will make the upcoming chapters a little more meaningful!!! also please take the warnings seriously! this one gets a bit gnarly!!! (siri play katseye) also!!! this chapter does contain infidelity, which i know a lot of folks hate, but please read with an open mind!!! it does NOT take place between Yoongi/Namjoon and the mc which is why it's not listed in the main fic warnings (i don't want to give new readers the wrong idea since this is the only chapter we see it in).

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin 

🗡️ posted may 2026 | read on ao3

*

The clouds that hang over are thick and dark grey, heavy with moisture that has not yet broken through as rain, but that has permeated the air, making it damp and sticky. An omen. A sign that all of this is a mistake and that Christian needs to turn back and return to his leaking, roach-infested, semi-basement flat, and come up with a new plan. Or, maybe he is just feeling paranoid.

Taking cover under an awning in front of a convenience store, Christian watches and waits. A large black door across the street is going to open at any moment, and he will be given the signal to approach and enter. With each second that passes, his pulse becomes heavier, less steady. He feels dizzy with an anticipation that borders on fear, which he attempts to quell with nicotine, but each time he reaches up for the cigarette that is clenched between his teeth, the tremble in his hand practically causes him to punch himself in the face.

After what feels like an hour— approximately six minutes, realistically— the large door swings open and a man walks out. The man wears a black satin shirt unbuttoned to the center of his chest and tucked into fitted black slacks. His hair is light brown and short, styled in a wave over his forehead. Rather than signal, or even so much as look in Christian's direction, he allows the door to slam closed, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a metal cigarette case. Christian watches intently as the case springs open and the man chooses what appears to be a hand-rolled cigarette. He places it between his lips and pulls out a gold Zippo lighter that he rolls against the thigh of his slacks to simultaneously open and ignite it in a quick, practiced motion that looks like something out of a movie.

Christian knows it is rude to stare, but something tells him that this man is putting on this performance for him. Any moment now, he is going to look up and make eye contact and then nod or wave or something, and that will be Christian's cue to follow him. Perhaps the man is building anticipation, or testing to see whether Christian is rude enough to make the first move.

The man tilts his head back as soon as the cigarette is lit and takes in a deep, slow inhale. Christian takes in a deep, slow inhale on his own cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke until they burn. He practically gags on the need to breathe and huffs out a plume of smoke that pours from his mouth and nose. It is sharp and stings his eyes, nearly causes him to cough, and he does his best to hold the urge in and keep his cool, only letting out semi-silent coughs behind his closed lips, through his nose.

When his gaze finds the man across the street, he realizes that the man is standing with both hands in his pockets, staring straight at him, cigarette cradled between his lips. Christian freezes. Was he wrong to assume this would be the man who gives him a signal? The way the man stares at him is not at all welcoming, and Christian second-guesses this entire situation. Should he turn back and run, pretend this was all a coincidence, and hope the man doesn't fire a bullet into the back of his skull? His hands stretch open and squeeze closed at his sides as anxiety courses through him.

Before he can get his bearings and figure out what to do, two large hands settle onto his shoulders, causing Christian to practically jump out of his skin.

"This way," a deep voice says from his right as the man to his left shoves him forward.

Christian's body does not quite get the memo, and so he stumbles. This causes the man to his left to snicker and shove harder. The three of them walk toward the man with the cigarette, and as he comes into clearer view, Christian begins to catch glimpses of this man's wealth and status. Gold drapes around his neck, diamonds glimmer in his ears and on his hands, and as he reaches up to remove the cigarette from between his lips, Christian is mesmerized by the gold diamond-encrusted timepiece on his wrist. On the large swatch of visible tan skin is ink that peeks through, showing off what looks like scales on the body of a dragon. Christian is not well-versed in local gangsters, but he knows enough to know that a dragon tattoo in this part of town, on a man dripping in expensive jewelry, with eyes that pierce into his soul so sharply, likely means trouble. The man stands tall and slightly turns to reach for the door, revealing the long black handle of a hwando, and Christian would laugh if this situation weren't so fucking scary. What type of man is strapped with a sword rather than a gun?

Sword man pauses, sizes Christian up, and nods to the man to Christian's right, then he opens the large black door and walks inside. The men who flank Christian hold him still, gripping onto his shoulders until the door swings closed in a sound that is heavy and final.

"Against the wall," one of the men barks as Christian is shoved forward. He turns his head in time for his cheek to be pressed into the cold, porous brick, and he bites into his cigarette to keep it from falling, causing loose tobacco to sting his tongue and make his mouth water. The men frisk him right here, out in the open, and Christian closes his eyes as his arms are lifted above his head and his palms dig into the brick.

This is humiliating, and Christian blocks out the thought that strangers on the street, in the convenience store, and in the apartment buildings are watching this take place. The men are rough with him, yanking on his trousers and digging into his pockets. His cigarettes and lighter are pulled out and then shoved back in, as are his phone and wallet. When one hand slides up his inner thigh and fingers dig near his balls, Christian jolts and practically yelps. Suddenly, he is pissed off. He wants to tell the man to watch his fucking fingers, but he doesn't feel like eating a knuckle sandwich, and so he bites harder into the cigarette, which burns dangerously close to his lips.

"All clear, pretty boy," one of the men sing-songs, then the hands yank Christian off the wall. He spits his still-burning cigarette butt onto the ground as he is turned and shoved toward the door, which one of the men opens. Briefly, he feels guilty for littering.

The entryway is dark, and Christian's eyes fail to adjust. As he is shoved forward, onto a carpet that feels like velvet and catches on the rubber soles of his boots, he tries his best not to stumble. What the fuck was he thinking? What has he gotten himself into? This has to be, without fail, the most idiotic situation he has ever found himself in. But returning to his mother at her beautiful home in coastal Australia would bring him too much shame. He cannot admit that his dream to become an idol was an abject failure and that all he has been able to land are dead-end jobs that barely make rent. He cannot return to her with his tail between his legs after all she has sacrificed to raise him on her own.

They seem to be traversing through a dark hallway, and as it opens up into a large, dimly lit room, Christian blinks rapidly, attempting to adjust to the scene before him. On a large ornate red couch is a man sitting with his legs spread wide. Draped across his lap is a woman with long, straight black hair, and she leans into him, palm splayed over his chest with long, blood-red nails digging into his black satin shirt. The white satin adorning her body could hardly be called a dress. The back dips low, the straps are spaghetti thin, and the skirt rides so high that Christian can glimpse red panties peeking out between her thighs.

The pair seems to be conspiring, giggling with their lips a centimeter from each other, and as Christian and the other men enter the room, neither of them stops their private conversation. The sword man takes a seat beside the two and leans close, pressing a hand against the other man's knee while whispering to the woman. The pair continues to chatter for another moment as sword man stays perched on the edge of the couch, before the woman presses her lips to the other man's cheek and slowly gets up. She sashays out of the room, never so much as glancing in Christian's direction. Again, he would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but the gun holstered under the new man's arm keeps his lips from twitching out of their grimace. Either these men are extremely deadly, or they put on one hell of a performance to creep out newcomers.

"Barom," the new man says in a voice so deep and rough that Christian barely hears it.

Barom is Christian's Korean name. He lifts his gaze and he meets the man's eyes, then he drops his head into a bow.

The man says, "Come," and Christian lifts his head once more, watching as the two men stand from the couch. The one with the gun rubs his palms against his slacks and rolls his neck, then walks past the couch and deeper into the room before disappearing. Sword man follows, and then Christian is shoved in their direction. He stumbles forward, unconcerned that he has no clue where the men disappear to behind the large velvet curtain ahead, as the hands on his shoulders guide him. A tattooed hand adorned with gold rings and a gold timepiece reaches forward to part the curtain, and Christian continues ahead. Everything is red. Red lighting, red curtains, red carpeting, red upholstery. When Christian is led into a smaller room with a red couch and three red leather chairs, he is steered toward the middle-most chair, and he sits. The men who guided him take the chairs to his left and right, and gun man sits in the center of the large couch while sword man stands behind him with his hands clasped at his stomach.

"You can call me Min," the man on the couch says, and Christian is somewhat taken aback. This man is the Min Yoongi?

Min sits at the edge of the couch, leaning forward. On the table before him is a pile of white powder, some of which has already been organized into neat lines, and Min leans forward, using a short metal straw to snort a line of the powder into his nose. As he lifts his head, he closes his eyes and sighs with a smile. This man is handsome in a delicate way, with hair long enough to tuck behind his ears. He wears a thick gold Cuban chain around his neck, and the various rings on his knuckles shimmer in the red lights, bulbous enough to leave a nasty mark if those hands were to meet flesh.

"N-nice to meet you, Min-ssi," Christian says, head still bowed but eyes looking ahead.

"Just Min," the man says. "No honorifics needed. Unless, of course, you find yourself on your knees begging for your life.”

The request confounds Christian, but he nods. "Understood, Min."

"Although… you may call me sir, if you want to," Min adds, saying sir in English.

"Yes, sir," Christian responds in full English, automatically.

Min appears amused. "Good."

Sword man rolls his neck from side to side as Min lifts a hand, palm facing upward. Without a word, sword man pulls his cigarette case from his pocket and places it into Min's hand. Min settles back against the couch, putting his booted feet up onto the table, heels barely missing the powder that covers it, and he retrieves a cigarette and tilts his head back so that sword man can light it for him. The gesture almost feels romantic, and Min keeps his head back for several beats while sword man replaces the cigarette case and lighter in his pocket. Christian itches to taste nicotine on his tongue as the smoke begins to travel in a dancing line toward the tall, dark ceiling, and he watches as Min sits forward and takes in two long drags and puffs them out in his direction.

