방탄 소년단
"That... gash," I muttered, my nose rumpled in disdain - and sympathy for the man - as I studied the newly developing scar on his right eye.
It was fresh, the skin that surrounded the vermilion wound was puffy and distended, as if it just hap...
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This trade left me depleted. My fingers were sore from all that money counting, and the numbers were still all jumbled in my head, but one of the worsts parts was that I had to stay in the watchful eye of dozens of men in that very room. Mikhail was very specific this time around, as it had been nearly a month since our last ambush, and the very last time I was allowed to do a trade due to the fact that Mikhail was beginning to worry for my safety.
I couldn't move even an inch without one of the guards reminding me that I couldn't leave, or even step a few feet away from their vicinity.
I understood why they were being so particular. Mikhail threatened to kill any one of those men if my safety was somehow corrupted, or if I was hurt in any way. The men examined me with a detrimental gaze— never wanting to become a babysitter of a twenty-year-old girl. They likely despised the fact that, in some ways, I was way more privileged than they. And, for my own mistakes, they could pay for it.
It made me feel bad for even existing.
If I was putting others' lives in danger for being out, why be out at all? Why wouldn't I just stay in my room all day and wallow around like a prisoner? I was certain every single person in that room preferred that, anyway.
My hands felt tainted from the stacks of money I was once holding, keeping them atop my jeans as I sat on that abhorrent old motel couch with more stains than I could ever begin to count.
Now that I was paying it any mind, the motel was absolutely filthy and held a decrypt style like it hadn't been updated since the early year of the 2000s. The bed was made, the blanket was an old quilt with large floral prints on them and smelled of an aged powdery fragrance — something an elder woman would wear. A scent that was likely sprayed to mask the odd scent of the room. There were two framed paintings — that I was unable to depict — hung above the two beds, dim and murky from the layers of dust that coated the glass. The carpet was a bleak shade of bland and faded burgundy, worn and tattered with a few spills, and small drops of whatever substance leading to the large bathroom.
I began to become squeamish, and antsy as I sat above the filth the couch bore.
I looked over at the corner of the room, where a guard stood. Two other men sat at the small chairs near the round table near the closed window— their walkies above the table as they awaited word from Mikhail.
I carefully rose to my feet, deciding that I needed to wash the disgusting feeling off my hands from the dirty money I handled.
"Where are you going?" One guard at the corner of the room, Darius, instantly questioned, studying my features.
"The bathroom." I answered flatly, my left eyebrow arched. "What? Can I not use the restroom now?"
He looked over at the man sitting in the chair, ticking his head toward the bathroom that was a few feet away from the two beds.
