When pedestrians saw Kim Namjoon walking in the street, they all perceived him in the same way. Tall, sharp suit, expensive watch: business man.
Occasionally, amiable - and brave - passers-by would offer him greetings, honouring customs, but he would never deign to reply. They all saw him the same: cold.
The people who worked for Namjoon saw him the same way, too: cold. As did the brave individuals who worked alongside him. But these select few knew the truth as to why Namjoon was so cold, and they thus could not blame him for his temperament.
You didn't have to be a genius to know that being a notorious mafia leader was a tough job. To manage the position, you had to show no remorse, and not ever hesitate when things got gruesome.
Some people that knew the truth about Namjoon's profession assumed that he acted so cold in order to intimidate his opposition. Others guessed that, after dealing with such violent and devious tasks for so long, Namjoon had truly lost the ability to feel emotion.
But his closest friends knew the truth - he was cold to protect something; no, not something, but someone.
To protect you.
Only a select few knew about you. And how dear you were to Namjoon. As his girlfriend, you were his one solace among his countless criminal tasks he fulfilled day in day out. His one sliver of normality and comfort in his dark world.
If he maintained his heartless façade, then his opposition would never discover his weakness - you - and no harm would ever come to you.
Keeping you safe was Namjoon's one priority, and he prayed there would never come a day when he was not able to do that.
Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered.
Your mind was cloudy as your eyes slowly opened. Pounding painfully, your head throbbed and ached, and you attempted to focus your eyes in the dimly lit room.
Casting your eyes downwards, you took in the black polished marble floor beneath you, dim light glinting on its reflective surface. You managed to lift your head, which felt unusually heavy, and your eyes began scanning the room, your still hazy mind attempting to identify your location.
There were large glass French doors running alongside one side of the large room, which allowed large beams of moonlight to illuminate the expensive looking paintings hung on the walls opposite. Many sofas were placed around the room; some black, some a dark green, all pristine leather.
You decided to stand up and search your surroundings, still muddled as to what you were doing there. Was it a dream?
However, the second you attempted to move to stand, your efforts were immediately thwarted - and you realised that your hands were tied, and your ankles were bound to the chair.
And then you recalled what had happened.
You had been on your way home from a routine shift at the coffee shop in which you worked. Namjoon hated you working there: he offered you could simply spend your days alongside him, which he would happily pay you for.
Admittedly, you did consider the more than tempting offer, but you had refused - you wanted to make a living for yourself.
Nevertheless, every evening after you finished work, Namjoon would have a car waiting to pick you up and drive you back to the oversized apartment you shared with him, even if it was only a seven minute walk.
That particular evening, however, the sleek black Mercedes with which you had become familiar was not sat waiting silently for you by the third lamp post, as it usually was. You thought nothing of this - there was probably just traffic.
