Chapter Text

"Where the fuck are we going?" you hiss, trying to keep up with your boyfriend, who is dragging you through the dining hall of your favorite restaurant—the skyrise wine bar overlooking the river that serves the best Caesar salad you have ever tasted. Like, seriously, whatever they put in that dressing, you need to know.

"Babe, please," he huffs, "I'll explain it later just hurry."

Just hurry, he says, which is convenient for him considering he's not wearing the latest hot chick scallop pointe-toe Louboutins which are currently squeezing the life out of your fucking toes. At least your legs have range of motion in the vintage Alexander McQueen mid-length black cocktail dress, but your faux fur leopard print knee-length jacket is turning you into a furnace. 

You scurry down the hallway asking yourself what you are even fucking doing here. This isn't me, you think. This is a charade; I should be wearing sneakers and stuffing my face with fried nonsense in front of a food cart, not parading around the hallways of some bougie hotel like a distressed debutante.

It is not lost on you that, rather than taking the elevator that leads down to the lobby from the restaurant, your boyfriend has dragged you through the penthouse level of a hotel on top of which this restaurant sits, and you are now winding through a carpeted hallway away from the clattering of dishes toward an elevator meant for guests with rooms at that hotel. With the chance to pause and catch your breath, you turn to the man at your side.

“Mind telling me just what the fuck we’re doing?” you pant.

Your boyfriend sighs heavily and chews on his bottom lip, which is always a telltale sign that you need to brace yourself; he is about to say something incredibly fucking stupid. You can just feel it in the air.

“Okay, so you know how I mentioned the new job?” he begins.

Ah yes, the new job that has brought in an exorbitant amount of wealth in a short amount of time, which he has had no trouble using to attempt to hold the pieces of your failing relationship together with gifts of clothing and jewelry because, try as you might not to be materialistic, you sure do like pretty things and expensive meals. Yeah, you are well aware of that job.

You hum in response.

“Well, I may have—uh—I may have fucked up.”

“Fucked up, how?”

The elevator door dings, and your boyfriend's eyes go wide with fear, then he relaxes immediately upon realizing the elevator is empty. You follow as he hastily steps in, frantically hitting the button for the main floor.

“It registered your command, you only need to hit it once,” you mutter, finding his impatience grating. The button is lit up; for fucks sake, won’t he give it a rest.

He sighs. He always fucking sighs, and although it is innocuous, it always annoys you.

“I may have fucked up,” he mutters again.

“Fucked up, how?” you repeat.

“I got mixed up with some guys who do some pretty questionable shit for a living, and they want me to do shit that’s more questionable than the shit I was doing.”

Wow, ever the wordsmith, what a statement. “Okay, what kind of shit?”

Through the reflection of the silver elevator doors, you can see worry paint your boyfriend's face. 

"They want me to run drugs," he confesses under his breath.

Honestly, you expected it to be much worse, somehow.

“Okay, and?”

Your boyfriend shoots you an incredulous, angry glare, whisper shouting as if someone might overhear you in this elevator occupied by nobody else. "What do you mean, 'Okay, and?' I'm not a drug dealer, babe!"

"Are these guys like low tier drug dealers or heavy hitters?" you ask because, okay, so maybe you have watched one too many old gangster films, or perhaps you are just so wholly unamused by how droll your everyday life has become with this man that, for once, something remotely exciting might be happening to. You have also known drug dealers your entire life; what is the big deal?

“What? Jesus, I don’t know, I guess they’re heavy hitters.”

“So, they’re well established and have bodyguards and shit?”

He huffs. “I guess so.”

“So, wouldn’t you run less of a risk of being, like, murdered, or whatever?”

The elevator door dings open, and he takes you by the wrist, dragging you down another carpeted hallway and out through a side exit. From here, you would have to walk around the block to get to valet for your car, but your boyfriend hails a taxi instead. It has occurred to you that he must be running away from someone, and probably you should be worried—your anxiety is definitely high—but the rush of adrenaline has you feeling excited more than anything.