"I have a rather delicate assignment," Min says, "higher paying than any other position. But first we need to test your loyalty."

None of these words bode well for Christian. He nods his head.

“The boys were able to dig up some rather interesting information about you, so I know you have worked with high profile individuals in the past and are able to be discreet.”

Christian nods, nervous to imagine how much these men may already know about him. What must they think of a man who works as a bottle service host for wealthy, married older women?

“And I believe you worked in acting for a bit as a child and teen.”

Christian nods again.

“Why not act now?”

Shame courses through Christian's veins. “I, uh. I wanted to be an idol.”

Min nods and hums knowingly. “An idol. That is a lot of hard work.”

Christian nods some more, feeling like a bobble-head.

“And it is not as glamorous as it seems.”

Christian stops nodding, surprised by this statement. Sure, training is hard work, and there is no guarantee that it will result in being put into a group, but he cannot imagine what in the world could be more glamorous than being an idol on stage, performing for thousands of adoring fans.

“You become a slave to the government,” Min says with a shrug. “A slave to the music industry, to the fans who turn on you the second you say or do anything that they deem out of line.” He pauses, sits forward, and takes a deep drag off his cigarette. On the exhale, he says, “Better to be a slave for me. I am far more generous than fair-weather fans. I can put those acting skills of yours to work.”

The tone of Min's voice, the blood-red room, everything sets Christian on edge. The tremble in his hands returns.

"Have you run drugs before?" Min asks.

Christian shakes his head. "No, sir," he says in English. Then he pauses and corrects himself, "Well, I used to sling Adderall in college."

"Adderall?" Min asks, impressed. Adderall is not legally for sale in Australia, although there are plenty of legal alternatives, and Christian is under the impression that it is also illegal in Korea.

"In Australia," Christian adds.

Min nods.

"Jeongguk will train you on how to receive drugs, then how to package them, and finally how to run them," Min says, nodding to the man on Christian's left as he says the name Jeongguk. All Christian knows of the man is tattoos and gold, having never turned to look at him. He keeps his gaze ahead even now that his curiosity is piqued. "Once you have a few months under your belt and have been branded as a loyal member of the team, I may shift gears. So, for now, work hard and look forward to a potentially handsome raise."

Christian nods, nervous but excited at the prospect of a lucrative job, despite how dangerous it all seems.

"Any questions?" Min asks.

Christian shakes his head.

Min chuckles. "You have no questions about this new job, which entails handling dangerous, illegal substances?”

Christian shakes his head again.

“None, whatsoever?”

“No, sir,” Christian says. “I trust Jeon—” he pauses, forgetting the man's name.

“Jeongguk,” Min supplies.

“Jeongguk,” Christian repeats, then swallows thickly, hating the way the man's name settles on his tongue and forgoing honorifics because Min asked him not to use them. “I trust Jeongguk to tell me all that I need to know. For now, the less I know, the better.”

Min hums and nods, seemingly satisfied, and Christian is glad he is not asked to elaborate. It is not that he would be unable to keep his mouth shut; he has nobody to nark to about any of this, and he has no interest in informing the corrupt police about this operation, if it is as big as it seems. Yoongi, the man who has taken a page out of his late father's handbook and goes by his family name in public, is, after all, the only known kingpin in the city, and seemingly the most powerful man on the entire peninsula. Christian has done at least that much homework before agreeing to this idiotic meeting. Although Min's existence is a bit of a ghost in normal online spaces, Christian was able to dig on the dark web to find snippets of his life as a child and as the leader of the nation's mafia. So few photographs exist, however, that Christian always imagined this man to be much larger and more intimidating.

Christian does not wish to know more at this time because he does not wish to spiral. The less he knows now, the less likely he is to change his mind and go into hiding. After all, there is no way Christian comes out of this meeting with his heart still pumping if he chooses to turn down this job. Walking through that large black door has sealed his fate, and he knows this to be true. He has known men from previous jobs who have become employed by Min and his gang, and the only one to ever speak of wanting to get out turned up face down in the Han with a bullet hole between his eyes. Foolishly, Christian saw that as an opportunity; a newly open job position waiting to be filled.

“How soon can you start?” Min asks.

Christian shrugs and feigns nonchalance despite how desperate he feels. Tips at the host job are not enough to keep him afloat. The real money comes from getting a hotel room with the clients, but Christian has become bored with sneaking around with wealthy married women, many of whom remind him of his mother. It all feels so unfulfilling. He says, “As soon as you will have me.”

Min smirks. The look in his eye is dark and devious, and it sends a chill along Christian's spine. He has heard so many rumors about Min: the man with Korea wrapped around his pinkie, the man who men and women fall to their knees for in droves, swearing fealty. Christian always thought the rumors were silly and exaggerated, spoken by men so down on their luck that they were willing to spin tales of sugar about the benevolent man who gave them a new opportunity to be rich. But sitting here, in Min's presence, he can get a sense that it is not an exaggeration. He can see how Min's mix of soft and sharp features and soft-spoken voice lull and sway his targets, luring them into camaraderie-turned-servitude like a trap.

As Min stands, so do the men who flank Christian. Christian stands. His heart hammers in his chest, and he feels all the blood rush from his head. What has he agreed to?

“Ever handle a gun?” Min asks.

Christian swallows a lump. “No, sir.”

“Guk, Tae, show Barom the ropes and take him to the range.” Min levels his gaze on Christian. “You have three days to become a perfect shot. We do not have time to waste.”

“Yes, sir,” Christian says.

Min grins. “Good.”

* * *

It takes two days for Christian to become a near-perfect shot, thanks to the endless supply of cocaine, which at first makes his hands shake.

“A tremble is good,” Taehyung insists as he lifts his own gun and aims. “In a situation of life or death, your hands are going to tremble. And despite that, you will need to kill a man without a moment of hesitation.”

Taehyung is, without a doubt, the scariest man Christian has ever met. Tall, tan, with a mouth that is always slightly downturned into a frown, his hair, clothing, and accessories are always styled down to each perfect detail. There is a softness in his eyes reserved for the men in his close circle, particularly Jeongguk, who appears to be the youngest in the group. Otherwise, Taehyung is severe and clinical. A medical doctor, everything Taehyung does is with surgical precision, even after he has consumed enough whiskey and cocaine to kill an elephant. Nobody questions Taehyung, and Taehyung appears to never say or do anything without careful consideration and conviction. He is never given orders below his position as one of Min's close confidants, and nobody has the nerve to tell Taehyung no. At least, that is what Christian picks up on while more or less becoming Taehyung's shadow.

So, when Christian finds himself exhausted and dizzy, worried he has pushed his body beyond its limits, and famished despite the stimulants dulling his hunger, he pushes through some more, unwilling to say no. Only when he shoots the paper man-shaped target beside his head rather than between his eyes, does Taehyung tap his shoulder and instruct him to set down his gun.

“Pack up,” Taehyung says, pointing to the black duffel bag that sits open on the booth counter. "I think we're done for the night."

Christian turns on the gun's safety and pulls out the magazine, surprised to find it is empty of bullets. He places both the gun and the empty clip into the bag and zips the bag with hands that shake from hunger more than nerves. Taehyung and Jeongguk had been discussing food moments ago, and Jeongguk had gone ahead to get fried chicken and beer to take back to the compound. Christian allows the thought of sticky-sweet and spicy sauce on his lips push him forward, out into a cloudy evening, and toward a large SUV.

Since joining the team two days ago, Christian has only lain on a bed for about four hours. He hardly recalls what the compound looks like, and he has no idea how to locate it, knowing only that it is tucked deep within the hotel where he met Min, but that the entrance is neither through the large, heavy door, nor at the front of the hotel, which is lavish and stretches high toward the clouds, a beacon of wealth than any passerby can gawk at and wonder who in the world would build such a thing. Through a secret third other door, the compound lies deep in its underbelly, a dark rectangle of cement that holds a smell of moisture which sinks deep into Christian's lungs, reachable only by tunneling staircases and hallways that may as well be a labyrinth.

Except he knows enough to know that Taehyung is not driving him in the direction of that hotel, and he begins to question whether the compound was mentioned at all, or if he had assumed that was where they would go. The further the men snake through traffic, the further the city becomes, until they are on the outskirts. Christian begins to wonder whether he is being taken out to a field to be shot and left in the dirt. He does not think he has done anything wrong, and yet all he can imagine is the SUV pulling off onto the shoulder and Taehyung instructing him to get out and walk into the long grass before— bang!— everything goes black. Had he done so horribly at the gun range that he is being disposed of before his three days are up? Last bullet notwithstanding, Christian thought he was doing great, but maybe their standards for greatness are higher than he can possibly achieve.

“Probably should have blindfolded you,” Taehyung says, voice low and deep, showing a hint of playfulness that feels foreign to Christian.

“Pardon?” Christian asks, nerves spiking.

“Newbies aren't privy to our living quarters,” Taehyung says as the car peaks a hill, causing Christian's stomach to drop. If there was anything in him at all, he might vomit it up onto himself. Only now does Christian realize Taehyung is driving way too fast. “Of course, if you were to ever tell the others or try something stupid, we could always put a bullet in your head.”

Christian nods, staring out the window at the tall trees that fly past. “Of course,” he mutters, making Taehyung chuckle.

