The contract with Death! M.YG× Reader

Chapter 2

I pulled up the collar of my coat and crossed my arms over my chest, beginning the walk to the apartment building I'd lived in for almost my entire life. The complex was right on the edge of the Upper East Side, so it was a little more ostentatious than other buildings in Seoul.

I often thought it was lonely, being shut up in the apartment while my parents worked impossible business hours, but I couldn't have been more thrilled I was going home to an empty apartment that afternoon. The familiarity of my messy bedroom and the comfy sheets on my bed had never seemed so appealing.

"Evening, Y/N" Hanson, the doorman, said as I approached the gray glass building. "Good day at school?"

I briefly considered telling Hanson what had happened. He was a nice man, and always seemed to be genuinely interested in how my day went. But I didn't want to say the words aloud, that one of my classmates had killed himself, because I still didn't want to believe that it had actually happened.

"Fantastic," I finally said as he held open the door for me.

"I remember what high school was like," Hanson said as I passed over the threshold. "As soon as you get out of there, the world's a much better place."

I had my doubts, but it was nice to hear Hanson say so anyway.

I crossed the marble-tiled, fountain-decked lobby to the elevators and rode up to the seventh floor. Heading down the lavishly decorated hallway, I pulled my set of keys out of my bag and unlocked the door to 7E.

My parents had never been what you could exactly call humble.

Our apartment was filled with pristine leather furniture, cream-colored carpets, and tasteful photos of the city hanging on the walls, which complemented the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the living room and dining room. And the state-of-the-art, chrome appliance kitchen was almost another art piece in itself. My mother spent so little time here, it was amazing she'd even found the time to decorate the place to begin with.

A lawyer and an assistant CFO, my parents had intense work schedules, and they rarely gave me a second thought when they left the city on work trips leaving me behind for sometimes a week or longer. When that happened, my eighty-seven-year-old neighbor Mrs. Seo  would check in on me every other day or so to make sure I was doing all right, but that wasn't exactly the same thing as having a mom or dad around.

I knew I was extremely lucky to live in such a nice place and have so much money at my disposal, but the whole "rich" thing honestly made me a little uncomfortable, even if it was something I'd known for most of my life. My parents hadn't always made stellar paychecks. Sometimes I missed the simple little townhouse we'd lived in over in Busan before my mom was promoted and my dad took over his firm. At least then we'd actually spent time as a family and had dinner together every night.

I breathed a sigh of relief once I shut the door to my bedroom and locked it.

My bedroom was my happy place. The Christmas lights strung up above the balcony window, the Broadway playbills and pictures of Chaeyoung and our group tacked up on the corkboard above my desk, the rows and rows of DVDs and CDs I'd collected over the years—all of it was the perfect escape from the stuffy leather furniture and the professional photographs of the city from some art gallery in SoHo that hung in the living room.

I half-heartedly attempted to memorize some formulas for chemistry, but five minutes later I gave up, chucked my textbook at the wall, and flopped facedown on my bed.

It felt as if there was some part of myself that was missing, now that Min Yoongi wasn't alive and walking this earth anymore. It made me desperately wish that he were still here, despite the fact that he and I had only exchanged a few words. Somehow I couldn't make sense of the fact that he was here yesterday, and now he was gone . . . permanently. Then again, I wasn't all that familiar with death. I'd gone to my great-grandma Louise's funeral when I was six, but that was the only time I'd ever experienced someone I knew, at least a little, passing away. But I didn't like seeing her body in a casket then, and I didn't like the idea of Yoongi's body lying cold somewhere now.

Burrowing underneath the covers, I shoved my face into a pillow and I finally started to cry.

Two days, one small news report, and an obituary in a local newspaper later, there was no denying the fact that Archer Morales was dead. As much as I hated the thought of one of my classmates feeling so much despair that they believed ending their life was the only way out, it was the truth. More than once, I found myself standing on my tiptoes in the hallway at school, trying to catch any small glimpse of Yoongi, but it was pointless. He'd always been there, somewhere in the background, but now he never would be again.

I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, tugging at the ends of the lacy black dress I'd found shoved in my closet. I felt awkward and uncomfortable wearing a dress when I normally stuck to jeans and a T-shirt, but I wanted to wear something nice to Yoongi's funeral. In homeroom the day before, Mrs. Anderson had announced that students were welcome to attend Yoongi's funeral to pay their respects, but it still didn't feel like a proper invitation. The hope that tonight would help me find some sense of closure, make sense of why I couldn't stop thinking about him, far outweighed any nerves.

After I decided I looked presentable enough, I slipped into my jacket, grabbed my purse, and left my room. The cab I'd called for was set to arrive any minute. I figured I should at least attempt to eat something small before leaving.

As I headed down the hallway toward the living room, I heard the sounds of a smooth, polite voice speaking. When I rounded the corner, I was shocked to find my father lounging on the couch, iPhone in hand, merrily chatting away.

What was the great Kang Seojun doing home so early? It was barely a quarter past six in the evening. This was unprecedented. The earliest I could remember him being home in the past three years was eight o'clock.

"Hey, Rick, I gotta go,"(OTP) he said, looking at me as I passed by. "Y/N's getting ready to leave."

He disconnected and tossed his phone onto the coffee table, getting to his feet while stretching his arms behind his head with a yawn.

"What are you doing home, Dad?" I asked. "You're never home this early."

"I know," my dad said, following me toward the kitchen. "But Rick and I closed the Blanchard-Emilie case today, so we took the rest of the night off to celebrate."

"Oh. That's nice."

An awkward silence that I so could have done without at that point fell as I pulled open the refrigerator, rummaging around for a snack.

It was always like this whenever I happened to see my dad.

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Chap 2. Hope you enjoyed reading.

Stay healthy. Borahae