You do not feel the need to resume the conversation in the cab; it is a short drive home, anyway. Instead, you scroll through social media in an attempt to avert your attention elsewhere because unless your boyfriend is detailing his exciting new job, there is literally nothing more you want to say to him.

Actually, there is one thing you want to ask him. “Wasn’t dinner tonight meant to be a celebration of your new promotion?”

He sighs and looks out the window dramatically, almost causing you to laugh. You fight with the corners of your mouth to keep it in.

"It was, but then I was tipped off that the boss wanted to see me, and I panicked."

"Wait, so was he there at the hotel, or were you just being paranoid again?" you sound as incredibly annoyed as you feel, and he turns to you with knit eyebrows.

"Why are you like this?" he asks.

Oh, please. "We didn't even get our steaks! I'm hungry!"

“We can order something when we get home.”

“Wait, doesn’t he know where you live?” you ask. “Why are we going home?”

As if the obvious has smacked your boyfriend square in the face, he gasps, and all of his features fall open, almost cartoonishly. You watch as the wheels turn, but it is far too late; the taxi is already pulling up in front of your apartment complex.

“Sh-should we go somewhere else?” he asks.

You look around outside and you do not see anything out of the ordinary. It is a narrow road with scarce parking, and you do not notice any vehicles that are occupied by people. And, okay, so maybe a small part of you hopes that these men show up and come to collect your idiot boyfriend, giving you some much-needed alone time since you are not roped up in his choices and should not be affected. Who is to say.

“I dunno, the coast looks clear to me,” you mutter with a shrug, handing the cab driver your credit card.

Your boyfriend gets out slowly, then, once he is confident that the coast is clear, he takes off running into your building. You roll your eyes and call him an idiot under your breath, making the driver snicker, then you thank the driver and get out, slowly walking to your apartment door. You consider suggesting your boyfriend stay in a motel for the night, you know, just to be safe, but opt to lock yourself in the bathroom and take a nice long shower before work, instead.

* * *

Your boyfriend insists you stay home from work tonight just in case, but you shoot him down quickly and leave even quicker. You could not really care less if he was abducted by the mafia—or whatever—while you are away, and you tell him to put on a brave face and try to get some sleep. Missing a shift is not exactly something you can just do on a whim; you do not want to wholly depend on that jackass, financially, especially considering he may be on the run, thus not bringing in any money.

Most nights a week, you work as a bartender at a nearby dive that primarily caters to older regulars and college students who have already picked up a drinking problem due to the stress of exams. It is not a glamorous place, but you like the vibe and appreciate the conversations you have with the folks who come in. You also like having the excuse to be out of the house until after bar time.

Although the designer clothes you put on for skyrise dinners with your wannabe flashy boyfriend have never really been your style, you can not deny enjoying the feeling of getting dolled up and pretending you have wealth. But here, in the dimly lit bar that reeks of cheap cologne and decades-old stale cigarette smoke, dressed in a v-neck tee tucked into some skinny jeans, with your favorite pair of sneakers on, you feel a lot more comfortable. More you. 

Having the rough background you have, where going to college and becoming something special was never an option, you value your humble roots and the people who come into your life from across the bar, even if only for a night, but especially frequently; the regulars make everything worth it. 

One such regular named Minjun, who has been coming into the bar for longer than you have been working here, sits in his usual spot at the end of the bar top, nursing a double whiskey neat. You have been vaguely aware of the gentle taps of his glass against the wood surface, but you have been so lost in your own thoughts that it is not until he clears his throat that you flinch and turn your attention his way.

"Sorry, ahjussi," you mutter with a smile, setting down the rag that you have been using to polish the same glass for several minutes. 

“Someone’s brain is buffering tonight, I see?” Minjun says with a smirk, and you put the glass down on its shelf below the bar and walk over. 

With a sigh and a sad smile, you nod; you can never hide anything from him anyway, so you don't bother. "A lot on my mind."

“Trouble in paradise? That boyfriend of yours being an idiot again?”

You chuckle as you mutter, "Always."