Luckily for everyone, especially Christian, there is no way in hell he would be able to trace this route back to wherever the fuck these so-called living quarters are. Gun to temple, Christian would have to say his prayers, because he cannot even fathom where he is now. And, being that his cellphone has been confiscated until he is fully brought into the fold, it is not as if he could sneak a peek at a map.

Christian is shocked by the fact that any of Min's team lives out in the middle of nowhere, rather than choosing to live in a penthouse in the middle of the city. He imagines every hotel in Min’s name has a room that overlooks the city that is worth more than Christian could possibly fathom. But he does remember reading something about a family property that Min's father did his business out of, despite famously hopping between penthouses to appear before the paparazzi. Father Min liked the spotlight way more than his successor seems to. Perhaps that property is where they are going to now.

A mansion comes into view, tall despite being at the bottom of a short but steep hill, and Christian sits up in anticipation. He is so dizzy from hunger that just that motion makes him feel sick. He is relieved when Taehyung begins to slow down, but is confused when the vehicle turns onto a driveway at the top of the hill that seemingly does not lead to the massive home ahead. They stop immediately in front of a large metal gate.

"Close your eyes," Taehyung says as he rolls his window down, leans out, and keys in a very long pass code.

Christian has no way of seeing the small metal box, especially with the way Taehyung's body takes up the entire window opening, but he closes his eyes anyway. He is simply too tired and hungry to not follow directions. They drive into a covering of trees before there is another large home. To Christian's surprise, Jeongguk stands on the front stoop smoking a cigarette in a black tee and silver basketball shorts. He is not sure why he would be surprised; it was Jeongguk who left to get them food. But seeing him dressed down is definitely unexpected.

Taehyung parks behind a flashy black sports car and turns off the ignition, and Christian pours haphazardly out of the vehicle, motion sick from the way Taehyung drives and on the brink of starvation. Taehyung approaches Jeongguk and mutters something below his breath, then the two of them turn to the front door, which has been left wedged open with a black sneaker.

"Welcome to mi casa," Jeongguk says in a blend of English and Spanish that sounds awkward and endearing, making Christian crack a smile. As he walks into the massive space, he is shocked to find that what he assumes would ordinarily be a living room is full of workout equipment.

Taehyung scoffs. "Still no couch?"

Jeongguk shrugs. "When have I ever had time to sit down on a couch?"

The two of them share a glance that seems to be communicating something private. Christian ignores it and follows the two men into a dining room that actually contains a sizable wooden table and seven chairs. In the center of the table are several white plastic bags filled to the brim with white and black takeout containers, and the smell of gochujang and honey hit Christian's senses in a dizzying wave. Taehyung rounds the table, and Christian takes a seat across from where he stands. In a swift motion, Taehyung whips out a knife that flicks open, and then he gets to work cutting open the bags, which have been tied tightly. Jeongguk brings over two glasses of water and sets them down, then returns to the kitchen, just past a large black marble island, to fill a third from the tap.

"Beer?" Taehyung asks, but it is unclear whether he is asking if Christian wants beer or if Jeongguk has beer.

Jeongguk grunts, sets the third glass of water down, then returns to the kitchen, opening a massive refrigerator door and revealing mostly empty shelves, save for an open case of beer, several soju bottles, and what look like protein drinks. The absurdity of this situation is not lost on Christian. How is someone as young as Jeongguk able to own a house so massive that he clearly spends little to no time in? Does Jeongguk actually sleep here? He is curious to know what the rest of the rooms are like, but he is certainly not brave enough to ask for a tour.

The three of them reach into the various bags to pull out and open the boxes. Fried chicken with a variety of sauces assault his senses, as do containers of tteokbokki and fries. There is enough food on this table to feed a small army of men, so Christian allows himself to be greedy and helps himself to more than he has eaten in weeks. Maybe months.

No conversation occurs while they eat and drink. Only when the three of them are sitting back in their chairs, holding their stomachs and slowly sipping their beers, do the men begin to discuss Christian's work ethic and how quickly he is catching on. Starting tomorrow, he will learn the ropes of the warehouse and receive orders. If he does well in that, they expect one to two weeks on packaging. And then the big leagues, Jeongguk calls it. Drug running.

The thought of drug running makes Christian feel sick to his stomach, but he swallows it down. He needs the money more than anything, but he is also excited to finally be regarded as someone who is a worthy member of a team. For the first time in a long time, he actually feels like he might fit in.

* * *

Working with Jeongguk feels equivalent to working with a Pitbull that has been both domesticated and taught the hard way how to fight. He has a chill, almost soft personality, but without notice, he turns and becomes extremely violent. Christian has yet to piss him off, but he keeps his head down, does as he is told, and keeps his questions to a minimum just to be safe. He gets a sense that Jeongguk is being nicer to him than usual, possibly because of the mission that Min has hinted at; he wonders whether Jeongguk has been given special orders not to flay him open and leave his entrails hanging from the rafters of the warehouse the way he so playfully threatens to do to others.

It all makes Christian extremely uncomfortable, and he does his best to perfect this task so that he can move forward and onto the next. Thankfully, Jeongguk does not keep him as high as humanly possible for this experience, the way Taehyung had been doing. Christian creates a schedule that involves eating meals, getting a good night's rest, and wearing himself out so much that he only has one drink with the guys at night before turning in and crashing.

He can tell that many of the other men despise him for the special treatment that he seems to be getting. He hears grumbles of men who have been stuck on receiving shipments for the last year, with a promise to move up to sorting— a position that Jeongguk considers more dangerous because of the loss it could bring him, should something happen. But everyone knows receiving shipments from gangsters from Japan and Russia is far more dangerous than standing around in a circle weighing the merchandise.

The warehouse men call Christian Pretty Boy and Baby Boy, seemingly in an attempt to get under his skin. They whisper about him being Jeongguk's new plaything and make blow job motions with their hands and tongues as the two of them walk by. When Jeongguk isn't around, they whistle and make remarks about how the two of them resemble each other enough that whatever they are doing behind closed doors might be considered incest. Christian knows that men with nothing to lose resort to gay jokes and rape threats to wear each other down, and it does get under his skin a little. If Jeongguk notices, he says nothing. Christian would think that those kinds of remarks would offend Jeongguk, but by the end of the first week, when he is transitioned out of the warehouse, and none of those men have been flayed open, he has decided that he cannot possibly fathom what might offend Jeongguk.

Sorting and packaging drugs is a killer on the shoulders and back. They stand around a tall table, delicately handling pills and powders, weighing them and stuffing them into various-sized baggies, then storing everything into dark, air-tight containers. Cross-contamination is strictly forbidden, and there are cameras everywhere pointed at everyone's gloved hands. Although there are armed guards and management who watch over the operations, Jeongguk often oversees the process. Packaging is a sporadic job that happens the moment shipments arrive and is over as quickly as possible, usually only taking six to twelve hours, so the men who work this job spend most of their time at the compound or out blowing their money in clubs and dives. At first, Christian questioned how so many men were able to keep their mouths shut about this job. Then he discovered, on his second night of packaging, that two of the men were overheard bragging about how they had come into so much money and were found dead several hours later.

"How did you find out?" Christian asks cautiously over beers with Jeongguk outside the warehouse. They sit on metal folding chairs waiting for the management team— four grunts barely paid more than he is— to finish weighing and recording everything for the night.

Jeongguk takes a long pull from his beer bottle, then makes a loud, comical ahh sound. "We have eyes and ears everywhere," he says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

Christian finds this hard to believe. "Like, men who are employed to follow us?"

Jeongguk grins at Christian with something terrible glinting in his eye. "Why do you ask?"

Christian shakes his head. "I just mean. I don't know. I can't really fathom the scale of this whole operation that Min runs."

"He has connections," Jeongguk says, tipping the bottle to his mouth and holding it up tall to get the final drops of his beer. He sets the bottle down. "You'll learn eventually, if Yoongi-hyung promotes you.”

Christian is somewhat taken aback by the casual way in which Jeongguk addresses Min to him. He tries not to even think of the man as being named Yoongi, worried he may slip up and call him that by accident after he had been clearly instructed on what to say. Min or sir.

"But the woman you saw the first time we brought you to meet him," Jeongguk continues, reaching to the open case of beers on the cement between them and opening another with the blade of a pocketknife, "that's Sunmi-noona. You'll get to know her once you start running. She's affiliated with us, but she runs her own operation. Kind of. It's complicated. She has eyes and ears that follow whoever needs to be followed, and Hoseok-hyung taps into CCTV without going through the authorities, so it's not easy to fuck us over."

Jeongguk winks, then chugs from his fresh bottle. Christian nods, remembering the woman in silk with long black hair whispering a hairsbreadth away from Min's lips. He assumed she was a pretty ornament to hang off Min's arm and that they were just fucking, and for that, he feels a bit guilty. More than that, he feels intimidated by the fact that Min and his organization are so powerful. It seems as if Christian truly couldn't get out of this mess if he wanted to.

Two weeks on the packaging line is enough to make Christian feel insane. His body aches, he has no time frame for when drugs come in, so he is often called between ten and one, either heading off to bed or already asleep, to get dressed and go meet the team of obnoxious, disgusting men to stand around a tall table and weigh cocaine for hours upon hours. The compound has no windows, nor does the warehouse, so every time Christian steps outside, the time of day is a surprise. Sunshine threatens to burn his retinas, and the nighttime is too quiet for comfort.

