A book in which you, the infamous ability stealer, are the newest member of the Port Mafia and as witty as they come. Being the constant centre of attention, you have managed to catch the eye of the notorious young executive; Chuuya Nakahara, but no...
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A/N - I highly recommend that you press play on the playlist above and let it run throughout this chapter! ;)
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The light.
The light—as dim as it was, emanating from the sad little lightbulb flickering above him—seemed to hurt Chuuya's eyes as his lids slowly fluttered open, stuttering like the wings of an unfledged butterfly. The tiny muscles around his eyes quivered for a full ten seconds, before finally opening full way, revealing his pupils that were quite dilated, like he'd been given some kind of drug.
Chuuya felt woozy—off-balance—like he had lost control over his own body. He felt a strange tingling sensation in his bones that made his limbs feel numb. His head felt no better; his thoughts groggy and disorientated; he could only describe what was going on right now in his mind as TV static; static that had completely overridden the part of his brain that allowed him to think straight. It was sort of like waking up with a horrific hangover having no recollection of the night before, little things slowly coming to the fore in short snippets and nonplussing him even more.
In his sight, still unfocused, he could decipher that he was in a room that was unfamiliar to him—his eyes settling on what appeared to be a candle sitting idly atop an incongruously large table with nothing else on it except for the candle, which was rather strange in itself. The candle was different from a normal cylindrical one; it was in the shape of a ten-step set of stairs, the flame flickering, the candle permeating the room with an aromatic scent that had strongly resembled jasmine, which meant that it must have been lit recently. He watched as the flickering flame melted the wax; the contour of the candle gradually becoming hot and tacky. The wax, dragged by gravity, dripped onto the bottom step of the candle and formed an even wider step.
He had the maddest urge to go towards it and swipe his finger quickly across the flame—he had no idea why. He flexed his fingers just thinking about it, but that was the moment when he looked down and realised that he was currently tied to a wooden chair with what appeared to be a rope, his arms behind him, his hands bound together, wrists constrained. It explained why he had felt so numb. And that's also when he finally remembered exactly how he got here. He remembered dancing with you, and then kissing you, and then feeling something slip down his throat, and then the next thing he knew, he was here.
In a room he didn't recognise.
In a position he certainly did not put himself in.
The pill to knock him out the way it did must have been hidden under your tongue the entire time. He didn't know what the pill was, or how you could have possibly obtained it. That was the only viable explanation regarding how he even got here in the first place. He couldn't help but laugh to himself—he had tried to poison you with wine, and yet, you were the one who had bested him with a deadly kiss; one that he'd do all over again if it meant that he could get a taste of your lips.
