danger

5: Bitter Respite

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"Thank you for dinner."

Seokjin beamed a playful grin, dimples flashing as he set the final plate down in front of the gang members. He wiped his hands on the apron tied loosely around his waist and plopped into the empty seat between Namjoon and Jimin. The table erupted into a chorus of appreciative murmurs, the tension from the day's earlier chaos dissolving under the aroma of freshly cooked food.

The dining table buzzed with lively conversation, their voices mingling with the clinking of cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter. It was almost easy to forget the double murder that had unfolded mere hours ago, the grisly details swept aside by the comfort of good food and each other's company.

Jungkook, ever the opportunist, eyed Yoongi's plate with the precision of a hawk. As the elder glanced away to answer a question from Hoseok, Jungkook's fork darted across the table, spearing a tender piece of meat from Yoongi's plate. It was his third successful heist, and he smirked in triumph as he popped the morsel into his mouth.

"Yah, Jeon Jungkook!" Yoongi's sharp voice cut through the chatter, his keen eyes snapping to the younger man. Jungkook froze mid-bite, cheeks puffed like a startled chipmunk.

To say Minjun's head hurt would be an understatement. Each torturous pulse wracking through his skull felt like a hammer striking an anvil. His face seemed caught in an unrelenting vice, the agonizing ache squeezing from every angle. The back of his throat burned, arid and raw like sandpaper, every swallow scraping painfully down.

Fragments of the man's words churned in his mind, a swarm of memories he could neither grasp nor push away. His teeth gnawed anxiously at his cracked lips as he sniffled, though no tears fell. A cry, even a whimper, was impossible to form—his throat too raw, his jaw locked in discomfort.

Delicately, Minjun let his trembling fingers roam across the velvety bedsheet beneath him. The soft, soothing texture offered a fleeting reprieve. He turned his face into the fabric, inhaling its subtle soapy fragrance. Each breath eased some of the clenching behind his eyes, grounding him just enough to stay in the moment.

But his stomach churned uneasily, the kind of deep, nauseating twist that demanded release. A wave of saliva surged into his mouth, a sickly warmth heralding what was to come. Minjun gagged, his body jerking violently as his chest heaved. He barely managed to push himself up before the contents of his stomach erupted.

Thick, steaming bile spewed from his mouth, splattering across the polished wooden floor in a rancid torrent. It reeked of stomach acid and decay, the putrid stench clinging to the air like a physical presence. Strings of half-digested food tangled in the viscous liquid, their texture grotesque and slimy.

Minjun coughed and retched uncontrollably, his body convulsing as more vomit surged up his throat. His stomach twisted like a wrung-out cloth, forcing out every last drop of its contents. Each expulsion left his throat raw and burning, the acidic bile scorching its way out.

Sweat poured down his pale face, mingling with tears that had begun to spill despite his attempts to suppress them. He gasped for air between violent heaves, his lips stained with streaks of yellow and brown. His trembling arms gave out, and he collapsed into the foul puddle he had created, the warmth of it soaking into his skin.

The door creaked open, voices cutting through his haze of misery.

"Holy—what the hell happened?"
"Quick, grab a towel and some clothes. Leave them in the bathroom."
"Get water—he's dehydrated."

Strong arms scooped him up, and he felt himself lifted from the nauseating puddle. The sour, clinging smell of vomit invaded every breath, but the man holding him said nothing. Minjun's head lolled against the man's chest, his fevered eyes flickering open just enough to catch a glimpse of his rescuer.

Kim Namjoon.

The gang leader's expression was calm but tense, his jaw set as he rocked Minjun gently. The bile and sweat that had soaked into the boy's hair transferred to Namjoon's sleeve, but he didn't seem to care. Minjun's body trembled violently, his stomach still convulsing in dry heaves that racked his fragile frame.

"Are you okay?" Namjoon asked softly, his voice low and steady.

Minjun tried to answer, but his throat was too raw, too scorched to form words. He pointed weakly to his neck, his lips trembling.

"It's alright," Namjoon assured him. "We'll get you some water and cleaned up. You'll feel better soon."

Jimin returned with a beaker of cool water, and Namjoon helped Minjun sip it slowly. The liquid soothed his burning throat, though each swallow felt like broken glass scraping its way down. Minjun's hands trembled so badly that Namjoon had to hold the beaker steady for him.

After finishing the water, Minjun's stomach churned ominously again. He gagged, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth, but it was too late. Another torrent of bile exploded from his lips, splashing onto Namjoon's chest and the floor below.

Namjoon winced but didn't flinch, his hands steadying the boy as he doubled over. The sound of retching filled the room, wet and guttural, accompanied by the splatter of liquid hitting the floor.

"Get a mop," Namjoon said sharply to no one in particular. "And more water."

Minjun's entire body trembled as Namjoon held him upright, the gang leader's steady presence the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. The boy's stomach was empty now, but dry heaves still wracked his body, each one more painful than the last.

Once the retching subsided, Namjoon helped Minjun to his feet, guiding him toward the en suite bathroom. The boy leaned heavily on him, his legs shaking with every step.

"Take your time," Namjoon said as he shut the door behind him, giving Minjun the privacy he desperately needed.

Inside the bathroom, Minjun stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. His face was ghostly pale, his lips chapped and cracked, and his eyes bloodshot from the strain. The sour stench of vomit clung to his skin and clothes, making his stomach churn all over again.

He stripped off his soiled clothes with trembling hands, kicking them into a corner far away from him. The warm water of the shower stung as it hit his raw skin, but he welcomed the pain—it was a distraction, however small, from the horror of his situation.

As the water washed away the grime and the smell, Minjun felt a hollow ache settle in his chest. He wasn't just physically drained; he was trapped, vulnerable, and utterly alone.