For about a year, you have been ranting about your home life with some of the regulars. Nothing too revealing, just this and that about how your ball and chain is a real dingus, and you are not sure why you stay there—which is a lie; deep down, you know exactly why you stay there. And so Minjun has heard it all. He finishes his drink with a big gulp and sets the glass down close to you, and you pick up his favorite bottle of cheap whiskey and grab a shot glass, pouring his drink and giving yourself an ounce or so to shoot, as well. 

“You know, I sound like a hypocrite because my generation is famous for staying together out of convenience,” Minjun says, “but you really don’t have to.”

“I know,” you respond sweetly. “I kind of do, though. I don’t exactly make enough to get a spot in this neighborhood on my bartending salary.”

Minjun gives you a sad smile and holds his glass up. “Well, the moment an opportunity arises, I hope you don’t hesitate. I hope you follow your heart and change your life.”

You hold your dribble of whiskey up and tap your glass to his.

“Cheers,” you say, turning your head to the side and gulping it down.

* * *

It is a hot summer afternoon when your boyfriend insists on meeting up at the river. There is a spot you used to go to back when you first started dating and were falling in love in love, and he likes to drag you out there from time to time with weak surprises and half-hearted attempts at "keeping the flame alive." 

Today he instructs you to dress nice and show up at 3 p.m. sharp, which is annoying because it is already 1 p.m., and it will take two busses and a short walk to get all the way there. But you pick out an asymmetrical little black dress with a frilled skirt and gold accents, and some gold jewelry—all Louis Vuitton—along with a pair of black Doc Marten boots that are laced loosely. You pull your hair back and finish the look with a smoky eye, throwing your wallet and some lip gloss into a small Prada handbag with a gold chain for a handle. 

As you check yourself in the mirror, you get the same tingle of excitement in your gut that you always get when you see yourself dressed in designer. And each time, there is a voice in your head that tells you you are a fraud—that you do not deserve nice things and that your boyfriend has probably gotten all of this with dirty money—but you try to shut the voice up as you pull a smile and allow yourself to have this. Truth be told, you could not care less where the money comes from.

On the first bus, you stare out the window and consider what this fool could have planned for you. What could he possibly need in the middle of the afternoon? The sun is not going to set for several hours, there are no festivals or markets, and it is prime time for the park to be full of pedestrians. You hope beyond hope that he is not going to try some stupid grand gesture like proposing to you. Every time he asks you to meet up somewhere that holds even an ounce of sentimental value, you fear that is his motive.

When you transfer to the second bus, you are cutting it close to get there on time, but you decide it is not worth caring about; he should have given you more time. In fact, the closer you get, the more agitated you become. It is not that this is some huge inconvenience, but it is just one more thing on the pile of reasons he frustrates you to the ends of the earth. You think about Minjun's words and ruminate on them. One day, you tell yourself. One day, an opportunity will arise, allowing you to get out of that apartment and leave him for good. 

The walk from the bus stop to the park is not very far, and although it is already 2:59 p.m., you mosey along, taking in the sights and the sounds of the city. There is no reason to rush to see someone who annoys you when you could relax and enjoy your alone time a little more. Whatever it is that he is asked you here for, it cannot possibly be that great; you have learned over and over again that your boyfriend is not a man who is capable of great things. 

At 3 p.m. on the dot, your phone rings. You roll your eyes and answer the call. 

"Yeah?”

“Where are you?” your boyfriend asks.

“Close.”

“It’s three.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I know, and I’m almost there.”

He sighs and seems anxious, which is uncharacteristic for this kind of situation, but you just chalk it up to him being an annoying shithead and choose not to overthink it. 

“How close?”

It is almost spectacular how quickly you go from zero to one hundred with him. It truly takes so little for your blood to run hot and electric through your veins. 

“You gave me no fucking time to get ready and told me to look nice, okay, I did the best I could. I can’t make the fucking bus drive faster. I’ll be there soon." 

