kidnapper's protection | seongjoong

11

Seonghwa's eyes fluttered open slowly, his mind groggy from the lingering effects of the chloroform. For a moment, everything around him was a blur of soft colors—muted browns with purples, creams, and warm golds. His head throbbed, and his body felt stiff, but as his vision cleared, he realized something that made his heart race.

The room around him wasn't what he expected at all.

There was no cold, damp basement or terrifying steel cage like in some kidnapping horror story. Instead, the room was...cozy. Too cozy.

He blinked a few times, trying to process the sight. To his right was a neatly made bed—crisp white sheets and lavender-periwinkle pillows with a thick duvet folded at the edge. A bedside table with a small lamp cast a dim, warm glow across the space. A sleek wardrobe stood in the corner, the kind you'd find in a high-end apartment.

To his left, he spotted a polished desk, papers and books stacked neatly, with a chair tucked under it. Just beside the desk, a door was slightly ajar, and the faint gleam of porcelain hinted that it led to a bathroom.

The room smelled faintly of lavender, the scent too relaxing for a place where someone would keep a hostage. The eerie normalcy of it all made Seonghwa's skin crawl.

He tried shifting his body, but an ache ran through his limbs. That's when he noticed the restraints.

His legs were bound with what felt like rope—tight but not painfully so. His hands had been tied too, but it was sloppily done, as if whoever had tied him hadn't been expecting him to wake up so soon. A strip of tape stretched across his mouth, stifling his breathing.

Seonghwa's heart pounded. He inhaled shakily through his nose, his eyes darting around for anything sharp.

And then he heard them.

Muffled conversation floated through the door, the voices distant but distinct enough for Seonghwa to make out the tones.

"Good job," one voice said—a smooth, low murmur of approval.

A second voice followed, accompanied by a laugh—deep and familiar. Too familiar. "You're welcome," the speaker replied, sounding far too casual for the situation.

Seonghwa's blood ran cold. His eyes widened in recognition. He knew that second voice. He was certain of it. But the hazy fog in his mind wouldn't let him pin it down. The familiarity gnawed at him, making his skin prickle with unease.

Seonghwa closed his eyes briefly, willing his mind to focus. Breathe. Think. Move.

He wriggled his fingers against the rope binding his wrists, testing how tight it was. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Sloppy. They hadn't tied it properly. Well, they did. But Seonghwa could get out of it. Amateurs.

With slow, deliberate movements, he twisted his wrists and slipped one hand free. The rope fell away, and he wasted no time peeling the tape off his mouth. It stung as it pulled at his skin, but he ignored the pain, finally sucking in a full breath.

"Thank fuck," he whispered under his breath, savoring the fresh air filling his lungs.

His heart hammered as he glanced around the room again. The longer he looked, the more surreal it felt. The decor was tasteful—muted colors, soft lighting, and minimal clutter. It almost looked...expensive.

Why the hell does it look like this?

But there wasn't time to dwell on that. His legs were still bound, and with no one in sight, he knew this was the only chance he'd get to act before whoever was outside came in.

He shifted his weight, slouching against the headboard as if giving up—just in case someone was watching through the door. Better to look defeated.

For now, he had no choice but to wait.

His mind whirled with possibilities, questions, and fears. But beneath all the chaos, one thought echoed louder than the rest:

I know that voice.

And whoever it belonged to, they were going to walk through that door soon.