He is thankful when he gets the call to go shopping for a nice black-on-black uniform and an ironing board. Jeongguk outfits him in plain but sleek clothing that fits a little too nicely, hugging his muscles a little too tightly. Christian sips champagne, nervous to be in such a fancy clothing store, but Jeongguk, crass as he is, seems to fit right in, flirting with the sales girls and asking for high-end brands by name, gathering nice black leather belts and shoes that are "sleek but have good traction for running."

Christian is surprisingly adept at running drugs. He is the guy who sets up the actual dealers with their stock, and occasionally meets with wealthy clientele to sell to them directly. In this element, where he is determined to make a good impression, Christian finds that, for the first time in a long time, he is charming, funny, and easy to get along with, and he looks good in a gun holster. And he finally gets to have a semi-normal sleep schedule, returning to the compound around two in the morning to pass out.

He even finds himself propositioned by Sunmi one night and is blown away by how eager and talented she is with her mouth. Her lithe, long limbs are delicate as she crawls onto his lap and adept as she slides down his body and very quickly does away with his slacks. Jeongguk did instruct him to get information from her in any way that he could, because she does enjoy gossiping from time to time, so he decides that allowing this is all part of the job.

"Don't tell daddy Min," she winks as she wipes his cum from the corner of her mouth. Christian is too blissed out to do anything but shake his head.

He feels proud and happy for the first time in a long time, but living at the compound, especially after being promoted as quickly as he has, is becoming hectic. He feels like he has a constant target on his back, and his sleep is beginning to suffer. Taehyung and Jeongguk certainly don't stop the other men from picking on him, but they are kind to him and straightforward in the way they train him in each new task, never feeding him bullshit or empty promises. He is surprised to find that he is quite desperate to prove himself to these men, and especially to Min.

When Jeongguk calls early one morning to say, "Dress your best in all black and meet us in the penthouse at one. A card is waiting for you at the front desk," Christian nearly cries with joy.

* * *

Christian stares at the photographs, mapping the lines and shapes of your face, the way your eyes and mouth frown and scowl, how you are never smiling. From high angles or zoomed in with expensive lenses, each shot is candid or pulled from a surveillance camera, and you appear to be a normal woman living a normal life with more sadness in your eyes than he can fathom.

He is not given much to work with, not even your name. Min is strict about how important it is that he learns everything there is to know about you on his own. There is only one chance at getting this mission right, and he needs to carry it out with utmost care and consideration.

"Fuck her if you need to, shower her with gifts, make her feel like the only woman in the world who exists, and in return, I will give you a penthouse suite in any hotel in the city and chaebol-like status. I want her entire wardrobe replaced with designer within the first year, and I will provide you with a sports car to drive her around town in. It is your job to groom her for a life of wealth and status, with the promise of a lavish wedding and large house in the future. Begin planning for that future as fast as possible. I am giving you two years. Under no circumstances should you fall in love, but you absolutely must make her believe that you are. Do not fail me, Yu Barom."

Groom her for a life of wealth and status. The entire sentiment feels like acid in Christian's guts.

* * *

Finding you is easy. The bar you work at is close to the apartment that Min has purchased for Christian.

Getting to know you is easy. You light up at genuine, casual conversation, and although you are guarded and do not seem to understand many pop culture references, you have a snappy, fun sense of humor and are fun to talk to. Contrary to what the photographs led Christian to believe, you actually smile quite a lot. You open like a flower under Christian's touch, and it only takes a week of consistent pestering for Christian to finally get you to come to his apartment and sleep all morning in his bed. Struggling to make ends meet and living in squalor too far from your job, you are easy to convince two months later to move into Christian's flat, since you spend all your time there, anyway. It all moves so fast that Christian is certain this will be the easiest job of his life.

Grooming you, however, is like pulling teeth. You are unimpressed with the way Christian dresses in designer clothing and roll your eyes at his sports car. You insist on walking to work and taking a taxi around town, and you refuse to wear any of the jewelry and clothing he buys for you, even going so far as to accuse him of trying to get you robbed for wearing that shit to the dive bar. You also refuse to look for better work because you like mixing drinks and getting to know your patrons— specifically those patrons at that bar. And you only agree to finally get dolled up in expensive clothing and taken out to a Michelin-star restaurant on your six-month anniversary when Christian is literally down on his knees begging you to let him spoil you.

Christian is, unfortunately, disgracefully, horribly in love with you. The way your eyes soften when you see him, how you are so demanding and giving in bed, and the fact that you are so fucking stubborn that it makes him crazy. Min insists on the two of you having dates and outings in large public places so that he can monitor you. So when Christian gives you a very expensive pair of diamond earrings and takes you to a stand for a dish of your favorite ice cream, it is at a park near the river, at the same spot he first confessed to being in love with you months ago. Standing about twenty feet away are Min and the sword man, eating their own cups of ice cream and watching your every move.

"Bring me here again," you insist as you watch the sunset on the river, eyes filling with tears.

Christian buries his nose and lips against your neck, behind your ear, smiling against your skin and making you shiver and giggle. "I'll bring you here as much as you want."

The two of you have eight incredible months together. And then you begin to change.

You can clearly tell that he is holding back and being dishonest. He refuses to talk about his job, how he has come to have so much money, why he lives in this fuckass apartment when he can afford something much better. Incidentally, Min is harassing Christian to move into a nicer apartment, but everything he offers to buy, you decline, hating how far away each one is from your job, and mocking Christian for how expensive they are because other perfectly good, less expensive apartments also exist and are closer to this neighborhood.

Nothing makes you happy. First, you accuse him of living a double life, having a secret family, and a number of increasingly absurd things. Then you completely shut down and seem to remain in this relationship because it is clear that you cannot afford to move out. The sex dries up, and Christian finds himself turning to Sunmi frequently to let off steam. Some days, you barely speak to him.

Christian still runs drugs for Min. During the day, while you sleep, he is out making deals with very high-profile clients. He takes business trips to Japan to be the face of Min's organization, and fills in for Jeongguk at least once a week to oversee the production line overnight. And, of course, he never has a good excuse for any of it, making you increasingly angry. He tries to lie and say he is meeting with his mother when he goes to Japan, but since he never invites you to tag along, you do not believe him.

On your one-year anniversary, Christian takes you to one of Min's premier restaurants overlooking the city. You seem begrudging but agree that it would be nice to get dolled up and spoiled again, but only after Christian begs at your feet. Plus, you concede in part because you were given the night off from work and have nothing better to do. You look absolutely breathtaking in a long black slip dress and red-bottomed heels, dripping with gold and diamonds, eyes bloodshot after several glasses of wine, and Christian's heart softens a little each time you crack a hesitant smile.

Min, along with several of his family men, sits at a corner booth and watches as the date unfolds. Christian feels terrified, but does his best to play it off. This is far from the first time Min has watched the two of you on a date, but this is the first time you have been so clearly unhappy with him. He keeps his eyes on you and the table as much as he can, and even leans his cheek on his hand, blocking Min from his view. By mid-meal, sweat drips from his hairline that he has to continually dab at with a napkin. He worries that if you appear visually disgruntled—which takes almost no effort these days—Min is going to think of Christian's job as a failure. And you do become increasingly cold as you become drunk, much to Christian's chagrin.

"She is certainly a spicy one," Min jokes at the sink in the men's bathroom, where he had followed Christian after he had gotten up to take a piss. "But please, do not worry. You are doing fine. Perhaps, if she is fed up with you by the time I make my introduction, it will be easier to convince her that she belongs with me."

"She still thinks I'm living a double life. I need an alibi for all this money."

Christian has been saying this for months, and for months, Min has brushed him off, claiming that he wants you to come to accept a life where you are not privy to all that goes on around you. Clearly, that has not been working out.

With a sigh, Min says, "Well, after a year, you need to come up with something slightly nefarious or she really will think you were lying through your teeth."

"Or," Christian says with a sigh, making Min's eyes widen, "I confess to something embarrassing like being a trust fund kid."

Min lets out a deep, guttural laugh that takes Christian by surprise. "Perfect!" His shout echoes off the tile walls. "A trust fund kid who trades in stocks and bonds. During the day, you meet up with fellow finance guys." He is laughing hard now. "Truly an embarrassing lie. Good luck keeping her after that confession, kid."

You buy the lie, and it clearly drives a wedge between you. No doubt, you think he is pathetic. He wonders whether you would be less disgusted with the fact that he sells pills and designer drugs to wealthy assholes, instead.

After about a month, he claims to have gotten a new job working as an assistant to a wealthy businessman in Hannam-dong. He describes the hotel covered in red velvet, actually amusing you with his description of how goofy and stupid it all is. You buy it and, surprisingly, don't ask many questions.

By the time the one and a half year mark rolls around, you are sweet, clingy, and loving. You seem to have dropped your paranoia about Christian living a double life and sleeping with other women to the point of eagerly joining him in the shower and begging for sex. Christian even stops fucking Sunmi. But then Christian gets the call.

Things had remained on a bit of a roller coaster during the final six months, to the extent that Christian has no idea how much time has actually passed. Min has been too preoccupied to call and check in, and Christian has taken over so much of Jeongguk's work that the two have barely crossed paths anymore. Currently, the roller coaster is on a slow ascent back up. Although he has changed his style to be more contemporary and less gangster, and you seem to find his distressed jeans and polo shirts disgusting, you have been kind and caring, and open to the occasional fuck. All of your clothing, with the exception of the plain clothes you prefer to wear to work, has been replaced by designer, which you have become more receptive to wearing, and you have even begun asking regularly to be taken out and spoiled on your days off.