You hang up the call and continue to walk at the same pace; you are close enough that if you squint, you can see where he is standing under a large tree next to the river. There is clearly no need to rush. It appears as if there is a large group near where he is waiting, anyway, so you cannot imagine what is so important that you have to meet him right there right now; it is not as though you will have any sort of privacy. 

As you deviate from the sidewalk and start walking down a shallow grassy slope toward the river, you can see that your boyfriend looks antsy—something is off. You give him an incredulous glare and put your hands on your hips as you approach. Glancing around, there seems to be nothing special about what is happening, aside from a large gathering of men in black suits, and you throw your hands in the air. You hope you are not walking in on some celebration of life, or whatever so many men would gather around dressed like that for.

"What?” You half-shout. “What did you bring me here for?”

For asking you to look nice, your boyfriend sure phoned it in, dressing in a shabby white tee that is just barely tucked into the front of some purposefully distressed blue jeans. You cannot believe you put in the effort you had only to meet up with someone who looks like he is about to stumble into a frat party.

He opens his mouth and stammers, “B-baby, listen, I'm—” but he is cut off. 

Men in suits surround you two, forming a tight circle around you. They are all people who had been milling around while you approached, and they close in on you like it is some form of synchronized choreography. All of them wear black except one man who stands next to your boyfriend, looking you up and down. 

The man is the same height as your boyfriend and wears a light tan suit with a leopard print shirt and studded belt. His dark brown hair is coiffed off his forehead and long in the back, just past his ears. He is a sight to behold with sharp eyes and a sharper smile, and you squint at him and scoff. Handsome as he is, he looks ridiculous—like he belongs in some low production wild west film—and you wonder if he has a light tan wide flat-brimmed hat with a feather sticking from it somewhere. Or, better yet, with a matching leopard print scarf tied around it. 

You glance around, trying not to panic, though your heart pounds hard in your chest. These men are strapped with guns under their jackets—you can see some peeking out—and they all look like they mean business. You are not one to show panic easily, so although you are shaking on the inside, you maintain your composure as you pretend to size these men up.

“Fellas,” you mutter with your eyebrows raised, “can we help you?”

"She is feisty," the one in the tan suit mutters, eyes still boring holes into you, and damned if he does not have the deepest voice you have ever heard—dulcet yet rough; a pool of honey and gravel. You pull your gaze back to him for just a moment and study the scene around you—he is clearly the leader; nobody else speaks, and they all watch either you, him, or your boyfriend.

“Baby, I—” your boyfriend starts, but the man in tan holds a hand up and you watch as the glimmer from the sun catches on the rings and bracelets that adorn him.

"That is enough from you," the man says, still watching you. He cocks his head to the side and drops his hand down. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the one in charge. My name is Min, and these are my men. Are you familiar with the work your little lap dog has been up to?"

Although everything about this exchange makes you uncomfortable, you like that he refers to your boyfriend as a dog, and you smirk, “He mentioned that he may have recently fucked up and gotten into business with some seedy characters, but the details were foggy.”

"Seedy?" Min fake-pouts with a chuckle and glances at your boyfriend, then turns his attention back to you. "I like your attitude."

The air around you feels stifling and much hotter than when you arrived, and you do your best to keep a calm composure as Min regards you. 

"But, yes," he continues after a pause, "he fucked up. Big time. We paid him a handsome cut upfront to fulfill a job that he was too much of a pussy to finish, so now we are here to collect payment. Trouble is—" he cocks his head once more and smirks, eyeing you up and down, "—it seems this bad dog has already spent all the money."

Your eyes move between your boyfriend—whose gaze is to the fucking ground, the asshole—back to Min, and you attempt an awkward, confused grin. 

"Okay, and what am I doing here?" you ask.

"You are the collateral, of course." Min shrugs as if it is nothing. 

You swallow a lump in your throat and do your best to steady your breathing. Surely this has to be some kind of a joke—people are not collateral. But nobody is laughing, and when you look at your boyfriend once more, the prick has his head dipped even lower. Suddenly, the air is far too thick to move through your lungs as normal, and you worry you might lose your balance.

