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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Time dragged on, and I was becoming restive. My leg bounced, ill at ease as I began counting the seconds that passed. Mikhail wanted us to be here an hour early, on time, before Yoongi showed up since Yoongi apparently loathed waiting on people. The man was very punctual, according to the men around me that gossiped like a large group of women, solely talking about the myths and legends about Yoongi, the titles he carried, and whether or not they were true.
I shared no input, however, I did learn that many of his titles deemed to be true.
"He's known for making deals." I recalled one of the men sharing.
That was true. I knew that from first-hand experience.
My shoulders began to shrink away in chagrin, hoping that my interaction with Yoongi wouldn't set off any alarms and that I wouldn't completely out myself to the men in my presence.
"I heard he killed a man with a pair of chopsticks." Another continued to gossip.
My lips went flat, that was true, too.
"That's true." The man to the left of me answered.
I hated this topic of conversation. It all gave me an awful feeling, granting me more fear than I should be feeling. Perhaps if everyone stopped labeling this man and going based on word of mouth, he would be less formidable, and way less detrimental. All these names are certain to reach his ears, and I was convinced he fed off of them— encouraging him to continue such despicable behavior.
I sat above the couch, studying the room, this time, looking at all the windows to see if I was able to catch any person hiding in the shadows of the night— ready to attack and pelt the building with a sniper loaded in their hands.
Though, I gave up when I realized I could barely see a thing out of those fogged windows, especially with the poor lighting the buzzing street lamps provided, flickering on and off from the poor electricity this street received.
It was a building Mikhail would have frequent gatherings. The area was hardly bustling with people, and the room was located deep within an alleyway sandwiched between other rooms. It was a sketchy area where I would not have been caught hanging around if I wasn't under Mikhail's orders.
A phone when off, and I was frozen in place, looking toward my left— where the ringing stemmed from.
I looked up over at Archer, who already had the phone pressed up against his ear, nodding his head in understanding as he listened to the voice on the other line.
He looked down at me. "It's Mikhail, he wants to speak with you." He handed the phone to me, shaking it when I didn't react quick enough.
I grabbed it, my eyebrows pressed together in confusion. "Hello? Mikhail?" I questioned, keeping my head low.
"Malishka," his voice was soft, putting me at ease to hear that he was calm and not yet aggravated. "When Agust D gets there, I want to be on the phone the entire time. If he has any questions, you cannot answer them. I will be doing all the talking."