When he calls, Min is brief, speaking quickly, as if he has no time to waste chatting. "Saturday night at the top floor restaurant, let her know that you are celebrating your new promotion. I will arrive for dessert and make my move. I do not plan to take her away that night, but I am receptive to seeing how things go. You are almost off the hook, pretty boy. Do not fuck this up."

Christian feels like vomiting. As he stares ahead at the blank white wall, he has to swallow down the urge, breathing slowly through his nose. His entire world may as well be coming crashing down, because despite how much he has tried to distract himself in the arms of another woman, he is totally and insanely in love with you, and he is terrified to let you go. Especially to be with a cold, manipulative man like Min. You are somewhat secretive about your past, but you have alluded to traumatic experiences at the hands of greedy men, and Christian can't help but worry he could be setting you up for more trauma.

What the fuck had he agreed to? You are a human being, and Christian has more or less brought you straight to the jaws of a greedy, hungry lion. He has treated you like an object to be passed around despite growing deeply fond of you, and it is eating him up inside.

He is in shambles when he brings a shipment to Sunmi later that evening, in tears as he turns her advances down. He tells her about the stipulations of his job, how much he cares about you, and how, in less than a week, he may have to say goodbye. He had assumed that she was aware of the arrangement the entire time, shocked and fearful when her face falls, and anger rises in her eyes.

"You did what to this poor girl!" Sunmi shrieks as one swift hand slaps him hard across his cheek.

Christian leaves her penthouse in a hurry, and his heart wages a storm inside his chest. He has no doubt that she will call Min and tell him that he narked. How could he have narked?! He was certain that if anyone knew about Min's devious plan, it would be the woman who has eyes and ears everywhere, a person whom Min seemed extremely comfortable confiding in, and continues to confide in, if what Sunmi has said about his frequent visits is true.

He formulates a plan to get out of the city and run to Australia, buying a burner phone with cash and then purchasing two one-way tickets for the Friday before your big dinner. Sure, you will be angry and resistant when he tells you he planned a surprise vacation for your anniversary, but you have several days to find coverage for your shifts. Besides, you have been saying you want to go meet his mother someday.

When Min shoots Christian a text that says, "Change of plans, be there tomorrow at 8," he is sure that the boss is onto him.

All he can think to send in reply is, "Yes, sir."

* * *

Christian is tired of feeling weak and pathetic. It is always the same bullshit over and over, a never-ending loop of letdown and despair. He made an idiotic deal with an insane man, and he knows deep in his heart that he would rather die than watch you leave with him.

As the two of you run through the upper floor of the hotel, Christian's head is spinning. He placed an order for a taxi before frantically leaving the dinner table, and now he needs to get you downstairs, outside, and into the backseat safely. He is leaving his car, which Min has undoubtedly attached a tracker to, in the parking garage as a decoy, hoping to buy the two of you a little time. That is, unless Min is also tracking his phone. But he is certain that if he can just get the two of you back to the apartment, he can explain everything and give you the opportunity to leave, whether it be with him or on your own. He is ready to pay for another plane ticket, or anything else, regardless of what it means for him. Even if it puts a target on his back.

But when he confesses to being a drug dealer, you are surprisingly nonchalant about it. In fact, you treat him like an idiot for seeming worried. By the time the two of you reach the cab, he is sick of your attitude.

He asks, "Why are you always like this," before he can think better of it, and you look at him as if he is the biggest dipshit in the world.

"We didn't even get our steaks! I'm hungry!"

Jesus Christ, you are infuriating. “We can order something when we get home,” he concedes. He just needs a chance to think.

“Wait," you ask, tone somewhat softened but still angry, "doesn’t he know where you live? Why are we going home?”

Fuck. Christian had not thought of that very major, very obvious detail when he panicked and decided to run for his life out of that hotel. Of course, Min knows where he lives; the apartment is in his name. With the taxi pulling up to the apartment, Christian feels gobsmacked. He glances around, expecting to see Taehyung's SUV screaming down the road, surprised by just how quiet it is.

“Sh-should we go somewhere else?” he asks, brain feeling like sludge.

You glance around despite not knowing what to look for, which Christian finds endearing but also frustrating. This is not a moment when you need to be taking charge, yet here you are, trying like always to be in control of every situation. He has half a mind to ask the taxi driver to take the two of you somewhere else, but you interject with a shrug, saying the coast looks clear and handing the driver your credit card. When he gets out and makes a beeline to the apartment, he is shocked to glance back and find you leisurely making your way to the door.

Christian is certain that all he has to do is pack a quick go-bag while you change into something more comfortable, then he can call another cab, and you can be on the road before Min has a chance to get to the hotel and realize the two of you are gone. That is, if he was not already there watching everything unfold. Although he is certain that if any of those men watched the two of you flee, there would be a bullet in his brain already. Min does not strike Christian as the type of man who would hesitate to open fire in a crowded dining hall.

"I'm gonna shower," you say, stripping your expensive clothing off and leaving a trail of it through the apartment. "I may as well go in to work tonight."

Christian is shocked. "Work? What? No. Baby, we have to go."

"Christian," you groan, fed up and leaning naked in the bathroom doorway. "Listen, I'm not wrapped up in all of this, okay? And I can't afford to not work, so just... I don't know. Flee the city for a few nights if you have to, but leave me out of it."

"You don't understand," Christian begins, but you close and lock the door before he can say more.

Min calls while you shower, and Christian decides he would rather be aware of his death sentence instead of ignore the man and try to hide. It's not like he has anywhere to hide at the moment.

"Boss," Christian says as he answers.

Min snickers. "Boss, hmm? Interesting title for a man whose orders you are unable to follow."

Christian closes his eyes. He feels like crying. "I'm sorry, sir."

"What happened?"

Deep breath in. "I, uh. I got cold feet."

"Cold feet?"

Christian's eyes frantically scan the room, looking nowhere and everywhere as he struggles to formulate a thought. He begins to cry.

Min hums. "You fell in love."

"Yes," Christian whispers.

"My deepest condolences, truly," Min says in a flat, unapologetic tone. "But a job is a job. You have one more chance to do right by me. Tomorrow night."

Christian's shoulders drop, and he lets out a deep sigh. He could make this right and get the two of you out of town by tomorrow night. Easily.

He mutters, "Yes, sir," and Min ends the call.

Christian decides that he will at least prime you for what is happening by the time you exit the shower and begin to get dressed. But all he manages to say is, "The truth is, I was working for this guy the entire time," and you throw your hands in the air, exasperated at the fact that you knew he was lying. He worries in this moment that he is truly beginning to lose you. There is only hate and anger in your eyes, and you refuse to hear him out.

You are dressed and out the door before he can say another word, shutting him up and screaming at him about how much of a lying weirdo he is each time he attempts to speak. He stands dumbfounded, watching you leave, then he decides that he will use this time to form a plan. He packs all of his clothing into a suitcase, leaving out an outfit for tomorrow. He keeps your things unpacked so you can decide what you want to bring with you. In his suitcase, he puts two framed photos and three photo strips of the two of you into his bag. Then he goes over his script in his head, doing his best to stay up all night by snorting through a baggie of cocaine that has him mentally and emotionally sparking like a live wire.

He mutters to himself, pacing back and forth in only white socks and briefs, wondering whether it would be possible to set up an entire alias, questioning whether he could take this kind of thing to the police. He knows better to assume that police care enough about the well-being of a woman to spring into action and protect you, and ultimately, he decides that he will talk to you the moment you are home and make arrangements right then and there to flee the country. He will get down on his knees once more and plead his case to you, no matter what it takes. Begging has always worked in his favor in the past.

Christian has no memory of falling asleep, but when he hears the door open, he stretches and yawns and says, "Baby?"

The sound of a gun being cocked inches from his head springs him into full wakefulness, and he opens his eyes to find Taehyung standing over him wearing all black, with black leather gloves on. Christian scrambles to sit up, hands and feet sliding against the sheet frantically as he struggles to get his bearings.

Taehyung sighs. "You really fucked up, Barom."

Everything is a blur, and Christian struggles to keep his wits about him. The gun is so close to his face that he is frozen and struggling to breathe. He says nothing. What could he possibly say?

"What time does she get home?" Taehyung asks, looking at his watch.

Christian is barely able to whisper the word, "Three."

"Not a lot of time," Taehyung says, sighing. "How often are you gone when she gets home?"

Christian's mouth feels like sand. When he says, "Maybe once a week," he stammers, struggling to get the syllables out.

"Alright, then, get dressed and come with me."

Taehyung drops the gun to his side and watches silently as Christian's brain buffers and he gets his bearings. When he stands, it is on shaking legs while bile rises up his throat. He gets dressed in jeans and a plain white tee and walks outside in his socks, too in shock to remember to put on shoes. Only when Taehyung mentions it does he turn around and grab a pair of sneakers. Taehyung gathers the mostly empty baggie of cocaine and Christian's phone, shoving them deep into his pocket, then he turns off the lights.

When they approach the SUV waiting outside, Jeongguk is in the passenger seat. Christian has never been so scared as he is in this moment, to the point where he thinks he is going into shock because all sensation of the outside world is dull. He has no sense of what temperature the air is, and he can hardly feel where he places his feet. When he gets into the backseat, he can barely hear the jeers and snickers from Jeongguk, who looks back to threaten him pretty much the entire ride. He mostly just hears, "Fucked up, man," over and over, but he is not sure whether Jeongguk is actually saying that, or if he is imagining it. He feels stuck underwater.

