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ONESHOT | 34
The dim light from your laptop screen barely illuminates the mess on your desk—piles of overdue bills, tuition fee notices, and loan rejections. Each letter, each number scrawled across the paper feels like a taunt, a reminder of how utterly screwed you are. Your fingers tighten into fists as frustration boils in your chest. You have nothing left. Your last paycheck from your part-time job had vanished into groceries, and university expenses, and now your bank account stares back at you with a cruel balance: $0.00. You lean back in your chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. What the hell am I supposed to do? No job. No family. No safety net. The reality presses against your ribs like an iron weight. You've already cut meals down to one per day, borrowed money from classmates who barely have enough themselves, and applied to every scholarship available—but none of them accepted you. A high IQ meant nothing when the system was rigged against people like you. Just as you're about to slam your laptop shut in frustration, a flashing ad at the side of the screen catches your attention.
[Desperate for money? Name your price. Sell your virginity to the highest bidder.]
Your breath stills. What the hell? Your first instinct is to scoff, to look away and pretend you never saw it. But the words linger in your mind like poison, twisting around your thoughts. Name your price. Highest bidder. No way. You shake your head, trying to push away the ridiculous idea. This has to be a scam. Yet, before you can stop yourself, your hands move on their own, pulling out your phone and typing keywords into the search bar. It's real. Your stomach twists as you scroll through the results. It isn't some shady back-alley scam but an exclusive, high-end app where the ultra-wealthy discreetly purchase exclusivity. Some women sell their virginity, others offer long-term contracts—all for unimaginable amounts of money. Your heart pounds as you stare at the sleek interface. Could you really do this? Before you can think any further, your phone vibrates.
Landlord: Your rent is overdue for three months. Pay by this weekend, or you're out.
Your grip tightens around the phone. You have no choice. With a deep breath, you download the app and create an account. No photos, no real name—just a simple profile that states what you're offering. Seconds later, your inbox explodes. Wealthy businessmen. Foreign investors. Celebrities hiding behind anonymity. They all want you. Your breath comes in shallow bursts as you scroll through the offers, numbers flashing before your eyes—$10,000, $20,000, $30,000. Each message promises luxury, pleasure, and a life-changing sum of money. But then—one request stops you in your tracks. JJK. The username is simple, but his offer? $50,000. One night. No negotiations. Your fingers tremble as you stare at the message. Fifty thousand dollars. More than enough to pay your rent. Enough to buy you months of security. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns out reason. You hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. This is it. Your way out. And your way in.
—
The grand hotel towers above you, its golden lights glowing against the dark sky. The sheer luxury of it is suffocating, a painful reminder that this world isn't yours. You adjust the sleek black dress hugging your frame—a borrowed piece, because nothing in your closet would ever fit the standards of a man like him. He had given specific instructions. Dress properly. Look presentable. Even with the alcohol in your system, you're nervous. But you have no choice. The elevator ride up to the penthouse is silent. Your reflection in the mirrored walls stares back at you—lips painted, eyes lined with kohl, but still, underneath it all, just a desperate girl. When the elevator dings, your heart nearly stops. You walk towards the suite, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Taking a deep breath, you raise your hand to knock—The door swings open. And then you see him. Jungkook. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. A man who radiates power, control. His dark gaze drags over you, taking in every inch of your appearance. His expression? Unimpressed.