"S-so I—" you are unable to say the words at the tip of your tongue, and you clear your throat and try again. "You want me t-to—"

"To come with me, yes," Min says. "You are mine now."

If this were some drama on the screen, a montage of the last several years would flash before your character’s eyes: all the disappointment and shabby apartments and empty promises and convenience store meals. Then Min would appear—well dressed, handsome, and clearly everything your boyfriend is not—and you would make a split decision that the audience would not expect: acceptance. Of course, this is not a drama, but you do consider all of these things, and with an unamused smirk, you shrug. 

“Fine,” you say. “Whatever.”

Min seems very amused, and he grazes his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes ablaze with a darkness that gives you chills. "Perfect, then we will be off." 

Men close in on you, making you feel claustrophobic, and you expect to be escorted away, but everyone pauses once they have closed in on the three of you.

“As for you…” Min says, turning to the man you are already considering your ex-boyfriend. 

One of the men in a suit pulls out a baton and hits your ex in the back. He goes down fast, striking the ground with his knees and attempting to collect himself with his hands in the grass. Min takes his hair in one hand and flicks out a switchblade in the other, then in a swift movement, has your ex-boyfriend sitting high on his knees with the knife to his throat. You gasp and reflexively take a step back, bumping into one of the men, who gently wraps a hand around your upper left arm.

"Consider this a warning," Min growls with his lips next to your ex-boyfriend's ear. The idiot is sweating bullets and panting. "Make me wait too much longer, and I will take a lot more from you, starting with that useless fucking cock of yours, understand?"

The idiot nods frantically, attempting to say something in agreement, but nothing comes from his mouth and his lips flop around looking like a fish on dry land. He looks to you finally, eyes pleading, and reaches a hand up, and you chew on the inside of your mouth and give him a look that tells him that all of this is nobody’s fault but his own.

“I’m s-sorry, baby,” he mutters. “It wasn't supposed to be like this.”

Min laughs, a full-bellied, jovial sound you would not expect to hear come from a man who has a knife to someone's throat, and his eyes drift back to you. "Quiet, now. Dogs do not speak."

Every hair on your body stands on end. Some part of you is curious about what a life with this handsome probably-mobster would look like. You wonder if this is your chance at a better life, and if you and the ahjussi at the pub manifested it. But probably all of this is just the adrenaline talking, and you should be scared fucking shitless right now.

Some back and forth between the two men transpire, but you have lost track, eyes on the blade on the idiot's throat, though you are not really looking at it—you have spaced out and allowed the world around you to lose focus long ago. 

"This isn't right," you hear your ex mutter. "She deserves to know the truth."

Suddenly, Min is giving an order, and two hands have a firm grip on your upper arms, leading you away from the river. You stumble at first but fall in line, walking with the men and doing your best not to panic.

You think you hear your ex shouting before the sound is quickly stifled, and you imagine someone has hit or kicked him to shut him up—part of you wishes you could have seen it for yourself. You decide that it is definitely adrenaline coursing through you, keeping you so calm, or maybe keeping you focused on the wrong thing, but you ride it out and hope for the best. What else is there to do? Scream for help and attract the attention of strangers and get them roped in with this mess and all of these men with guns? That does not seem like a good idea. 

"Here we are, miss," one of the men holding your arms announces as he stops you next to an SUV. The door is held open for you, and you climb into the backseat, then the door is closed. 

The inside of the vehicle is pristine and dark as night, with windows so tinted, there is no way anyone is seeing inside. Purple neon lights glow from various points along the interior, and there is a thick clear barrier between you and the front seat. 

“Buckle up,” a kind voice calls from the driver’s seat, and you glance up to see a man with sunglasses pulled down his nose smiling widely at you—a smile so bright it almost calms your nerves. Almost.

As you fasten the seatbelt, the back door across from yours is open, and Min gets in, sitting beside you. When you glance over, he is adjusting his sleeves, which at some point had been rolled up, and you notice his knuckles are raw as if he has just punched someone or something—must have been after you were escorted away. He sees you watching and meets your eye, giving you a soft smirk.