A bag is placed over his head somewhere downtown, and for a time, he has no idea where they take him. But then he recognizes the scrape of a metal gate and the sound of tires on gravel. He thinks that it could be Jeongguk's mansion again, but he is led into a building, down a ramp, and through a large room that is definitely not in Jeongguk's home. He hears what sounds like a large, heavy door being opened, and then he is tied to a chair. Eventually, the heavy door closes. Rather than scream or beg for help, he cries and cries until he wears himself out, and then he drifts in and out of sleep, jolting upright each time his head hangs forward for too long, never able to get any actual rest.

When the bag is removed from his head, he is surprised to see that it is Min standing before him. Min wears a tan suit and leopard print shirt, and he looks ridiculous. Christian is so out of his mind that he actually begins to laugh. When Min grabs him roughly by the hair and asks just what the fuck is so funny, the pain that seizes Christian from his head, down between his shoulders, is so sharp, he frantically says, "Nothing, nothing, I'm sorry, sir," before he is let go.

"Didn't shit or piss yourself," Min says, surprise in his tone, eying up Christian's crotch. "Good. You have one final performance."

When Min unties Christian, he is not gentle about it. Christian is jostled around, and at times his circulation feels cut off from how tightly the ropes are yanked before being released. Min leads him by gunpoint through a massive fluorescent-lit room, up a ramp, and outside, to an SUV that is being driven by sword man, although today he does not appear to have a sword. He is taken to the hotel with the compound and led upstairs, flanked by Min and this man, who he calls Joonie. In the room, he is ordered to shower and get presentable. Then, at gunpoint, with the cellphone Taehyung confiscated earlier, he messages you and says to meet him at the park at 3 p.m. sharp.

"Tell her to dress nice," Min adds, which makes Christian feel increasingly antsy. That is definitely going to piss you off.

* * *

The sun is so bright, it stings Christian's eyes. Of all the days to have a perfectly clear sky, it had to be today. The beautiful, expansive blue feels like it is mocking Christian, whose head is tilted upward. Luckily, with a blade to his throat, everything in his field of vision goes hazy, and the sun is blotted out. Christian is on his knees, drooling from the desire to vomit and thankful his stomach is empty, as much as it aches. He trembles like a leaf, and Min's grip on his hair is the only thing keeping him from face-planting into the grass.

He cannot fathom how quickly everything has turned sour, and he wants to curse Sunmi, who had to have tipped Min off. If he had been paying attention rather than going with the flow, he could have come up with an escape route sooner, but he lost track of time. He was certain that coming to the river with these men and watching the way they assert their dominance would have scared you off, or, at the very least, convinced you to hear Christian out so that he could explain himself. But he was never given the chance to speak. 

Instead, you are being led away by that Joonie guy, and— is he imagining it, or did you seem to go with him willingly? Surely the last two years were not so horrible that you would just hand yourself over to these men? You must have some kind of plan for escaping, but what could it possibly be? If they take you to that mansion out in the middle of nowhere, how will you ever get out? 

"This isn't right," Christian mutters, voice struggling to push between his lips. "She deserves to know the truth."

Min must pull the blade away from Christian's throat because the next thing he knows, he's being pummeled in his right eye by Min's fist before knuckles connect with his nose with a loud crack that echoes throughout his head. Christian groan-yells in pain, but quickly shuts up as the bag is placed back over his head and pulled so tight that when he inhales, fabric presses inside his mouth and cuts off his air supply. He can hardly breathe, and when he is yanked to his feet and dragged away by what feels like two men, he waits to feel the cold sting of the Han River engulf him at any moment. He is surprised when he is thrown into the trunk of an SUV instead.

* * *

Tied to a chair, presumably left to die, with a bag on his head, Christian feels as if he might go insane.

He holds in his piss for as long as he can, but when his bladder begins to burn, he finally concedes and lets it out. The bag prevents him from smelling the piss, and for that, he is grateful. He imagines there are much worse smells in this place. Before, when he was too afraid to get his bearings, he thought it smelled metallic and musty. That had to have been earlier today, before the trip to the river, but Christian has no concept of how much time has passed, or if he is even in the same place as before. The chair feels the same.

He thinks he hears the squeak of pipes, but worries that it could also be rats. If there are rats trapped in this place, how long will it take for them to begin nibbling at his flesh, starting with his ankles? His legs are stuck in place, tied to the legs of the chair, and he would be unable to kick them away.

Occasionally, he thinks he feels an itch near where ropes pull the denim up against his skin, and Christian freaks out. What if there is something crawling up his pant leg? Can it chew through denim? Rope? Sometimes his leg attempts to kick so violently that the chair rocks, and he has to do his best to breathe through his fear without allowing too much fabric into his mouth, because if he falls over, then whatever is in here could get at his neck, and possibly even into the bag to eat away at his face. Christian is not ready for his lips and eyes to be devoured while he lies on his side, unable to defend himself.

Behind the black bag, Christian's eyes are open, and he sees light and color dancing against the fabric. He thinks of the kaleidoscopes his mother would buy him from the fair, cheap plastic and paper things filled with beads and other small, colorful bits. He cries at the thought of his mother, at her loving brown eyes and soft hands, her gentle voice. He cries until his lips are coated in tears and snot, and he struggles to breathe. Then he calms himself down.

"Stay focused," he mutters to himself. "Listen for clues. Know your surroundings. Anything."

But there is nothing. No clues, no sound whatsoever. No way of seeing.

He begins to dream up stories in his head. His limbs are somewhat numb, no longer itching, and he rewrites the story of how the two of you met. He is on break after filming a really cool action film where he isn't the star, because he's not that famous yet, but he is the star's witty best friend. He has a cool apartment that just so happens to be near the bar you work at, and when he walks in and sees you pouring a foamy, off-white drink from a large metal shaker into a glass of ice, it is love at first sight. You don't recognize him, and haven't seen any of his movies, and he feels happy because he wants a shot at really getting to know you naturally again. You move in right away and fall in love right away because Christian is too antsy to get to the good part.

In this story, he doesn't even know Sunmi and has never touched her, and he doesn't have to lie to you about what he does for a living. You go to his movie premiere where he gets down on one knee and proposes to you, taking all the attention away from the film as everyone claps and cheers, and paparazzi takes pictures. Even the star of the film is happy for the two of you, and he promises to officiate the wedding. He replays you saying yes to him over and over, each time slightly different. Sometimes you roll your eyes, smiling but slightly annoyed with his dramatics. Sometimes you hold your hands over your mouth and cry. Sometimes you stare at him blankly, and he has to shake his head really hard to dispel the image and replace it with something softer. He does his best to hold onto the image of you, and he apologizes over and over, muttering and drooling and crying, and saying he is sorry. He is sorry. He is so, so sorry.

When he hears footsteps enter, he is certain that he must be hallucinating. Perhaps there is a water leak somewhere, and the insistent dripping is only mimicking footfalls. But then he hears that massive door open and close, and the sound of something heavy being thrown onto the floor in a muffled clatter that sounds like a bag full of heavy instruments. He holds his breath.

"Yu Barom," a deep voice calls. It is familiar and not. He cannot place the owner. "Today we decide whether you live or die."

Christian scoffs. Why would they let him live after everything that has transpired?

"It's not in Boss Yoongi's interest to kill a man who has been such a pivotal part of his team for the better part of two years. He has already extended you an immense amount of gratitude by not putting a bullet between your eyes."

To his surprise, Christian feels more resolved than afraid. Sitting alone in the dark, pissing his pants and waiting for rodents to begin eating him from the ankles up has had a chance to put things into perspective. Or, he is so famished and exhausted that he is incapable of thinking clearly. Regardless, what does any of it matter? He has failed you, and maybe he does deserve to die.

When the bag is pulled from his head, sword man is there with a sword strapped to his back. Christian begins to laugh, and the movement hurts his face but in a vague, distant kind of way. There is a stench about this place that is more than just blood mixed with piss and old water. Christian tries to remember whether he knows what a dead body could smell like.

"Joonie," Christian spits out, remembering what Min called him.

The man's eyes go dark. "That's Namjoon, to you."

"Namjoon," Christian repeats, struggling to make his lips form the j-shape. He grunts. "So you're n-not here to k-kill me?"

Namjoon squats before him, eyeing him up. He studies Christian's face, then cracks half of a grin. "Damn. He really fucked you up."

It takes a second for Christian to remember what he is talking about. He had forgotten about getting punched in the face. How could he have forgotten? Absently, he tries to lift his right hand to touch his eye, but remembers it is tied to the chair. Now that Namjoon mentions it, the right eye does seem swollen, making his vision blurry.

"That's…weird. How come it doesn't hurt?"

Namjoon's smile widens. "Painkillers."

"Painkillers," Christian mutters back. That explains a lot.

Namjoon nods, then reaches for his bag. "Let's get you something to eat."

Christian shakes his head. He does not want to shit on himself. Plus, what if he has been trapped here for so long that eating kills him? How long has it been?

"What do you mean no?" Namjoon asks, digging into his bag. "It's been six hours since we brought you back here. I know you're hungry."

Six hours? Christian feels like he has been here for days.

Namjoon pulls out a few pouches of what appear to be protein shakes. Christian attempts to tighten his lips, but the muscles tremble, and he is unable to keep them steady. Namjoon twists off the lid and shoves the small plastic straw-like tip into Christian's mouth, knocking him against the teeth as he squeezes the pouch, forcing the thick liquid through. Christian gags and then swallows, first angry but then pleased to be tasting something that comes close to chocolate and peanut butter. He downs that pouch rather fast, giving himself a stomachache. The motion of sucking also somehow manages to make his nose hurt a little. When Namjoon pulls the pouch away, Christian is trying to catch his breath. And now that he has tasted a little something, he is definitely hungry.

