Shadow Dancing | K.TH

Jimin

Another explosion bursts through the side wall, and then everything descends into pure chaos. I don't know how I get all the way outside the camera room— which for the record didn't really exist anymore— when I lift my ringing head.

Debris scatters the floor, the pieces of the attacked wall in my hair, in my eyes— everywhere.

The first thought I have is to check the others' welfare. I see a flash of blood spreading in my side, a dull red against the white of my shirt. There should be pain— a sparking explosion of agony— but I don't feel anything. And I take that to my advantage.

Coughing violently in the dust, I look around to see silhouettes mirroring my actions— figures that I believe are to be my allies, my friends.

My allies which I just almost killed.

Something grabs my wrist, pulling me outside and into fresh, untainted air. The sudden escape from the choking dust makes me almost cry with joy. I'd never been so thankful for the slightest breeze before.

V holds my hand, his black brace stretching as he roughly leads me away from the burning house. The explosions had done its job— and effectively.

Small fires surround the outer line of the house, the walls torn clearly to show the inner structures. And in the center— billowing smoke and death and heat— is the biggest inferno I'd witnessed in the eighteen years I'd been alive for.

"Hurry!" He hisses, eyes darting at the dark crowd filling the house. Several gunshots ring out, its noise terrifying against the crackle of the flames.

"But the others—"

"They're already out," V explains, finally snapping me out of my blank reverie. "You're going to start running, or I'm going to leave you behind."

Ouch.

But whatever threat he tells me to get me moving, nothing changes the firmness of his grip, or the strength as he pulls me along. The streets blur past me as I hear the distant shouts echo
behind me.

"Find them! Bring the girl back alive— and kill the rest, no matter the cost!"

A chill shivers up my spine as I follow V's lead, dodging civilians and running through abandoned alleys. He never looks back as he runs, but I can tell he's significantly slowing down his pace for my sake.

Warmth tickles at my heart, and I quickly push the unwelcomed feeling away.

Now wasn't the time.

I wasn't even sure where we were going. All I knew is that our lives depended on how fast I ran, and that those men were frustratingly persistent. I could feel them getting a bit further back with every passing second, but getting back on track with a gunshot or two.

They were ruthless, my father's men.

"Come on," V gasps, his breaths measured and perfectly timed. No wonder he wasn't even breathing hard— he had a method. He had a method for everything.

I don't last too long before I start gasping like fish on land.

My lungs feel like they're about to explode— every breath feels sticky and hot as it passes my throat. Blood roars in my ears, like a signal that I was going to faint any moment. But with the adrenaline that pumps through me and the sheer will to survive, somehow I manage to ignore the clawing in my windpipe.

"Do you want me to carry you?"

When I look up to see if he was serious, he waves at my side. It's coated red with blood— the stain already having spread up to my ribs. The wound had reopened— there was no doubt about that— but miraculously, there wasn't any of the agony.

"It's okay." I puff, trying to spare breath for words. "I wouldn't want to trouble you— I'm not as light as you think I am—"

"I wasn't asking your permission. That was just to give you some beforehand warning."

Before I can put up any sort of protest, V pauses for the briefest of seconds to sweep me into a piggyback position.

"But I'll get blood on your shirt!"

"You must be joking."

Wherever we were running to must be not that far, because within five minutes he's run into a dark gray building. The building blends perfectly well with the others— dreary, dark, and looking like it's a century old.

But the inside looks sleek and modern, and I know that this is the backup structure.

When V puts me down, I look over the men splayed out on the main couch, all breathing hard and covered with debris and dust.

Namjoon, his expression cloudy.

Yoongi, his lips pursed into a grim, serious line.

Jin, pacing restlessly.

Jungkook, hunched over and his hands covered over his face.

And Jimin—

Where was Jimin?

And Hoseok.

The situation hits me so fast that I nearly stumble. Hoseok was the medic. Jimin wasn't here. Hoseok wasn't here. That could only mean one thing—

V seems to realize the same thing that I do as he turns a furious face to Jin. His eyes are drawn with some feral anger, and I remember that Jimin was his best friend— the only one that shared the same age as him.

"Where's Jimin, hyung?" He speaks quietly, his tone hushed with anticipation. My flickering rapidly increases as I get a good look at Jin's face.

I don't think I'd ever seen him so anxious.

"First room on the right."

V hisses in a breath, and from that I confirm that this room was the infirmary. That couldn't mean anything  good— it could only mean misfortune.

I had to go see him.

Spinning on my heel, I turn and rush for the room Jin had pointed out. The air turns bitter in my lips as I suck in mouthfuls of it— desperate to find him alive, breathing, his eyes crinkled into his signature smile.

Memories flood through my head in the short distance I cross from my original spot to the infirmary. Each of them are short bursts of significance— sharp and acrid against my thoughts.

But every one of them filled with meaning, the firsts. The first time Jimin had opened up to a strange, fading girl, her life fragile against her fingertips. The first time Jimin had laughed with this idiot who attracted
death like a magnet. The first time he had cried for the stupid girl that only seemed to bring trouble everywhere she went.

Jimin, smiling sweet, innocent smile.

Jimin, talking to me with his soft voice, his gentle demeanor.

Jimin, who'd always been there for me.

Jimin, who I find with his eyes closed.