“Had to rough him up a bit. You understand.”

You nod slightly, unable to pull your eyes off of him as you mutter, "Y-yeah. He's an idiot."

Min smirks and says, “Be good to me, and I will be good to you; you will never have to see that clown again.”

Your breath hitches, and you continue to stare at him. There is something so soft and welcoming to his tone despite him being...whoever he is. You assume anyone who has a whole gaggle of goonies that goes by Boss Anything is well-connected and into some pretty heinous shit. 

“You can call me Yoongi, by the way,” he says after a pause. 

Yoongi. You like the way that sounds, and you smile softly, telling him your name. Yoongi lifts a hand and gently runs a thumb down your cheek, leaving a searing hot path in its wake. 

“But, of course, darling,” Yoongi says, “I know exactly who you are.”

And with that, the vehicle pulls off. 

* * *

The mansion you are taken to is outside the city, and it is not only well guarded, but it is massive. Intimidatingly massive. Everything is white and black marble with gold accents and fixtures, and just inside the front door is a sitting room that opens into a grand foyer with two curved staircases leading to a mezzanine. You already imagine getting lost and feel tiny standing at the entrance.

“Welcome home, darling,” Yoongi’s deep voice grumbles into your ear, giving you a chill that runs from the base of your skull down to your toes. “Come, let me show you around.”

Straight through the mansion, out a huge set of glass doors is a pool, which Yoongi waves off as if it is nothing. You crane your neck to see it but continue to follow him up to the second story. At the top of the stairs and to the right are two large wooden doors which are open to a bedroom. You follow Yoongi into the room, taking stock of how tidy it is but also how lived-in it appears. This is undoubtedly Yoongi's room.

“Make yourself at home,” Yoongi says. “Some men are at your apartment now collecting your things, and if you need more space we can accommodate, but there should be enough room here. I will give you some time to relax, and if you need anything, you can ask one of the boys.”

You glance back at the entrance and find two men standing guard outside the room with semi-automatic guns in their hands—a sight you cannot imagine ever getting used to. Yoongi approaches slowly and wraps you in a hug that pins your arms to your sides, taking you off-guard, and although you want to shove him away, it feels nice to be held, albeit somewhat uncomfortable. He smells musky and like a warm autumn night, and you tremble in his hold, unsure of what you have gotten yourself into. 

“Do not worry, pretty, I intend to take real good care of you,” Yoongi says softly, planting a kiss on your forehead and dropping his grip. You stare at a point in the wall across from you as Yoongi takes his leave, closing the doors behind him, and as soon as you hear the latch click, everything catches up to you.

Your knees buckle, and you drop to the floor, landing on what feels like a very soft, expensive rug. Tears fill your eyes, and you can feel yourself spiral while your brain attempts to make sense of everything that has just happened. 

Guns, you think. These men have guns. Yoongi held a knife to your ex-boyfriend's throat. Not only that, but Yoongi held a knife to your ex-boyfriend's throat in broad daylight in a public park without a care in the world, and the idiot sat there and said nothing because he must have known how powerful these men are. And now here you are, in the belly of the beast as a piece of collateral, sharing a bedroom with someone whose power and influence you cannot even begin to comprehend.

And you have no idea what Yoongi actually wants from you, but you can only begin to imagine, considering he has moved you into a room that is clearly his, and has already begun with terms of endearment and soft-spoken words and forehead kisses. Will he expect you to fuck him? What if you are not ready for that sort of thing? Will he decide you are useless to him?

Tears stream down your face as you squeeze the rug below you in both hands, rubbing your thumbs against the soft, long piles, attempting to center yourself. You think the rug is white, or maybe off-white, but your vision is unclear, and you continue to breathe deep—in through your nose, out through your mouth—hoping with all your might that nobody comes in and finds you like this. If nothing else, you need to steel yourself before Yoongi returns; you feel in your guts that, if you are to survive this arrangement, you cannot show him, of all people, any sign of weakness.