Namjoon assists Christian with drinking down two more pouches. With his wits about him slightly more than before, he glances around and realizes this is not a warehouse but more like a…a dungeon?

"Where are we?" he asks, eyes landing on a rusted metal rack covered in tools, including what appear to be electric saws. Christian swallows thickly, tearing his gaze, which is blurring over with tears, away from the horrifying sight. Are those Namjoon's tools? Does he plan to use them? Some of them look pretty worn, covered in dark rust, but they can likely cut through bone. Or worse, fail to. Looking down, he realizes the cement floor has a gentle incline toward a small round grate. Then he tilts his head back and notices that right above him on the ceiling is a large metal hook. Just what in the hell goes on in here?

Namjoon cocks his head to the side. "Where do you think we are?"

He thinks that perhaps he should lie. Perhaps there is danger in telling the truth. But he decides to be truthful. His voice trembles as he says, "The property where Jeongguk lives."

Namjoon grins. "Why do you say that?"

Christian feels nervous. Has he said too much? "The gate," he begins, watching as Namjoon nods once. "And the driveway. I remember there being gravel."

"I keep telling hyung to pave this side," Namjoon says in a tone that almost seems cordial.

Christian nods.

Behind Namjoon, a large metal door opens, and in walks Min. Dread settles in Christian's belly. Of course, it is inevitable to see the kingpin himself. But Christian was hoping that perhaps he would be too busy to pay him a visit.

Min wears his standard uniform of black. He begins by unbuttoning his cuffs, then he starts at the neck of the shirt, unbuttoning to his waist, untucking, and unbuttoning the rest. He is delicate with the dress shirt as he pulls it off to reveal a black t-shirt tucked into black slacks. Rather than dress shoes, Min wears leather boots with thick rubber soles that make no noise as he walks.

"Tell me, Barom," Min snarls as he approaches, handing his shirt to Namjoon, "how do you think I was tipped off that you were planning an escape?"

Christian licks his dry lips, worried to speak. When he does, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Sunmi-noona."

Min lifts an eyebrow.

"Ah, I see there is a bit of a brain behind this thick skull of yours." Min lifts a hand and knocks on Christian's head hard enough to make him wince. "And tell me…how did Sunmi-noona find out?"

Christian moves his lips, about to speak, but Min continues, his face coming so close that it blurs in Christian's vision.

"Or, rather, why were you spending so much time with Sunmi-noona that she was able to glean such sensitive information? Were you…confiding in her?"

Christian nods, gulping despite there being no spit gathered to swallow. Min strikes Christian against the right cheek hard enough to make the entire right side of his face flare up momentarily in pain. The medication must be wearing off. He grips Christian by the hair and leans in so close that tobacco and whiskey come off his breath. He says, "Use your words, pretty boy," in a tone that is low and oddly seductive.

"Yes, sir," Christian mutters.

Min's grip tightens, making Christian wince.

"Were you fucking Sunmi-noona?"

Christian sighs, eyelids fluttering from the pain. "Yes, sir."

Min releases Christian's hair and lowers into a squat, then leans with his elbows digging into Christian's legs. To his surprise, Christian barely feels it. Concerned, he wiggles his toes. Is he losing circulation?

"Interesting," Min says, "I only remember giving you permission to fuck one of my girls. And here, you were fucking two?"

Christian's lips move, but no sound comes out. Was Sunmi-noona also his? Sure, they seemed close, but she wasted no time getting onto her knees for Christian. Why should Christian assume that Min has laid a claim to every woman in the city?

Min sighs, leaning with his cheek against his left fist. "Do you know what it costs me to lose someone like Sunmi-noona? The range that her eyes and ears manage to explore the city is unmatched. And it is going to cost me a lot of business, never mind weakening my firm grip on many of my more lucrative operations." Min seems to wait just a moment for a response before continuing. "Luckily, we had been planning for a rift to occur. It was only a matter of time; you saw how fickle and temperamental she can be, I presume."

Christian nibbles on the inside of his lip and shrugs. He only witnessed her lash out the last time he saw her.

Min sighs and continues. "In that time, however, Seokjin-hyung and Hoseok were only able to amass a fraction of the power that she has. But that is just no good. A fraction is not close to a whole. And power is priceless to a man such as myself."

Min stands, digging his elbows in much harder as he does so, and this time Christian does feel it. The pain is simultaneously dull and sharp, and it causes the spots on both muscles to ache and seize up, shooting pain down into his feet. Christian grits his teeth, eager not to show weakness, but by the time Min lifts his arms away, Christian is letting out a pained groan.

"It is as they say…an eye for an eye." Min pulls out his switchblade and holds it in Christian's face, right in front of his left eye. "You fucked up my surveillance, Barom. What is a man without his hold on every single person in this city?" Min leans closer, touching the tip of the blade to Christian's eyebrow. "You impaired my vision, so now I am going to repay the favor by impairing yours."

Fear and adrenaline spike through Christian, and he attempts to push himself backwards, but the chair only rocks weakly. The momentum is just enough to cause the tip of Min's blade to poke into Christian's eyebrow, and he winces and attempts to move his head to the side, but he only manages to slash himself horizontally.

"Gonna do all the work for me?" Min jokes, grin widening while his shoulders shake with laughter.

Christian begins to cry. He can't help it. What the fuck is happening to him? How the fuck did he get here? He just wanted to blend into a team of men doing something illegal for an exorbitant amount of cash so he could return home to his mother wealthier than he was when he left, and give her a cozy retirement; how did everything spiral out of control from the moment he met these guys? How could he have been so stupid?

With one hand, Min grabs Christian by the hair. With the other, he presses the blade straight into Christian's eye. The feeling is so intense that Christian simultaneously screams and pisses his pants. His entire body convulses as he vomits all over himself, unable to control his limbs from revolting against the pain, feeling all of the muscles in his face, neck, and shoulders stiffen in agony. It feels like he is crying uncontrollably, but he is unable to blink, and he frantically tries to move his arms and legs, desperate to stop this feeling and to let out the energy that is building and building inside of him.

And then, suddenly, he passes out.

* * *

When Christian awakens, he is lying down in a bright room with a tall white ceiling striped in fluorescent lights. As he blinks, lines of the room blur, and when he moves his head to the left, details rove in and out of focus. He appears to be in a large hospital room, but he has no idea how he has come to be here, and he wonders whether he has been in some sort of accident.

As the details of the room come into focus bit by bit, he realizes that the vision on his left side is impaired and his right eye seems swollen. He tries to lift his hand to feel whether there is a bandage over his left side, but finds he cannot move his arm. In fact, he cannot move either of his arms or his legs, and he is overwhelmed by the smell of vomit and piss. And then it hits him: the dungeon room, Min and his switchblade…his eye. Christian screams and thrashes, making as much noise as he can muster before his throat becomes so dry that he coughs uncontrollably. He cries, and it burns the wound of his eye. Whether he still has an eyeball is a mystery. Regardless, something is extremely wrong.

Min appears over Christian and punches him hard in the jaw, causing the back of Christian's head to slam against the thin pillow and firm mattress. Christian continues to scream and thrash, desperate to be heard. If this is a hospital, surely there is someone else who will hear him, right? Except he is certain that he has overheard Taehyung talk about the equipment and rooms he has set up in his own home. And if that's the case…

"Kill me," Christian begs, vocal cords raw and voice rough. "Please just kill me. Please, please."

Min punches Christian again, causing him to bite his tongue so hard that his mouth fills with blood. He lets enough pool in his mouth, and then he spits it into Min's face. In an instant, Min has a handgun drawn and cocked, pressing cold and heavy into Christian's temple.

"Give me one more fucking reason," Min threatens, leaning close, putting his weight into the firearm. He is clearly drunk, eyes glazed over and bloodshot, and he looks like he has not slept in days.

"You ruined her life," Christian sobs. He wants to curl into a ball, and he is furious that his wrists and ankles are restrained. "You ruined her life. She doesn't deserve this."

"And you are blameless?" Min asks, chuckling sardonically.

Christian closes his eye tight. He prays to whatever gods there may be that Min squeezes the trigger and blows his brains out. Let this be the way it ends, just so long as it fucking ends.

"She came willingly to my home," Min says inches from Christian's ear. "She already sleeps in my bed. And pretty soon I will have her on her hands and knees begging me to make her mine."

Christian imagines you lying back against the pillows, naked and shy, with your knees slightly touching. How soft your skin was when he dragged his lips along the slope of your knees, how your thighs would part and fall open for him. Min does not deserve you. Neither of them does.

"Please," Christian cries. "Please kill me. Please. I can't live with what I've done to her."

The gun lifts from Christian's head, and then Min leaves. Christian keeps his eyes closed, listening for footsteps to come or go, but the room is silent. There is no machine monitoring his heart rate. No IV drip to deliver hydration into his depleted system. He is tied down once more and left alone with his thoughts, his piss-wet jeans, and his pain. He sleeps in fits, waking up screaming from the memory of being stabbed in the eye and dryly gagging with nothing to vomit but stomach bile.

