Oneshots Collection || BTS.

Ten Steps || MYG. (1)

Seven steps.

Eight steps.

Nine steps.

Grinning, he tossed the lighter into the air one more time and aptly caught it in his palm, foot taking a last pace forward along the brick fence.

And ten steps.

The air-splintering explosion seven houses away told him— without even needing him to turn around— that the extravagant Hyundai sedan parked along the side of the road had just met a doomed fate... and so had its driver. As if erasing any of his doubts, a flurry of shattered glass, streaked crimson, swept past him on the ground along the fence, reassuring him that his grenade had indeed found their target.

Bingo.

With a grin, Min Yoongi hopped down from the fence, flicking his lighter on and relighting his cigarette, before he turned back the way he came, eager to admire his handiwork.

When he arrived, the police were—admirably—already present at the carnage, a great swathe of neighborhood residents crowding around the death scene, whispering, gasping, and pointing. A swell of pride flushed through him. Yoongi had to give himself credit for providing these citizens something interesting for once, considering how ordinary and typical this neighborhood, an unremarkable nook shoved somewhere among the outskirts of Gangnam, was. 

Slithering up to the back of the crowd, he watched as an officer pulled the body (or what remained of it) out of the obliterated car, and he could only tighten his lips around his cigarette, stifling a laugh.

He needed only three days. Only three days to know that the man always left his house at precisely seven-thirty in the morning with a coffee in his right hand and briefcase in his left. Only three days to know that he would set the briefcase down next to his car trunk, wrestle his keys out, unlock the doors, and shove his belongings into the trunk. Only three days to know that at exactly seven-thirty-one, the man would take exactly ten steps to sit down in the driver's seat, applying exactly enough weight to detonate the bomb planted right under him.

"Excuse me, sir...?"

Yes. He loved it. Hoseok and Jungkook would never have the patience to observe for days before going in for the kill, but Yoongi lived for the moments his plans fell into place, as it gave him an incomparable rush of satisfaction, reading everything about his victims and knowing he was right as they perform their last act in life just as he scripted it. No plot twists. 

 "Um...excuse me...?"

Absentmindedly, he pulled out his lighter, flicking it on and studying the smoldering core.

He supposed that was why the others always let him deal with the more technical yet messier plans—he was unusually gravitated towards fire and explosions and watching the world burn in a grand finale of tantalizing, breathtaking fireworks...  

Something tapped his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir!"

Blinking, Yoongi flicked his eyes over to catch a finger on his shoulder. But when they slid up to meet hers, his thumb went slack, the lighter's flame extinguishing along with his grin.

The young woman stared at him curiously, head capped by a red helmet that was a tad too large for her, flattening her long hair against her face. Diverting his gaze, Yoongi briefly glimpsed the name tag pinned on her T-shirt before catching the motorbike — in the same shade of scarlet—parked behind her. A plastic bag dangled from her other hand, and he immediately recognized the flamboyant decorative boxes inside as those containing fried chicken.