FALLEN PIECES | BTS

i.iii

❝It's odd how I love Venetian masks, but on him they makes me nervous.❞— Arty's journal

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Artemisia sat rigid on the hard chair, her bound hands beating a staccato pattern into the wood behind her back. Every muscle was tight, lips set in a thin line as she glared straight ahead. When she had awoken in a bare white room tied to a chair, she had initially been, as one would expect, scared and disorientated. But, as time dragged on and she was left to herself, her fear eventually began to turn to indignant anger.

Irrationally, what she was most angry about was the fact that her kidnappers had neglected to bring her shoes with her.

They had come suddenly, blocking the road with their vehicle just as her car had turned down a discreet side street. It had happened in the blink of an eye: one minute Artemisia was looking forward to curling up on the couch of her hotel room, and the next she was being dragged out into the freezing night and knocked out cold by what she assumed was chloroform.

And now here she was, tied to a chair in a cold-arse room with decor worse than a minimalist's wet dream.

Artemisia's eyes wandered around the whitewashed concrete of the room, the single light above her washing it out and making it almost discombobulating to look at for too long. Without the ability to track time, she was beginning to feel disorientated, worsened by the fact that there was nothing to focus on in the room. That is, until her wondering eyes found a small black circle in a corner of the ceiling. Artemisia tightened her gaze, staring at the camera.

They were watching her, whoever they were.

Irritated, she stuck her tongue out at the camera. Childish, perhaps, but her hands were bound and didn't allow her to flip the bird.

'You think you're so smooth,' she growled, not bothering to lower her voice. If they had microphones, which she was sure they did, she wanted them to pick up every insult she could throw at them.

'I see you. Why don't you come down here and play? I'm beginning to get bored.'

A small part of her set off red warning lights, cautioning her against aggravating dangerous people. But these people had dragged her out of her car, denied her gin and tonic, neglected to bring her shoes and — as she now realised — her favourite Alexander McQueen coat. She should be scared, but right now she was pissed off.

Artemisia Williams was not a girl to be trifled with when she was pissed off. She smirked. 'You got me. Now you have to deal with me.'

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Artemisia's head snapped to the door of the room as she heard the handle rattle, pulse skyrocketing as adrenaline immediately kicking in despite her cool exterior. The white door swung inwards to reveal a tall man dressed in all black, an ornate white and gold mask covering his face completely. He stood in the doorway for a second, seemingly staring straight at her — although, he could have been looking at the side wall crossed eyed for all she knew.

The blank mask was a little unnerving, she had to admit. But frustratingly, it meant she wasn't able to identify his face.

Smart move, she thought begrudgingly.

As he continued to say nothing and merely stare her down, Artemisia raised an arched eyebrow.

'Take a photo fuckface, it'll last longer.'

The man tilted his head a little, crossing his arms over his chest. Artemisia eyed him, taking in the broad shoulders and straight posture, recognising the easy and relaxed stance. He was a fighter, of that she was certain. And a confident one at that.