Eyeing him closely, I suddenly ask, "I don't know your name,". His sinfully handsome face remains impassive, not a single crease betraying his thoughts.
"You didn't ask."
I groan, rolling my eyes. "So, what's your name, then?"
"Jeon," he responds, h...
It's been a week since those criminals broke into my sister's house, and I'm still not fully recovered from the shock. It took a while to convince Alice that it was just a harmless prank pulled by my "friends." She looked skeptical, which stung a bit, especially when she asked if I even had any friends. That wasn't the point, though. She was more rattled by the whole thing than I was, and I understood. But when she suggested filing a restraining order, I wanted to shove her lawyer logic right back in her face.
What troubles me more is the eerie silence that's followed. I haven't heard a word from Jimin or Suga since that night. It bothers me because I don't think Suga is their leader—every time they mentioned their boss, it felt... ominous.
Across the table, I watch Lisa and Jennie making out like teenagers. They started dating three days ago and have been inseparable ever since. Watching them, I can't help but feel a pang of envy. Being single sucks sometimes.
"Are you guys gonna eat your food or each other?" I snap, my patience wearing thin.
"Why the sour mood?" Jennie pouts, pulling away from Lisa.
"Babe's right," Lisa chimes in, giving me a pointed look. "You've been like this ever since you came back from blowing off our dinner with Jisoo."
I roll my eyes. "I didn't blow off anything. Something urgent came up."
"Yeah, well, I don't give a fuck," Lisa growls, her tone sharp. "If you're gonna keep being a bitch, just leave and get some air."
"Fine." I sneer, pushing myself up from the table and storming toward the door. I leave the apartment, biting my lip to hold back the string of curses I'm tempted to scream at the sky.
After half an hour of circling the park near my apartment for what feels like the tenth time, my phone rings. I glance at the screen—an unknown number.
A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down as I answer. "Hello?"
"Roseanne," a deep, unfamiliar voice responds, sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps prickle my skin. "How was your week off?"
"Refreshing," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
The laugh on the other end is hollow and unsettling, more like mockery than amusement.
I lick my lips. "Who are you?"
"Jimin's friend," he replies, his tone thick with authority.
"What do you want?" I snap, trying to maintain some control.
"Why so direct? I like playing... don't you?" His voice drips with amusement, but he doesn't wait for me to respond. "Five p.m., I'll come pick you up."
And just like that, the call ends. That little prick.
Frustrated, I let out a scream in the middle of the park. People stare, and a kid even starts crying, but I don't care. The universe clearly has a twisted sense of humor, and now I'm its latest plaything.
This time, when the car pulls up, it's not a Rolls-Royce but a Bugatti Chiron. I roll my eyes at the audacity as I climb in.
Expecting to see Jimin behind the wheel, I turn my head—but it's not him.
The man sitting in the driver's seat is, hands down, the most striking man I've ever laid eyes on. I freeze, taking in his posture—legs spread, one arm casually draped over the back of my seat, the other gripping the steering wheel. A lip piercing, one on his eyebrow, and several in his ears. Tattoos snake down his right arm, while metal rings adorn his fingers. His messy black hair falls over his forehead, and his boots look like they could crush steel.
"Who are you?" I ask, my hand instinctively curling around the door handle. Every part of him screams danger—real, painful danger.
"You should know something, Roseanne." He says my name like a command, his voice low and smooth. He cocks his head without bothering to look at me. "I don't like questions. I prefer answers."
When he finally turns toward me, I get a full view of his face. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, but it's his eyes—dark, piercing, and utterly consuming—that send a jolt of something unnamable through me.
"So, here's what you need to do," he continues. "All you need to do is shut the fuck up until we get to our destination."
He says it so casually that I almost nod without thinking. It takes a second for the insult to register, and when it does, I growl, "You motherfucking dick—"
"Tsk, tsk." He presses a long, pale finger to my lips. "Don't talk. I'm not in the mood."
What the actual fuck? Does this guy think the world revolves around him? He certainly acts like it.
My teeth grind together in silent fury, and I hold back from snapping at him. Barely.
Half an hour of heavy, oppressive silence passes. The air between us crackles with an unnamed tension—hot and unfamiliar. It's been so long since I've felt anything like this.
"We're here," he finally says, his voice a low growl. I don't look at him—more out of self-preservation than anything. It's like I can't look, but also can't not look. Damn him for making everything so difficult.
"Loosen up a little," he drawls, smirking. "You look like you stepped in shit."
"I didn't step in shit," I snap back, shooting him a glare. "I'm looking at it."
He sighs, reaching into his hoodie and pulling out a gun. A freaking gun. And he points it right at me, out in the open for anyone to see.
"Put that thing down!" I hiss, my eyes darting around. "Someone might see you!"
"Worry about your own life before mine," he smirks, his voice dripping with amusement. "I'm flattered, but shut that big mouth of yours before I shut it for you."
I can't help but smirk back. "Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
"Don't toy with me, Roseanne," he murmurs, his eyes darkening dangerously. "I never lose."
"Neither do I." My smile fades as he stalks toward me, closing the distance in two swift strides. His face lowers, our lips almost touching. Just when I think he might do something I can't resist, I feel the cold press of his gun against my forehead.
"I promise you, I'll shoot," he snarls, baring his teeth. "And I never go back on my word."
Before I can react, he turns away, forcing me to follow him.
After what feels like an endless maze of tunnels and random turns, we arrive at a secluded forest, deep in the middle of nowhere. We reach a small, one-floor cottage—discreet, abandoned-looking, the perfect hideout. But I know the boxes scattered across the wooden floor are filled with weapons.
The man kneels, his thighs bulging under his black sweatpants, and runs his fingers across a section of cracked wood. He presses down, and the floor splits open, revealing a staircase leading underground.
"Whoa," I breathe, unable to hold back my surprise as we descend into what looks like a shooting range.
"Why are we here?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"To teach you how to shoot properly, obviously," he replies, rolling his eyes.
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