Days must pass. Christian soils himself again and again. He trembles from hunger and feels so dehydrated that he is certain that he may die. When he thinks of you, of the mess he is in thanks to being tasked with grooming you— with fucking tolerating you— he feels anger and despair. Little by little, he stops thinking of you fondly and with concern. He oscillates wildly between deep love and utter hopelessness until little by little, he hopes that whatever Min is doing to you is fucking you up just as badly as he feels fucked up. He hopes that you regret walking away from him so easily. He did so much for you, putting his life on the line, and he hopes that you feel nothing but shame and regret for the way you treated him. So what, he was fucking Sunmi. You treated him like gum under your shoe. If anything, Christian begins to believe that you deserved to be cheated on.

When Taehyung arrives to unstrap him from the bed, Christian feels too weak to move his limbs. Taehyung and Jeongguk lift him from the bed and drag him off to a bathroom with a little square shower stall. They strip him of his clothing and hose him down, washing him of the piss and shit that has caused his skin to break out in rashes and sores. They gently apply salves and bandages to his broken skin, all the while he leans against one and then the other, eye barely open and head lolling to the side. The men say nothing as they dry him off and assist him with getting dressed in a paper gown. Christian feels as if he is on the brink of death. He is too exhausted to be humiliated and accepts everything that is done to him. He says nothing, silent even when his head rolls too hard and slams into the wall. When they lay him down onto a clean bed, Taehyung hooks him up to an IV and does not restrain him. Christian never puts up any resistance. He is resolved to accept his shitty fate.

The men take shifts sitting beside him, watching television. Taehyung plays Ghibli films while force-feeding protein shake packets to Christian. Jeongguk watches kaiju films, mimicking the unnatural monster sounds while spinning small, pointy knives around on his fingers. They help him with walking to the bathroom, rolling the IV bag alongside him. Then they begin to offer him solid foods, mainly plain tofu and rice with a side of vegetables. After some time, Christian slowly begins to feel like himself again. But he does not look at himself in the mirror. He does not want to see what has become of him in such a short amount of time.

When he wakes up to a stranger in a burgundy suit sitting bedside, he startles. The man, who is reading a newspaper, glances over the top of the paper and nods, then begins to delicately fold it and set it aside.

"Here you are," the man says. "Awake at last."

Christian sits up slightly, glancing around and hoping to see Taehyung or Jeongguk, but neither man is around.

"My name is Kim Seokjin," the man says, and Christian nods. He has heard Seokjin's name before. "I have a proposition for you."

Christian is unsure whether he is interested in hearing another proposition put forth by this team of men. He would rather run as far away as his legs will take him. Hell, he would rather lie down in a ditch and die.

"You can keep the job and the apartment," Seokjin says, "interest free. Boss Min is feeling generous."

There has to be a catch. There is no fucking way Min is going to just bring Christian back into the fold. Christian opens his mouth to respond, but sound barely comes out, and he ends up mouthing around unvoiced syllables before giving up.

"You want to know what the catch is?" Seokjin asks.

Christian nods.

"No catch. You were punished and now you are free to resume as if nothing has changed."

As if nothing has changed.

Except everything has changed. The person Christian was before this shit storm began is as good as dead.

For the first time since Min drove a blade into his eye, Christian lifts his hand and feels the wound. His fingers gently touch the bandage first, and then they firmly press. What he feels is unnaturally hard and round. His eye is gone. His heart beats a little harder, but otherwise, he does not have the energy in him to react. An eye for an eye. Perhaps next time, Min will cut out his tongue.

"You will rejoin Jeongguk's crew but under my employ. Whatever orders I give, you will fulfill. Understand?"

Christian shrugs. What's there to understand?

"If you're really miserable staying here, I can always relocate you to Busan. I know some girls who would use a loyal grunt like you. Or we can put you on one of the catering teams. There are countless jobs in this city that need doing.”

Christian says nothing, just nods.

Seokjin must take this as a confirmation because he nods too, then stands and begins to leave. "Heal up and get back to work. One of our men will drive you home when you are ready. This is your last chance, Barom. Fuck this up, and we will have no choice but to kill you. If you work hard and make up for all the past trifling behavior, I will personally put you on a plane to Australia."

Christian stares ahead, watching from the periphery as Seokjin leaves. Then he waits. And waits. When he has to piss, he decides to rip the IV needle out of his arm and make his way to the bathroom. Once he exits, another unfamiliar man is standing in the doorway waiting for him, holding a wide paper bag full of black clothing. Christian gets dressed, then they make their way out of the room, through the large space, and up the ramp. At the front door, as he slides his feet into a pair of shoes, he realizes that he is definitely in a mansion, which means this must be Taehyung's home. No wonder all of his screams were for nothing. Nobody was ever going to hear him.

The man, who introduces himself as Hoseok, drives Christian back to the apartment. Christian barely glances at the space as he grabs his stuff and calls a cab to take him to the compound, then he returns to the tiny cement room there, never to see the apartment again. He does not unpack his suitcase, save for reaching in through an arm-sized hole and extracting some of the clothing, scared of how he might feel if he sees the pictures of you. Instead, he buys an all-new wardrobe bit by bit, leaving the suitcase to collect dust in the corner of the room.

The other guys no longer fuck with him, and instead seem repulsed by what has happened to him. Jae, a long-term member of the team, has promised Christian that they will find a way to fuck the guys over. "We can't kill them," he whispers, checking over his shoulders to make sure nobody is in earshot, "but we can get him where it hurts by fucking with the supply of pills."

Christian keeps his head down and works. He remains on the receiving and packaging teams, seemingly too unsightly with his face bandaged to be trusted out on the streets and meeting with clientele. He barely sees the sun for weeks. But then the bandage is removed by Taehyung, who treats Christian like a stranger, and within days, he is back to running, and he finds himself standing at Sunmi's door.

"What did they do to your beautiful face?" Sunmi asks, soft almond-shaped eyes full of tears. "How could they do this to you?"

These days, Christian hardly has much to say. He goes days sometimes without hearing the sound of his own voice. Even now, he does not try to explain.

"This isn't right," Sunmi says as she stands tall and presses her forehead into his, fingertips on his cheek, below the white prosthetic orb surrounded by scars. Tears begin to form, and Christian finds that he is helpless to do anything but allow them to fall. Only one of his eyes fully blinks. "I knew he would be angry with you, but this has gone way too far."

Crocodile tears, as far as he is concerned. Sunmi is undoubtedly at least partially responsible for Min torturing him. But her hands are soft and warm, and he misses the delicate cadence of her voice. Her floral perfume. The press of her lips.

Christian continues to keep his head down and work, but he overhears the others. A storm is brewing within the lower ranks. There are talks of an uprising. Christian, fed up with all the attention it is getting, worried that one of the higher-ups might overhear it and trace it back to him, destroys a large amount of pills one night while working with the receiving team, after everything has been weighed a final time, in a dark corner of the warehouse where he knows no camera watches. When asked, he mentions overhearing Jae and fourteen other men bragging about wanting to fuck Min over. Within days, all of those men are gone, and the whispers have stopped. Christian feels a strange sense of pride.

Slowly, men begin to show allegiance to him, but in a silent way. Some of them seem to know that Christian was the one to sell out Jae and his crew. Some of them seem to revere him for it. They communicate via text on burner phones and begin to meet up outside of work, at an empty warehouse near the new apartment that Christian has begun to rent on his own dime, away from the compound.

It starts first as an underground fight club— a way to get to know each of the men who show up looking for a way to bulk up and fight back. Some of the men are experts at martial arts, others are great with weapons. They look to Christian as a leader, and for once in his miserable life, he accepts the challenge with no regrets. Maybe, he thinks, he will be able to fuck Min over and take down his empire from the inside.

It's completely insane, no doubt. But it just might work.

*

I don't wanna know all your secrets 'cause I'll tell It's hard enough being alone with myself I don't know how long I'll be holding on I know you tried your hardest, I know that you meant it well But you pushed me to the edge and I slipped and then I fell I don't know how long I'll be holding on

*

HELLOOOOO THANK YOU FOR READINGGG!!!!!!! for the record, since it is not clear in the chapter, i am letting you know that Yoongi is no longer involved with Sunmi once mc comes into the picture. he's a jerk for sure but he ain't that nasty.

ANYWAYYYYY HIIIIII!!!! it's been a long time. i know updates have screeched to a halt, and you know that i am sorry, so i don't need to say it again and again. to be honest, with the craziness of school (and getting good grades!!!) on top of deep and heavy grief that i was feeling for about 2 years, writing for my Collateral mc was really hard and i kept avoiding putting myself in that headspace. incidentally, writing this pov really pulled me out of the funk and got me back on the horse, and i have been having a lot of fun. hopefully my writing style feels consistent; it's kind of hard to come back to older work after spending all the time in between updates writing for other projects and feeling like my style/voice is slowly changing. also!!! plz lmk if you spot any errors bc it was hard to use he/him and you/your pronouns with the mc not being the pov of the chapter. i am dyslexic af and make a lot of mistakes in the writing stages lmao so idk if i always fix them in the editing stages.

chapter 27 is VERY CLOSE TO DONE, so the update should be coming very soon. i have been working really hard to get this shit cranked out for you. i love you very much PLEASE STAY HYDRATED. comments and reblogs keep me writing blah blah blah, you know the drill. (it's true, though. sometimes the only thing that pulls me back into a project is someone talking to me about it. so please don't be shy!!!) also sorry if the youtube video is awkward but i don't use spotify anymore and i wanted to make sure the chapters still end with a song.

OKAY I WILL SEE YOU SOON!!!! I PROMISE!!!!!!! VERY SOON!!!!!!!!!!!

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