The contract with Death! M.YG× Reader

Chapter 7: 26 days until

I had been asleep for what felt like five minutes when I flew awake at the sharp, burning pain centered in my wrist. I sunk my teeth into my lip to keep from crying out; it was that painful. I rolled over and turned on the lamp set on my nightstand, tugging at the ghost beads still wrapped around my wrist. The skin on my wrist felt tender as I carefully slid off the bracelet. The number 27 previously etched in black on my wrist had been replaced with the number 26.

This was how Death was going to remind me of how little time I had to stop Yoongi from committing suicide?

"That's just sick," I muttered to myself, cradling my arm against my chest.

I glanced over at my alarm clock as I carefully slid the ghost beads back over my wrist, and saw that it was 2:49 in the morning. It only took a moment to connect the dots. If I lost a day at this time in the morning, that must mean that was the moment Yoongi killed himself.

It took a while to fall back asleep after that revelation.

Rain was pelting down outside when I opened my eyes again. There was a sharp throbbing in my forehead, and I'd managed to become tangled in my blankets sometime during the night. I rolled over and slapped a hand around on the nightstand for my cell phone, shrieking when I saw the time.

It was a quarter to seven, which meant that I had exactly fifteen minutes to get my act together if I wanted to catch the bus around the corner to school. A small part of me had hoped that yesterday really had been a dream, but the date on my cell phone clearly said it was November 12th.

"What is this?" I shouted up at the ceiling. The ceiling didn't answer.

I rolled out of bed with a groan and quickly pulled on the first articles of clean clothing I could get my hands on. After I shoved all of my school things into my bag, I made for the bathroom to brush my hair, and put on the smallest bit of makeup to look somewhat presentable. I scarfed down a granola bar and tossed back some orange juice, and then I was out the door, in the elevator, and sprinting through the lobby to catch the bus outside as soon as the elevator doors slid open.

I'd forgotten to grab an umbrella from the hall closet, so I was soaked by the time I thundered up the steps of the bus.

"Geez." Chaeyoung let out a low whistle as I collapsed into the seat beside her. "You look like you just crawled your way out of a swamp."

"Thanks," I said. "I needed that."

When we arrived at school, I dodged my friends, focused on finding Yoongi. I could figure out what I was going to say to him once I knew where he was—clearly, I did not do so well when it came to making first impressions on the fly. I did not need a repeat of our less-than-friendly conversation yesterday. It was time to get to work and figure out the best way to approach him.

I didn't catch sight of Yoongi all morning, and when the bell rang for lunch hour, I bypassed the cafeteria and went to the library instead. I'd been so exhausted last night that I'd gone to bed without doing any of my homework, and now I had to finish up a short essay on The Great Gatsby before fifth-period English. I took a seat at one of the tables near the back of the library, in the quiet, and got to work explaining why F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel was one of the greatest of the 20th century, all the while thinking about how writing this paper was not nearly as important as what I should be doing—finding Yoongi.

Twenty-five minutes passed and I'd just about finished my essay. I leaned back in my seat, stretching and shaking out the cramp in my hand, then almost fell over onto the floor. Yoongi was sitting in an armchair pushed up into the corner, past the Fiction "Q–S" shelves, beside a small side table with his things on it.