NCT Ten | Mafia

Who is he?

Ten's P.O.V

The cops have been sticking close to her. So close it would be impossible to miss them. Do they think I'm blind? Once I let them glimpse me outside a pep rally and took a couple of uniforms for a two-hour chase only to lead them back, finally losing them right outside the work  where we started.

Hey, I have to get my amusement somewhere.

Because nothing else about this situation is funny.

I have taken Layla  hostage many times, but none of them like this. None where I know I love her. None where I know I have to break her.

Her fancy  work puts serious limitations on how far the cops can encroach on the property, though.

The school has its own security, of course. Lots of cameras, alarms, and locks. There's exactly one entrance, and it involves two doors and a watchful woman in an office who decides whether you get buzzed in.

It would've been easy enough to grab her using the crew, but I needed to do it myself. She's mine.

I watched the place for a long time until I found the weak link in the security—the custodian taking out trash after lunch. He's alone, vulnerable. Easy prey for somebody who might want to tie him up and take his keys and uniform.

I blended in easily enough with a beige janitor's uniform and a cartful of supplies, pushing slowly through the sea of plaid skirts and starched, button-down shirts. A few of the girls straightened up and touched their hair when they saw my face, their cheeks turning flushed, their bodies alive with hormones I could smell from where I stood.

I kept my head down. Not interested. Never been interested in anyone beyond my crew.

Until Layla.

I've had her schedule and the work layout for some time now, courtesy of Kun's hacking skills; I knew she was in social studies fifth hour. Room 501. I headed down the corridor with my cart and slipped into the supply closet, the next door down. I texted her from a burner phone, perfectly untraceable.

I knew the cops would be pulling records on everything incoming, but it takes a while to run numbers, separate the horny teenage boys from the dangerous predators.

At first I wasn't sure if she was going to bite. All I heard was the teacher, staff or fashion designer shit droning on. Finally her sweet voice rang out, asking to go to the bathroom.

A male voice. "Take the hall pass." Harried. Distracted.

I cracked the closet door, listening to her squeaky patent leather shoes broadcast her slow and uncertain progress down the hall. Quick as a flash, I reached out and clapped a hand over her mouth, capturing her sound of surprise in my palm. Looked into her frightened eyes for just a second before dragging her inside.

And now I have her. "Quiet."

Her breath feels warm against my hand. She nods. Reluctantly I pull away, knowing she won't scream.

"How did you get in here?" she asks.

"Walked in the door," I tell her, because no one fucking knows what to look for. I can only imagine what ridiculous description they have circulating. Violent criminal. A maniac. Deranged. No one expects a man with a regular haircut and a polite fucking smile.

"They're looking for you," she says, almost breathless with it. "They've been following me. Watching from the house next door. You have to be careful."

So concerned and worried. I almost want to laugh, considering how bad I'll have to scare her before the day is done. "I'm careful."

There's something hanging from her hand. I take it from her, this laminated piece of plastic with a piece of string tied to the end. So official-looking. So goddamn adorable..